Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Perhaps so, governor,” Ivashov interjected with a gleam in his eye. “But Zhanna has shown a remarkable ability to attract followers. If she can inspire our troops at the front half as well she inspires her army of supporters in Transbaikalia, it could do wonders for morale. And that would be more than the Stavka has managed to do all winter.”

“I will do more than put fight back into our soldiers,” Zhanna declared, taking a step forward. “I will show the officers how to lead them so they will deserve victory! And I will join them this summer in Samara, where a new national assembly will meet to elect our Admiral Kolchak as rightful head of state!”

The governor-general, though somewhat sympathetic to Zhanna’s display of passion, gave her a doubtful look.

“And if the Admiral becomes rightful ruler only after taking Samara, what would that make him now?”

“He is Supreme Ruler, is he not? He has proclaimed it so himself,” she answered with a disarming grin.

At this, Ned and Ivashov, and even the stolid Kostrov, could not help laughing. For there was indeed something ridiculous about how Kolchak had promoted himself from vice admiral to full admiral and then, in a colossal leap, to Supreme Ruler of Russia, simply because he could.

“Very well, then, Miss,” Volkov answered stiffly. “That will be quite enough. You may go home now. And kindly take with you your followers who are encamped at my door. I will send word of my decision to your uncle in due time.”

“Oh, Governor, thank you! Look, your head is surrounded by a golden light, just like a saint’s!”

Volkov, appearing uncomfortable that all eyes in the room focused upon him, wheeled around as if to see whatever the others saw.

“Dismissed!” he declared loudly and summoned the flaxen-haired sublieutenant from the anteroom to escort Zhanna out of the building.

Once outside, Zhanna was met by a loud murmur from the throng of fifty or sixty Russian peasants, mostly women, who jostled each other by the White House gates in an effort to get a better look at the girl they called the Maid of Baikal. Though Ivashov did his best to clear a path through the crowd to his waiting sleigh, Zhanna paid no notice, lingering instead to press the mittened hands that reached out to her and to answer the people’s questions.

“When do you leave for Omsk?” one stout woman of middle age called out to her.

“As soon as the governor-general agrees to send me,” Zhanna answered with a musical laugh.

“And when will you lead your army to the front?” another asked with awestruck eyes.

“As soon as the Supreme Ruler gives me leave,” the girl shouted out so that all could hear. “But first I must deliver my message at Omsk.”

“And are you not afraid of the path ahead?” asked a stout old woman in a sheepskin coat. “Omsk is a den of thieves, and Kolchak a hard and cruel man. And at the front…”

But Zhanna waved off her warning.

“They say a person who fears wolves should stay out of the forest,” she replied in a loud voice, looking from face to face among those gathered around her. “Such fear comes naturally to me, as I am only a girl. But now that God has sent me into the forest to do His work, He also gives me the strength to bear it, however long it may take. For everyone knows that the further one goes in the woods, the more firewood one finds!”

Then, without another word, Zhanna embraced the old woman and set off behind Ivashov to the waiting sleigh. All eyes followed her as she went. The girl was a powerful concentration of purposeful energy, and as skilled a campaigner as any politician Ned had seen.

* * *

The following morning, Ned set out for Irkutsk’s rail yards where, with help from a local railroad employee, he soon found what he was seeking. It was a string of passenger cars on a restricted siding guarded by a squad of American troops. When Ned showed the guards his American military identification and Railway Service Corps pass, they let him board. In a far corner of the parlor car, he found Colonel Barrows seated at a cluttered desk, poring over a stack of papers with his unlit pipe and tobacco pouch at his elbow.

Barrows rose to greet Ned, offering him a seat in an overstuffed chair a few steps away.

“I’m so pleased you were able to come out and see me on short notice,” the colonel began, extending his hand. “How are you getting along with our friends in Omsk?”

“As well as could be expected, given their utter disarray,” Ned replied. “One of my workmates in the Railway Service, a Russian major, is in the habit of taking the rest of the day off the moment he accomplishes one significant task. He claims that the odds against accomplishing a second are so vast that it’s pointless to try. Some days I am sorely tempted to follow his example. And you, colonel? How was your tour of the front?”