Red Mutiny (43 page)

In Sevastopol, Chukhnin was deliberating what to do about the
Potemkin
now that it was in Theodosia. Yanovich was halfway across the Black Sea and of little use to him for the present moment. Believing he had rooted out his fleet's most rebellious sailors, Chukhnin had ordered Krieger early that morning to lead the squadron to retrieve the
St. George
in Odessa. When he returned, Chukhnin planned on sending his battleships after the
Potemkin
again at Theodosia. But the squadron would not be back until the next day, and he could hardly rely on Krieger to be decisive. Chukhnin had dispatched another destroyer, the
Griden,
to seek out the
Potemkin,
but its commander steamed back to Sevastopol soon after it set off, fearing his crew might mutiny.

Pressure on Chukhnin continued to increase. The tsar and the navy minister refused to hear any more excuses. Nicholas telegraphed, "Resolve this situation and put an end to the
Potemkin's
roaming from port to port. Do you think you will have the capability to accomplish what we spoke about? Report your results." Admiral Avelan repeated much the same demand: "
Potemkin
demands coal and water from city authorities of Theodosia, threatening bombardment in case of refusal. This is intolerable. The
Potemkin
mutiny must be ended by the most radical measures available. Sink the
Potemkin,
if you can." Throughout the day, Chukhnin also received desperate pleas for help from Theodosia. These telegrams could pile up on his desk until they were a foot high, but Chukhnin knew he was powerless to fulfill their requests. They were all at the mercy of that
damned
ship.

A full moon hung over Theodosia, casting faint shadows across the
Potemkin's
decks. After midnight, Kovalenko and Feldmann stood on the bridge, contemplating the future. The provincial governor had never arrived, nor had their coal and water, forcing the sailors to send an ultimatum to the mayor. In all likelihood, they would have to shell the city and engage the garrison in the morning.

The prospect burdened the crew and raised many questions: How many troops would they be fighting against, and would these troops be loyal to their officers? Did the garrison have artillery? How would the workers react to the bombardment? Would they join the sailors? How much destruction would they have to inflict before the city's authorities capitulated? And who would be hurt the most by the shelling—surely, the innocent residents of Theodosia?

Attempting to get some answers, Feldmann had sneaked ashore earlier that evening to contact the city's revolutionary groups, but he had failed to locate a single one. As terrible a choice as it was, the sailors were resigned to attacking Theodosia. They had no other option.

For the first time, Kovalenko and Feldmann spoke of the dangers that they had assumed since joining the sailors in their uprising. The newspapers indicated it was known that an officer and several Odessan revolutionaries were participating in the mutiny. If captured, they knew they would face the gallows. Although at first they tried to appear unshaken by the prospect, Kovalenko admitted his fear and thought of what his mother would feel on learning of his death. It was painful to even imagine it. After a while, the two left the bridge to catch a few hours of sleep in a stateroom. They shook hands and parted ways; it was the last time they would converse.

Throughout the battleship, sailors sat quietly and wrote letters to their families in case the worst happened. Some also scribbled notes to Admiral Chukhnin, pleading that they were innocent of participation in the mutiny; they would present these notes if they were captured. Nobody remembered speaking to Matyushenko that night. He walked the decks, hoping that General Pleshkov would abandon his resistance, and if not, that they could find a way to obtain coal, so that the
Potemkin's
guns could remain silent.

In the city, General Pleshkov remained at headquarters. In the early hours of June 23, he received a telegram from General Volkov, granting his wish. It had been too late to stop the delivery of food supplies, but now his orders were direct: Theodosia was not to send any more aid to the battleship, regardless of the threat of attack. Pleshkov had also received a message from Vice Admiral Chukhnin, who bluntly explained that the Black Sea Fleet was powerless to protect the city in the coming hours; Pleshkov's troops would have to defend it themselves. When the mayor, accompanied by the city council, came to Pleshkov's office to plead for the delivery of coal and water, the general shredded the
Potemkin's
ultimatum before their eyes. His orders were clear, he told the mayor, and he would make no concessions to the mutineers.

A
S THE SAILORS
awakened on the morning of June 23, Theodosia's citizens were already in flight. At 5
A.M.
the mayor had posted notices in the streets, warning that the
Potemkin
would begin its bombardment at any moment. Panic followed. Those with the means drove by carriage into the hills, but most families left on foot. Parents bundled their smallest children in their arms; the rest of the family dragged whatever possessions they could transport. Every store and factory in the city closed down, and police nervously patrolled the streets, expecting shells from the battleship at any moment.

As they witnessed this pitiful sight, a chill went through the crew; the men knew they had caused this terror. When the deadline passed, Matyushenko and Feldmann boarded a launch to see if the city's authorities were preparing the delivery of food and coal or if they had rejected their ultimatum outright. In the port, one of the mayor's clerks waited on a quay, obviously expecting them.

"The garrison commander refuses," he said directly. "Wait until eleven o'clock. We've appealed to the governor. He's certain to permit us to give you the coal. For God's sake, wait!"

Feldmann told the clerk they would consider the offer but to understand that the
Potemkin
sailors would follow through on their threat soon. Before the two returned to the battleship, Matyushenko took a circuitous route, searching for stockpiles of coal along the shore and within the harbor's inlet—one last chance. To their surprise, they spotted three barges laden with coal, anchored by a quay at the harbor's northern edge. The barges lay out in the open, all but waiting to be taken—the answer to their needs. Matyushenko steered the launch past one of them. Its captain appeared on deck, and Matyushenko asked a price for the coal.

"I'll give you the coal for nothing," the captain said. "Just don't destroy my barges."

Feldmann and Matyushenko sped back to the
Potemkin
and told the crew of their discovery. Relieved to get coal without attacking Theodosia, thirty sailors volunteered to retrieve the barges. Armed with rifles, they boarded a launch—Matyushenko, Feldmann, Nikishkin, and Koshuba among them. The
Ismail
accompanied the volunteers. They rubbed their hands together, praising their good fortune. When one cocked his rifle, the others kidded him for showing excess caution.

When the launch came alongside one of the barges, most of the sailors clambered aboard to help lift its anchor, so that they could tow the coal back to the
Potemkin.
The nearby quay and shore were deserted; everyone in town apparently had taken to the hills. After laying down their rifles, the sailors strained to lift the anchor, foot by foot, from the harbor's murky depths. When one sailor tired, another willingly took his place.

Just as the anchor cleared the water, a lookout on the launch cried out a warning: "Soldiers! Soldiers are coming!"

Suddenly, a company of soldiers appeared on the shoreline, another on the quay.

"Keep working!" Koshuba told his comrades on the barges. "They won't fire at us."

Before any of them could take cover behind the stacks of coal, shots rang out. The ambush's first salvo cut down three sailors.

"Comrades, take your rifles," Nikishkin yelled over the screams of the wounded men. He took up his own and aimed; by his side, Feldmann did the same. Before Nikishkin could fire, he crumpled, shot in the chest. He staggered at the barge's edge and fell off the side. Feldmann looked around, dazed, as bullets flew around him. Down in the water, Nikishkin stared straight at him, his eyes begging for help. Feldmann plunged feet first into the harbor and wrapped his arms around the stricken man. Others on the barge jumped into the water, only to be shot as they tried to swim away. Several sailors returned fire, taking cover behind the piles of coal, Koshuba among them.

On the launch, two sailors had already fallen. Under a volley of gunshots, Matyushenko gathered as many sailors as he could back on the launch before the two companies of soldiers converged on the quay. The sailors were desperately outnumbered. In sheer cowardice, the sailors on the
Ismail
turned the torpedo boat back toward the
Potemkin,
leaving its guns silent. For many, the torpedo boat offered their only chance at escape, and it was gone. Confusion reigned as those abandoned on the barge called for help. A few simply cursed the
Ismail;
others followed their comrades into the water, swimming for cover behind the barge or underneath the quay. Matyushenko turned the launch around to retrieve a few more sailors. He told those around him to return fire, but they could do little more than duck. Several lay dying on the deck, pressing their wounds to stanch the flow of blood.

A few moments after the launch steered away from the barge, Matyushenko abruptly lost control of it. The launch swung in a circle, heading straight toward the soldiers amassed on the quay. A bullet had disabled the steering. The soldiers aimed at them as Matyushenko scrambled toward the stern. All seemed lost. Somehow, he escaped the barrage of bullets and managed to grab the rudder, turning the launch away from the quay. One shot dislodged his cap, which briefly covered his eyes, but none hit him. With the steering crippled, he could return to the battleship only with those who had already made it on board; he could hear others cry for help behind him. A hail of bullets followed in his wake.

A wounded sailor lying at his feet looked up at Matyushenko and asked, "What's going to happen? Will I die?"

"Don't even worry about it, my dear Vanya," Matyushenko said as cheerfully as he could manage. "You're going to live—you'll be getting married before you know it."

In the water, Feldmann held Nikishkin around the chest as he ferociously paddled toward the retreating launch. Several sailors around him were killed as they swam. His strength waning, Feldmann knew he would not make it back to the ship. As he turned back toward shore, another bullet hit Nikishkin. His body convulsed, his grip on Feldmann weakened, and he sank to the bottom of the harbor. Feldmann swam toward a nearby ship. Grabbing its anchor chain, he rested for a moment to catch his breath. Koshuba and another sailor swam around the stern of the ship.

"Where are you going?" Feldmann gasped.

"To the battleship!" Koshuba answered, breathlessly.

Too tired to follow them, Feldmann held tight to the anchor chain. "Tell the sailors their comrades want vengeance," he said.

Koshuba nodded, and the two sailors swam toward the battleship, rifle fire still cracking out from the quay. They managed to cover a short distance before Koshuba was shot in the hand and had to slow down. A sloop carrying a band of soldiers dragged the two out of the water. A few minutes later, Feldmann was hauled onto the quay and arrested as well. He lost consciousness as they took him away.

On the
Potemkin,
Kirill and Kovalenko had rushed to the forecastle when they heard the first rifle shots. Mayhem broke out on board as the crew tried to figure out what to do. Some loaded the small-caliber guns to fire on the soldiers; others begged them not to shoot for fear they would hit some of their comrades. A few soldiers on the quay aimed at the
Potemkin,
causing more alarm as bullets ricocheted off the steam funnels.

"The launch is coming!" A sailor pointed from the gun deck after Matyushenko had finally regained control of the boat to direct it out of the harbor. "Drop the ladders!"

When Matyushenko swung the launch around to the battleship's side, a somber silence fell on the
Potemkin.
The sailors looked down at their comrades. One lay in a pool of his own blood, his rifle grasped in his hands, his face still with death, eyes open.

"Stretcher," Matyushenko ordered, climbing up the ladder. "Tsyrkunov is dead."

The sailors scrambled down to lift the injured men out of the launch and carry them to the infirmary, though they had no doctor. Only eight of the thirty sailors had returned; the rest were either captured or killed. A convulsion of rage, fear, and desperation seized the crew.

"To the guns, comrades! Death to the traitors!"

"Enough shooting, enough bloodshed! Let's go to Sevastopol!"

"It's better to die than to turn ourselves over to the Russian government!"

"They've put our comrades under arrest! They have them in port!"

"Open fire on Theodosia!"

"To Romania! To Romania!"

Moments later, when the sailors assembled on the quarterdeck, their demands for action had grown only slightly more reasonable. Theodosia lay emptied before them, apart from soldiers, police, and a few stragglers who had not yet made it to the hills. The crew could easily launch an attack, shelling the city into oblivion in retribution for their fallen comrades and then landing an assault party to take the barges. More sailors would die, but success was more than likely. At first, this course of action looked likely.

"Let's go ashore and die honestly, in battle, with our guns in our hands," Kirill declared. "Otherwise, we'll be damned as cowards and as traitors."

To prepare, some sailors rushed to their positions. The battle pennant was raised, the signalman warned all foreign vessels to leave the port, and the twelve-inch guns swiveled to target the train station, where many of the city's most influential people were waiting for transport out of Theodosia.