Chapter 994 - 217: Suppression

Chapter 994: Chapter 217: Suppression

Early morning.

The Saint Petersburg Guard, the Second Guard Infantry Division, the commander of the Grenadier Guard Regiment, Molotov, is waiting for orders from the military command.

Molotov, born into a traditional Boye noble family, was frowning, pipe in mouth.

Last night, the uprisings at the Peter and Paul Fortress and other locations had been successfully suppressed; only the Putilov Factory remained in rebel hands.

The Second Guard Infantry Division, to which the Grenadier Guard Regiment belonged, was the only one of the five Imperial Guard divisions that had not followed the Tsar to Mogilev, numbering over 20,000 and was truly elite.

Apart from this, the Saint Petersburg Guard was mostly composed of soldiers recovering from the front lines and newly enlisted recruits.

Totaling nearly 200,000, these recovering soldiers and conscripted recruits had a significant anti-war sentiment, and their training was severely lacking, making their combat power weak.

These 220,000 soldiers constituted the entirety of the Petrograd Military District’s forces stationed near Saint Petersburg.

"Commander, what is the military command waiting for?" "A mere thousand rebels; if it were up to us, we’d have dealt with them by now."

"I don’t know. The disputes above have nothing to do with us. For soldiers, obeying orders is the first duty. Without the Tsar’s express command, all our actions must follow the military command’s direction."

"Tsk, haven’t heard of any public conflict between General Khabalov and Rasputin."

By "military command," Molotov and others referred to the Petrograd Military District headquarters, which had just separated from the North Front. The overall commander was General Khabalov.

Molotov did not offer an explanation, and the captain was not surprised, having long been accustomed to their superior’s reticent nature.

Rasputin, claiming to be a "living saint," had no official rank, yet relied on the Royal Family’s trust, constantly interfering in state affairs, even attempting to influence appointments of ministers, making military adjustments on the front lines based on personal preferences.

Several military leaders, prominent Boye nobles like the Minister of War, the Northern Front Commander, and the Army Chief of Staff, had all petitioned His Majesty the Tsar to expel this "demon monk."

Rasputin offended not just a few people or a faction but the entire Boye noble class and the Eastern Orthodox Church.

In Molotov’s view, Rasputin was as good as dead. With so many targeting him, even if he quietly broke through to the legendary, it would only be a dead end.

The captain changed the subject: "Commander, I’ve heard the front line suffered a major defeat again, with heavy losses in the Central Military District. You have your ears to the ground; can you tell me exactly what’s going on?"

Molotov remained silent.

The Boye nobility had for many years woven an impenetrable web of information. Molotov knew more about the front line situation than the captain, but adhering to the principle of "respecting the superior’s privacy," he chose not to comment.

This did not mean Molotov was a loyalist; he had hardly seen Nicholas II more than a few times.

The world had changed; with the expansion of the Imperial Guard, the five Guard divisions, totaling over 100,000, how could they all still adhere to the duties of the "Court Guard"? Most of the Guard’s officers and men had never seen the Tsar, which was the norm.

Molotov’s loyalty was to the "Tsar," not to a specific person. Whoever was the Tsar, he would be loyal to that person.

Up ahead, a dispatch rider delivering orders struck fast and hard.

Molotov merely glanced at it, and his face turned livid.

"Commander, is it our turn?"

Molotov shook his head, an inscrutable expression as he tucked the command document into his breast pocket, tersely issuing the command: "Into the city!"

...

In a street-side house, a woman took the child from her back and passed him to her daughter.

Steam was puffing the lid on the pot in the fireplace.

She lifted the lid, dividing the hot porridge into two bowls, repeatedly instructing: "Later, take your brother and hide in the cellar. If I haven’t returned by evening, go find Grandpa Vasily next door."

After speaking, she stuffed the last two pieces of black bread into her daughter’s apron pocket.

Then, with a determined push, she opened the door, much to her daughter’s worried gaze.

The morning mist cloaked the streets.

The woman reached out to part a few strands of mist before her and saw Aunt Mary across the road waving at her.

At this moment.

The mist seemed to part, maybe the sun had finally risen, revealing crowds streaming like trickling streams throughout the streets.

The woman and Aunt Mary joined the crowd, raising the tricolor flags smeared with charcoal pencils in their hands.

They shouted: "Down with the Tsar!"

"We want bread, not war!"

"Let our husbands and sons come home!"

"Stop the persecution of the rebellion!"

One woman after another stepped out of their houses, and soon their numbers broke the 10,000 mark.

The streams converged into a river.

Sparks from a single match could spread a fire across the plains.

It’s hard to imagine that the women of Saint Petersburg, just through letters and word of mouth, could spread the news of the uprising and the plans for demonstrations throughout countless households.

When Molotov arrived on the streets, this was the shocking scene he witnessed.

The captain’s voice trembled: "The military command sent us here to deal with them?"

Looking at the commander’s livid face, he forced a smile: "It’s difficult, isn’t it? A few fists might not be enough to send these short-sighted women back home. Commander, you’re not married, so you don’t understand how stubborn these women can be."

Molotov squeezed his voice from his throat: "So the military command ordered that, if necessary, we can resort to any force."

"No!"

"Commander, please no!"

The captain was terrified: "Why did these women come to the streets? Their husbands are either dead on the front line or crippled and unable to work; they can’t survive."

Almost all participating women in the demonstration had lost their husbands.

The rest were virtually widow-like because their husbands had been conscripted, the burden of the whole family falling on their shoulders, unable to feed or clothe themselves adequately, and no matter how hard they work, they could only watch their children starve.

Molotov took a deep breath, perhaps to explain to the captain, maybe to persuade himself: "This isn’t just a demonstration; it’s subversion, rebellion. Any mercy towards the rebels is a betrayal of the royal authority."

The captain pleaded earnestly: "Commander, think it through; shooting at widows of comrades-in-arms, once you do it, do you know what will happen?"

The captain pleaded earnestly: "Commander, think it through; shooting at widows of comrades-in-arms, once you do it, do you know what will happen?"