A scandal around the world
How Kruzenshtern survived his famous voyage
Author: Sergey Tashevsky
220 years ago, in August 1806, the sloops Nadezhda and Neva finally returned to Kronstadt after a three-year voyage, and Russia officially earned the status of "circumnavigator." By global standards, this wasn't much of a sensation: in the two centuries since Magellan's voyage, ships from three countries (Spain, England, and France) had circumnavigated the globe a combined 15 times. These expeditions had varied outcomes: in some, like Magellan's, most of the crew and the captain himself perished; in others, disease, discord, and wars with the local population plagued them. But the Russian circumnavigation was arguably the most scandalous of them all. And it proudly carried this scandal around the globe within itself, carefully loading it aboard the flagship Nadezhda in St. Petersburg.
From what it all began
So, while other countries had been sending their sailors on around-the-world voyages for 200 years, Russia, as they say, was "concentrating." Many even wondered why it took so long. After all, Peter the Great was the first to dream of voyages to Kamchatka and a "circumnavigation," but things never progressed beyond Bering's expeditions during his lifetime. Then Peter II and two empresses somewhat neglected the Russian fleet, and it was only under Catherine II that it again became the center of the sovereign's attention. However, economics was now paramount, and the "circumnavigation" was needed not only for geographical discoveries and political prestige, but "for the development of the fur trade in the Pacific Ocean." To this end, ships were supposed to be sent to Kamchatka via Cape Horn, and then across the Indian Ocean to home. In 1786, preparations for the first Russian "circumnavigation" began in earnest, and five ships were almost fully equipped under the command of the experienced captain Grigory Mulovsky. But, unfortunately, the war with Turkey began, and then came the Swedish campaign, during which Mulovsky died. And the "round-the-world" voyage was postponed again.
The Navy Department continued to develop this project and bombarded the highest officials with ideas for such a voyage. However, Russia had already entered a period of foreign policy turbulence: some war was either already underway, anxiously anticipated, or planned in patriotic dreams. Funds for such trivialities as a circumnavigation were always in short supply. Only when it became clear that the empire's Far East could also smell gunpowder did Alexander I finally give the green light to the enterprise. But even he didn't open the treasury to the Navy Department. The enterprise (at least formally) was financed equally by the state and the newly created Russian-American Company, a monopoly in the Siberian and Far Eastern fur trade. Of course, politicians in that era made money without false modesty, and one of the company's main shareholders was the Emperor himself, but this is a matter of dialectics, since in Russia, where the "state" pocket ends and the pockets of its rulers begin, no one knows.
In any case, the funds allocated for the expedition were meager, just enough to prepare two ocean-going ships. But even that seemed ample: experienced captains skilled in handling such powerful vessels were hard to find in Russia. In fact, there were two—Yuri Lisyansky and Ivan Kruzenshtern. As cadet corps graduates, they both dreamed of joining Mulovsky on his round-the-world voyage, but that venture fell through. However, in the following years, both Lisyansky and Kruzenshtern logged so many nautical miles across the oceans that their colleagues could only envy them. Alaska, Canada, the Caribbean, Africa, China… Both were combat officers, had participated in numerous battles, and were generally considered true "sea wolves" in Russia, so the choice was obvious. True, Kruzenshtern himself had almost given up on his dreams of a round-the-world expedition: after all, he'd submitted numerous reports proposing such a voyage and was regularly rejected. So, in 1802, he decided he'd had enough. He signed off, got married, bought an estate, and began to settle down. He was, after all, already 32 years old—an advanced age for the time. He could, in principle, write memoirs. And then, suddenly, he was urgently summoned to duty and offered the chance to lead an expedition! What a disaster!
At first, Kruzenshtern refused, but they wouldn't take it lightly, hinting, "If not him, then who?" They'd simply have to cancel the round-the-world voyage without him. The famous captain, of course, couldn't allow this and eventually allowed himself to be persuaded. As for the bachelor Lisyansky, he didn't require much persuasion—he readily agreed to captain the second ship. But the ships themselves... Suddenly, there were no ocean-going vessels in Russia suitable for the round-the-world voyage, ready for such a journey. They seemed to exist, but some had already completely rotted away, while others required extensive repairs.
In principle, there were craftsmen in Russia willing to build such vessels to order, but this would take time, and the expedition's start was already scheduled, with only a few months remaining. Therefore, while negotiations with Kruzenshtern were underway, Lisyansky was seconded He went abroad to "buy something urgently." First, he went to Hamburg, where no suitable vessels were available at the right price, then to London. He was short on time, so in England he had to buy whatever was available, and at exorbitant prices. It could be said that Lisyansky was "foisted off on surplus goods"—the battered sloops Leander and Thames, which, without further ado, were renamed Nadezhda and Neva. The Neva was still in good condition, but the Nadezhda was in almost hopeless condition; her planking had rotted in places, and even two masts were barely hanging on. In England, her hull was slightly patched up, but the masts were not replaced, as this would have required a long period of work. They pretended everything was fine. One of the expedition organizers decided that if the management learned of the terrible state of the vessel Lisyansky had just purchased, he would be removed as captain. And the only good thing about this expedition was its captains. So they sailed on whatever God had provided. Later, halfway through, in Brazil, the masts were finally replaced—and, of course, at exorbitant prices—but Lisyansky sailed the entire expedition from start to finish.
The Insidious Decree
But this was only the beginning of the intrigues and problems. The fact is, Alexander I hoped to squeeze everything possible out of this expedition (organized, let's face it, with copper coins). Not only to open the route to Alaska, simplify the supply of the colonies, establish a fur supply route from the Far East to China, draw up maps and plans, and so on—but also to finally establish diplomatic relations with Japan. And at that time, this was a nearly impossible task, like a flight to Mars. Japan remained a "closed" country, unwilling to have anything to do with any Europeans. A minor exception was made only for the Dutch, and even then, only one ship of goods every six months, or something like that. The Japanese, however, also had some kind of agreement with Russia, allowing a Russian ship (just one!) to dock briefly in Nagasaki once a year and deliver a message, which the Japanese authorities generally left unanswered. That's diplomacy for you. And to "break the ice," Alexander I ordered the expedition to send a man who was utterly unsuitable for diplomacy, but who was "one of our own" both at court and for the Russian-American Company. Specifically, Chamberlain Nikolai Rezanov, son-in-law of the merchant Shelikhov (who, in fact, founded the Russian-American Company). Shelikhov, however, had already died by that time, and Rezanov was one of his heirs, so on this voyage he was supposed to represent Russian business. On the other hand, Rezanov was known as a cunning courtier, a protégé of Gavriil Derzhavin and Count Pahlen. He even participated in a conspiracy against Paul I, and although he himself didn't participate in the emperor's assassination, he undoubtedly knew something about it. Upon ascending the throne, Alexander sought to remove all the conspirators who had killed his father "out of sight," somewhere far away, and sending Rezanov to Japan probably seemed like a good option. It's unlikely he seriously believed Rezanov would succeed. But what if? However, if he were torn to pieces there, or (who knows those Japanese) even eaten, it wouldn't be a great loss.
This is how Rezanov ended up on board the Nadezhda.
And with enormous powers, too. To persuade the vain Rezanov, Alexander wrote a special decree for him, effectively making him the head of the expedition. Did he realize how much this was complicating Kruzenshtern's life? It's hard to say. Most likely, he didn't care. True, the decree contained a lot of fine print and stipulations, emphasizing that Rezanov was to make all decisions jointly with Kruzenshtern, and in matters concerning the ship's affairs, he was to defer to him. But overall, it seemed as if the expedition had two leaders.
One was Kruzenshtern, a true "sea wolf," respected by both sailors and officers. The other was a spoiled 40-year-old courtier who had never set foot on an ocean-going vessel. Kruzenshtern himself, however, knew nothing of this. And Rezanov, an experienced courtier, understood perfectly well that clarifying matters was not in his interests. He didn't show the Tsar's decree to anyone for the time being, fearing that Kruzenshtern would demand clarification from St. Petersburg. He sailed as if he were a "very important ambassador, with special powers," a representative of the supreme authority. And the more vague his status, the better for him.
"And the ship was very cramped."
However, conflicts between Rezanov and Kruzenshtern began immediately, even before the expedition's departure. To the horror of the captains, Rezanov brought a bunch of "assistants," "secretaries," various servants, and a cook onto the ship. The situation had to be "resolved" by Kruzenshtern's assistant, Lieutenant Ratmanov. писал Later in the diary: "...and the ship was greatly cramped; of which, His Imperial Majesty, having learned, immediately sent Count Rumyantsev and the Deputy Minister of the Navy, who, finding excesses, reported to the Emperor, and a resolution was issued to send the excess back to their respective commands..." However, not everyone was sent back; Rezanov negotiated for some of his "entourage," and the expedition's staff had to be reduced. The services of several scientists were rejected, including a German botanist, a cartographer, and an artist. The Russian artist also did not come aboard the ship (but more on that later), so Lisyansky, who possessed some artistic talent, had to do the sketches during the voyage.
Yet, at the beginning of the voyage, relations between Kruzenshtern and Rezanov remained within the bounds of propriety. They even dined and drank together in the wardroom (unless, of course, there was a severe pitching motion, which Rezanov could not stand). And during stops, the "ambassador" would go ashore and indulge in merriment. Lieutenant Ratmanov, who had immediately taken a dislike to Rezanov, wrote after the very first stop in Copenhagen: "...he lived ashore, and did little honor to me, for I repeatedly reminded him of his rank and would have stripped him of his insignia while chasing after promiscuous women in gardens and on the street." However, all this had nothing to do with the voyage and was of little interest to Kruzenshtern.
But no sooner had the Neva and Nadezhda reached the Canary Islands (meaning they had moved far enough from St. Petersburg to prevent any clarification of anyone's authority) than the first scandal erupted between Rezanov and Kruzenshtern. The details are unknown, but from the captain's notes it is clear that Rezanov asserted his right to lead the expedition. This left Kruzenshtern completely dumbfounded. He was ready to relinquish command and wrote to the board of the Russian-American Company in St. Petersburg: "If the General Board were to deprive me of command of the entire Expedition, then... being subordinate to Rezanov, I cannot be useful, and I do not wish to be useless."
From that moment on, Kruzenshtern and Rezanov lived on the Nadezhda literally like cat and dog, alternating between sending complaints about each other to St. Petersburg. But mail across the oceans was slow, and neither received any replies. For some time, Rezanov refused to show anyone the Tsar's decree, holding it tightly as if it were a "trump card," but haughtily claimed the right to command the expedition. However, from time to time, he backed down and acknowledged Kruzenshtern's primacy "in maritime matters." A fragile peace then reigned between them, usually shattered by some outburst on Rezanov's part as the ships entered a new harbor.
Monkey with an inkwell
But during the first year of the voyage, the crew of the Nadezhda was entertained not only by this constant row, which often made Kruzenshtern's hands tremble, nor by the cracking of rotting masts during every storm. There was another reason for not being bored. In St. Petersburg, literally an hour before the expedition's departure, an imposing young man in the uniform of the Preobrazhensky Regiment boarded the flagship and took up residence in one of the cabins at the stern. His name was Fyodor Tolstoy.
No one could really explain where he came from or why he ended up on the Nadezhda. According to the most widespread version, one of his relatives and a complete namesake, the artist Fyodor Tolstoy, was supposed to go with the expedition as a staff draftsman but declined the voyage because he was afraid of sea. So, in his place, Guards Second Lieutenant Tolstoy, a brawler, gambler, and duelist known throughout Russia, showed up. It was said that some punishment awaited him in the regiment for another offense, and to avoid it, he decided to sail around the world. All this became clear when the Nadezhda had sailed quite far from St. Petersburg, and Kruzenshtern decided to resign himself to the existence of such an exotic creature on board. He thought he could get used to Tolstoy. But no! As soon as the ship left the shore, the young man became bored, began drinking, goading the sailors and officers, causing scandals and amusing antics. Almost during the first days of the voyage, he stole the seal from Kruzenshtern's cabin, got the ship's priest drunk, and then glued his beard to the deck and sealed it with wax. When the priest woke up, Tolstoy convincingly explained that the seal belonged to the "sovereign" and that breaking it was a crime. The only solution was to cut off the beard. The unfortunate priest believed him and, for several months, until his beard grew back, he remained in his cabin.
During a stopover in the Canary Islands, Tolstoy bought himself a monkey, an orangutan, and never parted with it, using it for all sorts of pranks. For example, he once took it to Kruzenshtern's cabin, where papers and maps lay on the table, and showed it how to pour ink on it, then closed the door. When the captain returned half an hour later, he found the orangutan perfectly happy, generously pouring ink over the expedition reports.
Interrogation on the quarterdeck
It's all the more surprising that, despite the floating madhouse that the Nadezhda had become, Kruzenshtern managed to conduct hydrographic surveys, measure currents, and compile maps and reports. Lisyansky, who had a much calmer life on the ship, sketched the terrain and collected items during brief forays into the waters. But the further the ships sailed from their home shores, the more tense the relationships among the Nadezhda's crew became.
Wild scandals gave way to equally wild celebrations. When the Nadezhda crossed the equator at the end of October 1803, the crew traditionally began celebrating "Neptune's Day," and on that day, according to Ratmanov himself, "everyone got quite drunk, so much so that the Ambassador was sprawled on the quarterdeck, raising his arms and legs to the sky, shouting incessantly: 'Hurrah for Kruzenshtern!' Then His Excellency began to assure him that he had great presence of mind and that, although he was not English, he was just as excited as if he wanted to throw himself overboard, holding onto the main shrouds." It should be noted that no one was in a hurry to stop Rezanov, who could not swim, and Ratmanov himself "pointed to him into the open space where the shrouds and nets were wider, hoping he wouldn't throw himself overboard." Fyodor Tolstoy, in turn, goaded Rezanov and even pushed him toward the side, earning a reprimand from one of the midshipmen. In response, the second lieutenant made an unflattering remark about the sailor, earning him a punch in the teeth and preparing to challenge him to a duel—but duels on ships were prohibited by the naval code. So Tolstoy countered with a punch, resulting in a brawl in which he was outnumbered. Clearly losing the case, he retreated to his cabin, from which his curses and the shrill cries of a monkey could be heard for a long time.
Meanwhile, Rezanov didn't jump overboard, but fell dead drunk onto the furled sails and began snoring. The sailors dragged his lifeless body to the cabin. However, the next morning, "Mr. Ambassador" claimed he'd reached the cabin himself, and if anyone had gotten drunk the night before, it was Kruzenshtern and his officers...
The entire crew's irritation with Rezanov grew. All this time, he demanded obedience, trying to give orders to Lisyansky without coordinating them with Kruzenshtern, but the sailors ignored him as if he were crazy. When the Nadezhda and Neva finally crossed the Atlantic and reached the shores of Brazil, they had to make a long stop to repair the ships—and "Mr. Ambassador" once again took full advantage of it. "And our ambassador," Ratmanov gossiped in his diary, "was robbed on shore of 49 thalers and a gold snuffbox—nothing strange to hear that these fell into the hands of those who procured both white and black promiscuous women for the ambassador to satisfy his lust; he did little honor to Russia on shore." Whether all this was true or not, the crew was already, as they say, "on edge" and demanded that Kruzenshtern make it absolutely clear who was in charge aboard the ships. They demanded Rezanov "up on the quarterdeck," that is, to the officers' quarters of the upper deck, where shipboard courts were held. Let him, they said, present his royal decree!
"The Ambassador" tried to feign illness and lock himself in his cabin, but it was no use. Soon after the Neva and Nadezhda rounded Cape Horn and continued on their way to Kamchatka, the trial finally took place. Somewhere near the Marquesas Islands, officers from the Neva arrived on the Nadezhda, and Rezanov was forced to ascend to the quarterdeck and read out the Tsar's decree, which he had been carrying in his waistcoat pocket the entire time.
According to complaints from Rezanov himself, which he later sent to St. Petersburg, the decree was met with extreme disrespect, and even the emperor's name here, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, no longer inspired awe among the sailors: after the reading, there was "laughter and questions about who signed it? I answered, 'Your Sovereign Alexander.' 'Who wrote it?' 'I don't know,' I said. 'That's why I don't know,' shouted Lisyansky. 'We want to know who wrote it, but we know he'll sign it.'" The officers unanimously agreed that all of Rezanov's claims to command the expedition were groundless; they recognized only one superior—Kruzenshtern.
In any case, from that moment on, Rezanov resentfully locked himself in his cabin and stopped communicating with the officers and captain. All communication with him was now done in writing. Since Kruzenshtern was obliged to keep the ambassador informed of the voyage's progress, he was sometimes forced to send two or three letters a day to Rezanov's cabin, always addressing the ambassador with full titles—otherwise, the touchy Rezanov wouldn't read them.
To a real Indian...
After a lengthy stop in Hawaii, the Neva and Nadezhda parted ways. Lisyansky headed for the shores of Alaska, where he found himself in the thick of the colonial war: Tlingit Indians had just captured a Russian fort on Sitka Island and categorically refused to relinquish it, hoping to expel the Russians from their lands. A small detachment under the command of Alexander Baranov, the supreme ruler of Russian settlements in North America, attempted in vain to storm the fort, but the appearance of the Neva radically changed the situation. Lisyansky ordered the cannons unsheathed and began firing at the Indians point-blank. The fort was soon recaptured, but the war with the Indians continued for another year, and the crew of the Neva, willy-nilly, played an active role in it, pursuing and sinking the nimble Tlingit boats in the bays and coves of Alaska.
While the Neva was engaged in such patriotic endeavors, the Nadezhda finally reached Russian shores and dropped anchor in the harbor of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky. Somewhere along the way, the troublemaker Fyodor Tolstoy, who had become a source of anger to the entire crew, was marooned on an island for yet another offense, along with his monkey. According to some rumors, he indulged in frantic fornication with the monkey for a time on the island; according to others, he starved and ate the monkey. Perhaps both were true. But soon, somehow, Tolstoy (now without his monkey) also found himself in Alaska, where he fell into the hands of the same Tlingit Indians with whom Lisyansky was fighting at the time (although, most likely, they were a different tribe, not involved in the war). In any case, the Indians treated Tolstoy with the utmost kindness. Perhaps they were struck by the gold-embroidered uniform of the Preobrazhensky Regiment, believing it to be evidence of his divine origin. Tolstoy, he claims, was offered the chance to become a tribal chieftain, and as a sign of respect, they covered his entire body with striking tattoos. But Tolstoy didn't stay with the Indians; a few months later, he boarded a passing Russian-American Company ship and reached Kamchatka, from where he traveled overland to St. Petersburg. He returned to the capital in the autumn of 1805. The sight of a man in the shabby uniform of a guards second lieutenant, covered head to toe in tattoos, stunned the social elite—and from then on, he was nicknamed "Tolstoy the American," the nickname by which this eccentric individual entered Russian history. The ladies were terrified by his terrifying tales, and although the authorities hastened to arrest Tolstoy, it was he who brought the first news of the round-the-world expedition to St. Petersburg. It's not as if these stories contained much truth. But they conveyed the wild spirit of the Nadezhda and Neva's voyage quite accurately.
Japanese fiasco
Meanwhile, the scandal aboard the Nadezhda took an unexpected turn. Upon arrival in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, Rezanov demanded that the local commandant, Pavel Koshelev, put Krusenstern on trial, accusing him of little more than mutiny. As Krusenstern himself later wrote in a letter to the president of the Academy of Sciences, the ambassador, in the presence of the commandant and a dozen officers, called him a "mutineer, a bandit," threatened him with "execution on the scaffold," and threatened others with "eternal exile to Kamchatka." "I confess, I was afraid," the captain added frankly, since St. Petersburg was thirteen thousand miles away. But Koshelev proved reasonable, refused to openly take sides, and managed to separate the conflicting parties. The parties formally reconciled, the officers apologized, and the expedition moved on to Japan.
Finally, Rezanov had a chance to prove himself in the diplomatic arena and demonstrate that he could do more than just stir up trouble. But alas! The etiquette-conscious Japanese did not appreciate his efforts. For six months, the Nadezhda remained moored in Nagasaki, while the Russian mission was allocated a small, fenced-off plot of land on the shore. Beyond that, the Russians were not allowed anywhere. Even the Japanese geishas the Russian ambassador had hoped to meet were not offered to him. Gradually, Rezanov became irritated, acting increasingly arrogantly toward the Japanese—and ultimately, the Russian mission was turned away. Russia lost even the small privileges it had enjoyed, and Russian ships were henceforth forbidden from entering Nagasaki's roadstead without exception.
Having achieved such stunning success, Rezanov declared his mission accomplished and finally (to everyone's delight) departed the Nadezhda to inspect Russian possessions in America. But he apparently harbored a deep grudge against the Japanese. Already in California, while equipping the ships Juno and Avos, celebrated by the poet Voznesensky, Rezanov gave their captains, Khvostov and Davydov, secret orders to carry out armed raids on Japanese settlements on Sakhalin and the Kuril Islands—looting and arson were intended as revenge for the embassy's failure. While the officers were later brought to trial for these pirate raids, the instigator himself fortunately remained uninvolved: he had already died en route to St. Petersburg. Others had to pay the consequences: the Japanese, mistaking the navigator Vasily Golovnin for another avenger, held him captive for nearly two years. Rezanov, for his part, will forever remain a romantic hero in history, thanks to his famous poem and rock opera, which described his engagement to 15-year-old Conchita (Maria) Argüello, the daughter of the Spanish commandant of the San Francisco fortress, whom he was soon to part with forever. "Daily courting the Spanish beauty, I noticed her enterprising nature, her boundless ambition... I merely offered her my hand, and she accepted," he wrote in one of his letters. But was this truly a great love, sparked in the twilight of his life, or one of the hundreds of erotic adventures that the forty-year-old Rezanov was actively pursuing in all corners of the globe? Who knows. After all, anything is possible. And anyway, poets know best.
Not everyone returned
In any case, the scandals aboard the "Russian round-the-world" ships finally came to an end, and in December 1805, the Nadezhda and Neva reunited off the coast of China, where they were to pick up a cargo of furs from "Russian America" and the Far East on their way home. This was another part of Alexander I's plan, which Kruzenshtern was to carry out. The furs were sold, albeit without much profit. But at least they didn't rot or disappear in the holds of the worn-out, storm-battered ships. A good result, indeed. And the main result—the successful completion of the "round-the-world"—was no longer in doubt.
The Neva was the first to return to the Kronstadt roadstead in early August 1806, and the Nadezhda joined her on August 19. Kruzenshtern was greeted triumphantly. Alexander I, congratulating him on his return, emphasized that he, Kruzenshtern, had been the sole and primary commander of the expedition. He wished he had said this three years earlier!
But then again, the authorities have their own games, and it's not always clear where they're heading. This time, indeed, almost everything worked out as Alexander had hoped. The "Round the World" trip took place, "Russian America" received support, and the maritime trade route from the Far East to China was opened. But Rezanov never returned to St. Petersburg. He died a year later on his way home in Krasnoyarsk, and no one in the Russian capital paid much attention to his death.
