For several weeks, the supreme commander of the Allied forces in Russia traveled by pony sleigh. It looked like a cradle on finely turned runners. Made of light pinewood lashed together with the weave of a basket, it was filled with hay, which kept the rider warm, and fed the pony at night. Ironside traveled lightly, with a tot of rum, a Mosin-Nagant rifle, and an automatic pistol in a reindeer-skin bag under his newest absurd greatcoat. It was sable fur on the outside, layer upon layer of mohair on the inside, and it had no zippers or buttons. Getting it on or off required movements that looked as if the wearer were having a seizure.

A large group of sleighs would have made intriguing targets for snipers. So Ironside traveled with just one escort, generally a local groom, a native who handled the stops at distant relay posts with discretion. There was never any talk with the master of the post about the rider or his business, just negotiations for a samovar of tea, polite questions about each other’s families, switching of the drivers.

He rode up and down the five fingers of the many fronts. The visits’ qualities varied according to the personalities and where withal of the troops. In Solnechny Strana, morale was excellent right now. But in Obozerskaya, he succeeded only in frightening the French commanding officer, who plucked at his frozen mustache and moaned about not knowing what the enemy was up to.

“Have you asked for volunteer patrols? Talked to the locals, perhaps?” Ironside spoke French with a Normandy accent. The question led to the homesick major’s bursting into tears, which froze on his face. Then, returning to manhood, he broke them off and flung them to the snow.

“General Ironside, the morale is wretched.”

“Yes. I see. What if I might find you some Americans? They make excellent patrols. Quite a lot of energy, you know. Ah, they have the latest films from America, too.”

The major showed several brownish teeth. “Eh … Bon.”

And so forth, visit after visit. With every company, in every bivouac, and every clearing, and every village, he found fatigue and despair. But among Americans, he found something else, whose specifics eluded him until just after his luck finally ran out, on the outskirts of Seletskoe.

Seletskoe was exactly the idea of a Russian winter village: two dozen houses on the north and south banks of the frozen Vaga River, with a strong bridge dusted with crisp snow connecting them. The stars were out at eight and at three and at six, and at seven o’clock in the evening, it was thirty-six degrees below zero. There had been a storm the previous day, and every rooftop was crystalline, and every eave had icicles that reflected like razor blades. The crust of snow was unbroken beneath every tree, except where some wolves had chased one unlucky deer.