Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [514]
And then there would be progress. The programme of the Provisional Government was already clear – prosecute the war. Everyone except the Bolsheviks agreed to that – and the Bolsheviks didn’t count for much these days. Then move quickly to hold elections to a new Constituent Assembly which would replace the Duma. A full democratic body. One man, one vote. Everyone, left and right, was agreed about that too.
‘I can feel it,’ he murmured, as he gazed into the street. ‘A warm ray of hope.’
And then he saw Alexander.
The fellow was hurrying along, certainly. He had a piece of paper in his hand and he looked excited. This must be it, then: the formal abdication. With a happy smile, Nicolai prepared to greet him.
So why was the boy frowning? Had the Tsar said something foolish, even now?
‘The abdication came through?’ he enquired.
‘No. The Tsar still can’t bring himself to sign it. But he will. He hasn’t any choice. The army chiefs are telling him to go as well.’
‘Then what’s this?’ Nicolai pointed to the paper.
Alexander handed it to him without a word. And Nicolai read.
It was not long. It was addressed to the Petrograd military garrison, and it contained seven terse clauses.
It told every company to elect committees who would remove control of all arms and equipment from the officers. Officers were no longer to be addressed by honorary titles or saluted off duty. The committees were also to elect representatives to the Petrograd Soviet, which announced that it, and not the Provisional Government, was now the final authority on all military matters.
It was signed by the Committee of the Petrograd Soviet, dated the previous day. And it was headed, simply and without further explanation: Order No. 1.
Nicolai stared at it in disbelief. Then he exploded with laughter.
‘This is absurd! The Petrograd Soviet is just an informal workers’ body. It’s not elected by anyone and has no authority. Nobody’s going to take any notice of it.’
‘But they already are. I’ve been to some of the barracks. They’re all going to comply. Some of them just laughed at me because I was wearing an officer’s uniform.’
‘But the regular troops, our soldiers at the front …’
‘The order’s already on its way to them. I tell you, most of the troops will follow it.’
Nicolai was silent, thunderstruck.
‘Then who’s in charge?’ he cried.
Alexander shrugged.
‘God knows.’
1917, July
Boris Romanov grunted with satisfaction as he stepped from the shady verandah into the salon. Only the ticking of the clock in its marble case could be heard.
He enjoyed the house with its green walls, its little white portico and its cool interior. He went up every afternoon and sat on the verandah. Once it had belonged to the Bobrovs; then Vladimir Suvorin. And now, to all intents and purposes, it was his. He smiled grimly at the thought. The revolution – his revolution – had finally come.
The last few months at Russka had been strange. News of the Tsar’s abdication and of the new Provisional Government had only filtered slowly through to the provinces. Boris had not known for sure until ten days afterwards. He had met a peasant travelling from Riazan province who, a month later, still refused to believe it.
And what did these events in Petrograd mean? The Provisional Government had promised a Constituent Assembly. Good. There was complete freedom of speech and assembly now. No harm in that. But above all, the fall of the Tsar must mean one thing.
‘Now,’ he told his family, ‘we shall get the land.’
Everyone knew it. The Provisional Government was discussing how it was to be done. All that spring, soldiers had been deserting from