"_Provacatzia!_ Shot at us!" snapped one, while another went running
toward the door.
At the western corner of the Palace lay a big armoured car with a
red flag flying from it, newly lettered in red paint: "S.R.S.D."
(_Soviet Rabotchikh Soldatskikh Deputatov_); all the guns trained
toward St. Isaac's. A barricade had been heaped up across the mouth
of Novaya Ulitza-boxes, barrels, an old bed-spring, a wagon. A pile
of lumber barred the end of the Moika quay. Short logs from a
neighbouring wood-pile were being built up along the front of the
building to form breastworks....
"Is there going to be any fighting?" I asked.
"Soon, soon," answered a soldier, nervously. "Go away, comrade,
you'll get hurt. They will come from that direction," pointing
toward the Admiralty.
"Who will?"
"That I couldn't tell you, brother," he answered, and spat.
Before the door of the Palace was a crowd of soldiers and sailors. A
sailor was telling of the end of the Council of the Russian
Republic. "We walked in there," he said, "and filled all the doors
with comrades. I went up to the counter-revolutionist Kornilovitz
who sat in the president's chair. 'No more Council,' I says. 'Run
along home now!"' |
There was laughter. By waving assorted papers I managed to get
around to the door of the press gallery. There an enormous smiling
sailor stopped me, and when I showed my pass, just said, "If you
were Saint Michael himself, comrade, you couldn't pass here!"
Through the glass of the door I made out the distorted face and
gesticulating arms of a French correspondent, locked in.
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