A young female signaler walked out of the command post, saluted General Platov, and handed him a sealed message. Platov took it, opened it, read it over, and then suspiciously looked over at Grusian.
Platov shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what the hell is going on or how you managed this comrade, but I have been given orders, direct from Red Army Headquarters in Moscow itself instructing me to give you any and all assistance that you deem necessary.” Platov shook his head and then crumpled up the message before throwing it to the ground in disgust.
A crooked smile formed on Grusian’s usually expressionless face. “Now, Comrade General, when can I have my squadron of cavalry?”
The sun hung high in the afternoon sky, but the lingering humidity made it seem far hotter than it was. Trudging along, Sheppard was feeling the effects of the heat. He knew that if he was feeling it, then there was no doubt that Mrs. Alekseev and her granddaughter were suffering worse than him. However, much to their credit, they did not complain or whine about their situation. They stoically followed Sheppard, each footstep taking them one further away from their jail. Sheppard was about fifty feet in front of the others, when he thought he heard a voice coming from just around a bend in the path. He instantly froze. With a wave of his hand, his party stepped off the path and into the sparse cover of some trees. The voice came closer. Sheppard soon realized that it was a man singing to himself in Mongolian. Stepping off the trail, Sheppard waited for the man to appear.
Singing happily to himself was a small figure dressed in a long brown coat with a moth-eaten grey cap scrunched down on his head. He was leading a mangy-looking yak harnessed up to a small empty wooden cart. Sheppard couldn’t believe his luck. Stepping out from his hiding place, he startled the poor farmer half to death.
“I mean you no harm. I just need to borrow your cart,” Sheppard said in Russian to the frightened man.
The farmer, his eyes wide, just stared at Sheppard and his rifle. It was obvious that he did not understand a single word Sheppard was saying, but seeing the rifle, he was terrified for his life.
Elena stood and with the Alekseevs in tow, approached the Mongolian. “Do you want something for the yak?” she asked the farmer, but he just continued to stare at them all in silent disbelief.
“I don’t know a bloody word of Mongolian,” Sheppard mumbled.
“Neither does Private Zakharov, evidently,” said Mrs. Alekseev dryly.
“Do you know any?” queried Sheppard.
“Unfortunately no,” said Mrs. Alekseev. “We had little or no interaction with the locals the whole time we were Reimer’s prisoners.”
“Look, we need this man’s yak and cart, but I don’t want to steal it from him. I did not come here to fight farmers,” said Sheppard.
Nadya stepped forward, smiled at the man, reached into a small silk bag that she had around her neck and produced an exquisite-looking gold ring with a deep red ruby encrusted in it. She walked over to the confused farmer and showed him the jewel. His face instantly lit up. Nadya knew the man couldn’t get too far with Sheppard and Elena around, so she gracefully placed it in the farmer’s calloused hand and then pointed at his animal and cart. The man stood there breathlessly staring down at the ring. He had never seen such beauty or wealth in his entire life. With a slow nod of his head, the farmer handed the reins of the yak over to Nadya. With a big smile revealing a mouth full of rotten yellow teeth, he took off his cap and happily shook her hand in gratitude.
Sheppard was impressed. “I don’t know how many more trinkets you have in there, but keep them coming, Miss Alekseev,” said Sheppard.
“Now what, Captain Sheppard?” asked Nadya.
“Now you and your grandmother can ride in comfort while we pick up the pace.”
Grusian dismounted from his armored car and then with his pistol drawn, he walked over to the abandoned Vauxhall. It looked in terrible shape. Large, jagged holes were torn into its side and the engine cover. Grusian was amazed that it had even managed to make it this far. His cavalry escort fanned out, creating a secure cordon around him. Grusian saw blood stains on the passenger-side door and smiled. At least they got one of the bastards, but he couldn’t see any signs of the other occupants of the car. Looking around, Grusian wondered in which direction they might have gone.
“Comrade Colonel, over here,” called a large Red Sergeant with a thick, long hanging moustache.
“What is it?” asked Grusian as he walked over to the sergeant.
“I see four sets of tracks, one male and three female, heading west,” said the sergeant, pointing to the near invisible footprints in the grass.
Grusian looked down and couldn’t see what the man was referring to; however, it didn’t matter. They had them. “Excellent work, comrade! Let’s get a move on they couldn’t have gotten very far on foot.”
“Comrade Colonel, I must respectfully suggest that this could be a trick. They could have just have easily turned southeast towards the interior,” said a young, pimply-faced second lieutenant.
Grusian was used to pursuing his prey in the cities. He knew nothing about tracking quarry across the open ground.
“You could be right, Comrade Lieutenant, you might just be right.” Time was slipping away, and Grusian wanted to get moving before the sun started to sink below the western horizon. “Very well, you will take a small detachment of men and look to the southeast. I will take the remainder of your men under your sergeant and follow these tracks to the south. If by nightfall, you have found nothing, head back to Turta and rejoin your unit.”
The young man saluted Grusian, and with a squad of cavalry in tow, galloped off out of sight.
“All right, sergeant, I’m putting my faith in your tracking abilities. Find those bourgeoisie traitors for me and I’ll reward you and your men handsomely,” said Grusian as he climbed back into his battered armored car.
Sheppard’s stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten a thing for close to twenty-four hours. He regretted leaving their extra rations with the horses, many miles behind them by now.
“Any food in the cart?” he asked no one in particular, hoping there was something edible back there.
Mrs. Alekseev was fast asleep, her head resting on Nadya’s lap, who was fast asleep, herself. Elena walked over and peered in the back of the cart, looked up and disappointingly shook her head at Sheppard. They would just have to carry on and do without.
The day seemed to slip by; soon the sun was creeping down towards the horizon. Sheppard’s feet ached inside his ill-fitting Russian army boots. He was becoming tired and wanted to rest, but he knew they could not afford to stop, so he dug deep inside himself and kept on going, one foot after the other. Turning a bend, Sheppard saw in the distance what appeared to be a watermill. Seeing neither people nor livestock moving around it, Sheppard guessed that it was abandoned. His weary spirit rose. Sheppard was happy to see the empty building…they now had a dry place to rest for the evening.
The watermill looked old and in desperate need of repair. On the outside was a large wooden wheel powered by the strong river that flowed past the mill and then emptied into the lake.
Sheppard took his rifle off his shoulder and then cautiously stepped inside the building. “Hello, is anyone home?”
Silence answered him.
Sheppard took a quick look around. Although old, the inside of the building appeared to be in excellent condition. He wondered what had made its occupants leave it so suddenly...the fighting, or the arrival of so many new strangers in the region, perhaps? Stepping outside, Sheppard waved the ‘all-clear’ to Elena, who cautiously led the yak and the sleeping occupants of the cart to the front of the mill.
“Stay with them while I take a better look around,” Sheppard said.
Elena nodded, and with a sigh sat down on the back of the cart, her rifle cradled in her arms. The past few days had shattered any romantic notions she had about being a soldier and fulfilling her father’s dy
ing wish to see the House of Romanov once more on the throne of Russia. All she wanted to do was eat and put her head down; nothing else seemed as important to her as she sat there watching a couple of swans swim past her on the lake.
Sheppard walked cautiously around the outside of the structure. He saw that there were fresh tracks in the mud leading away from the watermill to the south. Doubting that they would come back anytime soon, Sheppard walked back to Elena.
“Anything?” Elena asked upon his return.
“Nothing,” replied Sheppard. “People were here, but they seem to have left in a hurry.”
“Perhaps the fighting in Turta has scared off the locals?”
“You could be right. Would you please wake up our two sleeping guests and help them inside. It looks like it could storm tonight,” said Sheppard, looking up at the ominous thick, dark grey clouds approaching off the lake.
Sheppard left Elena to deal with the women and ventured back inside. He was happy to find some candles and, more importantly some food. The workers of the mill had left behind some apples, a loaf of stale bread, and several pieces of old, hard cheese, all of which made Sheppard’s mouth water and his empty stomach rumble loudly in anticipation of supper.
Campbell was getting very tired. He had been standing for hours, and his leg was screaming at him to give it a rest. The train’s elderly engineer had been working just as hard, and he showed no signs of giving in either. Neither man was going to be the first to call it a day. Campbell was about to sit on a pile of wood, when he spotted a man moving down the tracks towards them. He shuffled as far forward as he could to get a better view. The man appeared to be dressed in one of Shipov’s uniforms.
“Slow down, slow down,” Campbell yelled at the engineer, who didn’t understand a single word of English.
The old man looked to where Campbell was pointing and saw the man as well. Reaching over, he quickly applied the train’s brakes. With a loud squeal and flash of sparks from the brakes underneath, the train began to slow down.
Even before the train came to a halt, Shipov’s deputy, Major Baranov, jumped down and ran to the man. It was Corporal Ivanov, and he was in bad shape. Shipov joined his deputy and handed Ivanov a flask of water.
Shipov looked at his exhausted man. “What happened? Where is Captain Sheppard? Where are the others?” Shipov asked, bombarding the exhausted corporal with questions.
Ivanov took a huge drink of water and then collapsed to the ground on his knees. “I last time that I saw Captain Sheppard, Privates Orlov, and Zakharov was late last night,” said Ivanov, as he struggled to catch his breath. “Captain Sheppard wanted me to find you and bring you to him, so he could get away with you once he had the girl in his possession. I left them three horses, as instructed, and then, with Private Semyonov, I went to find you, sir.”
Baranov looked around for Semyonov. He was nowhere to be seen.
Shipov could feel himself growing impatient. “Yes, you did as a soldier should, you followed orders. Now please do go on, man,” insisted Shipov, desperate for news.
“Well, sir, we ran into trouble almost immediately after leaving Turta. There are Mongolian bandits out there who prey on anyone foolish enough to move around in small groups. Semyonov was killed in an ambush at dawn, and I barely managed to escape with my life,” recounted Ivanov. “They pursued me for hours. I got a couple of them, but they just kept coming. Then sometime around noon, they seemed to tire of chasing me and gave up, but my horse broke its leg in a hole, so I had to leave it there to die. I’ve been walking along the tracks ever since.”
“You’re a brave man, Ivanov,” said Shipov, patting him on the back.
“Sir, the Reds, thousands of them…they’re there,” stammered Ivanov, gulping down some more water.
“Where?” asked Baranov.
“In Turta, at least a regiment of them,” said Ivanov, starting to feel refreshed after downing the water.
“What’s he saying, sir?” asked Campbell, who had joined Shipov. “Is he talking about Mister Sheppard?”
Shipov passed on Ivanov’s tale and the bad news that the Reds had arrived.
“We must push on, sir. Captain Sheppard’s gonna need our help. I just know it,” insisted Campbell.
“Harry, I agree. We will continue on until we find Christopher or the Reds, or until the train dies on us,” said Shipov as he patted the steel engine.
Campbell nodded in thanks and said, “You know officers—unless there’s a good NCO to look after them, they tend to get into trouble.”
Shipov slapped Campbell hard on the back and then in Russian called out, “All aboard. Let’s get this pig moving again.”
Sheppard bit into his third apple. He couldn’t remember a better-tasting apple in his entire life. Taking a deep drink of ice-cold water, he slowly started to feel more like himself. He knew it was going to be a long night with only himself and Elena to pull sentry.
Mrs. Alekseev left Nadya sitting beside Elena, walked over beside Sheppard and took a seat. “Well, captain, I am happy to see that you lost your wager,” said Mrs. Alekseev teasingly.
“Ma’am, I told you that I wasn’t a betting man and I for one, am also happy that I lost my bet,” he answered, chewing on a stale piece of coarse black bread.
“I haven’t had the opportunity to thank you yet for saving our lives. Both Nadya and I are forever in your debt, Captain.”
Sheppard looked over Mrs. Alekseev. “Thanks for the praise, but Private Zakharov and our fallen comrade, Private Orlov, also helped in your escape too. It wasn’t all me. I couldn’t have pulled this off without their courage and Orlov’s sacrifice.”
A flash of lightning lit up the mill, followed almost immediately by a roar of thunder that seemed to shake the building.
“I meant no insult. I am a general’s wife. Old habits die-hard. Of course, your brave soldiers are to be praised as well,” Mrs. Alekseev added, looking over at Elena.
“Thank you, Madame,” said Elena smiling.
Rain burst forth from the storm clouds, rattling on the roof of the mill. Soon the world outside the mill became a soupy morass.
“Captain Sheppard, what do we do tomorrow?” asked Nadya.
“Same as today,” said Sheppard frankly. “We head west. I figure at the pace we’re going, and if we don’t cross paths with any undesirables, we should link up with Colonel Shipov by nightfall tomorrow evening or dawn the next day”’
“A couple more days,” said Mrs. Alekseev unenthusiastically.
“We have food, water, and transport. If our luck holds, we’re going to be all right.”
The sound of the downpour outside made Sheppard happy that he had decided that they take shelter in the watermill for the evening. Anyone caught outside was bound to get completely drenched and become miserable in short order.
Sheppard stood, moved to the door, and peered outside. He couldn’t see more than a few yards in the pouring rain.
Turning he said, “I suggest that you ladies try to get some sleep. We are going to be on the move an hour before dawn tomorrow—rain or no rain,” stressed Sheppard. “Elena, we’ll do two-hour shifts. I’ll go first. You get some rest.”
Sheppard rifle in hand took a seat facing the door. He was more fatigued than he let on. Sheppard hoped that he didn’t fall asleep during his shift. Earlier, he had Elena had brought the yak inside the mill, so anyone passing by would hopefully think that it was still deserted.
“Captain, may I sit with you a while?” asked Nadya.
Sheppard looked up at the girl, hoping that she would leave him alone. He was still mad at himself for losing his cool earlier in the day. “Miss, you really should get your rest. It’s going to be another long day tomorrow.”
“I slept all afternoon while you guarded us. May I please join you for only a few minutes?” replied Nadya, flashing her sparkling blue eyes at Sheppard.
Sheppard stood, grabbed another stool, and then waited for Nadya Alekseev to sit, bef
ore sitting again.
“Captain Sheppard, I must apologize for my behavior earlier today,” said Nadya sincerely. “I was frightened beyond belief. I have lived a somewhat sheltered and pampered life with only my grandmother to look after me for the past eight years. I have never witnessed such things before in my life. Private Orlov—that poor, brave man—he died trying to protect me and I acted like a selfish, immature child. I only hope you can forgive me.”
“Miss Alekseev, I do forgive you, and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, also, for being so rude and brusque with you.”
“I do, Captain Sheppard, and please call me Nadya.”
“All right, you can call me Christopher, if you wish, but I suggest we don’t do so around your grandmother. She seems very much a product of the Old Guard and may not approve.”
“Agreed, Christopher,” said Nadya, with a mischievous smile on her beautiful face. “I earlier sensed that you know all too well that Mrs. Alekseev is not my real grandmother, and, more importantly, that you know who my real father is, or was.” Nadya paused and looked over at Elena fast asleep on the floor. “Does she know as much as yourself?”
“No. Only a couple other people know who you truly are, and they’re trapped miles away on a train, and one of them can’t speak a word of Russian,” said Sheppard, as he chewed on some dry, bland-tasting cheese.
“Then why are these people here, killing and dying on my behalf?” asked Nadya, taking some cheese from Sheppard.
Sheppard looked deep into Nadya’s eyes and said, “I know you may find this hard to believe, but this isn’t all about you. To people like Elena and Orlov, you are a symbol of another time, a Russia they never really knew, but believe is important in having again. They all strongly believe in themselves and what they are doing, to my compatriots, you may be only the granddaughter of a murdered White general, but to many of these people, you are all some of them have left to live, or live or die for.”
The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1) Page 22