Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Ned and a trio of Cossacks escorted Zhanna off the battlefield to a hospital tent, while the rest of her men went on clearing the city of enemy fighters. But the butchery did not cease even after the ceasefire was called. Few prisoners were taken that night, and then only at the very end, when the Siberians at last became sickened by the carnage they had wreaked. Ned learned later that the field officers who wrote the after-action report deliberately minimized the number of enemy soldiers and civilians killed, lest they be accused either of exaggeration or misconduct.

On making his way back to the field hospital, Ned found Zhanna conscious, though in a foul mood. Paladin, having supervised the surgeon’s dressing of her wound, brought the Maid some tea but left her side when he saw Ned approach.

“She is as ill-tempered as a bitch on a chain,” Paladin warned after leading Ned to a spot beyond Zhanna’s earshot.

“How bad is it?” Ned asked.

“Not serious. It was only a small-caliber pistol bullet and passed through cleanly. The doctors say her leg will heal.”

“May I speak to her?”

“I don’t see why not. Maybe it will distract her.”

Ned followed Paladin back to the Maid’s cot.

“Might we bring you some food or drink?” Ned asked her, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“Not now, thank you. It is time for my prayers,” she answered in a clipped voice.

“We’ll pray for your rapid recovery,” Ned answered, though the words came out sounding remote and stiff.

“Never mind that,” Zhanna replied with a sour look on her soot-smudged face. “It was my own stupid fault. If I had not worn my fancy gold jacket into battle like a fool, that Red soldier would never have put a bullet into me and I would not be lying here.”

“I would think it more likely he spotted your banner than your jacket,” Ned responded. “Tell me, Zhanna, why do you ride into battle with your banner always in hand but never use your weapons?”

“I carry the banner into battle because I don’t want to use my pistol or carbine to kill anyone,” she answered, staring up from her cot at the ceiling.

“But it makes you the target of every enemy soldier on the battlefield!”

“I rely on God to protect me. What’s more, drawing the enemy’s fire toward me spares my soldiers’ lives.”

“If so, why do you bother to carry a sidearm on your belt?” Ned challenged.

“I carry it only as a symbol of my authority. It is something expected from an officer of rank.”

“I give up!” Ned threw up his hands and gazed heavenward with a laugh. “It’s impossible to argue with you, Zhanna. The important thing is that you are alive and have won a victory that no one thought possible, one that may even shorten the war.”

But Zhanna would not be placated. She closed her eyes tightly and rolled her head back and forth on her pillow, writhing in a spasm of pain.

“No, I was hasty and reckless and handled things badly, allowing too many lives to be wasted,” she replied a moment later, looking away as if in shame. “And now I am being punished for it.”

“Punished? How?” Ned exclaimed.

“My Voices are gone. I don’t hear them any longer. This has never happened to me before.” Suddenly her eyes welled with tears and Ned noticed her chin tremble. “If they don’t come back to me, I am lost!”

“They will come back, Zhanna,” Ned assured her, taking her bloodied hand in his. “You just need some rest, that’s all.”

“And prayer,” she added absently. “I must pray now, more than ever before.”

At that moment, Ned had an idea. He removed the gold signet ring from his finger and placed it in Zhanna’s palm.

“Take this. It’s not a good luck charm or anything sacrilegious. It bears my family’s coat of arms and our motto, ‘Rectitudine Sto.’ That means ‘Upright I stand.’ It reminds us to stand tall and keep to our principles, no matter what. Take the ring, and when your Voices return to you, you can give it back. How about it?”

Zhanna held the ring close to her eyes to read the motto in the dim light of the kerosene lamp. Ned saw a tear run down her grimy cheek.

“I will do that, captain,” she said, looking up with a fresh gleam in her eyes. “Thank you.”

* * *

Zhanna was back on her feet after two days, though only with the aid of crutches. The news of her victory at Kazan, reported by telegraph to the Stavka the following day, was greeted at first with disbelief, and later with jubilation among the officers there. But the joy was short-lived, because that same evening Allied intelligence intercepts reported that an entire Red Army corps, estimated at some twenty thousand men, had set out by rail from Nizhni Novgorod in the direction of Kazan, withdrawing their incursion toward Simbirsk. Just as the Maid had told General Dieterichs before she left for the north, this force almost certainly represented the real Red Army offensive whose ultimate target was Ufa and the Urals passes.