The Red Tide

by Christopher Nicole

  “Oh, boo. Men don’t desert in groups of fifty. I am going to find out where they’re from, and where they are going.” She kicked her horse and cantered down the slope. Sonia bit her lip. Patricia’s innate aristocracy was surfacing. And however much she had suffered as a girl, she had never seen a mob at work. Or the results of its work. Sonia’s instincts warned her that the men were dangerous. And they were armed. The soldiers were only a few hundred yards away now, and she could even make out their faces. As they could clearly discern that they were looking at two extremely attractive and well-dressed women. Patricia, indeed, with her auburn hair flowing out from beneath her silk hat and her blue scarf seeming to melt with the red, made a compelling picture. While she , in her white habit and her black hair loose beneath her hat...she should go down with her. Reluctantly she walked her horse down the slope. The men had now completely surrounded Patricia. Some were shouting and gesticulating, others were just staring at the Countess. And some were staring at her as well, Sonia realised. “No, no,” Patricia was shouting to make herself heard. “This is very wrong of you. What are you, cowards, or Russian men?” She looked at Sonia. “You’re right, they are deserters. They were supposed to entrain for the front in Poltava, and they ran away instead.”

  “Why should we be killed, fighting for England and France?” one of the men demanded. “It was the Tsar fighting Germany. Now the Tsar has gone. We have no quarrel with the Germans.”

  “I think you are disgusting,” Patricia told them, while Sonia held her reins very tightly. Trishka, as always, was living entirely in a dream world. “Now, I command you, return to Poltava at once.”

  “We were told we’d find shelter here,” someone said.

  “Well, I can’t imagine who told you that,” Patricia said. “Now, off with you. Don’t do that, you wretched creature!” A man had put his hand on her boot.

  “Trishka!” Sonia called. “Let’s go home!” Patricia had freed her leg from the man’s grasp, and now she kicked him away and wheeled her horse. But as she did so another man reached up and grasped her scarf. Patricia did not utter a sound; the sudden closing of the material on her neck prevented that. But she was plucked out of the saddle, seemed to hover in the air for a second while her hat flew away, and then crashed into the midst of the men. “Trishka!” Sonia screamed, instinctively kicking her horse forward, and then drawing rein again as Patricia was suddenly presented to her, having for a moment struggled upright. But her clothes were already half ripped from her back, and men were clawing at her again.

  “Sonia!” she shrieked. “Get away. Tell the...” her voice faded into a choking gasp as she was pulled down again into their midst. Sonia saw some of the men looking at her. She had two choices. She could ride into that mob and be torn to pieces beside her friend, or she could warn the others. And die with them, when the time came. Certainly she could not help Trishka now. She wheeled her horse and whipped it up the slope.

  Priscilla loved the peace of Bolugayen immediately before luncheon. It was even more peaceful after the meal, when the entire estate seemed to sink into somnolence, but by then one’s senses were dulled by vodka and champagne. Just before lunch one was fully aware of the pleasures that lay immediately ahead. One could smell the aromas arising from the kitchens, and knew that it was time to gather in one of the reception rooms to have an aperitif. She had just left the nursery, where Alexei, who was now two and a half years old, was being dressed by Constantina for lunch. Priscilla had insisted that Alexei attend the midday meal from his second birthday, seated in his high chair and interrupting the flow of conversation by banging his spoon. This was not usual in the homes of the Russian aristocracy, where children were required to be seen, but not more than twice a day, and never heard, and she knew that Grandma thoroughly disapproved. But it was how children were brought up in Boston, and Grandma had given up trying to cross the Princess Bolugayevska in anything. Now she opened the door of the schoolroom, where Anna was washing her hands and face preparatory to coming down, watched by Mademoiselle Friquet. Mademoiselle curtsied at the entrance of her employer. “What did you learn today?” Priscilla asked her stepdaughter.

  “About how the French chopped off the head of their king,” little Anna replied. “Is Monsieur Kerensky going to chop of the head of the Tsar?”

  “Certainly not,” Priscilla said, and looked at Mademoiselle Friquet.

  “I am sorry, Your ‘ighness, but it is ‘istory,” Mademoiselle Friquet said.

  “I suppose it is. But only the French and the English cut off the heads of their kings,” she told Anna. “It is not a Russian habit.” She frowned. “What is that noise?”

  “It is a gunshot, Your ‘ighness. Several gunshots.”

  “Oh, really.” Priscilla found herself becoming annoyed. She had always forbidden shooting close to the house, and certainly just before lunch. “I will speak with Boscowski.”

  She went to the door, and Mademoiselle Friquet said, “Those were rifle shots, Your ‘ighness. Not shotguns.”

  Priscilla looked over her shoulder, frowning, then went on to the gallery, just as Anna herself appeared from another room.

  “Someone is shooting,” the old lady announced.

  “Yes,” Priscilla said. “I must...”

  “Your Highness!” Gleb was standing in the hall beneath them. “Your Highness!”

  Priscilla had never heard him use such a tone before. She gathered her skirts and ran down the stairs, as Gleb opened the front door. Now she could hear the sound of hooves, but as she went to the door, they stopped, abruptly. She stood beside Gleb and looked out at the drive, where a horse had just collapsed, pouring blood. Sonia, who had been riding it, had stepped out of the saddle as the animal had fallen, and was now running towards them. She had lost her hat, but her clothes did not look disturbed; it was the expression on her face and the way she was shouting incoherently that was alarming. Priscilla went to meet her. “Sonia! What’s the matter? Where’s Aunt Pat?”

  Sonia stumbled, tripped, and landed on her hands and knees at Priscilla’s feet. “Dead!” she gasped. “Dead. Oh, my God, she’s dead!”

  Priscilla couldn’t believe her ears, looked at the dying horse and up the hill. But the road was empty, although guns were still being fired on the far side, and she thought she could hear men shouting. “Those shots...?”

  “They were firing at me. But they hit the horse. But Patricia...oh, my God!”

  “Lock the doors...Fetch brandy,” Priscilla told Gleb, and helped Sonia towards the steps. On which Sophie and Janine had appeared, together with Madame Xenia.

  “What on earth is going on?” Sophie demanded.

  “Something’s happened to Aunt Pat,” Priscilla said.

  “You,” she shouted at one of the grooms who had come round the side of the house from the stables. “Go down to the village and tell Monsieur Boscowski I wish to see him, now.”

  “You don’t understand.” They had reached the porch and Sonia sank into one of the wicker armchairs. “Patricia is dead. She’s been killed by a mob. They tore her to pieces.”

  The women stared at her for several seconds, then Sophie threw back her head an uttered a long, wailing screech, the like of which Priscilla had never heard before. They might not have cared very much for each other, but Patricia had been Sophie’s baby sister. The groom had stopped at the noise. “Fetch Boscowski,” Priscilla shouted again. “Sonia: inside!”

  Sonia gave her a startled look, and then pushed herself up and stumbled into the house. By now every servant had appeared in the hall, summoned by Sophie’s scream. And on the gallery there were Mademoiselle Friquet and Grishka, Madame Xenia and little Anna...and Anna herself, all staring down at them. Now Anna slowly descended the stairs. “What do you say happened?” she demanded.

  “Grandma...” Priscilla began, giving the servants an anxious glance.

  “Tell me!” Anna’s voice was like a sliver of ice.

  Gleb had brought a goblet of brandy.
Sonia drank deeply, and drew a long breath. “Men,” she said. “Soldiers. Deserters. In the next valley.”

  “How many men?”

  “A lot. Fifty, at least. Patricia...she rode down to ask them what they were doing, and they pulled her from her saddle, and...” She stared at her erstwhile aunt-in-law.

  “You saw this happen?” Sonia’s head moved up and down. Anna walked past her on to the porch. “Where are these men?” she demanded. “Did they not follow you?”

  “I think they are following me. They are on foot.”

  Anna looked up at where the road topped the hill, and watched it fill with men. “They have guns,” she remarked.

  “They are soldiers,” Sonia said again. Her knees gave way and she sat down.

  “I have sent for Boscowski,” Priscilla said.

  Anna’s face hardened, and she turned to the servants. “Which of you is the best horseman?”

  “Oleg the bootboy, Your Excellency,” Gleb said. “Where is he?”

  “I am here, Your Excellency.” Oleg stepped forward. He was still in his teens, and eager to please his mistresses.

  “Choose a horse from the stable,” Anna commanded. “And ride into Poltava. Go to the Governor and tell him what is happening. Tell him we need help, immediately.” Oleg hesitated, looking first of all at Priscilla, and then at Gleb. From both he received a quick nod. He ran from the room. “Gleb,” Anna said. “Close and lock those doors. She summoned the four footmen. “Close and bar all the downstairs windows. Make sure the cellar doors are bolted.” She went towards the gun room. “Come with me, Priscilla.”

  “You cannot mean to fight them,” Janine protested.

  “I do not mean to allow them into this house,” Anna told her.

  “But, fifty men, armed with rifles...” Janine looked from left to right. “We are seven women.”

  “There are the servants,” Anna pointed out. “And your father, Sophie, once defended this house against two hundred Cossacks, with four men.”

  “Anyway,” Priscilla said, as reassuringly as she could, “Boscowski will be here in a little while, with the men from the village. Until then...” She went into the study, took the keys from the drawer, and unlocked the gun cabinet. There were four rifles, two shotguns, and four revolvers, and several boxes of ammunition.

  “They are going to the village, Your Highness,” Gleb said from the porch.

  “Upstairs,” Anna said, taking one of the rifles and using it as a crutch to get up the stairs the more quickly.

  “Oh, Your ‘ighness,” Mademoiselle Friquet said. “What am I to do?”

  Priscilla had armed herself with both a rifle and a revolver, and was following her grandmother. “Take Anna up to her bedroom, and stay there with her. Grishka, you are responsible for Count Alexei.” Grishka ran for the nursery. Priscilla found Sonia at her elbow, also carrying a rifle and a revolver. “Have you ever shot at a man?”

  “No,” Sonia said.

  “Neither have I.”

  “But I am going to do so now,” Sonia said, “because of what they did to Patricia.”

  Priscilla swallowed. “Did they...?”

  “I imagine so,” Sonia said.

  They stood at the French window on to the upper porch, behind Anna. They could see out through the glass but it was difficult for anyone on the drive to see in. And the soldiers were not on the drive, anyway. They were trooping down the road to the village, waving their weapons and occasionally firing them into the air. “Boscowski will deal with them,” Priscilla asserted. “And Father Valentin.”

  “We must hope so.” Anna squinted into the noonday sunlight. “What is that they are carrying?”

  Sonia stared at the men. “That is Patricia,” she muttered.

  Chapter 12 - Red and White

  Priscilla swallowed; she felt physically sick. “Is she alive?” she whispered.

  “I hope not,” Anna said, and turned from the window to survey the two women. “You are both Princesses of Bolugayen, You’ll show no fear.”

  Priscilla licked her lips; she was trembling from head to foot. “No, Grandma.”

  “Should I have stayed with her?” Sonia asked.

  Anna’s lips twisted. “So you could have died holding hands? They would not have allowed you that privilege. Priscilla, you must take command. I will tell you what to do, but the orders must be yours.” Priscilla nodded. “Then, as soon as the house is secure,” Anna said, “have a footman placed up here to warn us the moment anyone approaches. I am going to sit down.” She turned, and they gazed at Morgan and Giselle.

  “Morgan!” Priscilla shouted in sheer relief; she had forgotten about the Englishman. “Where have you been?”

  Morgan looked embarrassed, as did the maid. “We were in the orchard, Your Highness. Is it true...”

  “Yes,” Priscilla said.

  Morgan swallowed. He had served Patricia and Duncan for seventeen years, ever since she had so mysteriously turned up in London, a fugitive from the Okhrana. He had even adventured in Russia with her, after her imperial pardon. They had been friends rather than mistress and servant. “Those bastards,” he said. “With respect, Your Highness. If I could have them at the end of a gun...”

  “You will have that privilege, Morgan. Now we have to defend ourselves. Aunt Pat told me you were in the British Army.”

  “A long time ago, Your Highness.”

  “But you defended Rorke’s Drift against the Zulus. Thousands of Zulus.”

  “There were over a hundred of us, Your Highness. Welsh fusiliers.”

  “Well, there are only fifty of them,” Priscilla told him. “I put you in command.”

  Morgan instinctively stood to attention. “My orders, Your Highness?” Priscilla looked at her grandmother.

  “If we are attacked,” Anna said, “your orders are to defend this house to the death, Morgan. To the very last man, Morgan.” She gave a grim smile. “Or in this case, most likely, the very last woman. There can be no negotiating with those men. They raped and murdered your mistress. Do you understand me?”

  “To the very last bullet, Your Excellency,” Morgan said.

  Morgan’s appearance galvanised the defence. He surveyed the staff — he had come to know them all fairly well over the preceding week — and decided who should have which weapons. The four rifles were issued to the footmen; Gleb, whose eyesight and muscle control were going, received a shotgun, and Morgan kept a shotgun for himself. Anna insisted upon one of the revolvers and he issued them also to Priscilla and Sonia. Sophie and Janine had locked themselves in their apartment, as had Nathalie in hers, but Dagmar was excitedly keen on taking part in the defence. However, Morgan gave the last revolver to Grishka, who knew how to use it. She was put in the nursery, with Mademoiselle Friquet and Giselle, and told to stay with the two children, although little Anna complained loudly about not being allowed to see the ‘fun’. Constantina had disappeared, and it had to be assumed that she had run off.

  The remaining maidservants were told to stay in the cellars, save for Madame Xenia and two of her least excitable women, who would back up the men and act as nurses if any of them was hit. Boris the cook was told to continue preparing lunch, as it was now well into the afternoon. He had a large accumulation of knives of all sizes as well as an axe, so he should be able to defend himself, if necessary, at least at close quarters. Morgan then explained his plan to the two Princesses and the Countess. “Two footmen and Gleb at the front, two at the back. I will be in reserve. If you, Your Highnesses, would attend to the upper windows. I do not wish you to expose yourself to any shots, but just to take care of anyone who might attempt to climb up.”

  Sonia and Priscilla nodded.

  “I’ll help you,” Dagmar volunteered.

  Morgan looked at Anna. “I will be the upstairs reserve,” Anna said.

  Morgan licked his lips. “You understand, Your Highnesses, Your Excellency, that should they break in, and cannot be immediately expelled again...”


  “We know what to do,” Anna said. “They will not have the children.”

  Priscilla forced a smile. “It is all probably a storm in a teacup. Mr Boscowski and Father Valentin will have sorted them out by now. I think we should have lunch.”

  But no one was the least hungry, although Boris had as always produced a delicious meal. They kept wandering to the windows to look out at the drive and beyond. They could not see the village, apart from the church spire. Priscilla and Morgan opened the front door to listen.

  There was certainly a lot of noise from down there, but it was difficult to make out anything positive. What was disturbing was that the footman Priscilla had sent down earlier had not returned. “Do you think we should send another?” Priscilla asked Morgan.

  “No, Your Highness. We cannot dissipate our strength. We must wait here.”

  “I know you’re right. I suppose the troops from Poltava are already on their way.”

  Morgan did not reply to that, and Priscilla went up to her apartment, where she was joined a few minutes later by Sonia. “Do you blame me for not staying with Patricia?” Sonia asked.

  “Of course I do not. And you must not blame yourself.”

  “She was so confident,” Sonia muttered, sitting down. “She was always so confident. She had every reason to be confident. Until now. I feel as if the end of the world has come.”

  Priscilla squeezed her hand. “I know. I felt the same way about the Titanic. But...the world does go on.” Sonia glanced at her. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  Priscilla gave a crooked smile. “I’m terrified. But, as Grandma said, I’m the Princess Bolugayevska. Sorry, so are you. Or are you regretting having come back here?”

  When I could be snug in Trotsky’s arms, Sonia thought, listening to him tell me how many people he had murdered that day. The world might not be coming to an end, but it was certainly doing its best to stand on its head. “Do you really mean to kill your son before you will let him be taken by those men’?” she asked.