In the Soviet room a samovar had been set up, and
fifty or more workers, soldiers, sailors and officers stood around,
drinking tea and talking at the top of their voices. In one corner
two clumsy-handed workingmen were trying to make a multigraphing
machine go. At the centre table, the huge Dybenko bent over a map,
marking out positions for the troops with red and blue pencils. In
his free hand he carried, as always, the enormous bluesteel
revolver. Anon he sat himself down at a typewriter and pounded away
with one finger; every little while he would pause, pick up the
revolver, and lovingly spin the chamber.
A couch lay along the wall, and on this was stretched a young
workman. Two Red Guards were bending over him, but the rest of the
company did not pay any attention. In his breast was a hole; through
his clothes fresh blood came welling up with every heart-beat. His
eyes were closed and his young, bearded face was greenish-white.
Faintly and slowly he still breathed, with every breath sighing,
_"Mir boudit! Mir boudit!_ (Peace is coming! Peace is coming!)"
Dybenko looked up as we came in. "Ah," he said to Baklanov.
"Comrade, will you go up to the Commandant's headquarters and take
charge? Wait; I will write you credentials." He went to the
typewriter and slowly picked out the letters.
The new Commandant of Tsarskoye Selo and I went toward the Ekaterina
Palace, Baklanov very excited and important.
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