Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Ned squatted next to the blazing potbellied tent stove to warm his hands in a Western Army divisional staff tent, located along the Samara-Ryazan road some one hundred twenty versts east of Ryazan. For most of the morning, he had been poring over battle maps covering the section of the battlefront that lay ahead. He felt a sudden gust of cold air and turned his head to see Lieutenant Colonel Ivashov enter the tent. Scarcely more than a week before, the Russian had been released from custody on General Dieterichs’ orders, after investigators had cleared him of any charges of wrongdoing at Kazan, and Ivashov had hurried to join Ned at the front.

“What is the news from Ryazan?” Ivashov asked, spotting Ned amid the dozen or more staff members manning field telephones, sending and receiving dispatches, and plotting troop locations on maps.

“Nothing. No sign of the courier, and nothing yet this morning from reconnaissance,” Ned replied, rising from the stove.

“Do you think they’ve had their rendezvous yet?” Ivashov inquired before headed straight for the stove.

“Timofey told Grisha not to come back to their meeting point until our army was within a hundred versts of the city,” Ned replied, rubbing his hands together before donning his gloves.

“But the advance units are already within sixty versts. What could be holding him up?”

“I don’t know,” Ned admitted with furrowed brow, casting a glance toward the map table. “Timofey trusted him completely. We’ll just have to wait and hope he gets here before the main attack begins.”

So the two men waited by the stove, cold and dispirited, drinking glass after glass of strong tea and devouring each new dispatch as it came in.

At last, the tent flap opened and an orderly stepped inside, followed by the aging courier, Grisha, who clutched a saddlebag tightly to his chest

The rugged peasant immediately noted the expectant look on their faces and his face went slack.

“It’s too late,” he told them in an anguished voice. “The Maid is dead. The Cheka murdered her.”

“How do you know?” Ned challenged angrily. “Did you see the body? Could you identify her?”

The courier shook his head and a dusting of fine snow fell from his bushy fur ushanka.

“I saw only her ashes. They burnt her corpse until it was dust.”

“Then how do you know she’s dead?” Ivashov broke in.

“I followed Timosha’s instructions, waiting until your forces were less than a hundred versts from Ryazan before I appeared at the settlement where he and I usually met. There I found an army patrol heading into the city. Since they had just been told that the Reds had deserted their positions, I offered to serve as their guide. I rode with them straightaway to the Spassky Monastery, where they believed the Cheka had been keeping enemy prisoners. When we arrived, we found all the prisoners executed. Shot in the neck, every last one.”

“And their bodies burned?” Ned pressed.

“No, they had no time for that,” Grisha answered, removing his cap and gloves to warm himself at the stove. “None of the men’s bodies was burnt.”

“So the Maid’s murder was the only one the Chekists sought to conceal?” Ned asked.

“No, the Maid’s was the only body consumed by fire because that is how they executed her.”

Ned felt the blood drain from his head and reached out to the wall to support himself.

“They burnt her at the stake,” Grisha continued, visibly stiffening. “They claimed it was the proper punishment under church law. There can be no doubt it happened. I met priests who saw it all!”

Ivashov stood motionless, his face a dull gray, as if he had been turned to stone.

“You said you found priests there. Did you locate Timofey?” he questioned.

“No. No one has seen him since the Maid’s execution. I rode back to the settlement in hopes of finding him there,” the courier explained. “But, as it happened, Timosha had come back to the settlement while I was away! When I arrived, he was gone. But he left a saddlebag with the tavern keeper, along with this note.”

The courier handed Ned the note, scribbled in pencil on a scrap of wrinkled paper.

“Dearest Grisha—The tavern keeper told me you have gone to Ryazan to find me, just as I came here to find you! On reading this, please tell our American friend that I have departed Ryazan because I have failed. Zhanna is dead, cruelly murdered by the Cheka after a mockery of a church trial. With the Maid gone and our army rapidly advancing on Moscow, my work here is done. I intend to start a new life back in Transbaikalia, though I have little idea what kind of a life it will be. Please pass this and the saddlebag to D. and wish him Godspeed. I may write him once I am settled. Though I could not save Zhanna’s life, I thank God I was able to comfort her in her final hours. Your friend, T.”

Ned read the note, choked back a sob, and passed it to Ivashov without a word.

The Russian read the note with narrowed eyes, his jaws clenched tight.

“Shall we go?” he asked Ned after a long silence.