John Beatty - "The Citizen Soldier"

James Boswell - "No Abolition of Slavery"

George MacDonald - "The Elect Lady"

Mark Akenside - "Poetical Works of Akenside"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Ten Days That Shook the World

J >> John Reed >> Ten Days That Shook the World




Two questions seemed to be uppermost in all minds, shocked by the
ferocity of the civil war; first, a truce to the bloodshed (See App.
IX, Sect. 3)-second, the creation of a new Government. There was no
longer any talk of "destroying the Bolsheviki"-and very little about
excluding them from the Government, except from the Populist
Socialists and the Peasants' Soviets. Even the Central Army
Committee at the _Stavka,_ the most determined enemy of Smolny,
telephoned from Moghilev: "If, to constitute the new Ministry, it is
necessary to come to an understanding with the Bolsheviki, we agree
to admit them _in a minority_ to the Cabinet."

_Pravda,_ ironically calling attention to Kerensky's "humanitarian
sentiments," published his despatch to the Committee for Salvation:

In accord with the proposals of the Committee for Salvation and all
the democratic organisations united around it, I have halted all
military action against the rebels. A delegate of the Committee has
been sent to enter into negotiations. Take all measures to stop the
useless shedding of blood.

The _Vikzhel_ sent a telegram to all Russia:

The Conference of the Union of Railway Workers with the
representatives of both the belligerent parties, who admit the
necessity of an agreement, protest energetically against the use of
political terrorism in the civil war, especially when it is carried
on between different factions of the revolutionary democracy, and
declare that political terrorism, in whatever form, is in
contradiction to the very idea of the negotiations for a new
Government....

[Graphic page-227 Leaflet ]

Popular leaflet sold in the streets just after the Bolshevik
insurrection, containing rhymes and jokes about the defeated
bourgeoisie and the "moderate" Socialist leaders, Called, "How THE
BOORZHUI (BOURGEOISIE) LOST THE POWER."

Delegations from the Conference were sent to the Front, to Gatchina.
In the Conference itself everything seemed on the point of final
settlement. It had even been decided to elect a Provisional People's
Council, composed of about four hundred members-seventy-five
representing Smolny, seventy-five the old _Tsay-ee-kah,_ and the
rest split up among the Town Dumas, the Trade Unions, Land
Committees and political parties. Tchernov was mentioned as the new
Premier. Lenin and Trotzky, rumour said, were to be excluded....

About noon I was again in front of Smolny, talking with the driver
of an ambulance bound for the revolutionary front. Could I go with
him? Certainly! He was a volunteer, a University student, and as we
rolled down the street shouted over his shoulder to me phrases of
execrable German: _"Also, gut! Wir nach die Kasernen zu essen
gehen!"_ I made out that there would be lunch at some barracks.

On the Kirotchnaya we turned into an immense courtyard surrounded by
military buildings, and mounted a dark stairway to a low room lit by
one window. At a long wooden table were seated some twenty soldiers,
eating _shtchi_ (cabbage soup) from a great tin wash-tub with wooden
spoons, and talking loudly with much laughter.

"Welcome to the Battalion Committee of the Sixth Reserve Engineers'
Battalion!" cried my friend, and introduced me as an American
Socialist. Whereat every one rose to shake my hand, and one old
soldier put his arms around me and gave me a hearty kiss. A wooden
spoon was produced and I took my place at the table. Another tub,
full of _kasha,_ was brought in, a huge loaf of black bread, and of
course the inevitable tea-pots. At once every one began asking me
questions about America: Was it true that people in a free country
sold their votes for _money?_ If so, how did they get what they
wanted? How about this "Tammany"? Was it true that in a free country
a little group of people could control a whole city, and exploited
it for their personal benefit? Why did the people stand it? Even
under the Tsar such things could not happen in Russia; true, here
there was always graft, but to buy and sell a whole city full of
people! And in a free country! Had the people no revolutionary
feeling? I tried to explain that in my country people tried to
change things by law.

"Of course," nodded a young sergeant, named Baklanov, who spoke
French. "But you have a highly developed capitalist class? Then the
capitalist class must control the legislatures and the courts. How
then can the people change things? I am open to conviction, for I do
not know your country; but to me it is incredible...."

I said that I was going to Tsarskoye Selo. "I, too," said Baklanov,
suddenly. "And I-and I-" The whole roomful decided on the spot to go
to Tsarskoye Selo.

Just then came a knock on the door. It opened, and in it stood the
figure of the Colonel. No one rose, but all shouted a greeting. "May
I come in?" asked the Colonel. "_Prosim! Prosim!_" they answered
heartily. He entered, smiling, a tall, distinguished figure in a
goat-skin cape embroidered with gold. "I think I heard you say that
you were going to Tsarskoye Selo, comrades," he said. "Could I go
with you?"

Baklanov considered. "I do not think there is anything to be done
here to-day," he answered. "Yes, comrade, we shall be very glad to
have you." The Colonel thanked him and sat down, filling a glass of
tea.

In a low voice, for fear of wounding the Colonel's pride, Baklanov
explained to me. "You see, I am the chairman of the Committee. We
control the Battalion absolutely, except in action, when the Colonel
is delegated by us to command. In action his orders must be obeyed,
but he is strictly responsible to us. In barracks he must ask our
permission before taking any action.... You might call him our
Executive Officer...."

Arms were distributed to us, revolvers and rifles-"we might meet
some Cossacks, you know"-and we all piled into the ambulance,
together with three great bundles of newspapers for the front.
Straight down the Liteiny we rattled, and along the Zagorodny
Prospekt. Next to me sat a youth with the shoulder-straps of a
Lieutenant, who seemed to speak all European languages with equal
fluency. He was a member of the Battalion Committee.

"I am not a Bolshevik," he assured me, emphatically. "My family is a
very ancient and noble one. I, myself, am, you might say, a Cadet...."

"But how--?" I began, bewildered.

"Oh, yes, I am a member of the Committee. I make no secret of my
political opinions, but the others do not mind, because they know I
do not believe in opposing the will of the majority.... I have refused
to take any action in the present civil war, however, for I do not
believe in taking up arms against my brother Russians...."

"Provocator! Kornilovitz!" the others cried at him gaily, slapping
him on the shoulder....

Passing under the huge grey stone archway of the Moskovsky Gate,
covered with golden hieroglyphics, ponderous Imperial eagles and the
names of Tsars, we sped out on the wide straight highway, grey with
the first light fall of snow. It was thronged with Red Guards,
stumbling along on foot toward the revolutionary front, shouting and
singing; and others, greyfaced and muddy, coming back. Most of them
seemed to be mere boys. Women with spades, some with rifles and
bandoleers, others wearing the Red Cross on their arm-bands-the
bowed, toil-worm women of the slums. Squads of soldiers marching out
of step, with an affectionate jeer for the Red Guards; sailors,
grim-looking; children with bundles of food for their fathers and
mothers; all these, coming and going, trudged through the whitened
mud that covered the cobbles of the highway inches deep. We passed
cannon, jingling southward with their caissons; trucks bound both
ways, bristling with armed men; ambulances full of wounded from the
direction of the battle, and once a peasant cart, creaking slowly
along, in which sat a white-faced boy bent over his shattered
stomach and screaming monotonously. In the fields on either side
women and old men were digging trenches and stringing barbed wire
entanglements.

Back northward the clouds rolled away dramatically, and the pale sun
came out. Across the flat, marshy plain Petrograd glittered. To the
right, white and gilded and coloured bulbs and pinnacles; to the
left, tall chimneys, some pouring out black smoke; and beyond, a
lowering sky over Finland. On each side of us were churches,
monasteries.... Occasionally a monk was visible, silently watching the
pulse of the proletarian army throbbing on the road.

At Pulkovo the road divided, and there we halted in the midst of a
great crowd, where the human streams poured from three directions,
friends meeting, excited and congratulatory, describing the battle
to one another. A row of houses facing the cross-roads was marked
with bullets, and the earth was trampled into mud half a mile
around. The fighting had been furious here.... In the near distance
riderless Cossack horses circled hungrily, for the grass of the
plain had died long ago. Right in front of us an awkward Red Guard
was trying to ride one, falling off again and again, to the
childlike delight of a thousand rough men.

The left road, along which the remnants of the Cossacks had
retreated, led up a little hill to a hamlet, where there was a
glorious view of the immense plain, grey as a windless sea,
tumultuous clouds towering over, and the imperial city disgorging
its thousands along all the roads. Far over to the left lay the
little hill of Kranoye Selo, the parade-ground of the Imperial
Guards' summer camp, and the Imperial Dairy. In the middle distance
nothing broke the flat monotony but a few walled monasteries and
convents, some isolated factories, and several large buildings with
unkempt grounds that were asylums and orphanages....

"Here," said the driver, as we went on over a barren hill, "here was
where Vera Slutskaya died. Yes, the Bolshevik member of the Duma. It
happened early this morning. She was in an automobile, with Zalkind
and another man. There was a truce, and they started for the front
trenches. They were talking and laughing, when all of a sudden, from
the armoured train in which Kerensky himself was riding, somebody
saw the automobile and fired a cannon. The shell struck Vera
Slutskaya and killed her...."

And so we came into Tsarskoye, all bustling with the swaggering
heroes of the proletarian horde. Now the palace where the Soviet had
met was a busy place. Red Guards and sailors filled the court-yard,
sentries stood at the doors, and a stream of couriers and Commissars
pushed in and out. 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. In the same ornate,
white room some Red Guards were rummaging curiously around, while my
old friend, the Colonel, stood by the window biting his moustache.
He greeted me like a long-lost brother. At a table near the door sat
the French Bessarabian. The Bolsheviki had ordered him to remain,
and continue his work.

"What could I do?" he muttered. "People like myself cannot fight on
either side in such a war as this, no matter how much we may
instinctively dislike the dictatorship of the mob.... I only regret
that I am so far from my mother in Bessarabia!"

Baklanov was formally taking over the office from the Commandant.
"Here," said the Colonel nervously, "are the keys to the desk."

A Red Guard interrupted. "Where's the money?" he asked rudely. The
Colonel seemed surprised. "Money? Money? Ah, you mean the chest.
There it is," said the Colonel, "just as I found it when I took
possession three days ago. Keys?" The Colonel shrugged. "I have no
keys."

The Red Guard sneered knowingly. "Very convenient," he said.

"Let us open the chest," said Baklanov. "Bring an axe. Here is an
American comrade. Let him smash the chest open, and write down what
he finds there."

I swung the axe. The wooden chest was empty.

"Let's arrest him," said the Red Guard, venomously. "He is
Kerensky's man. He has stolen the money and given it to Kerensky."

Baklanov did not want to. "Oh, no," he said. "It was the Kornilovitz
before him. He is not to blame.

"The devil!" cried the Red Guard. "He is Kerensky's man, I tell you.
If _you_ won't arrest him, then _we_ will, and we'll take him to
Petrograd and put him in Peter-Paul, where he belongs!" At this the
other Red Guards growled assent. With a piteous glance at us the
Colonel was led away....

Down in front of the Soviet palace an auto-truck was going to the
front. Half a dozen Red Guards, some sailors, and a soldier or two,
under command of a huge workman, clambered in, and shouted to me to
come along. Red Guards issued from headquarters, each of them
staggering under an arm-load of small, corrugated-iron bombs, filled
with _grubit_-which, they say, is ten times as strong, and five
times as sensitive as dynamite; these they threw into the truck. A
three-inch cannon was loaded and then tied onto the tail of the
truck with bits of rope and wire.

We started with a shout, at top speed of course; the heavy truck
swaying from side to side. The cannon leaped from one wheel to the
other, and the _grubit_ bombs went rolling back and forth over our
feet, fetching up against the sides of the car with a crash.

The big Red Guard, whose name was Vladimir Nicolaievitch, plied me
with questions about America. "Why did America come into the war?
Are the American workers ready to throw over the capitalists? What
is the situation in the Mooney case now? Will they extradite Berkman
to San Francisco?" and other, very difficult to answer, all
delivered in a shout above the roaring of the truck, while we held
on to each other and danced amid the caroming bombs.

Occasionally a patrol tried to stop us. Soldiers ran out into the
road before us, shouted _"Shtoi!"_ and threw up their guns.

We paid no attention. "The devil take you!" cried the Red Guards.
"We don't stop for anybody! We're Red Guards!" And we thundered
imperiously on, while Vladimir Nicolaievitch bellowed to me about
the internationalisation of the Panama Canal, and such matters....

About five miles out we saw a squad of sailors marching back, and
slowed down.

"Where's the front, brothers?"

The foremost sailor halted and scratched his head. "This morning,"
he said, "it was about half a kilometer down the road. But the damn
thing isn't anywhere now. We walked and walked and walked, but we
couldn't find it."

They climbed into the truck, and we proceeded. It must have been
about a mile further that Vladimir Nicolaievitch cocked his ear and
shouted to the chauffeur to stop.

"Firing!" he said. "Do you hear it?" For a moment dead silence, and
then, a little ahead and to the left, three shots in rapid
succession. Along here the side of the road was heavily wooded. Very
much excited now, we crept along, speaking in whispers, until the
truck was nearly opposite the place where the firing had come from.
Descending, we spread out, and every man carrying his rifle, went
stealthily into the forest.

Two comrades, meanwhile, detached the cannon and slewed it around
until it aimed as nearly as possible at our backs.

It was silent in the woods. The leaves were gone, and the
tree-trunks were a pale wan colour in the low, sickly autumn sun.
Not a thing moved, except the ice of little woodland pools shivering
under our feet. Was it an ambush?

We went uneventfully forward until the trees began to thin, and
paused. Beyond, in a little clearing, three soldiers sat around a
small fire, perfectly oblivious.

Vladimir Nicolaievitch stepped forward. _"Zra'zvuitye,_ comrades!"
he greeted, while behind him one cannon, twenty rifles and a
truck-load of _grubit_ bombs hung by a hair. The soldiers scrambled
to their feet.

"What was the shooting going on around here?"

One of the soldiers answered, looking relieved, "Why we were just
shooting a rabbit or two, comrade...."

The truck hurtled on toward Romanov, through the bright, empty day.
At the first cross-roads two soldiers ran out in front of us, waving
their rifles. We slowed down, and stopped.

"Passes, comrades!"

The Red Guards raised a great clamour. "We are Red Guards. We don't
need any passes.... Go on, never mind them!"

But a sailor objected. "This is wrong, comrades. We must have
revolutionary discipline. Suppose some counterrevolutionaries came
along in a truck and said: 'We don't need any passes?' The comrades
don't know you."

At this there was a debate. One by one, however, the sailors and
soldiers joined with the first. Grumbling, each Red Guard produced
his dirty _bumaga_ (paper). All were alike except mine, which had
been issued by the Revolutionary Staff at Smolny. The sentries
declared that I must go with them. The Red Guards objected
strenuously, but the sailor who had spoken first insisted. "This
comrade we know to be a true comrade," he said. "But there are
orders of the Committee, and these orders must be obeyed. That is
revolutionary discipline...."

In order not to make any trouble, I got down from the truck, and
watched it disappear careening down the road, all the company waving
farewell. The soldiers consulted in low tones for a moment, and then
led me to a wall, against which they placed me. It flashed upon me
suddenly; they were going to shoot me!

In all three directions not a human being was in sight. The only
sign of life was smoke from the chimney of a _datchya,_ a rambling
wooden house a quarter of a mile up the side road. The two soldiers
were walking out into the road. Desperately I ran after them.

"But comrades! See! Here is the seal of the Military Revolutionary
Committee!"

They stared stupidly at my pass, then at each other.

"It is different from the others," said one, sullenly. "We cannot
read, brother."

I took him by the arm. "Come!" I said. "Let's go to that house. Some
one there can surely read." They hesitated. "No," said one. The
other looked me over. "Why not?" he muttered. "After all, it is a
serious crime to kill an innocent man."

We walked up to the front door of the house and knocked. A short,
stout woman opened it, and shrank back in alarm, babbling, "I don't
know anything about them! I don't know anything about them!" One of
my guards held out the pass. She screamed. "Just to read it,
comrade." Hesitatingly she took the paper and read aloud, swiftly:

The bearer of this pass, John Reed, is a representative of the
American Social-Democracy, an internationalist....

Out on the road again the two soldiers held another consultation.
"We must take you to the Regimental Committee," they said. In the
fast-deepening twilight we trudged along the muddy road.
Occasionally we met squads of soldiers, who stopped and surrounded
me with looks of menace, handling my pass around and arguing
violently as to whether or not I should be killed....

It was dark when we came to the barracks of the Second Tsarskoye
Selo Rifles, low sprawling buildings huddled along the post-road. A
number of soldiers slouching at the entrance asked eager questions.
A spy? A provocator? We mounted a winding stair and emerged into a
great, bare room with a huge stove in the centre, and rows of cots
on the floor, where about a thousand soldiers were playing cards,
talking, singing, and asleep. In the roof was a jagged hole made by
Kerensky's cannon....

I stood in the doorway, and a sudden silence ran among the groups,
who turned and stared at me. Of a sudden they began to move, slowly
and then with a rush, thundering, with faces full of hate.
"Comrades! Comrades!" yelled one of my guards. "Committee!
Committee!" The throng halted, banked around me, muttering. Out of
them shouldered a lean youth, wearing a red arm-band.

"Who is this?" he asked roughly. The guards explained. "Give me the
paper!" He read it carefully, glancing at me with keen eyes. Then he
smiled and handed me the pass. "Comrades, this is an American
comrade. I am Chairman of the Committee, and I welcome you to the
Regiment...." A sudden general buzz grew into a roar of greeting, and
they pressed forward to shake my hand.

"You have not dined? Here we have had our dinner. You shall go to
the Officers' Club, where there are some who speak your language...."

He led me across the court-yard to the door of another building. An
aristocratic-looking youth, with the shoulder straps of a
Lieutenant, was entering. The Chairman presented me, and shaking
hands, went back.

"I am Stepan Georgevitch Morovsky, at your service," said the
Lieutenant, in perfect French. From the ornate entrance hall a
ceremonial staircase led upward, lighted by glittering lustres. On
the second floor billiard-rooms, card-rooms, a library opened from
the hall. We entered the dining-room, at a long table in the centre
of which sat about twenty officers in full uniform, wearing their
gold- and silver-handled swords, the ribbons and crosses of Imperial
decorations. All rose politely as I entered, and made a place for me
beside the Colonel, a large, impressive man with a grizzled beard.
Orderlies were deftly serving dinner. The atmosphere was that of any
officers' mess in Europe. Where was the Revolution?

"You are not Bolsheviki?" I asked Morovsky.

A smile went around the table, but I caught one or two glancing
furtively at the orderly.

"No," answered my friend. "There is only one Bolshevik officer in
this regiment. He is in Petrograd to-night. The Colonel is a
Menshevik. Captain Kherlov there is a Cadet. I myself am a Socialist
Revolutionary of the right wing.... I should say that most of the
officers in the Army are not Bolsheviki, but like me they believe in
democracy; they believe that they must follow the soldier-masses...."

Dinner over, maps were brought, and the Colonel spread them out on
the table. The rest crowded around to see.

"Here," said the Colonel, pointing to pencil marks, "were our
positions this morning. Vladimir Kyrilovitch, where is your company?"

Captain Kherlov pointed. "According to orders, we occupied the
position along this road. Karsavin relieved me at five o'clock."

Just then the door of the room opened, and there entered the
Chairman of the Regimental Committee, with another soldier. They
joined the group behind the Colonel, peering at the map. map. | |

"Good," said the Colonel. "Now the Cossacks have fallen back ten
kilometres in our sector. I do not think it is necessary to take up
advanced positions. Gentlemen, for to-night you will hold the
present line, strengthening the positions by--"

"If you please," interrupted the Chairman of the Regimental
Committee. "The orders are to advance with all speed, and prepare to
engage the Cossacks north of Gatchina in the morning. A crushing
defeat is necessary. Kindly make the proper dispositions."

There was a short silence. The Colonel again turned to the map.
"Very well," he said, in a different voice. "Stepan Georgevitch, you
will please--" Rapidly tracing lines with a blue pencil, he gave his
orders, while a sergeant made shorthand notes. The sergeant then
withdrew, and ten minutes later returned with the orders
typewritten, and one carbon copy. The Chairman of the Committee
studied the map with a copy of the orders before him.

"All right," he said, rising. Folding the carbon copy, he put it in
his pocket. Then he signed the other, stamped it with a round seal
taken from his pocket, and presented it to the Colonel....

Here was the Revolution!

I returned to the Soviet palace in Tsarskoye in the Regimental Staff
automobile. Still the crowds of workers, soldiers and sailors
pouring in and out, still the choking press of trucks, armoured
cars, cannon before the door, and the shouting, the laughter of
unwonted victory. Half a dozen Red Guards forced their way through,
a priest in the middle. This was Father Ivan, they said, who had
blessed the Cossacks when they entered the town. I heard afterward
that he was shot.... (See App. IX, Sect. 4)

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