Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“You have asked in the right place,” Denisov replied. “We know Chapayev well here. Some of our men served with him in the Imperial Army. He entered service as an illiterate peasant but learned to read and write in the army, rose rapidly through the ranks and showed bravery in the war against Germany. When revolution came, he saw that his greatest opportunity of advancement lay with the Bolsheviks. Though his commanders knew well that Chapayev was a political infant with no understanding of the Bolshevik program, they tolerated him because he was a capable fighter.”

“So much for his strengths,” Zhanna replied. “Now tell me his weaknesses.”

“Arrogance and ignorance head the list, I should think,” Denisov said, striking a match to light a cigarette. “For example, he quit the Red Army Academy after only a few months, because he thought it was filled with old fogeys who had nothing to teach him. Nor does he accept suggestions readily from his staff. With Chapayev, one head is always better than two. And he’s a real hothead, with a dangerous weakness for rumors, doubtless owing to his ignorance of the world. Would you believe it, Zhanna Stepanovna? The man is a divisional commander and yet he believes that birds spread typhus and that sugar grows in loaves? Nor does he shrink from boasting of his exploits with war and women and embroidering them quite more than a little.”

“So do you think him the sort who might be baited or lured into a misstep?”

“Emphatically so, general,” Denisov answered with a grin. “Chapayev is the perfect mark for a clever ruse. Why, do you have one in mind?”

At this, Zhanna merely shrugged and gave an enigmatic smile.

“Not yet,” she said. “Let us pray for guidance and then prepare for battle as best we can. When we are ready, the Lord will show us our opening if we have eyes to see it.”

* * *

“To horse! To horse!” came a shout at midnight as Zhanna’s column of three thousand men set out to the southwest by moonlight with the aim of surprising Chapayev’s column between Uralsk and Pugachyov. Somewhere close behind Ned, a horse snorted and its bit clattered against the animal’s teeth. Then the wagons rolled, the soldiers marched, and the cavalrymen rocked in their saddles as they trotted back and forth along the column’s flanks to guard against a chance encounter with an enemy patrol. As the day dawned and the temperature rose, the mingled scents of horses’ sweat, saddle leather, and cheap shag tobacco smoke filled the dusty air. Riding along with the Cossacks, Ned’s head became heavy with lack of sleep. Somewhere behind him, a concertina struck up a tune and a tenor voice led the troops in song. When the time came for the chorus, the basses burst out with “Black is the grave…”

The Cossack baggage train extended for half a verst to Ned’s rear, its heavy transport wagons creaking and the light britskas[36] and assorted carriages thudding along under heavy loads of ammunition, shells, and other supplies. In place of armored cars, which had remained at Orenburg, the column included a dozen or so of the improvised mobile firing platforms mounted on flatbed trucks that had seen service on Zhanna’s raid to Buzuluk, and even more horse-drawn tachankas.

The men rode all day and stopped after sunset in the concealment of a vast balka, or hollow, where the horses were allowed to water in a shallow stream and graze while the field kitchens cooked millet porridge laced with bacon fat for the men. While the troops rested, Zhanna sent out scouts in all directions to search for signs of Chapayev’s approach. Two hours later, a pair of scouts returned with news that Chapayev’s force was bivouacked near the town of Yershov, on the Maly Uzen River, a minor tributary of the Volga. The scouts had come across the enemy column by chance when they spotted Red troops chasing a magnificently antlered stag that had wandered past.

“Let us bring up our artillery and mortars and shell their camp before dawn,” Colonel Denisov urged. “Once we roll out those six-inchers against Chapayev, there won’t be anything left but his underpants!”

But Zhanna rejected his proposal.

“No, Colonel, I propose we assess their strength first and plan our attack with caution, even if it demands more time. Summon the staff at once, and go find me Staff Captain Ivashov.”

Within the hour, Denisov had assembled a select group of trusted soldiers with prior experience in the Red army who were willing to dress in captured Red Army uniforms and infiltrate Chapayev’s camp. The plan was risky, given that Siberians who had once served under the Reds, voluntarily or otherwise, might now harbor conflicted loyalties. But the serene expression on Zhanna’s face suggested that there was method to her madness.

“Staff Captain Ivashov, you once served in the Twenty-Fifth Rifles. You know their ways. Will you lead the reconnaissance?”

Ivashov’s stunned expression was clearly visible even in the semi-darkness.

“How did you know that?” Ivashov snapped.