Buch lesen: «The Crimson Tide: A Novel»
To
MARGARET ILLINGTON BOWES
AND
EDWARD J. BOWES
I
I’d rather walk with Margaret,
I’d rather talk with Margaret,
And anchor in some sylvan nook
And fish Dream Lake with magic hook
Than sit indoors and write this book.
II
An author’s such an ass, alas!
To watch the world through window glass
When out of doors the skies are fair
And pretty girls beyond compare–
Like Margaret–are strolling there.
III
I’d rather walk with E. J. Bowes,
I’d rather talk with E. J. Bowes,
In woodlands where the sunlight gleams
Across the golden Lake of Dreams
Than drive a quill across these reams.
IV
If I could have my proper wish
With these two friends I’d sit and fish
Where sheer cliffs wear their mossy hoods
And Dream Lake widens in the woods,
But Fate says “No! Produce your goods!”
ENVOI
Inspect my goods and choose a few
Dear Margaret, and Edward, too;
Then sink them in the Lake of Dreams
In dim, gold depths where sunshine streams
Down from the sky’s unclouded blue,
And I’ll be much obliged to you.
R. W. C.
FOREWORD
An American ambulance going south stopped on the snowy road; the driver, an American named Estridge, got out; his companion, a young woman in furs, remained in her seat.
Estridge, with the din of the barrage in his ears, went forward to show his papers to the soldiers who had stopped him on the snowy forest road.
His papers identified him and the young woman; and further they revealed the fact that the ambulance contained only a trunk and some hand luggage; and called upon all in authority to permit John Henry Estridge and Miss Palla Dumont to continue without hindrance the journey therein described.
The soldiers–Siberian riflemen–were satisfied and seemed friendly enough and rather curious to obtain a better look at this American girl, Miss Dumont, described in the papers submitted to them as “American companion to Marie, third daughter of Nicholas Romanoff, ex-Tzar.”
An officer came up, examined the papers, shrugged.
“Very well,” he said, “if authority is to be given this American lady to join the Romanoff family, now under detention, it is not my affair.”
But he, also, appeared to be perfectly good natured about the matter, accepting a cigarette from Estridge and glancing at the young woman in the ambulance as he lighted it.
“You know,” he remarked, “if it would interest you and the young lady, the Battalion of Death is over yonder in the birch woods.”
“The woman’s battalion?” asked Estridge.
“Yes. They make their début to-day. Would you like to see them? They’re going forward in a few minutes, I believe.”
Estridge nodded and walked back to the ambulance.
“The woman’s battalion is over in those birch woods, Miss Dumont. Would you care to walk over and see them before they leave for the front trenches?”
The girl in furs said very gravely:
“Yes, I wish to see women who are about to go into battle.”
She rose from the seat, laid a fur-gloved hand on his offered arm, and stepped down onto the snow.
“To serve,” she said, as they started together through the silver birches, following a trodden way, “is not alone the only happiness in life: it is the only reason for living.”
“I know you think so, Miss Dumont.”
“You also must believe so, who are here as a volunteer in Russia.”
“It’s a little more selfish with me. I’m a medical student; it’s a liberal education for me even to drive an ambulance.”
“There is only one profession nobler than that practised by the physician, who serves his fellow men,” she said in a low, dreamy voice.
“Which profession do you place first?”
“The profession of those who serve God alone.”
“The priesthood?”
“Yes. And the religious orders.”
“Nuns, too?” he demanded with the slightest hint of impatience in his pleasant voice.
The girl noticed it, looked up at him and smiled slightly.
“Had my dear Grand Duchess not asked for me, I should now he entering upon my novitiate among the Russian nuns… And she, too, I think, had there been no revolution. She was quite ready a year ago. We talked it over. But the Empress would not permit it. And then came the trouble about the Deaconesses. That was a grave mistake–”
She checked herself, then:
“I do not mean to criticise the Empress, you understand.”
“Poor lady,” he said, “such gentle criticism would seem praise to her now.”
They were walking through a pine belt, and in the shadows of that splendid growth the snow remained icy, so that they both slipped continually and she took his arm for security.
“I somehow had not thought of you, Miss Dumont, as so austerely inclined,” he said.
She smiled: “Because I’ve been a cheerful companion–even gay? Well, my gaiety made my heart sing with the prospect of seeing again my dearest friend–my closest spiritual companion–my darling little Grand Duchess… So I have been, naturally enough, good company on our three days’ journey.”
He smiled: “I never suspected you of such extreme religious inclinations,” he insisted.
“Extreme?”
“Well, a novice–” he hesitated. Then, “And you mean, ultimately, to take the black veil?”
“Of course. I shall take it some day yet.”
He turned and looked at her, and the man in him felt the pity of it as do all men when such fresh, virginal youth as was Miss Dumont’s turns an enraptured face toward that cloister door which never again opens on those who enter.
Her arm rested warmly and confidently within his; the cold had made her cheeks very pink and had crisped the tendrils of her brown hair under the fur toque.
“If,” she said happily, “you have found in me a friend, it is because my heart is much too small for all the love I bear my fellow beings.”
“That’s a quaint thing to say,” he said.
“It’s really true. I care so deeply, so keenly, for my fellow beings whom God made, that there seemed only one way to express it–to give myself to God and pass my life in His service who made these fellow creatures all around me that I love.”
“I suppose,” he said, “that is one way of looking at it.”
“It seemed to be the only way for me. I came to it by stages… And first, as a child, I was impressed by the loveliness of the world and I used to sit for hours thinking of the goodness of God. And then other phases came–socialistic cravings and settlement work–but you know that was not enough. My heart was too full to be satisfied. There was not enough outlet.”
“What did you do then?”
“I studied: I didn’t know what I wanted, what I needed. I seemed lost; I was obsessed with a desire to aid–to be of service. I thought that perhaps if I travelled and studied methods–”
She looked straight ahead of her with a sad little reflective smile:
“I have passed by many strange places in the world… And then I saw the little Grand Duchess at the Charity Bazaar… We seemed to love each other at first glance… She asked to have me for her companion… They investigated… And so I went to her.”
The girl’s face became sombre and she bent her dark eyes on the snow as they walked.
All the world was humming and throbbing with the thunder of the Russian guns. Flakes continually dropped from vibrating pine trees. A pale yellow haze veiled the sun.
Suddenly Miss Dumont lifted her head:
“If anything ever happens to part me from my friend,” she said, “I hope I shall die quickly.”
“Are you and she so devoted?” he asked gravely.
“Utterly. And if we can not some day take the vows together and enter the same order and the same convent, then the one who is free to do so is so pledged… I do not think that the Empress will consent to the Grand Duchess Marie taking the veil… And so, when she has no further need of me, I shall make my novitiate… There are soldiers ahead, Mr. Estridge. Is it the woman’s battalion?”
He, also, had caught sight of them. He nodded.
“It is the Battalion of Death,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s see what they look like.”
The girl-soldiers stood about carelessly, there in the snow among the silver birches and pines. They looked like boys in overcoats and boots and tall wool caps, leaning at ease there on their heavy rifles. Some were only fifteen years of age. Some had been servants, some saleswomen, stenographers, telephone operators, dressmakers, workers in the fields, students at the university, dancers, laundresses. And a few had been born into the aristocracy.
They came, too, from all parts of the huge, sprawling Empire, these girl-soldiers of the Battalion of Death–and there were Cossack girls and gypsies among them–girls from Finland, Courland, from the Urals, from Moscow, from Siberia–from North, South, East, West.
There were Jewesses from the Pale and one Jewess from America in the ranks; there were Chinese girls, Poles, a child of fifteen from Trebizond, a Japanese girl, a French peasant lass; and there were Finns, too, and Scandinavians–all with clipped hair under the astrakhan caps–sturdy, well shaped, soldierly girls who handled their heavy rifles without effort and carried a regulation equipment as though it were a sheaf of flowers.
Their commanding officer was a woman of forty. She lounged in front of the battalion in the snow, consulting with half a dozen officers of a man’s regiment.
The colour guard stood grouped around the battalion colours, where its white and gold folds swayed languidly in the breeze, and clots of virgin snow fell upon it, shaken down from the pines by the cannonade.
Estridge gazed at them in silence. In his man’s mind one thought dominated–the immense pity of it all. And there was a dreadful fascination in looking at these girl soldiers, whose soft, warm flesh was so soon to be mangled by shrapnel and slashed by bayonets.
“Good heavens,” he muttered at last under his breath. “Was this necessary?”
“The men ran,” said Miss Dumont.
“It was the filthy boche propaganda that demoralised them,” rejoined Estridge. “I wonder–are women more level headed? Is propaganda wasted on these girl soldiers? Are they really superior to the male of the species?”
“I think,” said Miss Dumont softly, “that their spiritual intelligence is deeper.”
“They see more clearly, morally?”
“I don’t know… I think so sometimes… We women, who are born capable of motherhood, seem to be fashioned also to realise Christ more clearly–and the holy mother who bore him… I don’t know if that’s the reason–or if, truly, in us a little flame burns more constantly–the passion which instinctively flames more brightly toward things of the spirit than of the flesh… I think it is true, Mr. Estridge, that, unless taught otherwise by men, women’s inclination is toward the spiritual, and the ardour of her passion aspires instinctively to a greater love until the lesser confuses and perplexes her with its clamorous importunity.”
“Woman’s love for man you call the lesser love?” he asked.
“Yes, it is, compared to love for God,” she said dreamily.
Some of the girl-soldiers in the Battalion of Death turned their heads to look at this young girl in furs, who had come among them on the arm of a Red Cross driver.
Estridge was aware of many bib brown eyes, many grey eyes, some blue ones fixed on him and on his companion in friendly or curious inquiry. They made him think of the large, innocent eyes of deer or channel cattle, for there was something both sweet and wild as well as honest in the gaze of these girl-soldiers.
One, a magnificent blond six-foot creature with the peaches-and-cream skin of Scandinavia and the clipped gold hair of the northland, smiled at Miss Dumont, displaying a set of superb teeth.
“You have come to see us make our first charge?” she asked in Russian, her sea-blue eyes all a-sparkle.
Miss Dumont said “Yes,” very seriously, looking at the girl’s equipment, her blanket roll, gas-mask, boots and overcoat.
Estridge turned to another girl-soldier:
“And if you are made a prisoner?” he enquired in a low voice. “Have you women considered that?”
“Nechevo,” smiled the girl, who had been a Red Cross nurse, and who wore two decorations. She touched the red and black dashes of colour on her sleeve significantly, then loosened her tunic and drew out a tiny bag of chamois. “We all carry poison,” she said smilingly. “We know the boche well enough to take that precaution.”
Another girl nodded confirmation. They were perfectly cheerful about it. Several others drew near and showed their little bags of poison slung around their necks inside their blouses. Many of them wore holy relics and medals also.
Miss Dumont took Estridge’s arm again and looked over at the big blond girl-soldier, who also had been smilingly regarding her, and who now stepped forward to meet them halfway.
“When do you march to the first trenches?” asked Miss Dumont gravely.
“Oh,” said the blond goddess, “so you are English?” And she added in English: “I am Swedish. You have arrived just in time. I t’ink we go forward immediately.”
“God go with you, for Russia,” said Miss Dumont in a clear, controlled voice.
But Estridge saw that her dark eyes were suddenly brilliant with tears. The big blond girl-soldier saw it, too, and her splendid blue eyes widened. Then, somehow, she had stepped forward and taken Miss Dumont in her strong arms; and, holding her, smiled and gazed intently at her.
“You must not grieve for us,” she said. “We are not afraid. We are happy to go.”
“I know,” said Palla Dumont; and took the girl-soldier’s hands in hers. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Ilse Westgard. And yours?”
“Palla Dumont.”
“English? No?”
“American.”
“Ah! One of our dear Americans! Well, then, you shall tell your countrymen that you have seen many women of many lands fighting rifle in hand, so that the boche shall not strangle freedom in Russia. Will you tell them, Palla?”
“If I ever return.”
“You shall return. I, also, shall go to America. I shall seek for you there, pretty comrade. We shall become friends. Already I love you very dearly.”
She kissed Palla Dumont on both cheeks, holding her hands tightly.
“Tell me,” she said, “why you are in Russia, and where you are now journeying?”
Palla looked at her steadily: “I am the American companion to the Grand Duchess Marie; and I am journeying to the village where the Imperial family is detained, because she has obtained permission for me to rejoin her.”
There was a short silence; the blue eyes of the Swedish girl had become frosty as two midwinter stars. Suddenly they glimmered warm again as twin violets:
“Kharasho!” she said smiling. “And do you love your little comrade duchess?”
“Next only to God.”
“That is very beautiful, Palla. She is a child to be enlightened. Teach her the greater truth.”
“She has learned it, Ilse.”
“She?”
“Yes. And, if God wills it, she, and I also, take the vows some day.”
“The veil!”
“Yes.”
“You! A nun!”
“If God accepts me.”
The Swedish girl-soldier stood gazing upon her as though fascinated, crushing Palla’s slim hands between her own.
Presently she shook her head with a wearied smile:
“That,” she said, “is one thing I can not understand–the veil. No. I can understand this–” turning her head and glancing proudly around her at her girl comrades. “I can comprehend this thing that I am doing. But not what you wish to do, Palla. Not such service as you offer.”
“I wish to serve the source of all good. My heart is too full to be satisfied by serving mankind alone.”
The girl-soldier shook her head: “I try to understand. I can not. I am sorry, because I love you.”
“I love you, Ilse. I love my fellows.”
After another silence:
“You go to the imperial family?” demanded Ilse abruptly.
“Yes.”
“I wish to see you again. I shall try.”
The battalion marched a few moments later.
It was rather a bad business. They went over the top with a cheer. Fifty answered roll call that night.
However, the hun had learned one thing–that women soldiers were inferior to none.
Russia learned it, too. Everywhere battalions were raised, uniformed, armed, equipped, drilled. In the streets of cities the girl-soldiers became familiar sights: nobody any longer turned to stare at them. There were several dozen girls in the officers’ school, trying for commissions. In all the larger cities there were infantry battalions of girls, Cossack troops, machine gun units, signallers; they had a medical corps and transport service.
But never but once again did they go into action. And their last stand was made facing their own people, the brain-crazed Reds.
And after that the Battalion of Death became only a name; and the girl-soldiers bewildered fugitives, hunted down by the traitors who had sold out to the Germans at Brest-Litovsk.
PREFACE
A door opened; the rush of foggy air set the flames of the altar candles blowing wildly. There came the clank of armed men.
Then, in the dim light of the chapel, a novice sprang to her feet, brushing the white veil from her pallid young face.
At that the ex-Empress, still kneeling, lifted her head from her devotions and calmly turned it, looking around over her right shoulder.
The file of Red infantry advanced, shuffling slowly forward as though feeling their way through the candle-lit dusk across the stone floor. Their accoutrements clattered and clinked in the intense stillness. A slovenly officer, switching a thin, naked sword in his ungloved fist, led them. Another officer, carrying a sabre and marching in the rear, halted to slam and lock the heavy chapel door; then he ran forward to rejoin his men, while the chapel still reverberated with the echoes of the clanging door.
A chair or two fell, pushed aside by the leading soldiers and hastily kicked out of the way as the others advanced more swiftly now. For there seemed to be some haste. These men were plainly in a hurry, whatever their business there might be.
The Tzesarevitch, kneeling beside his mother, got up from his knees with visible difficulty. The Empress also rose, leisurely, supporting herself by one hand resting on the prie-dieu.
Then several young girls, who had been kneeling behind her at their devotions, stood up and turned to stare at the oncoming armed men, now surrounding them.
The officer carrying the naked sword, and reeking with fumes of brandy, counted these women in a loud, thick voice.
“That’s right,” he said. “You’re all present–one! two! three! four! five! six!–the whole accursed brood!” pointing waveringly with his sword from one to another.
Then he laughed stupidly, leering out of his inflamed eyes at the five women who all wore the garbs of the Sisters of Mercy, their white coiffes and tabliers contrasting sharply with the sombre habits of the Russian nuns who had gathered in the candle-lit dusk behind them.
“What do you wish?” demanded the ex-Empress in a fairly steady voice.
“Answer to your names!” retorted the officer brutally. The other officer came up and began to fumble for a note book in the breast of his dirty tunic. When he found it he licked the lead of his pencil and squinted at the ex-Empress out of drunken eyes.
“Alexandra Feodorovna!” he barked in her face. “If you’re here, say so!”
She remained calm, mute, cold as ice.
A soldier behind her suddenly began to shout:
“That’s the German woman. That’s the friend of the Staretz Novykh! That’s Sascha! Now we’ve got her, the thing to do is to shoot her–”
“Mark her present,” interrupted the officer in command. “No ceremony, now. Mark the cub Romanoff present. Mark ’em all–Olga, Tatyana, Marie, Anastasia!–no matter which is which–they’re all Romanoffs–”
But the same soldier who had interrupted before bawled out again: “They’re not Romanoffs! There are no German Romanoffs. There are no Romanoffs in Russia since a hundred and fifty years–”
The little Tzesarevitch, Alexis, red with anger, stepped forward to confront the man, his frail hands fiercely clenched. The officer in command struck him brutally across the breast with the flat of his sword, shoved him aside, strode toward the low door of the chapel crypt and jerked it open.
“Line them up!” he bawled. “We’ll settle this Romanoff dispute once for all! Shove them into line! Hurry up, there!”
But there seemed to be some confusion between the nuns and the soldiers, as the latter attempted to separate the ex-Empress and the young Grand Duchesses from the sisters.
“What’s all that trouble about!” cried the officer commanding. “Drive back those nuns, I tell you! They’re Germans, too! They’re Sascha’s new Deaconesses! Kick ’em out of the way!”
Then the novice, who had cried out in fear when the Red infantry first entered the chapel, forced her way out into the file formed by the Empress and her daughters.
“There’s a frightful mistake!” she cried, laying one hand on the arm of a young girl dressed, like the others, as a Sister of Mercy. “This woman is Miss Dumont, my American companion! Release her! I am the Grand Duchess Marie!”
The girl, whose arm had been seized, looked at the young novice over her shoulder in a dazed way; then, suddenly her lovely face flushed scarlet; tears sprang to her eyes; and she said to the infuriated officer:
“It is not true, Captain! I am the Grand Duchess Marie. She is trying to save me!”
“What the devil is all this row!” roared the officer, who now came tramping and storming among the prisoners, switching his sword to and fro with ferocious impatience.
The little Sister of Mercy, frightened but resolute, pointed at the novice, who still clutched her by the arm: “It is not true what she tells you,” she repeated. “I am the Grand Duchess Marie, and this novice is my American companion, Miss Dumont, who loves me devotedly and who now attempts to sacrifice herself in my place–”
“I am the Grand Duchess Marie!” interrupted the novice excitedly. “This young girl dressed like a Sister of Mercy is only my American companion–”
“Damnation!” yelled the officer. “I’ll take you both, then!” But the girl in the Sister of Mercy’s garb turned and violently pushed the novice from her so that she stumbled and fell on her knees among the nuns.
Then, confronting the officer: “You Bolshevik dog,” she said contemptuously, “don’t you even know the daughter of your dead Emperor when you see her!” And she struck him across the face with her prayer book.
As he recoiled from the blow a soldier shouted: “There’s your proof! There’s your insolent Romanoff for you! To hell with the whole litter! Shoot them!” Instantly a savage roar from the Reds filled that dim place; a soldier violently pushed the young Tzesarevitch into the file behind the Empress and held him there; the Grand Duchess Olga was flung bodily after him; the other children, in their hospital dresses, were shoved brutally toward their places, menaced by butt and bayonet.
“March!” bawled the officer in command.
But now, among the dark-garbed nuns, a slender white figure was struggling frantically to free herself:
“You red dogs!” she cried in an agonised voice. “Let that English woman go! It is I you want! Do you hear! I mock at you! I mock at your resolution! Boje Tzaria Khrani! Down with the Bolsheviki!”
A soldier turned and fired at her; the bullet smashed an ikon above her head.
“I am the Grand Duchess Marie!” she sobbed. “I demand my place! I demand my fate! Let that American girl go! Do you hear what I say? Red beasts! Red beasts! I am the Grand Duchess!–”
The officer who closed the file turned savagely and shook his heavy cavalry sabre at her: “I’ll come back in a moment and cut your throat for you!” he yelled.
Then, in the file, and just as the last bayonets were vanishing through the crypt door, one of the young girls turned and kissed her hand to the sobbing novice–a pretty gesture, tender, gay, not tragic, even almost mischievously triumphant.
It was the adieu of the Grand Duchess Tatyana to the living world–her last glimpse of it through the flames of the altar candles gilding the dead Christ on his jewelled cross–the image of that Christ she was so soon to gaze upon when those lovely, mischievous young eyes of hers unclosed in Paradise…
The door of the crypt slammed. A terrible silence reigned in the chapel.
Then the novice uttered a cry, caught the foot of the cross with desperate hands, hung there convulsively.
To her the Mother Superior turned, weeping. But at her touch the girl, crazed with grief, lifted both hands and tore from her own face the veil of her novitiate just begun;–tore her white garments from her shoulders, crying out in a strangled voice that if a Christian God let such things happen then He was no God of hers–that she would never enter His service–that the Lord Christ was no bridegroom for her; and, her novitiate was ended–ended together with every vow of chastity, of humility, of poverty, of even common humanity which she had ever hoped to take.
The girl was now utterly beside herself; at one moment flaming and storming with fury among the terrified, huddling nuns; the next instant weeping, stamping her felt-shod foot in ungovernable revolt at this horror which any God in any heaven could permit.
And again and again she called out on Christ to stop this thing and prove Himself a real God to a pagan world that mocked Him.
Dishevelled, her rent veil in tatters on her naked shoulders, she sprang across the chapel to the crypt door, shook it, tore at it, seized chair after chair and shattered them to splinters against the solid panels of oak and iron.
Then, suddenly motionless, she crouched and listened.
“Oh, Mother of God!” she panted, “intervene now–now!–or never!”
The muffled rattle of a rather ragged volley answered her prayer.
Outside the convent a sentry–a Kronstadt sailor–stood. He also heard the underground racket. He nodded contentedly to himself. Other shots followed–pistol shots–singly.
After a few moments a wisp of smoke from the crypt crept lazily out of the low oubliettes. The day was grey and misty; rain threatened; and the rifle smoke clung low to the withered grass, scarcely lifting.
The sentry lighted a third cigarette, one eye on the barred oubliettes, from which the smoke crawled and spread out over the grass.
After a while a sweating face appeared behind the bars and a half-stifled voice demanded why there was any delay about fetching quick-lime. And, still clinging to the bars with bloody fingers, he added:
“There’s a damned novice in the chapel. I promised to cut her throat for her. Go in and get her and bring her down here.”
The novice was nowhere to be found.
They searched the convent thoroughly; they went out into the garden and beat the shrubbery, kicking through bushes and saplings, their cocked rifles poised for a snap shot.
Peasants, gathering there more thickly now, watched them stupidly; the throng increased in the convent grounds. Some Bolshevik soldiers pushed through the rapidly growing crowd and ran toward a birch wood east of the convent. Beyond the silvery fringe of birches, larger trees of a heavy, hard-wood forest loomed. Among these splendid trees a number of beeches were being felled on both sides of the road.
“Did you see a White Nun run this way?” demanded the soldiers of the wood-cutters. The latter shook their heads:
“Nothing has passed,” they said seriously, “except some Ural Cossacks riding north like lost souls in a hurricane.”
An officer of the Red battalion, who had now hastened up with pistol swinging, flew into a frightful rage:
“Cossacks!” he bellowed. “You cowardly dogs, what do you mean by letting Kaledines’ horsemen gallop over you like that–you with your saws and axes–twenty lusty comrades to block the road and pull the Imperialists off their horses! Shame! For all I know you’ve let a Romanoff escape alive into the world! That’s probably what you’ve done, you greasy louts!”
The wood-cutters gaped stupidly; the Bolshevik officer cursed them again and gesticulated with his pistol. Other soldiers of the Red battalion ran up. One nudged the officer’s elbow without saluting:
“That other prisoner can’t be found–”
“What! That Swedish girl!” yelled the officer.
Several soldiers began speaking excitedly:
“While we were in the cellar, they say she ran away–”
“Yes, Captain, while we were about that business in the crypt, Kaledines’ horsemen rode up outside–”
“Who saw them?” demanded the officer hoarsely. “God curse you, who saw them?”
Some peasants had now come up. One of them began:
“Your honour, I saw Prince Kaledines’ riders–”
“Whose!”
“The Hetman’s–”
“Your honour! Prince Kaledines! The Hetman! Damnation! Who do you think you are! Who do you think I am!” burst out the Red officer in a fury. “Get out of my way!–” He pushed the peasants right and left and strode away toward the convent. His soldiers began to straggle after him. One of them winked at the wood-cutters with his tongue in his cheek, and slung the rifle he carried over his right shoulder en bandoulière, muzzle downward.
“The Tavarish is in a temper,” he said with a jerk of his thumb toward the officer. “We arrested that Swedish girl in the uniform of the woman’s battalion. One shoots that breed on sight, you know. But we were in such a hurry to finish with the Romanoffs–” He shrugged: “You see, comrades, we should have taken her into the crypt and shot her along with the Romanoffs. That’s how one loses these birds–they’re off if you turn your back to light a cigarette in the wind.”
One of the wood-cutters said: “Among Kaledines’ horsemen were two women. One was crop-headed like a boy, and half naked.”
“A White Nun?”
“God knows. She had some white rags hanging to her body, and dark hair clipped like a boy’s.”
“That–was–she!” said the soldier with slow conviction. He turned and looked down the long perspective of the forest road. Only a raven stalked there all alone over the fallen leaves.
“Certainly,” he said, “that was our White Nun. The Cossacks took her with them. They must have ridden fast, the horsemen of Kaledines.”
“Like a swift storm. Like the souls of the damned,” replied a peasant.
The soldier shrugged: “If there’s still a Romanoff loose in the world, God save the world!.. And that big heifer of a Swedish wench!–she was a bad one, I tell you!–Took six of us to catch her and ten to hold her by her ten fingers and toes! Hey! God bless me, but she stands six feet and is made of steel cased in silk–all white, smooth and iron-hard–the blond young snow-tiger that she is!–the yellow-haired, six-foot, slippery beastess! God bless me–God bless me!” he muttered, staring down the wood-road to its vanishing point against the grey horizon.
