CHAPTER XXIV.THE RED STAIRCASE.
Havinghad no sleep and scarcely any food for many hours, I was worn out; yet so intense was the mental strain that the physical weakness was little heeded. I had but one thought,—to reach the Kremlin in time to intercede with Sophia for Zénaïde. In the midst of the present trouble, I did not believe that Natalia would oppose the czarevna’s wishes, especially since the death of the Boyar Vladimir Sergheievitch made his niece less important. Her marriage with Naryshkin could no longer insure the loyalty of one of the older nobles. On the other hand, Vladimir’s death and Feodor’s return would have weight with Sophia, on account of Galitsyn’s friendship for the elder boyar. I had no time for reflection, however, as I dashed along at the top of my speed, no longer noticing the deserted streets, and scarcely conscious of the increasing volume of sound that rolled towards me as I approachedthe Kremlin. The confused roar of a vast multitude, and now and then the roll of a drum or the crash of firearms, filled my ears. Still I heeded them not, but rushing on, reached the outskirts of the crowd that was gathering in every avenue to the five gates of the fortress. I pushed my way amidst the angry, threatening mob, indifferent to the outcry and tumult; but as I approached the Gate of Saint Nicholas of Mojaïsk, it became almost impossible to advance; the entrance was packed, and looking over the heads of those immediately in front, I could see a solid mass of humanity beyond. It was not difficult to understand the meaning of the demonstration; it was the bursting of the tempest which had been gathering for so many weeks. Before me was the banner of the Streltsi with the face of the Virgin on its broad folds, and one of the regimental cannon had been dragged half through the gate. Stepping upon a projecting ledge of masonry, I caught a glimpse of the scene within, and comprehended the situation. The boyars had been taken by surprise, and their enemies were in possession of the Kremlin; the gates that, once closed, might have been defended were in the hands of the Streltsi. Here and there, in the crowd, I saw the carriage of a boyar forced back fromthe gate; the rioters had unharnessed all the horses, killing some of them,—an action that demonstrated a desperate determination on their part to cage the nobility within the walls. The most conspicuous weapons carried by the Streltsi were their long handled spears, and I noticed at once that they had severed the unwieldy handles in the middle, thus making them far more available and deadly. There was a confused roar from the crowd, broken now and then by the shout: “They have murdered the Czarevitch Ivan, they have slain the royal family! Give us the traitors!” A seething mass of savage faces and gleaming spears.
Where was Zénaïde? The thought of her drove every consideration of prudence from my mind. I drew my sword, and leaping into the mob, joined it in the rush towards the Red Place. I knew that if she was in the Kremlin she was probably with the czarina, for Naryshkin would seek his own safety in the palace. I soon found that I was really only on the margin of the throng, for as we approached the Red Staircase, the crush became fearful, and here the rioters had leaped all bounds of control. They were crowding forward, howling like demons; on every side the shouts for the Czarevitch Ivan and vengeance on the Naryshkins were deafening.The Czarevna Sophia had been playing on the credulity of the populace, and this mob was possessed with the idea that the Naryshkins were aiming at the crown, in spite of the fact that the young czar was of their own blood. Pushed and beaten about, I had no control over my movements, and was hurled along into the Red Place, where, at last, we came to a standstill, for here the main body of the insurgents was packed about the Red Staircase, where the ringleaders had been parleying with deputies from the palace. When I found myself in a position where I could look about me, a curious spectacle met my gaze. I was near the center of the Red Place, and could not at first hear much of what was passing, but could see the scene in front of the palace. In the square the rioters were, for the moment, quiet, and every eye was fixed on the group on the balcony. The Princes Galitsyn, Tcherkasky, Havansky, and Sheremétief were there with the patriarch, evidently endeavoring by pacific addresses to quiet the mob. In the foreground stood the Czarina Natalia, holding by either hand the Czar Peter and the Czarevitch Ivan. Even at a distance, I could see her deep agitation; her face was as white as marble, and she held the two boys close to her. The contrast betweenthe young princes was more marked than ever; Ivan cowered beside his step-mother, manifestly terrified at the crisis, while the young czar stood undaunted, his bold, dark eye sweeping over the crowd with an imperious glance. No doubt the recollections of that day’s pain and humiliation increased the horrors of the vengeance that he wreaked upon the Streltsi in later years.
I learned afterwards that, by the advice of Matveief, the czarina had brought out the two children to satisfy the rioters of their safety. The sight of them at that distance did not content the mob; and after a moment’s quiet, they made a rush for the palace, and, by means of ladders, some of them clambered up to the balcony, pushing aside the patriarch, who tried to interpose his person between them and the imperial family. It was a moment of great excitement, and the czarina’s nerve failed. I saw her give one look at the advancing mob; and then, taking the two princes, she hurriedly withdrew, her retreat precipitating a scene of terror. The rioters had swarmed up the Red Staircase, and although, as yet, but little violence had marked the outbreak, it was only a question of time; unless something quelled the tumult, nothing could save the palace. I had been too closely hemmed in to move; but this new rush gave mean opportunity to advance, and I pushed on, determined to reach the Czarevna Sophia. But the forward movement was halted by the sudden appearance of Matveief upon the Red Staircase. The ex-chancellor had once been one of the most popular commanders of the Streltsi, and his appearance had an immediate effect. He was a man not only of great personal dignity, but of diplomatic address, and the moment he began to speak, the rioters quieted down. He appealed to them eloquently to be true to their reputation as loyal soldiers of the czar, assuring them of the safety of the imperial family and of the absolute fealty of the Naryshkins, and denouncing the rumors which had poisoned their minds as absolutely without foundation. I could not hear all his speech, but could divine much from his tones and gestures, and saw at once that he had grasped the situation, and was handling it with a dexterity worthy of the politician that he was. It was just at the time when a pebble could turn the scale, and it seemed as if he had won the day. The conclusion of his speech was greeted with thundering applause, and for the moment the whole aspect of affairs was changed. The rioters began to talk among themselves, their weapons were less in evidence, and, apparently,the crisis had come and passed. But the next instant I saw that a new danger threatened. Prince Michael Dolgoruky, second in command of the Department of the Streltsi, appeared on the Red Staircase, and even before he spoke, the humor of the mob changed. The prince was pompous, arrogant, and especially ill fitted to cope with the situation. He gave evidence of his incompetence at once, by ordering the rioters to disperse, in the tones of a master rebuking them for their insolence, and, by speech and gesture, provoking a storm of indignation that burst on his devoted head. He had scarcely ceased speaking when, with a yell of fury, they rushed up the Red Staircase once more, and seizing him by his long robes, dragged him down the stairs.
The rabble had gone mad, and I saw that the worst had come. The prince was hurled to the ground and surrounded by a howling mob; a moment later, his mutilated body was trodden under foot as the rioters rushed on into the palace. I hoped to be carried in with them, but another pause checked us, and then I saw the cause of it. The ringleaders had found Matveief and were dragging the white-haired chancellor out to the head of the stairs. He who a moment before had enjoyed their confidence,was to test the fickle passion of the populace. The howls about me were demoniacal, and nothing now could curb the fury that the unhappy Dolgoruky had let loose. Protesting and struggling, Matveief was pushed to the top of the Red Staircase and thrown down upon the spears of the rioters below. I looked aside; I had served in many a battle under the Lilies of France, but this brutal murder and mutilation of an old man sickened me. The rabble had tasted blood, and the scene that followed was hideous beyond description. Their fury was directed against the Naryshkin party and the boyars. As they began the work of slaughter, they broke up into small parties, searching for their prey, and there was more space in the square, the crowd, though dense and furious, being less packed. “Down with the Naryshkins! Give us the traitors!” they howled, and I found that they were determined to compel the czarina to surrender her brothers, Ivan and Athanasius Naryshkin, to share the fate of her guardian Matveief.
For the first time, somewhat released by the throng, I was pushing my way towards the Red Staircase, when a cry rose to my right: “Here is a Naryshkin! Death to the villain!” Springing aside to escape the rush, I looked inthat direction, and saw that the rioters were swarming about a carriage which I had previously observed hemmed in by the crowd. The horses had been killed, and the occupants, if there were any, were at the mercy of the mob. An impulse prompted me to push forward for a nearer view, and the next moment, I dashed among the insurgents with such impetuosity, that they gave way and let me reach the carriage, partly because their fury was centered on the man, whom they had dragged out by the hair and were beating to death. I had seen his face before a blow obliterated the features in blood; it was Viatscheslav. I knocked down the rioter who was at the door of the coach, and springing into it, gazed eagerly at the figure which was shrinking in the corner. It was Zénaïde Feodorovna.