In Northern Seas

by Philip K Allan

  ‘Capital caviar, what?’ the diplomat remarked to his fellow countryman, before returning to his flirting.

  ‘A little salty for my liking, in truth,’ muttered Clay, as he contemplated the pile of shiny grey spheres.

  ‘Eh... pardon?’ queried the dowager beside him, cupping a hand to her ear.

  ‘Tres bon!’ he said, smiling and pointing at his plate.

  The ambiance of the meal was not helped by the atmosphere in the room. The fires made it warm and close, encouraging the guests to drink the chilled wine thirstily. The tsar radiated brooding hostility, glaring towards his son beneath furrowed brows. At one stage he made a pointed remark that hushed the conversation around them, and left Alexander red-faced. For his part, Alexander seemed preoccupied and quiet, barely touching his food. The conspirators Clay had seen earlier all seemed nervous, apart from von Bennigsen who was loud, boisterous, and a fair way to being drunk.

  After what seemed like hours, the tsar at last pushed back his chair and dropped his napkin down beside his place. His son rose to his feet and the chamberlain banged his staff once more.

  ‘Messieurs et madames, le Tsar!’ Alexander announced, holding up his glass.

  ‘May the next cup of wine choke the wretch,’ said Vansittart, in a stage whisper towards Clay. All rose to their feet for the toast. After it had been drunk, the Russian men turned as one towards the log fires and hurled their glasses into them. The two Englishman exchanged a look of surprise, then Vansittart shrugged his shoulders, and their glasses followed, into the heart of the nearest blaze.

  Once the tsar had retired, the women all rose and in a river of colour left the room through a set of doors that stood between the fireplaces. Clay glimpsed a saloon beyond, with card tables and sofas, before the doors closed once more. He could not have sworn to it, but it seemed to him that they were pushed shut by the green clad arms of soldiers, rather than by uniformed footmen. Count von Pahlen rose from his place at the table, and looked significantly towards the others as he left the room by the exit that the tsar had used. One by one the other conspirators followed. Vansittart looked across the table at Clay.

  ‘Best for us to stay put, I fancy,’ he said.

  ‘Where has Count von Pahlen gone?’ demanded a large civilian, further up the table. ‘Ah, perhaps this chap will know.’ Clay looked around to see a guard’s officer approaching. He came up to Vansittart and clicked his heels together.

  ‘Would monsieur and the captain kindly join the general?’ he said. ‘There is a matter he would like to discuss with you.’

  ‘If we must,’ muttered Vansittart, rising to his feet. Clay stood up too, and followed the diplomat and officer, ignoring the puzzled looks on the faces of the guests near to him.

  ‘What the devil does von Bennigsen want with those two?’ demanded the civilian behind them. The last thing Clay saw as he left the room was Alexander’s face, pale and drawn, watching him go.

  The corridor outside was lined with Preobrazhensky guardsmen, each one with a bayonet fitted to his musket. Count von Pahlen was looming over the chamberlain, whom he had trapped in a corner. Their faces were very close together.

  ‘If anyone asks, the tsar has been taken ill, and I have ordered them to stay put,’ said von Pahlen, in slow clear French.

  ‘But... but...’ stuttered the man, his staff trembling in his grasp.

  ‘Should anyone try to leave, the major and his men here will prevent them from doing so,’ said the count, staring down the official. ‘Is that clear?’

  ‘Oui...’ whispered the chamberlain. Von Pahlen held the man’s gaze for a long moment, then smiled.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I am sure the Grand Duke will remember your loyalty when this is all over. Now, off you go.’

  ‘General, Count, surely you cannot want Captain Clay and myself to attend your discussions with the tsar,’ protested Vansittart.

  ‘Of course we do, Nickolai!’ exclaimed von Bennigsen, breathing alcohol fumes around him. ‘This was all your idea, remember. Come and enjoy your triumph!’

  ‘But do so swiftly,’ said von Pahlen. ‘We have wasted enough time already. Follow me, gentlemen.’

  Vansittart shrugged at Clay as they joined the small group of officers, who set off down the corridor. General von Bennigsen gave a guttural order in Russian, and a dozen soldiers peeled off to follow in their wake. They hurried forward twenty yards, and then a staircase opened on one side. Von Pahlen led the way up, and turned along another corridor. As they pressed forward, they heard shouting from behind them. Looking around, Clay saw Sedgwick and Rankin struggling to get past the soldiers.

  ‘Sir! Sir! It’s us!’ called the coxswain. ‘We saw all these here Lobsters surrounding the place, so we figured you might have need of us.’ Vansittart spoke rapidly in French and von Bennigsen grunted an order to the guardsmen, who stood aside to let them through. Then the enlarged group pressed on.

  A turn down another short stretch of corridor and they found themselves in a small hall, with chairs pushed back against the walls on either side of a decorated set of doors. Above them a large double-headed black eagle with the arms of Imperial Russia had been moulded into the ceiling. Two more guardsmen stood in front of the entrance, but they stepped back when von Pahlen motioned them aside. The group pushed through into the anteroom beyond.

  The lighting was much more subdued here. A small coal fire glowed in a grate; candles burned in a branched candelabra on the table. There were mirrors on the walls, and the eyes from stern family portraits glared down at them. Several doors opened off the room, and the conspirators paused in confusion.

  ‘Ah, count, has the traitor been apprehended?’ said a cultured voice in French, and a man in a military tunic, unbuttoned at the neck, strolled into the room. He froze when he saw the gleam of firelight on the polished steel of bayonets. ‘Good lord, why have you brought soldiers with you?’

  ‘If you know what is good for you, Vasilyev, you will take a seat by the fire, and not interfere,’ said von Pahlen. After a moment’s hesitation, the officer sat down as he had been ordered. Von Bennigsen gave a command and one of the soldiers took up position opposite him, his musket at the ready.

  ‘Good,’ said the count. ‘Now which of these doors lead to the tsar’s quarters?’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ said the officer, his eyes wide.

  ‘Never you mind!’ spat the hussar with the moustache. ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘It is only a matter of signing some state papers,’ said von Pahlen, holding up a hand to restrain his colleague. ‘Which door did you say?’ The officer pointed the way.

  ‘Have a care, sir,’ he said. ‘His valets have yet to retire.’

  They pressed on down a narrow passageway, with more rooms opening off it. Von Bennigsen led the way, shouldering each door open as he went. The first few swung wide to reveal bed chambers; all well-furnished, but unoccupied, and obviously not grand enough for a tsar. Clay followed in the general’s wake, glancing into the rooms as they passed. One was entirely filled with racks of clothes, and was followed by another with lines of boots and shoes. From ahead came cries of protest, accompanied by a crash. Clay pushed forward and found himself in another salon.

  It was a large, dimly lit but comfortably furnished room, full of sofas and tables. A coal fire burned in a grate, and lavish drapes had been pulled across the windows to shut out the night. In the centre of the room was a baize-covered table strewn with playing cards and glasses of wine. At the table sat two young men in waistcoats and shirt sleeves, their neck clothes discarded along with their coats on a nearby chaise long. A third man was standing beside an upset chair, confronting von Bennigsen.

  ‘What is meant by this outrage, sir?’ he protested.

  ‘Sit back down, puppy, and tell me where the tsar is,’ roared the general.

  ‘The tsar has retired,’ said the man, his look of pride turning to horror as the soldiers clumped into the room behind the conspira
tors. His mouth opened and shut for a moment, and then he turned towards the doors behind him.

  ‘Flee, Your Highn— His cry was cut off by von Bennigsen’s fist in his stomach. One of the other servants leapt to his feet but received the butt of a musket full in the face, and he fell senseless to the carpet, bleeding badly.

  ‘You men, keep them quiet, and see we are not disturbed,’ ordered the general. ‘The rest of you, follow me.’

  The doors to the tsar’s bedroom were of heavy polished wood and swung open noiselessly. Beyond, the only light was a single candle that burned beside the bed, like a votive offering in a dark cathedral. In the flickering light a huge room could be guessed at, the flame sending shadows across the heavy furniture, and sparkling back from a distant mirror. It was dominated by a four poster bed, the drawn curtains of richly decorated cloth of gold. The Russian conspirators looked at each other, wondering what to do next. Von Pahlen pulled his coat straight, drew the abdication document from his pocket, and advanced on the bed.

  ‘Your Majesty?’ he said, peeling back one of the curtains. Then he started in surprise, and pulled the drape wide. ‘By St Vladimir! The bird has flown!’ He stepped back from the empty bed as the others rushed forward. The covers had been thrown aside, the sheets disturbed, and there was the imprint of a head on the pillow. Von Bennigsen slid his hand across the bed.

  ‘He may have flown, but he cannot have gone very far,’ he said. ‘The nest is still warm.’ A stifled whimper sounded from one of the room’s darker corners. The general seized up the candle and headed towards the sound. A painted Japanese screen made from concertinaed panels appeared out of the gloom.

  ‘Look,’ whispered von Pahlen, pointing at a bare foot just visible under the bottom. He drew the screen aside. Behind was a cowering figure in an embroidered nightshirt, huddled against the wall with his arms wrapped around his legs. A tasselled nightcap covered the domed head of the Tsar of all the Russias and his little dark eyes were shut tight, as he rocked backwards and forwards.

  Clay looked on in horror at the pitiful sight, until he felt Vansittart tug at his arm.

  ‘We will leave you gentlemen to your business, and await you outside,’ he said, drawing the naval captain away. Clay glanced over his shoulder as the diplomat closed the door. The last thing he saw was the childlike figure still rocking in the corner, surrounded by the boots and legs of the Russian rebels.

  ‘Is there something to drink?’ he asked. Vansittart patted him on the shoulder. ‘I daresay there is, Clay. Damnable business, what?’

  ******

  ‘How long does it damned well take to sign a document?’ demanded Vansittart, as he paced up and down the salon carpet. ‘We have been here bloody hours!’

  ‘Almost an hour, sir,’ corrected Clay, who was stood by the bedroom door. ‘They have stopped shouting now, so perhaps that is progress.’

  ‘Our Tsar will never sign,’ said one of the valets, who sat under the watchful gaze of a guardsman. On his lap was the heavily bandaged head of his colleague who had been struck with the musket butt. ‘You traitors will hang for this, even the foreigners!’ The same guard’s officer who had fetched them from the table came into the room.

  ‘Where is the general, sir?’ he asked. ‘The Grand Duke wants to know what the delay is, and the major is not certain how long the men can keep the palace secure.’ Clay knocked on the bedroom door, and after a pause the conspirators all came out.

  ‘The stubborn fool won’t sign,’ declared von Bennigsen.

  ‘What do you mean, he won’t sign?’ exclaimed Vansittart. ‘He has to, damn his eyes!’

  ‘God knows, we have been trying!’ exclaimed von Pahlen. ‘He is in the grip of some madness. All he does is rock to and fro like the damned movement of a clock, muttering prayers.’ Vansittart resumed his pacing, waving his arms in frustration.

  ‘And why pray, did you invite the captain and I to be part of this farce?’ he demanded. ‘In front of bloody witnesses, for all love!’ he added, waving towards the valets.

  ‘You encouraged us to do this!’ protested the general. ‘Paul the Simple, not Ivan the Terrible, you named him.’ Vansittart stopped at the window, ran his hands through his hair and looked at the ceiling for a long moment. When he turned around, there was determination in his eyes.

  ‘General, I wish to speak freely with you gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Might I suggest that the tsar’s valets are removed, and that your men withdraw. Rankin, Sedgwick, you as well. Kindly wait outside.’ Once the door closed behind the last soldier, he rounded on the conspirators.

  ‘Now, pray attend. The throne must be vacant before Alexander can become tsar, yes?’

  ‘Of course,’ said von Pahlen. ‘There can only be one tsar.’

  ‘This night Paul is completely at your mercy, and you have force to hand,’ said the diplomat. ‘A more favourable opportunity will never occur for you to act.’

  ‘We all know that!’ exclaimed the general. ‘What is your point?’

  ‘No more and no less than I have just said,’ said Vansittart, avoiding his friend’s eye. ‘He must be forced from the throne, by whatever means are required.’

  ‘Whatever means!’ repeated the general. ‘What exactly are you proposing, Nikolai?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that we harm the tsar, or even... kill him?’ said von Pahlen. ‘Are you quite mad?’

  ‘What are you saying, sir?’ whispered Clay, but the diplomat waved him away.

  ‘We have all travelled too far this night to turn back now,’ he explained. ‘Even the captain and myself are compromised.’

  ‘What—’ began von Pahlen, but Vansittart spoke over him. He pointed towards the bedroom door.

  ‘We are obliged to resolve things now, this instant, or accept the vengeance that creature in there will wreak on us all, my country included, when he finds himself no longer unmanned by fear.’

  ‘No,’ said von Bennigsen, backing away. ‘We spoke only of him abdicating. I cannot do such a thing, nor order it done.’ The other conspirators shook their heads, and the officer in the hussar uniform crossed himself. Vansittart looked around the room.

  ‘The Tsarina Catherine showed greater resolution than your own when it came to dealing with Paul’s father,’ he observed.

  ‘You ask too much of us,’ said one of the conspirators. ‘The tsar is anointed by God.’ In the hushed silence that followed Vansittart looked at each man in turn.

  ‘It is well that you have allies then, prepared to act for you,’ he said. ‘Kindly summon my servant.’

  ‘What! Will your black devil do it?’ said the hussar, his eyes wide.

  ‘Ah... wrong devil, old chap,’ said Vansittart. ‘Rankin!’ he called towards the door. The valet came into the salon.

  ‘Yes sir?’

  ‘Kindly go through to the bedroom. You know what needs to be done.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he repeated, his eyes blank as he advanced across the room. He extended one arm down by his side and shook it. From out of his coat sleeve, smooth as an emerging serpent, flowed a thick silk cord. He wrapped the ends around his hands, jerked it tight as if testing its strength, and then disappeared through the bedroom door.

  Clay grabbed the diplomat by the arm, and whispered fiercely. ‘What are you doing, sir! You surely cannot mean to have that poor wretch murdered?’

  ‘Do not interfere, Captain. That is an express order,’ replied Vansittart.

  ‘I want no part in this,’ said Clay, moving towards the door. ‘This is disgusting! How can you be party to such a thing?’ The naval captain felt himself pulled fiercely around by the arm.

  ‘Don’t you presume to sneer at me, Clay!’ spat Vansittart, furious in his turn. ‘Walking away from this mess, with no thought for the ruin to your country is the easy path! Staying to see it through, whatever the cost, that is hard! You imagine I relish this task?’

  ‘But this is not how civilised nations should conduct themselves,’ protested Clay.

>   ‘Know this, Captain,’ said Vansittart, ‘you and I slay our country’s foes at the bidding of the same master. You military men may be granted the privilege of swaddling your actions in a flag, while I must content myself with life in the shadows, but there the difference ends. How dare you name what I do revolting, while claiming there is honour in your own actions! We are not so very different, you and I.’

  The few minutes that Rankin was out of the room seemed to drag for an age. Little sound from the bedroom penetrated the heavy panelling to those listening in the salon. Instead, other noises filled the space. The patter of rain against the window, the dry rustle of the fire in the grate, the regular tick of a case clock that rested against the wall, and the heavy breathing of the conspirators as they stood, frozen in a tableau. At last the door swung open, and Rankin stepped through it. The silk cord had vanished once more. He stood close to his master and whispered in his ear. Vansittart turned towards the others.

  ‘Gentlemen, the tsar is dead,’ he announced. ‘Long live Tsar Alexander Pavlovich!’

  Chapter 12

  Ludlow

  March was fast moving towards April, and with it had come more rain. Boiling clouds filled the sky overhead, and water thundered onto the anchored frigate, drumming on the upper decks and running in silver twists down the rigging. It hissed across the sea, foaming the surface, and poured in gushing streams from the last of the fast-vanishing ice. The walled island of Kronstadt was just visible through the curtain of water. Tendrils of low cloud seemed caught amongst the dark trees on the near shore, while the far coast had vanished altogether.

  In his day cabin, Clay did his best to ignore the rain hammering on the deck just above his head as he worked at his desk. In front of him was the latest despatch from Lord Whitworth. The ambassador had achieved much, in spite of Vansittart’s low opinion of him. From the moment they had arrived at his residence in the middle of the night, having rushed through the rain from the Mikhailovsky Palace, he had sprung into action. His contacts had smuggled them back on board the Griffin that same night, while under Whitworth’s urging, the new tsar was now busy reversing the policies of his father. Already he had lifted the ban on British merchantmen using Russian ports, and restored all the confiscated ships to their rightful owners. Now, in his latest letter, Whitworth wrote that Alexander planned to see the ambassadors of the other Northern League of Armed Neutrality countries to inform them that Russia would no longer be a member. All this good news, combined with the heated brick Harte had supplied for his feet, and the pot of hot coffee he had placed at his elbow, should have made Clay content. But whenever he paused to reflect on the events of two nights ago, he still saw the huddled figure in the candle light, the thin bare legs cradled within the circle of his arms, the night cap awry, gently rocking on the hard wooden floor.