He went off below to his cabin; Brown relieved him of his heavy full-dress coat with the epaulettes, and, once more alone, he began to fidget about the cabin. He opened the case of pistols which Barbara had given him, read the card inside it—the last word he had received from her—and shut the case again. He stepped out into the stern gallery and returned to the cabin. The realization that he was worried annoyed him; he took down Archdeacon Coxe’s travels from the bookshelf and set himself seriously to read the Archdeacon’s intensely wearisome remarks about the condition of Russia, in the endeavour to inform himself more fully about the northern powers. But the words made sheer nonsense to him; he took up the slim volume of Childe Harold instead.
“Bombast and fustian,” he said to himself, flipping through the pages.
He heard six bells strike; it was still no later than eleven in the morning, and he could not possibly dine before two.
He got up from his chair and made himself lie on his cot, shut his eyes and grimly clenched his hands and tried to force himself to doze. He could not possibly go up on deck again and walk up and down, as he wanted to—that would be a public admission that he was restless and nervous. The minutes passed on leaden feet; he felt he had never felt so caged and unhappy before in his life.
Eight bells went, and he heard the watch relieved; it was like an eternity before he heard a bustle on the half-deck outside and someone knocked on the door. Hornblower settled himself in an attitude of complete relaxation on his cot.
“Come in!” he called, and he blinked and peered at the midshipman as if he had just awakened from a sound sleep.
“Boat heading towards us, sir,” said the midshipman.
“I’ll come up,” said Hornblower. “Pass the word for my cox’n.”
Brown helped him into his dress-coat, and he reached the deck while the boat was still some distance off.
“The same pinnace that we saw before, sir,” commented Hurst.
The pinnace came into the wind, and took in her mainsail while the bowman hailed the ship in Russian.
“Where’s Mr. Braun?” said Hornblower.
The hail was repeated, and Braun translated.
“He is asking permission to hook on to us, sir. And he says he has a message for you.”
“Tell him to come alongside,” said Hornblower, This dependence upon an interpreter always irritated him.
The boat’s crew was smart, dressed in something like a uniform with blue shirts and white trousers, and in the stern-sheets, ready to mount the side, was an officer in military uniform, frogged across the breast in Hussar fashion. The Hussar came clumsily up the side, and glanced round, saluting the mass of gold lace which awaited him. Then he produced a letter, which he offered with a further explanation in Russian.
“From His Imperial Majesty the Tsar,” translated Braun with a catch in his voice.
Hornblower took the letter; it was addressed in French—
M. LE CHEF D’ESCADRE LE CAPITAINE SIR HORNBLOWER,
VAISSEAU BRITANNIQUE NOONSUCH.
Apparently the Tsar’s secretary, however competent he might be in other ways, was shaky regarding both British titles and spelling. The letter within was written in French as well—it was pleasant to be able to translate without Braun’s assistance.
The Imperial Palace of Peterhof
Grand Marshalate of the Imperial Court
May 30, 1812
SIR,
I am commanded by His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of All the Russias to express to you His Imperial Majesty’s pleasure at hearing of your arrival in His Imperial Majesty’s waters. His Imperial Majesty and His Royal Highness the Prince of Sweden further command you to dinner at this palace to-day at four o’clock accompanied by your staff. His Excellency the Minister of Marine has put at your disposal a boat which will convey you and your party direct to the quay, and the officer who conveys this letter to you will serve as your guide.
Accept, sir, the assurances of my highest consideration,
KOTCHUBEY, Grand Marshal of the Court
“I am invited to dinner with the Tsar and Bernadotte,” said Hornblower to Bush; he handed over the letter, and Bush looked at it wisely with his head on one side as if he could read French.
“You’re going, I suppose, sir?”
“Yes.”
It would hardly be tactful to begin his first encounter with the Russian and Swedish authorities by refusing an Imperial and a royal command.
Hornblower suddenly glanced round to find half the officers of the ship hanging on his words. This public discussion of his affairs was not in the least dignified, and detracted vastly from the pomp and mystery which should surround a Commodore. He had fallen sadly away from his old standards.
“Have none of you anything better to do than stand about and gape?” he bellowed, rounding on the herd. “I can find mastheads even for senior officers if necessary.”
They began to slink away in gratifying fright, each one doing his best to avoid catching his eye as he glowered round him. That was a very desirable result. Then he became aware that the Hussar had yet another letter in his hand. He took it from him and glanced at the superscription.
“Here, Colonel, this is for you,” he said, handing it to Wychwood before turning back to Bush. “The Tsar and Bernadotte are at Peterhof—the place is marked on the chart, on the Oranienbaum shore over there. You will be in command in my absence, of course.”
Bush’s face reflected a complexity of emotions; Hornblower knew that he was remembering other occasions when Hornblower had left him in command, to go on shore to beard a mad tyrant on the coast of Central America, or to undertake some harebrained adventure on the coast of France.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush.
“I have to take my staff,” said Hornblower. “Who do you think would care to dine with the Tsar?”
He could afford to be jocose with Bush, who held the same substantive rank as himself—especially after his recent assertion of his dignity.
“You’ll need Braun, I suppose, sir?”
“I suppose so.”
Dinner with the Tsar would be a notable experience for any young officer, something he would be able to yarn about for the rest of his life. Good service could be rewarded by an invitation; and at the same time some future Admiral might gain invaluable experience.
“I’ll take Hurst,” decided Hornblower; there were not the makings of an Admiral in the first lieutenant, but discipline demanded that he be included in the party. “And young Mound, if you’ll signal for him. And a midshipman. Who do you suggest?”
“Somers is the brightest, sir.”
“The fat one? Very good, I’ll take him. Have you been invited, too, Colonel?”
“I have, sir,” answered Wychwood.
“We must be there at four. How long will it take to arrive?”
He looked at the Hussar, who did not understand him, and then looked round for Braun, who had left the deck, which was perfectly infuriating. When Hornblower had turned on the idling crowd he had not meant Braun to go, of course. It was just like Braun with his mock humble pose to take his chief literally. Hornblower angrily ordered the word to be passed for him, and fumed until he came up again; yet when he came there was small satisfaction to be derived from his services, for when Hornblower’s question was translated to the Hussar the latter merely raised his eyes to the sky and shrugged his shoulders before offering the information—translated by Braun—that it might be two hours and it might be four. As a soldier the Hussar would make no estimate of the time necessary for a journey by boat.
“We mustn’t be late for a royal command, damn it,” said Hornblower. “We’ll leave in half an hour.”
Hornblower came punctually to the ship’s side to find the others awaiting him, young Somers’ plump cheeks empurpled with the constriction of his stock, Hurst and Mound uncomfortable in their full dress, Braun stiffly uniformed.
“Carry on,” said Hornblower.
Young Somers went fir
st in accordance with the age-old rule of the junior getting first into a boat, and Braun followed him. Braun’s lifted arm, as he went over the side, pulled up his tight coat for a moment, and his waistcoat with it. Something flashed momentarily into view at his waistband; something black—Hornblower’s eyes were resting on it at that moment. It must have been the butt of a pistol, the barrel of it pushed into the waistband of his breeches, round by his hip where the bulge would be least noticeable. The fellow was wearing his sword, of course. Hornblower began to wonder why he should take a pistol. But Mound and Hurst had followed him down by this time, and Wychwood was heaving himself over, in his scarlet tunic and bearskin. The Hussar should go next, so that the Commodore should descend last, but he was hanging back with misplaced politeness, bowing and making way for the Commodore.
“After you, sir,” said Hornblower to his deaf ears.
Hornblower had positively to stamp his foot to compel the ignorant soldier to precede him, and then he swung himself over to the shrilling of the pipes of the boatswain’s mates and the rigid salutes of the ship’s officers. He dropped into the sternsheets, encumbered with his boat-cloak. There was a tiny cabin forward, where he joined Wychwood and Hurst. Mound and the warrant officers and the Hussar kept themselves discreetly in the stern. The coxswain yelled some strange order and the boat cast off, the lugsail was hoisted and they headed over to the Oranienbaum shore.
From where he sat Hornblower could see Braun sitting stiffly in the sternsheets. That business of the pistol was rather curious. Presumably he had fears of attack or arrest on shore as a recent rebel, and wished to have the means to defend himself. But not even the Russians would lay hands on an English officer, in a British uniform. That was a big pistol butt; a black one too. Hornblower suddenly moved uneasily on his locker, uncrossed his knees and recrossed them. That was one of the pistols Barbara had given him the butt of which he had seen in Braun’s waistband. He remembered the shape of the ebony butt too well to be mistaken about it.
The presence of a thief on board a ship was always upsetting and disturbing; theft was so easy and suspicion could be spread so wide, although that was not true in this case. It would still be a nasty business accusing Braun of the crime and punishing him for it. An English-made rifled pistol with percussion caps—presumably the very first of its kind to reach Russia—would command a fabulous price at the Russian Court. Braun could reasonably expect to obtain two or three hundred guineas for it. And yet even with all his prejudice against him he could not believe Braun capable of petty theft.
The coxswain suddenly shouted a new order, and the pinnace came about on the other tack; the dipping lug with which she was equipped had to be taken in and reset when she tacked, and Hornblower watched the evolution with professional interest. The Russian sailors were smart and handy enough, but that was to be expected of the crew of the pinnace specially attached to the service of the Russian Admiralty. The Nonsuch was already far astern, hull down. A buoy made its appearance close alongside, and passed away astern, the rapidity of its passage proof of the speed the pinnace was making through the water.
“We’re heading sou’west now, sir,” commented Hurst; “we’re out of the fairway.”
He climbed up out of the little cabin and peered ahead.
“Land right ahead, sir,” he reported, “but no sign of any palace.”
“I know nothing about the Peterhof,” remarked Wychwood. “I was in Tsarskoe Selo and the old Winter Palace as a subaltern on Wilson’s staff before Tilsit. The Peterhof’s one of the lesser palaces; I expect they chose it for this meeting so that Bernadotte could arrive direct by sea.”
It was quite futile to debate what would be the result of this evening’s meeting, and yet the temptation was overwhelming. The minutes slipped by until the coxswain shouted a new order. The lugsail came down, and the piles of a jetty came into sight beside the pinnace as she rounded-to. Lines were thrown out and the pinnace drew in beside a broad companion way rundown into the water from the top of the jetty. This time the Russian officer’s politeness was not misplaced. First out of a boat and last in, in order of seniority, was the etiquette of the Navy; Hornblower ducked out of the little cabin, stepped on to the companionway and began to walk up, hurriedly making sure that his cocked hat was on straight and his sword properly slung. As he reached the top someone shouted an order; there was a guard of twenty soldiers drawn up there, grenadiers in bearskins and blue coats. They put their left arms across their breasts as they presented arms in a fashion that appeared backhanded to a man accustomed to receiving salutes from the Royal Marines. Yet the uniforms and the pose seemed strangely familiar; Hornblower realized that he was being reminded of the wooden soldiers that young Richard had been playing with—a box of German soldiers smuggled out of the continental blockade and presented to him by one of Barbara’s diplomatic friends. Of course the Russian Army was organized on the German model, and German uniforms had been introduced by Peter III. Hornblower stiffly returned the salute of the officer of the guard, standing at attention long enough for the rest of the party to catch him up; the Hussar spoke rapidly to Braun in Russian.
“There are carriages waiting for us, sir,” Braun interpreted, Hornblower could see them at the end of the jetty, two big open landaus, with fine horses to each; in the drivers’ seats sat coachmen pigtailed and powdered wearing red coats—not the scarlet of the British Army or of the British royal liveries, but a softer, strawberry red. Footmen similarly dressed stood at the horses’ heads and at the carriage doors.
“Senior officers go in the first carriage,” explained Braun.
Hornblower climbed in, with Wychwood and Hurst after him; with an apologetic smile the Hussar followed them and sat with his back to the horses. The door shut. One footman leaped up beside the coachman and the other sprang up behind, and the horses dashed forward. The road wound through a vast park, alternate sweeps of grass and groves of trees; here and there fountains threw lofty jets of water at the sky, and marble naiads posed by marble basins. Occasional turns in the road opened up beautiful vistas down the terraced lawns; there were long flights of marble steps and beautiful little marble pavilions, but also, at every turning, beside every fountain and every pavilion, there were sentries on guard, stiffly presenting arms as the carriages whirled by.
“Every Tsar for the last three generations has been murdered,” remarked Wychwood. “It’s only the women who die in their beds. Alexander is taking precautions.”
The carriage turned sharply again and came out on a broad gravelled parade ground; on the farther side Hornblower just had time to see the palace, a rambling rococo building of pink and grey stone with a dome at either end, before the carriage drew up at the entrance to the salute of a further guard, and a white-powdered footman opened the doors. With a few polite words in Russian the Hussar led the party forward up a flight of pink marble steps and into a lofty anteroom. A swarm of servants came forward to take their boat-cloaks; Hornblower remembered to put his cocked hat under his arm and the others followed his example. The folding doors beyond were thrown open, and they went towards them, to be received by a dignified official whose coat was of the same Imperial red where the colour was visible through the gold lace. He wore powder and carried in his hand a gold-tipped ebony stave.
“Kotchubey,” he said, speaking fair French. “Grand Marshal of the Palace. Commodore Hornblower? Lord Wychwood?”
They bowed to him, and Hornblower presented the others; he saw the Grand Marshal run an all-embracing eye over their uniforms to make sure that nothing unworthy of the Court of the Tsar would penetrate farther into the palace. Then he turned back to Hornblower and Wychwood.
“His Excellency the Minister of Marine would be honoured if Commodore Hornblower would grant him time for a short interview.”
“I am at His Excellency’s service,” said Hornblower, “but I am here at the command of His Imperial Majesty.”
“That is very good of you, sir. There will be time be
fore His Imperial Majesty appears. And His Excellency the Minister of Foreign Affairs would be honoured by Lord Wychwood’s attention for a few minutes in a similar way.”
“I am at His Excellency’s service,” said Wychwood. For a man of his experience his French was remarkably poor.
“Thank you,” said Kotchubey.
He turned, and three more officers of the Court approached at his gesture. They wore less gold lace than Kotchubey, and from the gold keys embroidered on their lapels Hornblower knew them to be chamberlains. There were further introductions, more bows.
“Now if you have the kindness to accompany me, sir—” said Kotchubey to Hornblower.
Two chamberlains took charge of the junior officers, one took charge of Wychwood, and Kotchubey led Hornblower away. Hornblower gave one last glance at his party. Even the stolid Hurst, even the deliberately languid Mound, wore rather scared expressions at being abandoned by their captain like this in an Imperial palace. Hornblower was reminded of children being handed over by their parents to a strange nurse. But Braun’s expression was different. His green eyes were glowing with excitement, and there was a new tenseness about his features, and he was casting glances about him like a man preparing himself for some decisive action. Hornblower felt a wave of misgiving break over him; during the excitement of setting foot in Russia he had forgotten about Braun, about the stolen pistol, about everything connected with him. He wanted time to think, and yet Kotchubey was hurrying him away and allowing him no time. They walked through a magnificent room—Hornblower was only just conscious of its furniture, pictures, and statuary—and through folding doors beyond, which were opened for them by two of the footmen who seemed to be present in hundreds. The corridor was wide and lofty, more like a picture gallery than a corridor, but Kotchubey only went a few yards along it. He stopped abruptly at an inconspicuous door, from before which two more footmen stepped with alacrity at his approach. The door opened straight upon a steep winding stairway; half-way up there was another door, this one guarded by four burly soldiers in pink uniforms with high boots and baggy breeches whom Hornblower recognized as the first Cossacks he had ever seen in the flesh. They nearly jammed the narrow stairway as they drew back against the wall to make way; Hornblower had to push past them. Kotchubey scratched upon the door and instantly opened it, immediately drawing Hornblower after him with a gesture as though he were a conspirator.
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