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 to eyes unaccustomed to Mongolian ways, it was unique -- like a honeycomb or one huge house divided into many cells, made up of small houses with yards enclosed by rectangular walls. The straight rectangular clay walls that defined the city limits served as walls for the houses next to it, and the halls that defined yards were all interlined. The rectilinear streets reinforced the overall pattern.
Somehow the city and the scattering of buildings around it blended harmoniously with the sloping fields in the wide green valley and the twisting bed of the Emingol River. Every tree, every bush, every outcropping of rocks seemed to play its part in creating the overall effect of balance and harmony.
Bulatovich carefully scanning the city with his binoculars. Butorin, who knew the territory and spoke the Mongolian language, stood beside him. a hundred Russian cavalry were waiting behind them at the base of this sandy hill, expected to be called into action at any moment.
Bulatovich had never expected to get this far without a skirmish. Orlov had given him half a squadron and asked him to observe the enemy and note their position. Orlov had said that some twenty thousand Chinese troops and reservists were stationed at Hailar, they the terrain lent itself to defense, that reinforcements would probably be sent here from deeper in Manchuria, that this would be the site of the most important battle of the campaign.
Everything was still uncertain. Phone and telegraph lines were down. They had no idea if the Europeans at the legations in Peking had been slaughtered or saved. They had no idea how other Russian armies were faring elsewhere in Manchuria. For all they knew, the whole war might depend on the expected confrontation at Hailar.
They had left Ongun two days after the battle there. Bulatovich had volunteered. He had gotten caught up in the excitement of battle. He had delighted in the enthusiasm and admiration of the men in his command. He wanted more. He needed more. He couldn't face the letdown that would come with inactivity. He had asked Orlov to let him scout ahead immediately with the same troop he had commanded before -- men he felt he knew and could trust. Kupferman had looked too shocked to say a word. Strakhov had objected on the ground that surely Bulatovich and his men needed more rest -- it was only natural; they had only had one full night's sleep after their all-night "excursion." But Orlov was delighted at this show of enthusiasm. He gave Bulatovich the men he wanted, plus about eight more.
They rode all day, following the railway, pausing to water their horses at Urdingi, then on to Hailar. Forty miles, and no sign of the enemy, no sign of anyone at all.
These Chinese were a mystery to Bulatovich. At Ongun they had amassed a sizable, apparently well-armed army. Orlov had shown bad judgment. Over-anxious and perhaps overconfident, he had marched ahead with only half the infantry while the other half and the cavalry were still getting organized back at Abagaitui. And he had sent the troops who knew this territory best, the railway guards under Captain Smolyannikov, by a different route. If the Chinese had attacked right away, they would have had a tremendous advantage. Instead, they had waited; the Russian cavalry had arrived; and Orlov had taken the initiative. It was as if the Chinese didn't intend to fight at all, as if they only wanted to put on a show, to shadow box, to intimidate from a distance, to watch and wait, perhaps to harass, until the enemy got tired and went away.
Orlov had said that the Mongolians and the Trans-Baikal Cossacks looked very much alike. But Bulatovich hardly noticed the faces of the enemy. He saw instead the long pigtail on each of them. Butorin explained that it was a sign of submission to the Manchu dynasty, that all men in China wore it. Submission -- that was what Bulatovich could not understand: passivity and submission.
After Urdingi the desert gradually gave way to cultivated fields and an occasional squat mud house that seemed like a natural feature of the landscape. The people and the livestock were gone.
A few miles away form Hailar, they had spotted what looked like a town: a cluster of small, well-kept clay buildings with their rectangular walled-in yards and ornate gates.
"Nobody lives there," offered Butorin. "Nobody living, at least. Those are tombs. The Mongolians -- all the Chinese, for that matter -- are very particular about their dead. As much or more so than about their living. I wouldn't go poking about those tombs, sir, not without good reason. Event the loot that's probably there wouldn't be reason enough. Disturb those graves and these people will never rest till they tear you limb from limb, if the ghosts don't get you first."
The men had laughed a little nervously at the notion of ghosts. While they considered the Chinese as overly superstitious, they were not above having similar fears themselves.
Now Bulatovich and Butorin were on one of several sandy hilltops overlooking Hailar. Off to the south was a green hill topped with a carefully cultivated grove. To the north was another such hill with a grove. Still farther north they could see a mountain and, with binoculars, a huge stone statue of Buddha near its summit.
Bulatovich spotted some smoke several miles south of Hailar. He focused on it and saw the onion-shaped cupola of a Russian church and a handful of large wooden houses, with crude mud huts strewn haphazardly in between.
"What's that over there?" he asked, passing the binoculars to Butorin.
"The railway station and the Russian town, headquarters for construction in this area. Chinese laborers brought in from other parts of Manchuria live in those huts. When they got the chance, they probably looted their masters' houses, set a few fires, and took off."
"What's the station doing so far from the city?"
"It's the dead again, sir. They have a thing about the dead. They were afraid that the railway would disturb the spirits of their ancestors. They didn't care about the racket of the trains for themselves, that much. But they had to make sure it wouldn't disturb the sleep of the dead. they set up all kinds of experiments with sound. I think they figured about three miles was a safe distance, so the tracks had to be at least that far from any gravesite. The dead are part of the landscape, like rivers and rocks, only more important. If there were grave around, our engineers couldn't just draw straight lines across the plans. The railway had to twist and turn to avoid the dead."
Bulatovich took the binoculars and scanned the steep slopes on the far side of the rive, the quiet, seemingly empty Mongolian city. "You've been her before. You've lived among these people. What do you make of it?" he asked.
"They've gone. That's all. The city's ours."
"But why?"
"I don't' know, sir. I've never seen anything like this before. But I do know that the Chinese would rather wait than fight, unless you get them really riled up like these Boxers. Then again, it's probably superstition of some kind. There's always a spirit of this or a spirit of that they don't want to disturb; and good days and bad days. Looks like they figured this was really a bad day for them, which means it's a good day for us. If I've learned anything from the Chinese, it's don't argue with luck, sir."
"We'll soon find out," replied Bulatovich, signaling the others to join them on top of the hill. "Shemelin," he shouted, "take a few men and check out the city. Any trouble, we'll hear the shooting. Butorin, check the railway settlement. Sofronov, go with Butorin; find the Russian church. There could be Christians hiding there, Chinese Christian converts who could tell us what happened here. Laperdin, the arsenal, the prison. See if they left any munitions or prisoners. Login, take a few men up that mountain off to the left, the one with the Buddha. This could be a trap. You should be able to see for fifty miles or more from up there. Use my binoculars. Watch especially to the north, beyond the Hailar River. Any sign of life -- a cloud of dust, a wisp of smoke -- signal with three shots. Stay there until I send relief."
"And me, sir?" asked Starodubov. "What would you have me do, sir?"
"You and the others will dig trenches."
"Trenches, sir?"
"Yes, trenches. Fill your canteens at the well in that grove over there. Water your horses. And start digging. The trenches needn't be pretty -- just deep enough to give us some cover in case of attack."
"But sir, the city is empty. There's nothing here but plunder, just waiting to be taken."
"Dig."
Bulatovich already trusted some of these men he had known for just a couple days. Login -- who at the funeral had been so quick to know what must be done and so quick to do it. Shemelin -- who had served well as a messenger. Starodubov -- Old Blockhead, the thief, who had turned out to be an inspiration in the midst of battle.
On the road to Hailar, Starodubov had called him "Mazeppa." It reminded him of his days back at the regiment when the enlisted men in the training detachment he commanded had called him that. Like most nicknames it was probably a combination of mockery and respect.
"You don't mind my calling you Mazeppa?" Starodubov had asked. "We were talking around the campfire last night -- the men from Grotten's old troop -- and I told them your name. You frightened them. They didn't know what to make of you. Now they can say, 'That's Mazeppa.' I hope you don't mind, sir."
Bulatovich had shrugged, preoccupied with the task at hand, the ride to Hailar, the absence of any sign of the enemy.
"You can't stop men from naming, sir. It's part of our nature. Adam named the beasts of the field and the birds of the air, and we've been naming ever since. If a name fits, many men use it. If not, it's forgotten. The name that fits is a true name. It tells something about the man who wears it, and it will stay with him no matter what he may wish or say or do -- unless he makes himself into a new man.
"Take Shemelin, sir. The "Jew,' I called him last night around the campfire. We were drinking. I was naming names. Login I called the 'Old Man' because he sounded like one -- serious beyond his years. And Sofronov -- the 'Priest,' because he's pompous like a priest even when he doesn't mean to be. Trofim would like the name of 'Priest,' judging from the way he prays so loudly and makes such a show of crossing himself. But I called him "Father' instead -- Trofim, the father of many sons. He has no wife and no children now, but he will. You can sense it in him. Because what a man wants to be isn't the same as what he is."
"But people change," Bulatovich overreacted to that remark. "You don't just have to accept your lot in life. You said so yourself -- you can make yourself into a new man."
"I don't know, sir, not being educated. But it seems that even that's in a man from the beginning. You're either born with the spirit and the will to change yourself or you're not. Trofim just doesn't have it in him, sir."
"Fatalism. That comes from living too near the Chinese."
"I don't know what that word means, sir, but what I say is plain old peasant sense. You are what you are. You don't grow a birch from an acorn."
"But what about Shemelin? You were going to tell me about him. I know he's a fine horseman. What more can you say about him?"
"Shemelin's a strange case, sir. Everyone says he's generous to a fault. He keeps nothing for himself, always giving to friends. Yakov's his name, but he wants to be called 'Ivan.' I called him 'Jew' as a joke, but he got angry at me for it and started shouting. 'I am not a Jew!' Then later when he was even more drunk, he stood up on a rock, dropped his pants, and shouted, 'You see! I am not a Jew. I am not circumcised. I am not a Jew!'
"That wasn't a name I had thought much about. But it worked the best of all the names I made last night. For sure, none of the Mazeppy will forget it."
"Mazeppy?" Bulatovich asked.
"That's what I call us -- the men who follow Mazeppa."
Shortly after that conversation, they had stopped at Urdingi to water their horses and relieve their own one-hundred-degree thirst. Butorin playfully doused Shemelin by the bucketful and shouted, "Hey, Jew!" Shemelin took off after him, the tow of them weaving their horses in and out among the rest of the squadron, amid loud peals of laughter. Then Bulatovich grabbed Shemelin's reigns and brought the game to an abrupt stop.
When things had calmed down, he asked, "Why do they call you 'Jew'?"
"I do not understand, sir," replied Shemelin, sincerely confused. "My father was Ivan, son of Pyotr. His father was Pyotr, son of Ivan. And so it was in our family as long as anyone can remember. The eldest was Ivan or Pyotr. But my parents called me 'Yakov.'
"No one in your village was Yakov. My young brothers they named Pyotr and Ivan. But me, my insisted that I be 'Yakov.'
"I asked my mother, 'Why Yakov?'
"'I wanted a son,' she said. 'I prayed for a son. And I had a dream that if you were a son, your name should be Yakov.'
"So Yakov I am. What can a man do against dreams?
"To the other children of the village it was just a name, a good Bible name. Odd, but not too strange.
"Then one day I fought with a boy, an 'Ivan' he was. We both liked the same girl. We argued. We wrestled. We insulted. He called me 'Jewish bastard,' and I hit him hard like I never hit anyone before. He remembered, remembered well, and others called me 'Jew,' 'Yakov the Jew.' It hurt, and they saw that it hurt.
"And here, too. They do not know me, but here, too, they call me 'Jew.' Why, I do not understand.
"Sometimes I wonder, do they sense what I do not know? Am I really Jew, Jewish bastard?"
Bulatovich laughed, "So you need a father. Starodubov needs a son. We all have needs, thank God. Where would we be without our needs to pull us on? Ah, Yakov, you should be proud of that name. Men will remember you for it."
"I'd rather be forgotten, thank you."
"Bulatovich mused, "And so many men risk their lives for their names to be remembered. How foolish, when all they have to do is change their name to 'Yakov.'"
"But it is not easy to change a name. That is my trouble. A name sticks to a man. It is like a shadow. And as much as I try, I cannot make my shadow change shape."
"If you change, your shadow will change with you."
"But how can I change, sir? How can I become Ivan?"
Bulatovich laughed again, then quickly sobered, seeing that Shemelin was quite sincere in his confusion. "Why don't you read?"
"Read what, sir?"
"I don't know. Read anything. Improve you mind. Make yourself an educated man. Take charge of your destiny." At that, Bulatovich shook his head and spurred his horse. Here he was in the middle of a wasteland in China, lecturing some Cossack on the merits of education. As if his words could have any effect on this man.
Sofronov was the first scout to return. A Chinese girl was sitting behind him riding astride, not bothering to hold on, arms akimbo.
"Found her in the basement of the church, sir," he reported, "behind a heap of bodies."
About seventeen or eighteen, the Chinese girl was very ttractive, spoke perfect Russian. She said her name was "Sonya." There was something about the way she looked at Bulatovich and he looked back that made him uncomfortable. From a distance, with her complexion, her slanted eyes, her straight black hair, she looked very Chinese. UP close, it was hard to pay attention to anything but her lively dark eyes and the musical, alto, rapid, but never breathless rhythm of her voice.
The name evoked painful memories for Bulatovich. She was an inch shorter than Bulatovich and had a beauty that seemed to require no effort and no adornment. As he realized he was staring at her, he noticed that her pupils were slightly out of line with one another. His own eyes automatically danced back and forth trying to line up with them and were quickly caught in her spell. He forced himself to turn and walk away.
He would have preferred not to talk to her, not to think of her. She hadn't eaten much of anything for three days. He had Sofronov get some food for her, while he inspected the trenches. Then he couldn't in good conscience delay any longer. None of the other scouts had signaled. Apparently the city actually was deserted. And this young, too-attractive girl might have some clue as to what had happened.
By the time Bulatovich approached her again, she was already talking to Starodubov, who as asking, "Sonya? How did you get a name like that?"
"That's the name the priest gave me. Father Ioann." The words poured out as if she desperately needed to talk. "They say that when I was a newborn baby my real father was about to bash my brains against a rock, when Father Ioann stopped him and took me away. You shouldn't blame my real father. I don't. It happens all the time. Girl babies are considered just a trouble and a bother if there's already a son in the house. They must have a son. It's a great sin against filial piety not to have a son to continue the line and do honor to the ancestors. But an extra daughter is just an extra mouth to feed. It's a disagreeable task, I'm sure, killing babies, and they don't much like doing it. But many do what they feel they must do. Most smother them. Father's more a breaker and a smasher, a blacksmith by trade, near the main intersection in town, at least he was before everyone left."
"You know this man, your father?" asked Starodubov in disbelief.
"Yes, he's a fine man at heart. I have hopes that one day he will convert. Father Ioann thought so, too, God rest his soul." Seeing the pained expression on Starodubov's face, she rushed on. "You must understand that they believe death is not death. It's just starting over again in another form, or so they say. An extra girl is a mistake, so why should you suffer and she suffer? Just erase the mistake as soon as possible and free the soul to start over again somewhere else, perhaps as a man. It's hard for a Christian to understand, I know, but they consider it a kindness and one that is difficult to do, just as it is difficult to accept one's own death no matter what one believes. They love their children as much as anyone else does and a mother sometimes goes frantic when her husband kills their newborn. But many husbands consider it their painful duty.
"You see, they think of death and life as two parts of one whole -- yin and yang. You don't have one opposite without the other. Death is quite natural, really," she rambled.
"It's not that foreign an idea. You believe in Christ and the Resurrection and the Life Everlasting. They believe in lots of resurrections, over and over again, until the soul finally reaches perfection and can be freed from earth. When you think about it, it's not that hard to convert the Chinese. The morality of Confucius is similar to the morality of Jesus. All you have to do is convince them that they need to be resurrected only once. They're glad to hear that.
"Of course, not all Christians believe what they say they believe. I know that from my reading," she added proudly. "Father Ioann had a fine library. Religious works, but literature, too -- Pushkin, Gogol, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy. I think of that story 'Three Deaths' by Tolstoy, where the rich lady, who says she is a Christian, can't accept the fact of her own death, but the peasant, who is more pagan than Christian, and the tree, which, of course, can't think at all, simply die, like they lived, like a part of nature. The way that peasant dies strikes me as particularly Chinese.
"When I think of all those people dying," tears started to appear in her eyes, "my friends, Chinese and Christian, Father Ioann. It's so hard to die well, no matter what you believe and how hard you want to believe it." She started shaking. "All the blood... the blood was cold when I woke up...." She squatted there on the sand and stared at her hands.
Sofronov offered in a soft solicitous voice, "I wouldn't trouble her further, sir. She was hiding in that basement with those bodies for three days, with nothing to eat and drink but wafers and wine, and not much of that. She doesn't have much notion of what went on outside."
Soon Laperdin reported back. The arsenal was empty. The prison was empty.
Butorin returned to say he had found large stores of grain and food in the railway settlement. A row of Russian houses and a large supply of oats had been burned. The remaining Russian houses had been looted and vandalized. But strangely, the other storehouses were intact and full.
Shemelin didn't return right away, but he sent back the men who were with him to say that the city was quiet.
There had been no signal from Login on the mountain.
So Bulatovich sent a messenger back to Orlov with news that the city had been taken without a shot. Then Bulatovich had his men move their bivouac to the shady shelter of the half-constructed railway station and set up listening posts around the periphery as a precaution. He had the girl taken to a nearby house and posted guards for her protection. With the exception of the Mazeppy, these hundred men were new to him. He didn't know them very well, but they were men and had gone too long without women.
While others celebrated the "conquest" of Hailar, Butorin took other precautionary measures. He spread grains of rice in a circle around the bivouac. "When the Chinese get luck like this, they become a bit uneasy about it. Rather than celebrate and call attention to their good fortune, they spread rice at the city gates as a sacrifice, lest the spirits turn on them with a balancing portion of bad luck."
It was nightfall by the time Shemelin found his way to the new bivouac, walking, leading his horse; a large box was tied to the saddle. Everyone gathered around him, staring at the box. They had all assumed that rich plunder was ready for the taking in the abandoned dwellings of Hailar. But no one, not even Starodubov or Butorin, had dared disobey Bulatovich's orders and go looting. And here Shemelin had the audacity to dawdle about the city all day, making them all worry and wonder what had become of him; then, to come straggling back with a box of plunder.
"Yakov," said Bulatovich, softly but firmly.
Shemelin cringed, "Yes, sir?"
"What do you have in that box?"
"I only took Russian goods, sir; things that had been stolen from Russians."
"I never expected you of all people to go looting. And here you've brought back more than you can ever hope to take away with you. Butorin, untie that box. Lift it down from his horse. What does he have there?"
Shemelin shrank with same and put up no resistance.
"Books?" grunted Butorin in disbelief. "It's nothing but books, sir." He tossed them aside one by one.
"Do you like books, Yakov?" asked Bulatovich.
"Yes, sir," replied Shemelin, shamefacedly gathering up and brushing off the books as Butorin tossed them aside.
"And what do you intend to do with these books?"
"I'll read them, sir. Like you said, sir."
"And can you really read?" asked Bulatovich.
"Yes, sir. Often I have read the Bible, and the Almanac too. The Almanac of 1896."
"Yes," Bulatovich grinned indulgently, "the year of the coronation of Tsar Nicholas -- a good year."
Starodubov picked up a few books and carefully brushed off the bindings, apparently admiring the handiwork. Pyotr, too, picked up a book and stared at it with the wonder of an illiterate.
"They're in Russian, sir," explained Shemelin. "Fine books. Fine bindings, sir. It was like a gift from heaven. I wanted to read, to learn, like you said, sir. And there they were -- books and more books. I guess I lost my heard, sir."
Bulatovich looked at a few titles, all by Tolstoy. He was familiar with them, had enjoyed reading them, surreptitiously, when he should have been doing his schoolwork. But holding them in his hands now, he felt a physical repulsion. Maybe it had something to do with what that Chinese Sonya had said about Tolstoy and death. He threw them down in disgust. "Heretics and fiction writers. They'll weigh down your horse and weigh down your mind. There's no room for foolishness like that in a soldier's saddlebag. All you need are facts and more facts."
"Not all books are evil, sir," offered Sofronov meekly, with bowed shoulders. "Here are the thoughts and meditations of Ioann Sergiev of the Kronstadt Cathedral."
"Worthy, perhaps," conceded Bulatovich, amused by Sofronov's self-demeaning posture and by this evidence of his erudition. He took the book in his hand, hefted it, then tossed it aside, "Heavy, far too heavy."
"Then here's a slim volume packed with wisdom and holiness. It's about a true Russian hero, a podvishnik, a selfless pilgrim suffering for Christ and striving to know Him."
"And what's his name?"
"He has no name, sir."
"A hero without a name?"
"The author of the book is the hero of the book. No one knows who he was, nor does it matter. That we don't know his name is but a sign of his selfless devotion to Christ."
Bulatovich didn't know how to reply to that. The concept seemed both foreign and familiar, something his mother might have heard and repeated without believing. He took the book and looked at it quickly. The title was The Way of the Pilgrim. Impulsively, he tossed it to Shemelin. "Take that one, Yakov, and be glad of it. We'll have no more looting -- understand?"
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir, yes, sir," jabbered Shemelin, anxiously grabbing the little book and slipping it inside his
shirt.
When the commotion died down, Pyotr quietly put aside a few small volumes for himself. Maybe one day he would learn to read, and these would be valuable to him. Books were hard to come by in Trans-Baikal. Login could advise him, when Login came down from the mountain. Login knew so many things.
Bulatovich's request had fit in well with Orlov's plans. Someone had to scout ahead, and Bulatovich already knew the terrain as far as Urdingi. The cavalry regiment would rest for another day, then proceed to Urdingi, where they would wait for word from Bulatovich on the enemy position.
Orlov had left two reserve battalions under Colonel Vorobyev in Abagaitui. He now ordered them to advance at once with a large transport of provisions. Orlov himself, with the main body of troops, would follow the cavalry at a leisurely pace, giving the reinforcements time to catch up. He wanted his army at full strength for the upcoming battle for the city of Hailar.
That evening, August 1, at supper back at Ongun, Bodisko's railway guards were singing to the officers -- a medley of hymns, military songs, and bawdy ballads -- when a messenger, out of breath, exhausted, interrupted the proceedings.
The crowd fell silent. Without a word's being said, everyone knew he must be from Bulatovich.
Orlov hurried forward and with good-natured concern quickly took and opened the dispatch.
"Good God!" whispered Kupferman, loudly and bitterly. "What mess has he gotten into this time?"
Strakhov pressed forward anxiously, trying to see for himself as the commander strained and squinted by the candlelight to decipher the hurried scrawl.
Then Orlov's bushy brows leaped high in amazement. "Bulatovich is in Hailar. The Chinese -- soldier and civilian alike -- have abandoned the city. The supplies are intact. Hailar has been taken without a shot!"
Strakhov did not join in the cheers and applause that followed. He didn't know if what he felt was intuition or simply envy. Something was wrong. He told himself, "I hope to God I'm not near him when his luck finally turns. Lord only knows what hell could break loose."
At dawn Bulatovich heard three rapid shots from the mountain. Sentries came galloping back from their listening posts.
The Chinese had returned. They were swarming, on foot and horseback, from the north, east, and west toward the railway settlement. The Russians quickly mounted and instinctively started off toward the south before the Chinese could plug that last route of escape.
"Halt!" shouted Bulatovich, shooting the horse out from under the lead Russian rider. Bewildered, they halted immediately. "To the hill! We'll hold out there and wait for reinforcements."
He galloped northwest toward the sandy hill where they had dug trenches. But no one followed him.
He turned. His horse reared high. Then he drew his saber and charged, alone, against the several dozens of Chinese foot soldiers who stood directly between him and the hill.
There was a moment's hesitation. Then Starodubov grabbed hold of Chinese Sonya, lifted her onto his saddle, and shouted, "Mazeppa!" The station sheds shook with his voice. Off he rode, awkwardly as ever, because of his size and the extra weight of the girl, but with determination, spurring his poor horse to a frenzy in pursuit of Bulatovich. Next followed Shemelin, then young Pyotr Zabelin with a loud, "Urah!" then the rest. Not a one of them rode to safety in the south.
Somehow they all reached the entrenchments, surprising the Chinese with their audacity and riding past them without a scratch.
But Butorin, who had been on sentry duty, hadn't returned from his listening post, and Login Zabelin and the two scouts who had gone with him to the mountain were now cut off completely by the Chinese army.
As the Chinese closed in around the sandy hilltop and the barrage became intense, Bulatovich sent Shemelin through enemy lines with a new message for Orlov: "Chinese returned. Surrounded. This time we're in trouble."
Quickly, Shemelin picked two horses and tied them loosely by their reigns to either side of his own horse -- No Name, he called him now, after the hero of that book he hadn't read yet, and because he hadn't given his horse a name before.
He lengthened the left stirrup of No Name and mounted, keeping most of his weight on that stirrup, pressing his body flush against the horse's left side. At his request, half a dozen riders started out with him, guiding his three horses and riding due west.
When the Chinese spotted them, the Russians broke into a gallop and, at a shout from Shemelin, scattered, momentarily distracting the Chinese. A hundred yards later, first one, then the other riderless horse broke its loose bonds and ran off at random, creating a further diversion. Shemelin just held tight, not daring to look around fro fear he would attract attention.
He heard cannon to the left, cannon -- no, thunder -- to the right. No Name panicked, nearly threw him, and raced wildly, leaving the road, veering north.
Heavy, driving rain turned the dusty ground to mud and slowed the horse so Shemelin, swinging up and into the saddle, could regain control.
They were near the Mongolian graveyard. Shemelin dismounted, took off his shirt, and used it to shield his horse's eyes from the flash of lightning. He then guided the horse inside the walled garden of one of those house-like tombs. As quickly as it had started, the rain stopped. the distant rumble of thunder was soon replaced by the sound of approaching horses.
He hadn't lost them -- they were still after him. He whispered to No Name, "Quiet, boy. Quiet. I'll treat you like a king when you get back. The finest oats around. And sugar -- fat lumps of sugar. Just quiet, boy. Still and quiet. Or we'll never get there."
It was hard to tell if the horses were really getting closer or if his hearing was becoming more acute as his fear mounted.
Then it was quiet -- the stillness of a grave.
Shemelin shivered, remembering he was standing in a graveyard and remembering what Butorin had said about ghosts. Images of the recent funeral -- the man with the smashed brains, Aksyonov's face with its agonized grimace. Involuntarily, he touched the wound above his left eye. The bandage had fallen off and the scab was gone, too. It was bleeding again.
He wanted to pray but, standing in this ancestral shrine, he didn't really know who his ancestors were. Should he pray to the Christian God or to the God of Abraham and Isaac? If he prayed to the wrong one, if he were wrong about his ancestors, would the other God, the right one, be offended and punish him?
The little book -- the one Bulatovich had let him have -- was still inside his shirt. It was a holy book. He held it in his hand.
He wished he knew some incantation to ward off ghosts. He wished at least he had some rice in his pocket to do like Butorin and spread it in a circle around himself.
He kneeled and repeated the Lord's Prayer over and over. Frightened, superstitious, reverent, he blanked out everything from his mind but the prayer.
By the time he became aware of his surroundings again, both his legs were numb. He shook them and slapped them to start the blood flowing again. He stood up shakily. He had no idea how much time had passed.
It was still quiet. No sign of the Chinese.
He hurriedly led No Name out of the garden, accidentally overturning and breaking a delicate vase. He crossed himself quickly, trembling, then mounted his horse awkwardly, the lengthened left stirrup taking him by surprise. No Name reared and nearly threw him. Shemelin yanked at the reins and whipped him viciously with his nagaika, more to punish than to control -- angry at the horse for his own distracted mistakes.
After a few moments, both rider and horse settled down. Instinctively, Shemelin sought a shortcut across the rough wasteland, away form the main road, that would get him to Urdingi quickly and make up for lost time. The horse galloped, stumbled, galloped, lost a shoe, and hobbled on as best it could. All the while, Shemelin could think only of Bulatovich, the Mazeppy, and the others; their lives were in danger and his dallying had placed them in still greater danger. He had to make up for it.
The evening of that day, August 2, 1900, Orlov was at Urdingi with the main body of troops, fighting off swarms of gnats with smoke pots, then choking on the heavy smoke. The troops and their horses had used up the little fresh water that had been there. The bread was stale. Colonel Vorobyev and the supplies from Abagaitui were at least two days behind them. Hailar with its vast supplies was still two days of marching ahead. By day they sweltered in the one-hundred-degree sun. At night the temperature dropped to fifty degrees, they huddled close to campfires to keep warm.
There were the usual dysentery and fleas to contend with.
Dr. Stankevich had just reported a severe case of typhus, and Orlov was contemplating what measures he should take if that deadly disease should start spreading. Then Shemelin arrived with the second message from Bulatovich.
"Ivan Semyonovich," Orlov ordered his friend and Chief of Staff Volzhaninov, "load the carts with as many men as will fit. We leave for Hailar within the hour."
Based on the first message from Bulatovich -- that Hailar had been taken without a shot -- Orlov had sent Strakhov ahead with most of the cavalry. If Shemelin had taken the main road to Urdingi, he could have met Strakhov halfway and quickly led him to the rescue of Bulatovich. As it was, Strakhov had no notion that there was danger ahead and any need for urgency. He would be proceeding at a walk, with his guard down.
Shemelin felt responsible for all the lives that were now in jeopardy. He kept muttering aloud to himself that everything would turn out for the best.
As for his horse, No Name was ruined and would have to be destroyed. But Shemelin was spared the pain of having to do it himself because he had to head back to Hailar, on a fresh mount, with Orlov and the main body of troops.
"You should be court-martialed!" yelled Strakhov, confronting Bulatovich on the sandy hilltop overlooking Hailar. "You had us riding into a trap." The sunset reflected off Bulatovich's glasses, concealing his eyes. "Abandoned city?" continued Strakhov, nervously running his fingers through his blond hair and leaving it in wild, uncharacteristic disarray. "Indeed. Is that what your reconnaissance told you? Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."
Rather than make excuses and apologies, as might have been expected, Bulatovich made no response at all. In the background, rifles were loaded and readied. They expected an attack at any moment.
"You could have at least sent a second messenger to give us some warning that the enemy had returned in force."
"I did, sir," replied Bulatovich, standing at attention, his face and beard pasted with a patchwork of sweaty dust.
"Well, I don't see how he could have missed us. There's only one road from here to Ongun."
"He's probably dead, sir."
Strakhov hadn't considered that possibility. He shivered, then grimaced in reaction to his shiver. The enemy might attack at any moment. He tried to prepare himself for battle. He must maintain control of his body this time; he must perform well; no, not just well -- heroically. If he must die (they were heavily outnumbered and surrounded), then he wanted to die heroically, he told himself. Should Orlov and the rest of the army come upon his corpse lying here on the battlefield, what would they think if his clothes were stinking of excrement? He looked hurriedly around, spotting hte ditch they had dug as a latrine. He must be sure to relieve himself before the battle began.
Turning again to Bulatovich, he gestured grandly, "You had just a hundred men against at least two thousand of the enemy. If you had had any military sense," he lectured, "you would have retreated while you had the opportunity. Then you would have met us on the road, and we'd all be safely out of here. But no, not the great Bulatovich, not the little hero with the dirty red cap. No, you had to make a stand on a barren hilltop..."
He was interrupted from behind. "Sergeant Folimonov reporting, sir. The cannon are ready. It's a beautiful position, sir. Couldn't ask for better. Whatever side they come from, we have a good angle. My complements to Staff-Rotmister Bulatovich..."
"Fine, Sergeant, fine," Strakhov cut him off. "Load grapeshot and stand by for further orders."
They had arrived a few hours before, but Strakhov still hadn't inspected the entrenchments and thoroughly assessed the situation. Was he being just? Was he making the right decisions? Strakhov was a deliberate man. He believed in careful planning. Under normal circumstances, his every move was premeditated. Now he couldn't tell if he was being rational or was just taking out his frustrations on Bulatovich.
Strakhov shook himself, kicked the sand. This was no time to think about niceties of motivation.
But he needed time. How could he act if he hadn't thought it all out in advance?
He had been caught off guard when that first message had arrived saying that Hailar had been taken. He had felt there was something wrong, almost diabolical, about the luck of this Bulatovich. strakhov was still puzzling over the problem and trying to find a rational basis for his feelings when Orlov ordered him to proceed at once to Hailar with a few hundred men, to prepare things for the arrival of the main body of troops a few days later.
All that night, riding through the moonlit wasteland, Strakhov had been distracted. Was it simply physical exhaustion? How else to explain this inability to sort out and understand his own motivations, this failure to plan and follow through with his plans, these doubts left over from his first, so embarrassing, combat experience. He must take better care of his body or it would betray him again in a crisis. Rational thinking was possible only if the body was sound.
Now, without thinking, forgetting for a moment the hundreds of soldiers dashing about and readying their weapons, the nervous neighing of the horses in the background, forgetting even Bulatovich, who was standing right in front of him, Strakhov took out a pocketknife and began cleaning his fingernails. His mother had always insisted that he keep his fingernails clean. His father talked only about the big things, the things that required planning -- what are you going to do with your life? His mother insisted on the details -- clean fingernails and polished buttons.
His father had wanted him to be a cabinetmaker. His father was the finest cabinetmaker for many miles around the city of Orenburg, near the Ural Mountains. His family had been cabinetmakers for three generations. Strakhov, as the only son, was expected to follow the family tradition.
Strakhov rebelled: he wanted to choose his destiny, not simply inherit. For long hours ;his father and he would argue at the dinner table over what he should do with his life. The arguments were heated, even bitter at times. But then his father, for all he had argued to the contrary, went to great lengths to ensure the boy success in his chosen career -- the military. He had bought his son's way into an exclusive military academy normally reserved for the gentry and had outfitted him in style.
Thinking back, strakhov had the uncomfortable feeling that those arguments had not been so straightforward. He suspected that his father, too, as a boy, had not wanted simply to follow in his father's footsteps but had not rebelled and somehow regretted it; and while playing devil's advocate, hoped all along that his son would have enough spirit to stand up for himself and strike out on his own path. it was rather disconcerting now for Strakhov to think that his great act of independence might well have been orchestrated by his father.
Ironically, Strakhov's success at his "chosen" profession probably had more to do with his mother than his father. it was his fastidious attention to details of dress -- forever, at odd moments, cleaning his fingernails, polishing his buttons, buffing his boots -- and it was the way he insisted on obedience from those in his command, his respect for his superiors, and his sensitivity for matters of protocol that endeared him to his instructors and superiors.
What was he to do now? What good were clean fingernails on a battlefield? He threw the pocketknife in the sand, then noticed Bulatovich, still standing there in front of him at attention. "Dismissed," he muttered, angry at himself.
How could he be so distracted at a time like this? It was as bad as this morning at dawn, when they were suddenly set upon by hundreds of Chinese. He had been careless, not sending scouts out as far ahead as he would have if he had expected danger. And yet he had sensed danger when that message had come syaing the city had been taken without a shot. He knew something must be wrong. It was just too easy. Everything Bulatovich did seemed too easy. It smell of luck, luck about to turn sour. He should have followed his instincts and been cautious. Instead, he had discounted his intuition as mere envy, had done nothing about it but brood, and had ambled right into a trap.
A soldier since his teens, this campaign was Strakhov's first opportunity to demonstrate his leadership in combat. There would soon be an opening in his home regiment for a lieutenant colonel. If he distinguished himself here, he stood an excellent chance for promotion when he returned. Because of the shortage of officers in the Hailar Detachment, he was already acting assistant commander of a cavalry regiment 899 sabers strong, a job that would normally be filled by a lieutenant colonel.
What had he done with this opportunity? First Ongun and then the near disaster of this morning. Thank God the Chinese had been poor shots. Despite his carelessness nearly all of his men had made it to this desolate hilltop with its patchwork of trenches that Bulatovich's men had dug.
And any moment now, the next crisis would come, the next test...
Bulatovich was still standing there. Hadn't he heard that he was dismissed/ or had Strakhov only thought hte command, forgotten to say it?
Horses whinnied wildly and pulled at their reins. Seconds later, gunfire and a deafening shout. The Chinese came swarming in from all sides. Instantly, Bulatovich dropped to the ground and crawled to the nearest trench. And while everyone's attention was focused on the enemy, Strakhov quickly scrambled to the latrine ditch and relieved himself.
The roar of gunfire became fierce. The enemy sprinted forward recklessly, firing without aiming as they ran. When the black robes and streaming pigtails were less than a hundred feet away, Strakhov stood in the midst of the encampment, his troops on their bellies in the trenches around him. He raised his sword and bellowed above the din, "Fire the cannon now! Now! I tell you, now!"
The Russian cannon range out, spraying grapeshot through the crowd of onrushing Chinese. With the third round, the Chinese turned in panic and ran back beyond the Emingol River, taking up positions on the high right bank. The timing had been perfect. The surprised Russian troops in the trenches, even Bulatovich, turned and looked up at their commander with newfound respect and appreciation.
For the main body of troops with Orlov the bumpy ride in the squeaky, two-wheeled, ox-pulled carts seemed interminable. Where the desert first became spotted with cultivated fields, they came upon a tall, slender Trans-Baikal Cossack with a long, rather foolish-looking face. he was afoot and on the point of collapse. "Butorin" he called himself, and Shemelin confirmed that he was one of Bulatovich's men, a sentry who hadn't returned from his listening post, who had been cut off by the sudden attack.
A few hours later they reached the hilltop, with its trenches and its cluster of tents, horses, ammunition boxes, cannon, and vehicles. In the distance, on the near bank of the Emingol, Russian sharpshooters were spread out in a long thin line -- their white shirts brightly reflecting the sun. Off to the right, large gray eagles circles round and round the grove and the temple.
Strakhov reported, "Six dead, four missing, Your Excellency. We've kept our casualties down, no thanks to the misinformation that brought us here, and no thanks to a certain Guards officer who decided to make a stand on this hilltop, when he could just as easily have withdrawn."
Orlov quickly noted Strakhov's biased tone, and reacted instinctively, coming to the defense of his protégé. "You seem to have the situation well under control, Major Strakhov. You should be commended for choosing such a fine position," he went on, as if he hadn't heard what Strakhov had just said. "These hills command the valley and the western approaches. You saved many Russian life by securing these hills."
Orlov soon spotted Bulatovich, recognizing him from a distance by his red service cap, and rushed up to him, embracing him and loudly congratulating him in front of his men.
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