Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

At this point, Ned, who stood closest to the door, stepped forward to speak when he heard footsteps approaching and recognized the voice of Admiral Kolchak. The new regent entered the room with Guins and Dieterichs and then seated himself beside Zhanna.

“Well, Your Excellency,” Tolstov greeted Kolchak while rising to his feet. “How does it feel to be a respectably elected leader at long last?”

“I wouldn’t go through it again if they were to elect me Tsar of All the Russias! Such useless humbug!” he answered the Cossack general. Now turning to Zhanna, he demanded, “Zhanna, where have you been? We have been looking for you all evening!”

“Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I am not one for revelry. And now that you have been elected regent, I see my work here is largely done. All that remains is to take Moscow and win the war and, to be frank, I am eager to get on with it.”

Kolchak let out a nervous laugh and Guins cast a furtive glance toward Dieterichs. They weren’t rid of her yet! The girl aimed to take Moscow, no less!

“All the more reason to take a well-earned rest, I should say,” the Admiral responded with an affable smile.

“I might agree,” Zhanna told him, “except that my Voices warned me last autumn that my role in this war would last but a year, and that time is approaching fast. When it arrives, I intend to return to my father’s house at Verkhne-Udinsk and put this war behind me.”

“Is that so?” Kolchak said, his face taking on a puzzled look as he stroked his clean-shaven chin. “Life there would be simpler than this, to be sure. I hope it will still suit you, after all you’ve been through.”

“It may prove quite dull,” Dieterichs added with the all-knowing nod of an old soldier.

“And it may feel odd to put on a pretty frock again after wearing a uniform for so long,” Guins chimed in.

“Still, if your heart is set on going, we wouldn’t hold you against your will,” Kolchak told her. “Dieterichs will manage somehow to keep the war going without you.” There was a chill in his voice and Zhanna winced at his words.

“Thank you, Admiral,” she replied stiffly. “But then I never presumed to think you would miss me.” She rose without looking at Kolchak and approached Dieterichs. “Mikhail Konstantinovich, how soon do you suppose the Siberian Army might be ready for a drive on Moscow?”

“Not so very long, I think,” Dieterichs answered with a cautious nod toward Kolchak. “Allied arms are flowing in as never before. And the new divisions are doing rather well in training.”

“But how long? Before the first frost? After the rivers freeze over?”

“Oh, not quite that soon, I expect,” Dieterichs added, his expression suddenly darkening. “If we were to move against Moscow prematurely, it would risk everything we have gained. With the Allies squarely behind us, and Denikin at our side, I believe we should allow as much time as might be necessary to rebuild our forces. If it were up to me, I would delay at least until the rivers freeze and then some.”

“November, then?” Zhanna pressed, turning to Kolchak.

“Well, I wouldn’t rule it out,” the Admiral replied without looking her in the eye. “But for the moment, let us be content with what we’ve achieved. Such good fortune cannot last indefinitely. Now may be the right time to consolidate our gains before our luck turns.”

“Luck, you say?” Zhanna burst out. “Having given our all, with God at our side, do you call that luck? And how in Heaven’s name can you speak of laying down our arms for even a moment while the Bolsheviks occupy the heart of Mother Russia? God would never want us to take our hands off the plow while the field lies unsown!”

Clearly taken aback by the Maid’s fiery response, Kolchak turned away from her and appealed with his eyes for Guins to take up the argument.

“It seems to me that you cite the name of God too casually sometimes, Zhanna,” Guins cautioned her. “When you first arrived in Omsk, you came clothed in humility. But now I sense that pride has crept in. And doesn’t the Bible say that pride goeth before a…”

“Pride has nothing to do with it,” Zhanna snapped. “My Voices tell me…”

“Your Voices, always your Voices!” the Admiral interrupted. “Tell me, Zhanna Stepanovna, why don’t your Voices ever come to me, or to Dieterichs or Guins?”

“They do, but you don’t attend to them,” the Maid replied with a plaintive look. “You haven’t sat quietly in the early morning or late evening and shut out all the other noises. Ask Madame Timiryova; she’s heard them. So has General Dieterichs, I suspect, though he may not readily admit it. But why wait for Voices to tell you what any peasant knows: that one must strike while the iron is hot! I tell you, we must march north to Kazan as soon as the sun rises tomorrow, and liberate it, just as we’ve liberated Uralsk, Orenburg, Saratov, and now Samara! Then it’s on to Nizhni Novgorod, after which the road to Moscow will lay wide open to us. And when Moscow falls, Bolshevism will be finished at last!”