Chapter XI: The Kronstadt Uprising

Kronstadt on the eve of mutiny--Influences encouraging
uprising--Make-up of the garrison--Wild rumors--A grand plan for
general army and navy uprising--A successful beginning--Silence--A
momentous telegram--A sudden
signal--Mutiny--Trapped!--Slaughter--Illuminating lessons of the
Kronstadt fiasco--The terrible cost in life and liberty.

The Kronstadt fiasco revealed the value to the government of the _agent provocateur_.[12] During the entire year 1906 there was no shrewder nor cleverer piece of work executed. It must be said at the same time, however, that the revolutionists themselves were somewhat to blame. They generally are. Some one is stupid, hesitating in the crisis, or recklessly premature, and the psychological moment is lost. This is the deepest tragedy of the revolution. There is always consolation in the wake of the inevitable, but when disasters are precipitated by unnecessary or preventable causes, by carelessness or inefficiency, there is only black regret. At the Kronstadt rising scores of lives were sacrificed, the careful preparatory work of months was undone, and the current of the revolution itself for the moment arrested.

When I attended a revolutionary meeting and listened to the singing of the _Marseillaise_ within the very walls of the fortress, there was large promise of a successful uprising when the time should come. This was the second week in June. Two days after my visit a committee of “sailors and soldiers of the St. Petersburg and Kronstadt garrisons” forwarded to the Group of Toil in the Duma a telegram of support and appeal, closing with the following sentence:

“Though you are in the Duma in the minority, still you must firmly remember that you express the will of the whole peasantry and laboring class; that is, all of the toilers of the land.

“But if on account of small numbers you are not able to carry through and realize all these reforms which are indispensable and which you are empowered by the people to obtain, then you must sound a call to the people and army, calling them to rise for the struggle.

“Your call will not be a voice in the desert, but, on the contrary, it will sound like thunder through the whole land and all as one will arise--all of the enslaved and oppressed--for the defense of their trampled rights, for land, and for freedom.”

Coming when they did these were foolish words. As subsequent events proved “all of the enslaved and oppressed” did not rise, nor were they in a position to rise at that time. The publication of this telegram did not advance the cause one iota, but it did put the government on guard. Kronstadt was doubly watched from that moment.

The Duma was dissolved just one month later, and three weeks after the dissolution Kronstadt tried to rise--a costly, futile effort.

In early June the garrison consisted of about twenty thousand sailors, four thousand heavy artillery, and two thousand infantry. In August the sailors and artillery numbered approximately the same, but more infantry had been brought down from Peterhof. This alone should have been a warning to the military organization, but the roster of the revolutionary sympathizers was apparently so long, the outlook so encouraging, that the force of the loyal men was hopelessly under-estimated. In this particular bad generalship was to blame.

The Sunday preceding the mutiny I visited Kronstadt. Near the center of the island is a summer garden in which a military band plays each Sunday afternoon. Ordinarily this garden is crowded with visitors. I found it as desolate as a cemetery. The band was there--playing manfully to deserted groves and empty benches. Here and there a soldier strolled with his sweetheart. But the absence of the usual gala throng was ominous. The streets, too, were still. Houses were closed. Veritably it was an evacuated city. Upon inquiry, I was told that a rumor had been circulated during the previous two or three days that all of Kronstadt had been mined, by the government, and a warning issued to the soldiers and sailors that if mutiny did break out the mines would be exploded, blowing sailors, soldiers, ships, and town into Kingdom Come. This sounded to me like a ridiculous fiction. And I still scout the idea. But the Russian people have learned by costly experiences that the wildest tales of the government often prove true in Russia. A panic had, therefore, possessed the town, and all of the townspeople who could had fled. Extraordinary as this report sounds, it would unquestionably have been a safer thing for the government to do than to allow Kronstadt to become a revolutionary stronghold. Wandering about the town I could discover no signs of an imminent uprising. I even failed to find any of my acquaintances among the military organization, which made me wonder a good deal. And indeed, as I learned later, at this time, four days before the actual outbreak, there was no thought of attempting the mutiny immediately, on the part of the revolutionary leaders. In reality it was planned for several weeks later, when the peasants would have gathered their scanty harvests and be ready to fight: when the railroad, postal and telegraph strikes were planned to come off simultaneously; then, as an adjunct to these national movements, the army and navy mutinies were to begin. The plan was an elaborate one and looked thrillingly good on paper, but as has happened before the _agent provocateur_ of the government had not been taken into account. Upon signal, Sveaborg, near Helsingfors, was to rise, then Reval in the Baltic provinces, then Sebastopol on the Black Sea, and finally Kronstadt. With these four important strongholds captured it would seem that the fight was won. The month of September, or possibly October, was the time selected to set in motion the attacks upon these centers--in conjunction with a general strike and multitudinous peasant uprisings--_jacquerie_--all over the empire.

A plan of this magnitude necessarily depended for execution upon a great many different people, and, despite all the care that was supposedly exercised, every detail was early reported to the government, with the result that the whole thing was not only forestalled, but precipitated, and at the moment when everything was most favorable to the government.

Violent reaction followed the dissolution of the Duma. The American mind can scarcely conceive of the degree of suppression employed by the Russian government. Nearly every liberal newspaper in St. Petersburg was immediately confiscated and many permanently suppressed. Not only radical journals, but moderate newspapers, like those edited by Professor Paul Miliukoff and Professor Kovalevsky, newspapers of dignity and spirit, untainted by commercial or ignoble motives, such as we in America cannot appreciate. Foreign newspapers,--from England, from France, from Germany,--were so rigidly censored that nothing about Russia worth reading escaped elimination. This aspect of the censorship was most farcical. The men who wrote the telegrams and articles remained in St. Petersburg. The things they wrote were lamp-blacked in every individual paper that entered the country. Personal correspondence was demoralized. The letters of private individuals were ruthlessly opened and frequently confiscated. And as for arrests, it seemed as if nine out of every ten men who had ever expressed a liberal opinion were marked for prison. It was estimated that six hundred political arrests were made in St. Petersburg alone during the week of the Duma dissolution. These wholesale arrests continued for weeks all over Russia. The governmental troops seemed to be in absolute control everywhere. The atmosphere of St. Petersburg was at first tense with expectancy that some change would come and turn the tables, but as days passed and the iron heel of the bureaucracy only pressed the harder over the land, liberal sympathizers became utterly discouraged and despairing. This was the situation when I went to Kronstadt on the Sunday of the fatal week. On that day all was quiet. So was it on Monday. Tuesday there were a score of rumors in the air, most of them wild and fantastic, but yet seeming indicative of something. Wednesday news of the Sveaborg mutiny reached St. Petersburg. The reports were hysterical. The Sveaborg fortress was reported fallen, and ships sent to recapture the batteries had themselves fallen under mutiny. Fighting was next reported at Reval, and at the same time from Sebastopol. All telegrams were favorable to the revolutionists. All eyes turned to Kronstadt. Kronstadt awaited the signal. Suddenly all communication was cut off between St. Petersburg and the centers of activity. Even the railroad to Helsingfors was broken--the bridge dynamited. The last reports that got through were entirely favorable to the mutineers, and, therefore, the assumption was that the telegraph, telephone, and railroad lines were held by the revolutionists.

Some of the foreign correspondents in St. Petersburg hastened toward Sveaborg, but I, knowing Kronstadt so intimately, went there, to be on hand for the fight which seemed so imminent. The regular boats between St. Petersburg and Kronstadt were discontinued Wednesday afternoon. This seemed an indication of something brewing, so I hurried over the course I had so hastily come a few weeks earlier when “escaping” with Pasha. I reached Orienbaum by train, and there secured a boat across the mile-broad stretch of water to the fortress.

It was just sunset when I reached the island and made my way through the deserted streets of the town. A remote hill village could be no lonelier. No one seemed to know who had disturbed the connections with St. Petersburg.

The first information of importance I gleaned was that nearly all of the ships stationed at Kronstadt had just put out to sea, and that of those remaining all but one or two had been dismantled. That is to say, their guns had been dismounted and most of the sailors disarmed. The effect of these precautions upon the men was precisely what any reasonable and logical person would have supposed--discouragement from immediate action. I found a small government boat lying at a quay with about twenty sailors and heavy artillerymen lounging about the decks. There was no officer near, so I boarded the ship and sat talking with the men for half an hour or more. After the first few minutes they opened up and told me that they knew almost nothing of what was going on at Helsingfors as the government had prevented their seeing any newspapers. They admitted that there were plans for a mutiny--“but not yet.” All agreed to this: “Not now.” The artillerymen said: “If any ship flying a red flag comes along it will not be fired upon by us. But we don’t want to start the affair.” I spent the remainder of the evening going from point to point and talking to sailors, soldiers, and young men about the town. Nearly all told me the same thing. “We know we must rise. There is no other way. But we must not be hasty. We will wait and rise together with other garrisons and with the fleet.” The men seemed all to have learned well their lesson of restraint from the workers of the military organization, for I knew absolutely that this was what they had been instilling into the Kronstadt garrison for weeks.

By ten o’clock I was satisfied that Kronstadt would remain serene for the present. There was no indication whatever of movement anywhere on the part of either sailors or soldiers. Returning to the quay I found the regular ferry-boat running to Orienbaum as usual. I boarded the one which left at ten-thirty. We were delayed a few minutes at starting by a brawling sailor. This was the only enlivening incident I had witnessed. Midway to the mainland a search-light on a warship, which had just crept in close to Kronstadt, began sweeping the water. Round and round, now slowly, now fast, now near, now far. Once the great white path caught our little boat and fastened upon us. Then it turned and flashed toward the sea. The night was wonderful, still and calm, with a clear sky and brilliant stars above, and a soft summer breeze drifting pleasantly across the distant waters of the gulf. Perfect peace seemed to brood over Kronstadt. When the circling search-light fell upon the grim fortress walls they stood out in frowning silence which seemed set and lasting--like eternal verities, great hopes of struggling men, and all things which endure.

I vaguely framed the telegrams I had promised to send for other correspondents, according to the coöperative arrangements made under the stress of many points of interest simultaneously claiming attention--telegrams to London, to Paris, and Berlin. Their substance was: “Kronstadt promises to remain quiet for the present, although ships flying red flags will meet with no hostile reception.” We were twenty minutes in crossing. We had not fairly landed when the great guns of Kronstadt boomed and the mutiny was on.

Inasmuch as I was nearer to it than any one else, I believe I was the most surprised--unless, perchance, the very men who took part in the affair. The Kronstadt uprising of August, 1906, was a bolt from the blue to the men who participated, to the workers of the military organization, and to every one who was supposedly familiar with the situation there. The flash-light from the warship playing on the fortress seemed a sort of confirmation of this.

The explanation throws a white light on the question “Why the army does not rise.”

Just before the departure of the boat for Orienbaum a telegram had been received by the central committee of the military organization. The wires having been interrupted for some time, the arrival of this telegram was accepted as evidence that the lines were in friendly hands. The telegram purported to be from Helsingfors. It stated that Sveaborg was captured and also Reval; that Sebastopol would presently fall. Further, two warships in the hands of the revolutionists were at that moment on the way from Helsingfors to Kronstadt and would arrive about daylight. In the meantime Kronstadt must rise so as to be in the hands of the revolutionists when the ships arrived in the morning.

This meant immediate action. A small number of sappers and miners were gathered together and certain outer batteries captured. Two heavy shells were fired, and these guns signaled the garrison to rise. The sappers and miners were soon reinforced by artillerymen and sailors, but nearly all of these were unarmed, having had their arms taken from them a few days before. They therefore advanced upon the arsenal. On the way the officers’ quarters were invaded and six officers killed, including an admiral. The arsenal was captured against small resistance and the men rushed up-stairs to where the guns were stored. They pulled the doors from the gun-cases, and then for the first time suspected that the telegram and the whole signal to rise was a hoax. The guns were there, but the locks had all been removed!

Unarmed sailors are no better than an unarmed mob. When the mutineers poured out into the street from the arsenal they were received by a regiment of loyal troops brought down from Peterhof that very afternoon and now hurried into action. They poured volley after volley into the men coming out of the arsenal. There was some bayonet-fighting, but the rattle of gatling guns speedily forced a surrender. The actual casualties of this night will never be known. They cannot be reckoned from without, and the government will not disclose the figures. Horrible scenes followed the slaughter. Bodies of the dead were pitched into the sea and with them some wounded who still lived. One or two of these survived, being carried by the current across the narrow stretch of water to the mainland and there washed ashore.

Several hundred arrests followed. A Duma deputy, named Anipko, a member of the Group of Toil, was taken on this occasion, and with him my friend Paul. I could never learn why these two were not executed, but instead they were both sent to Siberia. A few days later there were nineteen men shot, twelve sent to hard labor for life, one hundred and twenty others to the mines for varying terms, and four hundred and twenty-nine to prison. These five hundred and eighty men, together with those killed outright, were supposed to be the leading members of the military organization in Kronstadt at that time. Doubtless they were. A régime of repression was naturally promptly established.

Every time there is an incipient mutiny there is a renewal of oppression. Again and again during the last few years have mutinies, like the Kronstadt affair, been precipitated by the government, and always with results as disastrous to the men as satisfactory to the government. The fact that the army does not rise is no indication at all that the men are loyal to the Czar. As a whole they are not. The difficulty comes in their not being able to rise simultaneously, and in their inability to save their leaders from execution or exile long enough to lead them into battle.

The failure of Kronstadt, of Sveaborg, and of Reval did not make any appreciable impression upon the men. More of the best leaders were taken, a few hundred more lives given up, but the spirit of unrest remained. The

hugeness of Russia makes the revolutionary movement unwieldy. Every man, or woman, who is educated, or who shows liberal tendencies, is liable to be marked, and at the first opportunity, reasonable or unreasonable, clapped into prison, or exiled. The best disciplined army in the world would fall asunder if practically all of the officers were suddenly snatched away. It is only the great underlying principle of the revolution which now moves the masses on. The reign of anarchy which threatens Russia to-day is a far more terrible menace than the bloodiest revolution fought out on a civil-war basis. When a whole people become utterly lawless, each man striking blindly, and all striking, the result is chaos for the time being. The existing weak government is rapidly bringing Russia to this. For the government, while able to demoralize the ranks of the revolution, is yet unable to administer, to rule, or to guide. The great mass of the people are against the government. Many, especially of the middle classes, are silent because they dare not openly fight. But the very moment the tide of success turns into the channels of the revolutionists, the ranks of the government’s enemies will swell enormously. The number of people all over the country who are as it were “on the fence” who will join the revolution as soon as the propitious moment seems to have arrived is inestimably large. So it is with the army. The percentage of the men favorable to revolution is large, but for their own necks’ sake they refrain from premature revolt. When the wave of success finally sweeps high over the existing order, the army will turn by regiments and brigades. The officers know this perfectly well, and are straining every resource to put off the day when this cataclysm will overtake them. But it is coming as surely as night follows day. Discipline in the army is such that it can be stayed but it cannot be ultimately avoided. Men now have no other alternative than to obey. For example, when an execution is to take place and there is the slightest doubt about the soldiers who are to do the shooting, a file of infantry are ranged at a given spot; directly behind the soldiers a file of, say, marines; directly behind these again a file of Cossacks. The command is given to the front rank to fire. Every man whose gun doesn’t go off is shot by the man behind him; if any man in the second rank fails, the Cossacks in the rear--who can always be depended upon--shoot.

Paul and Pasha, and all of the other ardent men and women whom I saw working in Kronstadt in June, were either killed, imprisoned, or exiled, in August. But by September there were other Pauls, other Pashas, established in Kronstadt, working just as earnestly and fearlessly, and just as hopeful of the ultimate outcome. They all believe in this revolution with the same gloriously blind faith, for they recognize revolution as the inevitable result of the anachronous and rotten social, economic, and political conditions which have for so long sapped the vitality of Russia.