Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“And the girl? What will happen to her?” Ned inquired, doing his best not to let his alarm show. For the woman’s veiled reference to Zhanna’s self-imposed mission sent a chill up his spine. Could there be a real substance to Zhanna’s claims that Yelena had detected by mystical means?

Madame Yelena let out a deep breath, as if all the energy had been drained from her body.

“It is not for you to know,” she replied before opening her eyes.

Chapter 5: Omsk

“The state encamped in Russia like an army of occupation.”

—Alexander Herzen

Musical Theme: Masquerade Suite, IV. Romance, by Aram Khachaturian

EARLY-DECEMBER, 1918, OMSK

Eight days and some fourteen hundred miles after leaving Irkutsk, Ned watched thick, shaggy snowflakes fall on the rail yards outside Omsk. To his surprise, the idle rolling stock lining the rails teemed with human activity. Atop the flatcars, refugee families had erected makeshift shelters from canvas tarpaulins, blankets, ropes, and tree branches. Other squatters occupied both levels of double-decker boxcars, some above and some below the mid-height platform, often sharing the cars with horses, cows, pigs, and chickens. Since the destitute squatters had little means of supplying themselves with food and fuel, many resorted to pilfering coal and water from locomotives whose crews had left them unguarded to tend to their own needs. This further slowed rail movement through the congested capital.

Even after seeing Irkutsk, the masses of homeless Russians in Omsk exceeded anything Ned could have imagined. Jake Sweeney had estimated a few days earlier that the city’s population had swelled fourfold since the October Revolution, from 130,000 to nearly 600,000. When the Red Cross train pulled into Omsk Station, the platform was mobbed with civilian passengers, soldiers, railroad workers, porters, and purveyors of all sorts of merchandise. Around the periphery of the station, travelers awaiting the next eastbound train lay sprawled across their piled bags, boxes, bundles, trunks, and motley household furnishings.

The moment Ned stepped off the train, a gaggle of porters descended upon him, jostling one another for the privilege of carrying his rucksack and thus earning a ruble or two. He ignored them and hoisted the rucksack to his shoulders, knowing that whoever took it might easily disappear with it into the crowd. Ned picked his way across the platform, following closely behind the Red Cross staff, who were to meet waiting sleighs outside amid a continuous stream of refugees arriving on foot and in horse-drawn carts and sleighs.

* * *

Ned had barely settled into his small government-requisitioned flat on a quiet downtown street near Omsk’s railway station, when he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, followed by a loud knock at the door. It was his landlord, Sharonov.

“A British soldier is waiting for you outside, captain. He says he has come to take you to dinner.”

Ned gave the landlord a blank stare. He had not been aware of any invitation, and, having been warned against provocations by Bolshevik agents in the capital, wondered if this might be some sort of ruse to lure him out on the street alone. Then he remembered his instructions to report to Colonel Ward at the British Military Mission and supposed that the colonel must have been aware of his impending arrival. He hastily donned his military overcoat and cap and made his way to the front hall, where a British sergeant awaited him.

“You are Captain du Pont, sir?” the soldier inquired.

“That is correct, sergeant. How may I be of service?”

“Our regimental commander, Colonel Ward, invites you to join him for dinner, sir.”

Ned cocked his head involuntarily and gave the soldier a closer look.

“I’m afraid I’ve just arrived from a long trip and am not very presentable…”

“Not to worry, sir,” the sergeant replied. “Etiquette is quite relaxed here. I’m sure the colonel will be happy to receive you just as you are.”