Daniil finally found something to make himself feel useful during the rescue. Arriving at the door from the kitchen passageway to the main house, he began physically dragging some through and pushing—and punching—others back to make room for people to leave.
“Behind me to the kitchen!” he shouted. “My sergeant major is waiting with a security detail to escort you away! Behind me to the kitchen! No dawdling, now; run!”
He hardly noticed when Olga passed, one arm around Tsarina Alexandra, supporting her. Behind Olga came a flood of maids and other servants. After that came the tsar—or, technically, ex-tsar. Then came Maria and Anastasia, weeping profusely.
Oh, Lord, please no, don’t let Tatiana have been…
Kostyshakov was so relieved to see Tatiana pass by that he almost wept, himself. With the light shining above his head and in her face, she didn’t recognize him.
Or it could be that she was crying, too.
Then came the sailor, with the pale, torn form of the tsarevich cradled in his arms.
Daniil took a single look and thought, with sinking heart, And that’s why. I have failed, failed miserably.
Out in the hallway, he heard someone shouting commands.
With the explosion among the Bolsheviks—Where it came from I haven’t a clue—Sergeant Kostin saw his chance. Shouting, “Guards! Follow me! Urrah! Urrah!” he leapt from his position in a doorway and charged down the corridor, his men following and, likewise, shouting the old Russian battle cry, “Urrah! Urrah!”
They fired from the hip as they came on, ghost-clad and having an even more terrible effect on the Reds than actual ghosts might have. The twenty or so Bolsheviks still living and inside the hallway fled south, back out of the Governor’s House and into the open area.
By this time Molchalin had one squad, one Lewis gun, and the flamethrower in position along the stockade and at the eastern gate to it.
“Is that thing reloaded?” he demanded, when the Bolshviks began to run out.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then send them to hell.”
Almost at the same instant as the order, a long tongue of flame lanced out in an arc from the gate. The operator played it around, long and short and left to right, until every man among the Bolshviks trying to escape had been burnt. In some cases, the burning was so thorough that that they ran off, living roman candles, toward the opposite side of the stockaded compound, waving their arms and shrieking.
“Don’t shoot them,” said Molchalin. “Let the communist bastards burn!”
The lieutenant was to be deeply disappointed, when some Second Platoon men appeared at the doorway and began putting the burning Reds out of their misery.
“Well, hell,” muttered Molchalin, “go on and ruin everyone’s fun, why don’t you?”
His platoon sergeant then came running up, two squads in tow. “Sir, no chance anyone’s still alive in the Kornilov House now.”
Molchalin turned to see that, indeed, the entire building was a mass of flames and the roof shuddering as if it, too, was about to collapse.
“Right. Have all the bodies out here searched. If any of them are still alive, I suppose we can let them live for any intelligence we might squeeze out of them. But collect the living somewhere they can be watched and post a guard. Medic for their wounded; they might as well be healthy before we shoot them for treason. I’m going to go report to the company commander.”
Thought the platoon sergeant, That’s the most he’s ever said to me at one time in the last four months.
Vasenkov took a little, but only a little, satisfaction at not having killed any political co-religionists except in point self defense. That was something, he thought, but not much.
What am I to do now? I have helped to free the… the ex-tsar? No, I suppose he’s the real tsar again. And I helped free him and restore him to power. Great is my sin, vast beyond all accounting. The revolution is probably doomed now, and I’ll have helped kill it. What am I to do? What is to become of me?
“Vasenkov, you idiot,” shouted Sergeant Kostin. “Come join us, son; we still have a job to do.”
Church bells were ringing now all over the town. Whether they were ringing in alarm or in joy remained to be seen. Certainly few, if any, of the clergy could have any intimation of what had just transpired or who was in command of the town, now. Tobolsk being a hotbed of traditional monarchism, if the bell ringers had known, the bells would have been ringing in sheer joy.
The plan was to collect and organize all the royals, aristocrats, and other rescued people in the kitchen, surround them with security, and then move the lot to the warehouse before moving the force on to help out Dratvin at the Girls’ School.
That latter part seemed unnecessary; Kostyshakov could see and hear that the fight at the Girls’ School was over. But did Dratvin win or lose? If he lost we’ve still got to get the royals out of here.
Chekov and Dostovalov were let in, with their guards behind and keeping close watch. The kitchen was lit almost brightly as day, what with thirty or more carbide lamps spreading their golden light.
All six of the remaining Romanovs, as well as a half dozen of their friends and retainers—the distinction often blurred with them—were clustered on their knees around Alexei’s body. They wept; they prayed; they crossed themselves in Orthodox fashion, right to left. The Tsarina leaned heavily against her husband, head bowed and body trembling with what had to have been nearly the ultimate in psychic anguish.
Others stood around that small knot of grieving humanity, alternately looking at and turning their eyes away from the ghastly damage done to the boy’s midsection.
Kostyshakov, ashamed at the partial failure, stood back, leaving them to grieve for a moment in peace.
Over toward one corner, some of the men of Fourth Company were preparing stretchers, not only for Alexei’s body, but also for the tsarina and the few other wounded—all lightly so—in attendance.
Dostovalov exchanged glances with the guards, then inclined his head toward Olga. The senior of the guards, a corporal, shrugged his indifference. He walked over and took one knee down behind her. Leaning forward, he said, “I am so sorry, so terribly sorry, Olga. He was a fine boy.”
Spinning in place, she threw her arms around him, pressed her face into his chest, and redoubled her sobbing. He held her in one arm, stroked her hair with the other hand, and whispered whatever words of condolence came to mind, certain that none of them could possibly be adequate.
Chekov, on the other hand, just stood behind Tatiana, as a friend might, then reached down and patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
For her part, Tatiana dried her eyes on her sleeve and then stood up. Crossing herself again, she then turned, took a single step forward, and leaned her head forward, into him… also as a friend might.
She then lifted her head and said, “We wondered where you two had gone to. We were worried.”
With a sigh, Chekov told her the very short version of his story. “We went to a place we know to think about how to rescue you. We were kidnapped from there by… the people who actually could rescue you—most of you—and did. They were afraid you and Olga would become uncooperative if we’d been shot down before your eyes.”
“How would they know that?” she asked.
“The new servant girl, Natalya, was working for them.”
“Ah.”
Chekov’s eyes widened. Shouting, “No, dammit, no!” he reached out and grabbed Tatiana by both shoulders. Shocked, she instinctively tried to draw back but was foiled by the strength of his grip.