Red Days, White Nights
by Valeriya Salt
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
Endless Siberian roads in spring. Under the weight of the heavy carriage, the horses were sinking knee-deep into clinging mud and chest-deep, crossing swollen, fast streams. Snow, sleet, storm: during their three-day travel to Tyumen, they had been experiencing it all.
Nicholas, frozen to the bone, exhausted and bruised from constant jolting, struggled to get at least some sleep. He just fell into the heavy darkness of nightmares from time to time. His quiet companion looked like he didn’t require any sleep at all. Silent and determined, Commissar Yakovlev always sat straight, his eyes stared somewhere into space. Even when he closed them, Nicholas could feel he was watching him through the thick veil of his dark eyelashes.
On the way to their destination — the one and only train station in the whole region — they decided to stop at a guesthouse in the tiny village of Pokrovskoye. The carriage was crawling through the narrow streets to the only place which gave a temporary shelter to exhausted visitors and their horses.
Nicholas caught himself thinking somewhere here should’ve been Rasputin’s house. ‘My death will be your death,’ the blood-stopping words of “the saint” whispered in his ears. A chill ran down his spine. He shot a nervous look outside.
‘Nicholas Alexandrovich, are you alright? You’ve gone so pale.’ Yakovlev frowned.
Nicholas made a deep breath and looked out of the window again.
Yakovlev followed his gaze. ‘Hey, Evsey!’ He waved to the Cossack, recognising the familiar tall figure, catching up with them.
Evsey held his horse, coming closer to the carriage. ‘Tsar-batyushka, glad to see you alive and in good health.’ His bearded face lit with a sincere smile.
‘God is merciful,’ Nicholas replied under his breath. ‘I’m glad to see you again, my friend.’
‘Any news?’ Yakovlev started when Evsey joined them in the carriage, and they proceeded to the guesthouse.
‘“The tsar” is ill. Half of his body is paralyzed, and he can’t speak,’ Evsey replied. ‘Local doctors struggle to find the cause of it. Maybe it was a stroke, maybe something else.’ He smirked. ‘Rumours are spreading out all over the town that the tsar has been poisoned.’
Yakovlev arched his narrow eyebrows. ‘And the main suspect is...?’
‘The new commissar from Moscow.’ Evsey nodded, confirming his guess. ‘He left Tobolsk suspiciously quickly straight after the tsar had fallen ill.’
Yakovlev clapped his hands. ‘The comrades from Moscow will blame the local Ural government for their misfortunes now. The Siberian Reds will turn on Moscow.’
‘What about my family? Her Majesty?’ Nicholas interrupted.
‘As expected.’ Evsey bowed his head low. ‘The tsarina and the Grand Duchesses are absolutely devastated by your “illness”.’
‘My plan is working,’ Yakovlev whispered, excitement in his voice.
‘The authorities in Tobolsk are just a couple of steps away from demanding Moscow exile the family abroad. I’m sure as soon as...’ Evsey stammered. ‘Your Majesty’s “twin” dies, they won’t hesitate anymore, even if the comrades in Moscow don’t approve this decision.’
Nicholas covered his face with his hands and didn’t reply.
The carriage made its last turn to another narrow street and stopped at the doorstep of a one-storey guesthouse with a low roof and tiny windows.
‘One more thing before we’ll leave.’ Evsey jumped out and waved to his men to bring him his horse. ‘I’ve made the locals believe that Commissar Yakovlev travelled to Yekaterinburg for some urgent business.’
Yakovlev nodded. ‘It’ll buy us some time.’
‘Are you not coming with us?’ Nicholas asked, coming out of the carriage as well.
‘Unfortunately, Your Majesty, I need to leave you here.’ Evsey bowed. ‘My mission is completed. I’ll pray for you and the family.’
‘Pray for all of us, Evsey. Pray for Mother-Russia.’ Nicholas’s eyes filled with tears. He opened his arms and gave the Cossack a tight hug.
* * *
After another few exhausting days of their journey, the two travellers arrived at the port of Sevastopol.
Crimean twilight, dark, warm, and full of the smell of blooming fruit trees, brought Nicholas back to the time he had spent in his favourite Livadia where the family used to come every summer. The kids played on the beach. He and Alexandra took a long stroll along endless, cool alleys of the park. Hidden deeply between the mountains on the south edge of the peninsula, this peace of paradise submerged in his tired mind now, and he smiled to himself.
‘Any particular reason for joy, Nicholas Alexandrovich?’ Yakovlev noticed his smile.
‘Crimea.’ Nicholas squinted. ‘It seems like time has stopped here. It feels like it’s always summer, like the Bolshevik’s heavy red boots haven’t stepped on its soul.’
‘Not yet. The whole peninsula is still under strong royalists’ influence. They don’t believe that a bunch of workmen and peasants could build them a brighter and better future.’ Yakovlev chuckled mockingly. ‘That’s why I’ve brought you here, but your journey hasn’t finished yet. It’s just about to start,’ he added.
‘My journey?’ Nicholas frowned. ‘Are you staying here?’
‘Maybe here, maybe somewhere else. My mission isn’t finished.’ Yakovlev’s lips stretched in a half-smile. ‘The Celtic King is waiting for her Chief Engineer.’ He made a gesture to the dark mass of the vessel, towering in front of them, moored at a jetty. ‘All the documents, confirming your new identity are waiting for you there.’
‘I won’t ask about your whereabouts.’ Nicholas nodded. ‘It would be safer for both of us. I still don’t know your real name. I still don’t understand whether you’re an angel or a demon, but thank you for your attempt to help me.’
‘Maybe I’m an angel, maybe I’m a demon.’ The man squinted. ‘Maybe I’m just your conscience and common sense which have finally prevailed. Whoever I am, I wish you to finish what we’ve started and... Good luck, Nicholas Alexandrovich.’ He bowed slightly.
Nicholas wanted to reply, but the ear-bursting whistle of the ship made him turn around. When he turned back to Yakovlev to say the last goodbye, he faced just the empty jetty and the warmth of southern twilight. Vasily Yakovlev had vanished without a trace.
* * *
Nicholas wasn’t left alone for long, though.
‘Your Majesty, I can’t express how happy I am, seeing you alive and in good health.’ A blond gentleman in his late twenties, dressed in a navy-blue suit, greeted him in English. ‘Lord Kyle McMurrae and the crew of The Celtic King are at your service.’ He made a wide gesture to his companions: a tall, grey-haired captain and a couple of officers.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ Nicholas replied in English.
‘I hope your trip to Crimea was as safe as possible in the current situation, and my Russian aide, Mr. Yakovlev, has explained to you that I and my people will do everything to protect Your Majesty—’
‘I think I have more questions than answers, and there are still far more to explain.’
‘Of course,’ Lord Kyle bowed his blond head low. ‘Please, follow me. We’re departing immediately.’
Nicholas had nothing to do but to follow the lord and his crew.
‘So you’re ready to put your vessel, safety of her crew, and your reputation in jeopardy?’ Nicholas turned to Lord Kyle when they were left alone in the captain’s cabin. ‘Here should be something more than just a wish to serve your king and the empire.’
Lord Kyle circled the room, then came to the dark wooden cupboard and, opening its door, nodded to a bottle and a couple of glasses. ‘May I offer you the finest Scottish whiskey from my distillery?’ he asked, his voice with a slight Scottish accent sounded warmly.
‘Ah, Scottish.’ Nicholas smirked. ‘Then loyalty to my cousin George, the English king, is definitely not a case. What is it then?’
‘I’ll start from afar.’ Lord Kyle smiled politely, pouring the brownish liquid into Nicholas’s glass. ‘I hope my story will give you some understanding of my interests behind my willingness to participate in this complicated and dangerous mission.’
‘Well, I assume we all should have some serious interest here to be able to risk our reputation and, God knows, maybe even our lives.’
‘I am the one and the only heir of the once prosperous clan McMurrae,’ the young lord started, pride in his voice. ‘My father participated in the Crimean War and was decorated with many medals but, after the war, when the country suffered dramatic losses and financial instability, when the wounds gained on battlefields started to remind him of his age and weakened health, my father decided to switch to more peaceful and profitable lifestyle — wool manufacturing.
‘The finest, warmest, lightest wool from the Scottish Highlands became so popular that not only English but also Russian merchants were interested in business with my father. In fact, the business progressed so well that I started to help him as soon as I celebrated my fifteenth birthday.
‘He took me with him to Russia onboard The Celtic King at the age of seventeen. My curiosity and entrepreneurial spirit made me learn Russian. Now, when Russia — my biggest buyer — is in chaos, when Bolshevism is spreading out all over Europe—’
‘Ah, of course.’ Nicholas nodded. ‘Money and fear of Bolshevism.’
‘We...’ — Lord Kyle stammered — ‘you, my Lord, and our king are able to stop this red plague. The villages and towns in Scotland, all these “little Moscows” as they call themselves. They’re rioting against their employers, arguing, vandalizing property, sabotaging machinery, disobeying the orders of their superiors.’ Lord Kyle clenched his pale fists.
‘Your interest here is more or less clear, but...’ Nicholas stammered for a second. ‘This poor man, my doppelganger. What about him? What about Mr. Yakovlev and his people? My family, after all?’
‘Chief Engineer McCormack.’ Lord Kyle exhaled, drinking the rest of his whiskey in one gulp. ‘One of my best engineers and the only one who speaks Russian. I remember my father employed him when I was a kid. A couple of months ago, he had a head injury in the engine room. Doctors couldn’t find a cure. First, he started to forget things, then he had speech difficulties and, finally, became completely mute. His physical and mental health deteriorated rapidly.’
Lord Kyle stopped for a moment. ‘I always found it funny... his similarity to you, especially when he started to trim his beard shorter. The crew has given him a friendly nickname: the Tsar-Chief.’ He smiled warmly, more to himself. ‘I’ve agreed to pay his widow a lifetime pension, provide the best marine education for his son, and find a decent match for his daughter.’
‘And after that, you’ve pitched this idea to the king, haven’t you?’
‘Your Majesty is not far from the truth here.’ Lord Kyle nodded. ‘My king was well aware of the devastating effect of the revolution and was ready to help. I’ve used my connections to introduce my plan to the king. British intelligence has helped me connect to people like Mr. Yakovlev. Driven by money, revenge, faith, or ideas, these people agreed to assist me. The only obstacle for this mission was the real commissar from Moscow, who was on his way to Tobolsk. However, my Russian colleagues have done a clean job—’
‘What about my family?’ Nicholas demanded.
‘The king is going through negotiations with regards to the matter. Most likely, Her Majesty and the children will need to leave Russia and travel to France, from there they will join you in England.’
‘I heard it from Mr. Yakovlev many times.’ Nicholas frowned. ‘So you’re bringing me to London to my dearest cousin. What’s next?’
‘Oh no, Your Majesty. I can’t bring you to London.’ Lord Kyle shook his head. ‘I hope you understand how many problems it might create. The capital is swarming with Bolshevik agents, communists of all kinds and their sympathizers. We’re going to a much safer place.’ His pale face lit with a polite smile again. ‘I’m pleased to invite you to my family home in the Highlands. I’m sure Your Majesty will enjoy Scottish hospitality, the best whiskey from my distillery, and breathtaking views.’
‘Until when?’
‘Until my king and his allies will be ready to teach the Bolsheviks a bitter lesson.’
* * *
Copyright © 2021 by Valeriya Salt
