Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

The following morning, the S-R infiltrator stood in the ranks for morning roll call while the Maid reviewed her brigade. The former policeman stood in the third row. The moment she came abreast of him as she examined the first row, some ten paces away, he drew a long-barreled service Russian revolver from his tunic, took aim and fired.

When Paladin heard the first shot, he dragged Zhanna onto the ground and lay on top of her. The would-be assassin was able to fire four of the revolver’s seven rounds before his neighbors closed in and hacked him to bloody bits with their sabers. None of the shots hit Zhanna, though one bullet wounded the soldier who stood directly in front of her. When the struggle was over a few moments later, Zhanna rose to her feet, brushed the dust from her tunic and trousers, and then thanked Paladin with a self-effacing smile. She went on to complete the inspection without further incident.

Within twenty-four hours of the attempt, Ivashov’s spies inside Kazan traced the plot back to the Kazan S-R Chairman. They learned that he had hoped to trade Zhanna’s death for Red leniency toward the city, under the theory that the Siberian forces would surely not remain in Kazan to fight without the Maid to lead them. But the chairman lost the chance to test the theory a second time when he was killed by a Siberian sniper’s bullet while leaving his office for lunch the next day.

* * *

But the S-Rs didn’t stop trying. Later in the week, another infiltrator was detected approaching the Siberian staff tent with a Mills bomb in his pocket. He was shot dead before he could pull the pin. And a third intruder was caught the same night at the camp perimeter when he failed to offer the correct password. He confessed under torture and was hanged from a tree just outside the city wall after giving up the names of those who sent him. They, in turn, were seized during night raids on their homes and hanged from telegraph poles outside the city.

“It’s a shame that you should plot the death of someone who risked her life to save yours,” Ivashov told the ringleaders before the stools were kicked out beneath their feet. After that, no assassin dared venture inside the Maid’s encampment.

Despite the attempts on her life, Zhanna remained undaunted.

“To my enemies and to anyone who doubts me, let this much be clear,” she boasted. “So long as God is with me, no plot conceived by man has the power to stop me. I shall fight on until my mission is fulfilled! And to the civilian leaders of Kazan, I say this: if you will no longer stand by us and defend your city, know that I may decide to withdraw my forces entirely, leaving Kazan to the tender mercies of the Red Army. Thus, your fate lies in your own hands.”

Watching her deliver these messages in a voice as sharp as a steel blade, Ned could sense what enormous stress Zhanna was under. Unlike the shoulder wound she suffered at Uralsk, which had healed with remarkable speed, her wounded leg was failing to mend properly and left her with a painful limp. She also looked deathly pale and, at times, her hands trembled. And no matter how often she prayed, Ned knew that Zhanna was still without guidance from her Voices, because she had not yet given back his ring.

The evening after the Kazan city leaders were hanged, Ned and Ivashov shared a meager dinner of bread and lukewarm cabbage soup at a field kitchen overlooking the Kazan city walls.

“Do you think Dieterichs will change his mind and send reinforcements after all?” Ned asked when they had finished their food and both sat warming their hands by the campfire.

“I think not,” the staff captain replied soberly. “Despite what Zhanna says, she will be forced to abandon the city before long. But the war will go on, in any case. I expect Kappel will beat back the Reds in the end, take Kazan, and claim full credit for it, leaving little for the Maid. Either way, I predict you and I will be in Moscow by the New Year. If I’m right, I propose we celebrate victory together with champagne and caviar at the Hotel Metropol!”

That night, however, Ned slept fitfully and woke up long before sunrise from a nightmare. In the dream, he lay at the edge of a forest clearing. The wind blew hard enough to bend the crowns of poplars and willows to the east, then it descended to ground level, finding him where he lay under an eglantine bush. Like a flock of green birds, fallen leaves from the bush flew into the air with an anxious rustle before fluttering down to cover his body. But soon the bush’s leaves turned from green to a reddish brown, though its pink-and-white flowers remained unspoiled. While gazing at the blossoms, Ned had a vision of a childlike Zhanna, full of joy and promise, back in the days before she tore herself from hearth and kin to go to war. Then, in an instant, the flowers withered, as from the heat of a flame, and the entire rose hip bush caught fire and was consumed by flames.