Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

After breakfast, Ned sat on the stone stoop of the girls’ school dormitory and reviewed in his mind the description he had received of the man who was to be his closest companion over the coming months. Staff Captain Igor Ivanovich Ivashov[1] was two years older than Ned and, according to his file at American Expeditionary Force[2] (AEF) Intelligence Headquarters in Vladivostok, the Russian had fought against the German Army until the Imperial Russian Army’s collapse in 1917. After demobilization, Ivashov joined the centrist-liberal People’s Army in Samara, battling the Bolshevik Red Guards along the Volga until the People’s Army retreated to the Urals and he landed a staff post with the Siberian Army’s General Staff, or Stavka, at Omsk. But because of rivalries between the People’s Army and the more conservative Siberian Army, he was replaced soon after by a Siberian and shunted off to the largely ceremonial role of liaison to visiting British and American officers.

As Ned sat on the front stoop, his mind wandered and he tried to imagine what kind of man Ivashov might be. He dreaded the idea that the staff captain might be one of those overbred, foppish Russian staff officers who idled away their days behind desks while spending their nights drinking, gambling, and debauching women of the lower classes. On the other hand, remembering that Ivashov had spent years at the front fighting the Germans before taking on the Bolsheviks, Ned also feared the opposite, that Ivashov might be a stereotypical brooding Slav, prone to depression and alcoholism and ready to indulge every melancholy emotion and defeatist impulse.

Within moments, a horse-drawn droshky[3] pulled up at the school’s gate and a dark-haired officer of average height and wiry build strode into the courtyard, dressed in a fresh British uniform bearing green-and-white Siberian Army insignia. He had a lean, chiseled face with steel-gray eyes, and gave the impression of a seasoned combat officer who kept his thoughts to himself and held his emotions in check. Now this is the kind of colleague who might be useful, Ned thought, suppressing a smile as he watched the man approach.

“Captain du Pont?” the Russian inquired moments later in a surprisingly rich baritone, giving Ned’s surname a correct French pronunciation.

“Yes. Pleased to meet you,” Ned replied in passable Russian. “Staff Captain Ivashov, I presume?”

“At your service,” the Russian replied with a trace of a smile, perhaps relieved at finding that Ned, too, was an infantry officer of the battle-ready sort rather than an elite staff officer of the kind commonly found so far behind front lines.

Without another word, Ivashov moved quickly to pick up the American’s haversack and carried it back to the droshky. Ned followed close behind. Once on board, the Russian officer draped himself in a capacious sheepskin, offered one to Ned, and ordered the driver to the railroad station.

“They say you are with the Russian Railway Service Corps,[4] yet you wear an American army uniform,” the staff captain observed once they were finally on their way. “Are you a soldier, then, or a railroad man?” he inquired.

“The former,” Ned replied. After a long moment he added, “I’m an infantryman and have spent the last six years fighting rebels in the Philippines and Mexico. But, here in Russia, I’m attached to the Railway Service Corps, in military communications. Does that answer your question?”

He knew it wouldn’t, unless Ivashov was already aware that Ned’s real work in Siberia was intelligence.

Ivashov gave his head a sudden shake, as if to rid it of cobwebs.

“Not completely,” the Russian answered with an amused expression. “So you are a communications expert?”

“Of a sort,” Ned answered, meeting Ivashov’s gaze with an enigmatic smile. “I’ve had some communications training, if that counts. But the main thing is that our combat troops aren’t allowed west of Lake Baikal, while the RRSC can go anywhere the railroad goes. So if I’m to work at Omsk at all, I have to go with the RRSC.”

At this, Ivashov relaxed visibly.

“You think like a Russian,” he commented, looking away absently. “That will make things easier for you. But Omsk is another matter entirely. It’s an utter madhouse.”

“How soon till we get there?” Ned asked with a smile.

“Not for a week at the earliest. Our train has been put back another day by brigands at Chita.”

Ned’s face fell, and Ivashov must have noticed, for he brightened at once and turned around to face the American.