Drawing Cards in the Middle Ages to Rise in Ranks

The rule of Tsarist Russia in fact had a strong flavor of the Middle Ages.

To judge whether a tsar was wise or not, people did not look at whether he was good at governing the country, they only looked at whether he could lead the nation to victorious wars.

How many died and were wounded, what price was paid, whether it was a Pyrrhic victory, how many people among the populace were sacrificed for it—none of this was taken seriously.

Ivan the Terrible was a notorious tyrant; he slaughtered commoners, great nobles, and even killed his own son. Yet this kind of tyrant, because he conquered vast territories, was still regarded as a sagacious and mighty His Majesty the Tsar.

Thus, when the news that the Russian army along the Polish front had been encircled reached the main headquarters at Mogilev, Nicholas II at once sensed something was very wrong.

On the one hand he shifted the Northwestern and Southwestern Fronts in an attempt to rescue the Eastern Front (that is, the Central Front) which had been encircled in the Polish Region by the "pincer offensive" carried out by Prussia and Debang; on the other hand he began issuing orders across the land to tighten news control, raise the level of alert, and strive to strangle any rebellion in the cradle.

But how could that possibly work.

Those disappointed in the tsar were not only the common folk; among the feudal nobles and big factory owners there also arose currents of thought calling for the deposition of Nicholas II and the enthronement of a new tsar.

Saint Petersburg.

The long line of people waiting for bread suddenly broke into commotion.

The shopkeeper who was distributing bread was waving a wooden stick and shouting: ""

...

Outside Saint Petersburg, in the camp of the Don River Cossacks.

Tenishev flicked the droplets from his collar and wiped the mud off his boots on the hay by his side.

"This damned weather is too cold. Who knows how many people will die in the city this time."

He stamped his feet, sat down by the bunk, took off his boots, and stretched his frozen toes out toward the fire to warm them.

"No one cares how many die. Anyway the general staff don’t dare dock our pay. His Majesty the Tsar keeps us fed because he has great use for us."

"Great use? Instead of sending us to the front to kill Germans, he scatters us, dumps us in every out-of-the-way corner—what kind of great use is that supposed to be?"

"Are you playing dumb or genuinely stupid? News of defeat has come back again. The soldiers at the front are short of clothes and food; many don’t even get a rifle issued to them. The number of deserters is constantly rising."

The short officer’s tone was a bit exaggerated; he gestured vividly as he described it: "We’re like stones tied to a stick, and at the critical moment we’ll be brought down hard on the traitors’ skulls."

"Look on the bright side. Maybe the ones to collapse first will be the Germans. The war ends in glorious victory, and we Cossacks ride our fine warhorses into Tsar’s City, Vienna, Prague, then take our heavy rewards back home and buy ourselves a great big pasture."

"There’s still no sign of anything like that happening at the moment."

"By the way, the general staff summoned you. Didn’t you make a trip to the Capital City? How is it there, lively?"

"Things aren’t looking good. Bread is desperately scarce. In the workers’ districts you see hunger, sorrow, and anger everywhere—the whole Capital City is like a steamer set over a bonfire. So I think we’re going to the battlefield very soon, only this time we’ll be using our sabers against our own people."

"Those people hardly count as our own. We’re men of the Don River, free Cossacks. If we kill those folk in the Capital City, the general staff will pay us reward money without docking anything—so long as it’s not those banknotes that are too stiff even to wipe your arse with, I don’t see a problem."

Cossacks are not an ethnicity but a militarized community, with a very mixed ethnic makeup, mainly Russians and Ruthenians, and including no small number of Tatars who follow Fire Worship.

Nationalism has its impact on Cossacks too, but clearly not that deep.

"Report!"

Outside the door came the anxious shout of a soldier.

Without waiting to be answered, he pushed the door open at once and handed over a slip of paper: "Captain, we’ve found a lot of these little notes around the camp—the situation seems off. I’m worried something bad is going to happen."

Tenishev took the note, and his face darkened at once.

On it were written words of blatant treason:

To all soldier comrades.

The war has already gone on for three years. For three years we have suffered in order to protect other people’s interests. In these three years, workers and peasants in every country have shed blood by the millions, and millions of women and children have become widows and orphans.

This is what this war has brought.

Why are you fighting, and for whose interests?

The tsar drives you in order to seize new lands; the factory owners in order to carve up new markets and sources of raw materials; and you, a muddle-headed lot, go to war for their interests, go to your deaths, and slaughter those proletarians who are just like you.

Brothers, you have already shed enough blood. Your enemies are not those Debang and Prussian soldiers who, like you, have been deceived, but your tsar, the factory owners, and the landlords. Turn your guns around and oppose them. Smash autocracy, smash imperialism, let the proletarians of the whole world unite!

Tenishev felt short of breath. It had come; his premonition had indeed proved true. What would the future be like? Would he still be able to lead the men under him back to their homeland?

"Connect me to the general staff at once!"

He reported the news over the telephone.

A moment later, after nodding repeatedly, Tenishev hung up, his tone harsh and agitated: "Investigate—thoroughly! Officers are no exception. We cannot allow such cancers to appear in our ranks, or they’ll get us all killed."

Luckily, this thorough investigation turned up nothing.

Most of the illiterate Cossacks had simply treated the little notes as cigarette paper.

Tenishev allowed himself a slight sigh of relief, but in the middle of the night he was jerked awake by a shrill ringing.

"Cossacks, hear the order!"

"A large-scale uprising has broken out in Saint Petersburg. All hands, mount your steeds—we’re going into the city to suppress the rebellion!"

"At last some real work."

Cossacks were paid almost no regular army wages. They were crack troops cheaply levied by the tsar, bringing their own warhorses and part of their own weapons and equipment. The advantage was that they could take the spoils of war in full and divide them among themselves.

"The Capital City is rich. We’re bound to make a killing this time."

"Don’t get carried away."

Captain Tenishev’s face was set and grim. In the eyes of many Cossacks, even a dog in Saint Petersburg lived in luxury. But in fact, the people living in the big city now were probably worse off than these frontier Cossacks themselves.

Very soon, more than one hundred and thirty Cossack cavalry were assembled, along with more than thirty Cossack mounted artillerymen equipped with small-caliber cavalry guns and mortars, and even a few precious White Crystal Grenades.

Tenishev led his cavalry company out of camp, quickly linked up with friendly units, and a cavalry regiment of more than eight hundred riders sped toward Saint Petersburg.