MIDSHIPMAN

Spring in Kyiv began with the flood of the Dnieper. One had only to leave the city on Vladimirskaya Hill, and the bluish sea immediately opened before one’s eyes.

But, besides the flood of the Dnieper, another flood began in Kyiv - sunshine, freshness, warm and fragrant wind.

Sticky pyramidal poplars were blooming on Bibikovsky Boulevard. They filled the surrounding streets with the smell of incense. The chestnut trees were throwing out their first leaves - transparent, crumpled, covered with reddish fluff.

When yellow and pink candles bloomed on the chestnut trees, spring was in full swing. Waves of coolness, the damp breath of young grass, and the sound of recently blossoming leaves poured into the streets from centuries-old gardens.

Caterpillars crawled along the sidewalks even on Khreshchatyk. The wind blew dried petals into piles. May beetles and butterflies flew into tram cars. Nightingales sang in the front gardens at night. Poplar fluff, like Black Sea foam, rolled onto the panels in the surf. Dandelions were yellowing along the edges of the pavements.

Striped sun awnings were stretched over the wide open windows of the pastry shop and coffee shops. Lilacs, sprinkled with water, stood on restaurant tables. Young Kiev residents were looking for flowers with five petals in the lilac clusters. Their faces under their straw summer hats took on a matte yellowish color.

The time for the Kyiv gardens had come. In the spring I spent my days in the gardens. I played there, studied lessons, read. He only came home to have dinner and spend the night.

I knew every corner of the huge Botanical Garden with its ravines, pond and dense shadow of hundred-year-old linden alleys.

But most of all I loved the Mariinsky Park in Lipki near the palace. It hung over the Dnieper. The walls of purple and white lilac, three times the height of a man, rang and swayed from the multitude of bees. Fountains flowed among the lawns.

A wide belt of gardens stretched over the red clay cliffs of the Dnieper - Mariinsky and Palace parks, Tsarsky and Merchant gardens. From the Merchant Garden there was a famous view of Podol. The people of Kiev were very proud of this view. A symphony orchestra played in the Merchant Garden all summer. Nothing interfered with listening to music, except for the drawn-out steamship whistles coming from the Dnieper.

The last garden on the Dnieper bank was Vladimirskaya Gorka. There stood a monument to Prince Vladimir with a large bronze cross in his hand. Light bulbs were screwed into the cross. In the evenings they were lit, and the fiery cross hung high in the sky above the Kyiv steep slopes.

The city was so beautiful in the spring that I did not understand my mother’s passion for obligatory Sunday trips to summer cottages - Boyarka, Pushcha Voditsa or Darnitsa. I was bored among the monotonous dacha plots of Pushcha Voditsa, looked indifferently in the boyar forest at the stunted alley of the poet Nadson (46) and did not like Darnitsa for the trampled earth near the pine trees and the loose sand mixed with cigarette butts.

One spring I was sitting in Mariinsky Park and reading Stevenson’s “Treasure Island” (47). Sister Galya sat nearby and also read. Her summer hat with green ribbons lay on the bench. The wind moved the ribbons, Galya was short-sighted, very trusting, and it was almost impossible to get her out of her good-natured state.

It had rained in the morning, but now the clear spring sky shone above us. Only belated drops of rain flew from the lilacs.

A girl with bows in her hair stopped in front of us and began jumping over the rope. She stopped me from reading. I shook the lilac. A little rain fell noisily on the girl and Galya. The girl stuck her tongue out at me and ran away, and Galya shook the raindrops off the book and continued reading.

And at that moment I saw a man who poisoned me for a long time with dreams of my unrealistic future.

A tall midshipman with a tanned, calm face walked easily along the alley. A straight black broadsword hung from his lacquered belt. Black ribbons with bronze anchors fluttered in the quiet wind. He was all in black. Only the bright gold of the stripes set off his strict form.

In land Kyiv, where we hardly saw sailors, it was an alien from the distant legendary world of winged ships, the frigate "Pallada" (48), from the world of all oceans, seas, all port cities, all winds and all the charms that were associated with the picturesque labor of seafarers. An ancient broadsword with a black hilt seemed to have appeared in the Mariinsky Park from the pages of Stevenson.

The midshipman passed by, crunching on the sand. I got up and followed him. Due to myopia, Galya did not notice my disappearance.

My whole dream of the sea came true in this man. I often imagined seas, foggy and golden from the evening calm, distant voyages, when the whole world changed, like a quick kaleidoscope, behind the windows of the porthole. My God, if only someone had thought to give me at least a piece of fossilized rust, broken from an old anchor! I would treasure it like a jewel.

The midshipman looked around. On the black ribbon of his cap, I read the mysterious word: “Azimuth.” Later I learned that this was the name of the training ship of the Baltic Fleet.

I followed him along Elizavetinskaya Street, then along Institutskaya and Nikolaevskaya. The midshipman saluted the infantry officers gracefully and casually. I was ashamed in front of him for these baggy Kyiv warriors.

The midshipman looked around several times, and at the corner of Meringovskaya he stopped and called me over.

“Boy,” he asked mockingly, “why were you in tow behind me?”

I blushed and didn't answer.

“Everything is clear: he dreams of being a sailor,” the midshipman guessed, for some reason speaking about me in the third person.

The midshipman put his thin hand on my shoulder:

- Let's get to Khreshchatyk.

We walked side by side. I was afraid to look up and saw only the strong boots of a midshipman, polished to an incredible shine.

On Khreshchatyk, the midshipman came with me to the Semadeni coffee shop, ordered two servings of pistachio ice cream and two glasses of water. We were served ice cream on a small three-legged marble table. It was very cold and covered with numbers: stockbrokers gathered at Semadeni’s and counted their profits and losses on tables.

We ate the ice cream in silence. The midshipman took from his wallet a photograph of a magnificent corvette with a sail rig and a wide funnel and handed it to me:

- Take it as a souvenir. This is my ship. I rode it to Liverpool.

He shook my hand firmly and left. I sat there a little longer until my sweaty neighbors in boaters started looking back at me. Then I awkwardly left and ran to Mariinsky Park. The bench was empty. Galya left. I guessed that the midshipman pitied me, and for the first time I learned that pity leaves a bitter aftertaste in the soul.

After this meeting, the desire to become a sailor tormented me for many years. I was eager to go to the sea. The first time I saw him briefly was in Novorossiysk, where I went for a few days with my father. But this was not enough.

For hours I sat over the atlas, examined the coasts of the oceans, looked for unknown seaside towns, capes, islands, and river mouths.

I came up with a complex game. I compiled a long list of ships with sonorous names: “Polar Star”, “Walter Scott”, “Khingan”, “Sirius”. This list swelled every day. I was the owner of the largest fleet in the world.

Of course, I was sitting in my shipping office, in the smoke of cigars, among colorful posters and schedules. Wide windows looked out, naturally, onto the embankment. The yellow masts of steamships stuck out right next to the windows, and good-natured elms rustled behind the walls. Steamboat smoke flew cheekily into the windows, mingling with the smell of rotten brine and new, cheerful matting.

I have come up with a list of amazing voyages for my ships. There was no more forgotten corner of the earth wherever they went. They even visited the island of Tristan d'Acuña.

I removed ships from one voyage and sent them to another. I followed the voyages of my ships and unmistakably knew where the Admiral Istomin was today and where the Flying Dutchman was: the Istomin loaded bananas in Singapore, and the Flying Dutchman unloaded flour on the Farree Islands.

In order to manage such a vast shipping enterprise, I needed a lot of knowledge. I read guidebooks, ship's handbooks and everything that had even a remote connection to the sea.

That was the first time I heard the word “meningitis” from my mother.

“He’ll get to God knows what with his games,” my mother once said. - As if all this would not end in meningitis.

I have heard that meningitis is a disease of boys who learn to read too early. So I just grinned at my mother’s fears.

It all ended with the parents deciding to go with the whole family to the sea for the summer.

Now I guess that my mother hoped to cure me with this trip from my excessive passion for the sea. She thought that I would be, as always happens, disappointed by a direct confrontation with what I so passionately strived for in my dreams. And she was right, but only partly.

Reads in 15 minutes

One spring I was sitting in Mariinsky Park and reading Stevenson's Treasure Island. Sister Galya sat nearby and also read. Her summer hat with green ribbons lay on the bench. The wind moved the ribbons, Galya was short-sighted, very trusting, and it was almost impossible to get her out of her good-natured state.

It had rained in the morning, but now the clear spring sky was shining above us. Only belated drops of rain flew from the lilacs.

A girl with bows in her hair stopped in front of us and began jumping over the rope. She stopped me from reading. I shook the lilac. A little rain fell noisily on the girl and Galya. The girl stuck her tongue out at me and ran away, and Galya shook the raindrops off the book and continued reading.

And at that moment I saw a man who poisoned me for a long time with dreams of my unrealistic future.

A tall midshipman with a tanned, calm face walked easily along the alley. A straight black broadsword hung from his lacquered belt. Black ribbons with bronze anchors fluttered in the quiet wind. He was all in black. Only the bright gold of the stripes set off his strict form.

In land Kyiv, where we almost never saw sailors, he was an alien from the distant legendary world of winged ships, the frigate "Pallada", from the world of all oceans, seas, all port cities, all winds and all the charms that were associated with the picturesque work of seafarers . An ancient broadsword with a black hilt seemed to have appeared in the Mariinsky Park from the pages of Stevenson.

The midshipman passed by, crunching on the sand. I got up and followed him. Due to myopia, Galya did not notice my disappearance.

My whole dream of the sea came true in this man. I often imagined seas, foggy and golden from the evening calm, distant voyages, when the whole world changed, like a fast kaleidoscope, behind the windows of the porthole. My God, if only someone had thought to give me at least a piece of fossilized rust, broken from an old anchor! I would treasure it like a jewel.

The midshipman looked around. On the black ribbon of his cap, I read the mysterious word: “Azimuth.” Later I learned that this was the name of the training ship of the Baltic Fleet.

I followed him along Elizavetinskaya Street, then along Institutskaya and Nikolaevskaya. The midshipman saluted the infantry officers gracefully and casually. I was ashamed in front of him for these baggy Kyiv warriors.

The midshipman looked around several times, and at the corner of Meringovskaya he stopped and called me over.

Boy,” he asked mockingly, “why were you in tow behind me?”

I blushed and didn't answer.

“Everything is clear: he dreams of being a sailor,” the midshipman guessed, speaking for some reason about me in the third person.

Let's get to Khreshchatyk.

We walked side by side. I was afraid to look up and saw only the strong boots of a midshipman, polished to an incredible shine.

On Khreshchatyk, the midshipman came with me to the Semadeni coffee shop, ordered two servings of pistachio ice cream and two glasses of water. We were served ice cream on a small three-legged marble table. It was very cold and covered with numbers: stockbrokers gathered at Semadeni’s and counted their profits and losses on tables.

We ate the ice cream in silence. The midshipman took from his wallet a photograph of a magnificent corvette with a sail rig and a wide funnel and handed it to me.

Take it as a souvenir. This is my ship. I rode it to Liverpool.

He shook my hand firmly and left. I sat there a little longer until my sweaty neighbors in boaters started looking back at me. Then I awkwardly left and ran to Mariinsky Park. The bench was empty. Galya left. I guessed that the midshipman pitied me, and for the first time I learned that pity leaves a bitter aftertaste in the soul.

After this meeting, the desire to become a sailor tormented me for many years. I was eager to go to the sea. The first time I saw him briefly was in Novorossiysk, where I went for a few days with my father. But this was not enough.

For hours I sat over the atlas, examined the coasts of the oceans, looked for unknown seaside towns, capes, islands, and river mouths.

I came up with a complex game. I compiled a long list of ships with sonorous names: “Polar Star”, “Walter Scott”, “Khingan”, “Sirius”. This list swelled every day. I was the owner of the largest fleet in the world.

Of course, I was sitting in my shipping office, in the smoke of cigars, among colorful posters and schedules. Wide windows looked out, naturally, onto the embankment. The yellow masts of steamships stuck out right next to the windows, and good-natured elms rustled behind the walls. Steamboat smoke flew cheekily into the windows, mingling with the smell of rotten brine and new, cheerful matting.

I have come up with a list of amazing voyages for my ships. There was not the most forgotten corner of the earth where they did not go. They even visited the island of Tristan da Cunha.

I removed ships from one voyage and sent them to another. I followed the voyages of my ships and unmistakably knew where the Admiral Istomin was today and where the Flying Dutchman was: the Istomin loaded bananas in Singapore, and the Flying Dutchman unloaded flour in the Faroe Islands.

In order to manage such a vast shipping enterprise, I needed a lot of knowledge. I read guidebooks, ship's handbooks and everything that was even remotely related to the sea.

That was the first time I heard the word “meningitis” from my mother.

“God knows what he’ll get to with his games,” my mother once said. - As if all this would not end in meningitis.

I've heard that meningitis is a disease of boys who learn to read too early. So I just grinned at my mother’s fears.

It all ended with the parents deciding to go with the whole family to the sea for the summer.

Now I guess that my mother hoped to cure me with this trip from my excessive passion for the sea. She thought that I would be, as always happens, disappointed by a direct confrontation with what I so passionately strived for in my dreams. And she was right, but only partly.

One day my mother solemnly announced that the other day we were going to the Black Sea for the whole summer, to the small town of Gelendzhik, near Novorossiysk.

It was perhaps impossible to choose a better place than Gelendzhik to disappoint me in my passion for the sea and the south.

Gelendzhik was then a very dusty and hot town without any vegetation. All the greenery for many kilometers around was destroyed by the cruel Novorossiysk winds - the Nord-East. Only thorny bushes and stunted acacia trees with yellow dry flowers grew in the front gardens. It was hot from the high mountains. At the end of the bay a cement plant was smoking.

But Gelendzhik Bay was very good. In its clear and warm water, large jellyfish floated like pink and blue flowers. Spotted flounders and bug-eyed gobies lay on the sandy bottom. The surf threw red algae onto the shore, rotten floats from fishing nets and pieces of dark green bottles rolled in by the waves.

The sea after Gelendzhik has not lost its charm for me. It only became simpler and therefore more beautiful than in my elegant dreams.

In Gelendzhik I became friends with an elderly boatman Anastas. He was Greek, originally from the city of Volo. He had a new sailing boat, white with a red keel and grating washed to gray.

Anastas took summer residents on a boat ride. He was famous for his dexterity and composure, and my mother sometimes let me go alone with Anastas.

One day Anastas walked out with me from the bay into the open sea. I will never forget the horror and delight I felt when the sail, inflated, tilted the boat so low that the water rushed at the level of the side. Noisy huge waves rolled towards them, shining through with greenery and dousing the face with salty dust.

I grabbed the shrouds, I wanted to go back to the shore, but Anastas, holding the pipe between his teeth, purred something, and then asked:

What did your mom pay for these dudes? Ay, good dudes!

He nodded at my soft Caucasian shoes - dudes. My legs were shaking. I didn't answer. Anastas yawned and said:

Nothing! Small shower, warm shower. You will dine with gusto. You won’t have to ask - eat for mom and dad!

He turned the boat casually and confidently. She scooped up the water, and we rushed into the bay, diving and jumping out onto the crests of the waves. They left from under the stern with a menacing noise. My heart sank and sank.

Suddenly Anastas began to sing. I stopped shaking and listened to this song in bewilderment:

From Batum to Sukhum - Ai-vai-vai!

From Sukhum to Batum - Ai-vai-vai!

A boy was running, dragging a box - Ai-vai-vai!

A boy fell and broke a box - Ai-vai-vai!

To this song we lowered the sail and quickly approached the pier, where the pale mother was waiting. Anastas picked me up, put me on the pier and said:

Now you have it salty, madam. Already has a habit of the sea.

One day my father hired a ruler, and we drove from Gelendzhik to the Mikhailovsky Pass.

At first, the gravel road ran along the slope of bare and dusty mountains. We crossed bridges over ravines where there was not a drop of water. The same clouds of gray dry cotton wool lay on the mountains all day, clinging to the peaks.

I was thirsty. The red-haired Cossack cab driver turned around and told me to wait until the pass - there I would drink tasty and cold water. But I didn’t believe the cab driver. The dryness of the mountains and the lack of water frightened me. I looked longingly at the dark and fresh strip of sea. It was impossible to drink from it, but at least you could bathe in its cool water.

The road rose higher and higher. Suddenly a breath of freshness hit our faces.

The very pass! - said the cabman, stopped the horses, got off and put iron brakes under the wheels.

From the ridge of the mountain we saw huge and dense forests. They stretched in waves across the mountains to the horizon. Here and there red granite cliffs jutted out of the greenery, and in the distance I saw a peak ablaze with ice and snow.

“Nord-Ost doesn’t reach here,” said the cabman. - This is paradise!

The line began to descend. Immediately a thick shadow covered us. In the impassable thicket of trees we heard the murmur of water, the whistle of birds and the rustle of leaves agitated by the midday wind.

The lower we descended, the thicker the forest became and the shady the road. A clear stream was already running along its side. It washed through multi-colored stones, touched purple flowers with its stream and made them bow and tremble, but could not tear them away from the rocky ground and carry them down into the gorge.

Mom took water from the stream into a mug and gave it to me to drink. The water was so cold that the mug immediately became covered with sweat.

“It smells like ozone,” the father said.

I took a deep breath. I didn’t know what the smell was around, but it seemed to me that I was covered with a heap of branches soaked in fragrant rain.

The vines clung to our heads. And here and there, on the slopes of the road, some shaggy flower poked out from under a stone and looked with curiosity at our line and at the gray horses, raising their heads and performing solemnly, as if in a parade, so as not to gallop off and roll out the line.

There's a lizard! - Mom said. Where?

Over there. Do you see the hazel tree? And to the left is a red stone in the grass. See above. Do you see the yellow corolla? This is an azalea. A little to the right of the azalea, on a fallen beech tree, near the very root. Look, do you see such a shaggy red root in dry soil and some tiny blue flowers? So here it is next to him.

I saw a lizard. But while I found it, I had a wonderful journey through hazel, redstone, azalea flower and fallen beech.

“So this is what it is, the Caucasus!” - I thought.

This is paradise! - the cab driver repeated, turning off the highway into a narrow grassy clearing in the forest. - Now let’s unharness the horses and go swimming.

We drove into such a thicket and the branches hit us in the face so much that we had to stop the horses, get off the line and continue on foot. The line moved slowly behind us.

We came out into a clearing in a green gorge. Crowds of tall dandelions stood in the lush grass like white islands. Under the thick beech trees we saw an old empty barn. He stood on the bank of a noisy mountain river. It tightly poured clear water over the stones, hissed and dragged away many air bubbles along with the water.

While the driver unharnessed and went with father to get firewood for the fire, we washed ourselves in the river. Our faces burned with heat after washing.

We wanted to immediately go up the river, but mother spread a tablecloth on the grass, took out provisions and said that until we had eaten, she would not let us go anywhere.

Gagging, I ate ham sandwiches and cold rice porridge with raisins, but it turned out that I was in a completely unnecessary hurry - the stubborn copper kettle did not want to boil on the fire. It must have been because the water from the river was completely icy.

Then the kettle boiled so unexpectedly and violently that it flooded the fire. We drank strong tea and began to hurry our father to go into the forest. The driver said that we had to be careful because there were a lot of wild boars in the forest. He explained to us that if we see small holes dug in the ground, then these are the places where wild boars sleep at night.

Mom was worried - she couldn’t walk with us, she had shortness of breath - but the driver calmed her down, noting that the boar needed to be deliberately teased so that it would rush at the person.

We went up the river. We made our way through the thicket, constantly stopping and calling to each other to show granite pools carved out by the river - trout flashed through them with blue sparks - huge green beetles with long mustaches, foamy grumbling waterfalls, horsetails taller than us, thickets of forest anemones and clearings with peonies.

Borya came across a small dusty pit that looked like a child's bath. We walked around it carefully. Apparently this was a wild boar's roosting area.

The father went ahead. He started calling us. We made our way to it through the buckthorn, avoiding huge mossy boulders.

Father stood near a strange structure overgrown with blackberries. Four smoothly hewn gigantic stones were covered, like a roof, by a fifth hewn stone. It turned out to be a stone house. There was a hole punched in one of the side stones, but it was so small that even I couldn’t get through it. There were several such stone buildings around.

These are dolmens,” said the father. - Ancient burial grounds of the Scythians. Or maybe these are not burial grounds at all. Until now, scientists cannot find out who, why and how built these dolmens.

I was sure that dolmens were the dwellings of long-extinct dwarf people. But I didn’t tell my father about this, since Borya was with us: he would have made me laugh.

We returned to Gelendzhik completely burned by the sun, drunk from fatigue and the forest air. I fell asleep and through my sleep I felt the heat blowing over me and heard the distant murmur of the sea.

Since then, in my imagination, I have become the owner of another magnificent country - the Caucasus. A passion for Lermontov, abreks, and Shamil began. Mom was worried again.

Now, in adulthood, I remember with gratitude my childhood hobbies. They taught me a lot.

But I was not at all like the noisy and enthusiastic boys choking with saliva from excitement, giving no rest to anyone. On the contrary, I was very shy and did not pester anyone with my hobbies.

The first voyage of Nicholas Seaforth aboard the spaceship Hibernia in the year 2194, AD.

Dedicated to Rick of Toledo and Ardat Mayhar, to whom I owe the publication of this book, and to Jenny, who made it worth reading.

Part I

1

- Attention! – I commanded, but I was too late. Alex and Sandy didn’t have time to come to attention: two senior lieutenants of the Hibernia appeared around the bend in the corridor.

Everyone froze. The scene was simply stunning: I, the senior midshipman, purple with rage; the voluptuous Mrs. Donhauser, who gazed open-mouthed in surprise at the soap suds hanging from her cardigan; my two cadets, standing at attention near the bulkhead, still clutching towels and tubes of shaving cream; and, finally, Lieutenants Cousins ​​and Dagalow, stunned by the sight of the unruly, surprised midshipmen aboard the interstellar ship of the United Nations Space Fleet. However, the ship was still moored at the Ganymede orbital station.

If I had gotten off the bridge a few seconds earlier, everything would have been fine. But just at this time I was helping Mrs. Dagalow finish registering the ship's new equipment.

Lieutenant Cousins ​​was brief.

“You too, Mr. Seaforth, to the bulkhead.”

- Yes, sir! “I got into formation and stood at attention, afraid to even blink an eye. I never thought that a friend could let me down like that. My indignation knew no bounds.

Alex Tamarov, all sweaty, stood next to me. Sixteen years old, he was the third oldest and when I arrived on the ship, he greeted me with hostility, but we ended up becoming friends. However, this latest prank by Alex and Sandy didn't bode well for us.

In the light of the dimly lit corridor, I noticed how Mrs. Dagalow's eyes sparkled mischievously when, having taken the tube of cream from Sandy Wilski, she handed it to Lieutenant Cousins, and once again I regretted that it was not this sweet girl who was the senior lieutenant. As for Mr. Cousins, he literally reveled in his power.

– Yours, cadet? Are you already shaving? – he said abruptly. During the five weeks I spent aboard the Hibernia, then stationed at Near-Earth Port, I never saw Sandy, fourteen years old, use a razor. Where did he get it from? Maybe mine? I was seventeen and rarely shaved.

- No, sir. Sandy had to answer, he had no choice. - This is Mr. Holzer. – I bit my lip. Oh my God, Holzer! Only this was not enough.

A few weeks ago, Wax, who was almost nineteen, was supposed to become a senior midshipman, but he didn't and he hated me. And he didn’t even hide it. He was a fully formed guy, regularly shaved and worked out weights. Because of his strength and rudeness, we gave in to him.

“Madam, please accept my sincere apologies,” Lieutenant Cousins ​​turned to Mrs. Donhauser, “I assure you that these children (he spat out the last word like a snake’s venom) will not bother you anymore.” “His eyes burned with anger.

“It’s okay,” Mrs. Donhouser said calmly, no longer angry about what had happened, but rather amused. - They were just playing...

- Good games! “Mr. Cousins’ fingers actually dug into the tube. “We couldn’t find anything better than pouring shaving foam on each other!” And also future officers of a warship!

“That’s your problem, Lieutenant,” Mrs. Donhauser replied calmly. “And I’m not complaining about anything and I want you to know that.” Best wishes. – With these words, she headed to the passenger cabins, apparently to change her jacket.

The stunned Lieutenant Cousins ​​was speechless for a moment, and then turned to us:

“I’ve never seen stupider jokes in my life.” And in such company I will have a seventeen-month journey to Hope.

I took a deep breath:

- Sorry, sir. I'm the only one to blame for everything.

“It’s good that you understand that,” Cousins ​​said in a sarcastic tone. - So this is how you educate future officers, Mr. Seaforth?

“No, sir,” I answered, strongly doubting my own words. Was it my friendship with Sandy and Alex that influenced their behavior? If they had obeyed Wax Holzer, nothing like this would have happened.

– You can expect anything from such idiots, but it is your duty to control them! What if the commander saw this?

Lord, save and have mercy! If they had landed their foam not at Mrs. Donhauser, but at Commander Hug, they would not have escaped the barrel, or even the guardhouse, and I would have been demoted to the rank of cabin boy. Mr. Cousins ​​is one hundred percent right. I felt guilty and remained silent.

- Answer, puppy!

Then Lieutenant Dagalow suddenly intervened:

- Mr. Cousins, Nick was on duty. He couldn't know...

– It is his duty to monitor the discipline of his subordinates.

I kept an eye on it when I was with them. What else could I do?

Mrs. Dagalow continued to insist:

- They are just boys, we are still at the Ganymede station. They were just letting off steam...

– Don’t forget, Lisa, that in addition to working with the computer, we have other responsibilities. They must behave like men, and it is our duty to teach them this. “Cousins’s malice was well known to everyone, and therefore Mrs. Dagalow did not take his words as a reprimand and, without paying any attention to his tone, said:

- They will learn.

– By the time we run out of shaving cream? – Cousins ​​said contemptuously, but not so harshly. He turned to Lisa. – Think about it, by the end of the voyage some of them will be promoted to officers. However, it is unlikely that any of these idiots will ever be promoted to the rank of lieutenant. What if one of us gets a different assignment on Nadezhda? Do you want these stupid boys who just yesterday were chasing each other with shaving cream on duty?

In the basement we had a taboo against booze, tobacco and women. There were no taboos outside of it. We went to see the women with Dimon. Sanya was shy, and we wouldn’t have taken him, just to scare him away. Big guy looks like Winnie the Pooh. But Dimon was small, lean, considered himself handsome and was involved in the boxing section, where I was not accepted because of my weak nose.

They were walking around with women - that's a strong word. Usually the acquaintance went like this:

Hey chicks, come here!

Back off.

Fuck you, you freaks!

We hear from freaks.

And they are no longer there, they proudly retired under our desperate neighing.

But that evening we made progress. Coming out of the basement to go around, we immediately came across two people. Dimon suddenly bravely went on the attack, crashed like a wedge between his friends and hugged their waists. I must say that holding a girl by the waist in the northern winter is not so easy, unless you have monkey hands. Even if she has a waist like young Gurchenko, at minus thirty she turns into a barrel with the fur in or the fur out. So Dimon’s hands kept slipping. While he was having a simple conversation with his girlfriends, I, trailing behind, poked my head first to the right, then to the left, then between them, trying to see under the huge fur hats and scarves wrapped in three layers which of the young ladies was more beautiful.

So they reached their house - a yellow-blue nine-story building, of which Ukrainian builders had built dozens in the city, anticipating the imminent independence of their distant homeland. We sat down on the fence of the playground, which was not yet completely covered with snow. Dimon tells stupid jokes, I'm trying to say something smart. Suddenly our passions disappear, and in their place are three young men. Two are like us, the third is like a brick, and not ceramic, but silicate. Dimon glares at him and asks for a cigarette. Dimon was brave, he stood up and said:

I don't smoke and I don't advise you to.

And he immediately fell into the snow, struck in the face. Then I collapsed. They didn’t kick us, they didn’t even say anything offensive. We turned around and walked towards our failed friends, timidly huddled together at the opposite end of the platform.

I sadly looked into the cloudy northern sky, throwing my head back and making a snowy pyramid on my nose, tinted from the inside with a pulsating crimson. Dimon jumped around me, cursing all the women in the world and threatening to kill those goats. When the bleeding stopped, we went home.

Along the way, blood seeped out again, dripping onto the snow-white lapel of his sheepskin coat. I had to go to Sanka, who lived next door. We rubbed the fur with soap, rinsed it in hot water (which, as I later learned, is absolutely not allowed in such cases - only in cold water!), blotted it with vinegar and even splashed some vodka from the bottle Sanin’s father had stash. The drops disappeared, but the entire surface became pale pink. Since childhood, I didn’t like the color pink, so I took scissors and trimmed everything down to the undercoat. The shaggy lapel of a sheepskin coat turned into the lapel of a sheared sheepskin coat.

At home mom:

Why is your nose swollen?

Yes, Sanko and I boxed.

Be careful.

The parents did not notice the loss of luxurious fur from the new sheepskin coat.

One evening a couple of weeks later, I was lying on the couch, celebrating the beginning of the autumn holidays and watching on TV the next episode of the newly released “Midshipmen, Go!” The doorbell rings, Dimon is behind it.

Max, we found them.

Well, these goats.

I remembered. Sad. I took out the heavy, shitty boots I had put away until spring.

Mom, I'll be a minute.

There are about ten people in the Shabla courtyard.

Let's kill the freaks! Let's soak them!

The mood rose and they rushed into the city.

Dimon pressed the bell button for a long time, then kicked the door until it finally opened. Behind the door is Brick, in sweatpants and with a bare belly, from under his feet a yellowish cat looks displeased at us. From the back room - “...don’t hang your nose, midshipmen, whether life is bad or good...”.

Brick changed his slippers to sneakers and went out.

Who to fight? - he asked calmly, looking around us with his bullish eyes.

The crowd thought. Someone said:

Let Dimon urinate with him first, then Max will finish off the fatboss.

Shabla hummed her approval, making room on the flight of stairs. But my enthusiasm immediately went away, I wanted to go home, on the sofa, next to my dad and mom.

But there was still hope for Dimon, until a couple of minutes later he was carefully dragged past me down the stairs. He covered his face with his hands.

Max, let's avenge Dimon, hooray idiot!

I couldn't tell them:

No, guys, I'm going home. Maybe the midshipmen there aren't finished yet.

I struck first, hard and true, with my heavy boot, right in the villain's groin. I saw how it hurt him, it hurt a lot. I carefully and motionlessly looked at the man bent over in pain until he straightened up.

Then the boys long and patiently pulled away Brick, who silently and stupidly continued to thrash my body with his hands and feet.

I was taken to a traumatologist. No, not to the traumatologist, but to the boy Traumatologist, that was his nickname. For some reason he lived alone and was considered among his peers to be an ace in medicine. They said that a traumatologist once removed an abscess from his uncle’s larynx with a kitchen knife and he recovered.

At the Traumatologist, I tried mumiyo for the first time in my life.

Eat, Max, bee shit, tomorrow you’ll be good as new,” he said, putting pills into the hole of my mouth, lined with bandages and ice. And he carefully fed me a whole pack.

In the morning I came home. Mom didn’t feel sorry for me, mom asked:

Did you box with Sanko again?

I cried and then vomited that damn mummy for half a day. There was no question of our basement and, in general, of showing one’s broken nose on the street until the end of the holidays. But the sofa and the rest of the midshipmen's series in the evenings and mornings (repeat) were provided for me.

I met Brick a year later at the training and production plant (who doesn’t know). He extended his hand to me:

Great.

“Great,” I replied, shaking his hand.

Director Svetlana Druzhinina showed many historical characters in her own way and made the audience believe in the reality of heroes who actually did not exist

The famous mini-series “Midshipmen, forward!”, filmed by Svetlana Druzhinina based on the novel Nina Sorotokina“Three from the Navigation School,” which first saw the light almost 30 years ago – on January 1, 1988, instantly became a cult classic. The midshipmen's songs were heard on radio and television, from cassette tapes, and were sung by students and schoolchildren. Alyosha Korsak, Sasha Belov, Nikita Olenev and other heroes of the film saga, which soon received a continuation, were so loved by the audience that many were sure: they all really existed.

On the eve of the director’s birthday, which Svetlana Sergeevna celebrates on December 16, the site is looking into which of the heroes of the cult film actually existed and which was the fruit of the writer’s and director’s imagination.

Fluke

The writer and screenwriter Nina Sorotokina, who dedicated her most famous book to her sons, never claimed that “Three from the Navigation School” is a purely historical novel. So in the manuscript, which lay on the mezzanine at her home for several years, real-life characters and events successfully coexisted with fictional ones.

And director Svetlana Druzhinina, anticipating possible attacks, explained everything to the audience in the first seconds of the film. “The filmmakers cannot vouch for the accuracy of all historical details. But with their characteristic bold caution, they are ready to assert that everything in the film is true. Naturally, except for fiction,” says the title card that begins the film “Midshipmen, Forward!”

By the way, the picture was born solely by a happy – and accidental – coincidence. Sorotokina wrote a novel back in the 70s, it was very long, magazines didn’t want to publish it, and she wasn’t ready to shorten it. As a result, the book gathered dust on the mezzanine - until one day a two-kilogram folder with a story about three students of a navigation school came to Svetlana Druzhinina.

Nina Matveevna said that after the release of Druzhinin’s “Circus Princess,” she plucked up courage and called the director, with whom she had mutual friends. Druzhinina agreed to read the manuscript.

Edited the script Yuri Nagibin, who was friends with both women (the self-taught Sorotokina called the famous writer not only her friend, but also the “godfather” in literature). In 1985, an application was submitted for Mosfilm - and filming began in 1986.

Everything but fiction

Counting the number of historical inaccuracies that probably plague all feature films is a thankless task. And for the audience this is not so important - the exploits and adventures of the friendly trinity Belov-Korsak-Olenev - and the intricacies of love - are too captivating.

Personal doctor Elizabeth life physician Ivan Lestok; vice chancellor Alexey Bestuzhev-Ryumin, whom the Prussian king so hated and dreamed of eliminating and whom the empress disliked; cardinal de Fleury and his envoy to Russia Marquis de Chétardy; lieutenant colonel Ivan Lopukhin, whom they tried to accuse of a “conspiracy” against the empress; exiled to Siberia for participation in a conspiracy Anna Bestuzheva-Ryumina and some other characters mentioned in “Midshipmen” are real historical figures.

There was both a diplomat and an associate PetraIPavel Yaguzhinsky, who according to the film was supposed to be the father of a woman who had fallen out of favor Anastasia Yaguzhinskaya(played by Tatyana Lyutaeva). There is evidence that one of his many daughters was indeed named Anastasia, although researchers never found out her fate. Anastasia Yaguzhinskaya also appears in books Valentina Pikulya. True, according to another version, the prototype of the heroine of the film “Midshipmen, Forward!” became another daughter of Peter’s associate - Natalia. Well, the escape with the Frenchman, like the story with the midshipman in love, is purely fiction.

The love-struck French spy Chevalier de Brillie, whom he played incomparably Mikhail Boyarsky, is a fictional character. However, a person with that name existed. The archives mention a certain Brilli(in Russian transcription - Brilly), an associate of Peter I, a native of Italy, who served as an engineer in France, and in 1701 moved to Moscow. The real Brilly died in 1746.

Three from the navigation school

The School of Mathematical and Navigational Sciences, established by decree of Peter I in January 1701, was initially located at the Khamovnichesky yard in Kadashevskaya Sloboda (in the area of ​​modern Yakimanka), but then it was moved, giving it the lower tiers of the Sukharev Tower. It was there that the heroes of “Midshipmen” were supposed to study. According to the rules, boys from 12 to 17 years old were admitted to the navigation school; there was no division based on class. From time to time there was a shortage - then they took 20-year-olds.

Peter I introduced the title of midshipmen in 1716; it was awarded to graduates of the Naval Guard Academy, opened in St. Petersburg in 1715 and organized on the basis of the same School of Mathematical and Navigational Sciences (Moscow Mathematical and Navigational School), who were enrolled in the midshipman company, in the same 1715- Navigation classes were transferred there, and the school itself was turned into a preparatory institution at the Academy. On ships, midshipmen were initially “lower ranks”; after “practical voyages” they were promoted to officers.

The action of Druzhinina's first film begins in 1742, the final part of the trilogy - "Midshipmen III" with matured heroes - in 1757. As for the three midshipmen themselves, they are a figment of the writer’s imagination. But what’s interesting is that there is information in the archives that there was a certain Nikita Olenev. Date of birth of the prince's illegitimate son Oleg Olenev called 1717. He was familiar with Bestuzhev-Ryumin, according to some sources, he was his adjutant for some time, and it seems that in 1744 he accompanied Sofia Augusta Frederica- future empress Catherine the Great with his mother on the road from Prussia to Russia and communicated quite closely with Fike, as her relatives called her then. Doesn't remind you of anything?

By the way, the further fate of the real Nikita Olenev turned out to be sad - he participated in a conspiracy against Elizabeth in 1759, was exiled to Siberia, after which his traces were lost.

No traces of Alyosha Korsak could be found in the archives. But there was a race Korsakov(the famous composer also belonged to him Rimsky-Korsakov), in which naval service was considered very honorable. Some Alexey Korsakov during the Seven Years' War of 1756-1763 he served as a captain on one of the ships, although, unlike the hero Dmitry Kharatyan, was by no means poor, lived not in a village, but on a family estate in St. Petersburg.

Prototypes of the third midshipman, Alexander Belov ( Sergey Zhigunov) was also not found - despite the fact that this surname was very common. However, who knows if among the numerous graduates of the navigation school there was a namesake of the famous film midshipman?

By the way : The title of the film has changed several times. Nagibin and Druzhinin immediately rejected the original title of the novel. The options “Three Midshipmen” (similar to “The Three Musketeers”) and simply “Midshipmen” did not work.