AN IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM.
The incident at Borki, when the train in which the Tzar Alexander and
Tzarina were travelling was wrecked and partially burned, will no doubt
be remembered by the majority of readers. Although generally attributed
to a Nihilist plot, the perpetrators of the outrage have never been
discovered. It is true that thirty-seven persons of both sexes were
arrested at Kirsanoff and Atkarsk and sent to the Kadainski silver mine
in Eastern Siberia as a “precautionary measure,” but all were innocent,
and notwithstanding the strenuous efforts of the Russian “Security
Section,” aided by the police of the whole of Europe, the matter has
always been regarded as a mystery.
Now, for the first time, I have resolved to explain the manner in which
that attempt was made, the cause of its failure, and the means employed
by the conspirators to effect their escape.
Foreign critics—those in the pay of the Russian Government—frequently
stigmatise Nihilists as frenzied enthusiasts who seek to reform society
and reconstitute their country by the aid of dynamite and bombshells.
Nevertheless, although the means employed may, perhaps, appear
reprehensible, yet the majority of patriotic Englishmen are in sympathy
with the cause of Russian freedom. Have we not had many examples thrust
upon us of the tyranny and callousness of the late Tzar? When the Lord
Mayor, representing the City of London, petitioned his Imperial Majesty
regarding the inhuman treatment of Jews, what answer did he receive? The
representative of English liberty was snubbed; the petition was returned
with a curt reply that Russian Jews did not concern the Lord Mayor. Such
an illustration of Muscovite despotism should be borne in mind by those
who look upon Nihilists as murderers.
Our object is to free our beloved country from the terrible yoke. In the
great sorrow-stricken land, tens of thousands of our countrymen groan
beneath the curse of infamous laws and the burden of unjust taxation.
The young Tzar on his throne is powerless, his myrmidons who surround
him keep their grip upon the desolated country, and no man can breathe
with absolute freedom. The police are infamous spies who will sell a
man’s life for a few kopecks; the magistracy is corrupt, and justice a
burlesque. Poverty, misery, and starvation are rampant, and happiness
is unknown, beneath the crushing weight of this monstrous form of
despotism. The so-called Nihilists desire to free their country from this
curse, and would do it by peaceable means, and without bloodshed, were it
possible. But it is not, and therefore the Executive are compelled to be
merciless, and are determined to strike enemies of Russia without pity or
remorse.
To sweep the Autocrat from his throne, to break his power, to destroy
the corrupt ministers and infamous advisers by whom he is surrounded,
to bring enlightenment, peace, and freedom to millions of honest,
God-fearing men, women, and children in Russia, are the objects and aims
of those who are so frequently designated as murderers.
Yet the work goes on, silently, steadily, deadly. Each day brings the
power of the Tzar’s nearer its disastrous termination; each day increases
the hopes of those thousands of “political suspects” buried alive in
Siberian snow-drifts; each night brings us nearer the dawn of a bright
and prosperous day.
Already my readers have learnt the reason I, Anton Prèhznev, loyal
soldier of his Imperial Majesty, became transformed into a revolutionist.
My case is but one of many thousands. In Russia, one must be either a
flunkey or a Nihilist, and most persons prefer to work for the cause of
freedom.
It was in a small room over a dingy and uninviting-looking _café_ in
Gerrard Street, Soho—to which our headquarters had been transferred, in
order to elude the vigilance of the spies of the Embassy—that there was
arranged one of the most bold and terrible plots since the assassination
of Alexander II.
The meeting was held hurriedly at midnight, and I attended. Paul
Pétroff—who had that day returned from Petersburg—presided, and
Tersinski, Irteneff, Grinevitch, and Bounakoff were present.
“Brothers,” exclaimed Pétroff, after we had seated ourselves and
transacted some preliminary business, “our time has arrived. By the
exercise of due caution we shall be enabled to strike a blow that will
paralyse Europe, and remove the Tyrant and his underlings. Shall we do
so?”
“Yes,” we replied, with one accord.
“Now that the lips of that traitress, Vera Kovalski, are sealed, we are
free to act,” he continued. “The _Zemliá i Vólia_ (”Land and Liberty“)
group in Petersburg have supplied us with information. The Tzar and
Tzarina will leave the Winter Palace this day fortnight for Astrakhan.”
He took from the papers at his elbow a large map of Russia, upon which
was marked in red the route by which the Imperial party were to travel.
It showed that they would go by way of Moscow, Riazan, Tambov, Atkarsk,
to Saratov, and thence by steamer down the Volga.
“You observe, brothers,” he said, “the train will pass over several
unimportant branch lines. It is suggested by the Circle in Petersburg
that a disaster should occur on one of these, as they will not be so
closely watched as the trunk lines.”
“What kind of a disaster?” I asked.
Pétroff ran his fingers through his long, dark hair, and fixed his
searching eyes upon me.
“We have yet to decide,” he replied. “Besides, as it would be extremely
dangerous for any member of the Petersburg group to undertake the
attempt, one of us will be compelled to put the plans into execution,
receiving assistance, of course, from our brothers in the capital.”
“There are many ways of causing a disaster,” observed Tersinski. “A
charge of dynamite under the metals, as at Moscow, might prove effective.”
“Or destroy a bridge, as we did at Elizabethgrad,” suggested Bounakoff.
“And wreck the pilot engine only,” remarked the President. “No, neither
will do. The only way it can be done effectually is from the train
itself.”
“But how?” asked Grinevitch, who had been sitting thoughtful and silent.
Pétroff then entered into a minute explanation, producing plans of the
various lines that he had brought from Petersburg, together with a sketch
of the Imperial train, and a list of the suite and ministers who would,
in all probability, travel by it. We sat together until the small hours
of the morning, and at length arranged every detail.
Then came the momentous question as to who should be deputed to carry
out the project. It was at first suggested that Grinevitch should be
entrusted with the mission, but eventually we decided to cast lots as
usual. We threw dice, and Fate decreed that the choice should fall upon
me.
* * * * *
A September night. The rain was falling at intervals from bars of
ragged, fleecy cloud, and the lights of Petersburg cast long, uncertain
reflections upon the bosom of the dark Neva. The clock of the Izaak
Church had long ago struck the hour of one; the theatres were emptied,
and the last _café_ had been closed.
The rain plashed gloomily upon the pavement of the Nevski Prospekt as I
trudged onward. I was making my way to friends who would assist me in my
mission. Only half an hour before I had arrived from England, but I was
no stranger to the city, although some years had elapsed since I had last
walked its broad streets.
Already the rain had soaked through my thick travelling ulster, my teeth
were chattering, my limbs ached from being cooped up in a close railway
carriage for five days, and I felt generally depressed and uncomfortable.
As I was passing the Hôtel de l’Europe my attention was arrested by the
quick passage of a figure through the light shed by a street lamp—a
short man, whose head was sunk between his shoulders, with sharp features
and small keen eyes—who glanced sharply at me and passed rapidly on.
I thought nothing of the occurrence at the time, because I was fearless.
My passport was perfectly legitimate, stating that my name was
Alexandrovitch Charushin, Russian subject, born at Odessa, and living
in Munich; that my calling was that of _chef_, and, further, that I had
returned to Petersburg in search of employment. So completely was I
disguised by the removal of my beard and moustache, and the application
of theatrical “make up,” that even the spies of the London division of
the Secret Police would pass me by unnoticed. Therefore I felt confident
of security.
Presently I turned from the Nevski into a dingy by-street, and having
walked through to the farther end, halted before a confectioner’s, and
rang the private bell.
My handbag was heavy, and I set it down until I should be admitted.
In a few moments the door opened mysteriously, and on my entrance was
quickly closed again, leaving me in darkness.
“Welcome, friend, to Petersburg,” said a man’s voice in a low tone. “Walk
forward, and upstairs.”
I obeyed, and on gaining the landing entered a small sitting-room. The
two occupants—a man and a woman—rose to greet me.
“At last,” exclaimed the young fellow, who subsequently introduced
himself as Ivan Liustig, medical student. “You must be hungry. Mascha,
here, will get you something to eat.”
I turned to glance at his companion. Our eyes met. Our voices mingled in
a cry of joy. I had at last found my sister Mascha!
In the hour that followed we both related briefly our adventures. She had
grown older, more matronly, yet still more beautiful than when I had last
seen her writhing under the terrible torture of the knout in the open
market-place of Mstislavl. As I felt the soothing touch of her hands, and
looked into the deep-blue eyes, I saw fathomed there a wealth of love,
and patience, and pity.
Sitting at table with Liustig and Boris Soliviof—the proprietor of the
confectioner’s shop, who had admitted me—I watched Mascha’s face as she
chatted and drew tea from the shining samovar. In repose, its expression
was one of infinite gentleness; yet in a moment, at a word regarding the
revolutionary movement, it would change: the rosy, child-like lips would
meet, the fair cheeks glow, the delicate nostrils dilate, and the eyes
would flame with an enthusiasm begotten of wrong and long suffering.
She described to me her life since that day when we last met at
Mstislavl; how she had been kept in prison for three years, two of which
were spent in the Fortress of Peter and Paul, merely because she was
suspected of political enthusiasm. She was never brought to trial; but,
after the long years of solitude in damp, mouldy cells, during which
her health was shattered, she contracted typhoid fever, and was set
at liberty. Since that time she had allied herself with the _Zemliá i
Vólia_, and had been considered one of the most daring members of the
group. She earned her living by fur-sewing, and was engaged to be married
to Ivan Liustig.
My real name had never transpired in connection with the work of the
Executive, therefore she had all these years believed that I was still in
exile in Siberia, where she had heard our father had died while chained
to his wheel-barrow in the Nerchinsk mine.
I was relating how I escaped, when the opening of the street-door by a
latch-key, and flying footsteps on the stairs startled us. The handle of
the door was turned, and a thin, dark-haired young man dashed into the
room. He must have sped quickly, for he put his hand to his side, and
with difficulty gasped—
“Quick! They are searching. The police are already on their way here!”
Then turning to me, said, “Hide! hide, for your life!”
Mascha wrung her hands, crying, “Fly! fly, Anton! They must not discover
you! Fly!”
I was making blindly for the door, when Liustig’s voice arrested me.
“No—no time; they will meet you—you must hide!”
“Where can I?” And I looked round the room in dismay.
“The window—it is dark.” Mascha spoke, pointing upwards. The man who had
warned us had already disappeared.
My sister saw my hesitation. The window was high in the wall, and I could
not reach it.
“Take the bag with you. Jump on my shoulders,” gasped Liustig, turning
his back and lowering his body.
Something of their anxious energy was lent to me in that supreme moment.
I sprang with agility upon the proffered shoulders—I opened the window,
and with a rush of cold wind came to me the measured tramp of the police
on the stairs.
As I crawled outside and closed the window after me, the fury of the
storm was such that I felt it would sweep me from my insecure retreat. I
clutched the window-frame—my feet were on a sloping roof, which seemed to
move away under them. In my desperation I felt disposed to let myself go,
for the precious bag I had brought up seemed to drag me down. In a few
moments, however, I had found a secure resting-place for it, and, moving
cautiously sideways, discovered a projection, upon which I obtained a
firm grip. Thus, by bending forward, I was enabled to see into the room,
myself unseen.
One cup had been hidden, and Mascha sat by the stove with a book in her
hand. Her eyes were turned to the door as if in startled surprise. The
picture she thus presented, with the two men calmly smoking cigarettes,
was tranquil, innocent, and natural.
Next second five police officers burst into the room. Liustig’s manner
was perfect. His eyebrows were raised, and he looked astonishment
personified. Soliviof had gone to the door, and with a polite gesture of
the hand, seemed to invite the intruders to enter, search, and examine
anything they liked.
There was an expression of mystification upon the faces of all the
officers as their glances travelled round the room. Mascha had risen
to her feet, and stood with proud uplifted head in mute protest at the
unseemly interruption. The _ispravnik_ stepped forward in front of
Soliviof, and holding him with stern eye, evidently questioned him.
Although I strained every nerve to hear what was being said, the howling
of the wind prevented me distinguishing a single word. I could only guess
what was transpiring by a close observation of the dumb show.
Soliviof fixed steady unflinching eyes upon his examiner, and gave prompt
replies, which apparently satisfied him. Liustig was submitted to the
same cross-examination, but with perfect coolness leaned against the
wall, smoking his cigarette with a half-amused air. Then came Mascha’s
turn. She bore herself like an outraged queen. I saw that her manner
impressed the officer, who, when handing back her “permit to reside,”
bowed courteously. But Russian officers are mostly impressionable, and
this _ispravnik_ would go through the same insipid polite formalities
were he conducting my sister to the scaffold.
Mascha sat down and was silent, but watched every movement of the men,
who, inactive during the examination, now received orders to prosecute a
search.
They left no corner, probable or improbable, uninvestigated; and whilst
they were busy a sudden panic of dread seized me that before they went
one of them might think of the roof.
I drew my body up until I lay pressed flat and close to the side of the
dormer window. Just as I had done so, the window opened, and a head
appeared defined distinctly against the sky. The eyes pierced the gloom
in my direction, but only for an instant. I scarcely dared to breathe.
“There’s nobody up here,” I heard him exclaim to his companions, then
slowly the head disappeared.
I remained undiscovered, and the officers proceeded to other rooms to
prosecute their search for incriminating papers, of which they found none.
At last I heard their heavy tramp below in the silent street. It grew
gradually fainter, until it died away in the distance. Then I breathed
a prayer of thanksgiving, and, grasping my bag, descended into the
room. We all four uttered mutual congratulations upon having had such
an excellent escape, and at once set about preparing to retire for the
remainder of the night. Liustig, however, remained up in order to give
the alarm, should we again be surprised.
* * * * *
“Pashol!”
The engine of the Imperial train whistled loudly, the lines of
blue-coated soldiers upon the platform saluted and cheered, and the
long saloon cars glided slowly out of the great station on their way
to Moscow. Five of the carriages were occupied by the royal party and
suite—which included the Ministers of Finance and the Interior, as well
as General Bieli of the Secret Police—while the sixth, which was next the
engine, was the travelling kitchen. Among the servants in this latter
were Liustig and myself.
How I came to be enrolled in the Imperial service matters little. With
our Organisation everything is possible. It is sufficient to say that two
of the _chef’s_ assistants were taken ill—perhaps purposely for aught I
know—and that, at the last moment, Soliviof supplied us to fill their
places. In the car with us was an officer of the “Security Section,”
disguised as a waiter; therefore my companion and myself were compelled
to exercise the utmost caution.
Hour after hour we travelled across that great flat tract of country
between the Valdai Hills and the Volga. But our pace was slow, and such
were the extraordinary precautions taken, that the whole distance between
St. Petersburg and Moscow was lined by troops, who seemed to sustain a
continuous cheer as we passed. Arriving at Moscow in the evening, we did
not break the journey, but continued over the Tambov line through Central
Russia.
It was about two o’clock in the morning. The upper servants had retired
to the sleeping compartments in order to snatch an hour’s repose, and
there were only two others beside Liustig and myself in the kitchen. I
had occasion to carry some wine through to the Imperial dining-car, and
was met at the door by the waiter-detective; nevertheless, I managed to
obtain a glimpse of the interior. I saw that the Tzarina had gone to her
private saloon, and that his Majesty was seated with two officers of his
suite, calmly smoking and laughing over his wine.
Returning to my small compartment at the extreme end of the kitchen-car,
I resumed my work of scouring pans, when suddenly Liustig, with white,
scared face, entered, closing the door quickly after him.
“By heaven! we’re lost!” he gasped, in a hoarse, frightened whisper.
“Some one has placed it on end!”
“How long ago?” I asked, startled at the position, which I at once
recognised as extremely critical.
“I don’t know. Perhaps a quarter of an hour.”
Without hesitation I opened the door, and, affecting carelessness,
passed to the centre of the car, where there was a cupboard in which
were stored our provisions. On looking inside, I saw on the lower
shelf an object which I had conveyed from London. It was certainly not
suspicious-looking; merely a small-sized loaf of white sugar, the conical
top of which had during the day been broken off and used, while part of
its original blue paper wrapping still remained.
During the whole of the journey I had exercised the greatest caution that
it should be kept in a horizontal position; but one of the servants,
probably noticing it rolling backwards and forwards with the oscillation
of the train, had set it on end in a corner of the cupboard. Stooping, I
was about to replace it in its original position, when my fingers came in
contact with some sticky liquid.
I saw it was too late! Closing the cupboard, I quickly rejoined Ivan.
“Well,” he whispered, “what can we do?”
“Nothing,” I replied breathlessly. “We have but one chance.”
“What’s that?”
“To leap for life.”
“From the train?”
I nodded, peering through the window into the darkness, and suddenly
recognising a station through which we passed a moment later. “We are
about eighteen versts from Borki, and close to the spot that had been
arranged. If you remain here, you know what fate awaits you,” I added,
noticing his hesitation.
The door was open, and the two men in the kitchen beyond were smoking
cigarettes and drinking _vodka_.
“Come,” I said aloud, so that they should overhear. “We are nearing
Borki, I think. Let’s go outside and see. I once lived close by when I
was a youth.”
He followed me. As we stepped out upon the platform at the end of the car
and adjoining the engine, I undid the latch of the little iron gate.
Our pace had quickened, and we were travelling through the wide open
country in the teeth of a fierce storm of rain and wind.
“Follow me,” I said briefly, and without glancing round, sprang out upon
the line.
I have a dim recollection of sustaining a severe blow on the top of the
skull. Then all was oblivion.
On regaining consciousness, I found myself lying upon a grassy bank near
the line, with Liustig bending over me. Day was just dawning.
“Come, pull yourself together, Prèhznev,” he urged; “we must fly, or we
shall be discovered.”
Staggering to my feet, I rubbed my eyes, and then remembered the exciting
events of the past few hours.
“The train! Where is it?” I inquired.
“How should I know?” he asked. “I leapt after you and it went on—to the
devil most probably.” And he grinned. “But we’ve ourselves to look after
now,” he continued. “See! our brothers of Tambov have not forgotten us!”
and he pointed to a heap of clothes that lay upon the ground.
“You have found them, then?”
“Yes, they were concealed in the shed yonder. We took our leave of our
Imperial Master just at the right spot.”
While he was speaking, he commenced to divest himself of his clothes,
afterwards attiring himself in the worn and ragged dress of a moujik,
finally enveloping himself in a _polushuba_, or outer garment of
sheepskin, an example which I quickly followed. This completed, we burned
our passports, and making up our clothes into a bundle, put several heavy
stones in with them and sank them in a stream near by.
From servants of the Tzar’s household we were transformed into two poor
peasants whose passports, signed by the Zemski Natchalnik, allowed us to
leave our Mir and emigrate abroad in search of employment.
During the whole day we tramped along the white road that led across a
barren desolate steppe, subsequently arriving at Arkadak, a quaint rural
town, where we were sheltered for the night by the village _pope_, who
was a member of our Organisation. Facilities for our escape had been
well arranged by the Tambov Circle, for on our departure on the following
morning we found a country cart awaiting us at a lonely part of the road,
and in it we were driven along the Koper valley and through the fertile
country of the Don Cossacks to Filinovskaia, a small station on the
Tzaritzin-Lipetsk railway.
This being one of the trunk lines, running right across the Empire, we
were enabled to travel direct to Dunabürg, thence to Vilna, afterwards
crossing the frontier at Wirballen and reaching Königsberg, where we at
once took passages as emigrants for England.
A dozen times during our adventurous journey to the frontier suspicious
police officers examined our passports, but they were always found in
order, and we were allowed to proceed.
On our way we purchased the _Moscow Gazette_, the _Donskoi Pchela_, and
other newspapers in order to ascertain whether the Imperial travellers
had arrived at their destination, but none of the journals mentioned the
Tzar’s journey. The reason of this was, as we afterwards discovered, that
all references to the affair were forbidden by the censorship.
Fatigued and nauseated by the foulness of the steerage, we at length
arrived in London.
Sitting in an easy-chair in the bright, comfortable dining-room at
the house in Oakleigh Gardens I first learnt of the result of the
attempt. Pétroff handed me a copy of the _Times_, pointing to a brief
report in the top corner of the page. It was a telegram from its Moscow
correspondent, headed “Terrible Disaster in Russia: Narrow Escape of the
Imperial Family,” and ran as follows:—
“A terrible catastrophe is reported from Borki. The Imperial train, with
the Tzar, Tzarina, and suite, which left St. Petersburg for Saratov, has
been totally wrecked and partially burned. The royal party had a most
miraculous escape, for nineteen persons in the train were killed, and
two of the servants are missing. It is evident that an explosion of some
kind occurred, for all the carriages were completely shattered, and a
deep wide hole was made in the permanent way, which could not possibly
have been caused by the train leaving the rails. Full details have not
yet transpired, as an order has been issued prohibiting the publication
of any information. It is stated, however, that all the Imperial servants
have been placed under arrest pending an inquiry.”
We had been within an ace of success.
Perhaps never had an explosion been more cleverly concealed as on that
occasion. The loaf of sugar was so innocent-looking that the Tzar and
his family had actually eaten some of it! Inside, however, was a most
ingenious contrivance—if it is admissible to admire mechanical genius
in the construction of such machines. It consisted of a small American
clock attached to two glass tubes containing liquid explosives of the
most powerful description, the component parts of which, however, it is
unnecessary to describe. The delicate machinery was so arranged that,
providing the sugar loaf remained in a horizontal position after being
set, twenty-four hours must elapse before the tubes were broken and the
liquids allowed to come into contact with one another. If, however, it
was placed on end, the clock in question would only run for a quarter of
an hour, when the tubes would be broken, and a terrific explosion ensue.
This arrangement had been made so that, in the event of our inability
to enter the Imperial service, we might smuggle it into the kitchen
along with the provisions, in which case a quarter of an hour after the
departure of the train it would have been wrecked.
The failure of what was one of the most daring attempts upon the life of
the Tzar could only be explained by the machine standing in an upright
position, as, had it exploded horizontally, it would have destroyed
everything near its own level, and none of the Imperial family would have
escaped.
As it was, it exploded in a downward direction, making the great hole in
the railway track, and causing the loss of nineteen lives, a result which
no one more deeply deplored than we did ourselves.