Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“You would gamble at such long odds, on a junior officer’s pay?” Volkov pressed, apparently moved by Ivashov’s gesture.

“I do not consider it a gamble, Your Excellency. You see, her faith in her Voices and in God’s guidance have inspired me.” Ivashov cheeks colored, as if embarrassed by his admission, but his voice bore the ring of honesty.

“Then you and she are both mad!” Volkov snorted, half-rising again from his chair.

“And I am, as well, Your Excellency,” Ned interjected. “Perhaps we need a touch of madness now to break the impasse. Look where sanity has taken us.”

“I still believe it’s madness,” the governor exclaimed, slamming a palm on his desk. But then, a moment later, in a more thoughtful tone, he added. “Yet, if you both think it is worth a try…”

“I believe it strongly enough to take her to Omsk myself,” Ivashov replied. “Unless you forbid it.”

“That’s not fair,” Volkov snapped, pointing a finger at the young officer. “Now you seek to place the onus back on me!”

“It remains upon you no matter how you decide, sir.”

“I suppose so,” Volkov sighed, slumping back in his chair. “It’s just that neither of you understands how awkward this is for me.”

Ned and Ivashov exchanged hopeful glances.

“But since you have both stepped up to act as her guarantors,” Volkov added with a mischievous gleam in his eye, “I hereby appoint the pair of you as Zhanna’s official escort to Omsk, and I place the girl’s safekeeping in your capable hands.”

At this, Ned’s and Ivashov’s feelings of triumph evaporated as the demands of the task suddenly hit them.

“Fine, then,” Volkov went on. “Now that the matter is settled, I suggest that you accompany me on a visit to Citizen Kostrov and his charming niece to give them the happy news.”

* * *

The governor-general, his two young visitors, and a troop of Cossack cavalry arrived at Kostrov’s town house shortly before sunset amid a gathering of dozens of Zhanna’s devotees outside the front gate. Most were peasant women of middle age or older. With the harvest long finished, such peasant women flocked into the capital daily in hopes of selling their eggs or meat or cherished heirlooms for much-needed cash. Other followers were city dwellers of the working class, gray figures who crowded the streets by day in a fruitless search for work, now that so many of Omsk’s factories had closed or operated below capacity.

When the governor’s entourage arrived, Zhanna was standing outside the gate to greet them, mingling freely with her flock of simple folk who had come to catch a glimpse of the Maid of Baikal and profess their faith in her cause. While Volkov engaged Zhanna’s uncle in a private talk inside the wrought-iron fence, Ned stopped a stout old woman to ask why she had come.

“Many years ago, the Ataman[25] Yermak foretold that one day Russia would be lost by a queen and won by maiden from Baikal,” she replied. “Zhanna is our Maid, the savior of Russia, and I have come to seek her blessing and pray for her safety.”

Ned moved on to survey others in the crowd and found not one of them from the nobility or merchant class. All were common people of the kind Zhanna’s uncle derided as “icon-kissers.”

When Kostrov finished his tête-à-tête with Governor Volkov, Ned followed him to Zhanna’s side, where the uncle repeated her father’s offer to send her to school abroad.

“To France, or even America, if you like!” he proposed. Noticing Ned standing at his side, the banker urged, “America has many fine schools for girls of Zhanna’s age, does it not?”

“Certainly,” Ned replied. “And I would be pleased to write Zhanna a recommendation if that’s what she wants.”

At this, Zhanna shot her uncle a stern look.

“The only recommendation I want is the one the governor will bring me,” she declared. “My work is in Omsk.”

Before Kostrov could muster a response, the governor approached again, this time with Ivashov trailing close behind, the pair flanked by eight dismounted Cossacks.

“Welcome, Your Excellency,” Zhanna greeted him coolly, bending at the knees in a shallow curtsey. “I am pleased that you have come, despite the delay. Battles are being lost while we dither here in Irkutsk. Yesterday, the Fourth Red Army captured Uralsk from the Ural Cossacks and today they will take Orenburg. Soon Iletsk will follow. Unless Admiral Kolchak accepts God’s offer of aid, the Siberian forces will fall to pieces while the Red Army sweeps away all in its path.”

“But Uralsk is a remote market town. It has no military significance whatsoever,” Volkov objected, taken off balance by Zhanna’s warning.

The Maid only shook her head.

“My Voices tell me Uralsk must be retaken by summer. If not, the Red Army will surely breach our defenses at Ufa and sweep across Siberia from Yekaterinburg to the Pacific.”

“Very well, Zhanna Stepanovna,” Volkov replied stiffly, as if eager to get the girl off his hands. “You shall have your introduction to the Supreme Ruler and your escort to Omsk. The letter is signed and sealed.”