Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“The matter is simple enough, gentlemen,” Neilson declared, putting down his vodka glass with an unsteady hand and scanning the faces of his audience through bloodshot eyes. “The White Army must defeat the Reds within a year or our side will almost certainly collapse, leaving all of Russia in Bolshevik hands and setting the stage for massacres, starvation, epidemics, and slavery on a scale not seen in modern times.”

Neilson paused to let his message sink in. The other men seemed to hold their breath for an instant, while Zhanna’s face turned a deathly white.

“The Reds, too, have their share of difficulties,” he went on, “but their advantages are many: they hold a territory with five times the population of that held by the Whites; they have moved swiftly to seize what remained of the tsar’s arsenals and arms industries; they have had at least six months longer than the Whites to build their armies; they possess interior lines of supply with a well-developed network of rail lines and waterways; and, most importantly, they are unified behind a single political and military program.”

Ned was impressed that a man so obviously in his cups could deliver so concise a summary. Rather than befuddle his wits, the vodka seemed to have sharpened his tongue. Even Father Timofey’s expression showed respect.

“But what of the Allied blockade and the food and fuel shortages in Red-held cities? And the outbreaks of cholera and typhus?” Kostrov shot back. “And, tell me this, how can the Red Army hope to win battles without a competent officer corps?”

Neilson let out a bitter laugh and swirled a scarred forefinger idly over the rim of his empty vodka glass.

“The Reds still have rail lines open southward to the Caucasus. And smugglers bring in food from Finland, Estonia, Poland, and the Ukraine. Even the epidemics play their part, killing off the aged and the weak, thus leaving more food and fuel for the able-bodied. As for officers, the Red Army learned this past summer not to entrust their divisions to amateurs, however politically reliable they might be. Since then, they have enticed or coerced thousands of former Imperial Army officers into leading Red Army units, with Chekists and political commissars hovering over their shoulders to thwart disloyalty.”

Neilson paused here and cast a meaningful glance toward Ivashov, who turned away.

“What he says is true,” Ivashov added after a moment, looking at Ned as if to justify himself. “Any imperial officer trapped last winter behind Red lines faced conscription or death. I nearly faced that fate myself…”

Ned recalled Ivashov’s comment on the train that it had not been so easy for him to break free from the Volga. But before Ivashov could say more, Neilson hammered home his point.

“As a result, my friends, the Red ranks abound with battle-tested enlisted men, sub officers and officers who are totally committed to the Red cause. Contrast that to the Siberian Army, which refuses to accept troops with war experience out of fear that they have been infected with the Bolshevik disease. As a result, the White officer corps is ridden with parasites and incompetents, while the soldiers under their command are mostly teenaged conscripts, untrained and unwilling to fight, who desert at the first sight of combat.”

“So, tell us, who will win?” Father Timofey asked leisurely, apparently unafraid to receive an honest answer from the British officer, who, after all, was not obliged to stay behind and bear the consequences if the Whites should lose.

“Maybe Lenin, maybe Kolchak, maybe neither,” Neilson answered with a shrug. “Russia is rapidly slipping into anarchy. What she needs is good honest leadership, the rule of law, land reform, and individual liberty. But neither the Bolsheviks nor the Old Guard will provide any of that. So, it comes down to the fortunes of war, my friends. One general will beat another on some far-flung battlefield, and the war will be decided in a manner no more just than a coin toss.”

Father Timofey let out an awkward laugh, which drew disapproving stares from his host and from Kostrov. Ivashov remained impassive during the exchange while young Zhanna stared at Neilson in open-mouthed shock.

“But surely, Lieutenant Colonel Neilson,” the priest challenged, “Admiral Kolchak is not a monarchist; he does not intend to turn Russia back over to the wealthy landlords and factory owners. We have all read his manifesto of last week, in which he promised as much to the nation. I can repeat to you the very words from his address: ‘I shall follow neither the reactionary path nor the path of party strife. My chief aims are the organization of a fighting force, the overthrow of Bolshevism, and the establishment of law and order, so that the Russian people may choose their own form of government.’ Surely those are not the words of a monarchist. Wouldn’t you agree?”