Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“In the light of our new intelligence, I would like to offer a compromise,” Dieterichs began. “In order to draw in as many experienced fighters as possible, I suggest offering the Maid an honorary commission in a new volunteer infantry brigade to be sent to the Southern Front, under a joint command arrangement with General Tolstov of the Ural Cossacks. Tolstov would retain effective command, of course, but the Maid would play the role of Pied Piper, leading her volunteers to the front. How about it, gentlemen?”

The Chief of Staff maintained a sullen silence. His subordinates took their cue from him and did likewise, while Titov bit his knuckle and looked away. Dieterichs gave a nod to Ward and Ned before he spoke again.

“If our British and American allies give their consent, I would propose to outfit the Maid’s volunteers from Allied warehouses at Omsk. They would also be given priority for railway transport to the railhead nearest Uralsk, from which they would render infantry support to the Ural Cossack cavalry. After Uralsk has been retaken, the volunteers can be put to further use helping General Tolstov to raid the enemy’s rear. Do I hear any objections?”

Lebedev pretended to write in his notebook while his underlings stared down at the table and said nothing. At last, Admiral Kolchak broke the silence.

“I shall take your proposal under advisement, general. I have only one question, and it is for our American visitor, Captain du Pont, who seems to know the Maid well. If I offered her such a commission, would she accept?”

Ned felt his ears burn as he struggled with an answer. While he had no doubt as to Zhanna’s willingness, her travel to the front would put the girl’s life at far greater risk than her earlier trip to Omsk. He felt responsible for her safety. Nor was he eager to lend American prestige to whatever reckless enterprise Zhanna’s Voices might move her to take on. Her repeated pledge to attack Samara, in particular, made him shudder. But before him now, against all odds, was the opening that Zhanna had so long been praying for, and he didn’t have the heart to stand in her way.

“I think she will, Your Excellency,” he answered with reluctance. “And if she does, I am confident she will do everything in her power not to disappoint you.”

* * *

While Admiral Kolchak contemplated Zhanna’s honorary commission, Ned visited Liberty House nearly every day to deliver routine intelligence and wireless messages. After three days with no word about her fate, he paid a visit to George Guins and, upon arrival, was surprised to find Mark McCloud sitting in the Liberty House reception room. Upon confirming with the orderly that Guins would not likely return until mid-afternoon, Ned invited the journalist to lunch at the downtown tavern where they had dined in January, shortly before McCloud departed for Paris. While Ned had mixed feelings about exposing himself any more than necessary to McCloud, it seemed wiser to find out what the man was up to than to keep him at arm’s length.

The menu, posted as always on a blackboard behind the bar, still consisted primarily of soups, sausages and boiled potatoes, with ample portions of the ever-present black bread. Both men ordered pork sausage, boiled cabbage and potatoes, along with local beer. While awaiting their food, McCloud regaled Ned with an account of his roundabout journey from Omsk to Versailles, where the Paris Peace Conference had been in full swing by the time of his arrival.

He also described his chagrin at concluding that the peace conference would not tackle the Russian question at all, owing in large part to President Wilson’s deteriorating health, his dogged wrangling over terms of the peace with Germany, and his strained relationship with Colonel House, the president’s chief European policy advisor. Like others at Versailles with an interest in the Russian war, McCloud lamented that the stalemate between Bolsheviks and Whites seemed destined to be decided on the battlefield rather than by diplomacy.

Indeed, by late March, the last and best hope for a diplomatic breakthrough had been dashed. Toward the end of that month, the junior American diplomat, William Bullitt, had returned to Paris from the Kremlin with a document that went further toward peace than anyone had a right to expect, especially after the Prinkipo Island fiasco. Yet, within days of being unveiled, the Bullitt Agreement foundered on the rocks of public opinion and sank without a trace. This happened despite almost certain Allied readiness to recognize the Bolshevik regime in return for little more than its endorsement of Russian state bonds and various trade concessions.

“How could such a thing have happened?” Ned asked the journalist, having read about Bullitt’s mission in government dispatches and news reports received at the American consulate in Omsk. “It looked like we were on the verge of a genuine peace deal.”

McCloud held his response until the waiter brought a glass of vodka for each man.