Chapter 93
Chapter 93
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 93
Chapter Title: Potemkin Mutiny (1)
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October 1904.
As the four-nation conference in Algeciras dragged on endlessly with no sign of conclusion, the sailors of the Russian Black Sea Fleet, enduring harsh conditions, began reaching the limits of their patience.
Even though the age of sail had long ended and the era of ironclads powered by steam and steel had arrived years ago, life aboard ship remained grueling. The crewmen were forced to live inhumane lives under brutal treatment.
Of course, this wasn't unique to the Russian Navy—it applied to the British, French, and German navies as well.
In this era, the only nation that truly cared about improving sailors' conditions, valuing human rights and personal freedoms to some degree, was the United States.
However, while British sailors faced poor conditions, their training was top-notch, and they had seasoned, experienced officers. Republican France, though not quite on America's level, at least paid some attention to crew welfare.
And the German Navy, with its strict discipline and the reforms under Scharnhorst that drastically reduced corruption compared to other nations, avoided major issues.
But the Russian Navy was disastrously bad—even by the standards of people living in this era.
The British had phased out salted meat long ago in favor of canned goods, yet Russian sailors still choked down moldy, maggot-ridden salted meat while enduring officers' constant verbal abuse and beatings.
At least Admiral Zinovy Rozhestvensky was a capable commander and one of the few in the Russian Navy who cared about his men's welfare, which had kept things from boiling over until now.
But in this tense standoff where battle could erupt at any moment, as time dragged on pointlessly, the already undisciplined Black Sea Fleet sailors began to break down mentally.
Rozhestvensky was aware of this but couldn't oversee every ship personally, so he ordered his captains to keep the men in line.
Unfortunately, Captain Yevgeni Golikov of the Black Sea Fleet battleship Knyaz Potemkin Tavrichesky—known simply as the Potemkin—wasn't particularly competent. Worse, his executive officer, Commander Ippolit Giliarovsky, was not just incompetent but cruel and tyrannical.
"...You expect us to eat this?"
Sailor Grigory Vakulenchuk of the Potemkin muttered with a face like he might vomit at any second, staring at the rotten meat floating in his morning borscht ration.
He was used to forcing down moldy, maggot-infested salted meat while gagging. But the meat before him now was even worse.
It was blackened to the point where eating it would surely cause illness, and it reeked horribly.
The culprit was the hot Mediterranean weather.
Morocco's sun was still scorching even in autumn after summer's end, rapidly spoiling the meat stored in oak barrels.
A proper captain would have dumped the rotten meat and requisitioned fresh supplies immediately. But Golikov trusted the incompetent surgeon's claim that boiling it would make it fine and let it sit.
His officers, rather than urging him to reconsider, tried to force it on the crew to get rid of it quickly.
The result was the horrific sludge now served to the Russian sailors as borscht.
No, it wasn't fit to be called borscht anymore.
Real borscht should be red or pink. This soup in their bowls had turned a muddy black, like it had been steeped in coal.
Even the sailor ladling it out grimaced with every scoop.
"Fuck this. I'd rather starve than eat that shit."
Vakulenchuk dumped the plague-like soup—unworthy of the name borscht—straight into the sea and stood up.
The other sailors followed suit without hesitation, settling for black bread and water to stave off hunger.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"
The problem was that Executive Officer Giliarovsky—infamous among the crew for his foul temper—spotted them.
He stormed toward Vakulenchuk, the first to toss his borscht.
"Daring to waste rations? Discipline's gone straight to hell!"
"E-Executive Officer, sir. But that's no food for humans. The meat's rotten, and the broth is blacker than sewer sludge!"
"Once it's in your gut, it's all the same! Shut up and get another ladle and eat!"
Vakulenchuk and the Potemkin's crew twisted their faces in grotesque disbelief at Giliarovsky's absurd logic.
Was this man serious?
The sailors couldn't comprehend it.
"...No."
"What?"
"I said no."
Finally, pushed to the brink by shipboard hardships and the endless standoff, Vakulenchuk snapped.
His patience shattered. He glared straight at Giliarovsky—someone he'd never dare meet eyes with before.
Giliarovsky's face flushed purple at the defiance. He believed ships ran only if sailors were treated like dogs, not humans.
"You mutinying against my orders? Get back there and shove that borscht down your throat!"
"If you want us to eat that filth so bad, you eat it first, sir. Then we'll follow."
"Yeah! Lead by example!"
"You trying to feed us something even you won't touch?!"
The crew, already seething with resentment toward Giliarovsky, joined Vakulenchuk's rage, shouting from all sides.
But Giliarovsky refused their demand.
"You bastard!"
Thwack!
He chose his usual method instead.
Violence.
Thud! Thud!
"Daring to defy your executive officer? I'll teach you proper respect for superiors today!"
"Gahk!"
Giliarovsky smashed his fist into Vakulenchuk's face, then kicked the fallen sailor mercilessly on the deck.
Vakulenchuk couldn't even scream properly as blood poured from him.
"Stop it, Executive Officer!"
"He'll die!"
A few officers, fearing this would reach the famously hot-tempered Admiral Rozhestvensky, tried to intervene. But Giliarovsky, still unsatisfied after beating Vakulenchuk senseless, bellowed at the crew.
"Get back and take your rations! Anyone who refuses the borscht will be court-martialed for mutiny and shot!"
"!!!"
The threat of execution froze the sailors.
Of course, an executive officer had no authority to execute subordinates, and Rozhestvensky, strict as he was, had never ordered any. But most Russian sailors were illiterate and wouldn't know that.
"Suka blyat!"
"Think we're pushovers?!"
"We're humans too, you sons of bitches!"
The cold tension on deck ignited into flames of fury.
The sailors surrounded Giliarovsky and the officers, hurling curses and shouts.
"Wh-what?! Back off now!"
Giliarovsky, expecting them to cower at the threat of firing squad, panicked as they surged forward instead. He drew his pistol and aimed at the crowd.
It backfired spectacularly.
"Shoot us! Come on, do it!"
"You... you...!"
Bang!
The pistol pressed to their faces did nothing. Veins bulging on his forehead, Giliarovsky squeezed the trigger.
But before his gun could spit fire and lead, a shot rang out. Giliarovsky clutched his chest, blood pouring, and collapsed on deck.
The sailors turned to see torpedo gunner's mate Afanasy Matyushenko aiming a rifle—likely from the Potemkin's armory—where the executive officer had stood.
"Executive Officer!"
"No...!"
As Giliarovsky died without a scream, nearby officers snapped to and fumbled for their pistols.
But Matyushenko was faster.
Bang! Bang!
More shots. The officers crumpled beside Giliarovsky.
Confirming they were dead, Matyushenko shouted at the stunned sailors.
"Brothers! Join me! We have nothing to lose but our chains—we have a world to gain!"
"Waaaaah!!"
Matyushenko's cry, influenced by socialism spreading like poison in Russia, roused the sailors. They roared in unison and rushed the armory for weapons.
Bloody Vakulenchuk, helped by comrades, staggered up and grabbed Giliarovsky's pistol.
Soon, all 700 aboard the Potemkin—willingly or swept by the mood—joined the mutiny, arming themselves. Hell's gates opened for Captain Golikov and the officers.
The Potemkin Mutiny had begun.
"Or-order! Stop immedia—!"
Bang!
Captain Yevgeni Golikov, enjoying breakfast in his cabin oblivious to the deck chaos, slumped over his desk, shot before finishing his sentence.
The other officers met similar fates.
Enraged sailors unleashed pent-up grievances, slaughtering them mercilessly. The officers barely resisted before turning into cold corpses.
"Hold on, comrades. I'm with you."
Not all officers were killed.
Some, like engineering officer Lieutenant Anton Kovalenko—a commoner popular with the crew and typically socialist-leaning intellectual—joined the mutiny, whether willingly or to survive.
A few surgeons and chaplains were beaten but spared as useful.
"They're fleeing that way!"
"Get 'em!"
Others jumped overboard to escape.
Engineering Lieutenant Nazarov, supply officer Captain Makarov, and midshipman Kalyunni—who feigned cooperation before bolting.
The sailors fired as the three hit the water, but wounded, they swam desperately for other ships.
While most headed for nearby vessels, Midshipman Kalyunni aimed for the fleet flagship Rostislav, distant from the Potemkin, to alert Admiral Rozhestvensky first.
"What in God's name is happening?!"
Admiral Zinovy Rozhestvensky burst from his cabin onto the noisy deck of the Rostislav and yelled at the drenched, shivering rat-like Kalyunni, rescued by his crew.
Kalyunni, sobbing in relief at surviving, cried out to Rozhestvensky.
"Mutiny, sir! Mutiny! The Potemkin's sailors have revolted!"
"What?!"
Mutiny.
The heavy word made Rozhestvensky's head spin. True to habit, he flung his binoculars onto the deck.
"What the hell was Golikov doing?!"
"Th-the entire Potemkin crew mutinied, sir. The captain and other officers are already dead. I barely escaped by pretending to join them."
"Blyat!"
Admiral Rozhestvensky cursed at Kalyunni's report.
This was no small matter.
He knew well the abysmal treatment of Russian sailors.
If mishandled, the Potemkin mutiny could spread across the Black Sea Fleet.
His own flagship's crew, thanks to his presence, merely murmured uneasily. But the other ships were at risk.
"Admiral! The Potemkin's breaking formation!"
"Trying to escape!"
It was inevitable.
The mutiny was spontaneous, not planned.
With surviving officers reaching other ships, the panicked mutineers decided to flee first.
Rozhestvensky couldn't let that happen.
He had to stop the Potemkin—by force if necessary.
"Signal them to surrender... No, first notify the French, British, and German squadrons of our situation."
"Aye!"
It was necessary.
Revealing Russian Navy shame to foreigners grated, but it prevented misunderstandings during suppression.
Creak...
But before signals reached the foreign fleets per Rozhestvensky's order, nearby Russian ships—alerted by escapees like Kalyunni—swung turrets toward the fleeing Potemkin, acting prematurely.
"What the hell are they doing? Order them to stand down!"
Rozhestvensky shouted in alarm at the sight.
BOOM!
But a thunderous cannon blast echoed across the Moroccan coast first.
And that roar reached the nearby French, British, and German fleets clearly.