The work had taken all night under the light of a full moon, whose illumination was a mixed blessing at best.
Secrecy had been imperative, for there had already been too many foul-ups. Lanterns would have been cumbersome, and keeping them burning was time-consuming. Zhelyabov had thus accepted the moonlight with practical graciousness; he could not do anything about it, anyway. And as preparations turned out well, he cared not to complain.
He stood back and surveyed his work with satisfied pleasure.
It had been a job, to be sure. Climbing up the steep grade where the track passed along the edge of the rocky ravine, then maintaining precarious footing while digging into the stubborn ground had been no easy task. The surface dirt was dry and crumbly and fell away before a hole sufficiently deep could be carved out.
Once the crevice was large enough to hold the charges of dynamite, the next challenge was to string out the wires leading to the detonator, and cover everything so it could not be detected. There had already been one discouraging failure resulting from lack of such care. The attempt to bomb the imperial yacht would have proved a masterful coup if only the water hadn’t washed away the adhesive holding the wires in place, thus exposing them to the view of a prying police guard.
That would not happen this time. In the darkness of a lonely stretch of mountainous train track, Zhelyabov could lay the wires above the ground and they would never be seen! But he decided to take every precaution nevertheless, and he carefully smoothed the dirt over the last length of wire. Everything was covered, from the sticks of explosive buried in the embankment underneath, all the way to the detonator.
Zhelyabov prided himself in his work. He had a fascination for this modern blasting technology, and had become rather adept with electrical tinkering. Several months ago he had convinced other leaders in The People’s Will to give up the outmoded and inefficient use of handguns and hand-tossed bombs. Electricity represented the wave of the future. And if they were striving for the future of Russia, they might as well do so with the help of every modern convenience available.
He surveyed the slope over which the imperial train would soon travel. An eagle would never have been able to spot his work—not even a double-headed eagle!
He wondered how Sophia was doing at her demolition site.
The imperial train from the Crimea could take two possible routes along separate lines of track. The Third Section did not like to make it easy for people like Zhelyabov by announcing which pass the tsar’s entourage would take. They took every precaution, often running identical trains simultaneously along each track to further confuse enterprising insurrectionists.
Zhelyabov was determined to outwit the Romanov oppressor, however. He had conceived the plan to mine both routes. And they would set still a third charge, for good measure, at the juncture of the two lines near Moscow. He had himself taken the main railway route, which his instincts told him the tsar’s train would probably use. Sophia Perovskaya was in charge of planting the mines at the other two locations, for they were relatively close together and more accessible. The fact that they lay closer to Moscow presented additional risks. But Sophia was a capable girl.
He smiled as he thought of the pretty little firebrand.
Ah yes, she would manage just fine. And tonight they would celebrate—oh, how they would celebrate! Just the two of them, alone, with a bottle of wine and their passion for each other . . . and the sweet, sweet savor of vengeance.
“It looks good, Andrei,” said a voice behind him, interrupting his thoughts.
“Yes,” said Zhelyabov to his assistant. “This time I believe we’ve got him. Nothing can go wrong!”
From their secluded hiding place in the thick brush about a hundred meters from the mined section of track, Zhelyabov and his assistant sat back to wait. Their suspense did not last long. About twenty minutes later they heard the first distant sounds of the locomotive, then at last the long-awaited puffs of white smoke became visible in the pale moonlight.
They crouched down and watched the approach of the imperial train. The mighty engine chugged up the grade, followed by the rattling of the cars behind it. With every pulse of steam from the powerful iron wheels, the young seditionary’s feverish anticipation mounted. He saw the Cossack guards standing watch at the fore and aft entrances of the third car.
That would be the tsar’s imperial coach! He would blow the train at the precise moment to blast that car and everything in it to the moon itself!
The Cossacks were alert and vigilant, their probing eyes scanning the countryside. If Zhelyabov believed some Being from above listened to the entreaties of humankind below, which he didn’t, he might have uttered a prayer that his work of concealment would stand the test.
But as he expected, no prayers were needed. His own skill and talent proved to be all that was necessary. The Cossack guards saw nothing.
Still Zhelyabov waited.
The passing seconds as the train came over the mined track seemed like several long Siberian winters. His mouth went dry as he moved his hands to the detonator. He glanced at his assistant, who was looking instead at the train, which was only moments from annihilation.
The locomotive passed, then the first car. The imperial coach drew closer. In his mind Zhelyabov began a silent countdown. Five . . . four . . . three . . .
The anticipation was almost more tantalizing than being with Sophia. In moments Russia would be leaderless! Yes, there was the tsarevich. But he would count for little when the masses saw the power of The People’s Will and rallied behind them. The man who tried to become Alexander III would have a very short life.
Two . . . one!
Zhelyabov threw his body weight on the detonator, covering his ears with his hands against the deafening explosion.
The only sound to be heard was that of the engine still laboring up the grade, the cars still clacking rhythmically behind it.
Zhelyabov scrambled back onto his knees. He glanced toward his assistant, who had thrown himself onto the ground for safety. They looked in disbelief toward the track. At the site of the charge they saw only a thin, ineffectual stream of smoke rising from the grass and brush they had placed over the hole as camouflage. The effect was so small that the passing Cossacks did not even notice it as they clattered by.
The train should have been tumbling in flames down the embankment, but it chugged placidly on. The tsar should have been bloodied and dismembered, fallen at last in the violent death justified by his evil disregard for the downtrodden, oppressed masses—yet he lived! He sat in the plush velvet and mahogany coach, probably sipping his brandy before retiring, as oblivious to his peril as he had always been to the misery around him.
Zhelyabov stood and kicked at the ground, then sent the detonator flying with his booted toe, cursing bitterly.
When the train sped out of sight, he walked over to the detonator, stooped down and picked it up, then began to gather the rest of the equipment. The stuff was too precious to be left behind. Besides, there would be further use of it later . . . unless his compatriots met with more success than he.