outcome.
Budenny’s Konarmia won. The Whites lost not only the battle but the war.
Now nothing could stop the Red drive to sweep into the sea the Whites and all they stood for. Denikin ordered all officers and their families to evacuate via Novorossiisk, leaving the Don Cossacks under General Kutepov to serve as rear guard.
Apollo and Peotr, fighting knee to knee with a kind of insane inspiration, somehow survived Pavlov’s defeat on February 26, battering and hacking their way to freedom late that afternoon through a screen put up by Kotovsky’s brigade. But more than half of their unit was lost in the tragic battle—dead of the cold, killed in the fighting, or captured and executed.
Peotr and Apollo stayed in Kutepov’s Cossack brigade, protecting the retreating column of the White Army until March 17, when Ekaterinodar fell. As of that day, there was no more South Russian Government. The fighting was over. Denikin was already on board an evacuation ship in Novorossiisk. There was not the scantest hope for a reversal of fortunes.
Mounted, their tired bodies propped on their pommels, Apollo and Peotr rested on a stark hillside overlooking Ekaterinodar, the first and now final capital of the South Russian Government. So far their small group had evaded Budenny’s scouts, but it was time to split up and go their separate ways. Apollo and Peotr were at a distance from the others as they surveyed the grim landscape.
Peotr was the first to speak. “It’s over,” he said in a low voice, hoarse with fatigue. “No more Allied aid. No more government. Christ, I’ve only a few score cartridges left. I hope it’s enough to get me to Baku.”
At the mention of Baku, Apollo turned from the view of Ekaterinodar below and cast cool golden eyes on his friend’s face.
“I know. I know,” Peotr expostulated wearily. “You think I’m a bastard about Kitty. But, God Almighty, I don’t have time to go to Aladino and Baku both. And they’re my children, Apollo. Am I supposed to abandon them to these bloody beasts?” His voice had risen. Peotr flicked his trouser leg nervously with his nagaiki. He’d witnessed too many scenes ofslaughter, torture, and unholy massacre in the last two years to expect any quarter from the victorious Red Army.
Neither spoke for a moment. They were both tired, their nerves lacerated from the strain of the last few weeks. Apollo’s gaze silently returned to the scene of defeat two short miles away. He ran a weary hand over the gold stubble of his beard.
He understood Peotr’s dilemma, but it didn’t change the shocking callousness of his decision. God knows Apollo himself had committed his share of crimes over the past few years, and nasty habits had become a way of life, but … to leave your own wife to the invading Red Army?
Peotr made a jerky, troubled movement. “If the Reds weren’t advancing so rapidly to Baku for those bloody oil fields,” he said hurriedly, “I might have had time to see Kitty to Novorossiisk on my way to Suata—but under the circumstances it’s impossible. Kutepov said yesterday the Eighth Army had reached Derbent already. If I don’t leave now, it’ll be too late. Suata and the children mean a great deal to me—and they’re totally dependent on me. You see, don’t you, Apollo?” Peotr’s tone desperately asked for understanding from his best friend.
Apollo, leaning on his pommel, the short fur blowing on his hat, stirred, then glanced back to Peotr. He regarded his unshaven, tired friend, and noticed the skin drawn tightly against his cheekbones. No one had had much food or sleep the last two months. “Of course, Peotr, I understand,” Apollo said in a quiet, steady voice. Who was he to pass judgment? Peotr had fought tirelessly for the cause, bravely willing to give his life. He had honorably performed his duty and had upheld his commitment, as he saw it, to country, wife, and mistress, but now time was running out. Choices had to be made …
Budenny’s Konarmia won. The Whites lost not only the battle but the war.
Now nothing could stop the Red drive to sweep into the sea the Whites and all they stood for. Denikin ordered all officers and their families to evacuate via Novorossiisk, leaving the Don Cossacks under General Kutepov to serve as rear guard.
Apollo and Peotr, fighting knee to knee with a kind of insane inspiration, somehow survived Pavlov’s defeat on February 26, battering and hacking their way to freedom late that afternoon through a screen put up by Kotovsky’s brigade. But more than half of their unit was lost in the tragic battle—dead of the cold, killed in the fighting, or captured and executed.
Peotr and Apollo stayed in Kutepov’s Cossack brigade, protecting the retreating column of the White Army until March 17, when Ekaterinodar fell. As of that day, there was no more South Russian Government. The fighting was over. Denikin was already on board an evacuation ship in Novorossiisk. There was not the scantest hope for a reversal of fortunes.
Mounted, their tired bodies propped on their pommels, Apollo and Peotr rested on a stark hillside overlooking Ekaterinodar, the first and now final capital of the South Russian Government. So far their small group had evaded Budenny’s scouts, but it was time to split up and go their separate ways. Apollo and Peotr were at a distance from the others as they surveyed the grim landscape.
Peotr was the first to speak. “It’s over,” he said in a low voice, hoarse with fatigue. “No more Allied aid. No more government. Christ, I’ve only a few score cartridges left. I hope it’s enough to get me to Baku.”
At the mention of Baku, Apollo turned from the view of Ekaterinodar below and cast cool golden eyes on his friend’s face.
“I know. I know,” Peotr expostulated wearily. “You think I’m a bastard about Kitty. But, God Almighty, I don’t have time to go to Aladino and Baku both. And they’re my children, Apollo. Am I supposed to abandon them to these bloody beasts?” His voice had risen. Peotr flicked his trouser leg nervously with his nagaiki. He’d witnessed too many scenes ofslaughter, torture, and unholy massacre in the last two years to expect any quarter from the victorious Red Army.
Neither spoke for a moment. They were both tired, their nerves lacerated from the strain of the last few weeks. Apollo’s gaze silently returned to the scene of defeat two short miles away. He ran a weary hand over the gold stubble of his beard.
He understood Peotr’s dilemma, but it didn’t change the shocking callousness of his decision. God knows Apollo himself had committed his share of crimes over the past few years, and nasty habits had become a way of life, but … to leave your own wife to the invading Red Army?
Peotr made a jerky, troubled movement. “If the Reds weren’t advancing so rapidly to Baku for those bloody oil fields,” he said hurriedly, “I might have had time to see Kitty to Novorossiisk on my way to Suata—but under the circumstances it’s impossible. Kutepov said yesterday the Eighth Army had reached Derbent already. If I don’t leave now, it’ll be too late. Suata and the children mean a great deal to me—and they’re totally dependent on me. You see, don’t you, Apollo?” Peotr’s tone desperately asked for understanding from his best friend.
Apollo, leaning on his pommel, the short fur blowing on his hat, stirred, then glanced back to Peotr. He regarded his unshaven, tired friend, and noticed the skin drawn tightly against his cheekbones. No one had had much food or sleep the last two months. “Of course, Peotr, I understand,” Apollo said in a quiet, steady voice. Who was he to pass judgment? Peotr had fought tirelessly for the cause, bravely willing to give his life. He had honorably performed his duty and had upheld his commitment, as he saw it, to country, wife, and mistress, but now time was running out. Choices had to be made …
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