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
He and other key officers had gathered in General Orlov's tent, expecting to receive final assignments and the order to begin fighting what for most of them would be the first battle of their lives.
Nearly ten thousand Chinese, well-armed soldiers, had taken up position on the plateau overlooking Ongun Station. The Russians, including about two thousand infantry, nine hundred cavalry, and a company of railway guards, were lined up behind a row of sandy hillocks, awaiting the order to attack. Instead of giving that order, Orlov kept brining up matters of seemingly minor importance -- for instance, this theft by a fifty-four-year-old Cossack volunteer named Starodubov.
"Major Strakhov is right, General," added Colonel Kupferman, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Inside the tent, the midsummer heat was stifling. There was no place to sit.
"We cannot tolerate robbery in our midst," Kupferman continued. His unseemly girth obviously contributed to his physical discomfort and general testiness. A friend now, but a man to beware of, noted Strakhov. "They know no shoe polish. They have no idea what it means to salute. Such minor lapses of discipline we must live with. There is no time to whip these ruffians into reliable soldiers. But crime we must deal with -- swiftly and severely, or we'll find ourselves completely at the mercy of these cutthroats."
"And you, Alexander Xavierevich?" asked Orlov, turning to Bulatovich. "What would you do with the thief?"
Bulatovich squinted, adjusting his red cap and his glasses before replying, "I would exercise discretion, Your Excellency." He was shorter than the other officers, built like a jockey. But that red cap, distinctive of that exclusive cavalry regiment he came from, made his stand out from the crowd; and that way he squinted when he emphasized a point -- Strakhov read it as a sign of defiance.
"Discretion?" asked Orlov, leaning back in his chair. He was the only one seated.
"Yes, Your Excellency," explained Bulatovich. "Had I been present when the man was apprehended, I would have confronted him privately, threatened him with severe punishment, and then set him free to prove himself in battle."
"Prove himself?" asked Strakhov. "But he has already proven himself a common thief."
"Indeed, Major Strakhov," replied Bulatovich. "And there are hundreds of thieves in this irregular army we are blessed with. That we know. But we do not know how many brave fighting men we have. Starodubov may well prove to be such a brave man."
"But leniency?" persisted Strakhov, annoyed at finding himself opposed by a subordinate over such a simple, clear-cut matter of discipline. The issue was trivial, but he had spoken up, and he would lose face in front of his new commanding general if he didn't defend his position. "For a thief in time of war you would recommend leniency?"
"I recommend not leniency, but discretion. Let the man's guilt be used as a goad to urge him to heroic feats. Let him try to earn his freedom."
"You would let a blatant criminal go free?" persisted Strakhov. "You would have a man like that at your side, at your back in the thick of battle?"
"And would you rather rely on a man who has nothing to gain by risking his life, another conscript, ducking bullets and serving out his time? No, give me a man with a touch of guilt, with a need to prove himself -- that's the stuff heroes are made of."
"But we don't need heroes; we need discipline," insisted Strakhov.
"In a military academy or on garrison duty at Orenburg," Orlov interjected, "indeed, Major Strakhov, you would be correct. There is no need for heroism on the training field or in the classroom. But here in Manchuria, Staff-Rotmister Bulatovich is correct. One brave man on the field of battle can inspire dozens to feats they would never ordinarily attempt. An execution at this point would only breed distrust and despondency. Remember officers, the men know you and trust you no better than you know and trust them. They're waiting for you to prove yourselves in combat and in cases such as this."
"Of course," added Strakhov, exasperated enough to pursue his point even in opposition to the commanding general. "What will leniency in a case like this tell them? What will that do to discipline?"
"It's a question of discretion, not leniency," repeated Bulatovich. "The man must be confronted. Apparently, there is no doubt regarding his guilt. Let him know that he has been found guilty. But suspend sentencing until he has had an opportunity to earn his life."
"He'll simply desert," objected Strakhov.
"Then he'll simply be shot as a deserter," concluded Bulatovich.
At the time of the officers' meeting Bulatovich had not yet met the thief -- Alexei Starodubov. They first met minutes later when Bulatovich went to release him.
Bulatovich had had no intention of defending this man, had known nothing about him. Nor was he being generous and humane. His arguments were based on his knowledge of human behavior. It seemed a waste to execute a man who could prove useful.
Bulatovich had grown accustomed to judging and controlling men in Ethiopia. When hiring bearers for expeditions into the wilds, he knew that probably several would die and several more would desert and that, if he lost control of these men, all their lives would be in danger. He had learned how to control men with the tone of his voice, the expression of his face, and his posture. Whenever possible, he influenced them by example. And he always hired more men than he needed so that the bearers would know they weren't indispensable, that others were anxiously waiting to pick up their burdens and their higher wages. The extras were also vital when minor disasters accumulated to thin out the ranks. Having dealt with that kind of situation, he was fully confident he could cope with one Trans-Baikal Cossack.
Most Cossacks had a tradition of military service to the Tsar that went back many generations, but in Trans-Baikal many were just second generation, sons of serfs from the imperial silver mines at Nerchinsk. Starodubov in particular was so old that as a boy he himself may have been a serf in the mines. On receiving their freedom in the emancipation of 1861, these former serfs had been given large tracts of land to be held communally.
Although all Cossacks had an obligation of twenty years of military service, these seemed to have spent little time on active duty; and what training they had had, they had conducted themselves. They had probably spent more time hunting, herding, and farming than going through military exercises. They were wilderness settlers first and soldiers second. If they bothered to salute, they did so with a swagger and a mocking smile. But, purportedly, they were fine horsemen, good marksmen, and fearless fighters.
Bulatovich didn't expect this man to be subservient like an enlisted man to an officer or like a peasant to a wealthy landowner. But he assumed that fear of death would make tractable even the most independent and insubordinate frontiersman.
He planned to dominate the man with voice and gesture, to make him cringe, make him realize that in the eyes of the military he was as good as dead. Then would come the surprise of reprieve, the chance to prove himself in battle. But he found a huge hulk of a man, who didn't behave at all as expected, who just sat calmly, cross-legged, oblivious to his chains.
Momentarily taken aback, Bulatovich recomposed his features, assumed the harsh attitude he had planned. But again Starodubov surprised him, looking up at him with a huge innocent smile, as if delighted at recognizing a long-lost friend. Disconcertingly, Bulatovich felt a reciprocal surge of friendliness. Something about this man -- the long white hair and bear, the dark leathery skin, the pale gentle eyes -- reminded him of the huntsman Old Hrisko, his childhood friend back at Lutsikovka.
He tried to suppress these feelings and get down to business as planned. "Starodubov. That means 'Old Oak.' I should call you 'Old Blockhead.' Stealing money from an officer."
"No, sir; not me, sir."
"Then you deny the charge?"
"What need have I for money?"
"Do you deny that you stole? Must we go through the formalities and call witnesses? It will go worse for you, I promise."
"But I would never steal money, sir. The man who says I did lies. A dagger's all I took, sir. A fine antique dagger, with carved ivory hilt."
"But why did you do such a thing? What were you trying to prove/"
The peasant smiled up at him as if genuinely pleased that Bulatovich had asked the question. "I've asked myself that too, sir." He leaned back and stared up into the sky. "When I was a young man, I was very strong. People kept picking fights with me. They'd insult me and heckle me until I had no choice but to fight them or do something that would awe them and shut them up. They say that once I even lifted a horse. I must have been drunk. I don't remember it myself. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't.
"Then one day I asked myself, 'What am I trying to prove?' I was tired of bashing heads and taking bruises. Why should I care what strangers think? Why should I have to be the strongest man for miles around?
"I learned to back down from useless fights. I didn't walk so tall anymore. I kept to myself. When they'd chase after me and try to provoke me, I'd just sit and carve, holding the knife hard and the wood hard. I came to love carving with these big rough hands of mine. I learned when to hold back, when to push and how to use these muscles of mine to make beautiful objects. Yes, beautiful. I took pride in what I made with these hands.
"I grew older. I had two fine sons. We'd go off into the pasture together, high above Lake Baikal. I'd stand tall and laugh and show off my strength as I had as a young man. It felt good showing off for my sons. And they'd show off to me. They'd wrestle together and they'd wrestle with me. Then I'd sit and carve by the firelight. The tiredness of my muscles felt good. I felt alive.
"My sons are gone now. Both gone. One dead of typhus. The other conscripted for military duty thousands of miles from here. I'll not be seeing him again, not in this life." He crossed himself automatically. "He was a fighter, that Pasha. The day his brother died, we wrestled. I shamed him into it, spanked him like a child. No son of mine would sit about and sulk. He fought back like the devil himself. I thought he'd kill me. Afterward, we got drunk together. In the morning we were off in the fields with the herds as always.
"When I lost the last of my sons, when Pasha went away, I lost the urge to carve, I lost the urge to do anything. I just sat and my wife just scolded. Then I asked myself, 'What am I trying to prove?' And I left.
"The army needed men for this Manchurian business. I joined."
"But why did you steal the dagger?" persisted Bulatovich, bewildered by this unkempt peasant giant with his long white hair and his rambling tales.
"That wasn't the first. I've stolen before, dozens of times. I love beautiful cared objects. I've lost the urge to carve, but I love the feel of fine carving. It was too easy. I was lucky, too lucky. Luck can be dangerous, you know. It makes a man careless. I got careless. I don't know what I was trying to prove. I'm just a foolish old man."
"Wipe that silly grin off your face," snapped Bulatovich.
The man smiled still more, but not a grin of defiance. He wore a look of relief, as if he had just unburdened himself to a kindred spirit.
Bulatovich didn't know what to make of this man. He wished now that he had never gotten involved in this business. He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses on his tunic. Then he smiled condescendingly, hoping Starodubov would cower in his chains, that his eyes would flee from contact. But again, the peasant smiled back, innocently.
"You are a fool," said Bulatovich in disgust. But as he left, almost as an afterthought, he turned to the guard. "Take off his chains. Here's the general's order." And to Starodubov: "You'll come with me. You're now under my command."
The incident with the old thief upset Bulatovich's carefully cultivated calm. He had deliberately remained aloof from both officers and men, spending much of his time riding alone in the surrounding countryside, checking maps supplied by the railway company, making additions and changes based on what he could tell with field glasses and surveying gear, trying to distract himself from personal worries -- Sonya, the derailment of his career -- mostly just staring at the horizon in solitude.
His immediate superiors, Kupferman and Strakhov, couldn't understand why this Guards officer had asked for assignment to Manchuria. He made not effort to explain his presence. And he seemed to avoid them deliberately. Neither of them had ever before experienced the humiliation of being snubbed by a subordinate. They responded to his standoffishness in kind, syaing no more to him than they had to in the performance of their duties, leaving him, as "second assistant commander of the mounted regiment," with no clear authority or responsibilities -- a position that had suited his purposes fine, until it turned out that they were actually going to see action.
Apparently, the Chinese governor and the military commander at Hailar had come out in favor of the anti-foreign outbreak, and on their authority or based on covert orders from Peking, they were going to use all the regular troops at their disposal to prevent the Russians from regaining control of the almost completed railway.
It could well turn out to be a farce -- there was no telling with troops that had never seen battle before whether they would turn and run at the first shot. The Russians were better trained, even if undisciplined, and had more experience with their weapons. The Chinese outnumbered them three to one. The Russians needed a victory now to give them confidence, for they would then have to march deeper into Manchuria to Hailar and beyond, with long and precarious supply lines and no idea how many more armies the enemy had waiting for them.
The Old Thief intruded on his consciousness.
"Will the battle be starting soon, sir?" asked Starodubov, following Bulatovich through the camp like a stray dog.
"Within the hour," Bulatovich answered curtly, without bothering to turn his head.
"Is it your first, sir?"
"No."
"It is for me, sir. And old fool that I am, I feel a bit funny about the belly."
Hungry?"
"Scared, sir."
Bulatovich stopped and glared at him. "Would you rather be back in the guardhouse?"
"No, sir, no. I'm most grateful, sir." They resumed walking. "Will I be riding a horse, sir? Will I carry a saber?"
"Yes."
"I've never used a saber before, never so much as held one. I was in the infantry battalion, you see, sir. And I'm just a poor peasant. I could never afford anything so fine as a saber."
"We'll equip you."
"Have you ever used a saber, sir?"
"Of course."
"Against a man, I mean. Not just for practice, but real combat. Have you, sir?"
Bulatovich hesitated, then grunted, "No. I used a rifle and pistols."
"It must be most peculiar -- to kill a man with a saber, at such close quarters. I think I'm more scared of that than of what might happen to me. All that blood. Like slaughtering sheep. Have you ever been wounded, sir?"
"No."
"And where did you fight your battles/"
"Africa."
"And were there many battles?"
"Yes. Skirmishes I'd call them."
"Many battles and never wounded. You must be very lucky, sir. Hope it hasn't made you careless," he added with a nervous laugh.
Bulatovich didn't respond.
"Will we be in the front line?"
Still no answer.
"Do you command a squadron, sir?"
"No."
"A troop?"
"No."
"Then what do you do, sir?"
"I am second assistant commander of the regiment."
"What does that mean, sir?"
"It means I have no troops to command at all. None but you, Blockhead. We'll watch the battle from the hillside. If there's an emergency, I may be called on to lead some of the reserves."
"Oh, I see, sir."
"What do you see?" Bulatovich confronted him.
They were just passing the bakery at Ongun Station. Many men were eating and milling about. They all stopped to stare at the little Guards officer in the red cap and the white-bearded peasant giant who followed him.
"What do you see?" repeated Bulatovich.
"Nothing, sir, nothing," Starodubov hunched his massive shoulders submissively.
They started up the sandy hillside.
"I should have some troops to command," Bulatovich thought aloud. "That's what I'm trained for. It's an oversight, I'm sure -- I'm going now to see the regimental commander." His own words surprised him. He started striding so fast that Starodubov had to jog to keep up.
Colonel Kupferman took another look at Bulatovich. A fine time to ask for a command. Just half an hour before a battle. What kind of army did he think this was?
Kupferman was used to treating subordinates abruptly, squashing all signs of individual pride and independence. But he didn't know what to make of this little man with his Guards-officer self-assurance.
Kupferman had sensed trouble as soon as he had seen the man's odd Gypsy tent. For himself, he had no tent at all, but rather a spacious carriage, his tarantass. He was getting on in years, and he was used to certain comforts. His feather mattress from home fit neatly into the carriage; he exercised his prerogative as commander and brought it along. He would have brought his favorite chair, perhaps even his wife, but there was no room for them.
It seemed this Bulatovich was exercising the prerogatives of a regimental commander without having the rank or command. His Gypsy tent interrupted the rows of uniform tents that the regulation-conscious officers from Kazan and Orenberg had struggled to convince their irregular troops to erect in orderly fashion. Its flamboyance was better suited for the jungles of Africa or for the chaotic encampment of the railway guards, civilian camp followers, and Chinese refugees on the outskirts of the bivouac.
"Well, what do you expect me to do?" Kupferman asked Bulatovich impatiently.
Men on horseback were rushing by and jostling one another, trying to find their units. less than half an hour to go, and these men still hadn't formed up and seemed to have no notion of where they were supposed to be.
A young officer with a smile on his face ambled by, in no particular hurry.
"You there!" Kupferman lashed out. Startled, the officer stumbled to a stop. "Yes, you! Where are your men, and why aren't you wit them? I asked you a question, Lieutenant. I expect an answer."
Regaining his composure, the officer snapped to attention and saluted smartly. "Lieutenant Grotten reporting, sir. My men are already in position, sir. I'll be rejoining them in a minute. I command one of the troops of Krasnostanov's squadron."
"You used to command," barked Kupferman, delighting to see the young man cringe. He didn't really know how to deal with Bulatovich. He wanted to put him in his place but wasn't really sure what that place was or how far his own authority actually extended -- Bulatovich coming from such an elite regiment and the general holding him in such special favor. It was a relief to be able to single out this other foolish young officer and revel in exercising power over him.
"But, sir..." the young officer protested.
"Don't 'but' me. I'll brook no more insubordination. One more word from you and I'll have you in the guardhouse. Meet the new commander of your troop -- Staff-Rotmister Bulatovich. You'll be serving under him. Take him to his troop, on the double, Lieutenant."
With that, Kupferman saluted sharply and turned his back before his subordinates had time to return the salute.
I tried to be conscientious," Grotten explained to Bulatovich and to himself, nervous, over-anxious, trying to absorb the shock of this sudden setback to his career. "Ever since I arrived at Chita and was given my command, I have tried my best to get acquainted with my men -- all twenty of them. I believe that a good commander should know his men."
Bulatovich nodded assent, and they continued to pick their way through t he confused crowds, toward the rallying point for Krasnostanov's squadron.
"This was my first command," explained Grotten, trying to restrain his anger, trying to be logical, to make the best of the situation. "I interviewed each of my men individually before we left Chita. An old sergeant had warned me not to pursue the questioning too far. 'Here in Siberia,' he said, 'it isn't healthy to ask too much about a man's past.' Apparently, a lot of the men are criminals or sons of criminals who were banished here. So I asked just enough to satisfy my sense of a commander's responsibility, but not enough to satisfy my personal curiosity."
"Commendable," noted Bulatovich.
Grotten smiled nervously, anxious to get any kind of approval. "That's my troop, I mean your troop, our troop, just ahead, sir." They stopped twenty paces away. "Before I introduce you to them and we go riding off into battle, I feel I should pass on to you what I know about some of these men."
"Please do, Lieutenant, I appreciate your help."
Grotten cautiously assessed his new commander. It probably wouldn't hurt to curry favor with this standoffish but apparently influential new man. "There weren't enough able-bodied Cossacks available so they filled out the ranks with whomever they could get. All the men in this troop are from along the Uda and Selenga rivers near Lake Baikal and the town of Verkheudinsk, a mountainous, heavily wooded area. They are mostly hunters, a few farmers and sheepherders, four or five Cossacks, and a couple who seem too well educated to be native to this area -- probably banished or running from the law for political or religious reasons.
"The three in the front row are the Zabelin brothers. Pyotr's the young one with the dirty-looking fuzz on his face. He's been trying to grow a beard since he joined p in Chita three weeks ago. He's about seventeen, says he joined for the excitement. The one crossing himself is his brother Trofim. He's no more than twenty-five. He was probably born with a wrinkled brow and a frown on his face. A very serious type. with all the horsing around these last few weeks, I've never seen him smile. He says he joined to fight for a holy cause. The one with the beard is Login, the eldest, about thirty or so. He's the leader of them, the head of the family actually, since their father is dead. He joined just so he could protect his foolish brothers.
"I you look closely when Trofim crosses himself, you'll see he does it with two fingers, instead of the Orthodox three. They're Old Believers," announced Grotten, proud of his powers of observation and deduction. "The two fingers symbolize Christ's human-divine dual nature. While Old Believers suffer severe penalties and restrictions back in European Russia, out here in the wilderness quite a few of them have prospered. There are scores of Old Believer families along the Uda and the Selenga who openly practice their heretical faith, unmolested by the authorities. Some have been there for many generations and are among the leading families of the district.
"Over there to the left, that swarthy one with the long, lean face, the one who's smoking his pipe so calmly, showing off how unconcerned he is -- that's Butorin, one of the Cossacks, a self-styled expert on the local terrain and customs. He's about forty. From the look of him there's probably more Mongolian blood than Russian in his veins. He's a slippery character. Never seems to answer a question straight; at least not for me. Ask him about himself and he'll answer with anecdotes about he local Buryat tribesmen and a lecture on how to ride a camel.
"The one off to the right, brushing his horse, is another Cossack -- Shemelin, Yakov Shemelin. He's about twenty-five, I'd say. A fine horseman and very bright. Taught himself to read, I hear, with very little guidance. Most of these men are completely illiterate and quite content to stay that way, but not Shemelin. He'd have probably done all right by himself if he'd ever had a chance to go to school. Always thinking. He had as many questions for me as I had for him.
"One thing's peculiar about him, though -- he doesn't like to be called 'Yakov,' even though that's the name on his papers. He prefers 'Ivan.' Yakov's a fine old biblical name, but he seems to think it sounds too Jewish. I don't know what he has personally against the Jews. Aside from now, I don't' think he's ever been very far from his village; and most Cossacks would never allow a Jew to settle on their land. Maybe things are a bit looser here in Trans-Baikal. Anyway, his nose is straight. He's generous to a fault. His father was a Cossack before him. I don't know why he'd think anyone would mistake him for a Jew just because of the name Yakov.
"That young one beside him, playing with the pendant around his neck -- that's Aksyonov, another seventeen-year-old. He was married just a week before he was called up. He carried his wife's picture around his neck and worships it like an icon.
"The two educated ones are in the back. Notice, their skin is lighter than the rest and doesn't have the leathery texture that most natives here have by the time they're thirty. I'd say they're both at least thirty. The one on the left, clean-shaven with the wire-rimmed glasses -- that's Laperdin. He dropped those glasses once and I picked them up. The lenses are very thin and not very powerful. He can probably see quite well without them. Not too many people from around here would be so fastidious as to wear glasses if they didn't absolutely need to. Has to be somebody who was used to doing a lot of reading. And he talks like an educated man, using long words when little ones would do just as well. Sofronov, the one on the right, talks that way too, only he has a tone in his voice sometimes that's just like a priest delivering a sermon."
As Grotten went through the formalities of calling the troops of twenty men to attention and informing them that Bulatovich was their new commander, Bulatovich quickly scanned the ranks. It was a motley group. As in all Cossack units each man had to provide his own "uniform" and equipment. There was no uniformity at all in what they wore, except their white tunics and the ichigi they wore on their feet -- heelless, soft substitutes for the boots they couldn't afford. None of them wore spurs. They each carried instead a nagaika, a heavy whip. Their rifles were slung across their backs with the sling coming across the right shoulder, opposite of how it was done in the regular army. Each also had a pistol and a sword. The horses were smallish and of questionable quality.
The boy called Pyotr seemed to pay no attention to what Grotten said. Pyotr and his horse moved nervously. Login looked Bulatovich straight in the eye, not a look of malice, but of calm assessment. Butorin grinned rather foolishly. Bulatovich remembered him as the soldier who had fallen through the window in a fight back at Chita. He looked none the worse for it. Sofronov seemed to be mumbling a prayer to himself. The sunlight reflected off Laperdin's fastidious glasses, making it difficult to tell where he was looking or what he was thinking.
A cannon shot from the left flank interrupted Grotten's introduction. Commands were shouted and repeated. The cavalry mounted. With a loud shout, "Urah!" the charge began.
Orlov checked his watch: one-fifty. The cavalry had started one time. When they reached the plateau, that would signal the advance of the infantry battalions.
He crossed himself. His orderly and his adjutants quickly did likewise.
The night before, he had led all the troops in prayers and hymns. He had done everything he could to prepare for this battle. Now it was in the hands of God.
The bivouac was set up near a little pond on the south side of the Hailar River, sheltered from the Chinese by a row of sandy hills. Orlov had placed the 4th Battalion on the hilltop on the left flank with the six-cannon artillery battery to their right and the 6th Battalion to the right of them. Several companies guarded the railway station and its bakery in the valley off to the right, and on the far right flank the cavalry regiment was now rapidly approaching a comparable body of cavalry on the Chinese left flank.
Orlov had been anxious, perhaps too anxious to begin the campaign. Rather than wait until all his troops had assembled and organized, he had crossed the border into Manchuria with only two foot battalions and one company of mounted railway guards. A few squadrons of the cavalry regiment had caught up with them a few days later. When they first encountered the enemy here at Ongun, Orlov had insisted on waiting until the final squadrons arrived and had had time to rest and refresh themselves and their horses. But even now his detachment was far from complete: two more foot battalions under Colonel Vorobyev were still organizing back at Abagaitui, and three companies of mounted railway guards under Captain Smolyannikov were taking the northern route to Hailar by way of Staro Tsurukhaitui.
For the upcoming battle the Russians numbered two thousand foot, one thousand mounted. The Chinese were about ten thousand strong, armed with Mauser and Winchester rifles, and camouflaged in shallow one-man foxholes on a plateau about half a mile away.
For several hours the Chinese had been firing continuously. But at that distance, most of their bullets fell harmlessly in the sand in front of the Russian positions.
During the long wait, Russian soldiers had amused themselves by making fun of Chinese marksmanship, strolling about, eating fresh bread, and drinking tea, sheltered by the hills, or taking needless chances by standing unprotected on the hilltops, while bullets whistled by overhead or kicked up the sand in front of them. It was rumored that ammunition was scarce in the Chinese army and that target practice was prohibited. Many of the soldiers facing them now may never have fired a rifle before. Besides, the range was too far for even the best sharpshooters to be accurate -- or so the Russians figured, too inexperienced themselves to admit fear, cavalierly ignoring the fact that the rumor might be wrong, that these Chinese soldiers might know how to shoot, that in any case a stray bullet could accidentally hit and kill. Only a few worried enough to risk ridicule by staying under cover, lying on their bellies in the hot sand.
The Battle of Ongun was an important test of strength, though Orlov, crossing himself again, and trying to think of the words he would use to describe this moment in his memoirs. There were very few fanatical Boxer types in this western section of Manchuria. The people here, for the most part, were Mongolian, speaking a different language, having a different culture than their Chinese masters. As a subject people, their loyalty to the central government was questionable. Their allegiance was a question of which side had the stronger armies, or which side they believed was stronger. Right now they apparently believed in the strength of the Chinese. This battle would confirm or confound that belief. If the Russians, God forbid, lost this battle, the campaign could turn out to be a long and bitter one. On the other hand, if the Russians won, the war in this region could be over very quickly, and they all could go back to their normal business.
The cavalry reached the plateau. The cannon opened fire. The foot soldiers began their stumbling, enthusiastic race down the sandy hillsides.
The battle had begun.
At the first shout of "Urah!" Starodubov jumped on a horse. It had been many years since he had last ridden a horse, and then it had been bareback -- saddles were a luxury. He didn't know what to do with the stirrups. They seemed too small, too short. He let his legs hand free and clung to the horse's neck as the frightened beast raced along with the throng.
Starodubov would have crossed himself, but he needed both hands to keep his wrestler's grip on the horse's neck. His thighs, crotch, and behind ached from the jouncing he was getting.
Off to his left, horses collided. A man lost his balance and fell, screaming, beneath onrushing hooves. Starodubov leaned the other way, pulling his horse with him and riding into a flurry of kicks as a rider on that side tried to stave him off and avoid collision.
His eyes stung from the dust, the heat. He prayed loudly but couldn't hear himself. The clatter of the hooves, everyone yelling, in the distance heavy gunfire.
Just ahead, he spotted Bulatovich -- his bright red cap still visible in the dust of a thousand horses. Bulatovich rode high, hardly touching his saddle at all.
Grotten had raced to the front, proud of the speed of his mount, proud of his skill at maneuvering through the press of other riders, proud of his own bravery. When he reached the crest of the plateau, he could see the Chinese cavalry scattering and galloping off without a fight, the Chinese infantry scurrying out of their shallow foxholes and away from the oncoming Russian horses.
Shots whistled by. The Chinese were all around them. Grotten's horse stumbled, righted itself. (Had that been a rock or a man his horse had struck?)
In the distance, the Russian infantry was running across the valley, shooting wildly in their excitement at the complete rout of the enemy.
Grotten tried to turn, tried to stop, but to avoid collision he had to keep going, racing beyond the enemy now, away from them. He felt foolish at his helplessness. He wondered where his troops was -- Bulatovich's troop. In the excitement of his first battle, Grotten had completely forgotten about his men. Irresponsible. Foolish. How could he find them now?
Gradually, he and those around him slowed and jockeyed to avoid collision. Units were hopelessly dissolved in other units. Over-anxious officers added to the confusion with their shouted commands. Individuals managed to turn and begin the charge back again at the enemy. Grotten slowly picked his way through the crowd, anxiously trying to remember what his men looked like and to recognize them through the masks of sweat and dust.
Suddenly, he spotted a red cap. Bulatovich. And gathered around him -- nearly all the men of the troop. They were just now turning and charging back at the enemy. Grotten followed close behind.
The battle field broke up into dozens of individual skirmishes, separated by clusters of dry brush and clouds of dust and smoke. Here and there, scattered across this patchwork battlefield were accidental islands of peace, with no enemy in sight.
When Bulatovich and his troop chanced on such an island, Starodubov stopped, tumbled down off his horse, and stood there shaking unsteadily, still feeling the agonizing motion of the horse and trying to sort out his other sensations. He could feel liquid dripping down his back.
Butorin and the rest of the troop burst out laughing at him. Butorin was the loudest of all, standing behind him, holding an empty canteen.
Then suddenly, they stopped and stared. He felt his back -- soaked with water. He looked down at his trousers -- soaked with blood. Through a rip in the cloth, he could see the raw bleeding flesh of his thigh. Yet somehow he had managed to stay on his horse and keep up with the rest.
This vision was interrupted by another, emerging from a cloud of dust -- a huge Chinese in a blue robe, waving a black banner with a red border and leading a hundred or more Chinese, running, shouting, shooting wildly. Somehow this giant had managed to hold together and inspire his entire company in the midst of the general rout.
Bulatovich drew his pistol and carefully aimed. Others hesitated, on the brink of running for cover. But Starodubov, with only a dagger in his hand, rushed at the giant, churning his big bleeding legs.
Before the Chinese giant could decide how to react to this madman, Starodubov leaped and kicked him three times -- in the crotch, in the belly, in the head. As the man fell, Starodubov grabbed his flag and waved it in triumph. Then Bulatovich, Grotten, and the rest raced forward, cheering all the while for Starodubov, who charged ahead recklessly, flag in hand, with a big grin on his face.
Fortunately for Starodubov and the rest of the Hailar Detachment, the rumor had been right -- the Chinese, although well-armed, were untrained in the use of their weapons. They missed repeatedly, even at point-blank range.
"Why did you do it/" Bulatovich asked Starodubov after the enemy had scattered. "What were you trying to prove?" As he asked that, there was admiration in his eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses.
"I don't know, sir. I just wanted that flag. Did you see how it caught the light and the wind? It's a thing of beauty, sir."
"You Old Thief," laughed Bulatovich.
And Starodubov smiled -- proud of the recognition.
He held his head high and lifted high the flag to the cheers of the troop and of Bulatovich himself.
The cheers of the men were contagious. Grotten had wanted to perform heroic feats himself; but joining in the cheering, he felt not envy but rather exhilaration. And who had inspired these cheers, this feeling? Who had sown them all what they were capable of? A reckless, foolhardy old man. Look at him now -- the enemy's flag in his hand, his right foot firmly planted on the chest of a giant -- like a hero from a folk song.
Bulatovich, smiling broadly and laughing, mounted his horse, slung his rifle across his right shoulder like a Cossack, waved his red cap, and shouted to Starodubov, "To horse, you Old Thief! Let's finish what we've begun."
"But sir," objected Grotten, remembering his own irresponsible enthusiasm in the first charge. "They're sounding the muster call."
"No matter."
"But sir," he persisted, conscientiously. "It will soon be dark, and there's no telling how many of them may be out there hiding in the brush, just waiting for us. It's not my own safety I'm thinking of. We mustn't forget the men, sir."
Bulatovich raised his saber. "Go back if you like. I intend to pursue the enemy."
Grotten stared, speechless, bewildered by his new commander's recklessness. Trofim crossed himself. And Aksyonov glanced at the picture of his wife, clasped his precious pendant. But when Bulatovich went riding off eastward, with Starodubov somehow staying at his side, every one of them followed.
When Strakhov saw the cavalry routing the Chinese, he left Kupferman and led a reserve squadron into battle, afraid that victory would come too quickly and that he would miss an opportunity to demonstrate his abilities. At the crest of the plateau, a shot rang out beside him. To his left, sheltered by a bush, not five feet away, a Chinese soldier was aiming at him. Another shot. Strakhov froze but his horse, wounded, reared, toppling Strakhov toward the sniper. Two Cossacks quickly charged with sabers and literally hacked the sniper to pieces, severing head and arms. Covered with the victim's blood, Strakhov stood there on the battlefield and, in full sight of his men, loudly retched and vomited.
His first thought was that he should never have eaten right before going into battle. His second thought was that the jolt of falling had shaken the food loose.
He tried to regain his composure, borrowed a horse from one of his men, ordered his men to check every bush, every suspicious mount of sand for snipers. Then he noticed that his trousers were wet, soaked, stinking. He had no idea when it had happened, whether his men had noticed it. His body was betraying him. He was physically revolted by the sight of bloodshed. Fourteen years a soldier. His very first battle. And he couldn't stand the sight of blood. His whole career was at stake. The thought sent a chill down his spine. His mind had been prepared for battle, prepared to play the role of the fearless hero. His body had revolted.
Somehow he lived through the humiliating experience. He tried to cover the stain on his trousers unobtrusively. Keeping his distance from his men, he hoped to stave off their ridicule with harsh decisive commands, ordering them this way and that to flush out enemy stragglers. When the bugles sounded the muster call, he kept his men in the field, waiting until after dark to lead them back to the bivouac.
General Orlov didn't want to sleep that night. This was his first campaign, his first major battle. He was accustomed to paperwork and friendly camaraderies, commanding a small out-of-the-way garrison and helping his friend, Matsievsky, commander of the Cossack forces in Trans-Baikal, in the administrative duties of that under-populated territory. The only other combat Orlov had seen was against the Turks some twenty-three years before. Then he'd been an underling, consigned to the reserves, had heard gunfire, had seen the wounded being carried to the rear. He had never seen the enemy.
Now he slouched in his canvas-backed folding chair, at the opening of his tent, balanced his vodka-filled cup on his paunch, and grinned up at the stars in calm content. His chief of staff, Colonel Volzhaninov, was stretched out on the sand beside him, bottle in hand. And young Matsievsky, General Matsievsky's son, Orlov's orderly, was curled up in a corner, sleep.
Orlov couldn't help but be proud of the day's events. His well-fed and well-prepared troops had completely routed the enemy. If he hadn't sounded the muster call, his men would have pursued the enemy long into the night. He was proud they were so enthusiastic and daring that they needed to be restrained. He shut his eyes just to savor the memories.
Someone nudged him, gently, "Your Excellency..."
Orlov jumped up with a start, spilling the contents of his cup over his lap.
It was Sidorov, one of the staff adjutants. And behind Sidorov, standing at attention, with a deep gash over his left eye -- a Cossack, wobbling slightly from fatigue.
"Sit down, man, sit down," ordered Orlov, automatically offering his seat. "Grisha, run fetch Stankevich or Volf. If they're not at the medical tent, check Bodisko's."
Young Matsievsky, suddenly sober, rose and ran.
The frightened, exhausted Cossack collapsed in the general's chair.
Volzhaninov poured him a cup of vodka and refilled Orlov's cup.
Orlov asked Sidorov, "What is his business? Where has be been? The battle ended hours ago, but that wound is fresh."
"He says he was with Bulatovich, Your Excellency," replied Sidorov.
"Bulatovich?" asked Orlov. "Where is he?"
"About twenty miles form here," answered the Cossack.
"And how did he get there?"
"We rode past the Chinese, our whole troop. We chased the Chinese and just kept going."
"Didn't you hear the muster call?" asked Orlov.
"We heard, Your Excellency. And Lieutenant Grotten -- that's our regular commander -- he told Bulatovich we should go back, told him several times. But Bulatovich just kept going.
"Yes, Your Excellency. We were drunk with excitement. When Bulatovich said, 'I intend to pursue the enemy,' we didn't stop to think.
"It's hard to say why, Your Excellency. You see, we were nearly dead -- I thought I was, anyway -- and this old Cossack went running up bare-handed and grabbed the enemy flag. I've never felt anything like it, sir, like coming back from death it was. Luck like I'd never seen before, like nothing could touch us. It was like they say about the Boxers, that they get all worked up and get to thinking that nothing can touch them and they can do anything. We felt like that. I felt like that. We all felt that way together."
"You actually believed that?"
"It was in the muscles, not the head. We had this strength we'd never felt before. It had come back to us as we came back from near dead; it was there in our muscles ready to do something. And Bulatovich showed us what. He pointed his saber at the enemy -- it was like a lightning rod, sir, and the lightning was in us. Only Grotten held back, God rest his soul. It's not for me to think ill of the man." He crossed himself, and Orlov automatically followed suit.
"Is he dead?"
After a hurried drink, the Cossack continued. "Wounded, yes. I saw him fall with his horse. By now, yes, probably dead. They're all probably dead. We all followed Bulatovich, even Grotten couldn't hold back for long, orders or no orders -- the pull was too strong.
"It was soon dark. We followed the railbed. Moonlight reflected off the rails. There was something magical about it, about us being there in the dark and the enemy all around us unseen. All we could see were the tracks and our own shadows, cast by the moonlight, riding huge ahead of us.
"The darkness was part of it, sir. And the death we had seen that day. We were beyond fear, sir, if you know what I mean. Anything was possible.
"Time and again, we heard screams, then frantic running and riding. Bands of Chinese had seen us, riding high by the railbed, the moon behind us. We couldn't see them, but they could see us, and they ran like from the Devil himself.
"We saw campfires, hundreds of them, up ahead to the left. It must have been their main bivouac.
"Bulatovich didn't pause a moment. He pointed his saber and we all followed, right into the midst of their bivouac.
"It was madness, Your Excellency. We must have all been mad. There must have been thousands of them, and there were only about twenty of us. I must admit, sir, that I felt strange riding toward those campfires -- like I was a god or something or was being led by a god.
"Lord, forgive me for such thoughts," he added quickly and crossed himself.
"We galloped through, slashing lift and right with our sabers, cutting down tents and people, whatever came in our path."
"How many men did you lose?" interrupted Orlov, anxiously.
"Not a one, not there, sir. No one fired a shot at us. They were shocked, sir. They screamed and ran. They're probably still running. And we rode right through to the other side and kept riding."
Where were you going?"
"We followed the track, sir, to the next station."
"The next station?"
"Yes, Your Excellency, Urdingi Station, some twenty miles from here. That's when the shooting started, when Grotten and one or two of the others got hit. We stopped to water our horses at Urdingi Station, and a bunch of them, no telling how many in the dark, maybe they'd followed us all the way from the bivouac, they surrounded us there at the station house and opened fire. That's when Bulatovich sent me wit the message."
"Message?" asked Orlov.
"Yes, Your Excellency, this message."
Orlov quickly grabbed and unfolded the dusty leather packet, took out a little scrap of brown paper, and read aloud, "Surrounded by the enemy. Out of ammunition. Horses exhausted."
"Good God!" exclaimed Orlov. Then he turned to Volzhaninov. "Ivan Semyonovich, saddle all the remaining squadrons of the cavalry regiment. Send them to rescue Bulatovich. This Cossack will guide you. And see to it that his cut gets bandaged. without him, Bulatovich and the rest are lost -- if they're still alive even now. What did you say your name is?"
"Shemelin, Your Excellency," the Cossack replied. "Yakov -- I mean Ivan -- Shemelin."
By order of Colonel Kupferman, no liquor was allowed in the cavalry regiment. And Strakhov strongly approved of this policy. Sobriety was necessary for discipline. But tonight Strakhov himself needed a drink.
At the fringes of the Russian bivouac, among the railway guards, Staff-Captain Bodisko was holding a party and all officers were welcome. Bodisko had personally captured an enemy flag, and his close friend Dr. Volf was providing the refreshments for the celebration. Volf was renowned for traveling with just one change of clothes to leave room in his trunk for cases of champagne.
The celebration lasted long into the night. Everyone, even Letsky the telegrapher and Zemchuzhikov, a civilian construction engineer, had participated in the battle. And everyone but Strakhov had a tale he wanted to tell.
Dr. Volf himself arrived late. "I had a little business to take care of," he apologized.
"What was the score?" asked Bodisko, passing him a bottle of his own champagne.
"About ten dead and eighteen wounded."
"I told you so," said Bodisko, nudging Strakhov. "Those Chinese couldn't shoot worth a damn. They must have outnumbered us three or four to one. And that's all they could do." Bodisko laughed loudly, the nervous laugh of someone who has narrowly escaped danger, and the others joined in.
Strakhov tried to laugh along, but his laugh sounded hollow. Maybe it was the champagne; maybe it was his stomach; but he failed to see the humor in the deaths of ten Russians.
When the laughter subsided, Volf added, "Before the night's out that number may well double or triple."
"What do you mean?" asked Bodisko.
"Bulatovich. That Guards officer from Petersburg who keeps to himself. Word is that he's still out there somewhere behind enemy lines with about twenty men."
"Trying to win the war by himself?" laughed Bodisko.
"Well, if that's what he's up to, he's not doing much of a job of it," commented Volf. "The general just sent most of the regiment out after him."
"The man's a fool," thought Strakhov. "He'll get the whole regiment killed. Imagine riding through the midst of the enemy in the middle of the night."
*****
"Staff-Rotmister Bulatovich reporting, Your Excellency."
Orlov rubbed his eyes. It was dawn. He had just dozed off, or so it seemed. He wasn't sure whether he was asleep now or awake. He gripped the arms of his chair, pulled himself forward. "Is that really you?" He stood up, reached out, touched, then clasped the returning officer, even more warmly than when he had first met him just ten days before. "But so fast... it couldn't have been more than two hours ago..."
"They met us on the road not five miles from here."
"You gave us quite a scare," laughed Orlov, with relief. "What a message -- 'Surrounded, out of ammunition, send help.' And here you are -- safe and sound."
"But Your Excellency," replied Bulatovich, smiling with the corners of his mouth an struggling to hold back signs of exhaustion, "I didn't ask for help. I just reported on the situation. Everything was under control."
"That's not the way the message sounded."
"Well, next time I'll write, 'Surrounded. Out of ammunition. Nothing to worry about.'"
The story soon spread throughout the camp. Bodisko's tent shook with the laughter of drunken officers.
"To Bulatovich!" proposed Bodisko.
"To Bulatovich!' the tent resounded.
"No man's that brave," thought Strakhov, "not without cause. He must be bucking for rank. But it's got to be more than that. What's he trying to prove."
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