He strode away across the fields.
It had begun to snow.
ARGUMENT
The Cossacks sang as they rode:
I
“Life is against us
We are born crying:
Life that commenced us
Leaves us all dying.
We were born crying;
We shall die sighing.
“Shall we sit idle?
Follow Death’s dance!
Pick up your bridle,
Saddle and lance!
Cossacks, advance!”
They were from the Urals: they sat their shaggy little grey horses, lance in hand, stirrup deep in saddle paraphernalia — kit-bags, tents, blankets, trusses of straw, a dead fowl or two or a quarter of beef. And from every saddle dangled a balalaika and the terrible Cossack whip.
The steel of their lances flashed red in the setting sun; snow whirled before the wind in blinding pinkish clouds, powdering horse and rider from head to heel.
Again one rider unslung his balalaika, struck it, looking skyward as he rode:
“Stars in your courses,
This is our answer;
Women and horses,
Singer and dancer
Fall to the lancer!
That is your answer!
“Though the Dark Raider
Rob us of joy ——
Death, the Invader,
Come to destroy ——
Nichevo! Stoi!”
They rode into a forest, slowly, filing among the silver birches, then trotting out amid the pines.
The Swedish girl towered in her saddle, dwarfing the shaggy pony. She wore her grey wool cap, overcoat, and boots. Pistols bulged in the saddle holsters; sacks of grain and a bag of camp tins lay across pommel and cantle.
Beside her rode the novice, swathed to the eyes in a sheepskin greatcoat, and a fur cap sheltering her shorn head.
Her lethargy — a week’s reaction from the horrors of the convent — had vanished; and a feverish, restless alertness had taken its place.
Nothing of the still, white novice was visible now in her brilliant eyes and flushed cheeks.
Her tragic silence had given place to an unnatural loquacity; her grief to easily aroused mirth; and the dark sorrow in her haunted eyes was gone, and they grew brown and sunny and vivacious.
She talked freely with her comrade, Ilse Westgard; she exchanged gossip and banter with the Cossacks, argued with them, laughed with them, sang with them.
At night she slept in her sheepskin in Ilse Westgard’s vigorous arms; morning, noon and evening she filled the samovar with snow beside Cossack fires, or in the rare cantonments afforded in wretched villages, where whiskered and filthy mujiks cringed to the Cossacks, whispering to one another: “There is no end to death; there is no end to the fighting and the dying, God bless us all. There is no end.”
In the glare of great fires in muddy streets she stood, swathed in her greatcoat, her cap pushed back, looking like some beautiful, impudent boy, while the Cossacks sang “Lada oy Lada!” — and let their slanting eyes wander sideways toward her, till her frank laughter set the singers grinning and the gusli was laid aside.
And once, after a swift gallop to cross a railroad and an exchange of shots with the Red guards at long range, the sotnia of the Wild Division rode at evening into a little hamlet of one short, miserable street, and shouted for a fire that could be seen as far as Moscow.
That night they discovered vodka — not much — enough to set them singing first, then dancing. The troopers danced together in the fire-glare — clumsily, in their boots, with interims of the pas seul savouring of the capers of those ancient Mongol horsemen in the Hezars of Genghis Khan.
But no dancing, no singing, no clumsy capers were enough to satisfy these riders of the Wild Division, now made boisterous by vodka and horse-meat. Gossip crackled in every group; jests flew; they shouted at the peasants; they roared at their own jokes.
“Comrade novice! — Pretty boy with a shorn head!” they bawled. “Harangue us once more on law and love.”
She stood with legs apart and thumbs hooked in her belt, laughing at them across the fire. And all around crowded the wretched mujiks, peering at her through shaggy hair, out of little wolfish eyes.
A Cossack shouted: “My law first! Land for all! That is what we have, we Cossacks! Land for the people, one and all — land for the mujik; land for the bourgeois; land for the aristocrat! That law solves all, clears all questions, satisfies all. It is the Law of Peace!”
A Cossack shoved a soldier-deserter forward into the firelight. He wore a patch of red on his sleeve.
“Answer, comrade! Is that the true law? Or have you and your comrades made a better one in Petrograd?”
The deserter, a little frightened, tried to grin: “A good law is, kill all generals,” he said huskily. “Afterward we shall have peace.”
A roar of laughter greeted him; these dark, thickset Cossacks with slanting eyes were from the Urals. What did they care how many generals were killed? Besides, their hetman had already killed himself.
Their officer moved out into the firelight — a reckless rider but a dull brain — and stood lashing at his snow-crusted boots with the silver-mounted quirt.
“Like gendarmes,” he said, “we Cossacks are forever doing the dirty work of other people. Why? It begins to sicken me. Why are we forever executing the law! What law? Who made it? The Tzar. And he is dead, and what is the good of the law he made?
“Why should free Cossacks be policemen any more when there is no law?
“We played gendarme for the Monarchists. We answered the distress call of the Cadets and the bourgeoisie! Where are they? Where is the law they made?”
He stood switching his dirty boots and swinging his heavy head right and left with the stupid, lowering menace of a bull.
“Then came the Mensheviki with their law,” he bellowed suddenly. “Again we became policemen, galloping to their whistle. Where are they? Where is their law?”
He spat on the snow, twirled his quirt.
“There is only one law to govern the land,” he roared. “It is the law of hands off and mind your business! It’s a good law.”
“A good law for those who already have something,” cried a high, thin voice from the throng of peasants.
The Cossacks, who all possessed their portion of land, yelled with laughter. One of them called out to the Swedish girl for her opinion, and the fair young giantess strode gracefully out into the fire-ring, her cap in her hand and the thick blond ringlets shining like gold on her beautiful head.
“Listen! Listen to this soldier of the Death Battalion!” shouted the Cossacks in great glee. “She will tell us what the law should be!”
She laughed: “We fought for it — we women soldiers,” she said. “And the law we fought for was made when the first tyrant fell.
“This is the law: Freedom of mind; liberty of choice; an equal chance for all; no violence; only orderly debate to determine the will of the land.”
A Cossack said loudly: “Da volna! Those who have nothing would take, then, from those who have!”
“I think not!” cried another,” — not in the Urals!”
Thunderous laughter from their comrades and cries of, “Palla! Let us hear our pretty boy, who has made for the whole world a law.”
Palla Dumont, her slender hands thrust deep in her great coat sleeves, and standing like a nun lost in mystic revery, looked up with gay audacity — not like a nun at all, now, save for the virginal allure that seemed a part of the girl.
“There is only one law, Tavarishi,” she said, turning slightly from her hips as she spoke, to include those behind her in the circle: “and that law was not made by man. That law was born, already made, when the first man was born. It has never changed. It comprehends everything; includes everything and everybody; it solves all perplexity, clears all doubts, decides all questions.
“It is a living law; it exist
s; it is the key to every problem; and it is all ready for you.”
The girl’s face had altered; the half mischievous audacity in defiance of her situation — the gay, impudent confidence in herself and in these wild comrades of hers, had given place to something more serious, more ardent — the youthful intensity that smiles through the flaming enchantment of suddenly discovered knowledge.
“It is the oldest of all laws,” she said. “It was born perfect. It is yours if you accept it. And this law is the Law of Love.”
A peasant muttered: “One gives where one loves.”
The girl turned swiftly: “That is the soul of the Law!” she cried, “to give! Is there any other happiness, Tavarishi? Is there any other peace? Is there need of any other law?
“I tell you that the Law of Love slays greed! And when greed dies, war dies. And hunger, and misery die, too!
“Of what use is any government and its lesser laws and customs, unless it is itself governed by that paramount Law?
“Of what avail are your religions, your churches, your priests, your saints, relics, ikons — all your candles and observances — unless dominated by that Law?
“Of what use is your God unless that Law of Love also governs Him?”
She stood gazing at the firelit faces, the virginal half-smile on her lips.
A peasant broke the silence: “Is she a new saint, then?” he said distinctly.
A Cossack nodded to her, grinning respectfully:
“We always like your sermons, little novice,” he said. And, to the others: “Nobody wishes to deny what she says is quite true” — he scratched his head, still grinning— “only — while there are Kurds in the world — —”
“And Bolsheviki!” shouted another.
“True! And Turks! God bless us, Tavarishi,” he added with a wry face, “it takes a stronger stomach to love these beasts than is mine — —”
In the sudden shout of laughter the girl, Palla, looked around at her comrade, Ilse.
“Until each accepts the Law of Love,” said the Swedish girl-soldier, laughing, “it can not be a law.”
“I have accepted it,” said Palla gaily; but her childishly lovely mouth was working, and she clenched her hands in her sleeves to control the tremor.
Silent, the smile still stamped on her tremulous lips, she stood for a few moments, fighting back the deep emotions enveloping her in surging fire — the same ardent and mystic emotions which once had consumed her at the altar’s foot, where she had knelt, a novice, dreaming of beatitudes ineffable.
If that vision, for her, was ended — its substance but the shadow of a dream — the passion that created it, the fire that purified it, the ardent heart that needed love — love sacred, love unalloyed — needed love still, burned for it, yearning to give.
* * * * *
As she lifted her head and looked around her with dark eyes still a little dazed, there was a sudden commotion among the mujiks; a Cossack called out something in a sharp voice; their officer walked hastily out into the darkness; a shadowy rider spurred ahead of him.
Suddenly a far voice shouted: “Who goes there! Stoi!”
Then red flashes came out of the night; Cossacks ran for their horses; Ilse appeared with Palla’s pony as well as her own, and halted to listen, the fearless smile playing over her face.
“Mount!” cried many voices at once. “The Reds!”
Palla flung herself astride her saddle; Ilse galloped beside her, freeing her pistols; everywhere in the starlight the riders of the Wild Division came galloping, loosening their long lances as they checked their horses in close formation.
Then, with scarcely a sound in the unbroken snow, they filed away eastward at a gentle trot, under the pale lustre of the stars.
THE CRIMSON TIDE
CHAPTER I
On the 7th of November, 1917, the Premier of the Russian Revolutionary Government was a hunted fugitive, his ministers in prison, his troops scattered or dead. Three weeks later, the irresponsible Reds had begun their shameful career of treachery, counselled by a pallid, black-eyed man with a muzzle like a mouse — one L. D. Bronstein, called Trotzky; and by two others — one a bald, smooth-shaven, rotund little man with an expression that made men hesitate, and features not trusted by animals and children.
The Red Parliament called him Vladimir Ulianov, and that’s what he called himself. He had proved to be reticent, secretive, deceitful, diligent, and utterly unhuman. His lower lip was shaped as though something dripped from it. Blood, perhaps. His eyes were brown and not entirely unattractive. But God makes the eyes; the mouth is fashioned by one’s self.
The world knew him as Lenine.
The third man squinted. He wore a patch of sparse cat-hairs on his chin and upper lip.
His head was too big; his legs too short, but they were always in a hurry, always in motion. He had a persuasive and ardent tongue, and practically no mind. The few ideas he possessed inclined him to violence — always the substitute for reason in this sort of agitator. It was this ever latent violence that proved persuasive. His name was Krylenko. His smile was a grin.
These three men betrayed Christ on March 3d, 1918.
On the Finland Road, outside of Petrograd, the Red ragamuffins held a perpetual carmagnole, and all fugitives danced to their piping, and many paid for the music.
But though White Guards and Red now operated in respectively hostile gangs everywhere throughout the land, and the treacherous hun armies were now in full tide of their Baltic invasion, there still remained ways and means of escape — inconspicuous highways and unguarded roads still open that led out of that white hell to the icy but friendly seas clashing against the northward coasts.
Diplomats were inelegantly “beating it.” A kindly but futile Ambassador shook the snow of Petrograd from his galoshes and solemnly and laboriously vanished. Mixed bands of attachés, consular personnel, casuals, emissaries, newspaper men, and mission specialists scattered into unfeigned flight toward those several and distant sections of “God’s Country,” divided among civilised nations and lying far away somewhere in the outer sunshine.
Sometimes White Guards caught these fugitives; sometimes Red Guards; and sometimes the hun nabbed them on the general hunnish principle that whatever is running away is fair game for a pot shot.
Even the American Red Cross was “suspect” — treachery being alleged in its relations with Roumania; and hun and Bolshevik became very troublesome — so troublesome, in fact, that Estridge, for example, was having an impossible time of it, arrested every few days, wriggling out of it, only to be collared again and detained.
Sometimes they questioned him concerning gun-running into Roumania; sometimes in regard to his part in conducting the American girl, Miss Dumont, to the convent where the imperial family had been detained.
That the de facto government had requested him to undertake this mission and to employ an American Red Cross ambulance in the affair seemed to make no difference.
He continued to be dogged, spied on, arrested, detained, badgered, until one evening, leaving the Smolny, he encountered an American — a slim, short man who smiled amiably upon him through his glasses, removed a cigar from his lips, and asked Estridge what was the nature of his evident and visible trouble.
So they walked back to the hotel together and settled on a course of action during the long walk. What this friend in need did and how he did it, Estridge never learned; but that same evening he was instructed to pack up, take a train, and descend at a certain station a few hours later.
Estridge followed instructions, encountered no interference, got off at the station designated, and waited there all day, drinking boiling tea.
Toward evening a train from Petrograd stopped at the station, and from the open door of a compartment Estridge saw his chance acquaintance of the previous day making signs to him to get aboard.
Nobody interfered. They had a long, cold, unpleasant night journey, wedged in between two soldiers wearing arm-bands
, who glowered at a Russian general officer opposite, and continued to mutter to each other about imperialists, bourgeoisie, and cadets.
At every stop they were inspected by lantern light, their papers examined, and sometimes their luggage opened. But these examinations seemed to be perfunctory, and nobody was detained.
In the grey of morning the train stopped and some soldiers with red arm-bands looked in and insulted the general officer, but offered no violence. The officer gave them a stony glance and closed his cold, puffy eyes in disdain. He was blond and looked like a German.
* * * * *
At the next stop Estridge received a careless nod from his chance acquaintance, gathered up his luggage and descended to the frosty platform.
Nobody bothered to open their bags; their papers were merely glanced at. They had some steaming tea and some sour bread together.
A little later a large sleigh drove up behind the station; their light baggage was stowed aboard, they climbed in under the furs.
“Now,” remarked his calm companion to Estridge, “we’re all right if the Reds, the Whites and the boches don’t shoot us up.”
“What are the chances?” inquired Estridge.
“Excellent, excellent,” said his companion cheerily, “I should say we have about one chance in ten to get out of this alive. I’ll take either end — ten to one we don’t get out — ten to two we’re shot up and not killed — ten to three we are arrested but not killed — one to ten we pull through with whole skins.”
Estridge smiled. They remained silent, probably preoccupied with the hazards of their respective fortunes. It grew colder toward noon.
The young man seated beside Estridge in the sleigh smoked continually.
He was attached to one of the American missions sent into Russia by an optimistic administration — a mission, as a whole, foredoomed to political failure.
In every detail, too, it had already failed, excepting only in that particular part played by this young man, whose name was Brisson.
He, however, had gone about his occult business in a most amazing manner — the manner of a Yankee who knows what he wants and what his country ought to want if it knew enough to know it wanted it.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 919