From the wings, his heavy boots making a loud noise, came Commander of the Red Guard Trifonov.
There was a red armlet on the sleeve of his flannel jacket, and something red round the band of the cap he held in his hand.
Sturdy and serene, he approached the very edge of the platform with unhurried steps.
The greyish skin on his shaven skull twitched.
His eyes were hidden in the shadow cast by his overhanging brows.
He raised his hand (complete silence ensued) and pointed with his half-clenched fist at Broinitsky standing below.
"See, Comrades, Comrade Broinitsky, the Military Commissar, is here.
Good!
Let him answer that last question.
And if he doesn't want to, we'll make him...."
"Oho!" came from Broinitsky in menacing tones from below.
"Yes—make him!
We are the power of the workers and peasants, and he is bound to obey.
It's hard to get to the bottom of everything at once in these times, Comrades.... They're confusing times.... And, as is well known, muck always rises to the surface. This leads us to the conclusion that all sorts of blackguards attach themselves to the revolution...."
"Name who you mean!" shouted Broinitsky with a strong Polish accent. "Give the name!"
"We'll come to names, don't be in a hurry.... By the self-sacrificing efforts of the workers and peasants we have cleared Rostov of White-Guard bands.... The Soviet power stands firm on the Don.
Why are protests coming in from all sides?
The workers are restless, the Red Guard are dissatisfied.... The troops in the trains are raising hell—they want to know what they are rotting in the sidings for. We have just heard the voice of a representative of the intellectuals," (pointing to the previous speaker).
"What's the matter?
Everybody seems to be dissatisfied with the Soviet power.
'Why do you plunder?' they ask. 'Why do you get drunk, why do you murder children?'
The previous speaker even asked to be shot...." (Laughter from some, a slight outburst of applause.) "Comrades!
The Soviet power does not plunder and murder children.
But there are swine who hang on to the Soviet power, who do plunder and do murder. And by this they are undermining faith in the Soviet power, and putting a keen weapon into the hands of our foes...." (A pause, not even the breathing of so many hundreds of people is audible.) "And now I want to put a question to Comrade Broinitsky: Are you aware of the murder of two boys yesterday?"
An icy voice from below:
"I am."
"Good!
And are you aware of the nightly looting, of the drunken orgies in the Palace Hotel?
Are you aware whose hands requisitioned property falls into?
You do not speak, Comrade Broinitsky?
You have no answer to make.
The requisitioned goods are squandered on drink by a gang of bandits...." (A buzz in the hall.
Trifonov raised his hand.) "And here is something else we have discovered. Nobody gave you power in Rostov, your mandate is forged, your references to Moscow, not to speak of Comrade Lenin, are insolent lies...."
Broinitsky now stood erect.
Tremors passed over his handsome face, now deathly pale....
Suddenly he leaped aside to where a flaxen-haired young soldier stood open-mouthed; tugging at his coat, and pointing to Trifonov, Broinitsky shouted ferociously:
"Shoot that scoundrel!"
The youth's face was distorted by a ferocious scowl as he tore his rifle from his shoulder.
Trifonov stood motionless, his legs wide apart, and merely bent his head with a bull-like movement.
A worker ran out from the wings and stood beside him, hastily clicking the lock of his rifle. He was followed instantly by another, and another, till the whole platform was black with jackets and greatcoats, and alive with the jingling of clashing bayonets.
The chairman then jumped up on to the chair and, pushing back the bandage which was falling over his eyes, cried in a rheumy voice:
"Comrades, we don't want any panic—nothing unforeseen has occurred.
Shut the door there at the back, please.
Comrade Trifonov is quite safe.
Comrade Broinitsky is requested to speak."
But Broinitsky had disappeared, and only the flaxen-haired soldier remained standing next to the orchestra, his lips parted in astonishment.
* III *
At the village of Korenovskaya the Volunteer Army met with extremely serious resistance.
The village was, however, taken, though great losses were sustained, and here the news feared above all else toy the Whites could no longer be kept from the army—a few days before, Ekaterinodar, the capital of the Kuban, the object of the whole campaign, the only hope for rest and a base for further struggle, had surrendered to the Bolsheviks without a shot being fired.
Pokrovsky's Kuban Volunteers, the Kuban Ataman, and the Rada itself, had escaped— where, nobody knew.