Chapter Twenty-Six
General Baron Pyotr Wrangel,
known to the Reds as the Black Baron
Ekaterinodar, South Russia
To his staff’s surprise, when Denikin received Wrangel’s report and acknowledgement of orders, he not only approved of Wrangel’s impressment of former Bolshevik troops, he ordered the rest of his subordinate commanders to begin screening Bolshevik prisoners, to see who might be useful in swelling their ranks. Wrangel was an aristocratic ass, but unlike other noble-born cavalry commanders Denikin could name, the man didn’t take foolish risks merely to satisfy his substantial vanity. Despite their differences, Denikin wouldn’t refuse a good idea when he saw one.
Really, there was no practical way Denikin could override Wrangel even if he’d wanted to. With the telegraph and telephone wires usually cut and the railways contested, communication with the front was intermittent at best. Reports and orders were most often conveyed by couriers on horseback or motor car. He’d considered making use of his tiny, seven-airplane air force in the role, but they were too valuable and their fuel range too limited to make it a practical option. Trying to manage Wrangel, or any of his subordinate commanders too closely, was a fast way to ensure defeat in the field.
Denikin leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He’d never thought he’d be nostalgic for the early, terrifying days of the civil war. The Bolsheviks had stripped him of decorations and pushed him through a jeering crowd of soldiers brainwashed by Marxist propaganda. After a harrowing prison break and headlong flight to the North Caucasus, he and his fellow senior officers had seized a Bolshevik armored train through guile and daring, then rallied other volunteers, creating, almost as an act of sheer will, the Volunteer Army.
Kornilov had been in overall command then, Alekseev his chief of staff. Though facing overwhelming numerical odds and increasingly desperate logistical shortages and personal hardship, Denikin had been content with his duties. All that had been expected of him was that he led his men well and bravely. Sound tactical judgment, and good character—these things were meat to Denikin.
Now Kornilov was dead from a communist artillery shell. Alekseev’s ailing health had finished him mere weeks ago.
Once, Denikin had led his army—now he merely commanded it. He longed to leave his headquarters in Ekaterinodar and go to the front, to be with his men. Denikin longed to share their danger and use his own judgment to direct the battle. But if he left the reins of state unattended too long, the consequences could be just as dire as any lost battle.
The survival of the fractious coalition of Cossacks, monarchists, and democrats rested on Denikin. He knew there were some anti-Bolshevik forces in Siberia, but if communication was difficult with his own front lines, it was nearly nonexistent with the eastern expanse of his country. News had reached him of the death of the Romanovs, of the Czech Legion’s rebellion against the Reds, as well as American and Japanese troops operating in Siberia, but these, ironically, had come the long way via the Western Allies, and the news was always weeks or months old.
As far as Denikin knew, the Armed Forces of South Russia, which he commanded, were the only native, organized resistance to Bolshevik rule. Not only that, they were the only conduit for the military and economic aid that had finally started to materialize from their allies in Britain, France, and America. He despised his political duties with nearly the same level of vitriol he normally reserved for Germans and Communists, but there was no one else to assume them.
It was late at night, and fatigue was opening the door for melancholy, melancholy Denikin could ill afford to indulge as he made decisions that affected the lives of millions. He stood up, prepared to return to his quarters. His young wife, Xenia, would hopefully have gone to sleep already. She was pregnant with their first child and it hadn’t been an easy carriage so far. Still, crawling into bed with her would impart a modicum of peace until the dawn.
An orderly knocked at his door. It was Corporal Timonov. He was a handsome lad with thick black hair and bright, alert eyes. The boy was shy a hand—taken by a malfunctioning grenade. Timonov had lost his parents to the Reds and thus had been motivated to continue the fight despite the loss. Since he was literate, intelligent and had recovered from his amputation due to a surprisingly resilient constitution, he’d wound up working as first one of Alekseev’s, then Denikin’s, enlisted orderlies.
“Your Excellency, the English colonel, Poole, is here to see you,” Timonov said.
Denikin did not allow himself an audible sigh. Poole was his liaison from the Allied Expeditionary Force in Crimea. If the Englishman wanted to see him this late, it was likely something important. Poole was much more serious and steady than the French officers Denikin had been saddled with earlier in the war.
“Send him in,” Denikin said.
Poole marched in and saluted crisply. Denikin returned the gesture.
“Good evening, General,” Poole said in horribly accented Russian that was, nonetheless, far superior to Denikin’s almost nonexistent English. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you so late, but I’ve just received a spot of news I thought you should know without delay.”
“Not at all, Colonel, I appreciate your devotion to duty at all hours, please have a seat.” Denikin took the seat at the head and gestured to one of the cushioned dining room chairs to his right. Once Poole was seated, Denikin asked: “What news, Colonel?”
“General, it concerns the former Imperial Family.”
Denikin’s back straightened and his fatigue vanished.
“What about them, Colonel?”
“The Tsar and Tsarina are dead, murdered back in March by the Bolsheviks in Tobolsk. The Tsarevich and Grand Duchess Olga died with them. I’m sorry, General, I just received the news today.”
The confirmation settled on Denikin like a leaden mantle. Though politically progressive, Denikin was still a Russian and he’d seen, firsthand, what the magnificence of the Romanov Dynasty had meant to the people even a few short years ago. He’d never met the Imperial Family personally, but he’d seen the Tsar and Tsarina, and the Grand Duchesses at a military parade in Petrograd. They’d been such lovely, vibrant girls, their murder would be a travesty even if they’d possessed not a drop of royal blood.
Travesty, it seemed, might be Russia’s most prolific crop for some time to come.
Whatever the Tsar and Tsarina’s faults, and he could list many, it was ill fortune for Russia.
“You say the Emperor and Empress and Alexei and Olga have been murdered—what about the other girls, they survive?” Denikin asked, leaning forward.
“Yes, Maria we have invited to stay in England, though she hasn’t arrived yet. Anastasia is in America. I know Your Excellency does not read English.” Poole produced a newspaper from within his coat. “But that is the Grand Duchess in their New York City.”
The large picture on the front page showed Anastasia in an immaculate dress, smiling while talking to some old men in suits.
“And Grand Duchess Tatiana?” Denikin asked.
Poole hesitated, then, visibly steeling himself, answered the question.
“She remains in Russia with the rescue force that freed her and her sisters. The Czech Legion and other native White forces have rallied to her and—” Poole paused again before plunging ahead. “She has crowned herself Empress of All Russia.”
Thick, tense silence settled over the room. It lasted for several excruciating seconds while Denikin tried to process the news. Tatiana was how old? A teenager, still, or perhaps twenty? And women were forbidden by law from assuming the throne—an act of spite by Catherine the Great’s son that hadn’t been challenged in the intervening centuries.
Realistically, though, what was legal or not was of little concern—the real question was could she back her claim to the throne with more than words? Denikin stared intently into Poole’s eyes.
“Is your government going to recognize her legitimacy? Will the French and Americans?”
Poole shifted uncomfortably in his seat. In the months they’d worked together, Poole hadn’t been prone to hesitation or equivocation; his discomfort hinted at his answer before he started talking.
“It is possible, General,” Poole said. “Thus far, none of the Allies have recognized her, and the fact that her rescue force was aided by the Germans is a mark against her as far as our governments are concerned. But as you can see, the Romanov girls are garnering public support rapidly, especially at home and in America.”
Denikin scoffed.
“They are teenage girls,” he said, leaning over the table. “The Americans are a young people, but surely Englishmen are not so easily taken in?”
“They are orphaned royalty who survived a terrible ordeal at the hands of vile Communists. They are now fighting bravely for their homeland against those Communists,” Poole said. “While we English may be more staid and steady than our unruly cousins across the pond, even we are not immune to such an effective drama. It is not lost on us, either, that these are the great-granddaughters of Victoria herself, appealing to us for aid.”
Denikin chewed on that—could the Romanovs be the key to increased allied support? How, though? He had always heard that the American isolationists had used Russia’s monarchy as a reason to avoid entering the war despite ludicrous provocation from the Germans—that since it was not truly a struggle to support democracy against authoritarianism, but merely a struggle of old European empires over territory and pride, it was none of their concern.
Were the Americans so fickle that now the Russian monarchy was supposed to be a good thing?
It didn’t matter. The murder of the Tsar and his wife and children was a tragedy, but it did not change the fact that Russia had to move forward into the new century, not backward to the last one. The societal cracks that the Bolsheviks had so adeptly levered to splinter Russia against itself must be sealed, not widened. Denikin kept his opinions to himself to appease the monarchists, but he knew in his soul that the status quo antebellum was dead.
But if the girl was charming the Allies, and if she’d already rallied anti-Communist forces in Siberia—opposing her openly might also weaken the war effort.
“We have several crates of the Em—of Tatiana’s propaganda,” Poole said. “Here, I brought you some.”
Denikin accepted a small pile of leaflets.
“May I have the rest?” he asked.
Poole looked even more uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but no.”
Denikin nodded, and smiled sadly.
“In case your government decides to support Tatiana over my objections.”
“Just so, sir.”
Denikin exhaled mightily and leaned back in his chair.
“Thank you, Colonel Poole, you have given me much to consider. We’ll talk again soon.”
“Thank you for your time, Your Excellency, good night.”
The next morning, Romanovsky read the pamphlets with a concerned frown. Denikin observed his chief of staff’s expression from across the map table. The rest of his staff bustled about their duties, sending and receiving messages from couriers, updating ledgers and maps, and steadfastly ignoring the palpable tension between the two seniormost officers in their army.
“The girl has gone mad,” he muttered.
Denikin laughed sharply.
“If she has, perhaps we could use some of her particular insanity. Her forces have already won some impressive victories—and her sisters are wooing the allies far more effectively than I could on my best day.”
Romanovsky looked up from the pamphlet.
“Your Excellency, you can’t seriously be considering bending the knee to this child?”
When his commander failed to respond rapidly, Romanovsky sputtered.
“She is twenty-one years old, and Nicholas’s daughter—if you cast our lot with hers, the democrats and socialists will desert in droves. We might lose half our army.”
“And if we don’t throw in with her, once it becomes common knowledge that she’s calling herself the Empress, we risk losing the other half—to say nothing of the arms, ammunition, food and money we need from our Allies.”
Romanovsky waved a dismissive hand at the American newspaper Poole had left on the table the night before.
“A passing fancy, as ephemeral as the plot of one of their moving pictures,” Romanovsky said. “Even the Americans are not so naïve as to make policy based on a fairy tale.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Regardless, we stay the same course for now,” Denikin said. “We will express our profound relief that Tatiana and her sisters are alive, our rage at the Communist villains who murdered Nicholas, Alexandra, Alexei and Olga, but we will make no comment on her status as Empress. If pressed, say we are waiting for a chance to confer with her.”
Romanovsky was silent for several seconds; his expression still conveyed irritation but his voice was calm when he spoke again.
“I understand your reasoning, Your Excellency. I hope you understand that our lack of a firm position is also a liability.”
Denikin nodded.
“I do, Ivan Pavlovich, believe me I do. Who would have ever thought we’d long for the blood and marshes of the Great War, if nothing else, but for their simplicity and unity of purpose? I am a soldier, not a politician, but to whom would I give this task but myself?”
A knock at the door drew Denikin’s attention. Timonov stood in the doorway, holding a letter in his hand. The boy was smiling broadly.
“I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, but we’ve just received word from General Wrangel via train—he’s taken Stavropol.”
Denikin smiled.
“Excellent news. Ready my personal train car—I’m going to Stavropol to congratulate General Wrangel personally.”
Stavropol, Southern Russia
The people of Stavropol lined the avenues for miles, throwing flowers at the feet of the parading soldiers. Jubilant shouts echoed off the buildings. Girls and women of all ages darted out to kiss soldiers on the cheeks and put flowers in their lapels. Denikin, marching at the head of the column, smiled at the joyous chaos. His men had certainly fought hard and they had seen precious little of the hero worship they deserved.
Worry still ate at the back of Denikin’s mind. Their offensive had culminated before they were able to fully encircle and destroy the Soviet 11th Army. At least a division had retreated northeast, toward Tsaritsyn. He’d sent couriers to warn Krasnov. While he despised the ambitious, petty tyrant, he still had designs to bring the Don Host fully into the fold someday. He only hoped the couriers could make it through in time.
Pushing these worries aside, for he could do nothing else about them, Denikin continued the parade up to a hastily constructed reviewing platform, upon which stood General Baron Pyotr Nikolayevich Wrangel, resplendent in a tailored, black full-dress uniform and flanked by his brigade commanders and senior staff officers. As Denikin mounted the steps to the stand, it occurred to him how tall and regal Wrangel looked in comparison to his own unassuming stature.
Just as the thought began to blacken his mood, Wrangel saluted Denikin with knife-edge precision and announced in a clear, ringing voice: “Your Excellency, I present to you the liberated city of Stavropol!”
The crowd screamed their approval, the earth itself seemed to shake under their stomping feet and the air wavered amidst their shouting and clapping. Denikin returned Wrangel’s salute and waited a full minute for the adulation to die down enough that he might be heard.
“General Wrangel, in recognition of your outstanding and courageous achievements, I hereby promote you to the rank of Colonel General and name you the commander of the Cavalry Corps,” Denikin shouted.
The crowd roared again, and Wrangel allowed his aristocratic restraint to crack just a sliver, his eyes widening at his sudden promotion. Denikin smiled, gratified that in this, at least, he’d been ahead of the confident cavalryman. Then he took pride of place on the reviewing stand. Wrangel stood a half-step behind and to his right, as was proper, to watch the remainder of the conquering heroes paraded down the streets of free Stavropol.
Denikin’s shouting was audible even outside the front door of the governor’s mansion. As he entered, Wrangel couldn’t make out all the words, but it was evident the Supreme Commander of the South Russian Armed Forces was very displeased with someone. The guards at the large wooden doors saluted crisply and hastened to usher Wrangel in. In the antechamber, an officer with thick blonde hair and a bristly mustache to match emerged from Denikin’s office and stalked toward the door.
Recognition was only a few seconds delayed; Wrangel knew this man.
“Colonel Shkuro.”
The younger man stopped, meeting Wrangel’s eye. Shkuro stiffened to attention.
“General Wrangel, sir, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Colonel. What brings you to the Supreme Commander’s office?” Wrangel kept his tone carefully neutral. Shkuro made a scoffing noise.
“Apparently Denikin doesn’t appreciate the initiative that is expected of us cavalrymen. He took exception to my raids on Amira, Kislovodsk, and of course,” Shkuro waved a hand at the city surrounding them, “Stavropol.”
“General Denikin understands that initiative should always be tempered with discipline and good judgment,” Wrangel said. “Your raids resulted in thousands massacred by the Red Army when we were unable to take and hold the cities that welcomed you.”
“I am to be accountable for what the enemy does when I am not even present, then, General?”
“You are accountable for the reasonably predictable consequences of your decisions, Colonel,” Wrangel said. “And were I you, I would speak with more respect of our Supreme Commander.”
Shkuro’s expression conveyed not an ounce of contrition or regret, but he inclined his head as if acknowledging a good point in a debate.
“Of course, I meant no disrespect to His Excellency. If you will excuse me, General, I must see to my duties.”
Shkuro fled the building.
Wrangel proceeded into Denikin’s office. It was well appointed, with dark brown wood cabinets, a desk to match and red leather chairs—it was a wonder these hadn’t been burnt or stolen by the Bolsheviks in the time they’d controlled the city. Denikin was brewing his own tea, a look of frustration plastered on his blunt, bearded face.
“Your Excellency, General Wrangel reports to the supreme commander, as ordered,” Wrangel announced.
Denikin nodded acknowledgement and appreciation of the formality, then waved Wrangel to a chair.
“Please, Pyotr Nikolayevich, have a seat. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, Your Excellency, thank you.”
Wrangel settled into one of the red chairs. Denikin finished steeping the tea, then poured it into two ceramic cups, each with a saucer. He walked one of these to Wrangel, then settled, not at his desk, but in the chair next to Wrangel’s.
“I passed Colonel Shkuro on the way in,” Wrangel said. “He seemed perturbed . . . and insolent as ever.”
Denikin frowned and sipped his tea before answering.
“I’m aware you aren’t very fond of Shkuro, but he is one of my better cavalry commanders—though clearly not my best.” Denikin raised his teacup in a small salute to Wrangel, who reciprocated the gesture before pressing on.
“Personal fondness or lack thereof has nothing to do with this, Your Excellency. Shkuro is ill-disciplined and nearly as bad an adventure seeker as that fool Krasnov. His gallivanting has already incurred tragedy, why leave him in a position to do more harm?”
“I have spoken to him about his poor judgment.” Denikin’s earlier welcoming tone vanished, replaced by something much frostier. “I believe he still has a contribution to make.”
“With respect, speaking isn’t enough,” Wrangel said, setting his tea down. “Shkuro isn’t the only issue, nor even the worst. My God, Pokrovsky’s men went through a Jewish village raping everything on two legs and in a skirt and killing anyone who objected, we saw the aftermath with our own eyes. This isn’t anti-Bolshevism, it’s Godlessness. You must bring him to heel, we cannot afford for the Russian people to associate the White Army with atrocities.”
“Atrocities like shooting three hundred defenseless prisoners?” Denikin asked.
Wrangel’s mouth snapped shut, rage sending a thrill down his spine. His knuckles went white on the arms of his red leather chair.
“Three hundred and twenty-seven to be precise,” Wrangel replied. “I executed three-hundred and twenty-seven traitors to Mother Russia to salvage a thousand infantrymen, a thousand infantrymen I needed to carry out the orders you gave me, Your Excellency. And if you don’t see that difference between that and forcing some poor farm girl to lie beneath an entire platoon before slitting her throat because she happens to be a Yid, then perhaps this conversation is pointless.”
The two generals glared at one another for several heartbeats before Denikin exhaled heavily.
“Of course there’s a difference,” he said, then he smiled ruefully. “Pyotr Nikolayevich, you are my most valuable subordinate. Do you know why? Where another man, promoted from division to corps command, might feel an impulse to thank his commander, your candor demands you open the conversation by criticizing my command decisions and accusing me of failing to instill discipline in my army. Where else would I find such honesty?”
Wrangel’s fingers relaxed, and he picked up his teacup, taking a sip to cover his chagrin at the back-handed compliment.
“I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, if I have offended,” Wrangel said, his tone carefully neutral. “I maintain that we must address these issues, as harshly as is necessary to quash them.”
Denikin’s expression clouded.
“I am as horrified by the crimes of our men as you are, but can we realistically bring them to heel? The Cossacks have always supplemented their income with plunder, and the Tsars rewarded them for their brutality against Jews and rebels. We cannot snap our fingers and force two centuries of learned behavior to evaporate. Among the volunteers, almost every regiment has lost its strength many times over, we’ve just discussed the kind of mobilization we are forced to conduct just to replenish our ranks. Sadly, many of the men we press into service will not be of the highest moral fiber. Their pay, when we can arrange for it, is anemic. It’s little wonder they turn to looting.”
Wrangel leaned forward in his chair.
“Perhaps we cannot halt all petty thievery, but the rapes, the murders—surely we can do something about that? This is not mere sentimentality on my part, Your Excellency. Every murdered child is a set of parents sympathetic to the Communists, every raped wife is a husband who will happily shoot at us for Lenin, whether he gives a damn about politics or not.”
Denikin took a sip of his tea before setting it down.
“I am placing Pokrovsky’s division along with the remainder of the Kuban Cossacks under your command in the cavalry corps. They will be yours to discipline. I recommend you make examples of the worst—as publicly as possible, for the encouragement of civilized behavior among our troops and to assure the populace that we intend to protect them. But have a care, Pyotr Nikolayevich—we need these units intact and ready to fight in the spring.”
Wrangel pondered this development for a moment—he should’ve known that by bringing the problem to the commander’s attention, he was also volunteering to concoct and implement a solution. Such was an officer’s life.
“Of course, Your Excellency,” Wrangel said.
“If anyone can bring the miscreants in line and keep them battle-ready for our drive on Moscow, it’s you, Pyotr Nikolayevich.” Denikin refilled both their cups before continuing. “There is another matter, some news that is both joyous and potentially dangerous.”
Wrangel’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment as he considered what might constitute joyous and dangerous simultaneously. The answer dawned on him rapidly, and he leaned forward.
“The Imperial family?” he asked. “Is it true? They survived?”
Sorrow pulled at Denikin’s round face as he answered.
“Three of the daughters did; Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia are all alive. Tatiana sent Maria to the United Kingdom where she has been received at the court of King George. Anastasia is in America, apparently being entertained by the Roosevelts, and Tatiana is still in Siberia with a rescue force from the Kexholm Guards and some other troops who have rallied to her banner.”
The news gave Wrangel several seconds’ pause to assimilate. That three of the girls had made it was joyous news, but—
“The Tsar and Tsarina are dead? And Olga and little Alexei?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry, Pyotr Nikolayevich, I know you knew them well.”
Wrangel’s throat constricted. He would shed no tears in public, but his sorrow turned in his chest like a spitted animal. Near the end of the Great War he’d served as Tsar Nicholas’s military aide. The man had been a military incompetent who never should have attempted command of an army at war, but he had been unfailingly kind and decent, and his children had been sheer joy. The way all four sisters formed a shell of love and protection around their sickly little brother had touched his heart.
Olga had been such a lovely, generous girl, not unlike a younger version of Wrangel’s own wife, also named Olga, who even now worked tirelessly as a nurse in an ambulance unit for the Armed Forces of South Russia. That the Bolsheviks had so callously murdered an innocent teenage girl alongside her parents and poor, broken little Alexei . . .
“We must crush them, Anton Ivanovich,” Wrangel said, his voice low and deadly, his aristocratic reserve erased with a snarl of hatred. “We must crush the Communists, wipe all traces of their existence from the Earth so that none ever mutters the name of Lenin or Marx ever again in Russia.”
Denikin leaned back in his chair, visibly taken aback by Wrangel’s uncharacteristic outburst. But then he leaned forward, grasped Wrangel’s hand in a brotherly grip and nodded.
“We will, Pyotr Nikolayevich, we will.”
Wrangel took a deep breath and recomposed himself.
“You said the news was dangerous as well as joyous. How so, Your Excellency?” Wrangel asked.
Denikin stood, and walked around his desk, he opened the top drawer and retrieved a pile of leaflets. These he handed to Wrangel as he returned to his seat.
“Tatiana has declared herself Empress of Russia,” Denikin said. “Her rescuers are backing her claim. It appears the Czechs are cooperating with her and if she has not already made arrangements with the Americans in Siberia, it’s only a matter of time.”
Wrangel’s eyes scanned a leaflet that was an account of the Romanovs’ captivity and attempted murder, and another which outlined Tatiana’s call for a constitutional monarchy, land reform, and the extermination of Bolshevism. He said nothing while his mind processed this development.
“I have never spoken to Tatiana, or any of the Romanovs, I’ve only seen them at parades,” Denikin said. “Tell me, Pyotr Nikolayevich, what are your thoughts on Tatiana Romanova?”
Wrangel ran a finger over his short, tightly trimmed mustache.
“Tatiana, though not the eldest, was always the most serious, the most responsible. The other children called her ‘the Governess,’ for she kept them in line for her parents. She was a bright girl, but never particularly outgoing.”
Denikin gave an ironic tilt of the chin.
“Our reports are mixed, but they indicate she has delivered many fine speeches since her liberation, rallying many to her cause. Our English friends think it likely that the Western Allies will recognize her as the legitimate monarch.”
Wrangel’s eyes absorbed another recruiting pamphlet.
“Truly, the printing press has revolutionized war far more than the machine gun or the combustion engine,” Wrangel muttered.
Denikin waited in silence for several seconds as Wrangel read, then, with an exasperated sigh, continued.
“Pyotr Nikolayevich—I need your advice. We both know I am no politician. I have kept this coalition together by saying as little as possible as to what shape the government should take after the final victory, but this twenty-one-year-old girl now forces my hand.”
Wrangel exhaled through his nose and nodded agreement.
“It is an extremely perilous situation, Your Excellency.”
“In my shoes, what would you do?” Denikin asked.
“Tatiana might make a far better monarch than her father; her ideas as outlined in her propaganda certainly make sense. She is, though, still a young woman, and has been much more insulated from the vagaries of Russian politics than any girl of her class should’ve been. Granted, the veil of separation her parents had erected had just been ripped violently away.”
“This pamphlet,” Wrangel held up the paper he meant, “details a plan for land reform, and a new, constitutional monarchy. Something similar to the what the British have, but with more teeth retained by the crown. It might be the path we need to forge ahead without further destabilizing our entire society.”
“Perhaps, but can we then sell that to the monarchists and democrats?”
“Maybe.” Wrangel’s mind worked furiously. “Here is what I would do, Your Excellency—allow her propaganda to circulate, but make no comment on it, at first. Let the English distribute it, but have our officers listen to the reaction in the ranks, in the bars, in the streets. Her story is compelling, her ideas sound, and her list of victories so far, impressive—let them do the work for us. If they resonate, we will take advantage; if they divide, well, we’ll have to chart another course.”
Denikin tapped absently on the rim of his tea saucer with his middle finger.
“You think it will work?” He asked.
“I don’t know, Your Excellency,” Wrangel said. “But right now we have every advantage over the Reds save numbers and unity of command. Perhaps this can solve the latter.”
“And if her messages do resonate and we then have to subordinate ourselves to a twenty-one-year-old girl as our Empress?” Denikin asked. “What if her leadership itself becomes a liability?”
Wrangel smiled.
“Young she may be, but she is clearly no fool. I do not think she will repeat her father’s mistake of trying to do her generals’ work for them.”
“But you do not know.”
“No,” Wrangel admitted. “Still, she has survived a harrowing ordeal these last months and made decisions that have seen her power and influence grow despite all adversity.”
“A facility for adventure is no guarantor of an ability to rule wisely,” Denikin said.
“No, it isn’t. You know as well as I, Your Excellency, that all is calculated risk in war, certainty is only ever a deceiver in our profession. I think Tatiana may prove to be a sound wager.”
Denikin visible pondered Wrangel’s proposal for several seconds before he sighed, stood up, and nodded.
“All right, Pyotr Nikolayevich,” Denikin said. “We will try it your way. Let us see how the men and the people respond to Tatiana’s appeals. If they do, then we’ll discuss how best to align with her. If not, we’ll have to persuade the Allies not to throw in with her—somehow.”