Sweet Love, Survive (2 page)

“War’s like that, Sinko. Take it while you can. Who knows if you’ll live to see morning.”

Sinko glanced at the man riding next to him, expecting to see the familiar teasing smile. The well-favored face was dead serious.

    Even now, regardless of their recent successful raid, everyone in the cavalry troop knew the White armies were fighting a losing battle. Every week, every day and hour, the Red armies were becoming better organized and better equipped. They outnumbered the Whites by almost two to one, had vast reserves to cover their casualties, and had supplies vastly in excess of those of their adversaries.
⁴
It was only a matter of time until the Whites were defeated, unless new Allied aid arrived—and since the French had evacuated Odessa and the Hampshires had sailed from Vladivostok for home in September, the promised support didn’t appear very likely.

Among the Whites, Alexeiev was dead. Kornilov was dead. Kaledin had committed suicide. Kolchak had been shot. Everyone gone after two years of war except Denikin and Wrangel. The end was near. But no one ever admitted the fact aloud. It was understood they were all committed to fight to the very last.

Every officer in the group on that chill December night had his own reasons for fighting, for staying when every practical consideration screamed its dissent. The reasons were as many and varied as the men riding together in this cavalry troop, the scions of aristocratic, leisured families who had ruled Russia unchallenged for a thousand years. Although the troop was highly irregular on the surface—a cross section of mountain
tribes: Circassian, Kabardin, Ingushian, Chechen, Dagestan, and Tartar—each man had been trained in one of the empire’s elite Guard regiments, and all were superb horsemen, crack shots, skilled tacticians—and, by repute, the most wanted group of men in Russia. Each officer carried a price on his head guaranteeing its recipient a comfortable retirement. The Central Executive Committee in Moscow, as well as the General Staff of the Red Army, would breathe a collective sigh of relief if this renegade remnant of the dreaded Savage Division were ever captured.

Skirting the darkened west wing of the manor house, the men rode around to the stables and wearily dismounted. They had been in the saddle almost continuously for days, in bitter cold, moving through war-torn country where there was very little food or shelter. Back in safe territory now, the troop had been granted four days of rest before resuming the campaign. The
koulak’s
raid had been a very satisfying maneuver—well conceived, well executed, successful. A cavalry corps against an entire field army, and … a glowing success. They were all in a mood to celebrate, despite their fatigue.

Leaving the horses in the grooms’ care, the men strolled around to the main house, now laughing and joking, their guard down, the nervous tension so much in evidence during the last weeks had instantly dissipated once their feet had felt firm ground again, and gratifying thoughts of warm food and drink replaced the ruthless, bloody images of war.

“Welcome! Welcome home, Your Honor,” the old retainer, opening the door, happily greeted his master.

“Thank you, Pavel. It’s good to be back.” Colonel Peotr Radachek smiled, pulling off his stained leather gloves. “Some champagne and vodka, eh, Pavel?” he remarked, shrugging out of his heavy fur coat. “We’ve some celebrating to do!” Tossing aside his papakha, he sauntered down the darkened hallway, flicking lightly with his ever-present
nagaiki
at the caked-on mud gracing his boots, followed by the affectionate, voluble Pavel and a dusty, dirty group of suddenly loquacious cavalrymen.

Minutes later they were sprawled around the table in the
hastily opened dining room. An enormous crystal chandelier dispelled the room’s midnight gloom and cast a brilliant glitter over a lengthy mahogany table, which was covered immediately by busy servants with a clutter of wine bottles, vodka decanters, zakuski, caviar, glasses, and cigar and cigarette boxes. A meal was being prepared belowstairs, the mistress of the house had been informed of their arrival, and the officers were counteracting the chill and rigors of the journey with generous draughts of Khahetian champagne and local vodka. Most of the men had cast off their tunics and now lounged in shirt-sleeves. Boisterous, joyful masculine voices rang out in toasts: to their cavalry division, to the White Army, to General Mamontov, to General Wrangel, to the success of their raid. They stood each time, as was the custom; tall, young, trim, their muscles honed to steel by years of warfare, their faces bronzed by the wind and sun of long months in the saddle. They stood proud and triumphant as they threw back their heads and tossed off the vodka for each toast in a single gulp. Servants quickly refilled the glasses; as soon as one toast was completed another raucous slur on the enemy would follow, or a pledge to honor and to country would be celebrated. In very short order, each member of the troop had jubilantly saluted his companions and the brilliant triumph over the formidable Budenny. After the fifth or sixth round, a great deal of grandiloquence and merriment accompanied the speeches.

    A scant half hour later, Countess Radachek appeared in the doorway.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Kitty Radachek was the kind of woman whose breathtaking beauty could silence a room—and very briefly it did.

The countess blushed.

The men jumped up.

Rosy-cheeked, she smiled diffidently. “Please, make yourselves at home. Supper will be served soon.”

The amenities observed, the men all resumed their comfortable sprawls, the buzz of conversation began again, and
the young pretty countess quietly greeted each man as she walked the length of the room to welcome her husband home. Having dressed hurriedly when the servants woke her, she wore a simple but elegant, unornamented lilac-colored frock by Vorobiev and no jewelry. Her honey-gilt hair, catching the sparkle and glimmer of the chandelier, was undressed, simply pulled back with an embroidered ribbon to fall in silken waves down her back, giving her the appearance of a dainty schoolgirl.

“What a nice surprise. Welcome home, Peotr.” She smiled shyly at her husband. “Everyone’s so cheerful, you must have been victorious.”

“We ran Budenny’s First Cavalry Army back to Kamishin.” Peotr grinned, casually draping his arm around Kitty’s small shoulder and at the same time raising his glass to his companions.

They were an incongruous pair standing at the head of the table, for Count Radachek was as tall and swarthily dark as his wife was diminutive and fair. Leaning her head against her husband’s great bearlike chest, the countess half closed her sea-green eyes and murmured, “I’m happy you’re safe.”

Peotr had turned to respond to some bantering remark concerning the merits of horses and women and failed to hear his wife. Patting her shoulder carelessly, he turned back to her briefly to suggest, “Sit down, Kitty. Have some champagne with us,” and then his voice rose in jesting comment, shouting across the table in reply to some vulgar inquiry.

Kitty sat down with a soft whisper of lavender wool and was gallantly handed a glass of champagne by a smiling lieutenant who bowed, clicking his heels together very smartly. Unfortunately, he was not exactly sober; having accomplished the adroit maneuver, he fell facedown on the table.

“Hey, hey, Sandy,” someone yelled. “Damn good form. Didn’t spill a drop.” And indeed he hadn’t; infinitely polite, the lieutenant had landed eight inches to the south of Kitty’s glass. Efficient servants restored him to his chair and the countess quietly sipped from her glass while joking repartee,
noisy songs, and shouts of laughter passed back and forth, and as high spirits riotously escalated.

“To Apollo!” someone shouted. “And to his devilish cool hand with dynamite!”

“Hear, hear!” The chorus stood and refilled glasses were tossed down once again.

“There was a little bet concerning the possibility of infiltrating the arsenal at Balashov,” Peotr explained to Kitty. “Apollo took up the challenge and somehow managed to get in. That munitions dump rose sky high. It lit up the heavens clear to Kabul. Apollo won himself a roan stallion—which he doesn’t need, since he’s enamored of that Karabagh mare he rides. We were all watching from the bluffs south of town, and when Apollo came racing out of that depot area riding hell-bent for leather, we knew the fireworks were about to—”

“Hey, Apollo!” Peotr’s narrative was interrupted by a booming voice. “Where’d you learn the technique? Some bloody anarchists in your family tree we don’t know about?”

A lazy drawl replied, “It helps, Azof, to have owned a munitions factory or two.” Apollo was now elegantly disheveled and more than a trifle drunk. His clear, golden eyes glittered brilliantly. “Learned the finer points of blowing up the world at my papa’s knee,” he added with a flash of a grin, his fine white teeth shining against his deeply bronzed skin. There was something demonic in his expression—the smile with the mouth alone, perhaps. The captain had the look of a great tawny mountain cat, sleek, powerful, lean. His eyes were cat eyes, sparkling and yellow, their corners lifted high in a bold, sensual slant beneath heavy brows many shades darker than his blond, sun-streaked hair, which was long and carelessly brushed back like some rough lion’s mane. He had the reputation of having the best hands in the world—an instinct he had been born with, and one which allowed him to deal gracefully and flawlessly with horses, cards, firearms, explosives, and … women.

“He’s so wild tonight,” a sandy-haired corporal said
sottovoce
to his table companion.

“As usual” was the dry retort. They both watched as Apollo carefully emptied a sizable portion of a bottle of vodka into his glass. Unaware of the scrutiny, and satisfied his task was accomplished when the clear liquid rinsed the rim, Apollo leaned back in his chair, one long-fingered hand curled around the perfectly filled glass. Abruptly, as an afterthought, he lifted the bottle to his mouth and drained the few remaining inches. Waving a servant aside, he very carefully placed the empty bottle at the end of a neat row arranged before him.

“Holds his liquor like a Siberian peasant,” the corporal said with a certain awe.

“A pity at times,” declared his more worldly companion. “Might save himself a lot of trouble if he’d pass out occasionally. Remember the time when, after two solid days of drinking, he set out for Moscow to assassinate Lenin? Got there, too. Amazing. Only Lenin was in Petrograd at the time, and Apollo was beginning to sober up by then so he came home. He said it was hair-raising, coming back through enemy territory stone-cold sober.”

Apollo was known to favor a mode of life wilder than most, and this predilection for dangerous play and drunken adventuring often required a nimble use of his wits, an instinct to survive, and occasional assistance from his two personal bodyguards, Karaim and Sahin.

Like noiseless shadows, these two mountain men guarded the Young Falcon—or As-saqr As-saghir, as Apollo was familiarly known in their mountain aul—at the request of Alex, Apollo’s father, and of Iskender-Khan, their leader and Apollo’s great-grandfather. In the course of battle one took one’s chances, but at least in the extraneous turmoil of civil war Apollo would be relatively safe from other forms of treachery—Karaim and Sahin would give their lives to protect their ward.

Now they sat impassively watching their handsome charge, who for some time had seemed detached from the raucous hum of conversation buffeting to and fro across the table. Suddenly his animal eyes came to life and a white blaze of vitality lit the golden depths.

Rising from his slouching sprawl in a deceptively fluid motion for one so inebriated, Captain Prince Apollo Kuzan lifted his glass to the table at large and, a malicious glitter now evident in the pale eyes, indolently saluted, “To the Bolskis.”

A stunned silence greeted his toast.

One dark brow rose sardonically at the sudden hush. “May they all be blown to kingdom come,” he softly finished with a slow grin. Apollo’s yellow eyes were suddenly bland, his expression one of celestial affability. Raising the brimming glass to his lips without spilling a drop, he proceeded to pour the vodka down his throat.

“To kingdom come!” twenty rollicking voices shouted in unison and twenty throats were washed with fiery alcohol.

And so the celebration went its clamorous way in a surge of masculine bonhomie.

    Forty minutes later, the countess excused herself to check on the preparations in the kitchen. The door had scarcely closed on her back when the count inquired of the table in general, “What say to a couple of days at Zadia’s little nest in Niiji? Ilya says she’s brought in six new girls from Georgia.” He looked around questioningly.

A drunken roar of approval greeted his suggestion.

“After we eat, then—off to Niiji,” Kitty’s husband declared emphatically.

“I’ll drink to that,” decreed a slurred, sibilant Petersburg accent, perfectly on cue. “A woman, a meal, and a streak of luck—what else does a soldier need?” And all glasses were emptied again in roguish agreement, anticipation of Zadia’s special brand of comfort running high.

After dinner, when port and cigars had been passed around, Peotr blandly announced to his wife, “We’ve a scouting mission beginning in the morning. Have my orderly pack some clean clothes for me. We’re off within the hour.”

“Oh, Peotr, I thought you were staying for a few days.” Kitty’s disappointment was obvious.

The count’s shoulders lifted in a Gallic shrug as he gazed at his pretty little wife, deciding absently she was not a pleasure
he would ever appreciate. “Sorry, pet, we’re expected at Wrangel’s headquarters in the morning.” The lie came easily. Zadia was one of Peotr’s favorite paramours. “I’ll be back in two or three weeks if all goes well. You’ll take care of things for me while I’m gone?” He bent to brush his wife’s cheek with a kiss. A detached, obligatory kiss.

Kitty lowered her heavy lashes. “Of course, Peotr; you know I will,” she answered dutifully, but her heart lost its warmth. What did she expect, anyway? she asked herself with sad frustration. Why had she thought it would be any different this time? She knew full well why Peotr had married her. Rationally, she understood the arrangement. She always had. A marriage of convenience, contracted by their parents years ago. The estates were adjacent; it was a profitable marriage for both parties—but Kitty, innocently shunning logic, had hoped and dreamed her dark, handsome husband with those beautiful gypsy eyes would come to love her. It hadn’t worked out that way. After three years of marriage she should have known better, should have learned the futility of romantic yearnings, been immune to disappointment.