spitting nails

…imposters of power and liberators of people…

Emelyan Ivanovich Pugachev – 1775

Don Basin, Volga, Kazan, Moscow

There was an air of heightened anticipation as the Boyars and Imperial Bourgeoisie assembled in Bolotnaya Square. Whisperings and stern glances crisscrossed the frosted air. It was the first month of the New Year of the Lord, the dirt was hard as stone, snow and ice held firm where it could. Six weeks of interrogations were about to culminate in a gruesome display. Those who enjoyed blood-letting spectacles were especially eager, as previously Ekaterina Velikaya[1] had outlawed the death penalty. This was to be a most notable exception. The Eastern Enchantress of the Enlightenment had put her esteemed civility on hold to set an example for her country to bear witness.

            In attendance was a who’s who of 18th century military celebrity. Many arrived from the Imperial Court of St Petersburg to the west of Moscow. Others seeking justice and revenge travelled from the sacked ruins of Kazan to the east of Moscow. All took great lengths just to preside over this adjudication in Bolotnaya Square. Present were, her beloved confidant, strategist and soul mate, Grigory Alexandrovich Potemkin as well as her loyal coup-plotter and Director of the Imperial Guard, Grigory Grigoryevich Orlov, both men were irreplaceable pillars to her rise to power. Also, in attendance was the most competent general in history, Alexander Vasilyevich Suvorov, who had never lost a battle and was held aloft upon impervious accolades, having been given the credit for routing the Ottoman Empire from Southern Russia. He remained reserved, calculated and appeared saintly amidst the fallen graces of the day’s proceedings. Pyotr Alexandrovich Rumantsev, the brilliant general stood alert along with the intuitively keen navy upstart Fyodor Fyodorovich Ushakov, who was to soon command Catherine’s own yacht and go on to rout the Ottoman Navy as well as to solidify Potemkin’s new port of Sevastopol on the Crimean Peninsula. This was indeed a special gathering of nobility from the Russian Imperial Court. These were men of power, highly educated and highly capable servants of the Czarina. They had all gathered in Bolotnaya Square to witness the death of a peasant farmer turned Cossack Rebel from the Southern Frontiers of the Don River Basin.

            A bugle salvo harangued the crowd. The Imperial Guard entered the square. The crowd silenced and straightened their postures. Behind them, a rabble of Muscovites, workers, commoners and the like, ceased jostling for a better view. Only the forced air from the nostrils of horses and the slight creaking of the gallows timbers could be heard in the biting January air. The space was controlled and the silence hung. Trumpets and drums filled the silence and preceded the Czarina’s entourage as it methodically took its place among the Imperial podium. After the podium had settled in, Ekaterina Velikaya entered. Slightly behind and to her left was Nikita Ivanovich Panin. This was the statesman that Ekaterina affectionately referred to as her walking encyclopedia. Panin was notoriously jealous of the Orlov brothers yet he was exceptionally studious in diplomatic affairs. It was Panin’s troops that actually captured Pugachev. They managed to turn the tables on Emelyan Ivanovich Pugachev by bribing his close associates into betraying their upstart pretender, their rebel Czar, Peter the III from the Don Basin. The Master of Ceremonies, stood firm and hailed,

‘Repent, ye disgraced Imposter! You who impersonated the deceased Czar of all Russia’s, Peter III, you who claimed to emancipate the serfs, you who sacked endless towns, murdered thousands of clergymen, landowners and countrymen along the Volga, you who subjugated the Russian people and looted their lands, you who burned Kazan to the ground, you the false Liberator who rallied the Cossacks, the Old Believers, the Pechenegs, Bashkirs, Mohammedanians and Kalmyks to your cause and swore to march upon Moscow and then to destroy the Divine Seat of the Imperial Czarina in St Petersburg. Will you, Emelyan Ivanovich Pugachev, repent before this Imperial Court on this 10th day of January 1775?’  

            The hangmen forcibly straightened Pugachev’s spine to enforce his subject’s recognition of the edict against him and prompt his admission. Emelyan Ivanovich was weary and broken from the weeks of endless interrogations. Half of his face was wrapped in linen, covering the eye that had been burned out with molten mercury. His arms were bound behind his back, covering the right hand that had been cut-off and the fingers that had been severed from the left. His appearance was withered and gruesome, his eyes were heavy and as exhausted as old broken coal. There was a half-hearted attempt to cover any evidence from the treatment upon the rack, the very practice which Ekaterina had abolished thirteen years earlier as cruel and unnecessary. She claimed that only lies came from the employment of the rack, but after weeks of insufficient answers she allowed its practitioners their day.

            Emelyan Ivanovich swayed, barely possessing the strength to support his own weight. He stood in limbo, caught between worlds, exhausted by his tribulations. With his brow still lowered his eyes slowly scanned over the rabble gathered at Bolotnaya and further outwards across Moscow’s expanding horizons. He saw the masses crowding the streets behind the square. He smiled defiantly knowing soon he would be relieved by his own demise. He raised his head and fixed his gaze upon the Imperial retinue. Pugachev retorted,

‘Is it I who stand before you, Emelyan Ivanovich Pugachev, dedicated lieutenant who served diligently under Zakhar Grigoryevich Chernyshov on behalf of the true Czar Peter the III’s Army in Prussia during the Seven Years War. Who is the Imposter present in this Court, Princess Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst? Is it I, a native from the Don Basin of the southern Steppes of our Motherland who was born to German blood in Stettin, Pomerania in the Kingdom of Prussia who murdered our true heir to the Throne of All Russia’s? Is it I, who imposed crippling taxes and repressive laws upon our people, destroying the sanctity of the Orthodoxy, banishing the Old Believers, subordinating the Cossacks, devastating the Serfs to taxation and servitude until death, sacrificing all commoners for the expansion of her Empire? Is it I who Liberated our Russian Nobility from military service while for them building palaces, collecting treasures and works of art which benefit only those within the halls of the Winter Palace and Peterhof?’

            The Czarina was infuriated. Steam rose from her corset and slipped past her mink collar. The assembled court on the podium straightened itself with coordinated unison. Horses exhaled, snorting the warmth from their lungs upon the cold contempt of the winter air. Ekaterina employed all her diplomatic graces to hold down the blood from blushing her cheeks and revealing her rage. Instinctively Potemkin placed his hand on the handle of his sword as the court grew visibly agitated. The whisperings towards the rear of the crowd began to rise. The tone from the street began to shift, fickle like gossip on the lips of young lovers. The Master of the Court interjected, ‘Your insubordination and contempt will not go unanswered,’ deferring to the Czarina, he paused, awaiting orders. 

            Ekaterina was taking council in her right ear from Panin. She took the time to cool her demeanour and regain her composure. Nikita Ivanovich withdrew his ear and dipped his chin, in a discernibly modest gesture affirming whatever he had just whispered. It was important that she maintain her graces and that she upheld those distinguished principles of the Enlightenment she so cherished. Grigory Aleksandrovich straightened himself and motioned for the Court Master to proceed.

            ‘Having conducted himself in blasphemy, treason and insurgency this Court sees it appropriate to commence with the execution of Emelyan Ivanovich Pugachev. Hangmen prepare the criminal.’ announced the Court Master. 

            Unable to understand how an illiterate peasant Cossack from the uncivilized southern Steppes could muster such a significant rebellion against her throne was too much for Ekaterina to bear. Being insulted before the court was not something she could tolerate.

            ‘You are a charlatan and an imposter and a mass murder of your countrymen. You have destroyed whole cities and betrayed your people. You spit on the face of the Divine Powers entrusted to this Court by God,’ Ekaterina stated in a measured tone.

            Emelyan leaned to his left, where a nail protruded from one of the vertical timbers of the gallows. He opened his mouth and bit down on the nail. The cracking of his teeth could be heard towards the rear of the crowd. Barely grimacing, he pulled on the nail, breaking off a tooth to do so. In one motion he swept his head towards the podium spitting the nail, his broken tooth and a mess of bloody saliva at Ekaterina. ‘I spit at the face of our true Foreign Imposter and the Enlightened Liberator of our people who sits upon the throne of All Russia’s.’

            Ekaterina was incensed at the defiance. She could not contain her graceful airs any longer. ‘Have him quartered and beheaded and post his limbs in the four corners of Moscow so that the people might witness the fate of imposter heretics who defy the Divine Will of the throne,’ she proclaimed, as she adjusted herself and exited the square.

            The hangman and the standing guards began to remove the noose from Emelyan’s neck, bring forward the horses, and secure his limbs to four separate ropes. The crowd began to unbind their voices in Ekaterina’s absence. Commoners discussed the ramifications of what they had witnessed and pondered the gruesome spectacle that was about to happen. Would Emelyan be spared the pain of being physically torn apart? Would the executioner have mercy and severe his head before his limbs were torn from his torso? It was common practice to decapitate a quartered soul prior to the final ripping off of the limbs to spare the condemned the extra minutes of grueling pain before death. The coordinated effort of the gruesome preparation was soon fixed. Soldiers and horses stood taught, then they slowly inched forwards in their respective directions as Emelyan’s body began to lift off the ground.

            Not only was Emelyan’s fate sealed to a brutal ending, but Ekaterina was also hardened. In the coming years Ekaterina would continue to exercise a form of silent revenge against the Old Believers, the Serfs and the people of the Southern Steppes. She was forever incensed at anyone she deemed sympathetic towards the motivating factors of a rebellion that she so struggled to comprehend. She exacted a measure of forgiveness for the Don Cossacks as they served a vital utility with the esteemed Imperial military in her wars of conquest and expansion. Emancipation of the serfs was now bitterly swept under the long dusty rugs of time. Under the surface of her enlightened reign, the souls of the tormented continued to broil with social afflictions and spiritual aspirations.

[1] Translated in Russian Velikaya means Great. Ekaterina Velikaya is Catharine the Great or Catharine II.