‘Konstantin ee Konstitutsiya! Konstantin ee Konstitutsiya!’
After that, Ryleev climbed down and Dmitry lost sight of him. Then came disappointment. Dmitry overheard a conversation between Obolensky and Bestuzhev.
‘Troubetzkoy’s not coming!’ snarled Obolensky.
‘What?’
‘The man’s turned chicken.’
‘He’ll be here,’ insisted Bestuzhev.
‘He’s already been here. He didn’t like the look of what was going on, so he nipped along to the office of the chief of staff and asked where he was supposed to go to swear allegiance to Nikolai. You know where he is now?’
Bestuzhev shook his head.
‘Hiding in the Austrian embassy.’
For the first time, Dmitry felt doubt. What kind of men were they led by? Ryleev made no claim to be a commander, but the farces of that morning proved that his poetical head was irredeemably in the clouds. Troubetzkoy had been a brave soldier – not least at Borodino – but that had been years before. Here they were – thousands of brave men with hope of a new future for Russia – brought to the square like sheep and then abandoned. Just a little leadership could make all the difference, but there was nowhere for it to come from.
Obolensky and Bestuzhev began to bicker about who should take charge – each trying to pin responsibility on the other. Bestuzhev insisted that he only had naval experience, which would be no use here; Obolensky argued that he was no leader of men. But Dmitry had stopped listening. He had seen someone through the crowd, approaching him.
It was his father.
Aleksei rushed through the crowd and embraced his son.
‘Thank God I found you,’ he said. Then he saw Dmitry’s face. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s falling apart, Papa. There’s no one to lead us.’
‘What about Troubetzkoy?’
‘Troubetzkoy made a run for it,’ said Dmitry, ‘and none of the others has the wit to take charge.’
Despite himself, Aleksei felt some of Dmitry’s disappointment. There was a dignity to the rebels, or to many of them – those involved at Dmitry’s level, chiefly. The ordinary soldiers here knew nothing. They had been deceived into thinking they were here to support Konstantin, when in reality Konstantin wanted no support. The men at the top were a mixture of politicians and dreamers – the former in the south and the latter in the north, to make a broad generalization. It was men like Dmitry who truly wanted a better Russia, and might have created one, given the opportunity.
‘You could lead us,’ said Dmitry suddenly.
Aleksei gave a curt laugh and then saw his son was in earnest. ‘Me?’ He laughed again. ‘I’m a colonel. I have no nobility in my blood, and no ability to make pretty speeches. More than that, it’s my profound belief that this day is beyond salvation. If I were to lead them anywhere, it would be back to their barracks.’ Aleksei did not have to lie for any of it. He had no need to admit to his son that he wanted the uprising to fail, because he could see now with certainty that it would fail.
Dmitry looked at him with a gaze of utter disappointment. He shook his head slowly and turned away, saying, ‘I never took you for a coward, Papa.’
At that moment, a silence settled on the crowd. Aleksei looked around and saw a figure on horseback riding boldly towards the centre of the square, where Bestuzhev and Obolensky stood. Aleksei recognized the man immediately – it was Mihail Andreevich Miloradovich, the governor general of the city. Aleksei remembered him from Austerlitz and more recently his heroic efforts to save lives in the floods the previous year. He also remembered that Miloradovich had submitted to Aleksandr a practical plan for the abolition of serfdom – and there was no man working on his own estates who was not free. Was it possible that he was coming here to join the rebellion? If so, Dmitry’s fears would be transformed. This would be a man to lead them.
Aleksei stepped forward and put a hand on Dmitry’s shoulder. Dmitry glanced at him and Aleksei could see in his eyes that sense of hope he had anticipated. They moved closer to hear what the governor general had to say. As soon as they were in earshot, it was evident that he had not come to succour the rebels.
‘And so I implore you,’ he was saying, ‘return to your barracks. You have my word; Nikolai is rightfully tsar. Those of you who have been deceived will not be punished for misplacing your patriotism. I’ve fought alongside many of you. I hope you’ve found me to be a man you can trust. I in turn trust our tsar, as appointed by his predecessor and by God – Nikolai Pavlovich.’
There was no cheer of support, but his speech was met with a thoughtful silence. Aleksei’s heart leapt at the prospect of a peaceful outcome, though the tension in the square remained a physical presence. Obolensky stepped forward to speak. Beside him was that odious figure, the volunteer for the garde perdue, Pyotr Grigoryevich Kakhovsky.
‘You have no friends here, Mihail Andreevich,’ Obolensky said. ‘You may support this despot, but these men love their country. I suggest you leave. If you remain, you may find yourself in danger.’
Miloradovich glanced from man to man of those who had gathered round, avoiding the gaze of Obolensky.
‘Miloradovich is right, Mitka,’ Aleksei murmured to his son. ‘You must leave. Now.’
‘Never!’ whispered Dmitry in response.
The governor general spoke again. ‘I’ll leave you all to consider matters,’ he said. ‘There may not be much time to end this peacefully.’
He turned his horse and rode back through the crowd, which parted to let him pass. There was a movement behind him. Aleksei saw the raised pistol. He threw himself towards Kakhovsky with a shout, but it was too late. The pistol fired with an explosion of smoke. The hole in Miloradovich’s back was small, but he fell forward in an instant. There were shouts all around, some of approval, others of anger. Cavalrymen galloped to rescue the governor general, but Aleksei did not see what happened to his body as the crowd surged forward.
Somebody began a chant of ‘Konstantin ee Konstitutsiya!’, which was soon picked up by the rest. Whatever contemplation Miloradovich might have inspired was quickly forgotten. Now there was no hope of a peaceful ending to the day. There were ten thousand soldiers out there with rifles, horses and cannon. It would be carnage.
Aleksei felt hands lifting him up from the ground. It was Dmitry. Holding his father’s arm, he seemed to notice for the first time the bandage which covered Aleksei’s left hand.
‘That was needlessly cruel,’ said the boy. ‘And you’re no coward, Papa.’
Aleksei had no time to ponder whether the last comment was inspired by his actions or by his latest wound. As he pulled himself up to his feet, the crowd around them thinned, and walking slowly towards them, looking calm and serene in civilian clothing, came Iuda.
Shock and loathing welled up in Aleksei’s stomach at the sight. Of all places and times, this was not one at which he wanted to be concerned with Iuda. But Aleksei’s reaction to the sight was quite different from that of his son.
Dmitry let go of his father and strode over to Iuda, his hand held out in greeting.
‘Vasiliy Denisovich,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘What an honour.’
CHAPTER XXXVII
‘WHY HAVE YOU COME HERE?’ THE QUESTION THAT DMITRY spoke was identical to the one on Aleksei’s mind, but he uttered it with none of the bile which Aleksei would have injected.
‘I came to see you, Mitka,’ replied Iuda. ‘Your mother is very concerned.’ He turned his attention to Aleksei, who had now caught up and stood beside his son. ‘It’s good to see you, Lyosha,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘It’s been many years.’
Aleksei’s mind raced to understand what on earth Iuda could mean. Clearly, his words were for Dmitry’s benefit.
‘Good Lord, yes,’ said Dmitry, with a hint of surprise. ‘I’d almost forgotten you two actually knew one another. It must be a long time.’