The Name of Hero was published by Tarcher/Houghton Mifflin in 1981. The rights have reverted to the author, Richard Seltzer. He grants permission to make and distribute verbatim electronic copies for non-commercial purposes provided that the copyright notice and this permission notice are preserved on all copies.
This historical novel is based on the life of Alexander Bulatovich, a Russian who was an explorer in Ethiopia, a cavalry officer during Russia's conquest of Manchuria in 1900, and later, as a monk at Mount Athos, led a group of "heretics" who challenged the hierarchy of the Russian Orthodox Church, asserting the divinity of the Name of God.
You can buy this book in hardcover:
The
Name of Hero by Richard Seltzer. an historical novel based
on the life of Alexander Bulatovich, a Russian who was an explorer in Ethiopia,
and a cavalry officer during Russia's conquest of Manchuria in 1900. Later,
as a monk at Mount Athos, he led a group of "heretics" who challenged the
hierarchy of the Russian Orthodox Church, asserting the divinity of the
Name of God.
You can also buy it on CD ROM with the author's other works:
Everything
But the Internet gathers the complete non-Internet
works of Richard Seltzer on CD, in plain text, with software that lets
you listen as well as read. It includes: The Name of Hero, Ethiopia Through
Russian Eyes, The Lizard of Oz, Without a Myth, Spit and Polish, Mercy,
Rights Crossing, short stories, articles, book reviews, and poems.
You'll find related materials at www.samizdat.com/readers.html#ethiopia
For a week she was very successful, placing three dozen children. Each day, more Chinese families returned to Hailar from the surrounding countryside, where they had taken refuge. She would try to catch them as they were moving in -- between that moment of despair when they saw what had been destroyed and stolen, and that moment of thankfulness when they realized that much still remained, that the house was still intact, that they had been lucky.
"Lucky, indeed," she would begin. "But many have not been so fortunate as you..." And within an hour they would find themselves the proud parents of a hungry, frightened little child.
As the town filled and the flow of new returnees dropped, she tried to seek out friends and neighbors of the orphans' parents. But as everyone tried to go back to their usual business in the old town or in the Russian railway settlement, they fell into their old patterns of life and became more cautious and far more reluctant to take on new burdens. And it didn't take long for the old habits and defenses to reassert themselves.
The supply of prospective parents dwindled. But there were still children who needed homes. One boy in particular had won Sonya's heart. She called him Mitya. He had the light complexion of a Russian and the dark, slanted eyes of a Chinese. He had light brown hair and an ugly scar on his forehead from a recent wound. Because of his Russian looks, the Chinese were reluctant to take him, and the Russians rejected him because of his Chinese looks.
She was trying to find a home for Mitya the day she first spoke to Pyotr.
"The boy!" he shouted, running up to her. "That wound on his face -- was he kicked?"
"He doesn't remember," Sonya answered for him.
"But you speak Russian?" he asked, seeing her face as she turned toward him, suddenly realizing that she was Chinese, even though she was wearing a Cossack tunic. It had been foolish of him to come running up shouting in Russian like that. She laughed. He blushed, remembering that this was the survivor, the pretty convert found at the church. Then he asked, "Are you his mother?"
She laughed again, "I just turned seventeen."
He looked at her more closely and blushed again; she was beautiful.
"Why are you so interested in the boy?" she asked, searching his eyes and smiling.
"I... you see... you believe in God, don't you? The Russian God, I mean."
"I didn't know He was Russian," she laughed.
"I mean... you are Orthodox, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I'm not Orthodox myself. I mean I'm true Orthodox -- 'Old Believers' they call us." And he quickly crossed himself with two fingers. She was so beautiful.
"But the boy," she asked sweetly. "why are you so interested in the boy?"
"I meant to tell you that. You see, it has to do with God. This solider, Yakov Shemelin, had an experience. He felt the closeness of God. He saw Christ Himself. You can tell from his eyes."
"Yes, you can tell much from a man's eyes," she replied, still studying his eyes and smiling warmly.
Pyotr couldn't look at her and think at the same time. Those dark eyes... He looked down and tried to explain. "This boy or a boy just like him was part of Shemelin's experience. And he looked everywhere for the boy, afraid that it had all been just a dream."
As he spoke, she reached out, took hold of the locket hanging around his neck, and opened it before he had a chance to stop her.
"What's her name?" she asked sweetly.
"Nadyezhda."
"Your wife?"
"I'm not married."
"Ah, your sweetheart -- a young man in love. It shows all over your face."
"My friend... Aksyonov..." he tried to explain, haltingly, embarrassed. It occurred to him that he didn't even know
Aksyonov's first name.
"Yes?" she asked.
"He died... killed in the first battle," he struggled to say, trying to tell her that Nadyezhda wasn't his "sweetheart," that he had no "sweetheart." "We were with Bulatovich..."
"Bulatovich?"
"Yes."
"Then you know him?"
"I am one of the Mazeppy."
"Now I remember. You were there that day -- when Sofronov rescued me."
"And you're the one that Major Strakhov..."
"Yes," she blushed. "I am Strakhov's Sonya. Strakhov is my man." She seemed to read his eyes. "You wonder about such a woman as me. What a bold, shameless girl, you think, living in sin and making no secret of it. I make no excuses. I am who I am, and I do what I do. Strakhov is a kind man, rather shy, but very responsible and loyal and considerate. He will make a fine husband. Yes, I intend to marry him; and sooner or later, he will marry me. He loves me already -- his eyes tell me, not his voice, and eyes don't often lie. And I will love him; I'm sure I will. And I'll make him a good wife. That's it. Now you know all about me and don't have to wonder and doubt. I like you." Pyotr looked at his shoes. Sonya repeated, "Yes, I like you. You're a kind, loving soul. No wonder Nadyezhda loves you. She's a very lucky woman." Pyotr was too flattered and too confused to set her straight. "And you Bulatovich, his sweetheart is very lucky, too."
"Bulatovich? I didn't know he had a 'sweetheart.'"
"But he must. So great a hero as he must have a true love. That's the kind of man he is -- brave, unselfish, kind. At least, I'm sure that's the kind of man he is."
"Yes," confirmed Pyotr, enthusiastically. "He is a great hero. It's a privilege to serve under him."
"I can well imagine. If only I were a man."
Pyotr found it very difficult to imagine her as a man.
"Do you think that he -- Bulatovich -- might want to adopt a boy?"
"But he already has."
"He has?"
"Vaska."
"Really? When? Tell me about it, please."
Pyotr looked down so he could gather his thoughts. She waited. The silence made him even more nervous. "We were talking, on the way to Khogo Station. The Chinese had chopped off my brother's head. We never found the head," he tried to explain.
"How horrible."
"We were going to get revenge."
"Did you?"
"No. Not yet. But we will," he promised. He had been brooding on that thought for the last week of forced inactivity. Before this brief meeting with Sonya he would have said that revenge was the most important thing in his life. But it was hard to think of anything so harsh as revenge watching her animated eyes, except insofar as talking of revenge could impress her. He felt important repeating, "We will."
"I'm sure you will."
He felt a tingle of excitement, then returned to his train of thought. "We rode, we talked. I told about my father -- my other brother Trofim, my ten sisters, my mother, my father's death. He told me about Ethiopia and about Vaska."
"Yes, yes," she urged. "What did he tell you?"
"Vaska's a little African boy. He found him..." Pyotr couldn't tell the whole story. He was embarrassed to have brought it up. The boy had been mutilated. Tribal enemies had emasculated him, taking his genitals as a trophy, like the end of an elephant's trunk, Bulatovich had said, to demonstrate their won manhood and bravery. "He had been left for dead," Pyotr continued. "Bulatovich took care of his wounds. He was only about three years old."
"Where is he now?"
"Back at the family estate in the Ukraine with Bulatovich's mother."
"What a beautiful story!" she suddenly exclaimed and gave Pyotr a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for telling me. I knew he was a great hero -- I just knew it."
The little boy, Mitya, stared wide-eyed and curious -- apparently listening to every unintelligible sound. Silent, he seemed to ask for help and sympathy, leaving himself open to all the pains of rejection.
Pyotr wished that he could dare to look at Sonya with such open eyes. But he didn't dare risk rejection from her. It was easier to charge recklessly into battle, perhaps to impress her (and himself) with the ardor of his revenge.
If only he hadn't worn that locket. If only she hadn't seen it. Now he didn't know how to tell her that Nadyezhda wasn't his "sweetheart" without seeming utterly foolish. And if Sonya knew he wasn't spoken for, would she look at him that way, talk to him that way? After all, she was going to marry Strakhov, and she worshipped Bulatovich. How could he ever possibly compete with the likes of Bulatovich? He, Pyotr, a nobody, a nothing, a raw recruit, a peasant, couldn't hope to be anything but her friend.
Bugles sounded. Pyotr quickly turned, ready to run to the mustering point.
"What's it mean?" asked Sonya, clutching little Mitya protectively.
"Probably another battle."
"Be careful!" she shouted.
Pyotr had turned and started running. He stopped and looked back at her. She was talking to him and him alone. He felt a surge of pride and shouted back in a voice deeper than normal (the sound of it surprised him), "I must revenge the death of my brother!" Then he ran on, heroically, he thought.
Word had come from Smolyannikov that a Chinese army under General P'ao was approaching Hailar from the east. The flying detachment of railway guards was already skirmishing with the vanguard of P'ao's army at Yakeshi, about twenty miles from Hailar, trying to slow the enemy advance until Orlov could arrive with the rest of the Russian forces.
Strakhov viewed the upcoming battle as an opportunity. He had to look out for his own interests. The war wouldn't last forever -- probably no longer than another month. Reports a week or two weeks old indicated that not just here but everywhere in Manchuria, Russian troops were advancing rapidly. Also, the international forces had nearly reached Peking to relieve the siege of the legations, if they weren't there already. Chinese resistance was ineffectual. For all he knew, this could be the last major battle of the campaign. He knew he had to take advantage of it. Advancement came painfully and slowly in peacetime. He had to think of his future and Sonya. He had responsibilities.
The timing was perfect. Kupferman's strange, and probably temporary, disability had left Strakhov in command of the cavalry regiment. Kupferman would suddenly break out in a sweat. His hand would start trembling. He had no fever, and Dr. Stankevich insisted that he was physically sound. But Kupferman was convinced that he was in no condition to command a cavalry regiment in battle. He would stay to the rear with Orlov and the adjutants, leaving the command and the glory to Strakhov. Barring the unexpected, this battle should bring Strakhov a promotion, or, at the very least, a medal with a glowing report to go in his permanent record. But the unexpected struck three times, and despite his foresight and bravery, he gained nothing from the battle.
Reports indicated that there was no water on the road to Yakeshi, so Strakhov carted along abundant water in barrels. He had his men trot along at a good pace, then wait and rest while the infantry caught up. When they arrived at Yakeshi, the cavalry was fresh and rested, while the infantry, whose officers had been in too much of a hurry to worry about water, were exhausted and thirsty. So Strakhov's cavalry took the initiative.
Smolyannikov's railway guards had successfully harassed and slowed the enemy for nearly a day. Now the railway guards were involved in a heated skirmish and in danger of being surrounded.
First, Strakhov's cavalry provided cover so the railway guards could withdraw and find refuge with the newly arrived army. Then Strakhov himself charged at the head of his troops, hoping to rout the enemy swiftly and decisively before other units could get involved and share the glory.
But the Chinese didn't run. They held their ground and shot far more accurately than they had in previous battles. The cavalry came to a standstill and became involved in a futile melee. This was strakhov's first surprise -- the fighting ability of these Chinese under P'ao. Soon Sidorov came racing up with orders fro Orlov to withdraw and take up position with the rest of the army.
Orlov posted the railway guards, under Smolyannikov, on the left flank; the cavalry in the center; and the infantry on the right flank. Orlov held two foot battalions in reserve. At Strakhov's suggestion, a mounted reserve of two squadrons was posted behind the foot reserve, for use in the unlikely eventuality of an emergency. Strakhov gave Bulatovich the dubious honor of commanding that mounted reserve. Strakhov didn't want any competition for the name of "hero."
Unlike in previous encounters, this time the Chinese didn't wait but rather attacked first. Russian sharpshooters picked off the Chinese on white horses and carrying parasols, presuming those were the high-ranking officers. But this Chinese army, evidently better trained and experienced than the others, didn't give way. For several hours the outcome of the battle remained uncertain.
Sstrakhov found himself penned in by the Russian infantry on either side of him and the enemy in front. Orlov himself was directing this battle from a hillside a good fifteen-minute ride away, making it difficult to coordinate activities, to send messengers back and forth asking Orlov for permission to do this and that. Strakhov wanted to withdraw suddenly from the center, pulling the enemy in, then turn and attack while the Russian flanks turned and enveloped the enemy. This was the tactic that the Greeks had used against the Persians at the Battle of Marathon, and Hannibal against the Romans at Cannae. But Orlov didn't seem to understand the reference or the intent of the message. He sent back the order, "Hold the center at all costs." Sidorov delivered this order with urgency and emphasis, as if Orlov thought Strakhov were about to retreat.
Then the unexpected struck again -- a torrential thunderstorm, with heavy rain and hail, bringing darkness, reducing visibility to less than a hundred paces. Horses sank ankle deep in mud, panicked at the thunder and hail, and slipped and fell. Strakhov ordered his men to dismount and meet the enemy on foot; but they couldn't see the enemy anymore, and after all the turning and splashing and falling, with rifle fire sounding on all sides, they couldn't be sure in which direction they should aim.
The third surprise -- Bulatovich -- Strakhov learned about later. In the sudden darkness of the thunderstorm, Orlov ordered the reserve foot battalions to the right flank. Somehow Bulatovich appeared at their head, leading them out of the mud, over firm rocky ground to the designated position. With this added strength, the right flank advanced in an enveloping movement. The Chinese retreated toward the Russian left, threatening to overrun and surround the railway guards. Again Bulatovich emerged from the darkness, this time leading the mounted reserves to the left flank and extricating the railway guards from danger.
As victory seemed assured and the Russians pursued the enemy in a confused rush, Bulatovich rode about gathering Mazeppy and railway guards. At one point, chasing down some enemy stragglers, in full sight of Orlov and Kupferman, Bulatovich and the Mazeppy were suddenly fired upon from point-blank range by half a dozen Chinese hiding in the underbrush. Orlov flinched, anticipating disaster. But volley after volley missed completely as the Mazeppy chased down their assailants, killing every one of them, and rode away without so much as a scratch.
At nightfall, when the battle was over and other Russians were pitching tents, Bulatovich, on his own initiative, ignoring orders, slipped away, leading a makeshift detachment of Mazeppy and railway guards in pursuit of the Chinese.
The battle had lasted all day. Pyotr was exhausted.
He could tell from the looks on their faces that Bulatovich, Starodubov, Trofim, and the rest were still at a fever pitch of excitement, as they had been on their ride to Urdingi. After a week of frustrating, indecisive skirmishes and then another week of force idleness, the Mazeppy were finally getting their chance for revenge. They were like hungry wolves racing to the kill.
Maybe they felt they owed it to Pyotr to revenge the death of his brother. Or maybe it was just this energy they had found in themselves in the heat of battle, and they had to use it before they could rest.
Pyotr himself didn't feel the need for revenge anymore. He knew he had felt it just yesterday -- this tension that had built up like a spring pushed tight. Sonya had made him forget it for a moment, but it was there still, pressing against his innards, demanding release.
Well, it had sprung today, and he was left with a vague feeling of remorse and guilt, the feeling that when this force, this need in him was released through his muscles and his saber, he had not been himself; he had been someone else who was capable of the most bloodthirsty cruelty. This notion was rather unsettling.
Login's death had triggered the process that ended today, but what was this elemental need that had made him want to slaughter wantonly, that seemed to feed on blood? He called it "revenge" for lack of a better name. But was it always a part of him, sometimes sated and sometimes repressed, like hunger or thirst or sexual desire, but always there in his innards, ready to be tightened and released by the right set of circumstances?
He remembered vividly the first time his saber had sunk into the skull of one of the Chinese. The warmth of the blood gushing onto his hand had been a baptism. He had jumped from his horse and run at them slashing left and right, no longer content to shoot from a distance, needing to feel the shock of impact quiver from their bleeding flesh, through the sable to the muscles of his hand and arm. He remembered clearly that he had done those things, but why he had acted that way both eluded and frightened him.
He had wanted to impress Sonya; but that seemed so long ago and so childish, to thank that a young girl or anyone could be impressed with killing. He was sick of death. He just wanted to be alone, to sleep, to try to forget; sleep and tell himself that the battle was a bad dream, that the Devil was just a superstition, not a force that lurked within him, waiting to be released.
Thinking of the Devil, he turned and saw Laperdin riding beside him. Since the fiery funeral, Laperdin had left him alone to his brooding, but here he was again, singling him out to harass him with moral questions.
"'Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,'" Laperdin intoned. "Have you been comforted today?"
"Stop," replied Pyotr, softly but firmly, staring straight ahead.
"'Blessed are the merciful, for hey shall obtain mercy." Were you merciful today, Pyotr? 'Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.' Are you a son of God? Are you going to make peace with the Chinese?"
"What are you trying to do?" Pyotr finally looked him in the eye.
"You interest me, boy. You have spirit and potential. You aren't one of the 'poor in spirit' or the 'meek.' You don't want to 'inherit the earth.' I say you out there today, hacking away with your saber. You are, or you could be, a man of action."
"You have no idea who I am."
"On the contrary, you have no idea who you are. You think you are a Christian, but you act like a noble heathen. 'You have heard it said "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth." But I say to you "Do not resist one who is evil. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also...."' And here you are bent on avenging your brother's death. How noble! How un-Christian.
"Shemelin has the true Christian spit -- the spirit of the willing victim. He has faith that whatever happens is the will of God. All the mad acts of man and nature somehow fulfill God's plan. The chaos of the world is just apparent. If we suffer seemingly for no reason, that's because God is testing us. He believes this world makes sense, even if the sense isn't apparent.
"But you don't believe the world makes sense. You believe in revenge. You believe that man and nature are unjust, and that the only way to find justice is to asset it yourself. If you had lived in the days of Jesus, you would have sided not with Jesus but with Barabbas -- with the rebels. You would have attacked Rome and the puppets of Rome with acts of terror. You would have attacked the state to avenge the injustice of life. You would have attacked Roman justice because it was just a hoax. You would have dared confront the meaninglessness of life and have shocked others into recognizing it. You would have made your own justice and your own injustice rather than ccept whatever the world gave you.
"You have potential, Pyotr. That's why I talk to you like this. You'd make a fine anarchist."
Pyotr was tired, confused. At first Laperdin's words just irritated him. Pyotr had never given much thought to what he believed or didn't believe and why. He had simply accepted the labels his parents had given him: "Christian" and "Old Believer." But today's experience had shaken him up. He needed some explanation for who he was and how he could have done the things he had done. He needed some label for himself to relieve the guilt of all that killing, to restore his self-respect.
At such a moment of weakness, he couldn't help but be flattered that someone, apparently intelligent and educated, as paying so much attention to his character. Might this godless man have some special insight? What would his own mother think? What would Sonya think, if she knew he had the impulses of a revolutionary?
After about an hour they came upon the main body of the Chinese army, thousands strong, in the midst of setting up their bivouac. They caught the weary enemy unprepared, and charged at the center. panic spread from the center outward, until the whole Chinese army was fleeing. Bulatovich and his detachment pursued, trampling them and slashing at them with saber and nagaika. Since most of the Chinese had abandoned their weapons in their flight, it became more of a massacre than a skirmish.
As for Pyotr, he hovered in the background, watching, wondering, trying to make sense of what he felt and of what Laperdin had said. Pyotr presumed that the others, all but Laperdin, were still going through what he had gone through earlier in the day, were still letting loose this inner force. He pitied them and yet feared them too, realizing the intensity of the need that drove them, an impetus that seemed indiscriminate, as if they could lash out at anyone or anything that dared stand in their way.
This site is published by B&R Samizdat Express, 33 Gould St., West Roxbury, MA 02132. 617-469-2269 seltzer@samizdat.com
Links to the complete novel, The Name of Hero.
To contact Richard Seltzer send email to seltzer@samizdat.com
Sample chapters from The Name of Man
Complete text of From Entotto to the River Baro
Complete text of With the Armies of Menelik II
Return to Readers' Room and Writers' Showcase.
You can buy this book in hardcover:
The
Name of Hero by Richard Seltzer. an historical novel based
on the life of Alexander Bulatovich, a Russian who was an explorer in Ethiopia,
and a cavalry officer during Russia's conquest of Manchuria in 1900. Later,
as a monk at Mount Athos, he led a group of "heretics" who challenged the
hierarchy of the Russian Orthodox Church, asserting the divinity of the
Name of God.
You can also buy it on CD ROM with the author's other works:
Everything
But the Internet gathers the complete non-Internet
works of Richard Seltzer on CD, in plain text, with software that lets
you listen as well as read. It includes: The Name of Hero, Ethiopia Through
Russian Eyes, The Lizard of Oz, Without a Myth, Spit and Polish, Mercy,
Rights Crossing, short stories, articles, book reviews, and poems.
A
library for the price of a book.
Return to B&R Samizdat Express.
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