Andrew Williams - To Kill a Tsar

‘He bent to stroke her and I began rattling on about her history, and that was enough to distract him,’ Bashka said with a throaty chuckle. They were now on the best of terms with the gendarmes. It was the first piece of good fortune they had enjoyed in weeks.

By eight o’clock the mine was charged for firing and the rendezvous set for the bomb-throwers. Nikolai Kibalchich would work through the night to ready the grenades. There were six of them left at the flat on the Voznesensky, cutting the kerosene cans for the shell of the grenades, bending and twisting the metal with fire tongs in the grate and casting weights on the kitchen table. Anna Kovalenko and the other women knew nothing of explosives, but fetched and carried and measured and mixed as they were bidden. The living-room floor was covered in shards of metal, the apartment full of stinging acrid smoke. They spoke little and only of the tasks they needed to perform. At eleven o’clock Sophia Perovskaya left them to rest as best she could before the morning.

‘You must go too, Annushka,’ Vera Figner said a short time later. ‘You’re exhausted. You should be fresh for tomorrow.’

But Anna could not sleep. She lay on the bed in her stained dress, conscious of Sophia restless beside her and the noise of the bomb-makers in the sitting room. With nothing to distract her tired mind, she became a prisoner of her thoughts again. Where was Frederick?

‘Are you awake, Annushka?’

‘Yes.’

Sophia turned to face her and reached up to touch her cheek.

‘He didn’t betray us, Sonechka,’ she said, trying to hold back her tears.

‘Who, Annushka? Are you crying?’ She brushed the moisture from Anna’s cheek with the back of her hand, then leant forward to kiss her brow.

‘Your English doctor,’ she said. ‘You love him.’

Anna did not answer. She was ashamed to speak of him when her friend’s thoughts must be with Zhelyabov.

‘Are you afraid, Sonechka?’ she asked at last.

‘Only that we may fail again.’

And Anna could see in the splinter of light from the open door the implacable resolve in her white face.

The pavement was slippery and the bombs were too delicate to risk carrying far. Anna found a cab just beyond the frozen Fontanka, its driver snoozing in his furs, hat pulled down over his eyes and ears. Sophia was waiting for her beneath the carriage arch of the block, the bombs in her arms like a baby. As the cab slid along rutted streets, she nursed them in her lap for fear a jolt would cause one or more to explode. It was early, a little after eight, a cold clear day, the snowy pavements Sunday quiet, church bells calling believers to prayer.

The four members of the bombing party were already at the apartment in the Telezhnaya.

‘But where is Andrei?’ they asked. Andrei Zhelyabov was their mentor and talisman. But Andrei was not going to come. A petite woman with her bombs in a stout paper bag had taken his place. Was it possible without him?

Yes, it was possible, Sophia told them with quiet assurance. The executive committee of The People’s Will had decided that the attempt would be made that day. There could be no turning away. They sat in silence, fidgeting with their tea glasses, hands, buttons, avoiding her gaze, too frightened to speak but too frightened to break the circle. Anna stood watching at the window, her mouth dry, her chest tight.

Sophia Perovskaya unfolded a pencil map of the streets and marked with neat little crosses the positions she had chosen for the bombers. If the emperor took his customary route to the parade he would pass the cheese shop on the Malaya Sadovaya. If the mine did not kill him the bombers would be able to make sure. If he came by the other route — the Ekaterininsky Canal — then they would catch him on his journey back to the palace.

‘If you see me at the corner of the Malaya Sadovaya with a handkerchief in my hand,’ she said, ‘that is the signal to take up new positions along the canal. Is that clear? Good. Comrades, courage. Today is a day of hope for the people.’

They found a café close by and ordered coffee and cakes. The bag with the bombs sat on the bench beside them.

‘And me, Sonechka? What must I do?’ Anna asked, when there seemed nothing more to discuss.

Sophia placed a tiny hand on top of hers. ‘You must go back to the apartment on Voznesensky and wait for us.’

Anna was aghast. How could her friend suggest such a thing?

‘I knew you would be upset but it is the will of the executive committee.’

‘You mean it is your will.’

‘Annushka. It is important someone is there…’

‘Vera will be there. Please Sophia, I must…’ Again Anna was struggling to control her tears. She pulled her hand free, clenching her fists in frustration. I have become so weak, she thought.

‘Shhhh, Annushka.’ Sophia’s face softened and she reached for Anna’s hand. ‘There are things you must do, your future…’ She hesitated.

‘But you will need a lookout…’

‘No, Anna,’ she said firmly. ‘No. It is the will of the executive committee. And that’s an end to the matter.’

They paid and left the café and on the street they kissed and held each other for a moment.

‘Wish me luck, Annushka.’

Anna kissed her cold cheek again and stood watching her comrade’s diminutive figure until it was lost among the passers-by.

The tsar had risen at half past eight and his valet reported him to be in high good humour. He had taken a turn about the Winter Palace gardens with his children and, after divine worship, he ate a light breakfast. At ten o’clock he received His Excellency Count Loris-Melikov in his study and listened with satisfaction to his account of the arrest of the notorious terrorist Zhelyabov.

‘It’s a feather in all our caps, Anton Frankzevich,’ the chief prosecutor reported. ‘I’ve spoken to His Excellency and he sends his compliments to you and Major Barclay.’

To communicate this courtesy, Count von Plehve made a gracious little bow to his two companions.

Dobrshinsky returned it with a small smile. ‘Please pass on my thanks to His Excellency.’

They were standing in the courtyard of the palace in the midst of great activity as the royal grooms prepared the emperor’s covered coach for the review at the manège. The stones rang to the restless clopping of the horses, the Cossacks gathered in a cloud of vapour beneath the carriage arch.

‘And did His Excellency represent our views to His Majesty?’ asked Dobrshinsky.

‘His Majesty is determined to take the parade,’ von Plehve replied, raising his shoulders a little in a gesture of resignation. ‘The imperial chamberlain asked him to reconsider, but he will hear none of it.’

‘Folly.’ Dobrshinsky slapped his cane against his boots in exasperation.

‘He has acceded to your request for an additional escort,’ said von Plehve, almost apologetically. ‘Major Barclay will travel in the police sleigh.’

‘And the route?’

‘That is for His Majesty to decide, but our concerns were made known to him. We can only hope he was listening.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Barclay, crossing himself vigorously.

Yes, it was time to fall back on prayer, Dobrshinsky reflected, what more could they do?

There were gendarmes outside the manège, and his own people were posted among the crowd, but it was impossible to guard against reckless hate.

‘Health to Your Majesty!’

The soldiers in the covered entrance shouted their customary greeting and a moment later Tsar Alexander II stepped into the courtyard with the captain of his guard a few steps behind. He stopped to adjust the clasp of his cloak, blinking in the winter sunshine. A word to his coachman, then he stepped inside and a moment later the royal cortège pulled away, the Cossacks with swords drawn in front and on the flanks, the police bringing up the rear in two small sleighs.