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
"Yes," mumbled Rennenkampf, glancing up for a moment, then continuing to sort through the papers on his table. He was thin, rather athletic looking for someone in his late forties. The ends of his large black mustache turned up sharply. His gestures were restless and abrupt. He paid only minimal attention to Bulatovich.
"Your Excellency, I request permission to attempt to rescue a missionary."
"Missionary? Another missionary?" He sat up straight now and stared at Bulatovich. "Didn't I already hear something about a missionary? Yes, and an officer named Bulatov, I believe. About a week ago..."
"Yes sir. This is another missionary." He resisted the temptation to brag. The first rescue mission had been easy: they rode up, the Boxers ran away, and that was that.
"Ah yes, Staff-Rotmister Bulatovich. Now I remember. I have heard a lot about you, but I didn't expect to meet you. considering the chain of command, I didn't think the necessity would ever arise. Now, this matter that you wish to bring to my attention, did you approach Major Strakhov about it first?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"And what did he say? Did he tell you to bring the matter to me?"
"No, Your Excellency, he did not. But..."
"Oh, indeed. You don't think very highly of the chain of command, do you? A trifle, you would say. I know your kind."
"But Your Excellency..."
"Don't interrupt a superior. I know your kind, I said. You think traditional discipline is outmoded. Railroads and machine guns. We must accommodate ourselves to this new world, you would say. But I say these forces can be disruptive; and unless we hold firm to our traditions and our discipline, all of society will fall apart. Modern inventions provide no basis for any order at all. We must redouble our efforts at obedience and discipline. The modern world makes discipline all the more essential. Give me two well-disciplined squadrons and I'll beat any army of rabble."
"Yes, Your Excellency. I understand you were very successful at Kirin."
"'Successful.' Just 'successful,' you say? Do you understand that we took a city of 120,000, a provincial capital, and we had no casualties at all? Now, that's discipline."
"I heard that the Dowager Empress or her minister Prince Ch'ing had ordered the governor to suspend hostilities with the Russians."
"Rumors, lying rumors," Rennenkampf retorted angrily. "It was only after we had ridden boldly right up to the governor's palace and had taken charge of the city that the Chinese started spreading that story. The Russian press gave us full credit. They understood the situation. Why are you here, Bulatovich? Why did you defy your superior officer and come to me? Why are you deliberately baiting me?"
"I beg your pardon, Your Excellency," Bulatovich replied calmly and politely. This general, with his Germanic name and Germanic manner, reminded him of his old teacher Lemm. The same authoritarian stance, the same injustice -- it was almost refreshing to come up against such a man, to be able to feel righteously indignant. Bulatovich was tired of moral quandaries, of doubts about himself and about God, tired of wondering where his life was going and why. Here was an old familiar challenge to meet. He hadn't expected such luxury. He smiled and smiled still more when he saw Rennenkampf's expected anger.
"Get rid of that stupid smile. That's an order. Do you hear me?" he raised his voice and stared at Bulatovich.
Bulatovich calmly adjusted the corners of his mouth to a serious expression, but his eyes still laughed.
"What did you say you want?"
"I request permission, Your Excellency, to attempt to rescue a missionary."
"Another missionary, is it? I understand you took matters into your own hands in my absence, that you went chasing off on some wild excursion on your own authority while your superiors were away at Kirin. I was willing to overlook that eccentricity of yours. I left the matter up to Major Strakhov. In the wake of our glorious triumph at Kirin, he was inclined to be generous. He let the matter drop and that was that. Now you have another one? Where do you find these missionaries? Maybe this time you hope the story will reach the press: 'Guards officer rescues missionaries.' How charming. Who is it this time?"
"A Frenchman. Lavoisier. Just seventy miles north of here."
"'Just' seventy miles. And north, too, when we're heading south, toward Mukden. That countryside is still crawling with Boxers and bandits. And for one man, and a Roman Catholic at that, you're willing to risk the lives of Russian soldiers? Let the French take care of the French."
"His is a human being, Your Excellency, and a Christian."
"And what are you?"
"Pardon?"
"What's your religions? A name like Bulatovich -- a Polish name, isn't it? And the father's name, Xavier -- a Roman Catholic name, isn't it? It all adds up. There's no place for troublemakers and rebels in the Tsar's army, and certainly not in the officer corps. You've already disgraced yourself in Petersburg..."
"What?"
"Some business with a woman, I understand."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Something about the colonel's daughter."
"Who told you these lies?"
"Suffice it to say, I know your kind, Bulatovich. If you want to go glory-hunting to erase a blot from your record, do it in someone else's command. Now get out of here, and don't let me see you again."
"But Your Excellency, a man's life is at stake."
"Then go if you like, but it'll be your life that's at stake. If you're not back here within three days -- and I can't guarantee that we'll stay here even that long -- I'll consider you absent without leave. And if you do not rejoin the detachment within a week, I'll consider you a deserter and take appropriate action. Is that perfectly clear? Do you still want to go chasing off after your dear Catholic missionary?"
Bulatovich quickly calculated. Three days, seventy miles. At Hsing-An, with four squadrons, he had gone sixty miles over rough terrain in a day and a half. It would be faster going with just a few men. If they met no opposition at all, like on the first rescue mission, they could just make it. "Yes, Your Excellency, I want to go. I'll take seven men, the seven best men in the Russian army; and we'll be back -- I stake my career on it -- we'll be back in three days." He squinted to emphasize his words.
"Seventy miles out and seventy miles back, through mountainous country, and no telling what resistance you may meet." After a moment of anger, Rennenkampf seemed to relent, having second thoughts about the degree of his harshness. "Don't be a fool, Bulatovich. Stay with us. Follow orders. Who knows, maybe this business will all be forgotten in a month or two. Perhaps you've grown too used to Orlov's lax methods. If you straighten out and do as you're told, you can go back to Petersburg with a clean record."
"As I said, Your Excellency, we'll be back in three days." He smiled, came to attention, and saluted smartly.
The confrontation had lasted no more than five minutes. Bulatovich had reacted automatically -- committing himself, trapping himself, it seemed, without the slightest hesitation.
He couldn't help but laugh at the way he had reacted. It was like watching while a doctor tapped his knee and his leg flew up without his willing it. It was like the predictable action of a spring let lose from its restraints.
After long frustration inactivity, after all his confusion and doubts about what he should do with his life -- here was a cause, a quest, a nearly impossible task thrust at him as a challenge; and he jumped at it like a hungry animal. He nearly laughed aloud again, realizing how badly he needed a cause to fight for, to strive for to the limits of his strength. He could already feel a surge of energy coursing through his body. It felt good, physically good. There was no way he could turn back now. He might fail to save the missionary; he might die trying; but he would put his whole self into the effort; he had to or he wouldn't be himself.
Rennenkampf's terms -- the noose he had just slipped over his head -- only made the situation more interesting. Here he was, defying authority again. It amused him to think that someone might say that his whole life up to now had been preparation for this moment; he was destined to save this priest, despite all obstacles.
At dawn, after riding all day and all night, the Mazeppy reached the Ya-nu-shan Pass. That's what their guide, Pierre, a Chinese Christian, one of Father Lavoisier's helpers called it. The pass was blocked by two dozen mounted Chinese.
"Ready sabers," ordered Bulatovich.
"Stop, sir! Stop!" shouted Butorin. "Those men are bandits, not Boxers. They know how to shoot."
"Then we can't count on them missing. We'll have to duck," laughed Bulatovich. "Charge for the middle Use your sabers only if you have to. Ride right through them and keep riding. Chances are they're just fighting to defend their territory. If we ride through and away, they won't pursue."
And the enemy parted as the Mazeppy charged, letting them continue on their way, just as Bulatovihc had predicted. Late that morning, they reached the mission, a crude stone structure with a cross on top, enclosed by a stone wall several feet high. It stood on the outskirts of a deserted mud-hut village.
The Boxers who had been hovering about the place dropped out of sight without a shot. Everything was going according to plan, thought Bulatovich.
As the Mazeppy rode through the gate and up to the door of the mission, two Chinese wearing crosses around their necks came running out, laughing and cheering. Bulatovich expected just to pick up the missionary and ride back -- a simple matter, as simple as the last rescue mission. It was so easy to play "hero" for little Sonya.
Then Bulatovich walked through the door. There was only one room. It was dark, except for the morning lit streaming through the doorway, casting Bulatovich's shadow -- a giant stretching across the floor and up the opposite wall. He looked ironically at his own projected stature.
There was a heavy smell of seat in the air. He would have opened a window, but they were boarded up and barricaded with bits of furniture. "Lavoisier!" he called. But no one answered. "Get your things together," he said in French. "We ride in half an hour." Still no response.
His men crowded at the doorway. Their shadows obliterated his, further darkening the room.
Bulatovich turned aside form the remaining light, groping with his feet and hands. He stumbled against a bed and heard a groan. "Lavoisier?" he asked, softly this time. Still no answer.
He reached out. Someone indeed was lying in bed. Probably a late sleeper, probably the missionary himself. H reached out and rolled the figure over to wake him. Starodubov struck a match. It was a man -- gray hair, long gray beard; his eyes were open, but they had a faraway look. Starodubov struck another match and stepped closer. Large dark red spots on the man's face. Quickly, Starodubov knelt close to the man, jostling Bulatovich aside. Starodubov struck another match and pulled aside the filthy yellow sheet. More spots all over the abdomen, sides, and arms.
The match burned down and extinguished itself on his fingers. "Typhus!" he shouted with sudden pain.
"Let's get out of here!" responded Bulatovich. He and Starodubov crawled, scrambled, and finally ran in the wake of the other fleeing Mazeppy. Within a minute they were all once again mounted.
"Are you sure it's typhus?" asked Bulatovich.
"My son died of it. I'll never forget those spots."
"But we can't just leave him, can we?" asked Pyotr. "We came all this way. How can we turn back?"
"Do you want to catch it?" asked Bulatovich.
"No," Pyotr admitted. "But can we just leave him here to die?"
"What would you suggest?"
"Laperdin was a medical student. He told me so. Maybe he would..."
Everyone looked at Laperdin, who grimaced. "yes," he said. "We've come this far. Why not save ourselves a priest? For the good of God and man. What the world really needs is another priest." Despite his irreverent tone, he quickly dismounted and walked back into the mission. After a few minutes he appeared again at the door and addressed the guide. "Pierre, fetch water, plenty of water, and boil it," he ordered in French. "Have those two friends of yours carry him out and put him under that tree over there. Better that he be in the fresh air."
"Is it really typhus?" asked Pyotr anxiously
"Yes."
"Can you do anything for him?" asked Bulatovich.
"Perhaps."
"Will he live?" asked Starodubov.
"Considering his age, I'd say he has a fifty-fifty chance."
"Pierre!" shouted Bulatovich angrily.
The guide tripped and spilled his bucket of water, then looked up guiltily.
"Was your priest sick when you left him?"
Pierre nodded yes and stared at the ground.
"How long ago was that?" asked Laperdin.
"Nine days, maybe ten."
"And had he been sick for long?"
"Three or four days."
"Why didn't you tell us?" asked Bulatovich, exasperated.
"But you wouldn't have come, sir. I was afraid you wouldn't come."
"How contagious is it?" Bulatovich asked Laperdin.
"If we clean him up and keep him out in the open, we can probably get rid of the lice, and chances of its spreading will be slim -- if we haven't caught it already."
"Lice?" asked Trofim, nervously scratching his back.
"Yes, they say that lice spread the disease."
Laperdin grinned as everyone started scratching, except Bulatovich, who felt an uncomfortable itch but felt foolish, sitting there on his horse as the two Chinese, their pendant crosses swinging, carried Lavoisier out and lay him under the tree. Should they leave? Should they stay? Should he scratch or not scratch? And there was Laperdin, godless Laperdin, bending over the sick priest, stripping the rags from his back, closely examining the dark red spots.
Bulatovich dismounted and, despite or because of his fears, walked up to Laperdin. "Why are you doing this?"
"The man is sick. I was, as Pyotr said, a medical student."
"But he's a priest, and we all know you don't believe in God."
"And I don't believe in Christians either," replied Laperdin. "I've never met a Christian. In Russia, much less here in Manchuria. A Christian would do anything to help his fellow man, regardless of who that man was. A Christian would not fear death, all the more so wouldn't fear it when helping another man; for if he should die in such a godly act, surely he would go to heaven. But I've never met such a man. So why should I assume that this priest is one? Why should I hold it against him that he's a Christian, when he probably isn't, any more than you or I?"
"Then why are you taking this risk?"
"To shock. It amuses me to shock people like you, to make you wonder why you wouldn't do it yourself." He had a look of self-righteous glee on his face. He seemed to relish Bulatovich's discomfort. "Stay away. Really. I advise you to keep your distance. It is quite contagious until we've cleaned him up." Laperdin turned and shouted to Pierre. "Hurry up with that water. I don't care if it's cold. You can heat more later. Let's get this business started."
Bulatovich backed away reluctantly. Pytor came running up to him. "Are we staying?"
"Laperdin!" Bulatovich shouted, as if suddenly awakened form a dream.
"Yes, sir."
"Can this man be moved? Can we tie him to a horse and bring him with us?"
Laperdin laughed. "If you want to kill him quickly, I can think of no better way."
"Then how long..."
"Not long at all. The crisis could come any day now. They say on the average it comes on the fourteenth day. If he isn't dead by then, the fever will drop, and he'll start to recover quickly. It's quite fascinating really. The disease is like a story, with a beginning, a middle, and end. We came in near the end of the drama -- the best part, really. See how dark those spots are on the abdomen? And the coma, with the eyes open and the pupils contracted. Yes, we have here a fine case, a very serious one. One of those rare occasions when the patient will come very close to death, then do a sudden about-face -- if he's going to live, that is -- as if he doesn't like what he sees in death and comes running back, very un-Christian, really."
Bulatovich suddenly turned and vomited.
Pyotr quickly rushed to support him.
"Don't worry," remarked Laperdin, casually. "That's not typhus. Just fear. Plain old fear of death. A good old pagan impulse."
A rumble of thunder form the west. And another rumble. Bulatovich watched the black clouds gather, saw the wind thrashing the trees on the hilltops. There was no point in moving any faster than they were. The horses wouldn't be able to keep up the pace. But the rain, if it was heavy, could make them lose another half day or a full day even, and this was the morning of the fourth day. Bulatovich was already "absent without leave." Another two days and Rennenkampf could call him a deserter.
For a day and a night and a day again, Lavoisier had lain naked in the shade of the acacia tree. Laperdin had shaved his head and would regularly apply cold wet clothes to the bare scalp. Every two hours, day and night, Laperdin would rouse the priest as best he could, with hearty slaps on the face and cold water in the eyes, forcing milk or soup down his throat. Pierre and the other two Chinese did the fetching and the cleaning, but only Laperdin himself touched and nursed the priest.
On the second night the crisis had come. The priest had started sweating heavily. His eyes had lost their glassy look. And for the first time in days, urine streamed form his sick body. They left at dawn the next day, the priest, conscious but weak, tied to the back of a horse.
Again a rumble. Only this time the horse of one of the Chinese reared and the rider fell to the ground. It looked like an accident -- an inexperienced rider and a frightened horse. Pierre quickly jumped down to help his friend.
"He's shot!" shouted Pierre. "It's Ya-nu-shan! We're at the Ya-nu-shan Pass. They were waiting for us."
More thunder, this time nearer. And shots continued after the thunder ceased -- form the sides, from in front, and from behind. Pierre fell. The road was narrow, the undergrowth thick. The bandits were scattered along the hillsides.
"Don't stop to fight!" shouted Bulatovich. "Charge straight ahead. Let's get out of here!"
Before he had finished speaking, the rain started; and as he glanced up toward the clouds, he saw a boy coming at him, jumping from a tree. Afterward he remembered that face, he couldn't forget that face -- a young face filled with hate and fear.
He felt a blade strike him in the side and, with automatic reflex, swung with his own saber, severing the assailant's head, leaving one eye, the nose, a hideously contorted mouth.
In is death throes, the boy grasped Bulatovich by the shoulders, viselike. The warm blood from the split skull gushed out at Bulatovich's face, getting into his eyes and mouth. The two of them fell to the ground, the boy first, breaking the fall; but still the grip help and the blood gushed.
The pain was familiar now. He couldn't remember what it was like to be without pain.
Bulatovich was lying on his back, on the ground, in the forest. Someone was leaning over him now. Not the boy he had killed. Another boy, with a worried expression on his face and the beginnings of a beard. Pyotr, he remembered. Pyotr Zabelin.
"Where am I?" Bulatovich mumbled as clearly as he could.
"He's coming to!" shouted Pyotr excitedly. "It'll be all right, sir. You slept a full day, but it'll be all right now."
"What happened?"
"You screamed, sir. I've never heard such a scream. It was worse than Aksyonov, dying on the way back from Urdingi. It was a hideous sight, you lying there on the ground with your face in that bloody mess and the dead boy still clinging to you. And the scream rose and fell, but it wouldn't end. Butorin started laughing uncontrollably. I don't know how much time passed. We were all frozen there, starting, holding our ears. Then I realized that the thunder had stopped. It was raining hard. But there was no more thunder and there were no more shots. We were all as good as dead until you screamed like that."
"How many casualties?"
"Pierre and that first Chinese who was hit are dead. Aside from them, you were the only one wounded, sir."
"Wounded?" he asked in surprise, then remembered the pain, the familiar pain. When he tried to sit up, it got worse. In his side. "Yes. I forgot. That face, that half a face -- it made me forget everything. The priest? How's the priest?"
"Well enough to ride, tied to a horse, says Laperdin. You're the one who can't move."
"What?"
"Laperdin's order."
"Since when does Laperdin give orders?"
"Since you're in no condition to do anything," laughed Pyotr. "Besides, it's Starodubov who's in charge. He pulled that dead boy off of you and slapped you till you stopped screaming and lay there unconscious. The rest of us just sat in our saddles and watched. He was the only one with the presence of mind to do something. He wrapped his shirt around your wound, threw you over his saddle, and led us here."
"Where are we?"
"A good five miles south of Ya-nu-shan. Guards are posted. They don't seem to be following us. I can't say that I blame them. They'll probably have nightmares for months from that scream of yours."
"But we must get back to Ta-ku-shan. Where is that Laperdin?"
"Here, sir." He was sitting right beside him. "If you like, we can get your corpse to Ta-ku-shan in about a day. But you we couldn't get there."
"Are you serious?"
"I'm never serious, sir," Laperdin smiled. "But your wound is."
"How serious?"
"For a while I thought you were as good as dead. You've lost a lot of blood. At best you'll be weak for quite some time."
"How long before I can travel?"
"I'd let it rest another couple days. We'll fix up a litter, something we can rope between two horses, to take you back in."
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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