by V. A. Stuart
Yet the facts did fit. They were as logical as, waking or dreaming, his deductions were. With the gig’s crew taken, as well as himself, Quinn would be left in command of the Huntress for the second time, with a clean sheet and an effectively purged ship’s company. He might, with reason, expect to be confirmed in command when he brought the ship back to the Fleet anchorage and made his report, the accuracy of which could not be contested and in which, obviously, he himself would figure with credit. Not too much credit, perhaps, but he would appear to have done all he could to rescue his late commander from a situation into which that officer’s own impetuosity had precipitated him … just as he had done all he could to save his other unfortunate commander, Francis Willoughby, from the death he had so tragically brought upon himself.
And, if there should be a court of inquiry, Quinn would be exonerated, possibly even commended, because … clearly across the intervening stretch of water came the splash of oars and Phillip stiffened. The gig was approaching and would wait at the entrance to the cove until he ordered it in. His frozen fingers felt for the key of the signal lamp he was holding but, before depressing it, he turned, listening intently for the arrival of the cavalry patrol on the cliff top. He could see little for the mist but … was it his imagination or was that the pounding of hooves that he heard? He stood immobile, straining both ears and eyes, and heard the sound again, unmistakably—the patrol was advancing across the marsh, steadily at a trot. He could make out the thud of iron-shod hooves, the jingle of bridles and a slithering sound, as one of the horses stumbled. Quinn’s timing, he reflected cynically, could scarcely have been better.
He opened the shutter of his lantern to allow a steady beam of light to shine from it and raised the lantern high above his head. Small though the glow it emitted, the gig’s commander ought to see it. He glanced back in the direction of the cliff, realizing, with a flash of wry amusement, that he need not have worried about his warning to the gig’s commander to back off. The cavalry patrol carried several flaming torches with them—the lights, of course, that he had glimpsed on the coast road—and these were shining through the mist, a much clearer and more menacing injunction than his own could possibly have been and one the gig’s commander could not ignore … unless his name was O’Hara. Heaven grant that it was Cochrane … Phillip let his lamp fall. Moving a few paces to his right, he kicked off his boots and started to unbutton his jacket, only to think better of it. While the clothing might impede his movements a little when he tried to swim, he would need its protection against the cold. It would be a swim of close on a hundred and fifty yards, and … he tensed, as a subdued hail carried across the water to him.
“Beach ahoy! Captain sir—enemy patrol to your rear! I can see your light. May I come in, sir?”
It was O’Hara’s voice, distorted by the speaking trumpet but shrill with suppressed excitement and Phillip’s heart sank. Quinn, as expected, had chosen his boat commander well, for O’Hara, despite his size, had all the courage in the world and he would come in, orders or no orders, if he thought his Captain was in danger. Conscious that his sole remaining chance to save the gig’s crew and himself lay in convincing O’Hara that he was in control of the situation, Phillip cupped his hands about his mouth and yelled at the pitch of his lungs that the boat was to hold station and come no closer.
“I’m coming out to you, Mr O’Hara. Prepare to return to the ship immediately. On no account enter this cove. That is an order, you understand.”
Aware that his voice would have been heard by the patrol, he did not wait for O’Hara’s acknowledgement but, taking a deep breath, ran as far as he could to his right and flung himself into the water. Despite the fact that he was fully clothed, the icy chill took his breath away and he floundered helplessly, waist deep, before he reached deeper water and was able at last to head in the right direction. His arms and legs felt like lead but he continued to swim a few strokes and, after that, it was easier. He had always been a strong swimmer and he was making good progress until a ragged volley came from the cliff top and, like a crowd of angry hornets, a hail of musket balls spattered the water ahead of him, forcing him to change direction. The Russians were firing blindly into the mist and, with little idea of the position of their target, their aim was poor, but they kept up their fire, stray shots more than once striking uncomfortably close. Phillip was tiring rapidly in the intense cold and, when cramp seized him, he knew that it was all over. He had covered less than half the distance to the waiting boat and now he could barely keep his head above water.
His gamble had failed but there was no help for it, he could not go on, could not drive his frozen body or his leaden limbs to swim one more stroke. All he could hope to do now, he told himself, was to save the gig’s crew from any attempt at useless heroics on the part of their young commander. Quinn should not have their lives, please God he should not! Even if he took the Huntress, he would have to take her with these men—whom he had selected as expendable—and perhaps, one day, one of them might remember enough to draw the conclusions he had drawn and Nemesis would seek out Ambrose Quinn and destroy him as, in justice, he deserved … if there was any justice.
Phillip gritted his teeth and, summoning the last reserves of his strength, he ordered O’Hara to return to the ship. His voice was a harsh croak, coming from somewhere deep in his straining chest but he knew it had carried to boat when some-one—not O’Hara—acknowledged the order with an obedient, “Aye, aye, sir!” Sick with relief, he recognized the voice as Grey’s but was too far gone to wonder what had happened to O’Hara until, using the speaking trumpet this time, Grey called out to him again.
“I’ll obey your order, sir, but keep going—keep going for just a little longer, if you can. Two of our lads are coming to your aid. You’ll make it, sir, if you hang on!”
Two men, two more swimmers in this terrible, freezing sea … and one of them probably O’Hara! Phillip tried to warn them, tried to tell them to go back to the boat while they still could but his voice was now only a faint, half-strangled whisper in his throat and he knew that they could not hear him. He did his best to keep going, as Grey had urged, but an overwhelming lethargy was starting to take possession of his body and invade his senses, so that it no longer seemed of the slightest concern to him whether he sank or remained afloat. Indeed, he thought weakly, if he drowned, he might well disappear without trace and then no accusations of truce-breaking could be levelled at Captain Broke.
From the beach, he could dimly hear the clamor of raised voices, as men shouted unintelligible words to each other but this did not worry him and a fresh fusillade of musket shots, screaming overhead, left him unmoved. He felt himself sinking and did not struggle, even when the sea closed over his head. His body rose sluggishly to the surface and he let it drift where it would, suddenly seeing Mademoiselle Sophie’s small, sweet face, like a vision from heaven, floating above and ahead of him and moving in the direction of the beach and the clamorous voices. He felt himself drifting after his vision and realized dimly that the tide must have changed but he had neither the will nor the strength to resist its pull, although it was taking him away from the boat and the men whom Grey had said were swimming to his aid.
When hands seized him roughly by the shoulders, he did not question whose they were and did not struggle against them and he only knew that he had been taken prisoner by the enemy when he found himself lying on his back on the stony foreshore of the cove. A number of shadowy figures in long greatcoats were grouped about him, talking in a tongue he did not understand, one of whom aimed a kick at him with a spurred boot. Although the kick connected with his ribs, Phillip was silent, conscious of no pain and no resentment. His refusal to cry out appeared to annoy the soldier, who struck him again, this time with the butt of his carbine on the side of the head and, though he did not feel the blow, Phillip was relieved when another man—evidently an officer—intervened, curtly barking out an order, which he emphasized by thrusting his assailant aside.
The soldier who had struck him sullenly took off his greatcoat and, kneeling at Phillip’s side, covered him with it, his reward for this compulsory act of self-sacrifice a blow across the shoulders from his officer’s saber.
The greatcoat did not noticeably add to his comfort but the fact that he had been given it nevertheless raised Phillip’s flagging hopes that his captors did not intend to let him die and he rallied a little, managing to turn over on to his side so that he could look out across the cove. There was no sign of the gig and the shooting had ceased. Young Grey, then, must have kept his word and returned to the Huntress—but there were men in the water, some of them waist-deep, making a great commotion and shouting at one another and, even as he watched, he saw two of them bend to pick up something which, seemingly, had come floating in on the tide. Their cries of triumph suggested that, whatever it was, their prize must have been the object for which they had been searching and Phillip stared in dismay as, almost with one accord, they all splashed back through the shallows, bearing what could only be a body between them. A small body in dark clothing … O’Hara’s body, it had to be, he knew, and he prayed despairingly that the boy might have survived his ordeal in the icy water of the cove and the musket balls that had rained down upon it as he swam.
The cavalrymen dumped their burden unceremoniously beside him and, making a great effort to overcome his lethargy, Phillip rolled over and succeeded in putting out a hand to touch O’Hara’s face. But there was no feeling in his fingers and, to his distress, the boy did not respond either to his touch or to his croaking whisper and, exhausted by the effort he had made, he fell back, gasping for breath. His brain was clear enough, if a trifle slow, but his body seemed to be virtually paralyzed and he wondered for how much longer he could last before, like O’Hara, he lapsed into unconsciousness. Unconsciousness or—again he looked apprehensively into the midshipman’s face—or death. The face was a white blur in the dim light and he could detect no sign of life in it at all, no flicker of movement, nothing to give him hope that his prayer might have been heard and answered. He let his heavy eyelids fall and went on praying.
A fresh commotion among the Russian cavalrymen roused him—he had no idea how much later—and he opened his eyes to see that they had lit a fire. The brushwood and flotsam they had collected was damp and reluctant, at first, to burn, but after a while the fire took hold and the damp wood blazed away, the soldiers clustering round it to warm themselves and dry their saturated uniforms. Two of them, evidently on instructions from their commander, came to him and stripped him of his own wet garments, which they carried off to dry at the bonfire, wrapping him meantime in a horse blanket, in addition to the greatcoat. The same two men performed a like service for O’Hara and Phillip again attempted to speak to him. The boy did not answer but at least, he thought, must still have retained a spark of life or their captors would not have troubled to strip him.
The heat of the fire began gradually to restore some feeling to his numbed body, but, with the return of sensation, came pain so excruciating that Phillip was hard put to it not to scream his agony aloud. He fought against it for some time and then lapsed into a semi-conscious state, from which he finally emerged to find himself lying full length on what he supposed was a horse-drawn cart. It was broad daylight and O’Hara was lying beside him wrapped, as he himself still was, in a horse blanket. The cart was unsprung and, though lined with straw, its jolting jarred every aching bone in his body so that, once again, he had to exert all the self-control of which he was capable to stop himself crying out. But, apparently also roused by the jolting, he felt O’Hara stir and, to his joy, saw him open his eyes a few minutes later. He groped for the boy’s hand and this time felt an answering pressure, as his fingers closed about it.
“Sir … sir, you’re alive!”
The voice was faint and coming from what seemed a long way away but Phillip heard it thankfully. “Yes,” he managed, from between stiff and swollen lips. “And you too, Mr O’Hara, heaven be praised!”
To his consternation, the boy started to apologize in a choked whisper, for having failed to reach him. “It was … the tide, sir. It … turned and there was such a strong current running, I—I couldn’t get near you and then I got cramp. I’m sorry, sir, truly I am, I—”
Phillip cut short the apology, conscious of a lump in his throat that he could not swallow. “You did your best, lad … and better than most grown men could have done. I commend your courage; needless to say, I’ve never doubted it. But you ought never to have tried to reach me. You should have stayed with your boat and taken her back to the ship, as I ordered you to. I had good reason for giving you that order, believe me.”
“But, sir,” O’Hara protested, sounding much stronger now, “I am your gig’s midshipman and it was my duty to bear a hand when you needed one. Anyway, that was how I looked at it, sir, at the time. I couldn’t just leave you to drown. And I knew Mr Grey would carry out your order and take the gig back for me. I only let him volunteer on the understanding that it was my command and that he wouldn’t interfere, whatever happened and whatever I decided to do. I made him give me his word on that, before we left the ship … so it was my fault, sir, not his, and I’m sorry.”
This boy apologizing, Phillip thought, for an act of selfless heroism few lads of his age would have attempted! He wanted to tell him so but knew that, in the interests of discipline, he could not. Although, he promised himself, if he ever got back to the British Fleet, O’Hara should be given an official commendation … and the commendation would make no mention of the order he had ignored.
“Very well, Mr O’Hara.” His tone was gruff, gruffer than he had meant it to be, the lump in his throat still impeding his speech. “Who else volunteered?”
“For the gig’s crew, sir? Oh, they were all volunteers—the First Lieutenant picked them.” O’Hara named his crew and Phillip heard, without surprise, that Williams and Jackson had been among the picked men and, of course, O’Leary. “I think O’Leary tried to swim to you, too, sir,” the boy went on. “But I’m not sure—it was all a bit confused, you see. He didn’t make it, did he, sir? But he’s not here, so I hope the gig picked him up.”
“So do I, Mr O’Hara,” Phillip said, tight-lipped. Dear God, he thought bitterly, if this affair had cost O’Leary’s life, he would make Ambrose Quinn pay for it, if it was the last thing he ever did. He questioned O’Hara about the selection of his crew and, after telling him all he could, the boy added, “Oh, I almost forgot, sir. Your brother, Mr Hazard—he’s still laid up— but he sent for me before the gig was called away. He said that if we ran into trouble and were taken by the enemy, we’d be questioned about our signals and the ship’s shift of anchorage … and possibly about you, sir, if they found you. But he said that if we told them that we’d lost a man overboard and were searching for him, then they couldn’t claim that we’d broken the truce. They couldn’t be sure what we were up to, even though we sent a boat into the cove. I mean, if we had lost one of our fellows over the side, we’d have been bound to search for him, wouldn’t we, sir? Anyway, Mr Hazard told us all to say that this was what we were doing, if we ran into trouble … and he told me what to say in Russian, if I can remember it.” Screwing up his face in an effort to concentrate, the boy repeated what he could recall of the Russian words. “I had it pat but it’s rather gone out of my head, I’m afraid, sir. But Mr Hazard did say that it was most important not to let them think that we’d broken the truce, sir.”
As, indeed, it was, Phillip reflected. Their liberty and perhaps both their lives might depend on their ability to convince their captors that there had been no violation of the truce. Graham’s explanation was an ingenious one which, while it might not wholly be believed, could not wholly be disproved either. It even accounted for a gig’s presence at the entrance to the cove and, if he claimed to have dived in, with O’Hara, in an attempt to rescue a drowning man, he might also be able to account for his own presence, without admitting that he
had spent the past two days and nights ashore. He frowned, the newly risen sun in his eyes making his head throb, as he considered the possibilities.
The fact that his brother had briefed O’Hara so thoroughly suggested that he had realized that the gig’s crew were risking capture by going in to pick him up but did it—could it—also mean that Graham had seen through Ambrose Quinn’s elaborate attempt at deception? Had he, too, begun to understand the nature of the game the man was playing? Perhaps … although it seemed unlikely, since Graham could not have known of that almost fatal rock fall and, unless Williams or Jackson had remembered and talked of the matter to him, he would have had no idea how close it had come to being fatal, as far as he himself was concerned. And now there was no way of telling him. He bit back a sigh and, hearing this, O’Hara asked anxiously, “Will they question us, sir?”
“Yes, I fear so,” Phillip answered. “They are bound to, in the circumstances. But don’t worry, youngster—if we both stick like limpets to my brother’s explanation, then it’s possible that what occurred during the early hours of this morning may not he regarded as a breach of the truce. Let us hope it is not because, as my brother told you, it is very important— and not only for the sake of our skins. I have a report to deliver to our Admiral.”
O’Hara stared at him. “A report on Odessa, sir?”
“Yes, that’s what it amounts to, Mr O’Hara. And curiously enough, it might well be very much to the advantage of the citizens of Odessa if I’m permitted to deliver it, although unfortunately I cannot tell them so. But if you back me up, we may be able to persuade them to release us. Not a word of when you first set me ashore, of course.”
“No, I understand that, sir.”
