Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“I serve with the Railway Service Corps, but I am not a railroad man by profession,” Ned replied guardedly, laying down his knife and fork. “My specialty is communications: telegraph and wireless, which the railroads need in order to function. And it appears that communications across Siberia are in no better shape than the rail lines.”

“Then improving transport is not simply a matter of more locomotives and rolling stock?” the banker Kostrov inquired, fork in hand, looking up from his heavily laden dinner plate.

Ned hesitated and felt relief when their host stepped in to answer.

“Shortages of locomotives and carriages are only a symptom,” Dorokhin asserted, setting his vodka glass on the table for emphasis. “You see, most of our Russian locomotives are antiques, fit only for a museum. Presently, Russia possesses only one quarter of the number of locomotives that in 1914 was barely sufficient to maintain her railways in an abysmal state of inefficiency.”

“Surely you exaggerate, Stepan Petrovich,” Kostrov interrupted. “Could it truly be that bad, Captain du Pont?”

All eyes turned to Ned. At that moment, he was taking a drink of water and nearly choked on it.

“You’re both right,” he answered guardedly, setting down his glass and assuming an authoritative air. “That’s why the Railway Service Corps is bringing in so many new locomotives and freight cars. A completely new American train is en route here from Vladivostok even as we speak.”

“Aha! But locomotives aren’t the half of it!” the elder Dorokhin went on, unwilling to be placated. “It’s been four years since the fighting began, and all across Siberia our rails and roadbeds are in a dreadful state, the lathes and machinery needed to make repairs are totally worn out, and the skilled workmen to carry out the repairs have been killed or conscripted by the thousands.”

Ned looked across the table and saw that Neilson and Ivashov had put down their forks and were listening with renewed interest. Ned did the same.

“You see, my dear captain,” Dorokhin resumed with an appreciative smile, “before the war with Germany, Russia imported vast quantities of agricultural implements from abroad: not just large combines and machines, but simple tools like axes, sickles shovels and scythes. By the time of our revolutions in 1917, domestic production of such tools ceased almost entirely. All over Russia, spades are worn out, men plow with burnt wooden staves rather than plowshares, and axes and saws are so worn out as to be useless.”

Now even Father Timofey came back to life, furrowing his brow with heartfelt concern for the Siberian peasant. And Zhanna appeared close to tears. Ned’s look met hers for a fleeting moment and, before she turned away, her violet eyes seemed to convey the limitless compassion of youth.

“But things are so much better here in Transbaikalia than in Omsk and Yekaterinburg,” Neilson pointed out in a skeptical tone. “Here you have a wide variety of foods at a fraction of the price in Omsk. Yet you fear famine?”

“Well, perhaps not for the moment,” Dorokhin conceded, resting his thick hands on his hard round belly. “The Transbaikalian peasant eats rather more today than he did during the war with Germany. But he has no matches, no salt, no new boots or clothing. Worse still, in the cities, there is no fuel or medicine, no soap or cloth. Houses fall into disrepair for lack of paint and plaster. Offices are without paper and pencils. And the trickle of goods entering the stream of commerce is diverted immediately from factories and co-operatives to the front.”

“You paint a dismal picture, Stepan Petrovich,” Dorokhin’s brother-in-law answered at last, all eyes now centered on the banker. “But what is to be done? We can’t simply stop the war and let the Bolsheviks take control. The Cheka[9] and the Red Guards would kill every last one of us! My cousin arrived here last week after escaping from Petrograd.[10] He told me the canals there are clogged with the decomposing bodies of merchants and nobles executed during the Red Terror. In the past month alone, he said, the city’s population has declined by one hundred thousand souls. One hundred thousand! No, dear brother, our only hope is to battle on to victory, whatever the cost.”

“So, tell us, is the bad news all true?” Dorokhin pressed, gazing with dispirited eyes first upon Neilson and then Ivashov. “What hopeful news do you bring us from the front? What do you hear of Admiral Kolchak’s plans for a spring offensive?”

The British officer, as if having awaited such an opening, spoke up at once without bothering to look across the table to see if Ivashov wished to speak first.