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6. The Dacsvillin Rising

The picturesque walled city of Dacsvillin in the western plains of Dubitania was predominantly German-speaking, and indeed was more commonly known to most of its inhabitants as Dachsenfeld. Though the architecture was medieval, attitudes were modern and the socialist movement there had a particularly strong hold on the majority community. The surrounding province, by contrast, was thickly covered with small villages full of peasants of lukewarm Royalist sympathies who spoke Latio, an old Dubitanian dialect said to have its roots in the common speech of ancient Roman soldiers. There had been a degree of tension between the communities for many years, and this was exacerbated when the growing population of the Latio quarter of the city began to spill over into traditionally German districts.

In response to the threat which they felt this posed, the German Socialists now set up a volunteer militia, and began to stockpile rifles and other armaments. This provoked some concern, and there were a few small incidents: some windows broken, some bruises and black eyes; but the socialist militia acted with restraint, no-one was shot, complaints were given a hearing, and after a few weeks things seemed to be calming down.

At this least opportune moment, the government decided that it was losing control of the city, and that the militia should be disbanded and its arsenal seized, by force if necessary. Having made a proclamation to this effect, the government waited another month before sending a detachment of soldiers to enforce it.

The militia was not prepared to surrender its arms so easily, however; it mobilised and the ancient city gates were closed for the first time in three hundred years. Meeting in the Gästhaus Hoffmann, the excited committee issued a thirty-four point declaration calling, among other things, for the abolition of the monarchy, comprehensive land reform, the introduction of income tax, and the recognition of German and (an afterthought) Latio as official languages.

Unexpectedly, the Latio population of the city rallied to the cause, and the earlier hostilities were put completely aside for the time being. Meanwhile, the Royal forces were taken aback to find the city gates closed and armed men on the mouldering battlements. Uncertain of how to proceed, they left the city to its own devices for the time being, and fell back on a neighbouring town to await further orders. Emboldened by this timorous and indecisive behaviour, the socialist committee sent out a general call to arms, inviting the whole of Dubitania to rally to their standard and depose King Francis forthwith.

According to Mischkoff’s account, my father was actually in Dacsvillin at this time (drawn there by some mysterious revolutionary sixth sense, presumably) and was largely responsible for the drafting of the Hoffmann Declaration (though why German-speaking socialists would have entrusted a Dubitanian-speaking Communist with this task is hard to conjecture).

In fact, when the Dubitanian party debated the Dacsvillin situation, my father was against getting involved in any way.

“This is not the revolution,” he insisted, “This is an incident. Conditions are not yet right. The militia should be told to hide its arms and go underground. This is a time for keeping their powder dry, not for insurrection.”

“Comrade Larvartin makes many good points,” said Pavari from the chair, twisting his wrinkled face into a malicious grimace, “He observes that these people are Germans, nothing to us. He counsels that we keep ourselves safe. I respect these sentiments, but they are not revolutionary sentiments. On the contrary I believe it is up to us to display leadership in this crisis, and I therefore call for a show of solidarity with the emergent struggle in Dacsvillin. We must seize the moment, comrades.”

“I think we should consult Moscow before taking any precipitate action.” suggested Stilin, with an edge of sarcasm – it was normally Pavari who insisted on taking instructions from Moscow at every turn.

“Moscow is ready for us to send a fraternal delegation to Dacsvillin.” said Pavari, untruthfully. “The Committee and I have already discussed the matter and decided to give Comrade Larvartin the honour of leading our party.

In fact Pavari had received instructions from Moscow saying that the Dubitanian party was on no account to soil its hands by supporting the misguided adventurism of the Dacsvillin socialists. But he thought that if he could get my father embroiled, the outcome could only be good. Ideally, my father would be killed or imprisoned. Alternatively, he could be represented to the Russian Party authorities as having rashly embarked on a forbidden venture. At worst, if the revolt was a success, and the Russians decided they approved of it after all, Pavari himself could claim the credit

My father shook his head, but he was obliged to go along with the majority of his comrades, who supported Pavari’s line. The communists made arrangements to arm themselves and discussed what their strategy should be.

“We should bring in supplies as fast as we can, but stay out of the city and remain mobile,” said my father, “We can do far more good harassing the Royalists than sitting in Dacsvillin eating the socialists’ food.”

“That would be good reasoning if there were to be a siege, comrade,” said Pavari, “But the flame lit in Dacsvillin will soon spread across the land. Within a few weeks there will be a general uprising, spreading far beyond the walls of Dacsvillin. You will be back in Sescastri within a month, I promise you.”

So my father and his small band of revolutionaries made their way west; at first, rather absurdly, on a train, with guns carried more or less openly in their luggage. At the village of Neudorfli, they disembarked, took out their rifles and continued on foot. They met no opposition of any kind, but passed many groups of Dacsvilliners going in the opposite direction, taking the opportunity to escape from the conflict before the army came back: monarchists, rightists, and many apolitical citizens. They reached the city walls without incident and identified themselves at the great Marien Gate, a famous work featuring a magnificent carved representation of the twelve apostles. Inside they were warmly welcomed, and found that the reduction in the number of people within the city caused by those who had fled had been more than made up by the incoming supporters of the Declaration: there were representatives of every radical party and faction in Dubitania. Not many of these people shared my father’s realism; most of them felt an excited optimism that this, at last, could truly be the beginning of a proper revolution. My father said it was like some huge party at first, with lively debates, old friendships renewed and enmities healed, and prodigious amounts of drinking. And talking.

“My God, they talked.” he told me, “As if their tongues were being cut out tomorrow, as my grandmother used to say. Hardly anything was done to repair the city walls or bring in supplies and ammunition while we still had chance, but every point of the socialist programme was debated to the point of exhaustion and beyond. Most of them were University types, of course, like my poor brother. A dozen common workers would have been more use, in my opinion, but of course the common workers had more sense than to get involved.”

Now the army, having been told to get on with it, reappeared. The commander, a weary old general named Cavallin, posted guards on each of the city gates and attempted to negotiate a surrender. He pointed out that the rising had no support in the rest of the country and would get no help: meanwhile he was prepared to wait for as long as it took to starve them out. He wanted to avoid bloodshed if possible, but weapons must be surrendered and the militia must disband. He hinted that he did not really care whether all the weapons were surrendered so long as a reasonable show of compliance was made. The members of the Socialist Committee must be surrendered to him, but he undertook to ensure that they would be exiled, not killed.

My father thought the terms were reasonable – or at least a basis for discussion – but he was in a minority of one. Porfri Essedrin, who had been caught up by the general revolutionary fervour, told him that to hand comrades over to the reactionary forces was unthinkable. When it came to it, he declared, he knew my father would have been unable to do it, and he, Porfri, would rather die himself than contemplate such a thing.

There now followed two weeks of dull inaction. One day, a sentry on the eastern battlements shouted down that a party of men was approaching rapidly along the main road. At first the confused defenders thought that this might be some kind of surprise attack; but then the group of men approaching along the road unfurled a large red banner. At this point Cavallin’s idle guards, eyeing the approaching party with alarm, picked up their guns and bolted. The defenders were reluctant to open the gates at first, fearing a trick, but Porfri Essedrin, who had been peering carefully down the road, shouted to the gatekeeper that these were friends.

It was none other than Pavari, with the remainder of the Sescastri communists. Shortly after my father’s departure, a message from Moscow had arrived reversing the earlier directive about Dacsvillin; more decisively, Pavari had read three newspaper articles which all described my father as ‘leader’ of the Dubitanian communists. Pavari had decided at once that he must take charge of events personally.

After this brief distraction, the uneventful course of the siege resumed. The excitement had dissipated, the wine was all drunk. At first the main threat had appeared to be boredom, but it now became clear that even if a system of rationing was belatedly introduced, the food supplies would not last much more than two weeks more. As morale began to sink, the German-speakers began to complain again about their Latio allies and their hungry Dubitanian friends.

Inevitably a meeting was called to air these issues. First it had to be clarified that although this appeared to be a meeting of the socialist committee with non-voting fraternal delegates, it was in fact a meeting of the Ad Hoc Co-ordinating Committee of the Front for Defence of the Declaration. Then, once a skeleton constitution had been summarily ratified, a report from the protocol sub-committee received, a digression on the true nature of socialist pragmatism been suppressed, and three challenges to the Chairman’s interpretation of correct procedure overturned, substantive business could be attended to.

Hausser, in the chair, gave a lengthy introduction in heavily accented Dubitanian, explaining eventually that in response to certain criticisms which had been levelled at the fraternal supporters in solidarity with the Hoffmann Declaration, the Communists had come forward with a proposal. He looked around rather vaguely for Pavari, but instead my father stood up and raised one hand. Hausser looked slightly puzzled but offered no objection.

This was a challenging situation for my father: he had to try to win round people with whom he had little real sympathy, who in turn harboured suspicions and resentments against him and his comrades, and do it in what was to most of them a foreign language. He kept his words simple, which was always his inclination anyway. He began by giving a stirring commendation of the blow which had been struck against monarchy and oppression by everyone present; he flattered the socialists in particular extravagantly. His audience settled down. But now, he said, they needed to consolidate and strengthen their position, and they needed to prepare frustration for the forces of reaction.

First they needed to reduce the population by finding a way for the remaining women, children, and other non-combatants to escape. He had identified a couple of routes by which it might be possible for small parties to get past the surrounding army in relative safety, and he recommended active pursuit of this possibility. Second, they must pool their resources and institute proper egalitarian rationing. To start matters off, he and his comrades had a warehouse which they had stuffed full of dry and preserved food while the army was still loitering elsewhere: this he put unreservedly in the hands of the Committee. Thirdly, a team should be appointed to inspect the walls, organise repairs where necessary, and consider how best to exploit the fortifications.

All this was well received, especially the donation. There was actually a deeper purpose behind my father’s proposals. He had come to the conclusion that the most promising way to end the whole affair was for the besieged to gradually escape in small numbers until the city was effectively evacuated. He thought it likely that Cavallin might turn a blind eye to this process; the problem was persuading the defenders to adopt so anti-climactic a solution. My father thought that no-one would object to the idea of establishing an escape route for the remaining women and children; and once it was available, others would gradually choose to use it as things got worse, so that his solution would be implemented in practice without ever being agreed in principle.

The meeting was settling down to debate the details of the rationing system when Pavari, furious and red-faced, appeared. It seemed he had somehow been locked in his bedroom, and was enraged to find that my father had usurped his item on the agenda.

My father apologised with a smile: what else could he have done in Pavari’s absence?

“I simply asked myself – what would Comrade Pavari have said in these circumstances,” he remarked, “You were my guide and model, comrade, as always.”

Pavari took the floor and declared that on behalf of the Party he withdrew everything Comrade Larvartin had said. This caused immediate confusion, but ploughing ahead regardless, Pavari now made the proposal he had intended to put forward in the first place: in response to the concerns which had been expressed, the Communists would demonstrate their value by leading a sortie from the Marien Gate and lifting the siege.

This did not go down as well as he had expected. One reason was the manner of its delivery, which made it seem more aggressive than conciliatory; another was that certain members of his audience were trying to work out whether Pavari had just withdrawn my father’s food supplies (of which Pavari knew nothing) as well as his words; but the main reason was that everyone knew an attack on the army without external support was completely futile. The meeting broke up in disorder, with nothing formally agreed.

Nevertheless, over the course of the next few days my father’s proposals were gradually implemented. Pavari at first opposed the introduction of rationing on some obscure point of principle, but was forced into grudging acquiescence. At the same time, he prepared his own adventure. He had a few volunteers from among the more hot-headed socialists, in addition to which all of the communists were to take part except my father and his two close friends. They had agreed instead to create a diversion on the western walls and then help cover the retreat of Pavari and his band.

“What retreat?” demanded Pavari.

Porfri Essedrin was not altogether happy about being excluded from the sortie, but my father told him he would certainly find a way for him to die gloriously on the walls.

Finally the chosen day arrived. My father and his friends began the operation by firing burning arrows into the two large bell-tents occupied by the besiegers in the fortified outpost which had been set up to command the western gates: then when the enemy were swarming around attempting to deal with the fires they opened the gates and fired an ancient cannon they had dragged into position and loaded with pieces of scrap iron. The effect was devastating, and the remaining soldiers on the western road abruptly ran away.

“It seems Comrade Pavari was correct after all,” remarked my father drily to Lucas Stilin, “it looks as if the three of us have defeated the Royalists and lifted the siege already.”

The three heroes ventured cautiously out to the deserted outpost where the remains of the two tents were still burning and found to their surprise that the heavy machine gun mounted there to cover the gates had been left behind. They called for help and succeeded in bringing it, together with several boxes of ammunition, back within the walls. They were just returning with the last of the boxes when Stilin spotted Royalist cavalry in the distance. As the Royalists charged towards the gates, the ancient cannon was fired once more: again the attack was halted with tremendous destruction and the remaining cavalry limped away.

“Gentlemen,” said my father, “One more venture?”

Pausing only to reload the cannon, they ventured out a third time to the Royalist outpost; Porfri Essedrin thought they should go further, but my father thought their time could be better spent. In the distance a full column of infantry was visible advancing towards them, and they fell back quickly to the gate.

The column of infantry paused at the outpost to regroup, and was taken by surprise when the explosives set up by my father and his friends exploded. Half the earth wall which formed the main part of the fortifications was destroyed, and many of the soldiers were killed or wounded. Their commander could see that the city gates were standing open, and thirsting for revenge, he rallied his men and charged. The old cannon fired once again, mowing down the royalist soldiers in great numbers; but this time they persisted. Stilin was hit in the left arm by a rifle shot before the gates could be closed once more.

“Perhaps now we could try out the machine gun they so kindly left for us?” suggested my father, “I really think we could keep this up a little longer, gentlemen.”

But at that moment a messenger arrived to say that their help was needed to reinforce the eastern defences.

Pavari’s attack in the East, intended to be the main event, had not gone so well. His small force simply opened the gate and charged the fortified Royalist position, very similar to the one on the other side of the city. If the soldiers had stood their ground and returned fire, Pavari and his men would surely have been decimated immediately; but luckily they were cowardly and taken by surprise and they retreated down the road. Vastly encouraged, Pavari’s force charged after them, firing occasional shots from the miscellaneous armaments in their possession.

Half a mile down the road, this peculiar chase came suddenly up against the main Royalist camp; here the soldiers scrambled raggedly into order and began to fire on the approaching Communists, who now realised quite how heavily they were outnumbered. Turning tail. they began running back to the city, but they found that a small party of soldiers from the Ansperren Gate to the north, coming along to check on what had happened, had taken over the original encampment at the Marien Gate and were cutting off their retreat; moreover they had swung the machine gun there round away from the walls to face the advancing Communists. The only thing that saved Pavari and his men from immediate destruction was the sight of the soldiers in pursuit behind them; the machine gunners could not shoot at Pavari without hitting them too.

Nevertheless, the position seemed hopeless. Pavari and his men stopped short, looking desperately around for some other means of escape. They dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender; but at that moment, there was a thunderous outbreak of machine gun fire: finding themselves unexpectedly alive, Pavari’s men opened their eyes to see that it was the soldiers blocking their path who had been mown down: my father and his friends had succeeded in mounting their captured machine gun in a half-ruined bastion nearby and were now able to spray the approach to the gates with stolen ammunition.

The pursuing soldiers, only yards from their prey, hesitated: Pavari and the survivors of his force lowered their hands again and dashed for the gates, leaving their guns behind. After a panicky few seconds, they were able to squeeze through the small gap which had grudgingly been opened for them by the defenders inside, leaving the pursuing soldiers staring warily at my father’s machine gun.

“I had hoped to be reconciled with Comrade Pavari,” remarked my father afterwards, “But now that I have saved his life, he will never forgive me.”

The main result of this imbroglio was that Cavallin was recalled and another general sent to take charge. The defenders called a parley to see whether the new commander would offer better terms, but he told them flatly that he would accept nothing, not even their unconditional surrender.

“I’ll make you this offer, gentlemen, and this one only,” he said “how many of you are there? No, let me guess. Five hundred now? Then I offer you five hundred bullets, maybe a few more to make sure. I’ll deliver.”

The new commander had called for tanks to help him storm the city, but they were slow in arriving, and his assault was not launched until two weeks later. All the gates were attacked simultaneously and broken down without difficulty (the priceless carving on the Marien Gate being destroyed in the process), in fact without resistance; when the soldiers poured through and into the city, they found it deserted. Using my father’s escape route, the defenders had gradually evacuated Dacsvillin over the course of the preceding nights, just as he had planned.

My father’s standing was distinctly improved by his conduct during the rising, and it was perhaps from this point that he gradually began to take on the status of informal leader of the wider revolutionary cause. But that cause was greatly damaged; most of the leading radicals had effectively identified themselves by coming out of hiding to support the uprising: a number had already been killed, and the government had been severely alarmed. There followed years of vigorous repression when the remnant of the Communist Party and its allies went into hiding, years which only really came to an end with the advent of the War.

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