Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“So until your return, I hold you under no obligation other than that of continued friendship. Let fate take its course, and if our lives come together again, let it be with a fresh appreciation for one another, and what we have experienced while apart.

“If you wish to continue our correspondence after receiving this, I am more than happy to oblige. In any event, you will remain as before in my thoughts and prayers.

“Affectionately yours, Corinne.”

Ned drew a deep breath and let it out slowly before re-folding the letter, slipping it into its envelope, and replacing it in the pocket of his haversack. Once again, he closed his eyes and tried to picture Corinne’s face in his mind’s eye, but could not. Sadly, he had misplaced the photograph she gave him on their last night in Philadelphia, and had delayed requesting a replacement for fear of appearing careless with it. Now the photograph no longer mattered.

Though Corinne’s letter was a disappointment, it hardly came as a surprise to him. Their last night together in Philadelphia had been uncomfortable for them both, and Ned had seen the break coming. Now, with each passing week, his thoughts turned less and less often to Corinne. It was as if he and Corinne inhabited entirely separate worlds. And now, here in Siberia, Zhanna’s image was clearer in his mind than Corinne’s had ever been, with or without a photograph. At least he had his ring back, he thought, twirling the shiny gold signet idly around his finger.

Ned let out a wistful sigh and allowed the clattering of the railcar wheels to lull him into a shallow sleep. He awoke ten or fifteen minutes later, well outside Irkutsk. The Angara River lay a few hundred feet off, not yet frozen, but with ice forming along its banks. Beneath the cottony mists that rose from its surface, he could see its fierce current racing to the north and swirling into deep eddies.

Soon after, the train passed through a charming valley, edged by pine forest, whose villages boasted good quality cows and horses and some of the most fertile-looking farmland Ned had ever seen. When Ned raised his head again, the railway was bounded on both sides by dense taiga forest, the dwelling place of wolves and bears, Bolshevik partisans, and primeval spirits whose unfeeling cruelty made Ned shudder in the comfort of his warm compartment.

* * *

To Ned’s delight, the conductor returned an hour after departure with an invitation to the parlor car, where Dr. Rudolf Bolling Teusler, chief of the American Red Cross in Siberia and, by no coincidence, a cousin to America’s First Lady, had called for a celebration to mark the midpoint of the train’s passage from Vladivostok to Omsk. American whiskey and French champagne flowed freely by the time Ned discovered the salon car, which was festooned with small American flags and red, white, and blue bunting. Ned presented himself to Teusler, who introduced him in turn to a team of American doctors and nurses, a pair of war correspondents and several members of his senior staff, all newly arrived from Vladivostok. The group seemed quite gay at having passed the midpoint of their journey across Manchuria and Eastern Siberia, after spending a week on board. To Ned, joining the group brought an unforeseen pleasure. For suddenly he was among fellow Americans, in a brand new American rail car, speaking the American dialect, drinking American whiskey and—if the whiskey were any sign of what was to come—soon to be feasting on hearty American dinner fare.

“I’ll say this, doctor,” Ned gushed to a fortyish American physician from Baltimore whose arm encircled the waist of a curly-haired young nurse, “The flag certainly means more to a fellow here than it ever did at home.” But the physician, still sealed in his American cocoon and not yet having experienced life among the Russians, merely smiled and nodded.

Only then did Ned spot a familiar face seated at a table at the far end of the club car. The grizzled man with the luxuriant mustache and mirthful expression caught Ned’s eye, raised his glass in mock salute, and waved him over. It was none other than the former muckraker, Mark McCloud. Ned waded through the crowd toward his table. On the way, he flagged down a young waiter in a starched white jacket and ordered a glass of rye whiskey.

At the table, McCloud and his drinking companion—a well-dressed man in his forties whose watery, unfocused eyes bore witness to his intemperance—made room for Ned to sit.

“You certainly have a nose for parties, Mr. McCloud,” Ned began, unsure whether to be annoyed or pleased to see the journalist again.

“Years of practice, my lad,” McCloud answered. “And call me Mark.”

“Headed to the front?” Ned asked. “I hear that the fighting hasn’t fully settled down yet for the winter.”