Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“They are the words of a dictator, Father Timofey,” Neilson replied gravely. “While he may be a fine, brave man, a patriotic Russian, and arguably the best one for the job, Kolchak leads a military dictatorship in Omsk and would not last a single night in that cesspool of intrigue if he did not maintain the loyalty of the officer class. And, if you will excuse my candor—for the vodka seems to have loosened my tongue—the officers who put him in power are monarchists, their leaders self-seeking and corrupt, while those officers under him who favor democracy face being purged if they dare raise their voices above a whisper.”

At this, Ned noticed Ivashov turn pale and, without waiting for another toast to be announced, refill his vodka glass to the brim. Ned couldn’t help but wonder if the staff captain might be one of those very democrats. He thought of Ivashov’s reticence aboard the train that afternoon and resolved to dig deeper into the man’s history.

By now the host had noticed that the bottle of spirits was empty and called for Zhanna to fetch another. The girl rose to leave, but not before giving her father a reproving look. Ned’s eyes followed her graceful figure as she headed for the door.

“No, Zhanna, our guests have certainly not had enough,” Dorokhin commented loudly before she left the room. “There are times when too much to drink is barely enough,” he added in an undertone after she had gone.

“Amen, Stepan Petrovich,” Kostrov added. “Vodka is the anesthetic by which we endure life’s painful operations. In times like these, may our supplies never run short!”

On Zhanna’s return, her father called for the new bottle to be uncorked and passed around. The girl cast a worried glance toward Ned, as if he might somehow delay the bottle’s progress, but before she had even set the bottle on the table, Ivashov swallowed hard and addressed Neilson in a clear and surprisingly sober-sounding voice.

“And what is to become of the democrats, Lieutenant Colonel Neilson?” Ivashov demanded. “Now that Admiral Kolchak has become Supreme Ruler with the blessing of our Western allies, what will be the fate of the Socialist Revolutionaries and Constitutional Democrats? After all, they won the Constituent Assembly elections in 1917, took up arms with the Czech Legion against the Bolsheviks, and joined forces with Omsk after being pushed back from the Volga and across the Urals. Now that Admiral Kolchak rules Siberia, what influence will men of the center have in his government?”

“The Socialist Revolutionaries?” Neilson scoffed. “Let me tell you about the Socialist Revolutionaries. I spent an evening in a railroad car with Mr. Avksentiev and company in September, and I can tell you this much: from what I saw of the S-R leaders during the old interim government, those dreamers would put Russia at no less risk than a band of out-and-out anarchists! Before Kolchak, crime was rampant in the streets of Omsk, murders and armed robberies a nightly occurrence, and the socialist-led municipal councils ruined everything they touched. I commend the Admiral’s forbearance in granting Avksentiev’s ilk safe passage into exile rather than shooting them down like dogs. In his place, I doubt I’d have been as forgiving.”

Ivashov’s eyes flashed with anger at Neilson’s tirade against the S-Rs. Ned also noticed that Father Timofey, who was seated beside Ivashov, twisted his fork in his hand and looked down at the table with clenched teeth. Even when Neilson went on to launch a new conversational thread, the staff captain could not let the matter rest.

“Lieutenant colonel, one more question, if you please,” Ivashov interrupted in a ringing voice. “Is it your considered opinion that Admiral Kolchak will ultimately defeat the Red Army and drive the Bolsheviks out of Russia?”

“That is still possible, but I wouldn’t lay odds on it,” Neilson replied with an audible sigh that seemed to acknowledge Ivashov’s annoyance.

“And will you tell us why?” Ivashov pressed.

“Yes. The reason is this,” the Briton answered, suddenly lowering his voice and regarding Ivashov with sympathetic eyes. “For all the Admiral’s virtues, he is a sailor: that is, a species of civilian. He is no field commander and has neither great leadership qualities nor a record of military victory. What the White Army requires at this critical stage is a commander in chief no less brilliant than a Caesar, or a Napoleon, or a Hannibal Barca.”

“Or perhaps a…” Father Timofey began.

At that moment, Ned happened to be staring in fascination at Zhanna’s delicate forearm, its shape altered subtly by the pressure of the table beneath. When he raised his head, he noticed the blushing girl shoot a reproachful glance at Timofey, as if he were about to betray a secret.

* * *