Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Ned approached the marble steps of the Bellevue Stratford hotel with relief, for the summer heat and humidity were oppressive in downtown Philadelphia, even amid the long shadows of early evening. The hotel lobby was at least ten degrees cooler than the street, an important factor when dressed in white tie and tailcoat. He consulted the concierge to learn where the Buckner reception was being held before mounting the hotel’s celebrated elliptical staircase of marble and decorative wrought iron.

A social secretary met Ned outside the ballroom at a table where seating cards were arrayed for the guests. She took his name, found a card bearing his table number, and gave it to him while pointing out the table’s location on a map.

Ned felt dazed by the beauty of the ballroom, with its windows and transoms of stained glass, its faintly glowing skylights, and elegant lighting fixtures that had been designed by Thomas Edison himself. The setting was intimidating enough, but even worse was his doubt that he would know more than three people in the entire crowd of more than one hundred: Colonel Buckner, his wife, and their daughter, Corinne.

Ned accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and scanned the faces around him without seeing anyone he knew. Then he felt a light touch on his arm and turned to find a face that looked familiar though he failed to recall a name to go with it. The man appeared close in age to his father and to Cousin Pierre: perhaps fifty, but showing many more miles. Indeed, the leveling influence of formal evening attire accentuated his unique features, among them a shaggy head of gray hair, luxuriant mustache, prominent nose that drooped at the tip, weathered complexion, and sparkling blue eyes that conveyed an irrepressible sense of curiosity, mirth, and mischief.

“Ned du Pont, am I right?” ventured the older man.

“Right indeed,” Ned replied, lowering his glass and studying the man through narrowed eyes. “I’m terribly sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Mark McCloud,” the man replied. “But I wouldn’t expect you to remember. You were just a lad when I saw you last. We met when your father received his war decorations in Washington. I wrote the story for the Philadelphia Evening Ledger.”

“And are you writing about tonight’s gathering, as well, Mr. McCloud?” Ned asked, with a vague sense of recognition that he didn’t associate at all with his father.

McCloud snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray and took a long draught.

“Not tonight, laddie,” he answered. “I’m here to relax and enjoy the generosity of our gracious host.”

“Your name and face seem too familiar for having met so long ago. Have we crossed paths more recently?”

“Not that I’m aware,” the journalist answered while looking idly around the room. “Perhaps you’ve read some of my stories. I’ve covered plenty. But the one you’re most likely to remember is the one where Teddy Roosevelt did battle with the dragon called the DuPont Powder Trust and chopped it into pieces, only to see it rise up and put itself back together in time to make a great killing in the Great War. Now how’s that for a story, eh?”

“So you’re a muckraker,” Ned answered, wrinkling his nose as if recoiling from a foul odor. “How the devil did you get in here, anyway?”

“Former muckraker, thank you. I’ve reformed and made my peace with the dragon. So now I spend most of my time in Washington and write paeans to the Armory of Democracy and denunciations of isolationist politicians. Colonel Buckner and I are great friends; I owe much to him. He’s helped me make my rent payments more than once when stories were scarce.”

“And what story are you working on now, if it’s not too indiscreet of me to ask,” Ned continued, taking an odd liking to the man though not at all trusting him.

“I’ve just returned from Moscow and Petrograd, on assignment for the Cleveland Plain Dealer and some other papers,” McCloud told him. “I was able to get a visa because the Bolshies assumed that all muckrakers are Reds. Most, but not all. I tried my level best to do some honest reporting over there, unlike that insufferable Red romantic, John Reed, but it was an impossible task. After a while, the Bolshies took a dislike to me and chased me around so much that I couldn’t do my work. So I picked up and left while I still could.”

“That sounds fascinating,” Ned answered, giving McCloud a fresh look. “Are you planning to go back?”

“I am, indeed,” McCloud answered, exchanging his empty champagne glass for a fresh one. “Only this time I’m headed to the other end of the country to hear the Whites’ side of the tale. I reckon I’ll get to San Francisco just in time to ship out to Manila Bay with General Graves. Now that, my boy, is going to be one hell of a story.”