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Chapter Thirty-Two


Pyotr Krasnov, Ataman of the Don Cossacks

Pyotr Krasnov, Ataman of the Don Cossacks



South of Tsaritsyn, South Russia

December 1918

The red brick walls and brass domes of the Cathedral of Alexander Nevsky dominated the hillside upon which sat the city of Tsaritsyn. To the North and East of the city, the blue-black waters of the Volga River flowed from here all the way onward to the horizon and Siberia beyond. The view would’ve been idyllic were it not for the battle raging about the city.

Amidst the buildings on the southern edge of the city, sparkles of muzzle flashes from rifles and machine guns, and the crack of their rounds zipping through the air, underscored the earth-shaking blasts and gray-orange plumes of artillery pieces firing southward.

To the south, yellowed grasslands and trampled crop fields stretched miles to terminate in forested hills. Krasnov’s Don Cossack host was arrayed upon those fields. Thousands of men, now dismounted, advanced under murderous machine gun fire and lethally accurate artillery bombardment. The Reds had 105mm and 152mm pieces in the city. With fields of fire miles long, they were able to shell the attackers along their entire axis of advance.

Krasnov gritted his teeth. The Cossacks were still advancing despite the winnowing of their ranks. It was a bloody, slogging advance, but Krasnov could feel the defense of the city cracking. His own artillery was emplaced now—and they opened fire with a thunderous counterbattery barrage, giving the advancing Cossacks a modicum of relief from the voluminous enemy shelling.

The repetitiveness of the campaign for Tsaritsyn had worn on Krasnov and his men over the course of the summer and fall. In the open steppes approaching the city, his commanders had maneuvered deftly, enveloping Red formation after formation in the open field, securing railway station after railway station. Thousands of prisoners and tons of war materiel fell into Krasnov’s hands.

Many had lamented the death of cavalry as a useful arm, but this campaign had proven them still very much relevant—under the right conditions.

Denikin’s objection had proven warranted, though—while the cavalry still had its place, the taking and holding of cities was work for infantry and artillery. The river and terrain meant that his cavalry could not envelop or surround Tsaritsyn, at least not before it was reinforced by the Reds, and charging headlong into well-prepared artillery and machine guns astride a horse was indeed lunacy, especially in narrow city streets that created fatal funnels. Thus, they had reached the outskirts of the city once before and been driven back, only to surge forward again, today.

His Cossacks had long since learned the basics of dismounted skirmishing and assault in the course of the Great War. The idea being to move rapidly, utilize cover, and alternate between sprinting and crawling forward to make oneself a harder target. The issue was that they had done so in platoons and troops to eliminate machine gun nests and enemy strong points. The Don Cossacks had never conducted a dismounted attack as a massed, divisional-sized formation. Thus, they advanced across the plain in an uncoordinated lurch. When combined with the stark lack of cover and concealment leading up to Tsaritsyn, there was no way to take the city that wouldn’t inflict a brutal butcher’s bill.

This time, though, this time they had enough men, enough shells: this time they would break through.

The drumbeat of hooves pummeling the earth became audible even over the artillery duel playing out before him. Krasnov turned south. A man in the uniform of the Volunteer Army galloped toward his command post upon a great, gray horse.

“General Krasnov, General Krasnov!” the man shouted as he reigned in his horse a mere five feet from where Krasnov and his staff observed the battle. “I must speak to General Krasnov!”

Krasnov stepped forward and put a soothing hand on the horse’s neck, calming the beast which was still tramping its feet after ending such a headlong sprint.

“You’ve found him, man. What message have you from General Denikin?”

“General, I am two hours ahead of a Soviet rifle division,” he said, breathing hard and pointing southwest. “They’ve overcome your pickets and will threaten your rear shortly.”

“No,” Krasnov snarled, looking at the cracking defenses of Tsaritsyn, at the field full of Cossack bodies before him, then back south in the direction the messenger pointed. “No!”

“General, you must withdraw your forces, or else they’ll be caught and butchered on this plain.”

Yard by bloody yard his men advanced—but not fast enough. The defenders were losing their nerve—but not fast enough. Even if his assault reached the city, it was an impossibility that he could have his men reorganized and ready to defend it in two hours.

Pride and vanity flared in Krasnov’s soul, demanding he make a valiant gesture, charge forward and lead his men to a seemingly impossible victory. But Krasnov’s pride and vanity, though each great in their own right, were no match for his ambition and will to self-preservation.

“Sound the general retreat!” he shouted at his deputy commander, then grabbed one of his aides. “Run to the artillery, tell them to intensify their rate of fire to cover our withdrawal, melt the barrels if they have to.”

Having made his decision, Krasnov wasted no time in issuing sensible orders, and by his cleverness and the skill of his Cossacks, the Host survived the day, retreating south and east into the Don River Basin, to fight another day.

Toward evening, having successfully broken contact with the Soviets, Krasnov boarded his personal train car to make the remainder of the trip to Novocherkassk. He did not sleep; his mind would not let him as it churned through every possible stratagem to shift the blame for this failure onto anyone but himself and maintain his role as Ataman.


Novocherkassk, South Russia

Though Russia’s suffering seemed only beginning, the Great War was over. Word of the armistice had finally reached Southern Russia. Krasnov couldn’t know, of course, but he assumed the Allies had carried word to the White forces in Siberia as well. Germany had lost. Worse—the Allies, no doubt informed by that sycophant Denikin, knew he’d courted the Germans before their defeat, invited them to greater influence inside Russia’s borders.

When he’d reached out to the English to try and set up an independent line of supply for the Don Host, they’d told him bluntly to route any and all requests through General Denikin’s headquarters.

In a final indignity, the second Krug of the Don Cossacks, now with the majority of the population free of Communist dominion and able to vote, had just this morning ousted him in favor of Bogayesky.

Where another man, having fallen so far, might look longingly at a round chambered in his revolver, Krasnov inhaled deeply and began packing his things.

Pyotr Krasnov had risen from nothing before. He would do it again. As always, on his own terms.


Denikin and Wrangel stood next to Denikin’s personal train car, discussing the events of the Krug and other matters at play in the world. Obolensky stood at Wrangel’s side, Romanovsky at Denikin’s.

“Bogayesky seems eager to cooperate with us,” Wrangel said. “It will be a great boon to have the Don Host at our disposal.”

“It will, indeed,” Denikin agreed. “What’s more—we’ve received an advanced party from the Americans. If they are to be believed, they will be reinforcing us with a full division of veteran infantry and a brigade of their tanks. The floodgates have also opened for food, money, arms and ammunition. We’ll have doubled our artillery strength by March.”

Wrangel smiled at the news.

“It seems Grand Duchess Anastasia has done yeoman’s work as a diplomat,” Wrangel said, allowing his tone a bit of wryness.

Denikin inhaled sharply, a sour look crossing his face as he exhaled, but he nodded. “She has, indeed. And the troops and our people have responded to Tatiana’s propaganda much as you predicted they would.”

Wrangel chose not to say anything, letting the silence draw out and Denikin’s contemplation to breathe.

“You were right, Pyotr Nikolayevich. I will write a letter to Her Majesty and inform her that the Armed Forces of South Russia stand ready for her,” Denikin said. “And that we will make every effort to link up with those forces already directly at her disposal so we may unite our efforts to free Russia of the Bolsheviks and restore her to her rightful throne.”

Romanovsky coughed.

“Your Excellency, it’s true the socialists and democrats are not as hostile to Tatiana as they were to Nicholas,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean an open proclamation of monarchy won’t divide us.”

“As you’ve said, not voicing a position is a liability to us as well,” Denikin said.

“And Tatiana’s proposal would create the most democratic government Russia has ever seen,” Wrangel added. “Far more democratic than the Bolsheviks, for example.”

As they spoke of the consequences of recognizing Empress Tatiana as the rightful sovereign, Wrangel spotted a familiar figure walking under the weight of a heavy pack, bags in each hand. Denikin stopped speaking, turning to follow Wrangel’s gaze.

“General Krasnov,” Wrangel said. “Where the hell is he going?”

“General Krasnov!” Denikin shouted, waving at the man. Krasnov dropped his bags near another track, then marched over to join them.

“Good afternoon, Your Excellency,” Krasnov said, then nodded at the rest of the group. “Gentlemen.”

“Why are you packed, General, and where would you be going?” Denikin asked.

Krasnov smiled and gave an ironic little laugh.

“Well, as you may have heard, Your Excellency, I no longer have a position here,” Krasnov said. “It appears I must seek my destiny elsewhere.”

“Krasnov, there is still a war on, and you are a talented officer and administrator. Stay, we have need of you.”

“Stay and serve you?” Krasnov said. “As always, Anton Ivanovich, you are too kind. But no.”

“You would choose exile over service just to salve your wounded pride?” Wrangel said, unable to hide the sneer in his voice.

Krasnov turned to Wrangel, his ironic smirk still in place.

“I know His Excellency does not read English,” Krasnov said, nodding at Denikin. “But I think you do, correct, General Wrangel?”

“I have some facility with that language,” Wrangel said, stiffly.

“Have you ever read a Scottish poet named Milton?” Krasnov asked.

“No, I haven’t.”

“If you can find a copy, I recommend his Paradise Lost. Fascinating read. Good day, gentlemen.”

Krasnov turned on his heel and left without another word.

“I have no idea what he was talking about,” Denikin said, his eyes on Krasnov’s retreating back. Wrangel nodded his agreement.

“I think I might,” Obolensky said, the three generals turned their eyes on the young major, who seemed unfazed by their scrutiny. “We read Paradise Lost at Oxford when my parents sent me to study there. I believe General Krasnov is referencing Lucifer’s words when he was cast down by God for his rebellion, ‘Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.’”

Wrangel shook his head. A man of no small ego himself, it disturbed him to his core to see someone as capable as Krasnov so twisted with his own ambition that he served nothing but himself.

“Well, if Krasnov wants dominion in hell, let him have it,” Denikin said, his tone philosophical. “For our part, let’s get back to work and make sure he has to go somewhere other than Russia to find it.”



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