Ivan Moshkin, ataman Katorzhnoy. Under the auspices of the Roman Pope

Ivan Moshkin, ataman Katorzhnoy. Under the auspices of the Roman Pope

Sergey Solovyov

© Sergey Solovyov, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0069-9659-5

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Preface

This novel is about the extraordinary, but taking place adventures of a completely real person, Ivan Semenovich Moshkin. A challenging time in the mid-seventeenth century for Russia. The time of troubles ended only twenty years ago, a new Romanov dynasty was established on the royal throne. The young sagittarius is captured, and then on the Turkish galley. Seven years after a successful uprising, the young man is released, and with his comrades in misfortune returns home to the Russian kingdom. He was sent to Tula, where he was appointed ataman of the Cossacks in this fortress, which already seems incredible. All his wanderings, adventures, a feat of patience, courage and perseverance, were worthy and reflected in art much, much earlier. This man, without a doubt, is equal in strength and stamina, mind and courage to Stepan Razin, Emelyan Pugachev, Ivan Serko and others, truly national heroes of Russia. He managed to save people, bring home, convince the Roman Pontiff himself to give the former slaves a letter of protection, so that two huge countries of that time — the Holy Roman Empire, the Commonwealth, as well as many Italian possessions would freely let this detachment of Russian people through — about a hundred people. But in those days, tramps on the roads were simply hung without much sentiments and remorse! And the fact that people, simple very poor people wished to return home, brings down the myth of some unthinkable oppression of people in Russia at that time, in 1642. How long yesterday’s slaves who had not seen their native places had to love their land, Russia, in order to wish to leave Rome, where they were offered to stay forever. But, unfortunately, our hero, Ivan Moshkin, did not deserve a memorial plaque in his native cities, Tula and Kaluga, but he deserved a whole relation published in Rome, Italy, of the seventeenth century for his incredible courage.

Prologue

Ivan Semenovich Moshkin walked ahead of the Russian rati with his ertaul, with the city Cossacks from Tula. Before them, traveling, for six flights of arrows, horse-drawn Don Cossacks walked ten or twelve people, the soldiers took care of the enemies, the Polish army. The sovereign was led by the boyar Vasily Vasilyevich Buturlin, and his valiant soldiers were to unite with the Cossacks of Bogdan Khmelnitsky. It was already 7163 (1655), their regiment was marching to distant Lviv when the case near Smolensk ended, and the city again returned to the hand of the Russian tsar from godless Polish paws.

— Voivode orders to stand on a halt, — shouted to the messenger ataman, — Ivan Semenovich, rest, cook porridge!

— And then the case, — answered the seasoned warrior, habitually smoothing his mustache with his index finger, — Trofim, — he turned to Yesaul, — check everyone on the lists, and so that the horse dogs would not let their eyes off the horses! Fedor! — the chieftain turned to another Cossack, — put up guards, but don’t forget about secrets! There, according to more experienced service people, put that with pistols and reference squeaks, locks so that everyone has flint. Well, you know what our service is.

— I will do everything, Ivan Semenovich, I will not miss anything, — and Fedor rode off to dispose.

— With feed as, ataman? ‘asked the elderly petty officer, Evgraf Petrovic.

— For two weeks there is spelt and buckwheat, crackers for a week, bread wine is the same. You, Petrovich, do not give more than half a dog to the Cossacks, the main thing is that they do not suffer from bellies. You yourself know how it happens on hikes. Water, water check. Only in the stream take, do not bring the Lord from the lake or the river. How many of you and I have gone through these battles, more from the belly of our own died than in a saber battle.

— Yes, the chieftain, they came with you from Italy itself, no one died on the road.

— I hope for you, — and Moshkin tapped the old comrades on the shoulder.

“I’ll go.

Again the messenger rode on a hot horse, looking out for the initial people among the Cossacks. But now, I saw the chieftain among the Russian soldiers. The chieftain, eating porridge, laid down a wooden plate and removed the silver spoon, glancing at the messenger with displeasure.

“What’s in there?”

— Boyarin, governor Vasily Vasilyevich Buturlin calls you, Ivan Semenovich!

— This is the case, — and the chieftain famously threw his burnt body into the saddle, and trotted a pedigree stallion after the messenger.

Ataman Katorzhnoy drove past the boyar children who were boiling porridge with their military slaves. They behaved smartly, took care, albeit without armor, but were with sabers and pistols.

— Hello to you, Ivan Semenovich! shouted one slightly overweight landowner, in his forties.

— And to you, Luka Ilyich!

— Come to us, taste porridge, good came out!

— I’ll come in, but the boyar called! I hasten… — and Katorzhnoy drove on.

But here, and the rich tent of the boyar Vasily Vasilyevich, and on guard at the entrance are not just his military slaves, but Moscow residents in white caftans and with swan wings behind their backs, with pistols, with newfangled wheel locks, in iron hats and cuirasses.

— Please to Vasily Vasilyevich, expects, — said the boyar servant.

Ivan Semenovich nodded, dismounted, tied the horse to the harness, tried not to rush and keep his back straight, throwing back the canopy, entered the tent. There was no particular luxury in the boyar’s chambers, except for trophy shandals and a tapestry of French work taken in Smolensk. Well, Vasily Vasilyevich ate, of course, on silver, and not from a wooden plate. Moshkin did not break hats in front of the boyar, the chieftain himself, granted by the tsarist will, is now from the initial people.

— Sit down, chieftain. Taste the wine — and Buturlin, without repairing, poured into a silver bowl — Hungarian.

— Thank you, boyar, — and drank a third of the cup.

— And so, for you, — and put on the table something wrapped in a blank canvas.

Mokshin felt the viscous smell of honey, looked at the governor again, and smiled. Well, having opened exactly, I saw a printed gingerbread made of rye flour on honey and with ginger and anise. Favorite delicacy, yes memo about home native!

“Thank you,” Ivan Semenovich said cheerfully, “an extraordinary gift, boyar.” As if I got home.

— We are not far from Gusyatin already, there are no Polish patrols nearby, here, look at the map, — and the initial person laid out the drawing, — on the Zbruch river, and the bridges near the city are suitable, and the castle is not too strong. Try to take them as an outcast, so as not to waste time with us, but to keep up with the arrival of the Polish armies near Lviv. You went hiking more than once, served on the Zasechnaya line, is accustomed to military tricks.

— Order, governor, to give us rope ladders with iron hooks, and we will go to the city without rest. My Cossacks have replaceable horses, there are sixty miles left, we will reach quickly, without hesitation.

“And I’ll follow you, chieftain. I’ll catch you up in a day. Don’t worry, the local army will do soon. There and the Cossacks of Khmelnitsky will help you.

— If only they didn’t interfere, Vasily Vasilyevich. The hetman is very enthusiastic. Dangerous, and lying without measure.

Buturlin only darkened, remembering his embassy and the expectation of the Cossack Rada. How yulil, how Khmelnitsky dodged. And he himself told the sovereign that it would not be bad to put Ivan Serko as a great hetman, he is not angry, not lying and not addicted, but brave desperately and faithful without deception. But Alexei Mikhailovich did not want to interfere in the decisions of the Cossack foreman, but in vain, as time has shown.

— Okay, I will write to Khmelnitsky. Take your ertaul, and do not sack, chieftain.

Ivan Moshkin finished his wine, bowed, left the tent, and trotted the horse into his camp.

— Trofim Petrovich! Then let’s rest! We go as an outcast to Gusyatin, light. With our wagon train, you will leave twenty sensible Cossacks, and the rest on a hike! And now, taste the boyar hotel! — and held out a piece of gingerbread.

— Thank you, — immediately having bitten off half, the Cossack answered.

— Eat come on, otherwise again chew one porridge for a whole month.

— Such fate at us! In an hour we will speak!

— Trofim, appoint the Sentinels, so that ahead of us they would go no more than three flights of arrows!

Four hundred horsemen went into the night, following trampled roads. Squeaks and pistols were loaded, the Cossacks were waiting for a fight with the Poles. Scouts checked beams and ravines, but there was no enemy anywhere. Cossacks trotted, without rest, only changing clockwork horses. So they dozed in the saddles, but nothing, no one fell into the roadside ditches, the soldiers held firm.

But it was not in vain that the watch was sent, it was not in vain that the chieftain was so worried. The Poles are also military affairs, and not simply boasted… In the bushes Trofim and Gray noticed two dragoons, with squeaks at the ready, you can see it was an enemy patrol. Cossacks just looked at each other. The horses were left to Andreike as the youngest. They did not rust, did not give out their owners, only spun their ears, but pulled their muzzles to the horse breeder. He took out two crackers from the bag, sprinkled them with salt and treated his four-legged friends.

Trofim and Andrei sneaked around the bushes, and walked like forest cats — not a single dry bitch flinched, not a small bump crunched. Here it was impossible to make a mistake — the arkan was an indispensable weapon of the Cossack, and both steppe warriors owned it perfectly. Throwing — squeezed scream — and in the mouth of dragoons instead of German sausage, strong fingers stick old rags, and hands behind their backs are knitted with hemp ropes. The day ended well! Loot, horses, weapons and a couple of prisoners. Both were put on the saddle alone and horses and tied tightly with belts.

The prisoners were taken to the chieftain, who knew the Polish language too. Dragun put the ground and Katorzhnaya, wrapping his hat, holding his hands behind his back, not releasing the whip, slowly walked around the Poles.

— Well, what? Who is the castellan of the castle? Where else are the patrols hidden?

The prisoners kept quiet, but looked at the Russians proudly, not lowering their eyes.

“I don’t want to, but I’ll hang you. Do not seek, since so.

The answer again was silence. Ivan Semenovich nodded to Trofim and Andrei, and the Cossacks dragged the dragoons to the nearest tree. Caftans and boots and hats were stolen — why in vain is it good to disappear. But, the soldiers were stubborn, they did not want to speak, but the Cossacks were also not disposed to spare enemies — and soon two bodies with bare feet swayed on strong ropes.

— Well done Trofim, check if you can find anyone else, — the chieftain ordered in a deaf evil voice.

— Understood, Ivan Semenovich!

Cossacks scattered in front, checking hollows and ravines, bushes and thickets, as usual, as if during the search for the Crimean Tatars. Six more dragoons were slaughtered, but no one else was found on the outskirts of the town.

By dawn they approached Gusyatin, Ivan Semenovich looked into the pipe taken from the battle from the Poles. The castle was small, on a hill, and covered the bridge over the Zbruch River.

But then those who were not expected jumped back, they did not expect. In front of the ataman stood three Cossacks, in picturesque bright clothes. Who is in a caftan made of Turkish fabric, who is in a simple, cloth. But everyone has hats with hats, and everyone has Tatar sabers, with pistols on their belts. Their esaul stood imposingly in front of the ataman Katorzhny, put his hands behind his back, played with a whip.

— Zdrav budi, voivode. So Bogdan asked to say that he was talking with Captain Olshevsky, that he would have surrendered the castle. That’s our business.

“So Rada swore to Tsar and Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich to be at the same time. And hetman Bogdan Khmelnitsky too. And I am the chieftain of the boyar regiment of governor Vasily Vasilyevich Buturlin, and I was ordered to capture Gusyatin according to the sovereign’s word. And not the governor, but the chieftain Ivan Semenovich Katorzhnoy, with me four hundred Don Cossacks.

— Heard about you, I — Yesaul Demyan Golovnya, — and the Cossack looked at each other with smiling comrades, — Ivan Semenovich himself granted. Do not go to the city, bit the hetman, it will be bad.

— I would look for where everything is fine, — Moshkin smiled, — I would serve the pope myself in Rome. Esaul, raise hundreds! Let’s go fast!

Ertaul went on a trot, the Cossacks dismounted in front of the fortress for two shots from squeaking, the horse breeders took their horses away. Ataman saw the Cossacks putting four of their small guns in front of the castle.

— Here, you see, Trofim Anikeevich, — said Katorzhnoy, — and the Cossacks will help us. Expose the squeakers, cover us, instantly turn around here. And I will climb the walls with the Cossacks.

Ataman began to habitually charge his two pistols, removing them by the belt, and cheerfully looked at the initial people.

— Be careful, Ivan Semenovich. At the walls, it’s your business to command people, not to wave your saber.

— Nothing, — answered Katorzhnaya, — I’m not old yet…

But here, the Cossacks ran to the wall with shouts, throwing up hooks from the stairs, and pulling the rope shoots to the walls. From above, the Poles blurted out from the squeaks, but not densely, and out of place, so that they did not hit any of the Russians. The arrows of the Cossacks beat solid and accurately, the cries of the wounded were heard on the syenas. Moshkin turned around, looking at the rows of Cossacks with cannons, and was the first to climb up to the wall, holding his Turkish saber in his right hand. He heard the guns of the Cossacks blurted out, having time to think for the last time, who were they aiming at?

Sovereign Service

Young Sagittarius

“Well done, we have a son,” Semyon Petrovich said to his mother, who only wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. — Yes, you do not twist, not sent to the spot, but in the fortress. I must rejoice. Here, a real sagittarius! ‘and patted his son on the shoulder.

Earlier, ten years ago, the Moshkin family lived in Kaluga, and Ivan was born there. But then my father was sent to serve in the Tula fortress, and the family went here. So they served here now. The place was not bad, and the feed of the sovereign went more, so there was no need to complain.

Ivan Moshkin looked at his new outfit — his mother and father, Eupraxia Kuzminichna and Semyon Petrovich, did it for the second son, who was just turned to the tsar’s service.

The first, Kuzma, was selected for a special position in the Stremyannaya regiment, and now served under Tsar Mikhail Fedorovich, in Moscow itself. And now the young man was torn away from the family, but his mother and father were very happy for the elder. Two more sons, Ustyan and Vasily, grew up, and his father taught everyone in the same way as his father, Pyotr Semenovich, taught him the mind. Everyone studied fire fighting, sabers, spear and berdysh to be controlled.

So all the clothes of the shooter — a caftan made of rough gray cloth, boots, a hat, a belt were with him Vanya especially stuck to an old saber. His father, Semyon Petrovich, from the age of ten taught him to own an old grandfather’s blade. Now Ivan perfectly held his weapon in his hands. The father also trained to shoot, however, from a hunting squeak. But the young sagittarius did not give a mistake one hundred steps, and was turned into the sagittarius order of the city of Tula.

“Here, now Ivan Moshkin is on our order,” approved the young warrior foreman, Afanasy Petrovich Dulyov, “a reference sagittarius,” he said, looking at his clothes and saber, “but to you, and from the treasury,” he put a squeak in front of him, a sum for cartridges, a stand. Now read the oath, go to the gospel, and sign the book.

Pop Terenty read a prayer, he, and two other new archers, gave him a kiss of the cross. The head, Tikhon Ilyich, put a book in front of them and indicated where to sign. Everyone knew how to read and write, so everyone put their name and nickname.

— Well, now the foremen will see how you are fit for service.

All three took beeping on their shoulders, and went into the courtyard, to a place upholstered in thick boards. Here stood thick poles dug into the ground, ten in number.

— Here, Ivan, Peter and Pavel, charge the squeaks, but on my command — “Pali” shoot at the poles, they will seem like Poles for you.

He came up and marked three poles with chalk. The young men began to charge. First of all, Moshkin examined the castle. Although old, wick, but whole, not broken, good work. He checked the hole at the lock with a pickaxe, cleaned the barrel with a ramrod for order, scored gunpowder from a cartridge, a wad and a bullet, and put a squeak to his leg, and lit a wick on the lock. Peter was also ready, Paul was a little worried, and so that the hat fell from his head.

— Apply! — ordered the foreman, looking at the novikov.

Sagittarius put beeping for deliveries, took a long time to aim. Ivan’s two fingers lay on the launch pad, the smell of a smoldering wick blew into his face.

— Fall!

Moshkin did not immediately hastily press the brace, but looked to ensure that the barrel was accurately aimed at the target, but his ears were already a little deaf from two shots, but now he fired. The poles were not visible in the powder smoke. Ivan put a squeak to his leg, trunk up. Desyatnik Dulyov approached the poles, and chalked the hits. Then he came back.

— Well, then? Ivan Moshkin hit the very middle of his target, Pyotr Avdusin missed, Pavel Noskov hit the edge of a thin log, knocking out thick chips with a bullet. But you are all great, you know the fiery teaching well. You own sabers, yesterday I checked all three, — Dulev expressed himself vividly, — so you will be in line to serve in the orders, or warehouses of the sovereign.

So the young sagittarius began to pull the strap of the servant, and with the eldest, foreman Dulyov, he arrived to guard the warehouses with grain.

The elder led the soldiers to inspect the royal property entrusted to them by service. Solid, tightly knocked down log houses, covered not with straw, but with shingles, well-groomed, with small windows covered with shutters. Doors, oak, made of thick boards, reinforced with strip iron. Everything was strong and fine.

— Look, Ivan, here, barrels of water, buckets of leather and crimson and stairs, if any room suddenly lights up.

— I understood, — the young man noticed, remembering what was said, — we will cope.

— Here is a guard where you can eat, and relax when the turn comes, — and the foreman pointed to a small hut, — the first are Ivan and Peter. Eat for now.

Sagittarius got bread from the collapse, half an onion, and smoked fish. All this is controversial on healthy and young teeth. So the dinner did not take much time, and the servicemen began to serve.

Moshkin rinsed his hands, wiped them with rags, and taking a squeak on his shoulder, took a place next to the gate of the warehouse. Light rain began, draining little by little. The drops did not interfere, only the sagittarius did not sack, covered the castle with burlap.

“What to do,” whispered the service.

It is boring, of course, to go around long barns at night, whose log cabins were illuminated by lanterns hanging in the corners. But they could not disperse the darkness, they just pointed to the buildings. The rain continued, flashes of lightning began to cut through the sky, Ivan crossed himself, just in case. The rain poured more and more, the rumble was heard more and more, lightning often hit not far. Sagittarius did not have time to count to two — he heard thunder, and after two counts lightning sparkled. It hit very close, it even went deaf. And then he noticed that he had a heavenly fire on fire — shingles broke out on the roof. Moshkin with all his feet, dispersing the spray from wet grass, ran to the beat, and began to sober up, raising the guard. Then, he ran after the stairs and crowbar, moved it, and with difficulty holding on to the steps, began to break out the burning shingle and threw it on the ground, then poured a fire under the roof, pouring out one leather bucket of water after one. In a hurry, he did not notice that he burned his hands, tried that his fingers were squeezing as they should, and with pleasure lowered his palms into a barrel of cold water.

Here, rattling with shovels, bugs and crowbars, comrades led by Dulev came running.

— Everything paid off, Afanasy Petrovich! Moshkin shouted.

— Well, that’s all, not all… Now we will bypass everything, but we will check the honor by honor. Antip, Prokhor! You two fix the roof!

“It’s clear,” the hosane Prokhor nodded, “it’s clear. We’ll fix everything.

— Well done, Vanya. But especially keep quiet about our affairs among the household, you yourself understand, — the foreman began from afar, — the authorities will not praise that the barn caught fire at all. But I will not forget your skill, do not think.

“I understand,” Moshkin nodded.

— That’s right, — Dulev smiled, — it’s time for you to rest. Let’s go.

After that day, the Streltsy service went even better. For his efforts, they gave him two altyn money, and cloth for a caftan. The young man did not know that he had reported the foreman to his head, and kept his mouth shut.

The head, Tikhon Ilyich Trubchev, was pleased with the young warrior, and often put on guard to help the collars of the Tula Kremlin. The time was autumn, but not to stand in the rain, and it was pleasant for Ivan to serve among experienced soldiers.

Sagittarius on the serif line

They were replaced by another foreman, Luka Ryzhov, shortly after dawn. Afanasy Petrovich led Ryzhov to the barns, to surrender the guard. Everything was clean in the gatehouse, and the archers talked with their comrades, only a few looked at Moshkin’s bandaged hand.

— What is it, are you Ivan? Korney Tsybin, an experienced sagittarius from Ryzhov’s people, asked him.

— Burned in the stove. It happens, — the young man smiled.

— Nothing, it’s young. It will heal.

Finally, happy Ivan walked along the path to his native settlement. On the outskirts I met a shepherd, a cheerful Porfiry, already whistling on his indispensable pipe, and his dog, Polkan, was spinning nearby. Cheerful then cheerful, but with a whip controlled — directly passion, the gadfly knocked down a cow from the back, without spoiling the skin.