In Northern Seas

by Philip K Allan

  The same officer who had delivered the invitation earlier was lounging in the stern sheets, still in his white uniform and gleaming high boots. He fell into an earnest conversation with Vansittart. Clay tried to listen to what was being said, but their French was too rapid for him to follow, so instead he sat back and enjoyed the view. The edge of the sea ice on either side was thin and broken now, with channels and fissures running through it. It had appeared white from the frigate, but close to he could see that the edge was like pale blue glass in places, where lumps had recently broken free. It was noticeable cooler on the water, and as the sun neared the horizon, the ice began to groan and crack. From out of the hushed conversation between Vansittart and the officer he distinctly heard the name ‘von Bennigsen'. He forced himself not to look around, and instead watched the southern shore as it passed.

  The wall of dark fir trees gradually thinned, to be replaced with areas of farmland. Brown earth, divided up into tiny plots and strips and dotted with wooden huts thatched in straw, stretched away from the coast towards the horizon. Bearded men, women in bright headscarves, and children at play paused to watch the naval launch as it sailed by, while chickens scratched around their feet. The number and density of dwellings grew as they sailed on towards the city. Soon the odd stone building appeared amongst those made of wood, and the dwellings began to line the sides of dirt tracks. As it became darker, orange light glowed in the occasional window, and they passed a little church with an onion dome. The clash of its bells sounded continuously across the ice as figures made their way towards its open door. As the boat came level, Clay glimpsed the glow of candles from deep inside.

  The coxswain bellowed an order and the launch went about, following another channel in the ice, narrow and slanting towards the shore. Now the buildings facing the sea were bigger. They were all of painted plaster or brick, their facades full of tall windows. Clay realised that the beach of pebbles and drift wood had become a quayside. A frozen river led inland, and down it Clay glimpsed the span of a lamp-lit bridge. Ahead was what must be their destination. The slot of clear water through the ice led straight towards a landing stage projecting out from the shore. It was lit with strings of lamps, and thronged with soldiers. With a fresh volley of orders, the launch swept up to the jetty, dropping its sails as it did so. The last of the boat’s way was sufficient to bring it alongside some steps, and a sailor with a painter jumped ashore and made it fast. Waiting at the end of the landing stage was a carriage, drawn by four sleek horses, with a bewigged coachman on the box seat and another holding the animals’ heads.

  ‘Welcome to St Petersburg,’ said the young Russian officer, rising to his feet and indicating that they should step ashore. Vansittart led the way, followed by Clay and their guide. Trailing along behind came Rankin and Sedgwick.

  On either side of the landing stage was a rank of soldiers in dark green who presented arms as they spotted the uniforms of the naval captain and their guide. Clay touched his hat in acknowledgement, and with a last look back towards the sea he followed Vansittart and the officer into the upholstered interior of the carriage. It swayed and creaked on its springs as Sedgwick and Rankin climbed onto the outside seat at the rear. Then, with the crack of a whip and a guttural order in Russian, the coach lurched into motion. They gathered pace to the sound of iron wheel rims and hooves on cobbles, and turned down a broad street into the city.

  It was almost dark now, and Clay could only get a fleeting impression of St Petersburg through the carriage window. He saw other coaches, and people walking along the pavements. The row of buildings that bordered the street would occasionally give way to show an onion-domed church or brightly lit palace set back from the road. He felt the carriage start to climb, and looking out he could see the white ice of a frozen river beyond the parapet of a bridge. On the far side they passed through a torch-lit gate, guarded by yet more soldiers, and entered a small area of parkland. The softer crunch of gravel sounded from beneath the wheels. Black, leafless trees lined the drive, with a glimpse of empty flowerbeds and flattened grass beyond.

  ‘These gardens must be magnificent in summer,’ he said in French, indicating a little white temple that stood beside a frozen pond.

  ‘Oh, they are, monsieur,’ enthused the officer in white. ‘You are seeing the palace at the worst time. The snow has almost gone, but nothing yet has begun to grow. In a few weeks from now it will be transformed. Our destination is just ahead.’

  The carriage made a sweeping turn, and a tall building with a pitched roof of green tiles reared up beside them. The walls were of orange plaster set between gleaming white columns. More white stone surrounded each window and doorway, and there were many more soldiers in the same dark green uniform.

  ‘Tell me, Lieutenant,’ said Vansittart. ‘Which of the Guard regiments is protecting the tsar at present?’

  ‘The Preobrazhensky have that honour this month, sir,’ said the young officer.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the diplomat. ‘They are a very fine body of men. Did I hear that they were the late Tsarina Catherine’s favourite regiment?’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘General von Bennigsen was their colonel for many years.’

  ‘So he was,’ said Vansittart, almost to himself. ‘So he was.’

  It was quite dark now, and cold rain had begun to fall, but the light from several thousand candles spilt out of the palace’s numerous windows. The carriage came to a halt, and a footman in a long coat and powdered wig pulled open the door, while a colleague folded down the steps.

  ‘Would you kindly follow me, messieurs?’ said the officer. ‘I am ordered to take you to see the governor first.’ Clay hesitated at the carriage door, pulling his cloak close and settling his hat on his head. He saw Sedgwick and Rankin being led away towards a much smaller door. Vansittart and the Russian were already hurrying through the rain towards the palace, so he set off after them. As soon as he was out of the coach he realised that they had driven beyond the huge covered porch in the centre of the building’s facade to draw up level with a lesser entrance. More soldiers presented arms at the door, and then they were inside. Clay surrendered his wet cloak to a footman, tucked his cocked hat under his arm, and set off down a wide corridor with a lofty ceiling that stretched ahead of them. The floor was of gleaming marble, slightly treacherous beneath his wet shoes. The walls were covered in a rich burgundy paper, and lined with gilt-framed pictures. Sets of double doors stood on either side, each with a footman standing by it, but they marched past these, deeper into the building, turning first one way and then another until they arrived at a door with two more sentries guarding it. The young officer in white knocked and immediately opened it, standing to one side and gesturing for them to enter.

  Clay found that he was in a large, book-lined room, with a thick Persian carpet on the floor. There were small tables and comfortable chairs dotted around, and a painted globe on a stand in one corner. A bright fire burned in the grate, and its light sparkled off the uniforms and military orders worn by the men who stood around the fireplace, drinking champagne and talking loudly. Trails of blue cigar smoke drifted up towards a chandelier that hung overhead. As the group turned towards the door he saw it included both General von Bennigsen, in a much more elaborate version of the green uniforms worn by the sentries outside, and Count von Pahlen, resplendent in a white tunic covered in gold fogging. There were five other men with them, all in various military uniforms. Von Bennigsen broke off his conversation with a moustached hussar officer, and came over to embrace Vansittart.

  ‘Nikolai, you cunning fox, you!’ he exclaimed. ‘We were just now singing your praises! I was explaining to Konstantin here the ruse you devised to bring Alexander to join our little conspiracy.’

  ‘Have a care now,’ urged Vansittart, looking at the group of men in alarm. ‘I am not sure I entirely follow you. Have you been drinking long, General?’

  ‘There is no need for fear, old friend,’ explained vo
n Bennigsen. ‘These men are all patriots, sworn to aid us. They can be trusted implicitly.’

  ‘And what of the servants?’ asked Vansittart, indicating the footmen in the room.

  ‘Each one is an army veteran, whose position I obtained for them in the palace,’ said the general.

  ‘Nevertheless, perhaps it would be best if the captain and I were not present,’ said Vansittart. ‘I think I heard you speak of conspiracy?’

  ‘Don’t be coy, old friend!’ beamed von Bennigsen, drawing the diplomat towards the group. ‘Von Pahlen here took your advice. He told the tsar that his son was plotting against him, and the fool was signing an arrest warrant before he had finished speaking!’

  ‘When I showed the document to Grand Duke Alexander,’ explained the count, ‘he agreed immediately with my suggestion that his father was plainly mad, and should be required to abdicate in his favour.’

  ‘Splendid, is it not?’ beamed von Bennigsen. ‘Bring champagne for our guests here!’ The two Englishmen found glasses pressed into their hands.

  ‘That does all sound very satisfactory,’ said Vansittart, sipping at this drink. ‘Although I am surprised that you think I was in any way responsible for these events. The credit rightly rests with you gentlemen. However, I can assure you that His Britannic Majesty’s government will be the first to recognise Tsar Alexander. I will, of course, need Russia to withdraw from this so-called League of Armed Neutrality, and restore all the merchantmen and crews seized by the former Tsar Paul to their rightful owners.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said von Pahlen. ‘Both will be among the first actions of Tsar Alexander, the moment he is on the throne.’ Clay and the diplomat exchanged glances.

  ‘The moment that he is on the throne!’ repeated Vansittart. ‘Am I to understand that the abdication has not occurred yet? I thought, what with the champagne...’

  ‘Oh, we always drink champagne, Nikolai,’ explained von Bennigsen.

  ‘Then when, pray, will Paul be, eh, asked to abdicate?’

  ‘Tonight!’ said the general, waving his glass towards the clock that stood on the mantelpiece. ‘We will do it tonight.’

  ‘Gentlemen, I am not sure it is wise for myself and the captain to be present during such events,’ said the diplomat. ‘This has to be a purely Russian affair.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Clay. ‘We should return to the ship immediately.’

  ‘Nikolai! This is your moment!’ said von Bennigsen, throwing an arm around Vansittart’s shoulders. ‘Of course you must be here. Besides, if you leave now, it will arouse suspicion. Come, give my friend, and Captain Clay another drink, and let us toast our success!’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said the diplomat, as his barely tasted first glass was replaced with a brimming second. ‘So what is your plan?’

  ‘The banquet tonight is a small, private affair,’ explained von Pahlen. ‘No more than a hundred of us. The tsar is the host, and Grand Duke Alexander the principal guest. Paul will retire early to his private apartments, which I have told him will be the signal for the arrest of his son. In reality it will be the moment for us to follow him there, and make him sign the abdication document that I have on my person.’ He slid a hand into his tunic and drew out the corner of a thick piece of folded parchment.

  ‘What of his guards, count?’ asked Clay. ‘Will they not try to stop you?’

  ‘The Preobrazhensky Regiment are my children,’ smiled von Bennigsen. ‘They despise the tsar almost as much as they love me.’

  ‘Does he have any servants, or Gentlemen of the Bed Chamber, who might intervene?’ asked Vansittart.

  ‘Maybe ten, maybe a dozen,’ shrugged the general. ‘The Preobrazhensky are eight hundred strong, and the count here has more soldiers close by, should we require them.’

  ‘But let us not talk of violence, gentlemen,’ said von Pahlen. ‘A signature is all we require, nothing more than that.’

  ‘We should join the others now,’ said von Bennigsen. ‘It will cause suspicion if we are late. Be strong, and know that we act for Mother Russia.’ The other officers murmured their assent, drained their glasses, and headed out of the room.

  ******

  ‘I am most uncomfortable with our being here, sir,’ hissed Clay, under the chink of spurs and the clatter of boots from the conspirators ahead of them.

  ‘I am inclined to your way of thinking, but we can hardly withdraw now, Captain,’ replied Vansittart, out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I fear General von Bennigsen is right, that will arouse more suspicion than if we stayed. This is a most fortuitous turn of events for us, which it is our duty not to imperil. Stay alert, try not to show any agitation of spirits, and drink sparingly. Tonight may prove to be an interesting one.’

  The corridor ended at last, opening into a substantial stateroom. High above Clay’s head was a vaulted ceiling of painted panels set above a line of chandeliers. Their light was caught in the huge gilt framed mirrors that were built into the walls, and glowed off the polished wooden floor. Scattered across the room were perhaps fifty people bunched into groups, with more joining all the time. Many of the men were in uniform, the rest in formal black coats and britches. The women wore satin evening dresses of every colour. Wherever Clay looked he saw piled up hair, bare shoulders, bold dark eyes and the glitter of diamonds.

  ‘Du champagne, monsieur?’ murmured a voice at his elbow, and a footman extended a silver tray towards him. All the conspirators took a glass, then dispersed into the room, leaving Clay and Vansittart with von Bennigsen. The general introduced them to the members of the nearest circle of courtiers in rapid French. Vansittart managed to follow what was said, but to Clay it was a stream of titles and unpronounceable names. He did his best to make polite conversation with his immediate neighbours; but soon found that his lack of knowledge of Russia and their disinterest in the sea quickly exhausted his stock of small talk. Clay was at heart a shy man, and although his French was reasonable, he became tongue-tied and awkward. Fortunately Vansittart was at his urbane, gossipy best, which allowed Clay to step a little back from the group.

  Was it his imagination, or was there a detectable tension in the air? He was taller than most of those around him, and this allowed him to survey the room. The mirrored walls brought images to him from all directions. He could see von Pahlen, in urgent conversation with a civilian who wore the star and ribbon of an order across his chest. The hussar officer Clay had met earlier was looking at his watch and chewing at the fringe of his drooping moustache. Another conspirator was giving instructions to a pair of young guards officers close to the door. Then a large, barrel-chested chamberlain, in a coat that seemed to be made entirely of braid, beat the point of his staff on the floor before bellowing something in French. The doors at the far end of the room were flung open and the conversation around Clay ebbed into silence. Everyone turned towards the pair of men who entered, both dressed in military uniforms.

  Tsar Paul was a short, middle-aged man, with a shiny domed head above a pair of small dark eyes that shifted quickly about the room. They soon lighted on Clay, obvious thanks to his height and unfamiliar uniform, but then slid away just as fast. Beside him was his son, a taller man in his early twenties, with sandy hair already starting to thin to reveal the same domed head. Grand Duke Alexander seemed to be unsure what he should do with his hands, sometimes clasping them behind his back, and then letting them hang by his sides.

  The two royals made their way around the room, their progress marked by a wave of curtseying women and bowing men. Tsar Paul exchanged the odd smile of greeting and occasional word as he went, but he pointedly didn’t approach the group that included Vansittart and Clay. His son, on the other hand, did, and von Bennigsen made the introductions.

  ‘My grandmother spoke very highly of your Royal Navy, Captain,’ said the grand duke, in excellent English.

  ‘I am delighted to hear you say so, Your Highness,’ said Clay. ‘Her friendship continues to be remembered with fondness in the servic
e.’

  ‘It is to be hoped that friendship between our nations has not wholly vanished, Your Highness,’ added Vansittart.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Alexander. ‘And how does a Dutchman come to be in the service of King George?’

  ‘Dutch by name, but my family have been English this past century or more, Your Highness,’ explained the diplomat. He extended a single buckled shoe in front of him. ‘Been a while since this foot donned a clog, what?’ There was polite laughter from the group, and a smile from the heir to the throne.

  ‘I trust you gentlemen will have a pleasant evening,’ he said, moving away.

  ‘A very good evening, Highness,’ growled von Bennigsen, somehow managing to make it sound like a threat.

  Once the royal pair had completed their tour of the room, the chamberlain beat the polished floor with his staff again and announced that dinner would be served. There was a renewed hum of conversation, and the guests made their way through to another, equally huge room. This one was carpeted under foot, and had walls of lemon yellow set with classical columns in white and gold. Two large fireplaces dominated one side, with log fires burning in the grates. A long table bearing silver and glassware stretched across the middle of the room, with a footman behind every chair. The chamberlain faced the flow of guests, like a rock in a stream, telling those unsure of their place where they should sit. The British pair found themselves directed to the far end of the table, close to a set of much plainer doors, where Clay suspected the food would come from.

  The meal proved a lengthy and dull affair, as an endless succession of dishes and wines appeared from over Clay’s left shoulder, to be removed and replaced by the same route. Clay found himself seated between a very reserved, elderly lady, who seemed to be hard of hearing, and a Russian civilian whose French was so heavily accented that he could only understand one word in five. As the conversation faltered towards silence, Clay watched the opposite side of the table with growing envy, where Vansittart laughed delightedly with the pair of pretty young ladies who flanked him.