The Red Gods

by Christopher Nicole

  “I had hoped to stay and fight with you, Uncle Alexei.”

  “And die at my side?” Alexei gave a grim smile. “That would hardly be sensible. I have to stay: this is my army. I am giving you much the greater responsibility.” He wrote rapidly for several minutes, then, as Trotsky had done the previous day, felt in his pocket and produced a stick of sealing wax. This he melted with the candle and beneath his signature carefully affixed the seal on his ring to each of the sheets of paper.

  “And Colin?” Joseph asked.

  “Colin must make his own way. If he has any sense he will also go to the States and try to create a new life for himself. He may prefer to remain in Russia, no matter what the future holds.” Another grim smile. “Sonia is, after all, his mother.”

  Sevastopol was rife with rumour, circulated in the first place by those wounded who had been returned to the port. But there were deserters spreading tales of death and destruction and unstoppable Red hordes. All of which, unfortunately, were absolutely true except for the hordes: Joseph doubted that Trotsky actually commanded more men than the various White generals; he was merely putting them to better use.

  Joseph was exhausted by the time he reached the seaport. Although he had managed to board a southbound train for the last hundred miles, it had been crammed with wounded and he had spent most of the several hour journey standing. But he went immediately to Denikin’s headquarters where he was kept waiting for half an hour before being shown into the general’s office. “Ah, Captain Cromb,” Denikin said. “You are the English volunteer.”

  “With respect, Your Excellency, I am an American,” Joseph pointed out.

  Denikin waved his hand to indicate that he did not recognise the difference. “I had supposed you were serving with General Krasnov?”

  “I was, Your Excellency, but I was given a despatch to deliver to you personally, by General Prince Bolugayevski.” Denikin raised his eyebrows. “Give it to me.”

  Joseph obeyed, and Denikin scanned Alexei’s paper. Then he looked up. “You have read this?”

  “Prince Bolugayevski requested me to do so, Your Excellency, in case there are any points which might need clarification.”

  “Then you probably realise that what the Prince says is at odds with the reports I am receiving from Generals Wrangel and Krasnov?”

  “Both generals are retreating, sir.”

  Denikin gazed at him for several seconds. Then he said, “So the Prince considers that the war is lost and you agree with him.”

  “The Prince believes the campaign is lost, sir. I am sure he feels that the Crimea can be held, perhaps indefinitely.”

  “The Crimea,” Denikin said contemptuously. “What am I to do with the Crimea? Thank you, Captain, for your efforts. Have you a billet?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Then go and get some rest. Report to me tomorrow.”

  Joseph went to Priscilla’s apartment building. This time the concierge recognised him. “Is the Princess expecting you?” she asked.

  “The Princess is always expecting me,” he told her, and went up the stairs. His emotions were jumping. They had been doing that ever since he had met this magnificent woman. But nothing that had happened could possibly equal the importance of the document still in his tunic pocket.

  The responsibility of that document surely ruled out any abuse of it. In any event, he had already determined that there was only one way to handle the situation, even if it meant breaking his word to Alexei. He considered that preferable to taking advantage of the Princess. Grishka opened the door. “Master Joseph!” she shouted, and hugged him.

  “Grishka?” Priscilla appeared behind her. Being the Princess Bolugayevska she was dressed for dinner, although there was no one else present. “Joseph? Joseph!” She came forward and Grishka hastily stepped back, blushing. Priscilla took Joseph’s hands to draw him into the apartment, then reached up and kissed his cheek. “You’re not wounded?”

  “Not actually. Uncle Alexei sent me with despatches for General Denikin.”

  “How splendid! Is Alexei well?”

  “Very. Physically.”

  “Grishka,” Priscilla said. “Champagne. Anna, come and say hello to Cousin Joseph.”

  “Hello,” Anna said, as suspiciously as ever, from the inner doorway. He gathered little Alexei was already in bed.

  Grishka produced a tray of champagne. All the while Joseph continued to gaze at Priscilla, and she kept looking at him, her cheeks pink. “I drink to your safe return,” Priscilla said. “I had not expected to see you again so soon. Now sit down and tell me all about it. Say good-night, Anna.”

  “Good-night,” Anna said.

  “Poor child,” Priscilla said, seating herself on the settee, and patting the place beside her. “How I long for this war to be over so that she can pick up the threads of her life. How long can you stay?”

  “Well, until tomorrow, if I may.”

  “Of course you may. But why only until tomorrow?”

  “I am to report to General Denikin tomorrow and I imagine he will have despatches for me to take back to the army.”

  “Oh!” Grishka had left the ice bucket and bottle, and Priscilla herself refilled his glass. “How are things going? There are so many rumours...”

  “Things are going very badly,” Joseph said. Priscilla had been sipping champagne, now she slowly put the glass down. “We are being beaten, we are short of materiel with which to fight, morale is very low and we are generally running out of steam.”

  Priscilla gazed at him. “Alexei knows this?”

  “That was the despatch I brought for Denikin. General Krasnov refuses to accept that his army is disintegrating. He talks of retreating and regrouping, but it is almost impossible that he will accomplish that, because the Reds will not give him the time.”

  Priscilla’s said: “Then what is going to happen?”

  “I believe we can hold the Crimea, as long as Britain and France support us. If they withdraw their support, well...”

  Priscilla’s hands clasped. “We cannot surrender to the Reds,” she said. “We cannot!”

  He had never seen her so agitated, had not suspected she could be. But the thought of her again in the hands of men like Trotsky was horrifying for him. “You will not, Priscilla,” he promised. She glanced at him, then looked away again, drained her glass and refilled it with almost feverish intensity. “Alexei gave me another paper,” he said. “I do not think he meant you to read it until, and unless, it becomes necessary, but I would like you to understand the situation.”

  She waited, a slight frown between her eyes. Joseph handed her his letter of instruction. Priscilla put down her glass to read it. “Has he gone mad?”

  “I think he was very sane when he wrote that.”

  “Putting you in...well, I suppose it is in loco parentis, over me? And the children? You? Giving you the use of my money, and my jewellery? You are younger than I am.”

  He flushed. “It is a great honour, as well as a great responsibility.”

  “I can imagine.” She got up, walked about the room. He realised she was even more agitated at the idea of being in his care than of being again captured by the Reds. “What does Colin say about this?”

  She had thrown the letter on the table. Joseph picked it up, folded it, and replaced it in his pocket. “Colin knows nothing about it, at the moment.”

  “And when he finds out?”

  “He will not find out, unless you tell him, until after Uncle Alexei is dead.”

  “By which time you will have taken control of my life.” She almost threw herself into a chair on the far side of the room, skirts flying.

  “My duty is to see that in the event of Alexei’s death, you and the children reach Boston safely. Is that so distasteful to you?”

  She got up and refilled her champagne glass, topped his up as well. “I never thought I would ever see Boston again,” she said. “Anyway, to sit here drinking champagne and talking of Al
exei’s death...”

  “Do you love him so very much? I had gained the impression it was over between you.”

  Priscilla drank. “He is my husband.”

  Joseph drew a deep breath; he was going to behave like the most utter scoundrel. But the nearness of this woman drove every last rational thought from his mind. “I was captured by the Reds.” Priscilla’s head turned sharply, and as Alexei had done her eyes drifted up and down his body. “Briefly,” Joseph said. “Oh, they were going to burn information out of me. In fact, they began to do so.”

  Priscilla was aghast. “They burned you? Where? Who?”

  “A couple of young harpies, to answer your last question first. As to where they burned me, that is a personal matter.”

  “Oh, my God! Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Anyway, when they found out who I was, they let me go.”

  “I find that very difficult to believe.”

  “Yet I am here. My saviour was Aunt Sonia.”

  “Now I know that you are lying. Sonia is dead.”

  “Sonia is very much alive, and in a position of some power, as she is Trotsky’s mistress.”

  Priscilla did not reply for several seconds. Then she said, “My God! She told me that, once, and I never believed her.”

  Joseph swallowed. But what she had said only made him the more determined to persevere. “I had to tell Uncle Alexei this.” Priscilla raised her eyebrows. “He...” Joseph hesitated. “He is still in love with her. I know this, because he virtually told me so.”

  “Don’t you think I know it too?” Priscilla asked in a low voice and sat down again, shoulders hunched.

  “I am so terribly sorry,” Joseph said.

  “But you felt called upon to tell me.” Her voice was cold.

  “Yes, I did. It’s odd how things turn out. I came to Russia to avenge Mother, or at least find out the truth about what happened to her. And I met you. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. You know that. But you were another man’s wife, and we both knew that. I tried to put you out of my mind. But now, not only do I know that you are wasting your life trying to cling to a loveless marriage, but I have been made responsible for you...”

  “When Alexei is dead,” Priscilla reminded him. “And until that happens, I am his wife.” She got up. “I will tell Grishka to move out of her room.”

  They did not speak during dinner and almost immediately after the meal Priscilla excused herself. “Give Captain Cromb a brandy,” she told Grishka as she left the room.

  Grishka poured. “I should not be drinking this,” Joseph protested. “Are you not down to your last bottle?”

  “Someone has to drink it,” Grishka said. “And if we are soon to leave...”

  “Were you listening to our conversation?”

  Grishka shrugged. “It is a small apartment. Do you wish to beat me for listening?”

  “My God, is that all you people think about? Sex and violence?”

  Grishka stood beside him. “The Princess would like to have you as her lover.” Joseph’s head jerked and he spilled some brandy. “I know this,” Grishka said.

  “I know it too,” Joseph said. “But she is an honourable married woman.”

  “Thus she will give you no encouragement, but the fact is there. Did those women burn your prick?” Another jerk of the head. “Show me,” Grishka said.

  “I assure you, I am quite all right.”

  “Show me,” she said again. Joseph got up and dropped his breeches and drawers. Grishka, he reminded himself, was only a year or two older than Sonia, one of those solidly built, handsome, Tatar women who had never been married, so far as he knew. She peered at him. “This must have been very painful.”

  “It was.”

  “I can see that you can still react. But when you wish to use it...”

  “I have used it, since.” Her femininity, and the nature of their conversation, as well as his exposure, were getting to him. To which was added the thought of Priscilla only a thin wall away. He touched her arm. “Would you like to discover it for yourself?”

  Grishka’s face remained solemn. “If you command it, Master Joseph.”

  “Are you going to tell me that Russian men do not fuck their servants?”

  “As you have just reminded me, Your Excellency, I am not your servant. But I would happily lie with you did I not know you would prefer to be with the Princess.”

  “Ah! But as I cannot have the Princess...”

  “She is there. And she wants you, even if she would never admit it to herself.”

  “You mean go in and rape her? Another old Russian custom. But a dishonourable one.”

  “And you are an honourable man. I have not met many of those,” Grishka remarked with charming simplicity. “Well, then, Your Excellency...I have not yet actually moved out of my room.”

  *

  Priscilla had not arisen when Joseph left the apartment the next morning; he could not help but wonder if she knew exactly what had happened the previous night.

  Anna knew, he was positive. She glowered at him throughout the meal. My God, he thought, if I wind up responsible for her...

  Little Alexei merely banged his spoon, noisily. Grishka served them in her dressing gown and with her hair in pigtails. Earlier that morning he had watched her plaiting it with consumed fascination.

  He was intensely grateful to her. Without her he would most certainly have intruded upon Priscilla, and far more than her lover he wanted to be Priscilla’s friend.

  “Will you be in for luncheon, Your Excellency?” Grishka asked.

  “I certainly hope so. In any event, I will be in to say goodbye.”

  He was shown in to General Denikin immediately upon his arrival at the headquarters. “Things are even worse than we thought, Captain,” Denikin said. “There has been another defeat, and Krasnov has shot himself.” Joseph stared at him, open-mouthed. “Prince Bolugayevski has taken command of the Army of the Don, but I have placed the entire army under the command of General Wrangel. I have telegraphed orders to both generals to fall back on the peninsula as rapidly as possible, but I have received no confirmation that my order has been received. However, what I do know is that not only does Prince Bolugayevski heartily dislike General Wrangel, but that he is a romantic who would rather fight than flee to fight another day, Now, you are both his nephew and his confidant, I understand.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “Thus I have despatches for you. You will leave immediately and rejoin the Army of the Don. You will deliver my orders, again, in writing, and you will see that they are carried out. Prince Alexei must retreat with his army or it will be destroyed. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “Very good. Then go. Your train leaves in half an hour.”

  “Half an hour! A question, Your Excellency.”

  “Yes?”

  “There are several British warships in the harbour.”

  Denikin nodded. “And more will soon arrive. The British have agreed to evacuate as many of our people as possible. But those first ships are to remove the Queen Mother and those members of the Royal Family here in Sevastopol. You did not know they were here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, don’t spread it about.”

  “Your Excellency...is it possible that the Princess Bolugayevska and her family could be found places on those ships?”

  “There is a list,” Denikin said. “Sevastopol is full of royalty and boyars. Everyone will be evacuated in their turn. You have a train to catch, Captain.”

  Joseph bit his lip, saluted and left. He just had time to hurry back to the apartment and pick up his haversack — he had only the scantiest of gear — and bid the women farewell.

  “The Princess has taken the children for a walk, Your Excellency,” Grishka told him.

  “Damnation. And I cannot wait.”

  “I will give her your love.”

  Joseph kissed her. “A
nd keep a little for yourself.” He wondered if he would ever see either of them again.

  *

  The journey south had been depressing. This journey north was horrifying; Denikin had warned that Alexei would lose his army if he did not withdraw to the peninsula — but the evidence indicated that he had already lost his army. Joseph passed whole companies of men trailing south, hurrying, anxious only to escape the advancing Reds; many had thrown away their weapons, none seemed to have officers, with any authority. He actually caught up with the rearguard only forty-eight hours out of Sevastopol, but they too were hurrying south. “Where is the enemy?” he asked.

  “Who knows, Your Honour? They are there.”

  “Then where is your commanding general?”

  “Somewhere, Your Honour.” They were in a hurry. They imagined that once they crossed the isthmus into the Crimea they would be safe.

  Joseph listened to the sound of guns, rode towards it and came upon a group of horsemen riding towards him. “I am looking for Prince Bolugayevski, Your Honour,” he said to the colonel in command.

  “Prince Bolugayevski is dead,” the colonel told him. He stood in his stirrups to point to the north. “They are burying him now.”

  Once again Joseph rode to the north, to the distant sound of gunfire, and came across a group of officers and men standing around a hurriedly dug grave. He took his place with them, removing his cap, and watched the shrouded body being lowered into the earth. The last Prince Bolugayevski, he thought, Colin would never inherit more than an empty title. The men began to heap earth into the grave and the body disappeared. “Where is the fighting?” Joseph asked the man beside him, recognising him as his old comrade-in-arms Alexander von Holzbach. “Are we still maintaining a rearguard?”

  Holzbach shook his head. “That is Wrangel’s army.”

  Then why are we not fighting with them, Joseph wanted to ask, but he chose to wait on Colin. Most of the men were hurrying for their horses. Only Holzbach remained, like Joseph, watching Colin, who continued to stand by the grave. As the men had now filled in the hole, he thrust his father’s sword into the earth and hung his cap from the hilt. “I am so very sorry,” Joseph said. Colin glanced at him, then resumed staring at the grave. “What happened?” Joseph asked.