Red Mutiny (11 page)

As the sun rose, a sailor swabbing the spar deck smelled something foul. He followed the stench to the hanging carcasses of meat brought on board the night before. Another sailor came to his side and noticed a writhing mass of white maggots on the flesh. "Well—it's fall of worms," he said matter-of-factly. Several others came to look at the meat, disgust visible on their faces, but they were soon broken up by the call for all hands on deck. The men assembled for the raising of the colors; whispers about the rotten meat passed through the ranks.

"Attention! Present arms!"

Captain Golikov walked onto the quarterdeck as the marine guards raised their rifles to their sides like torches lighting the way. He greeted Gilyarovsky, received his reports from the rest of his officers on the state of the battleship, and then turned to the flagstaff. The watch commander yelled, "Attention! Hoist flag!" The sailors and officers removed their caps. As the drums rolled, the St. Andrew's flag rose steadily on the flagstaff. Eight bells struck, and the command came for the assembly to break up.

As Golikov disappeared off the deck and the new watch began, sailors crowded around the spar deck to see this rotten meat for themselves. It was an unusually hot June morning, the air still and dense with humidity; the meat would only grow fouler as the sun rose into the sky.

"The Japanese feed Russian prisoners better," one sailor complained.

"I wouldn't give this meat to a pig," growled another.

More men came forward to see the meat that would be thrown into the pots along with beets, cabbage, and carrots to make their lunch of borscht. "Chuck the stinking stuff overboard!" the crowd began to call out in unison. Matyushenko and Vakulenchuk also inspected the carcasses, not surprised at their quality. More of interest to them was the reaction of their fellow sailors. The sight of the worms had obviously triggered the crew's anger toward their officers more than all of the revolutionaries' propaganda efforts had.

After standing by while the sailors vented for a few moments, a petty officer strode over to get them back to work. "Don't you remember your friends in Port Arthur were eating dog's meat? And you're not happy with beef!?"

"Is this Port Arthur?" a sailor returned.

Several others cursed the supply officer, Makarov, demanding that he or the ship's senior surgeon, Dr. Sergei Smirnov, be brought to the spar deck. Worried that the situation might escalate, the petty officer went to inform Makarov, who told the watch commander, Lieutenant N. Y. Liventsev, who went straight to see the captain. In his spacious cabin, Golikov listened to Liventsev's report about the spoiled meat and then sent for Dr. Smirnov to accompany him on an inspection. The seas were calming, and Golikov planned to send out the
Ismail
to set up targets for firing practice later in the day. No distractions were needed, in particular the usual grumbling about the quality of the borscht.

With Golikov at his side, Smirnov headed to the spar deck to deal with the recalcitrant sailors. With the bedside manner of a drill instructor, Smirnov was already despised by most of the crew. Tall, trim, and through-and-through navy in his full-length coat fitted with three black stars on silver epaulettes, he nevertheless walked gingerly on the deck, unsure of his sea legs. On a previous voyage, he had fallen through a hatch after losing his balance during firing exercises.

"Now. What's all this about? What's all this about?" Smirnov demanded loudly, pushing his way through the sailors who surrounded the dangling carcasses. Golikov stood at a distance.

After putting on his pince-nez, Smirnov cut off a sliver of meat, looked at it briefly, brought it close to his nose, and then turned to his captain. "The meat is of good quality."

The crowd of sailors shouted that the meat was riddled with maggots: could Smirnov not see them, or did he not care?

"That doesn't mean anything," the doctor declared. "It's summertime. All the cook needs to do is wash the meat and cut out the parts with maggots."

"You don't even treat us as men," replied a sailor darkly.

Ignoring their protests, Golikov ordered the men to disperse. If the doctor believed the meat was suitable, that was enough for him. Reluctantly the sailors disbanded. For good measure, Golikov assigned a petty officer to make a list of the sailors who approached the carcasses. As far as he was concerned, this ended the matter.

***

Later that morning, Matyushenko made his way down to the torpedo room for a hastily called meeting of the ship's revolutionaries. He was eager to tell his comrades of the opportunity created by the rotten meat.

His fellow sailors constantly griped about the navy's abominable food; their meals constituted a three-times-a-day reminder of their plight. While the officers dined well in private compartments, some having skimmed funds that were supposed to be used for the crew's provisions, the sailors ate slop. A couple of years before, on the cruiser
Berezan,
sailors had nearly broken into open revolt because of rancid meat. The
Berezan's
captain avoided a mutiny only by ordering a fresh batch of borscht.

Matyushenko was convinced that the maggot-infested carcasses could incite the crew to mutiny. With this idea in mind, he slipped into the torpedo room, joining Vakulenchuk, Alekseyev, Yfim Bredikhin, and Stefan Denisenko, among several others. To start the meeting, Alekseyev first informed those who had not already heard about the scenes he had witnessed in Odessa: workers protesting in the streets, the police indiscriminately using force, and calls for revolution.

Breaking into the discussion first, Matyushenko shook his fist and said, "First in St. Petersburg, the tsar's troops fired on the people. Now they're doing the same in Odessa. It's no longer possible to delay. We must seize the ship
today
and go to Odessa." The tainted meat formed the perfect pretext for revolt.

Bredikhin, who considered himself more of an anarchist than a Social Democrat, agreed with Matyushenko. Only cowards would allow the opportunity pass.

"We only go to Odessa with the whole squadron," Vakulenchuk insisted. "Then we'll really be as strong as possible and, together with the workers, we'll win an easy victory." He recommended they use the meat solely to further prepare the crew for mutiny. To do so, they would lead a boycott against eating the borscht. This would also test the reactions of the officers and sailors. With each passing day, Vakulenchuk then argued, the maggots would grow bigger and the boycott gather in strength.

Denisenko supported this plan, as did most of the others.

But Matyushenko wanted to move on the officers now. Patience.
Patience. Patience. This was what Vakulenchuk always advised him, but Matyushenko was weary of propaganda. He wanted his revenge and revolution—now. Only his respect for Vakulenchuk kept him at bay. Finally he assented to wait as well.

Vakulenchuk instructed the group to let the crew know of their resolution, and the revolutionaries quickly disbanded, saying, "We won't eat the soup! If Smirnov or Golikov like it so much, let them eat it! We won't eat the soup!"

Troubled over the crew's mood and fearful that the revolutionaries would easily corrupt others over a few maggots, Commander Gilyarovsky headed toward the galley at lunchtime to make sure everything was in order; the rest of the
Potemkin
's officers were dining in their wood-paneled wardroom.

Gilyarovsky had made it his special mission to crush these revolutionaries. As the executive officer, or "wolf," as men in his position were often called, he was obligated to serve as watchdog on the battleship, but his efforts exceeded his duty. He recruited his own spies, conducted his own spot inspections, and refused to allow the slightest lapses in discipline to go unpunished. Nothing in his noble upbringing or mediocre naval career differentiated Gilyarovsky from his peers in a way that might explain his more overbearing approach to the sailors, yet he was universally known for his hatred of them. Even Golikov had complained to Vice Admiral Chukhnin that his commander needed to learn restraint. Yet nobody punished Gilyarovsky for his excesses.

Gilyarovsky came across the watch commander, asking him if he had personally sampled the borscht before it was served—as per naval regulations.

"The borscht is wonderful," Liventsev replied. "I would've eaten some with pleasure, but unfortunately my throat hurts."

Leaving his ineffectual officer behind, Gilyarovsky arrived at the mess deck several minutes after a boatswain's whistle signaled the start of lunch. He found the wooden barrels of steaming borscht untouched and the men eating bread dipped in water. Storming over to the cook, Gilyarovsky demanded, "Why aren't you serving lunch to the crew?"

"The crew doesn't want to eat the borscht," the cook answered.
"They said we ought to throw it overboard ... and the rest of the meat as well. They only ask for tea and butter for their bread."

Gilyarovsky approached the group of the sailors nearest him. "What do you think you're doing? This is a disgrace. Why don't you eat your borscht?"

A long silence met his question. Then a few sailors among the hundreds on deck called out, "Because the meat is stinking!" and "Eat it yourself—we'll stick to bread and water."

Gilyarovsky turned on his heel and quickstepped toward the wardroom. He could barely contain his anger at the men's disobedience and—worse—their disrespect. They had to be dealt with harshly, he thought. The watch commander stopped him on his way, making excuses and saying that he had tried to get the crew to take some borscht.

In the wardroom, Gilyarovsky found Dr. Smirnov and the other officers still dining, a waiter refilling their wineglasses. He walked up behind the doctor and bit off the words "The crew refuses to eat the borscht."

Smirnov looked at the commander with irritation; the tone of his reply was bored at best. "I already told them the meat is fine. The maggots are nothing more than larvae eggs that flies had laid there. They simply need to be washed away with salt and water. The cook did this on my instructions. If the crew continues to refuse to eat, then it's they who are spoiled. That's it."

For a few seconds, Gilyarovsky stared at the doctor, while tossing his cap in the air—either disturbed by the answer or considering what to do next; nobody in the wardroom could tell. Then he walked out. He went straight to Golikov, who was eating alone in his cabin, as was customary for captains. After recounting his visit to the mess deck, Gilyarovsky said pointedly, "We have to teach them a lesson, Yvgeny Nikolayevich—one that they'll remember for the rest of their lives."

Golikov called Dr. Smirnov to his cabin. If the men had no reason to grumble, he had to be quite stern with them. But he needed to be sure. He did not want to start an uprising in the course of trying to prevent one. He knew about the threat of revolutionaries since they had left Sevastopol; caution was needed.

When Smirnov arrived with his assistant surgeon, Golenko, he
took his third interrogation on the subject of the rotten carcasses with even less patience than the previous two, but his answer was the same.

"Very well, Doctor, and thank you." Golikov nodded reluctantly and then turned to his second officer. "Commander Gilyarovsky, will you please order the drums to be beaten for roll call."

Events had begun to take on a life of their own. By refusing the borscht and standing up to the hated Gilyarovsky, the majority of sailors got a taste for resisting their officers. Matyushenko eagerly looked toward the next step to outright revolt, now that his fellow sailors had shown some mettle. Smirnov could not back down from his declaration that the meat was suitable; Gilyarovsky wanted retribution; and Golikov needed to show he would not cower at the threat to his command—he had to demand obedience.

The
Potemkin
was a few missteps away from mutiny.

The sailors stood stiffly at attention on the quarterdeck, a sea of men in white and blue, with long ribbons hanging from caps embroidered with the name
POTEMKIN
. Assembled at the port and starboard sides of the deck, their lines stretched from the ship's stern to the hulking black steel of the aft turret. It was a few minutes after noon, and the sun appeared swollen red in the blue sky.

Watching the heavyset captain pass between the ranks and awkwardly climb onto the capstan, Matyushenko waited among the others to see what he would do. Golikov was known to stare at a sailor until he withered, but this time he had an entire crew challenging his authority. He was a speck amidst the hundreds of sailors. Most quietly despised him, what he represented, or both. Each had his reason: an overzealous punishment received; a family that suffered without help because of his conscription; sleeping quarters more suited to cattle; the indignity of being forbidden to walk on a city street; a life divided into four- to eight-hour watches; the threat of dying in a war against an enemy utterly unknown to him; a lack of hope—or perhaps too much—in the future. The rotten batch of borscht merely symbolized each sailor's own particular reason. But Golikov understood none of this.

"It seems you all are dissatisfied with the soup." He addressed the crew, Gilyarovsky standing behind him like an enforcer. "Very well then, I shall seal a container of it and send it to the chief commander
in Sevastopol for inspection. But I'm warning you, only bad will come out of it for you. I've repeatedly told you, and I shall not repeat myself again, of what's in store for sailors who forget discipline. You will be hanged."

He straightened his arm and pointed at the yardarm on the mast. All eyes followed his gesture; the sailors whispered among one another, some in fear, others in disbelief. Matyushenko knew the captain would follow through on his threat and, for once, realized how much they were risking.

"Turn in the instigators of this little rebellion," Golikov continued, pulling nervously at the back of his collar. "We've more than enough ropes and pulleys aboard this ship for them. And you will get through your military service, return to your villages, work the land, and feed your wives and children. Now, whoever wants to eat the borscht, step forward."