THE KRONSTADT UPRISING
Kronstadt on the eve of mutiny--Influences encouraging
uprising--Make-up of the garrison--Wild rumors--A grand plan for
general army and navy uprising--A successful beginning--Silence--A
momentous telegram--A sudden
signal--Mutiny--Trapped!--Slaughter--Illuminating lessons of the
Kronstadt fiasco--The terrible cost in life and liberty.
The Kronstadt fiasco revealed the value to the government of the _agent
provocateur_.[12] During the entire year 1906 there was no shrewder nor
cleverer piece of work executed. It must be said at the same time,
however, that the revolutionists themselves were somewhat to blame. They
generally are. Some one is stupid, hesitating in the crisis, or
recklessly premature, and the psychological moment is lost. This is the
deepest tragedy of the revolution. There is always consolation in the
wake of the inevitable, but when disasters are precipitated by
unnecessary or preventable causes, by carelessness or inefficiency,
there is only black regret. At the Kronstadt rising scores of lives were
sacrificed, the careful preparatory work of months was undone, and the
current of the revolution itself for the moment arrested.
When I attended a revolutionary meeting and listened to the singing of
the _Marseillaise_ within the very walls of the fortress, there was
large promise of a successful uprising when the time should come. This
was the second week in June. Two days after my visit a committee of
“sailors and soldiers of the St. Petersburg and Kronstadt garrisons”
forwarded to the Group of Toil in the Duma a telegram of support and
appeal, closing with the following sentence:
“Though you are in the Duma in the minority, still you must firmly
remember that you express the will of the whole peasantry and laboring
class; that is, all of the toilers of the land.
“But if on account of small numbers you are not able to carry through
and realize all these reforms which are indispensable and which you are
empowered by the people to obtain, then you must sound a call to the
people and army, calling them to rise for the struggle.
“Your call will not be a voice in the desert, but, on the contrary, it
will sound like thunder through the whole land and all as one will
arise--all of the enslaved and oppressed--for the defense of their
trampled rights, for land, and for freedom.”
Coming when they did these were foolish words. As subsequent events
proved “all of the enslaved and oppressed” did not rise, nor were they
in a position to rise at that time. The publication of this telegram did
not advance the cause one iota, but it did put the government on guard.
Kronstadt was doubly watched from that moment.
The Duma was dissolved just one month later, and three weeks after the
dissolution Kronstadt tried to rise--a costly, futile effort.
In early June the garrison consisted of about twenty thousand sailors,
four thousand heavy artillery, and two thousand infantry. In August the
sailors and artillery numbered approximately the same, but more infantry
had been brought down from Peterhof. This alone should have been a
warning to the military organization, but the roster of the
revolutionary sympathizers was apparently so long, the outlook so
encouraging, that the force of the loyal men was hopelessly
under-estimated. In this particular bad generalship was to blame.
The Sunday preceding the mutiny I visited Kronstadt. Near the center of
the island is a summer garden in which a military band plays each Sunday
afternoon. Ordinarily this garden is crowded with visitors. I found it
as desolate as a cemetery. The band was there--playing manfully to
deserted groves and empty benches. Here and there a soldier strolled
with his sweetheart. But the absence of the usual gala throng was
ominous. The streets, too, were still. Houses were closed. Veritably it
was an evacuated city. Upon inquiry, I was told that a rumor had been
circulated during the previous two or three days that all of Kronstadt
had been mined, by the government, and a warning issued to the soldiers
and sailors that if mutiny did break out the mines would be exploded,
blowing sailors, soldiers, ships, and town into Kingdom Come. This
sounded to me like a ridiculous fiction. And I still scout the idea. But
the Russian people have learned by costly experiences that the wildest
tales of the government often prove true in Russia. A panic had,
therefore, possessed the town, and all of the townspeople who could had
fled. Extraordinary as this report sounds, it would unquestionably have
been a safer thing for the government to do than to allow Kronstadt to
become a revolutionary stronghold. Wandering about the town I could
discover no signs of an imminent uprising. I even failed to find any of
my acquaintances among the military organization, which made me wonder
a good deal. And indeed, as I learned later, at this time, four days
before the actual outbreak, there was no thought of attempting the
mutiny immediately, on the part of the revolutionary leaders. In reality
it was planned for several weeks later, when the peasants would have
gathered their scanty harvests and be ready to fight: when the railroad,
postal and telegraph strikes were planned to come off simultaneously;
then, as an adjunct to these national movements, the army and navy
mutinies were to begin. The plan was an elaborate one and looked
thrillingly good on paper, but as has happened before the _agent
provocateur_ of the government had not been taken into account. Upon
signal, Sveaborg, near Helsingfors, was to rise, then Reval in the
Baltic provinces, then Sebastopol on the Black Sea, and finally
Kronstadt. With these four important strongholds captured it would seem
that the fight was won. The month of September, or possibly October, was
the time selected to set in motion the attacks upon these centers--in
conjunction with a general strike and multitudinous peasant
uprisings--_jacquerie_--all over the empire.
A plan of this magnitude necessarily depended for execution upon a great
many different people, and, despite all the care that was supposedly
exercised, every detail was early reported to the government, with the
result that the whole thing was not only forestalled, but precipitated,
and at the moment when everything was most favorable to the government.
Violent reaction followed the dissolution of the Duma. The American mind
can scarcely conceive of the degree of suppression employed by the
Russian government. Nearly every liberal newspaper in St. Petersburg was
immediately confiscated and many permanently suppressed. Not only
radical journals, but moderate newspapers, like those edited by
Professor Paul Miliukoff and Professor Kovalevsky, newspapers of dignity
and spirit, untainted by commercial or ignoble motives, such as we in
America cannot appreciate. Foreign newspapers,--from England, from
France, from Germany,--were so rigidly censored that nothing about
Russia worth reading escaped elimination. This aspect of the censorship
was most farcical. The men who wrote the telegrams and articles remained
in St. Petersburg. The things they wrote were lamp-blacked in every
individual paper that entered the country. Personal correspondence was
demoralized. The letters of private individuals were ruthlessly opened
and frequently confiscated. And as for arrests, it seemed as if nine out
of every ten men who had ever expressed a liberal opinion were marked
for prison. It was estimated that six hundred political arrests were
made in St. Petersburg alone during the week of the Duma dissolution.
These wholesale arrests continued for weeks all over Russia. The
governmental troops seemed to be in absolute control everywhere. The
atmosphere of St. Petersburg was at first tense with expectancy that
some change would come and turn the tables, but as days passed and the
iron heel of the bureaucracy only pressed the harder over the land,
liberal sympathizers became utterly discouraged and despairing. This was
the situation when I went to Kronstadt on the Sunday of the fatal week.
On that day all was quiet. So was it on Monday. Tuesday there were a
score of rumors in the air, most of them wild and fantastic, but yet
seeming indicative of something. Wednesday news of the Sveaborg mutiny
reached St. Petersburg. The reports were hysterical. The Sveaborg
fortress was reported fallen, and ships sent to recapture the batteries
had themselves fallen under mutiny. Fighting was next reported at Reval,
and at the same time from Sebastopol. All telegrams were favorable to
the revolutionists. All eyes turned to Kronstadt. Kronstadt awaited the
signal. Suddenly all communication was cut off between St. Petersburg
and the centers of activity. Even the railroad to Helsingfors was
broken--the bridge dynamited. The last reports that got through were
entirely favorable to the mutineers, and, therefore, the assumption was
that the telegraph, telephone, and railroad lines were held by the
revolutionists.
Some of the foreign correspondents in St. Petersburg hastened toward
Sveaborg, but I, knowing Kronstadt so intimately, went there, to be on
hand for the fight which seemed so imminent. The regular boats between
St. Petersburg and Kronstadt were discontinued Wednesday afternoon. This
seemed an indication of something brewing, so I hurried over the course
I had so hastily come a few weeks earlier when “escaping” with Pasha. I
reached Orienbaum by train, and there secured a boat across the
mile-broad stretch of water to the fortress.
It was just sunset when I reached the island and made my way through the
deserted streets of the town. A remote hill village could be no
lonelier. No one seemed to know who had disturbed the connections with
St. Petersburg.
The first information of importance I gleaned was that nearly all of the
ships stationed at Kronstadt had just put out to sea, and that of those
remaining all but one or two had been dismantled. That is to say, their
guns had been dismounted and most of the sailors disarmed. The effect of
these precautions upon the men was precisely what any reasonable and
logical person would have supposed--discouragement from immediate
action. I found a small government boat lying at a quay with about
twenty sailors and heavy artillerymen lounging about the decks. There
was no officer near, so I boarded the ship and sat talking with the men
for half an hour or more. After the first few minutes they opened up and
told me that they knew almost nothing of what was going on at
Helsingfors as the government had prevented their seeing any newspapers.
They admitted that there were plans for a mutiny--“but not yet.” All
agreed to this: “Not now.” The artillerymen said: “If any ship flying a
red flag comes along it will not be fired upon by us. But we don’t want
to start the affair.” I spent the remainder of the evening going from
point to point and talking to sailors, soldiers, and young men about the
town. Nearly all told me the same thing. “We know we must rise. There is
no other way. But we must not be hasty. We will wait and rise together
with other garrisons and with the fleet.” The men seemed all to have
learned well their lesson of restraint from the workers of the military
organization, for I knew absolutely that this was what they had been
instilling into the Kronstadt garrison for weeks.
By ten o’clock I was satisfied that Kronstadt would remain serene for
the present. There was no indication whatever of movement anywhere on
the part of either sailors or soldiers. Returning to the quay I found
the regular ferry-boat running to Orienbaum as usual. I boarded the one
which left at ten-thirty. We were delayed a few minutes at starting by a
brawling sailor. This was the only enlivening incident I had witnessed.
Midway to the mainland a search-light on a warship, which had just crept
in close to Kronstadt, began sweeping the water. Round and round, now
slowly, now fast, now near, now far. Once the great white path caught
our little boat and fastened upon us. Then it turned and flashed toward
the sea. The night was wonderful, still and calm, with a clear sky and
brilliant stars above, and a soft summer breeze drifting pleasantly
across the distant waters of the gulf. Perfect peace seemed to brood
over Kronstadt. When the circling search-light fell upon the grim
fortress walls they stood out in frowning silence which seemed set and
lasting--like eternal verities, great hopes of struggling men, and all
things which endure.
I vaguely framed the telegrams I had promised to send for other
correspondents, according to the coöperative arrangements made under the
stress of many points of interest simultaneously claiming
attention--telegrams to London, to Paris, and Berlin. Their substance
was: “Kronstadt promises to remain quiet for the present, although ships
flying red flags will meet with no hostile reception.” We were twenty
minutes in crossing. We had not fairly landed when the great guns of
Kronstadt boomed and the mutiny was on.
Inasmuch as I was nearer to it than any one else, I believe I was the
most surprised--unless, perchance, the very men who took part in the
affair. The Kronstadt uprising of August, 1906, was a bolt from the blue
to the men who participated, to the workers of the military
organization, and to every one who was supposedly familiar with the
situation there. The flash-light from the warship playing on the
fortress seemed a sort of confirmation of this.
The explanation throws a white light on the question “Why the army does
not rise.”
Just before the departure of the boat for Orienbaum a telegram had been
received by the central committee of the military organization. The
wires having been interrupted for some time, the arrival of this
telegram was accepted as evidence that the lines were in friendly hands.
The telegram purported to be from Helsingfors. It stated that Sveaborg
was captured and also Reval; that Sebastopol would presently fall.
Further, two warships in the hands of the revolutionists were at that
moment on the way from Helsingfors to Kronstadt and would arrive about
daylight. In the meantime Kronstadt must rise so as to be in the hands
of the revolutionists when the ships arrived in the morning.
This meant immediate action. A small number of sappers and miners were
gathered together and certain outer batteries captured. Two heavy shells
were fired, and these guns signaled the garrison to rise. The sappers
and miners were soon reinforced by artillerymen and sailors, but nearly
all of these were unarmed, having had their arms taken from them a few
days before. They therefore advanced upon the arsenal. On the way the
officers’ quarters were invaded and six officers killed, including an
admiral. The arsenal was captured against small resistance and the men
rushed up-stairs to where the guns were stored. They pulled the doors
from the gun-cases, and then for the first time suspected that the
telegram and the whole signal to rise was a hoax. The guns were there,
but the locks had all been removed!
Unarmed sailors are no better than an unarmed mob. When the mutineers
poured out into the street from the arsenal they were received by a
regiment of loyal troops brought down from Peterhof that very afternoon
and now hurried into action. They poured volley after volley into the
men coming out of the arsenal. There was some bayonet-fighting, but the
rattle of gatling guns speedily forced a surrender. The actual
casualties of this night will never be known. They cannot be reckoned
from without, and the government will not disclose the figures.
Horrible scenes followed the slaughter. Bodies of the dead were pitched
into the sea and with them some wounded who still lived. One or two of
these survived, being carried by the current across the narrow stretch
of water to the mainland and there washed ashore.
Several hundred arrests followed. A Duma deputy, named Anipko, a member
of the Group of Toil, was taken on this occasion, and with him my friend
Paul. I could never learn why these two were not executed, but instead
they were both sent to Siberia. A few days later there were nineteen men
shot, twelve sent to hard labor for life, one hundred and twenty others
to the mines for varying terms, and four hundred and twenty-nine to
prison. These five hundred and eighty men, together with those killed
outright, were supposed to be the leading members of the military
organization in Kronstadt at that time. Doubtless they were. A régime of
repression was naturally promptly established.
Every time there is an incipient mutiny there is a renewal of
oppression. Again and again during the last few years have mutinies,
like the Kronstadt affair, been precipitated by the government, and
always with results as disastrous to the men as satisfactory to the
government. The fact that the army does not rise is no indication at all
that the men are loyal to the Czar. As a whole they are not. The
difficulty comes in their not being able to rise simultaneously, and in
their inability to save their leaders from execution or exile long
enough to lead them into battle.
The failure of Kronstadt, of Sveaborg, and of Reval did not make any
appreciable impression upon the men. More of the best leaders were
taken, a few hundred more lives given up, but the spirit of unrest
remained. The
[Illustration: The Kronstadt insurrection]
[Illustration: Loyal troops sent to quell Kronstadt mutiny]
hugeness of Russia makes the revolutionary movement unwieldy. Every man,
or woman, who is educated, or who shows liberal tendencies, is liable to
be marked, and at the first opportunity, reasonable or unreasonable,
clapped into prison, or exiled. The best disciplined army in the world
would fall asunder if practically all of the officers were suddenly
snatched away. It is only the great underlying principle of the
revolution which now moves the masses on. The reign of anarchy which
threatens Russia to-day is a far more terrible menace than the bloodiest
revolution fought out on a civil-war basis. When a whole people become
utterly lawless, each man striking blindly, and all striking, the result
is chaos for the time being. The existing weak government is rapidly
bringing Russia to this. For the government, while able to demoralize
the ranks of the revolution, is yet unable to administer, to rule, or to
guide. The great mass of the people are against the government. Many,
especially of the middle classes, are silent because they dare not
openly fight. But the very moment the tide of success turns into the
channels of the revolutionists, the ranks of the government’s enemies
will swell enormously. The number of people all over the country who are
as it were “on the fence” who will join the revolution as soon as the
propitious moment seems to have arrived is inestimably large. So it is
with the army. The percentage of the men favorable to revolution is
large, but for their own necks’ sake they refrain from premature revolt.
When the wave of success finally sweeps high over the existing order,
the army will turn by regiments and brigades. The officers know this
perfectly well, and are straining every resource to put off the day when
this cataclysm will overtake them. But it is coming as surely as night
follows day. Discipline in the army is such that it can be stayed but
it cannot be ultimately avoided. Men now have no other alternative than
to obey. For example, when an execution is to take place and there is
the slightest doubt about the soldiers who are to do the shooting, a
file of infantry are ranged at a given spot; directly behind the
soldiers a file of, say, marines; directly behind these again a file of
Cossacks. The command is given to the front rank to fire. Every man
whose gun doesn’t go off is shot by the man behind him; if any man in
the second rank fails, the Cossacks in the rear--who can always be
depended upon--shoot.
Paul and Pasha, and all of the other ardent men and women whom I saw
working in Kronstadt in June, were either killed, imprisoned, or exiled,
in August. But by September there were other Pauls, other Pashas,
established in Kronstadt, working just as earnestly and fearlessly, and
just as hopeful of the ultimate outcome. They all believe in this
revolution with the same gloriously blind faith, for they recognize
revolution as the inevitable result of the anachronous and rotten
social, economic, and political conditions which have for so long sapped
the vitality of Russia.