Duncan Kyle - The King's Commisar

He turned and saluted; he was a veteran by the look of him of twenty and more years as a cavalryman. He said, 'Welcome, Comrade Commissar,' but said it awkwardly as though, like myself, he would be more at home with a simple 'sir'. As I buttoned myself together I saw his eye resting doubtfully on the naval uniform and I laugh cheerfully and slapped his shoulder and said, 'Don't worry. Comrade. I can ride!' For now I must play a part, and confidence was of importance. 'You have a good horse for me?'

He smiled and I saw an imp of mischief in his eye.

'One of those, eh?' I said. 'A stallion, I'll bet!'

'A fine animal, Comrade.'

'You ride it,' I said. I’ll take yours.'

He grinned in embarrassment, but he took it like a sportsman. He had spoken the truth: it was a fine stallion. But his was better, and with a long ride ahead I was glad not to have to battle a wayward beast. We set off at once, he and I in the van, the rest strung two abreast behind: one hundred and fifty of the fine horsemen of the steppes - and under the command, now, of a naval officer. I could not help wondering what they would think had they known I was a British naval officer.

'You were sergeant?' I asked.

'Yes, Comrade Commissar.'

'Your name?'

'Koznov.'

'Good. How far to Tobolsk?'

'Two hundred versts.'

That is a distance of about one hundred and thirty miles, the Russian verst being approximately two-thirds of an English mile; and the saddle was hard, with wood in its construction. Also, it was years since I had spent even a day on horseback. I would be sore, and walk accordingly, by the time Tobolsk was reached. That was unfortunate, for upon arrival I would need all the dignity, authority and confidence I could muster, and few things are so irresistibly comic, especially in central Russia, as the man who is saddle-sore.

Again, there is no need to describe the journey. We rode, we ate, changed horses, slept briefly, and we rode again. And so, at mid-morning on April 22nd, we rode into Tobolsk. I made direct for the Governor's House, where the Imperial Family was held under guard. By the time the house was reached we were awaited, for even when the earth is snow-covered, a hundred and fifty horsemen do not travel quietly and our approach had been seen and heard.

I reined in at the gate and called to one of the two guards on duty to summon the officer in command, a Colonel Kobylinsky.

The man demanded my name and my business.

'Tell him Yakovlev,' I said, 'from Moscow. Commissar. On the business of the Soviet Central Executive Committee!'

I dismounted then and told Koznov to get his men settled and fed. A moment later Colonel Kobylinsky was before me. Knowing a little of his story, I looked at him with interest. He was a big man, healthy-looking, but with the white whiskers of an older man. Like his master the Tsar, the Colonel had assumed in recent months a far lower station in life than he was used to. Once he had commanded at Tsarskoe Selo, the great palace of the Tsars; but he too had been exiled by Kerensky, like his master, and was with him still. But the guards now were not the fine, shiny soldiers of more prosperous days. According to Sverdlov's situation papers, Kobylinsky now had two sets of men in his nominal charge: the first group was from Omsk, in western Siberia, the second group came from Ekaterinburg and it was these, the so-called 'Red Guards,' who presented the greatest threat to the Romanovs and, indeed, to me.

'Commissar Yakovlev,' I said loudly, and held out my laissez-passer. 'Here on the instructions of the Central Committee.'

'Kobylinsky. ' He looked down his nose at me, clicked his heels, then took the paper and held it at arm's length while he read it. As he was doing so a man came to stand and read at his shoulder, glancing at me several times.

'Who are you?' I demanded.

'People's Soviet of the Urals,' he said, 'That is who I am.' He said no more, and indeed a moment later he had turned and was moving away; but there was something in his manner I found disturbing.

'Come inside,' Kobylinsky said, taking my arm. 'Let us give you refreshment. Come - your men will be attended to.'

He gave me breakfast. The bread was warm and fresh, the coffee hot, and he did not force questions upon me. It would have been most pleasant had we not twice been interrupted by members of¿he rival guard factions intent upon inspecting my papers once again. One of them was the fellow from the gate, and having examined my pass once more, he said softly, 'You come direct from Comrade Sverdlov?'

'Yes.'

'You met him?'

'Yes.'

'Who else did you meet?'

'Comrade Lenin,' I said. 'And Comrade Trotsky.'

He gave a nod and a little smile. 'Remember you are beyond the Urals now, my friend.'

Again he sidled away. 'Who is that man?' I demanded of Kobylinsky.

'Ruzsky,' he replied. 'From Ekaterinburg. He is a member of the Urals Soviet. I can tell you no more, except that he sometimes calls himself Bronard.'

'You can tell me,' I said, 'of the former Tsar. He is well?'

'Yes.'

'And his family?'

'They, too, except the son. You will know, I imagine, that the boy is haemophiliac, subject to bouts of severe illness and only now beginning to recover from the most recent.'

This latest bout was hardly welcome news. 'The boy is in bed?'

'And will be for some days,' Kobylinsky said. 'He suffers great pain still.'

Kobylinsky had tobacco and paper and we made ourselves cigarettes in the Russian manner, but we were not even to finish them before the man Ruzsky returned. He did not knock, merely walked into the room, accompanied by others, and said, 'Your presence must be discussed, Comrade.'

And discussed it was. Largely by them. I informed them that my business must, for the moment, be of a confidential nature, that when the time came they would be informed of my purpose, and then said no more for a while.

The man Ruzsky was plainly still suspicious of me and he did not hesitate to say so. If, as Sverdlov had told me, the Bolsheviks of Ekaterinburg were more militant than most, it was clear that Ruzsky was among the most virulent of them. 'Papers can be forged,' he said, looking hard at me, and speaking in a quiet voice but with great emphasis. 'Who among us knows Comrade Sverdlov's signature?' The man was chronically suspicious and went on about plots to save the lives of the Romanovs, about lurking traitors to the Revolution, some of them there in the house, and many swarming in Tobolsk. As he talked, others came into the room and it became possible to sense dissension, Omsk against Ekaterinburg. Ruzsky's statements were received by some with head-shaking and pursed lips. He wanted the Tsar killed, and quickly, before somebody - the Whites, the Germans, or maybe the treacherous leadership in Moscow - liberated them. 'The family too. They must all be wiped out,' he insisted.

'The Revolution doesn't kill women and children,' he was promptly told by one of the Omsk men. He came back at me then. 'Who is this supposed Commissar? He says he is here on Comrade Sverdlov's orders, but he will not tell us what they are!'

I judged it time to speak. 'There is such a thing,' I told him, 'as a telegraph. Send a telegram to Comrade Sverdlov.'

'No telegraphs here, Comrade,' he said. 'You're in the wilds here, not Moscow. The nearest is at Tyumen.'

'Good,' I said. 'Go there. We'll find you a horse.'

This observation, for some reason, was greeted with loud laughter from the Omsk men and when Ruzsky began again to speak they hissed at him. Soon, to my surprise, he withdrew from the room. Since it was clear most of the men remaining were now fairly disposed toward me, J chose that moment to tell them of Sverdlov's authorization of an increase in their pay, and that I would like to address their committee. Five men then sat at the table with me. Kobylinsky tactfully went out. The rest withdrew. I said, 'You are right that I am here because of Nicholas Romanov. Right, too, that I am to take him away.'