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On January 18, 1654, a heavy-set elder kozak wearily signed a paper in the presence of the imperial emissary. Slowly he settled his two-feathered hat back on his head, stood up, bowed deeply, wordlessly and left the church. Outside the stars shone bitterly in the dark prairie sky and a wind howled, ready to tear a careless coat clean off its wearer’s back. Horses whinnied nearby, shivering their whithers irregularly.
Bohdan Khmelnytskiy, perhaps the most successful democratically elected hetman in the history of Kozak Ukraine, had ended months of frustrating consideration of the unhappy choices before him: his neighbors, Muscovy and Poland were once more making aggressive noises, a pack of wolves baying at Ukraine’s vast and ungovernable doors for the thousandth time. To the south, the Ottoman court had changed and animosity towards an infidel ally was widespread. The Tatars had repeatedly proved their unreliability. In order to secure some peace for his carved-up land since the successful uprisings three years earlier, he had to find an overlord to stand behind his wobbly domain. King, khan, sultan, tsar. He knew he had to sign with one of them and the diabolical question had been, which enemy was the least voracious?
In the end, a less painful history with the neighbor to the north, and the shared Orthodox faith, led to Khmelnytskiy’s choice: Alexei Mikhailovich, Tsar of Muscovy.
But the Pereiaslav Accord chained the ancient land of Rus’ to its hungry northern offspring in a bitterly uneven relationship that officially was only to end 337 years later. Indeed, it marked the beginning of the history of what came to be known as Ukraine as an appendage to what came to be known as Russia.
The words of the imperial oath of loyalty he and his council had just sworn stuck in his throat like a fine fishbone. Buturlin had held his ground, however, and short of abandoning the agreement altogether, the Kozaks had to finally accept the unilateral vow of loyalty that made them not weaker partners in a mutual pact, but vassals to their liege. With Poland, at least, the concept of equality with the Polish king had not been disputed.
Khmelnytskiy crossed himself in the dark and prayed to the Mother of God that he would not live to regret this day.
Less than two hundred years later, Taras Shevchenko would write:
“O Bohdan, my foolish son! Look at me, at your mother, Ukraine. Had I known, I would have strangled you in your cradle, I would have smothered you with my body. Now, my steppe is sold, my sons work for strangers, and the Muscovites churn up my hills..."
June 14, 2023
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