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
"But the Chinese are such bad shots," explained Strakhov, edging his way toward the exit. Kupferman had become increasingly unpredictable, lashing out at subordinates for no particular reason. Strakhov was adroit at humoring him, but these days that was a risky business; better to avoid him, to cut short their meetings.
"The Chinese don't shoot that badly. Especially that army we just met under General P'ao," Kupferman continued, not letting the subject drop. "Bulatovich is bewitched and that whole bunch of the, what do they call themselves? Mazeppy -- they're bewitched, too. They were no farther away form those rifles than you are to me. Even somebody who had never held a rifle before couldn't miss at that distance. There's no earthly way that that many men firing from that close range could miss so many targets. They could have hit the Mazeppy over the head with the barrels, they were that close. No, it was witchcraft. Like Butorin told us, the bullets stopped in midair."
Strakhov was tempted to agree and further stir up Kupferman's distrust of Bulatovich. But the less said to this rather unbalanced commander, the better. He tried to take the matter lightly. "I didn't know you were superstitious, sir."
"It's not superstition," Kupferman replied angrily, making Strakhov cringe. "It's common sense. That Bulatovich is dangerous. It's as clear as can be. He even parades around under the name 'Mazeppa' -- the label of an outright rebel. As for the Mazeppy, I have reliable reports that two of them talking openly about anarchism while riding to Yakeshi. This Jew of his -- this Yakov Shemelin -- you see how he's stirred up the men with his radical religious beliefs. Just another aspect of the same things. This Bulatovcih is using a witchcraft he picked up in Africa, and he's fomenting rebellion in the guise of leader of some wild new religious cult. Witchcraft and hypnotism -- it'shypnotism, I'm sure -- he has an unnatural effect on people. He must be stopped."
Strakhov didn't know what to reply. It all sounded so ludicrous, and Kupferman had been acting so strangely since the Shemelin business. His eyes were shifting nervously and now he had started to sweat, even though the night was cool. On the other hand, Kupferman's accusations led Strakhov to remember Sonya's enthusiastic questions about Bulatovich; she made no secret of the fact that she considered him little less than a god. Hypnotism, yes, perhaps hypnotism.
"Did you learn that trick in Africa?" Smolyannikov asked. Bulatovich had just caught a horsefly in midair.
"No, in the Ukraine."
"Then what did you learn in Africa?" slipping, as he often did, form light to serious. They were lying in a grassy ravine on a mountainside, fighting off flies, mosquitoes, and annoying little black gnats, waiting until nightfall, when they could slip back to their own encampment. The night before, they had crept to within fifty paces of the enemy bivouac, where they could hear snippets of conversation as well as see the preparations the enemy was making.
Bulatovich was once again in command of the flying detachment, but he and Smolyannikov continued to treat one another as equals and friendly rivals. This new Chinese army, under General Chou Mien, had taken up position in the Greater Hsing-An Mountains,about a hundred miles east of Hailar. Rather than advance and meet the Russians on the plains, these troops were digging in and fortifying themselves on the mountaintops, taking advantage of the piles of abandoned railway ties and the huge log cabins that had served as warehouses for the railway construction crews. The mountains were heavily wooded, and the valleys that separated them were swampy and bug-infested.
"No more and no less than you could learn here," Bulatovich finally replied.
Smolyannikov laughed, but his eyes remained serious. "And what was that, my wise friend?"
"Maybe I'd call it 'the power of nature.'"
"Strange," replied Smolyannikov. "Sounds a bit Chinese. But then you probably take it differently, as something negative, something to be fought against and overcome. The way you look at life reminds me of a passage from Ecclesiastes. 'Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might; for there is no work nor thought nor knowledge nor wisdom in Sheol, to which you are going.' Or maybe I'm just projecting my own beliefs on you. Tell me what you mean by 'the power of nature.'"
Bulatovich looked at his friend quietly. Bulatovich wanted to impress him, to spin some elaborate philosophy justifying his random words; but lying here in the lush mountainside greenery, those words had stirred memories. "It probably doesn't make any sense. I'm not sure what it means at all. But it was on my third trip that it struck me. I had a long bout with fever that time and was troubled by dreams. I remember that I returned to the scene of my first elephant hunt two or three years before. But I don't remember if I actually returned or if I dreamed that I did. The essence is the same: I recognized the power of the jungle, the relentless force of nature, annihilating all that man ever does.
"Dadyazmach -- that's governor-general in Amharic -- Gabro Egziabeer of Lekamte was my host -- an Oromo in the service of the Amharic Emperor. There were a thousand of us on the hunt. For the Oromo, an elephant hunt is serious business -- like war -- not because elephants pose any threat to the villages, not for meat, not for ivory, but because the Oromo have elevated killing to a cult. There are still some tribes where a youth doesn't have the right to get married until he's killed an elephant, a lion, or a man. Having killed one of them, he greases his head with oil, wears bracelets, rings, an erring, and returns home with songs. A man can become a hero only by killing, and only a hero is a true man.
"Of the thousand men, four hundred were on horse and armed with three small spears each. the other six hundred were on foot, half with small spears, the rest with four-yard-long spears with yard-long metal blades. They call these long spears djambi. They throw them from the tops of trees when elephants pass under. The force of the fall of the djambi is so great that sometimes it pierces all the way through an elephant. Only I, my servants, and several soldiers of the dadyazmach, who could afford them, had guns.
"After a week, we spotted a huge herd -- more than a hundred elephants, big and small, all red from the clay of the stream bed. Djambi bearers quickly climbed the trees by the stream. The grass was set on fire all around in a circle, and those of us on horseback quickly crossed the stream to frighten the elephants from fleeing in that direction. They panicked and scattered. In the forest, the djambi bearers struck at them; at the edge of the forest, the spear bearers on foot and my servants with guns. And as the elephants broke out farther, those of us on horseback surrounded them and struck them with whatever we could.
"The elephants pulled spears out of their bodies with their trunks and hurled them at us. If an elephant charged after one hunter, others would try to distract the animal away. I saw one elephant, no more than twenty paces from me, grab an Oromo from the saddle with his trunk and hurl him at the ground. Another elephant threw a large broken branch at another Oromo and broke his arm.
"When an elephant fell, it was considered the catch of the first hunter who had wounded it. That hunter would rush up to lop off the tail, the end of the trunk, and the ears as trophies of his triumph.
"All around, the grass blazed with a crackling sound; in the woods there were shooting and cries of terror and triumph and the bellow and screech of the panic-stricken elephants, throwing themselves now at one man, now at another. At moments of desperation, the elephants would pick up sand and grass with their trunks and throw it at the sky. The Oromo believe that's the elephants' way of praying to God.
"My mother would like to have seen that. She, too, believes that animals, even elephants, pray. No matter what God does to us, still for some reason, we pray.
"The stream was red with blood. We had killed forty-one elephants that day. I killed three myself and my servants two. Five men were killed that day: three crushed by elephants and two hit by stray bullets. The dead men got little attention. It was a day of triumph.
"That night the elders gathered and sorted out the disputes about who had first wounded what elephant. The Oromo would use anything, including bribery and trickery, to prove their right to an elephant.
"No one disputed my elephants, since I was the only one with an elephant gun. So I didn't wait for the end of the disputes. I just left with my trophies.
"For the people of Lekamte, it was a great and memorable day, a day when boys became men, a day to sing of for months or years to come. For me, it was a day of unusual excitement, good sport, an exotic challenge. My life didn't depend on it, although I could have died there, and my life didn't change because of it. I was an outsider with no sense of its importance aside from the danger and the struggle and the hunt. I've always enjoyed hunting, and how could I have passed up an opportunity to hunt the biggest animal in the world?
"It wasn't until I returned there in dream or in fact that I got some inkling of the meaning of the event. Actually, maybe it's only now in the telling of it that the pieces are coming together.
"Sometimes I wonder what our lives would be like if we never talked about them. So often we change the way we think or act because of what we say. With our words, with the names we give to others and to ourselves, we change the way we see the world; the change what we believe, what we want to believe, and that changes how we act. Or so it seems..."
"Well, what did you see? What did you learn?" insisted Smolyannikov, swatting a mosquito that had been casually biting Bulatovich's cheek.
Disoriented, Bulatovich hit back, and they wrestled until Smolyannikov pinned him and slapped him again, playfully. "Wake up Sasha, come out of it. So we haven't slept for a day or two. That's no excuse to stop in the middle of a story. What did you learn in Ethiopia? Out with it, now."
Bulatovich shook himself, brushed the bugs from his face, picked up his glasses (fortunately, intact), and fanned himself with his red cap.
"I learned something about myself."
"Well, what? Damn you."
"An Ethiopian general, Wolde Georgis -- you remind me of him a bit, the same build -- he said, 'You're a devil. I don't know how you ever got out alive.' We were on our way back from Lake Rudolph. The Emperor had ordered him to march to the south-southwest as far as Lake Rudolph and conquer all the land between, and he was doing that with an army sixteen thousand strong, ten thousand of them armed with rifles, the rest with spears. We were going through territory -- first jungles, then desolate dry wasteland -- that no European had ever seen before, that wasn't on any map, that even the Ethiopians had never seen before.
"whenever I got a chance, I would set up my surveying equipment on a hilltop to make measurements for scientific purposes and so I could chart our course to our destination and back. One time when I was taking such measurements, my servants and I were suddenly surrounded by hostile natives, spears at the ready. There were only five of us, dozens of them. I was unarmed, having removed by saber and revolver to take my measurements. I had to act fast. I stared at the nearest native and shouted 'khalio!' which means 'peace!' I walked toward him with just my compass in my hand. I concentrated my full attention on him, and he answered 'khalio!' When I got within five paces of him, I beckoned to him. He looked at me indecisively, like he didn't know what to make of me. Apparently, the others were waiting to see what he would do. I kept my eyes on him. He came out of the bushes, walked up to me, and said, 'komoru,' which means 'king.' I stretched out my hand, and he kissed it. Then I squatted and signaled him to do likewise. I took his spear and showed him that I wanted them all to lay down their weapons. Then I called to the other natives who were nearest to him and signaled them to come near. About twenty of them squatted near me. I showed them my compass, let them listen to my watch. Then I called to one of my servants and ordered him to take my place in the ceremony of hand kissing, while I quickly got my weapons. Then shouting 'khalio!' several times, we started to leave. We hadn't gone a hundred paces when suddenly we heard the loud shrieks of hunting horns and war cries. We were surrounded again. This time the natives were attacking in earnest. We opened fire and fought our way out and back to the main bivouac. One of my servants was wounded in the arm by a stone, and a mule was killed. The rest of us escaped without a scratch.
"That was when Wolde Georgis called me a 'devil.' 'I don't know why your servants didn't just scatter and leave you there. It must have looked like you were as good as dead. But they stayed. I don't understand this hold you have on them.' I was flattered with those words. I was proud of the way I had stared down those hostile natives and gained time."
"Stared them down?"
"But that's not the point. Wolde Georgis added, 'Don't let this success swell your head. This bravery of yours isn't true courage. It's just the daring of youth and inexperience. Only when you have retreated and been wounded will you understand danger; and then this daring of yours will change to the conscious courage of a battle-hardened warrior.'
"He was right, you know. It reminds me of something my mother once said about istina and pravda, the truth of faith and the truth of fact. True courage, I suppose, comes from the depths of your being; you do what you have to do because you are who you are.
"So what did I learn? I learned that I had learned nothing, that that was my failing. I was cursed with good luck, and I have been ever since. I've been sick with one fever of another; but I've never been wounded."
"Damn it, man, will you get to the point of the story? What happened when you went back to the scene of the hunt?"
"Yes, yes, I was in fever. I had moments there when I was both awake and asleep, moments when I was lost and alone in the jungle at night and I saw people and places that I had known back in the regiment in Petersburg or back in the Ukraine -- right there in the midst of the jungle. When I went into a fever, I'd relive those times, like I am now."
Bulatovich fanned himself again with his cap, then continued. "The hunt. Yes. I was on other hunts like that later, invited along as a courtesy by local governors. Sometimes the trail went cold; we never caught up with the elephant herd. But at other times there was that same pomp, danger, and excitement, sharing in the joy of victory. There were several times when I should have been killed -- once my gun jammed and I came within inches of being trampled -- but always I was the lucky one. I'd think the lord that I'd lived to laugh about it; it was all a game to me, fine sport.
"But when I returned, if I really did return -- you have to imagine what the scene had looked like when I left it -- the damage from the fire and the desperate battle of a hundred elephants. Where there had been jungle, there was nothing left standing more than knee-high for a mile around. And when I returned, two, not more than three years later, it was jungle again, as if nothing had ever happened there.
"I remembered the spot clearly -- the fork in the stream, the little waterfall, the boulder hollowed to the shape of a bowl by the flowing water. I expected that the battle would have left its mark, even if an ugly one, scar. But nothing."
"Yes," said Smolyannikov, nodding in agreement. "The Preacher says it in Ecclesiastes: 'A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever. The sun rises and the sun goes down and hastens to the place where it rises. All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full; to the place where the streams flow, there they flow again.'"
"You accept it. I could not." Bulatovich continued. "the jungle frightened me. I took out a machete and started chopping wildly in the undergrowth. I didn't know why; I simply had to, until I fell from exhaustion and slept there on the jungle floor. When I awoke, drenched by a sudden rain, fresh growth had already sprouted where I had copped.
"The growth was too easy, the growth of weeds. There was no struggle to it. How could it be worth anything, this growth and regrowth? A man's life is a struggle, and it can mean something, I'm sure it can -- it must. But mankind? This perpetual recreation, one generation after another, one war after another -- how can it mean anything, this repetition?
"I think I know now why the Oromo fight the elephant. It's like Shemelin says life is: a test. If you don't go to fight the elephant, you never face the test, you never live.
"It isn't a matter of breathing or not breathing; it's a matter of living or never living at all, like true courage. But how can I speak of it? I've never experienced it. I'm just imagining it. That elephant hunt wasn't my test. It was just a game for me. I went through the motions. I wasn't running to face the test of life, to meet the challenge of elephant and nature. But the Oromo do. They respect the elephant they kill. They watch it pray to the same God they pray to. They honor the trophies they take home with them. Next year there will be new elephants and new men to hunt them and new jungle growth to hunt them in; and the Oromo are unafraid because they have met their challenge and they know it."
"But have they solved anything?" asked Smolyannikov, leaning back with his arms crossed behind his head, staring through the underbrush at the orange glow of sunset. "If I were going to remake the world," he laughed, "I really wouldn't know how to do it. Or if everything keeps changing, how can anything mean anything? If everything keeps repeating, like in Ecclesiastes, what's the point of that either? Somehow you want to make a mark in the world, but it's hard to accept that millions before you have been making their marks, and millions after you will too -- and how could you ever expect to recognize your mark among all the rest? It's hard to accept the fact that you're just a man, that nature won't make any exceptions in your case. Just a man, not a god -- maybe that's the test."
"Just a man?" asked Bulatovich. "It's not so easy to be 'man,' at least not in the sense the Oromo would use the word. You aren't a 'man' simply because of the body you're born with. 'Man' is a name to be earned, like 'hero.' Maybe we're born with the potential, but only through actions, through meeting challenges can you earn your name. Maybe that's what we're here for -- to become whatever we have it in us to become."
August 24 had been a day of triumph. Even Strakhov had to feel it. Although only a few would be labeled "heroes," they were all winners in the Battle of the Greater Hsing-An Mountains. And the victory had been resounding and complete.
Sonya greeted Strakhov warmly when he returned, affectionately checking every inch of his body to make sure there were no wounds or scratches that needed attending to. When she looked at him with those open curious eyes of hers, how could he refuse to give her a complete account of the battle? And when she asked so anxiously about Bulatovich, how could he hold back any of the details that were sure to delight her? He loved to see that flash of joy in her eyes. He'd have done almost anything to make her look at him that way.
Strakhov told her, "We arrived at the mountains in the midst of a heavy rain. As you know, the troops had brought along their transport. It was a motley assemblage -- not a sight you'd soon forget -- wagons and carts of all shapes and sizes, pulled by horses, mules, and camels, carrying all the 'souvenirs' the troops had acquired in Hailar, everything from vases to sofas.
"Bulatovich had a huge waterproof tent waiting for us, something he had managed to appropriate from the Chinese. There on tables he had spread out detailed maps and scouting reports, showing the disposition of the enemy troops, fortifications, gun emplacements, elevations, natural obstacles -- everything needed for a campaign. I have to give the man credit for being thorough.
"The Chinese were prepared for a frontal attack. With a frontal assault, we'd be running through swamp and over a stretch of open ground, well in range of their mountain guns. But this detailed intelligence made it possible to hit them from three or four angles at once; even a fool like Orlov could see that.
"Orlov gave the obvious orders, then turned directly to Bulatovich. 'Take four squadrons, your Mazeppy, and some railway guards. I want you to circle wide around the enemy, crossing the mountains some twenty miles south of here and blocking the road to Tsitsihar where it's bordered on either side with swamp. In all it will probably be a ride of sixty miles over rough terrain. You'll leave at dawn. I'll count on your being at that road by noon of the next day.
"'Meanwhile, our main forces will attack from front and sides, making full use of artillery. If our attack is successful -- and we have every reason to believe it will be, God willing -- the Chinese will have to retreat along this road, running right into your hands. With the right timing, we could trap and completely annihilate the enemy. If you should go astray or for any other reason fail to reach that road on time, the enemy could slip away, and the war in this sector could drag on until winter. We're counting on you.'"
"What did he do?" asked Sonya anxiously.
"Wait. First imagine Orlov in all his pomposity. He's just given Bulatovich this choice plum of an opportunity -- admittedly not a simple task, but who wouldn't jump at a chance like that, especially now that the war is winding down? Well, Orlov turns to the rest of us, like we were a pack of medal-grubbing swine, and says, 'Now remember, all of you. Here we do not look at war as a pastime or as a means for achieving personal ends, but as a sacred cause.' Can you believe that Orlov is actually that naive?"
Strakhov didn't wait for an answer. He knew she wanted to hear more about Bulatovich, but Strakhov had to make his point. "Just imagine -- he had just received reports that the Allies had taken Peking and that the Russians had taken the main rail junction at Harbin. The outcome of the war was a foregone conclusion. Even the outcome of this battle was a foregone conclusion. The Chinese had committed all their resources on the false assumption of a frontal attack. And regardless of their superior position and even with a frontal attack, their poor marksmanship would once again decide the day in our favor. There are only a few enemy strongholds left now; and they aren't so much obstacles as prizes to be taken by the first Russian detachment to arrive. The question isn't who will win the war, but what Russian officers will get credit for capturing such major cities as Tsitsihar, Kirin, and Mukden. Let's face it, that's how you get ahead in this army -- by building your reputation when you get the chance. The war may have started like a holy crusade, but it will certainly end as a race for rank and recognition. If Orlov is really that naive, he could be a real impediment to the ambitious men in his command."
"But Bulatovich? Is he all right?"
"Of course. He arrived at the road ahead of schedule, fought off an unexpected detachment of Chinese reinforcements from Tsitsihar, then turned and cut off the retreat of the army just beaten by Orlov. With the exception of a handful of soldiers who slipped away to hide in forest and swamp, the entire Chinese army was killed or captured. Bulatovich came through without a scratch -- you typical shining hero. It must have been the pinnacle of his career."
"And the Mazeppy?"
"You're interested in them, too, now? Well, don't fret yourself. In the whole battle only three Russians died."
Bulatovich remembered the battle somewhat differently. At first from a distance, it seemed like a celebration with loud fireworks. Then the retreating Chinese appeared, closely pursued by Bodisko's and Smolyannikov's railway guards streaming down the middle of the road, forcing the Chinese into swamps on either side of the road.
Eventually, Bodisko himself appeared. And Dr. Volf. But no Smolyannikov.
While others celebrated, Bulatovich and the Mazeppy rode up and down that road, long into the moonlit night.
No one found Smolyannikov, but Butorin found his lifeless form -- face disfigured -- hard, unmoving, unchanging, a poor caricature of the man.
Bulatovich sent the others back, slung the body across his saddle, and stayed there awhile, staring at the grass where it had lain. Already the grass was springing back; soon it would stand straight as if nothing had ever lain there, as if there had never been a man named Smolyannikov.
With that empty form on his saddle, Bulatovich rode back alone that day of triumph.
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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