Rally Cry (23 page)

Nahatkim was perhaps one of the oldest in all of Suzdal and thus a man to be treated with respect. Though he was only a leather merchant, even nobles showed some slight deference to him, and in the affairs of the merchants his voice was listened to and obeyed, for age had brought him great insight as well.

The others were all known leaders of the peasants of Suzdal and the surrounding landholdings. Boris, a cousin of Kal's, even knew how to read and was thus held in the highest respect. Tall, strapping Vasilia was a half-caste, born of a peasant woman and a noble. Though ignored by his father, now long dead, he could in some ways travel in both circles, and often intervened for a peasant in trouble, and thus was greatly respected as an adviser and confidant by all of the lower classes.

They were here for a reason, and Kal did not hesitate to start.

"My friend Hawthorne and I were just talking about the mysteries of the Yankees when you good friends arrived," he said innocently, leaning over and patting Vincent on the shoulder.

"Your leg is well?" Nahatkim asked
,
his wrinkled face filled with concern.

"Yes sir," Vincent replied in Russian. "Thank you."

"You are a brave man," Nahatkim whispered. "Know that you've made enemies, but you have made far more friends by your deeds."

Vincent nodded, unable to reply.

"Vincent, I've told my friends about some of the things you and I have shared," Kal said smoothly. "Would you mind sharing such a conversation with them as well?"

Vincent hesitated for a moment. Keane had cautioned the men on several occasions about being too familiar with the Suzdalians and warned them not to upset the existing order of things. A number of men were already grumbling about that, outraged by the slavery that existed around them. But all realized as well that for the time being, they had to have an accommodation with the ruling class if they were to survive.

Yet was not the truth the truth? His elders had taught him that to witness for the truth might be painful, but could never be denied when called upon. There was no other path that could be taken, and he gave a nod of agreement.

"My friends will ask things," Kal said, "and I'll translate for both you and them."

"My Russian is still very shaky," Vincent replied, smiling.

Kal patted him on the back, and Vincent leaned back in his chair, while Tanya came over and settled in by his side.

"My friends have seen the wonder of your Yankee machines, but I've told them much else as well, especially about how you people live."

"Such as?"
Vincent asked.

"Your Union
country,
and that declaring of how you say?"

"
Independence?"

"Yes, that."

Hawthorne
smiled and looked about the room. How strange it was here. At home he had always lived by the customs of his people, to observe the words of his elders, to show respect, and to live with the understanding that wisdom came only with years. Now how different it seemed. Gray-bearded men sat about the table ready to listen with rapt attention to his every word.

"In my country,
America,"
Hawthorne began slowly, so that Kal could keep up with the translation, "in the time of my father's grandfathers, we were ruled by nobles, boyars such as here.

"My people, all the people of my land, which we call
America, were common men of the soil, and merchants of the towns such as
yourselves
. We believed that the ruling of nobles was bad. We believed that all men are created by God to be equal. That if a man works, the labor created by the sweat of his brow rightfully belongs to him. That a man should work the soil that belongs to him and him alone, and not be forced to work another man's field unless he agrees to do so and is paid. So the people of
America wrote a long speech on parchment. We called it the Declaration of Independence. We sent it to our king and told him that all men were equal and free and that he no longer ruled us."

Gasps of amazement came from the group, and eagerly they waited for more.

"So the king of our land sent soldiers to force us to his will. A terrible war was fought, and the king was cast out of the land. When the war was won, the peasants had driven the king, his nobles, and all their soldiers away."

"So who became boyar?" Nahatkim asked from the back of the room.

"No one."

"How can that be?" Vasilia asked. "For who then makes the laws and rules the people?"

"We rule ourselves. When the war was finished the people met in every town throughout our land. We selected wise men from among ourselves, who were sent to a great council. There at the council these wise men made rules to govern us all. If the wise men made good rules they stayed on the council. If they made bad rules then the people of the town ordered them to come back home, and sent other wise men in their place.

"Throughout the land we also searched for a man who was the wisest of all. He was sent to lead the council. We called that man a president. For four years he would serve us, and then the people would come together in every town and decide if the president was good or not. If he was not a good president we told him to go home and sent another man in his place."

Hawthorne
could only hope that his rough explanation of democracy was in the right words. As he finished there was a wild flurry of conversation. Some shook their heads in
disbelief,
others just looked at him with awe.

A burly peasant with shoulders and arms that rippled beneath his tunic leaned over the table and started shouting at
Hawthorne.

"Ilya, my mother's brother," Kal said, "wants to know what happens when a bad man laughs at you, and refuses to go home and instead makes himself a palace to live in."

The room fell silent.

Hawthorne
looked about at the assembly.

"If such a man tried to go against the wishes of the people, we would place him in jail."

Ilya laughed, and snapped back a response.

"And if he did not go to jail when you so nicely asked him, and paid soldiers to protect
himself
, then what?"

"We would kill him,"
Hawthorne said quietly, with lowered eyes.

"Peasants kill boyars?" Ilya snorted with disgust. "The church would send you to hell."

"The church has no power in our lands. In
America a man may pray to God,
Perm, Kesus, or whomever he pleases. In
America if any priest tries to stop him, or force him to change how he prays, that priest is sent to jail."

"Impossible," Ilya roared.

"Go into our town then,"
Hawthorne said evenly. "In the center you will see three different churches. One we call Methodist, another Presbyterian, and the third for men who call themselves Catholics. I belong to another church called Quakers. Since I am the only Quaker here, I pray by myself, and no man of another church can force me to do different. If he did so, our leader, Keane, would force him to stop."

The men in the room looked at one another, and shaking his head, Ilya backed down, mumbling darkly. At the mention of Andrew's name,
Hawthorne noticed that several of the men touched their left sleeves and spoke excitedly.

"Now tell them about your
Lincoln," Kal said quickly, "and the war to free the black peasants."

"
Lincoln is the greatest leader of our people we have ever known,"
Hawthorne started, warming to his subject. "He was a peasant just like
myself
and like all of you here. The people of my land saw his wisdom and made him their leader.

"Now in my land there were some people who lived far away in the south of the country. They did not believe that all men were equal. So they went to distant lands and captured men of black skin and made them into slaves to work for them."

"Black-skinned men?"
Nahatkim asked.

"It is true. They are men the same as you and I; the only difference is that God gave them black skins instead of white.

"The men of the South,"
Hawthorne continued, "would not end this evil thing, and so a great war came to our land. The men of the South said they no longer belonged to
America and wished to keep the black men as slaves. But
Lincoln said that was wrong. So the people of the North formed great armies and marched south to free the black-skinned men and to prevent the men of the South from destroying the free
land
of
America
."

Hawthorne
paused for a moment, knowing that his decidedly abolitionist viewpoint on the war might be debated by some of his comrades, but feeling nevertheless that it was accurate.

"Men such as you would fight to free other men," a young man with a scraggly black beard asked, "even though they were not threatened with being slaves themselves?"

"Slavery is wrong,"
Hawthorne said quietly. "
Lincoln said that if we allow one man to be a slave, then the freedom of all men is threatened."

"And you would kill another to stop such a thing?" Nahatkim asked softly.

Hawthorne
looked about the room. Almost imperceptibly he nodded his head.

The room was silent. Perhaps he had said too much. Everyone in the regiment now knew that they were living in the type of land that
America had fought two wars to prevent. All the men in the regiment, volunteers and bounty men, were members of an army dedicated to ending slavery forever. Heated debates were waged in the cabins nearly every night over this very issue and their revulsion at the system of boyars, church, and peasants.

No one spoke, and
Hawthorne could feel the nervous tension over what he had just revealed.

Kal leaned over toward him and smiled.

"It's such a beautiful evening out," he said softly, "a young man like yourself should not be trapped with old ones like ourselves, especially when there is a young lady who would be delighted to walk with him."

Vincent knew he was being dismissed, and looking over at Tanya he was glad for the opportunity to be alone with her.

Rising, the young couple started for the door. Vincent turned, and in a gesture of respect bowed to the assembly in the Suzdalian manner, an action which caused the men to smile and nod in reply.

The door once closed behind them, the young couple looked at each other and smiled.

"You said many wise things," Tanya whispered.

"I only hope I haven't created a problem," Vincent replied.

Shaking her head, Tanya took his hand in hers, and the couple strolled down toward the riverfront gate, exchanging

pleasant
greetings to the soldiers that passed by, with more than one of them looking enviously at the beautiful girl by
Hawthorne's side.

"Let's walk along the river," Tanya said, and eagerly Vincent agreed.

Leaving the fort behind, the couple walked beside the riverbank, the fields and flowing waters around them shimmering by the light of the Wheel and crescent moon overhead. Reaching a stand of high towering pines, the young couple walked beneath the cathedral-like trees, their feet crunching on the needles, the air about them laden with the crisp pungent perfume of the woods.

It was the first time the two had ever been truly alone like this, and Vincent felt a trembling in his heart. In
Maine
such a thing was simply unheard-of, and even after the announcement of an engagement a couple walking thus alone at night would cause comment.

Their pace slowed and stopped.

Tanya's arm slipped about Vincent's waist, and ever so gently her other hand ran across his cheek and about his neck.

Her lips sought out his, lightly brushing, then lingering.

Eyes open, they gazed at each other as the kiss did not break away but rather grew in passion. Frightened by what he was feeling, Vincent wanted to pull away, even as his arms went about Tanya's waist, pulling her body against his.

Finally the kiss drifted away, but Tanya continued, kissing him on the cheek and neck, eager to search out more.

"We should go back," Vincent whispered hoarsely.

Again her lips sought out his, and terrified, he felt his resolve weakening, his body reacting, wanting her in a way he had never allowed himself to imagine.

He pushed her away.

"It's a sin," Vincent gasped. "We mustn't."

Tanya laughed softly.

"My love, my love."

"And I love you," Vincent replied, finally saying what had been in his heart for weeks.