by V. A. Stuart
“You are surprised?” Captain Schiler suggested, with a faint sneer. Phillip said nothing and he went on, with the obvious intention of goading him, “That proves my point, does it not, Commander Hazard? There is disaffection among your men and so your ship has been sent away. Or could there be some other reason, some reason which you have omitted to tell us?”
The questions went on, becoming more searching and harder to counter than they had been on the previous evening. As he endeavoured to reply to them, Phillip was conscious of the cold, steely eyes of the officer in the unfamiliar dark uniform, fixed on his face in unblinking scrutiny, as if their owner were attempting to read his thoughts, rather than listen to his answers. But the man put no questions of his own and, after almost an hour he rose, bowed to Colonel Piroff and took his leave, still without having said a word, apart from one or two whispered asides to the commandant in his own language. Following his departure, Captain Schiller summoned an escort and Phillip, to his relief, was taken back to his room.
For the next six days, this became the unvarying pattern. Each morning he was escorted to the commandant’s office, sometimes with O’Hara but usually by himself, and Colonel Piroff continued to question him through the medium of the young German interpreter. The questions were as unvarying as the routine, but once, producing a pair of sodden boots from behind his back, with the dexterity of a conjurer, Captain Schiller stated that they had been found on the beach where he and O’Hara had been apprehended and invited Phillip to deny that they were his.
“I imagine they were washed ashore,” Phillip returned, thankful that they did not appear to have found his signal lamp which, being heavier than the boots, had probably sunk beneath the incoming tide. He added, with a confidence he was far from feeling, “I kicked them off when I was swimming—we both did. No doubt the tide will bring in Mr O’Hara’s boots also, in due course.”
Schiller looked disappointed and reverted to his original line of questioning and the daily interviews went on as before, always it seemed to Phillip, with the object of wearing down his resistance and trapping him into an unguarded admission through sheer weariness. For the rest, however, both he and O’Hara were treated well enough, he had to concede. Their meals were regular and ample, their days—if long and empty— undisturbed. With warmth and sleep, the minor ill-effects they had suffered as a result of their immersion in the icy water soon cleared up.
The surgeon visited them each day and, on his advice, they were permitted half an hour’s exercise on the drill square of the fort, under guard, morning and evening, and it was he who, as an expression of personal goodwill, lent them a chess set to help occupy their time. But there was no word of their release; the commandant did not mention it again and the surgeon, when Phillip inquired from him, simply smiled. “You are fortunate that I have prevailed upon our port health authorities to allow us to keep you here,” he said cheerfully, “since, if they had their way, you would be confined in the lazaretto, monsieur, for the period of quarantine normally imposed. Believe me, you are a good deal better off where you are!”
Phillip did not doubt this but, although for O’Hara’s sake, he maintained the outward appearance of optimism, he came close to despair when the second week of their imprisonment began without any indication that the Deputy Governor had reached a decision in their favor. His only consolation was the fact that the three ships of Captain Broke’s squadron still lay at anchor in the bay where, each morning as he entered the commandant’s office, he was able to catch a fleeting glimpse of them. On the morning of the ninth day after his arrival at the fort, even this consolation was denied him for, with Captain Schiller’s hand firmly on his shoulder, he was made to seat himself with his back to the window, this time directly facing the black-uniformed officer whose silent scrutiny he had previously found so hard to endure. A trifle to his surprise, the officer broke his self-imposed silence, addressing him in correct but harshly accented French.
“Do you know who I am, Commander Hazard?” he demanded and, when Phillip shook his head, he smiled, the smile arrogant and oddly repellent. “I am Colonel Golitsin, Chief of His Imperial Majesty’s civil and military police in this province.” He paused and then added, his voice suddenly cutting like a whiplash, “You were here in Odessa before, were you not? You were one of the prisoners taken when we sank your English battleship the Tiger!”
The question, uttered accusingly, took Phillip by surprise but, since there seemed little to be gained in denying a fact which, in all probability, his accuser could easily prove, he inclined his head. “Yes, Colonel Golitsin, I was.”
“You were wounded and your life saved by the skill of His Excellency the Governor’s own physician, Dr Vassily, who attended you at His Excellency’s behest, is that not so?” There was a note of subdued triumph in the harsh voice and again Phillip answered him truthfully.
“That is so, sir. I willingly concede that I owe my life to Dr Vassily’s skill, as well to His Excellency Baron Osten-Sacken’s kindness in lodging me in his own house and permitting his servants to care for me. I was treated, not as a prisoner but as an honored guest by His Excellency and all his household.” He saw Colonel Piroff’s brows rise in an astonished curve when Captain Schiller hastily translated what he had said and the German, turning to him, asked sullenly, “The Colonel wishes to know why you did not tell us this before, Commander Hazard. Explain your reasons to him, if you please.”
Phillip shrugged, with simulated unconcern. “I was not aware that the fact that I was a prisoner-of-war here, over eight months ago, could have any bearing on the present situation or, of course, I should have mentioned it. In any event, sir, I was never asked.”
Schiller looked as if he were about to dispute this statement but the Chief of Police waved him imperiously to silence.
“You claim, monsieur, to be the Captain of an English shipof-war and not a spy,” he said, addressing Phillip. “But I have three witnesses who saw you in the Cathedral here, in this city, the morning before you were apprehended by Colonel Piroff’s troop of cavalry, supposedly landing on our coast! Is this how you repay His Excellency the Baron Osten-Sacken to whom, on your own admission, you owe your life? Mother of God, I am glad that His Excellency is with our victorious armies in the Crimea for, if he were here, it would distress him immeasurably to learn of your treachery!”
His tone was exultant now and Phillip’s blood ran suddenly cold. This, he recognized with bitter resignation, was the end. In spite of the lies he had endeavoured to tell, Golitsin had proof that he had broken the truce and every reason to accuse him of spying … for which, as Colonel Piroff had reminded him, the penalty was death. He attempted to speak but the words died in his throat as Colonel Golitsin rose and, with a dramatic gesture, flung open the door into the anteroom, calling upon its occupants to enter the inner office.
They did so, in obedient procession. The first two were, as Phillip had feared, the black-bearded man who had stood behind him in the Cathedral and one of the ushers and then, to his stunned dismay, he saw that the third witness was Boris. Colonel Golitsin pointed to him and then spoke to the three newcomers, obviously inviting them to identify him which, almost with one accord, they did, the black-bearded man volubly, the usher with an emphatic “Da, da!” and Boris— incredibly—with a beaming smile of pleased recognition. Phillip stared at him, frozen into immobility and trying vainly to think of some defense to offer which would not, however indirectly, involve Mademoiselle Sophie when, to his amazement, the giant footman stepped up to him and bowed. From a gold embossed leather pouch, he took two envelopes, both adorned with heavy, crested seals. Still beaming, he gave one to Phillip and turning, almost contemptuously, put the other into Colonel Golitsin’s outstretched hand. After a brief hesitation, Golitsin returned to his chair and opened the envelope he had been given.
Phillip, still unable to move, watched him in shocked fascination and saw a glittering object fall from the envelope into his palm—an object he inst
antly recognized as the emerald ring, with the Imperial double-headed eagle, which Mademoiselle Sophie had presented to him on leaving the Trojan. Oh dear God, he thought in bitter self-reproach, why had he not anticipated that Mademoiselle Sophie would make an attempt to save him? And why, in heaven’s name why, had he not pleaded guilty to the charges against him days ago, when he might have avoided this catastrophe?
Boris touched his arm and gestured to the letter he was holding, as yet unopened, in his hand, murmuring something unintelligible in his own tongue. He looked calm and unruffled, even pleased and, seeing this, Phillip took fresh heart. He nodded, his throat still dry and, taking great care to hide the fact that his hands were trembling, he broke the seal and spread the letter across his knee where, controlling his apprehension, he forced himself to read it.
“My dear Phillip,” Mademoiselle Sophie had written. “I have only recently heard of your arrest. Why did you not tell me? Why did you not call on me for help? Dear Phillip, I am not without influence in high places and I could have spared you the anxiety and the discomfort which, I fear, you have had to endure for the past week or more.
“Do not worry … I have spoken to the Deputy Governor on your behalf and told him how you most gallantly risked your life in order to bring to me here the ring my beloved husband entrusted to you when he died on the field of battle. I have told him also how well and nobly you served me when I was a passenger on board your ship the Trojan and I have given him, in confidence, an account of some of the matters we spoke of when we were together last Sunday.
“At my request, he has written to Colonel Golitsin, to whom both my letter and his instructions will be delivered at once and I shall, in due course, inform my Uncle the Tsar of his zeal in my service. His Excellency has assured me that your release and that of your brave young midshipman, Mr O’Hara, will be arranged and you will both be conveyed to the English squadron, when the reply from the neutral Consuls—now being prepared by the Spanish representative, Señor Franco Baguer y Ribas—is sent out to them. For reasons which I need not go into, your return to your ship will be arranged in secret and no official mention of this, or your presence here, is to be made.
“My truly grateful good wishes go with you. It is a matter for regret that I cannot come in person to bid you farewell but my time is very near and I must shortly be brought to bed, so I crave your forgiveness for this omission.”
The letter was signed with the single name Sophie and Phillip felt unmanly tears come to sting at his eyes as he folded the letter and put it carefully into his pocket, relief and gratitude flooding over him. When he looked up, he saw that the two witnesses from the Cathedral were being hustled out by Schiller and that Colonel Piroff was now studying the contents of the envelope Boris had delivered to the Chief of Police, the emerald ring lying on the desk in front of him. Boris himself, continuing to beam with genial goodwill on friend and foe alike, crossed to the desk, where he waited expectantly until Colonel Golitsin picked up the ring and gave it to him. The tall footman bowed, restored the ring to its case and replaced both in his crested leather pouch and then, to Phillip’s surprise, took from it a small package which, bowing again, he held out invitingly.
The package bore his own name, Phillip saw, as he took it. Inside was a gold pocket-watch with the Imperial Russian cypher engraved on the case and attached to it was a card, on which was written, in Mademoiselle Sophie’s small, neat hand, “This, too, was my Father’s … I send it to you with my gratitude.”
Colonel Golitsin eyed the gift, an expression of almost ludicrous bewilderment on his gaunt, bony face as he glimpsed the cypher and then observed stiffly, “It would appear that I have done you an injustice, Commander Hazard. Permit me to offer you my apologies … and also to point out that you could have saved us all a great deal of trouble—and yourself the injustice—had you told us, at the outset, why you came here. But …” he shrugged. “I presume you have been made aware that, thanks to Her Imperial Highness’s gracious plea on your behalf, His Excellency the Deputy Governor has ordered that you be released?”
Phillip rose and bowed to him stiffly. “Thank you, sir, I have,” he acknowledged, without waiting for Schiller to complete his translation. “When may we expect to be returned to our squadron?”
“Within a few days, monsieur. In the meantime, it is necessary that you remain here but you will both, of course, be Colonel Piroff’s guests.” The Chief of Police returned his bow and, with a brusque word of dismissal to Boris, went out, the smiling giant obediently at his heels. “The Colonel-Commandant,” Captain Schiller announced, avoiding Phillip’s gaze, “would be honored, sir, if you and Mr O’Hara would dine with him this evening.”
“Thank you, Colonel, that will give us both much pleasure. But now …” Phillip looked from one to the other of his erstwhile interrogators without rancor, “have I your permission to retire to my quarters? I am anxious to inform Mr O’Hara of our impending release.”
“Within these walls, you are free to come and go as you please, monsieur,” Colonel Piroff assured him. “As Colonel Golitsin told you, both you and Monsieur O’Hara will be my guests and we shall arrange for your release as soon as it is possible.”
He was as good as his word. On the morning of 6th February, with a delighted O’Hara scarcely able to control his exuberance, Phillip rode back along the coast road to Odessa for what, while the war continued, he fervently hoped would be the last time. The church bells started to ring out as they neared the main boulevard leading to the Imperial Harbour and, hearing this, Colonel Piroff reined in his horse to enable Phillip to draw level with him. He was smiling as he said, in his careful French, “Your departure is well timed, Commander Hazard! You hear the bells? You will, I feel sure, be happy to know they signify that an heir has been born to the House of Narishkin.”
Once again Phillip saw Mademoiselle Sophie’s small, sweet face floating before him, just as he had seen it when the icy waters of the cove were closing over his head, like a vision from another world. As indeed, he thought, it was … and, his heart suddenly full, he breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness. The son he had so much wanted had been born to poor, dead Andrei Narishkin.
“I am happy for Her Imperial Highness,” he managed to say aloud and Colonel Piroff laid a friendly hand on his arm.
“And your boat is waiting, monsieur, as you can see— which, no doubt, will also make you happy.”
At the head of the stone steps leading down to the Mole, they dismounted and descended the steps together, O’Hara and two of their escort clattering after them. The Colonel took his leave when they reached the Mole and, accompanied by a solemn-faced Harbour Master and a naval guard, Phillip and his small midshipman were marched to the waiting boat. The church bells were ringing in their ears as the boat put off and was rowed out into the bay to meet one from the Wrangler which, under a flag of truce, came rapidly towards them. Lieutenant Risk was himself in command and, as his gig came alongside the Russian boat, Phillip glimpsed his look of astonished disbelief when he recognized the two passengers. He maintained a dignified silence while the Consuls’ note was delivered but, when Phillip joined him in the sternsheets of the gig, he could restrain himself no longer.
“Welcome aboard, Commander Hazard!” he exclaimed and wrung Phillip’s hand warmly. “I trust you will forgive my astonishment but I feel as though I were looking at a ghost, and that’s the truth! Your First Lieutenant reported you and your midshipman drowned, sir. He made no mention of your being taken by the enemy.”
“My First Lieutenant did not wait to make sure, Mr Risk,” Phillip answered grimly.
Risk stared at him. “That’s odd, sir—he told Captain Broke that your death had been witnessed by a whole boat’s crew and asked permission to rejoin the Fleet, so that your—er— your loss could be reported to the Commander-in-Chief immediately. So the Huntress is no longer with us, I’m afraid but … I’m extremely glad that the report was wrong, sir, needless to tell you. I’ll
take you to the Gladiator now, shall I, so that you can convey the welcome news of your survival to Captain Broke in person?” Receiving Phillip’s assent, he added sympathetically, “I imagine you’ll be anxious to get back to the Fleet yourself at the first opportunity, won’t you?”
Phillip nodded, tight-lipped. “Yes, Mr Risk,” he agreed, thinking of the floggings and then of the mission with which he had been entrusted and his long delayed account of Odessa’s defences. “Yes, I’m very anxious indeed to get back to the Fleet because I, too, have a report to deliver.”
“We shall probably sail for the Katcha tomorrow,” Risk informed him. “With the Consuls’ letter, leaving the Gladiator and the Mogador to maintain the blockade.”
“Then may I beg passage with you?”
“I shall be more than pleased to accommodate you, sir— and your mid. A well plucked ’un, isn’t he?”
“He is indeed,” Phillip confirmed, smiling across at O’Hara. “He’s worth more than many a man of twice his size.”
Fog delayed the Wrangler’s sailing for two days but she set course for the mouth of the Katcha River at first light on 9th February. Phillip occupied his enforced leisure by committing his report on Odessa to paper and when the Wrangler dropped anchor at the end of a line of steam frigates, he sent the bulky document he had compiled to the Agamemnon—still flying the flag of the Commander-in-Chief—together with Lieutenant Risk’s dispatches. Unable to see the Huntress anywhere among the anchored ships of the fleet, he fretted impotently until a letter from Frederick Cleeve, the Admiral’s Secretary, was delivered to him.
