The Crimson Tide: A Novel

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.