Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Before Zhanna’s planned return to Uralsk, Ned attended a small dinner party hosted by Admiral Kolchak’s mistress, Madame Timiryova, at her modest flat on Nikolsky Avenue. The dinner had been arranged on short notice to celebrate the Maid’s recent victories, and Zhanna had insisted upon including Ned and Ivashov. Ned was one of the last guests to arrive and found that among those gathered were the American Consul, John Embry, and his wife; Colonel Ward; and, to Ned’s surprise, the journalist Mark McCloud. Ned looked around and noticed Zhanna at the far end of the room conversing with the Embries, who had long been eager for an opportunity to meet her.

Ned let his glance linger on Zhanna, dressed in her tailored brown wool uniform, her raven hair cut short and round, and her trim figure casting a long shadow in the golden rays of the setting sun. At that moment, Ned thought he had never seen Zhanna look so bright and fresh and full of youthful energy. It was as if time had rolled back to that first night at her father’s house in Verkhne-Udinsk. Other than Ned and Ivashov, who else here could picture such a girl riding into the thick of battle with banner waving, taking a shrapnel wound, and then leading her men back into the fray?

Madame Timiryova must have noticed his admiring look, for she approached him and stood between him and the Maid.

“Thank God for your safe return,” she told him. “You have been missed.”

The meaningful look in her soft hazel eyes told him that the remark must refer to Yulia, as she and Madame Timiryova were intimate friends. Ned had expected to find Yulia at the dinner but, having neglected to cable Yulia of his return, he hesitated to ask the hostess about her. Might Yulia have declined an invitation out of pique at him or the Maid?

“How very kind of you to wish my safety, Anna Vasilyevna,” Ned replied with a genial smile that masked his discomfort. “But, as an American, my orders are to stay away from the fighting, so I can take no credit at all for courage under fire.”

“You are too modest, I think,” she answered with a knowing look.

At that moment, Madame Timiryova’s maid appeared carrying a tray of cool drinks, including lager beer, kvass[37] and a pale pink liquid that his hostess described as a wild berry infusion. No vodka was served, likely in deference to Zhanna’s aversion to it. Ned chose the beer, which was locally brewed by ethnic Germans and quite tasty.

“Tell me, Captain du Pont, will you be returning to Beregovoy soon?” his hostess asked pointedly.

The concerned expression on her face reminded him that Anna Vasilyevna was the one who had arranged for Zhanna to stay at Yulia’s apartment while she was in Omsk.

“Frankly, I expected to be there already,” he answered with an earnest look. “Unexpected business has kept me in the city. I hope to return tomorrow or the day after.”

“You enjoy Beregovoy, then?”

“Oh, very much,” he replied. “I consider myself fortunate in many ways to spend my time there.”

“Then I am very happy for you,” she responded with a curt nod. She had registered her point. And without saying more, Madame Timiryova moved on to join Ward and Ivashov.

How devious women could be, Ned thought. If Yulia and Anna were so concerned about his relationship with Zhanna, why hadn’t they arranged for Yulia to attend the dinner? Surely they couldn’t believe that anything improper had occurred between him and Zhanna. But before he could give it further thought, he noticed Mark McCloud sidling up to him on wobbly legs.

“My, my, aren’t you the busy fellow!” McCloud began, holding up his beer glass in salute. “Ivashov has been telling me all about how you and he and the Maid captured Uralsk and annihilated Chapayev’s relief force at Yershov. The latter seems every bit the modern-day Cannae or Agincourt! When can we sit down for an interview?”

“Not till the war is over, I’m afraid,” Ned replied. “The last thing I want is for General Graves to read about my alleged exploits in your yellow rag.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t write about you,” McCloud explained, ignoring the slight. “It’s Zhanna I want to hear about. My readers can’t get enough of her. And now that she’s won some big battles and saved the Siberian Army from disaster, they’ll want to know a great deal more.”

Ned laughed, for he had to respect the journalist’s single-mindedness and he rather liked the idea of promoting Zhanna to the American public.

“For the kind of story you need, Mark, you really ought to look up her aide-de-camp, Boris Viktorovich. Sit down with young Paladin over a bottle of vodka and you’ll likely get far more colorful stories than you would from me or Ivashov.”

“Splendid. How do I find him?”

“He’ll be at her flat, standing guard,” Ned replied. “Pay her a visit and you can’t miss him.”