Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Never mind, Zhanna Stepanovna,” the general broke in. “A certain amount of disappointment in one’s friends is inevitable in life. This, too, shall pass.”

“I thank you both for your good counsel,” she replied with a smile that lit up her violet eyes for a fleeting moment. “Now I go to the chapel to seek the wisdom of our Lord. For whenever my soul is most troubled, his Voices have come to soothe me. And when I hear them, I receive a thrill that makes me wish I could remain in that state forever.”

Ned watched with a rising sense of anxiety as Zhanna left the tent and walked off toward the chapel. Then, all at once, he understood what had been troubling him. Not just today, but several times before, it was precisely because he had so badly desired to say certain things to Zhanna that he had been unable to say anything at all. Once the war was over, he resolved to say them.

* * *

Ned spent the rest of the day meeting with staff officers and touring the army encampment and its environs. He went to sleep early, exhausted from having spent nearly all day on his feet or in the saddle. But within an hour, he was roused from a sound sleep when Zhanna burst into his tent and demanded that he come with her.

“Madame Timiryova has sent us an urgent message,” she announced, standing over him, completely dressed. “The Admiral has a fever and is suffering from terrible visions. We must go to him at once.”

“I’ll be right there,” he responded, not yet fully awake. A moment later he stopped buttoning his tunic to ask, “But why me? Of what use can I be to the Admiral?”

“You are received daily at his office to deliver your reports. His British guards know you. They will let you in, and me with you,” Zhanna insisted. “That’s why God sent you to me today, don’t you see? Now, stop questioning, and follow!”

They set off on horseback and arrived some two hours later at the Archbishop’s residence, a fortified stone building that Admiral Kolchak had occupied since arriving in Samara. A dour British sentry inspected Ned’s pass at the gate before letting him and the maid into the courtyard, where a huddle of British guards blocked the stairs to the residence.

“Madame Timiryova summoned us,” Ned declared to the duty officer, a young captain he had met before.

“Everyone inside is asleep. Come back in the morning,” the captain replied in a bored tone. He barely glanced at Ned’s credentials before giving Zhanna the once-over, as if unable to make out in the dim light whether she were a man or a woman.

“Captain, I am Zhanna, the one they call the Maid. Madame Timiryova summoned me here on a matter of the utmost importance. Kindly take us to her or send someone to bring her here.”

“The Maid, you say?” he asked as he stepped forward for a better look.

Zhanna stood up to her full height and subjected him to a withering look that was the more unnerving for all her youth and beauty.

“Summon her,” she demanded.

“That won’t be necessary,” came a woman’s voice from the darkened stairs.

Ned followed the sound of footsteps as Madame Timiryova stepped into the courtyard wearing a long silk dressing gown that seemed to glow in the silvery moonlight.

“Is he awake?” Zhanna asked without further introduction.

“No, but his sleep is troubled, with fearsome nightmares that shake his very soul,” Kolchak’s mistress replied. “I’ve sent for a physician to administer a sleeping draught, but he hasn’t arrived.”

“Then, by your leave, I’ll sit by his side until the physician comes. Kindly take me there,” Zhanna directed. “Captain du Pont will remain outside the door to receive the physician on arrival. Anna Vasilyevna, come join me inside, or else return to your bed, as you wish.”

On seeing Madame Timiryova’s approach, the British captain waved his guards aside and made no further objection as she led Zhanna and Ned up the stairs into the residence. Once inside, they passed through a grand reception room, complete with inlaid marble floors, statuary, and ceiling murals, and up a curved stone staircase to where two more British sentries stood watch. At a word from the Admiral’s mistress, the sentries stepped aside and allowed her to escort her two visitors down an ill-lit corridor with recessed doors on each side. Madame Timiryova opened the last door on the right a few inches and peered inside.

“He’s asleep,” she noted. “You may go in. I will be in the adjoining room if you need me.”

Ned remained outside while Zhanna entered and closed the door quietly behind her. Next she approached the oversized bed, which was backed by a tall wooden headboard, with a gaslight burning to one side, and took a seat alongside to wait. After a few moments, she heard the Admiral’s muted voice.

“Am I dead? Who are you, an angel?” he asked in a faltering voice.

“A messenger from our Heavenly Father, but no angel,” Zhanna replied with a musical laugh. “You have had some dreams. Tell me…”

“Zhanna, is that you?” the Admiral replied. “How did you come so quickly? I asked for you only a short while ago.”