Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Just after five o’clock, Ivashov reappeared as the train reached the outskirts of Verkhne-Udinsk, a modest provincial city at the confluence of two great rivers, the Selenga and the Uda. The city center lay wrapped in a bluish moonlit haze, feebly lit by a mixture of gaslights and electric streetlamps, with coils of smoke from countless chimneys corkscrewing skyward. On arrival at the station, the two young officers waited in their compartment for the flood of humanity to drain onto the station platform before they descended into the breathtaking cold and jostled their way to the platform’s far end. There, an aged Buryat,[7] dressed in a peasant sheepskin coat, felt boots, fur cap and capacious leather driving gloves, greeted them from atop a sledge drawn by a pair of stocky Yakut horses, each cloaked in dense dun-colored hair.

Ivashov greeted the driver with a terse nod and led Ned to the rear of the sleigh, where he stowed their bags, and then to a bench behind the driver that lay buried under a pile of furs and sheepskins. A shallow layer of snow covered the frozen ground. As the sleigh edged forward, the snow scrunched crisply under its runners. From this sound, and from the dense clouds of steam pouring from the horses’ nostrils, Ned estimated that the temperature was at least twenty degrees below freezing. By the end of the ten-minute sleigh ride, Ned’s face was so numbed by the cold that soon he was barely able to speak.

On arrival at the Dorokhin estate, the sleigh passed through an arched entrance gate that swung into a pine-shaded compound resembling an Asiatic caravansary. Inside the high timber fence, and lit by weak electric lights, was a sprawling one-story house of Siberian style with a steeply pitched roof and windows framed by carved whitewashed shutters. The dwelling was constructed entirely of huge logs, while the exterior walls and eaves were decorated with elaborate scrollwork and wooden cutouts. Elsewhere within the compound stood workshops, storerooms, a carriage shed, a dairy, and neatly kept stables heaped with straw.

A portly man of about fifty awaited the travelers at the door. He wore a long collarless tunic of cream-colored linen that was buttoned at the throat and belted at the waist, along with loose-fitting trousers, high black leather boots, and a sheepskin cap and vest. Despite his rustic appearance, the man’s pale blues sparkled with intelligence and Ned felt immediately attracted to him.

“Don’t just stand there in the cold,” their host bellowed in a loud, jovial voice without introducing himself. “Come in and get warm. Dinner is ready soon!”

En route, Ivashov had described Stepan Petrovich Dorokhin as a respected member of the entrepreneurial class in Verkhne-Udinsk, a successful trader and the owner of a salt works, distillery, and grain mill. Dorokhin and his recently deceased wife had raised three grown sons and an adolescent daughter. He was accustomed to entertaining all manner of guests at his home, ranging from Mongolian camel drivers to high-ranking Russian and foreign officials.

Dorokhin brushed Ivashov’s cheeks twice with his bushy mustache in the local manner of greeting before doing the same for Ned. Then he led his visitors into a vestibule hung with sheets of thick felt to block the cold, and from there into a spacious hall lined with split-log benches. Everywhere the interior walls consisted of whitewashed logs, still rough where the axe had cut, and packed with straw and moss between the chinks. Faded velvet curtains covered the windows. On the polished floorboards lay wine-red Central Asian rugs of tribal design. Along the walls to left and right hung a series of Siberian landscapes painted in oil and several mounted stag heads. In a corner stood a polished walnut gun rack stacked with ancient and modern long guns.

But the most prominent feature of the room was the massive white tile stove along the far wall, a wood fire blazing within. Three guests were already seated in leather armchairs enjoying the warmth. Close by stood a tall sideboard laden with savory zakuski[8] and a steaming brass samovar and, at the center of the room, an oaken refectory table set for eight. In a distant corner, candles flickered before a silver cross and a gilded icon showing the tranquil visage of St. Vladimir.

Dorokhin led his two newest guests to the stove and offered them seats on cushions atop tile benches flanking the fire.

“Now we shall get to know one another!” their host declared, rubbing his hands with glee. “Allow me to introduce Staff Captain Igor Ivanovich Ivashov, the son of my dearest school friend, may God bless his soul, whose family hails from Irkutsk.”

Ivashov made a perfunctory bow and acknowledged each of the other men with a nod and a smile.