Finally, a lieutenant in the mutinous Slavo-British Legion, a man who until moments before had preached resistance, called upon his men to fall in. And this they did. Under the floodlights, all three hundred of them together fell in, marched as well as they ever had, and came to attention in ten rows, thirty men across, with two aisles between them, to await inspection.

There were sounds like leaves stirring in a breeze, and a jump of flames as the timber roof of the barracks caved in.

Ironside turned. He walked toward the mutineers. The sound of his 270 pounds approaching, his boots crunching in the snow, promised punishment. Then, into the arc-lamp brightness, he was in the mutineers’ line of sight.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I am General Edmund Ironside from Great Britain. You are Russia’s best hope for self-defense. I’m not sure anyone has explained why this is.” His Russian was, for a man who had studied briefly, excellent. He had memorized a speech he supposed he would have to give at some point, and had enough vocabulary to fill in the rest. Thus he had some rhetorical weight as he chopped the air with his gloved hands. The fight, he said, was against Bolshevism, a blight on their country. In theory, he explained, it spoke of equality, but it was in fact a panacea that did more damage than good. “In Bolshevism, surpluses are confiscated from the industrious and redistributed to the lazy or ineffectual,” he declared. “I am sorry that it promises otherwise.” His tone was so heavy with sympathy that the men were helpless but to feel sorry with him. “Of course,” he said, “I come to you as a representative of the British Empire, and our Allies, which many of you do not trust. It is up to us, with our actions, our values, and our humanity, to compete with an exciting rhetoric that so moves you. I humbly take on that challenge. We have our own values of industriousness, decency, and above all responsibility for our own actions, which Bolshevism disavows. Now, will the leaders of the mutiny please step forward?”

Hugo had watched him speaking, not understanding a word, but understanding the tone: authoritarian humility. Now he looked toward the Slavo-British Legion for a reaction. There was no reason Ironside should be obeyed. Except that he was a man whose natural authority was equal to his rank.

There was eye lowering, head shaking, exhaling, and embarrassed shuffling from foot to foot. Thirteen men detached themselves from the rest.

When they were separate, shrugging at one another, Ironside nodded. “You are men with dignity, and your acceptance of responsibility is admirable.” He switched here to English. “Is my adjutant here?”

The adjutant trotted up, a strong and olive-skinned miner from South Wales. He saluted with his good hand. “Sir!”

“Very good. Execute them.”