We were lodged in the principal prison of Kieff. On April 20,
we received copies of the indictment, drawn up by Strelnikoff,
prosecuting advocate to the Military Tribunal (he was afterwards killed
at Odessa). We were, in all, fourteen prisoners, accused of sedition,
of belonging to secret political societies, and of resisting the
police. In order to give greater publicity to the trial, we resolved to
have ourselves defended by counsel from St. Petersburg and put forward
a request to this effect. But after some delay we were informed that if
we wanted advocates, we must choose them from among the candidates for
judgeships attached to the tribunal of Kieff, and therefore dependent
for promotion on the functionary by whom the prosecution was to be
conducted. Deeming this a practical denial of justice, we determined to
take no active part whatever in the proceedings.
At six o'clock on the morning of April 20, we were taken before the
tribunal. Eight of our party were men, six women. The first thing that
struck me was the strength of the escort—more than a hundred Cossacks,
besides gendarmes and policemen. Officers were running from group to
group, giving orders and making arrangements, as if they were preparing
for a general action. The women were led off first, after which we men
were placed in a large barred carriage, so spacious indeed that we
could all seat ourselves comfortably.
Then the procession moved off. At its head rode Gubernet, the chief of
the police. After him came the captain of the gendarmerie, Rudov, an
old schoolfellow of mine. Our carriage was surrounded by Cossacks, the
rear-rank men carrying loaded carbines. All the horses were put to the
gallop, and the police, who feared a manifestation in our favor, had
cleared the streets of spectators, and ordered a complete suspension of
traffic. Not a figure without uniform was to be seen, and strong bodies
of troops occupied every street corner.
I need not describe the trial—if trial it can be called: it lasted four
days, and ended in the condemnation of three of our number to death;
the rest were sentenced to various terms of imprisonment. My sentence
was fourteen years and ten months' penal servitude.
We were led back to prison with precisely the same precautions as had
been observed when we were taken before the tribunal. The people
were not allowed by their presence in the street to show even silent
sympathy, either with us, or with the cause for which we suffered and
so many had perished.
After the verdict and the sentence life became a little easier for
us. Instead of being compelled to take exercise one by one, we were
now allowed to meet and walk about freely in the prison yard. The
police had an object in granting us this indulgence. Before the trial
several attempts had been made to take our photographs; but this we had
resolutely refused to allow. For those who cherish hopes of regaining
their liberty, the possession of their likeness by the police is
strongly to be deprecated. We were now informed by the authorities
of the gaol that unless we complied with their wishes in this matter
our meetings and our walks would be stopped. We enjoyed our social
intercourse immensely. It was an unspeakable comfort to us. Three of
our little company were under sentence of death, the fate of three
others trembled in the balance, and would be made known only at the
foot of the scaffold. It was not possible that we could long remain
together, and we offered to comply with the wish of our gaolers
on condition that we should not be separated until the last. This
condition being accepted, our photographs were taken.
The quarters of several of us were in an upper story of the prison, and
from our grated windows we could watch the construction of the gallows.
The place of execution was a plain about two-thirds of a mile from the
prison gates. Those doomed to death, being on a lower story, did not
witness these ghastly preparations, and none of us, of course, gave
them a hint of what was going on.
At length, and only too swiftly, came the 13th of May. We had been
told nothing, but from the completion of the gallows, the behavior
of the warders, and from other signs, we thought that the executions
were fixed for the following day. The condemned thought so themselves.
Although we did our utmost to keep outwardly calm, the farewells that
evening were unspeakably sad. Most touching and agonizing of all was
the parting of those who were to die on the morrow with those who
expected to follow them a little later on to the scaffold and the
grave. Two months afterwards Beltchomsky and Anisim Fedorow were hanged
on the same gallows.
Five thousand soldiers and gendarmes escorted our doomed friends to the
place of execution. On previous occasions the authorities had thought
it well to do their hanging early in the morning, while people slept.
This time they did it with pomp, circumstance and parade. The cavalcade
of death did not leave the prison gates until nearly noon; traffic was
suspended, but the streets were crowded with spectators, and when the
bodies of our comrades swung in the air, the military band struck up a
lively tune, as if they were rejoicing over some great victory.