Hazard of Huntress

by V. A. Stuart

  The wound on his head—if its reflection in the silver watchcase was to be believed—was an ugly one, a jagged cut, extending from the top of his right ear almost to the nape of his neck. But, although he appeared to have lost quite a lot of blood, the wound itself was drying up now and, using his handkerchief dipped into the ice-cold water, he bathed it gingerly and, wincing with the sting of the salt as it penetrated the cut surface, rolled up the handkerchief as a dressing. This he secured in place, after one or two attempts, by means of a strip torn from one of his shirt-sleeves. His jacket and cloak were less easily dealt with, both being thickly caked with blood but, wrapping the foul-smelling oilskin about him to keep out the cold, he gave the collars of both garments a thorough soaking. The sun was not strong enough to dry them so, when the soaking had removed most of the bloodstains, he squeezed out as much of the water as he could and donned the jacket and cloak again immediately, shivering at the damp touch of the cloth on his skin. But he felt better by the time he had finished and the discovery of a half-filled flask of brandy in one of his jacket pockets raised his flagging spirits. He gulped down the entire contents thirstily and with little thought of the consequences and once again the sky whirled about him in crazy circles, so that he was compelled to delay his return to the cliff top until his head cleared.

  Nevertheless, the effect of the brandy was exhilarating and the climb back, though still laborious, far less exhausting than the descent had been. Phillip was in an oddly reckless frame of mind when, reaching the ledge on which he had recovered consciousness, he glimpsed his cap, lying some yards to his left. It must have fallen from his head when the rock—or whatever it was—had struck him, he thought. If he could recover it, the cap would serve the useful and, perhaps, essential purpose of hiding the bandage on his head from curious eyes, so … he inched his way across to where the cap lay, caught and held by a cluster of bushes growing out from among the loose rocks on the cliff face. At first it eluded him but, after two or three abortive grabs, he succeeded in grasping his prize and, absurdly pleased by this achievement, he donned it triumphantly.

  It was then that he noticed the ominously stained boulder, lodged just below where the cap had been and, his interest swiftly awakened, he levered himself down in order to examine it. This undoubtedly was the heavy object that had struck him, he decided … and it must have come—must have fallen —from the top of the cliff, for part of its surface was covered with lichen. Straining every muscle, for the boulder was unwieldy and heavier than he had anticipated, he managed to turn it partially over. There was no lichen growing on what he judged to be the underside, only some deep cracks and scratches of obviously recent origin, which suggested that it had struck against other rocks as it fell or … Phillip drew in his breath sharply. Or that it had been wrenched from whatever had originally held it in place. … He glanced upwards with narrowed eyes and then resumed his ascent, making again for the ledge on which he had lain.

  He had been fantastically lucky, he reflected, in that the blow he had received had been a glancing one, on the side of the head. Had that boulder struck him squarely, it must have smashed his skull to pulp … he shuddered and, once more, memory stirred. He recalled the sudden premonition of danger that had caused him to fling himself forward—he had heard some sound which, although he could not remember now what the sound had been, had set the alarm bells ringing in his head, and he had reacted to it instinctively. Reaching the ledge, he halted, peering from side to side uncertainly. There was a cleft in the rock, not a very deep one but large enough to take a man’s body and, if he lay full length along it, deep enough to afford protection from wind and weather. A snug spot for a cat-nap … the words drummed at his ears. Someone had said them, he was certain but he could not remember who … he might even have said them himself, for all he knew.

  He paused, trying vainly to remember and staring at the traces of lichen on the inside surface of the rocky hollow. Then, struck by a sudden idea, he hauled himself up to the summit of the cliff and dropped to one knee, looking down now into the cleft from above. It was possible, he supposed, measuring both with his eye, it was just possible that the boulder he had examined might at one time have been wedged or balanced across the upper end of the hollow—or that it had formed part of an outcrop, extending above the upper end. The cliff was irregular, crumbling in half a hundred places and, from where he knelt, he could see several similar eroded clefts and hollows. The one above the ledge might or might not have been the “snug spot” he had chosen for a cat-nap and … he sighed despondently. The boulder which had dealt him so savage a blow could have been dislodged accidentally; there was not a shred of evidence to suggest that anyone had deliberately hurled it down in his direction, with the intention of hitting him. Or, if there was any such evidence, he had not found it and ought not to waste any more time searching for it. If he were to seek out Mademoiselle Sophie—the Princess Narishkina—in Odessa, he must delay no longer.

  Phillip rose, bracing himself. His head still ached and the momentary elation induced by the brandy had long since evaporated. His body felt numb with cold—as numb and useless as his brain, he thought gloomily—and he had no notion of which direction to take, no clear idea of why he should be going in search of Mademoiselle Sophie. Yet the sense of urgency when he thought of her persisted and it was this, rather than any reasoned motive, which sent him plodding across the desolate marsh in what he could only pray was the right direction. Proof that it was came only a few minutes later, to his surprised relief, when he heard the distant ringing of church bells and then glimpsed the tall spire of what he remembered was the Orthodox Cathedral, rising above the domes and cupolas of Moslem mosques and temples and the red rooftops of stone-built dwelling houses. He set his face towards the Cathedral spire and plodded doggedly on, coming to a road about twenty minutes later, which he joined. This—deeply rutted and rough—led him uphill and, from the summit of the hill, he found himself looking down, with some bewilderment, at four British ships-of-war, lying at anchor in the bay.

  Their presence gave him comfort but, although he stood watching them for nearly fifteen minutes, he saw nothing— apart from a white flag of truce, flying from the main of a paddle-wheel corvette—to account for their being where they were. The Trojan was not among them and he knew a moment’s unreasoned disappointment, when he realized she was not. The Trojan was his ship and therefore, presumably, she had brought him here and must be somewhere in the offing … although, without his glass, he could not see her. Before leaving his vantage point, he spent several minutes in frowning contemplation of a steam-screw sloop, which was anchored at a considerable distance from the other three ships and which, for some reason, seemed familiar and held his interest for longer than the rest of the small squadron. But she was too far away from him to identify her with any certainty and, still puzzled by his failure to do so, Phillip returned to the road.

  He met people in increasing numbers as he approached the center of the town but, busy with his own confused thoughts, he ignored them, striding so purposefully on his way that no one questioned him, although he attracted a good many curious glances. The unusual cut of his clothes, the fact that he looked ill, and that a bandage protruded from beneath his cap made him an object of interest to several passers-by but he was not aware of this and probably because he showed no fear and met their glances indifferently, even the most curious shrugged and let him pass. A wounded naval officer— and one who had been wounded in the head—could be permitted even the eccentricity of walking, instead of riding, through the muddy streets, his fine boots ankle-deep in slush and his bruised, deathly white cheeks unshaven.

  Blind instinct was guiding him now. He was in an odd, dreamlike daze, barely conscious of where he was or of where his feet were taking him. He passed empty granaries and later a deserted barrack block without being aware of their significance or sparing either a second glance. The church bells continued to ring and it dawned on his bemused mind that today mus
t be Sunday and that the people who thronged the streets were, like himself, on their way to the Cathedral— although, until that moment, he had not known that the Cathedral was his objective.

  But Mademoiselle Sophie would be there, he told himself and, in his dazed state, did not doubt the truth of this assumption. Carriages were passing him occasionally and he turned to stare into each one, wondering if it were hers but unable to do more than catch a fleeting glimpse of the occupants through the steamy, mud-spattered windows.

  It was sheer chance that brought him to within sight of the Cathedral steps when a splendid equipage, drawn by four matching bays and escorted by two outriders, came to a halt at their foot. He stood, jostled by the crowd, to watch a small, veiled figure in black, step from the vehicle and mount the steps very slowly, leaning on the arm of the older woman who accompanied her. Even from where he waited, Phillip recognized the somberly clad figure, despite the veil and the widow’s weeds and knew, from the sudden clamorous beating of his heart, that his search was over. Mademoiselle Sophie—Her Imperial Highness the Princess Sophia Mikailovna Narishkina—was there, a few yards from him and he had only to walk towards her, only to call her name …

  He was on the point of doing so—had, in fact, taken a pace or two in the direction of the steps—when once again instinct warned him to take care. He could not accost her publicly in full view of the other churchgoers, flocking devoutly to their worship, but … a long-drawn sigh escaped him. He could, surely, enter the vast Cathedral with the crowd, unnoticed and cloaked by their anonymity, without risk either to Mademoiselle Sophie or himself, couldn’t he? He came to a standstill close to the steps, keeping her in sight and, when a soberly dressed merchant and his wife approached at the head of a small procession of relatives and children, he followed them into the Cathedral. Once inside, he left the merchant’s family to go their own way and, evading an usher who was directing new arrivals to seats on either side of the nave, he slipped quietly into the shadows of a side aisle and paused there, looking about him.

  Beneath the domes of its golden cupolas, the interior of the Cathedral glowed with light. Walls and ceilings were covered with luminous frescoes and, before the altar at the opposite extremity of the nave, a gold iconostasis, encrusted with jewels, reflected the gleam of hundreds of flickering candles, bathing the mitred priest who stood before it in a flood of iridescence.

  Mademoiselle Sophie and her companion were, he saw, after some anxious searching, being ceremoniously conducted to what appeared to be a private family pew, with ornately carved and gilded seats and a vaulted roof, at the far end of the aisle in which he had taken refuge. Heavy velvet curtains hung at the entrance to the pew which, if drawn, would hide its occupants from the rest of the congregation and Phillip’s heart sank when he saw the usher’s hand go out to pull the curtains across. He moved closer and, as if his silent prayer had reached her—as well as the God to whom it had been addressed—he saw Mademoiselle Sophie shake her head. The usher bowed and left the curtains undrawn. When he had made his dignified departure, Phillip inched his way into a seat from which, by dint of craning his neck, he could observe the interior of the pew and catch an occasional glimpse of both occupants, when they leaned forward or rose to their feet.

  The service, rich in pageantry, made little impression on him. He scarcely heard the musical intonations of the bearded, gold-robed priests or the responses of the packed congregation and, although he made a conscious effort to stand or kneel in unison with those about him, all his attention was concentrated on the tiny, heavily veiled figure in the pew in front of him. Mademoiselle Sophie kept the veil over her face, so that he could see little of it and her glance seldom strayed from the prayer book in her hands, save when she knelt in prayer and even then she covered her eyes with one hand, fingers spread out and head devoutly bent.

  He guessed, from the slight clumsiness of her movements, that she was still carrying the child—the child of which Andrei Narishkin had spoken, with such joyous pride, as he lay dying in the 93rd’s picket lines, after the Battle of Balaclava—but there was no other sign of this in the dignified erectness of her small body. Indeed, he thought, she looked very much as she had when he had seen her for the first time, alighting from Lord George Melgund’s carriage at Paddington Station. She had worn a veil then and had been just as dignified. It had not been until she had removed her veil in the train and turned the gay warmth of her smile on him that he had realized how young and charming she was … and how beautiful.

  He had also realized that, for him, she was and always would be unattainable but the realization had made no difference; from the moment of meeting her, he had had eyes for no other woman. Not even for Catriona Moray, to whom he owed his life. …

  Phillip hunched forward in his seat, praying that Mademoiselle Sophie would look in his direction but this time his prayer went unanswered. It was not until the long service was drawing to a close that she turned her head, to give him so brief a glance that he wondered whether he had imagined it and decided, after a moment or two, that he had. He saw her sink to her knees and, realizing that the entire congregation was kneeling for the Benediction, belatedly followed their example. As he knelt there, he found himself re-living the strange little scene in his sickroom at the Governor’s Palace, when Mademoiselle Sophie had come to take her final leave of him, the day before her wedding.

  Her words had come to him through a mist of pain, incomprehensible at the time she had uttered them, yet locked in his memory and now suddenly released, so that he heard them again, as he knelt watching her.

  “Phillip, I do not know if you can understand or even whether you can hear me but I … tomorrow is my wedding day. Here, in the Cathedral, I am to be married and then I have to go away. I have no choice, you see. I have to go with my husband. First to St. Petersburg, where we shall present ourselves to Uncle Nikita for his blessing and then … then I do not know. We may go to Sebastopol, perhaps, or to Georgia … there is fighting everywhere.”

  The voice, charmingly accented and infinitely sad, was as clear as if she were seated beside him as she spoke and Phillip closed his eyes, willing her to go on.

  “We shall not meet again, we cannot meet again,” he heard her whisper. “I know my duty … I must bid you farewell. But you will grow strong and well again, you will live … for my sake, you must live, Phillip. To know that you are living somewhere in the world will comfort me. I shall think of you and pray for you … for you and your valiant Trojan. And one day, when you are the Trojan’s Captain, I shall know … because my heart will tell me. The heart does not forget, Phillip, however sad it is … and when peace comes, I shall see you with the eyes of the heart, as you set your course for England. May God be with you, now and always, my dear English sailor. …”

  Phillip’s throat was tight, the palms of his hands clammy with perspiration. Then someone nudged him and a man’s voice, close to his ear, muttered words he could not understand. He opened his eyes and saw that the service was over, the lights in the vast Cathedral dimmed, as attendants snuffed out some of the candles. He was the only one still on his knees and he rose stiffly as Mademoiselle Sophie and her companion led, as before, by an obsequious usher, emerged from their pew. They would, he realized, pass right in front of him if he held his ground, and he did so, ignoring the usher’s wand, which motioned him to stand aside. The man who had nudged him spoke to him again and, grasping him by the arm, pulled him back, obviously wanting him to leave the Cathedral. Phillip shook him off impatiently, heedless of the possible consequences, and waited, the blood pounding in his brain, as if a thousand tiny hammers were beating inside his head.

  Mademoiselle Sophie’s eyes, behind their concealing veil, rested for an instant on his face and then, without a flicker of recognition, she walked past him, leaning on the arm of her companion, her small, thickened body still erect, despite the burden of the child she carried. She did not look back, did not speak, and Phillip watched her go, powerless to
move, his stiff lips unable even to whisper her name. The shock was so great that it was as if a deluge of icy water had struck him full in the face and suddenly, as he stood there, the floodgates of his memory opened and Mademoiselle Sophie’s failure to recognize or acknowledge him faded from his mind.

  He remembered now what had brought him to Odessa, remembered his mission and the Admiral’s confidential orders, remembered why he had stayed ashore, after sending his brother Graham back to the Huntress: it all came back to him vivid clarity. The ships he had seen in the bay were, of course, his own Huntress, with the Gladiator, the Wrangler, and the French steam frigate Mogador. Under their flag of truce, they were awaiting a reply to a note the Gladiator’s pinnace had delivered that morning … no, yesterday morning, to the port officials on the Imperial Mole. He and Graham had watched the delivery of the note, under cover of the fog which had shrouded everything, until Graham had been stricken down by a ghastly attack of the same sickness that had laid young Anthony Cochrane low. He had been compelled to send his brother back to the ship, with their mission uncompleted and … with returning memory came the awareness of danger and Phillip let out his breath in a gasp of horror, as he realized the plight he was in.

  There was no fog in which to hide now, he thought grimly. He was standing alone in Odessa’s Orthodox Cathedral, in British naval uniform, conspicuous by reason of the filthy state of his cloak and boots and the bandage about his head and, judging by the curious stares he was attracting from the departing worshippers as they shuffled past him, he was inviting question—if not arrest. Even the former would be a disaster; he spoke only a few words of Russian and would be quite unable to understand, much less answer, any questions that were put to him. He would inevitably be taken, if he remained here.