He smiled grimly, and Bertram knew why on the next night when he boarded the train to Moscow. It was nearly midnight, and the station was dimly lit, and after stumbling over grass-grown rails, Bertram found a train in darkness, except in one or two carriages where candles had been lighted and put on the window ledges. A number of Lettish porters staggered along under heavy bundles, and there were more of them in the corridor of the train from which a frightful smell met the open air. The carriages were wooden compartments, stripped of all upholstery, with plank beds, and they seemed to be entirely occupied by Americans and Russians who were quarrelling with each other for vacant possession. There was a jabber of both languages rising into violent oaths of the choicest brand from New York, Omaha, Kansas, and Kentucky. One voice rose higher than all the rest, with a bull-like bellow.
“For Christ’s sake! If all you Tavarishes don’t get out of this bug-box, I’ll get the Cheka on to you and have you minced by Chinese torturers!”
The owner of this voice, as Bertram saw in the candlelight of one carriage, was a young man of Herculean build, in a felt hat, Garibaldi shirt, riding-breeches, and top boots. To make clear the mystical meaning of his words, he seized one of the porters, lifted him up as though he were a sack of potatoes, and flung him at six others massed in the dark corridor. It had the effect of clearing a space and creating a moment’s quietude.
“Who the hell are you?” asked the genial giant, peering at Bertram and putting a flash-light close to his nose. “Do you belong to this outfit?”
Bertram mentioned the name of the American who had “fixed him up.” It was an ordinary name, but produced an immediate and softening effect.
“Good enough! You’re the young guy who’s going to the famine districts? Glad to meet you.”
Bertram found his hand in an enormous fist, and recovered it in a limp and boneless state.
“My name’s Cherry,” said the young giant. “I’m from Lynchburg, Virginia. I do the courier stunt for Ara, from Riga to Moscow. I also boss this train, and make it move. When it stops, I make it move again. Sometimes. If I get out and push. I inspire terror among Tavarishes. When they play tricks I treat ’em rough. When they play straight I’m full of loving-kindness. It’s the only way to get anything done by these lousy Tavarishes.”
“What’s a Tavarish?” asked Bertram.
“A Comrade,” said Cherry of Lynch, Virginia. “It’s a nice way of saying Bolshevik. Call them Tavarish all the time. It makes them feel good. Human equality and all that punk. Have you brought any bug-powder?”