Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “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.

  Then he hitched his slung rifle to a more comfortable position, turned, gazed at the convent across the fields, which his distant comrades were now approaching.

  “A German nest,” he said aloud to himself, “full of their damned Deaconesses! Hey! I’ll be going along to see what’s to be done with them, also!”

  He nodded to the wood-cutters:

  “Vermin-killing time,” he remarked cheerily. “After the dirty work is done, peace, land enough for everybody, ease and plenty and a full glass always at one’s elbows — eh, comrades?”