by V. A. Stuart
The others remounted, each with an extra man or one of the bundles of provisions on his saddle-bow but Dafir, after a low-voiced consultation with Phillip’s escort, was given a horse of his own. Accompanied by two of the grey-beard’s horsemen, he set off at a furious gallop, evidently determined to be the first to bring news of their coming to the Pasha’s camp.
“He’s in a tearing hurry, as usual,” Cochrane observed dryly. “Ought we to have let him go, d’you think, sir?”
“Well, we obviously can’t stop him now, Mr Cochrane.” Phillip’s tone was resigned. “I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t let Aslam persuade me to leave him behind—it’s damned awkward being unable to communicate with these people.”
He hoped that Najib Bey’s information concerning the linguistic powers of the Polish officer was also right or, if it was not, that he would find someone in the camp who would be capable of understanding his schoolboy French.
It took fifteen minutes’ hard riding to reach the camp and, when they did so, Phillip was conscious of a keen sense of disappointment, for the place was all but deserted. He dismounted and took stock. As he had expected, there were no tents, only a few scattered wooden barns and huts, grouped about an old, stone-built farmhouse which, he could only presume had until recently been in use as Serfir Pasha’s headquarters. A dozen or so Circassian riflemen were lounging about outside, apparently guarding the place and, if there were any women, he could see no sign of them, although it was possible that they were inside the building—Mohammedans, he remembered, kept their women in the harem, closely guarded. The ashes of what had obviously been bivouac fires were scattered here and there, a few of them still glowing and he deduced, from this evidence, that the camp had been occupied until a few hours before and by a much smaller force than he had expected—perhaps five or six hundred, at most. Turning to Cochrane, who was beside him, he saw his own disappointment mirrored in the younger man’s face.
“The birds seem to have flown, don’t they, sir? But where . . . and why?”
Phillip sighed. “I imagine they must have gone to set their ambush for the Russian supply train and that we’ve got here too late. Where’s Dafir got to—can you see him anywhere?”
“I’ll look around, sir,” Cochrane volunteered. Accompanied by Thompson, he made for the farmhouse. Erikson, displaying his usual initiative, was doing his best to communicate in sign language with the grey-bearded leader of the cavalry patrol which had been their escort and Phillip crossed the littered ground to join him.
“Can you get anything useful out of them?” he asked.
“Well, sir”—Erikson shrugged despondently—“only that they’re offering us food. I’ve asked for Serfir Pasha but all they do is wag their heads and grin and old Grey Beard here keeps putting his rifle to his shoulder and going through the motions of aiming and firing. But that may be because he wants me to show him how the Miniés perform; sir, I don’t know. He’s certainly taking a great interest in them.”
“Then give him a demonstration,” Phillip answered. “We may want him to take us to Serfir Pasha if we can’t find any one in authority here . . . and it doesn’t look as if we shall.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The fair-haired seaman picked up one of the Minié rifles and, with murmurs of approval, the members of the escort surrounded him, one of them, at his behest, setting up a pile of stones as a target. “Here, shove this on top!” Erikson shouted after him and threw a nicotine-stained clay pipe in his direction. To roars of good humoured laughter, the man caught it and placed it upright on the pile of stones, wedging it firmly by the stem, as Erikson moved away, carefully pacing out the range. Attracted by the laughter and general excitement, some of the guards from the farmhouse came strolling across to attach themselves to his audience and, leaving them to their demonstration, Phillip strode restlessly on.
Cochrane and Thompson had left the farmhouse, he saw, and were extending their search further afield but he did not join them. He felt anxious and ill at ease, filled with a sense of anticlimax. They had come so far and with so much effort that he did not feel inclined to remain idly kicking his heels in the deserted camp until the Pasha returned from his foray. It might be days before he did return, since he might well change his plans according to the success or failure of his attempt to ambush the supply train. Phillip sighed. Anapa was a little under fifty miles from Ghelenjik along the coast, he knew from his charts, and Soujak Kaleh about sixteen—a wide area to cover, when the encircling mountain ranges were included, and he had very little time to spare. He took out his watch and his anxiety was allayed a little when he saw that it was not quite twelve-thirty. If he did go in search of Serfir Pasha, obviously he would have to do so in daylight and come up with him before dark but . . . that gave him a bit of latitude. The still warm ashes of the cooking fires were proof that the Pasha could not have left more than an hour or so before and a small mounted party, setting off in pursuit, should be able to overtake a force of several hundred, not all of whom could be on horseback. They . . .
“Sir—Commander Hazard!” Cochrane hailed him from the door of a hut about fifty yards away and, catching a note of urgency in his voice, Phillip hurried over to where he was standing. “What is it, Mr Cochrane?” he asked. “Have you found Dafir?”
“No, sir, the young devil seems to have deserted us. But”— Cochrane pointed to the hut behind him—“I’ve found a wounded officer in there, who speaks English. He says he’s Polish, sir, and a cavalry officer in the Turkish service, so I thought you’d want a word with him.”
“Indeed I do!” Phillip exclaimed, unable to hide his relief. “Perhaps he’ll be able to tell us what’s going on and where we can find Serfir Pasha. Is he badly wounded?”
Cochrane shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. He has his right arm in a sling but he seems in quite good fettle and most anxious to talk. Oh, by the way, sir—they’re laying on a meal for us in the farmhouse, as far as I could make out from the guards. It smelt rather good, so do you think we—”
“Yes, of course,” Phillip agreed. “Eat while you’ve got the chance, Mr Cochrane. Collect Thompson—and Erikson, when he’s finished giving his demonstration with the Minié rifle. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve spoken to this Polish officer. Did he tell you his name?”
“He said it was Gorak, sir—Jan Gorak, and that he holds the rank of Colonel. Er—forgive my asking, but are we going after the Pasha, sir, if this fellow’s able to tell you where he is?”
“I’m afraid we shall have to,” Phillip answered. “With or without Dafir . . . but keep your eyes peeled, in case he shows up, won’t you?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Cochrane acknowledged and added with a grin, “I hope we’re in time for the scrap—that is, the ambush. I’ll do what I can to organize some horses, shall I? I don’t know about you, sir, but I don’t fancy riding double in a cavalry charge.”
“We are not here to take part in ambushes, Mr Cochrane,” Phillip reproved him. “Or cavalry charges, may I remind you! We have been sent to bring Serfir Pasha back to Ghelenjik—that and nothing more. But organize us a horse apiece, if you can, by all means. If we have to go far, it will be more comfortable.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Cochrane took himself off, quite unperturbed by the reproof and Phillip smiled to himself as he knocked on the door of the hut. Young Anthony Cochrane had matured in many respects during the last year, he thought, and had certainly changed out of all recognition from the unhappy youngster whom the late Captain North had so sadistically bullied. He had confidence in himself now and . . .
“Enter,” a deep, faintly accented voice bade him and he did so, ducking his head to pass under the low doorway into the hut. “So you are Captain Hazard, are you? I am happy to welcome you, sir.”
“Commander Hazard, sir, of Her Britannic Majesty’s ship Huntress,” Phillip corrected. It was dark inside the hut and, for a second or two, he could not adjust his vision to it, after the bright sunlight outside. “And you, si
r, are Colonel Gorak, I believe?”
“Kazim Bey to my Turkish masters, Commander—but Jan Gorak to you. Please be seated, will you not?”
Phillip sat down. The Polish Colonel, he saw now, was a small, white-haired man with an oddly youthful and somewhat lugubrious face, adorned by an imposing cavalry moustache and a pair of neatly trimmed white whiskers. He was evidently in the act of dressing, for the buttons of his dark blue coatee were still unfastened and, impeded by the sling in which he wore his right arm, he appeared to be having some difficulty in donning his long riding boots, but when Phillip made to assist him, he shook his head.
“No, no—I must learn to manage this myself. There . . .” breathless but triumphant, he struggled into the boots. “It can be done, if one sets one’s mind to it.” His English was fluent and idiomatic, his accent a curious blend of Slav and Irish which puzzled Phillip until, sensing his bewilderment, the little man smilingly explained that, although his father had been Polish, his mother had hailed originally from Cork. “My father,” he added, with conscious pride, “was one of the great Napoleon Bonaparte’s cavalry commanders, who served with him in Russia and fell at Waterloo. We are soldiers of fortune, you see. I myself took service in the Austrian Army as a boy of seventeen, where I made the acquaintance of the man I have followed ever since—Richard Debaufre Guyon. He is an Englishman, of Irish descent, and his father was an officer in your Royal Navy. In the Turkish Army he is known as Kourshid Pasha and he holds the rank of Lieutenant-General . . . perhaps you have heard of him?”
“Indeed I have, sir,” Phillip assured him. “My Admiral has spoken of him many times and in the highest terms. It is he who has won all the victories in Asia Minor, is it not? He and the Circassian chief, Schamyl.”
The little Polish Colonel beamed his gratification at this tribute. “He has won victories for the Turks—I might almost say in spite of the Turks, for the native Pashas constantly intrigue against him, ignore his advice and even countermand his orders, although he is Chief of Staff and was elected to preside over the Military Council at Kars. They are jealous of him, you see. It is a great pity—he could achieve anything, if only they would give him the support and loyalty to which he is entitled. He is a brilliant strategist and the bravest man it has ever been my good fortune to meet. I served with him in Hungary in the Kossuth rebellion of eighteen-forty-eight and I was with him at Komorn, when he broke through the Austrian lines at the head of a single troop of Hussars . . .” Colonel Gorak sighed reminiscently, his dark eyes suddenly bright. “And I fled with him to Turkey, where Kossuth and Bem had also taken refuge. When he offered his sword to the Sultan, I did the same. Such was his reputation that the Porte did not insist that he embrace the Mohammedan faith, when he expressed his reluctance to do so. He was the first Christian ever to be given the rank of General in the Turkish Army without renouncing his faith. Indeed, he . . . but I bore you, with my memories of past glories, Commander Hazard.”
“You do not, sir,” Phillip answered truthfully.
“Nevertheless, we must speak of the present. You have not, I feel sure, journeyed here without very good reason. May I enquire why you have come?”
Phillip explained his mission and the little Polish Colonel nodded vigorous approval, as he spoke of the Admiral’s plan for a second attempt to send a naval squadron into the Sea of Azoff.
“Excellent!” he said warmly. “That is the best possible strategy to employ. Once the major supply routes to the Army of the Tchernaya and Sebastopol are cut, Prince Gortchakoft will be compelled to withdraw his forces from the city. As to Circassian co-operation . . . I am confident that this will be given very willingly, provided the Turks really intend to supply the help they have promised. Certainly they will meet with Zarif Mustapha Pasha, for whom they have considerable respect . . . he is a fine soldier who, unlike many of his colleagues, has never flinched from his duty. You say he will come to Ghelenjik?”
“Yes, within the next eight days, Colonel Gorak,” Phillip confirmed. “That is why I must see Serfir Pasha without delay. My orders are to persuade him to come back with me and—”
“He will approve your Admiral’s plan,” the little Colonel said with conviction. “It is one after his own heart. These Circassians are a brave people, Commander—and they have fought against Russian oppression for over thirty years . . .” there was a soft tap on the door of the hut and he broke off. “Ah, they bring us food at last,” he announced with satisfaction. In response to his invitation, a boy of about twelve came in, bearing two earthenware containers, suspended from a yoke from his thin, bowed shoulders. “You will no doubt be hungry after your arduous journey, Commander Hazard but, if you are not, here is one who will help to restore your appetite. This is Selina, the joy of my heart.”
Hearing the patter of sandalled feet on the wooden floor of the hut, Phillip glanced up indifferently. The Colonel would have a native wife, he supposed, as so many of the exiled Europeans in the Turkish service had. “Indeed, sir,” he began, “I . . .” but the words died on his lips as he saw a girl coming towards him, a young girl of such extraordinary beauty that the sight of her took his breath away.
She was graceful and slender, aged at most seventeen or eighteen, and she wore no all-concealing yashmak or shapeless robe to hide her beauty from male eyes. Her oval face, with its pale skin and exquisitely shaped features, caught and held his startled gaze and, when she drew up a table and placed it in front of him, he found himself looking into a pair of wide, dark eyes which—save for the amber flecks in them—might have belonged to a fawn or some other small, untamed creature of the wild. There was, however, no vestige of fear in their shining depths, only a shy curiosity that turned to pleasure as she looked at him, clearly liking what she saw and making no coquettish attempt to pretend otherwise.
“Selina, my dear child, permit me to present Commander Hazard of the British Navy,” Colonel Gorak said formally. He spoke in French—evidently the language in which they normally conversed—but Phillip scarcely heard him. He rose, the girl’s hand touched his in silent acknowledgement of the introduction and then, with a smile, she motioned him to resume his seat. He did so but continued to watch her as if mesmerized, as she moved about the dimly lit room. The long years of harsh, uncompromising naval discipline to which he had been subjected, had accustomed him to keep his personal feelings under stern control and to make no open display of emotion but, in spite of this, he came near to betraying his feelings now. He was aware of the quickening of his pulses and of the hot blood rushing, in a revealing flood, to his cheeks and was shocked by his own primitive reaction. He was no gauche boy, he reminded himself angrily. Dear heaven—he had known many beautiful women, had known and loved Mademoiselle Sophie, for whom he . . . the Colonel said something to him and, although he had no idea what it was, it broke the spell and he was recalled abruptly to his surroundings. Recovering his composure, he turned back to the man he had come to see, with a murmured apology.
“Forgive me, sir . . . you were saying?”
“It was of no importance,” Colonel Gorak assured him. But his tone was cold, Phillip noticed uneasily, and he was frowning, as if his visitor’s momentary lapse had not entirely escaped him. “I trust you can stomach the flesh of the humble goat, Commander—it is all we have to offer. The wine is rough but, I think, quite palatable.” He inclined his white head and the girl he had called Selina took two steaming bowls from the little serving boy and set them down on the rough-hewn wooden table, each with a horn spoon and a knife beside it. She poured wine for them both and then dropped to her knees, carefully slicing the Colonel’s meat, so that he might eat it with one hand. He smiled down at her fondly, caressing the demurely bent dark head with his good hand. “Selina is my most precious possession,” he stated gravely. “She consoles me in my exile and I should not know what to do without her. I observe that she pleases you—she is beautiful, is she not?”
“She is very beautiful indeed, sir,” Phillip managed,
his voice deliberately flat. This girl, he thought, suddenly sickened, this young and lovely child and this old, white-haired man for whom, on his own admission, she was a consolation for the country he had lost . . . he picked up his knife but could not bring himself to touch the food so lavishly filling the bowl in front of him. The girl flushed, evidently understanding what he had said and he exclaimed, surprised, “She speaks English, sir? I did not realize—”
“Oh, yes. Not quite so well as she speaks French and, of course, Osmanli . . . but reasonably well. We are not all savages, Commander Hazard, even if we are exiles from European civilization,” the Colonel answered with dignity.
“No, sir, of course not.” Phillip took a gulp of his wine, again cursing his own lack of tact. “I did not mean to imply . . . that is, I realize that she is very young and—”
“Selina is eighteen years old,” Colonel Gorak told him. “Since I took her from a convent school in Erzeroum two years ago, she has learnt to ride a horse as well as any man, to climb and find her way among these mountains and to dress wounds with great skill . . . all necessary accomplishments, in our present circumstances. This war has made nomads of us, as well as exiles, you see.”
“Yes, I see. But . . .” Phillip was appalled. Two years of this existence, for a gently born, convent educated girl . . . he bit back the question he wanted to ask lest he again offended his host, but the Colonel, guessing his thoughts, gave him a wry smile. “Is she safe, you mean? She is safer here with me than she would be in any town, over-run in turn by Turks and Russians, I give you my word. I would kill any man who sought to dishonour her, Commander Hazard. Besides”—he held up his heavily bandaged right arm—“but for her care, I should have lost my sword-arm. That is so, is it not, Selina?”
The girl’s flush deepened. She murmured something in a language Phillip did not understand and, to his secret relief, softly withdrew, taking the small serving boy with her.
