by V. A. Stuart
And, he reminded himself, in the past, Odessa had been the principal depot for the export of the vast grain harvest of the whole of southern Russia and he had not, as yet, made any attempt to ascertain whether the city’s granaries were full or empty. If he were to carry out to the letter the orders he had been given, he needed a few more hours … but hours of daylight, not of darkness. At night he would be able to see very little and might arouse suspicion if he were found in the vicinity of barracks or granaries at a time when few people were abroad, save those who were compelled to be—such as sentries or watchmen—for the nights were bitterly cold.
Again he looked across at Graham, brows furrowed as he took in the shadowed eyes and the pinched tightness about his face. The attack had taken a lot out of him; his brother was still far from well and, even if he managed to summon up sufficient strength to make the return journey to the cove before daybreak, this, Phillip decided, was the most that could be expected of him. If he himself remained in Odessa for another day, it would have to be alone. …
Graham said, misunderstanding the reason for his hesitation, “Well, if the hour of our departure depends on me, I had better test my legs, don’t you think?” He did not wait for Phillip’s assent but, thrusting aside his covering of blankets, dragged himself unsteadily to his feet. “Oh, the devil take it! Phillip, I’m truly sorry—I’m as weak as a kitten, I’m afraid. But if you give me a hand, perhaps I …” The cold of the small cabin struck him, almost with the force of a physical blow, and he started to shiver uncontrollably.
“That’s enough,” Phillip told him firmly and assisted him back into the bunk, once more piling the blankets over him. “We’ll wait and endeavour to make the second rendezvous. Try to sleep … and I shall do the same.”
Once more, he thought, a decision had been made for him and he was left with no alternative. And perhaps it was as well; he, too, was weary and the strain was beginning to tell on him. A few hours’ sleep might help to restore his reserves of energy and his mental alertness, both of which he would need in full measure, if Graham’s condition did not improve. After a brief visit to the deck, to make certain that there were no fresh signs of activity, he took two more blankets from the brig’s store and, rolling himself in them, lay down on the cabin floor. Years of training himself to sleep in any conditions, and for however long or short a time might be available, came now to his aid. He dropped off almost as soon as his body relaxed against the unyielding timbers of which the brig was constructed and, exactly four hours later, awakened, feeling rested and refreshed. Before waking Graham, he took another careful look round from the open deck. The fog had vanished and the night sky was bright with stars but, as before, the harbour appeared to be deserted—a forest of bare masts and spars, rising from the hulls of abandoned ships, aboard none of which could he make out any sign of life.
Satisfied, he went below to rouse his brother, taking with him the two rough, oilskin coats he had come across when searching for blankets. Graham sat up as soon as he entered the cabin and, although in the darkness it was impossible to see his face, he asserted—in a voice that was noticeably stronger—that he had fully recovered. In proof of his assertion, he walked with perfect steadiness across the cabin and was able to clothe himself with very little assistance.
“I feel a new man, Phillip,” he said jubilantly. “But it’s not before time, is it? The few hours we’ve delayed have made all the difference, so far as I’m concerned. My legs feel as if they belong to me now, which is an enormous relief, believe me. All the same …” he sighed. “I let you down and—”
“Don’t be an idiot!” Phillip put an arm affectionately about his shoulders, cutting short his attempted apology. “You could hardly help eating tainted meat, could you? The Purser’s to blame for that, if anyone is … and he shall hear about it, I promise you. I might have eaten the stuff too, if it hadn’t been for Captain Broke’s invitation. Well …” He helped his brother to don the oilskin jacket. “This smells rather unpleasant, I’m afraid, but it will keep out the cold and make us look slightly less conspicuous. …” He put on his own and moved towards the deck hatchway. “If you’re ready, it’s time we set off.”
The first part of their return journey was accomplished without incident. They landed on a deserted quay, left the dinghy moored there and found their way without difficulty to the coast road, scarcely meeting a soul and making better progress than Phillip had anticipated. Graham stood up well to the rough going, plodding stoically at his side through the ankle-deep filth of Odessa’s noisome back streets and later bravely breasting the slope of the narrow, ice-bound cart track which led to the cove, only occasionally having to pause for breath or in order to accept a helping hand. From the summit of the hill, the sight of the riding-lights of the British squadron, lying peacefully at anchor in the bay, gave them fresh heart and they both tackled the downward slope at a swinging pace, grinning at each other when the rutted track caused either to slither on its icy surface.
They were within less than half a mile of their objective when, as suddenly and unpredictably as it had struck him down on the Imperial Mole that morning, Graham suffered another attack of sickness and was compelled to lie writhing on the ground for fully fifteen minutes before the attack wore off. Uneasily aware that, although he had allowed ample time for their journey, the most gruelling part of this was yet to come, Phillip forced a few sips of brandy between his brother’s clenched teeth and assisted him to his feet. He had virtually to carry him to the point at which—in order to cross the marshy wilderness that lay between them and their destination—they must leave the road. Breathless and spent, he set down his limp burden and went in search of the lantern, which he found untouched, where they had left it and, after checking his bearings by the now fading stars, he returned to Graham’s side.
“Come on, old man,” he urged. “We’re almost home and dry now. Just one more effort … if you could lean on me and try to walk, we’ll make that rendezvous with the gig …” But Graham seemed scarcely to hear him and could only stagger a few paces, held upright by his arm as, once again, the ghastly, convulsive shivering seized his tormented limbs. He was dazed and barely conscious, just as he had been before and, cursing the Purser and his tainted meat with impotent fury, Phillip bent wearily to heave the sick man on to his back.
Thus burdened, he made desperately slow progress, constantly stumbling over obstacles hidden from him by the darkness and twice sprawling, full length, over large boulders with which, as he drew nearer to the cove, the marsh seemed to be strewn. And the way down to the rocky foreshore was, he reminded himself despairingly, a mass of loose boulders. If he were to get Graham to the shore, he would have to call on his gig’s crew for help. His own strength was beginning to fail and he knew that to attempt to carry his brother any further unaided would be to risk injury to them both. Already the unconscious man had been flung, with bone-jarring violence, on to the hard ground when he had lost his footing a short while ago; to subject him to much more of this rough treatment might cost him a limb or even his life.
The breath rasping painfully in his chest, Phillip covered the last few yards to the edge of the rocks and there, as gently as he could, lowered Graham’s limp body on to a level patch of frosty earth. He knelt beside him, spent and gasping, to recover his breath and, as he did so, heard the faint but unmistakable splash of oars. The gig, he thought with heartfelt relief, still some way out but right on time, and he jerked himself unsteadily to his feet. Before he called on any of his men to come to his assistance, he must be certain that he would not be jeopardizing their safety, must make sure that both the cove and the marshland behind it were deserted, and he hadn’t much time—if O’Hara obeyed his orders—to do this and climb down to the foreshore. Calling on his last reserves of strength, he tottered over to a high rock, which he could just make out silhouetted against the lightening skyline and clawed his way to its summit. From this eminence, he strained his eyes into the darkness, forci
ng himself not to hurry and, finally satisfied that it was safe to do so, he descended slowly to the shore to meet the incoming boat.
It came in cautiously—even with what Phillip, tense with strain, considered over-caution—and he had been waiting for nearly ten minutes before it was near enough to hail. Cupping his hands about his mouth, he called out impatiently, “Boat ahoy—Huntress!” and his hail was greeted by a subdued cheer, sternly suppressed by the gig commander, whose voice he recognized as Ambrose Quinn’s.
“You, Mr Quinn?” he said, when the boat grounded, too tired to feel more than mild surprise. “And where is Mr O’Hara?”
The First Lieutenant came splashing towards him.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I had to discipline Mr O’Hara for insolence. He’s on watch and watch and relieved of his other duties.” He did not trouble to lower his voice, apparently indif ferent to the fact that his criticism of O’Hara could be heard by his gig’s crew. “In any case, Commander Hazard, I didn’t consider that a task like this ought to be entrusted to a midshipman, so I decided it was best to undertake it myself. I … er …” He glanced about him, clearly puzzled. “Is the Master not with you, sir?”
“He has been taken ill—with food poisoning, I can only suppose, like Mr Cochrane. I’ve had to leave him up there, in the rocks.” Phillip waved a hand in the direction from whence he had come. “I shall need two men to carry him down—two good men, it will be an awkward climb. I’ll guide them.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Jackson … Williams, look lively, the Captain wants you.” Quinn rapped out his orders and, as the two men he had chosen were wading ashore, Phillip asked curtly to whom he had entrusted command of the ship in his absence. “Why, to Mr Cochrane, sir,” the First Lieutenant answered promptly. “He is next in seniority to myself, so that naturally I—”
“He’s recovered, then?”
“Well, no, not completely. I did not think he was fit to take command of the gig’s landing party, that was why I came myself. But Mr Cochrane assured me he was fit for light duty aboard the ship.”
Phillip was relieved by this news. If Cochrane had got over the worst of his sickness, then Graham might do likewise and, perhaps, with equal rapidity, once he was back aboard the Huntress where he could be properly cared for. He glanced at the faces of the two men from the gig, recognizing both more by instinct than by sight in the semi-darkness. They were in his regular crew and so, he thought wryly, Lieutenant Quinn must have put a stop to poor young O’Hara’s “volunteers,” and O’Leary would have bartered his grog ration for nothing. But he made no comment, simply turned with a quiet, “Right, follow me, lads,” and limped back to the rocks. Quinn, a trifle to his surprise, came with him, solicitously offering him an arm which, notwithstanding his dislike of the man, he was glad enough to accept, for his legs—and, indeed, his whole body— in Graham’s words, no longer felt as if they belonged to him.
As they toiled up the steep foreshore, his second-in-command asked, with interest, how he had fared in Odessa and he answered evasively, too weary and short of breath to welcome questions, least of all from Quinn.
“Oh, well enough, I suppose. It was, of course, most unfortunate that Mr Hazard was taken ill.”
“Indeed yes … you were depending on his services as interpreter, weren’t you? For how long did his indisposition last, sir? Was it of the same severity as Mr Cochrane’s?”
The ghastly, racking sickness that had attacked his brother could scarcely be described as an “indisposition,” Phillip reflected, but he let it pass. “Oh, off and on from the time we went ashore. And I’m afraid he’s in a pretty bad way now, so the sooner we …” He stumbled and would have fallen but for Quinn’s firm grip on his arm. “Thank you, Mr Quinn,” he acknowledged and forced himself to limp on. “I fear that I’m not much better.”
“You are worn out, sir,” the First Lieutenant suggested, his tone unexpectedly sympathetic. They climbed in silence for several minutes and then he said, lowering his voice, so that the men plodding at their heels could not hear, “You will pardon me for asking, Commander Hazard, but do you intend to remain ashore until nightfall or will you be returning to the ship with the Master?”
His inquiry, natural enough in the circumstances, took Phillip momentarily by surprise and he halted, frowning, undecided as how to answer it. He thought longingly of the hot meal that would be awaiting him aboard the Huntress, of a change into warm, dry clothing and of the sleep for which his weary body was crying out, and then, urged on by Quinn’s arm, he resumed his slow, upward climb without replying to the question. But Ambrose Quinn was not to be put off.
“You did not confide to me the exact nature of the orders you received, sir,” he pointed out. “So that I don’t know for what purpose you and the Master went ashore. But I take that you—”
Phillip cut him short. “No,” he snapped. “I did not explain my orders to you, Mr Quinn. And I do not propose to explain them now, since they are confidential.”
“I understand that, sir,” Quinn assured him. “And in view of the secrecy with which you were set ashore and the risks involved—not only to our gig’s crew but to the whole squadron —I also understand their importance. But presumably Mr Hazard’s indisposition made it impossible for you to complete your—er—your observations in the port? Obviously, with a sick man on your hands, you could not possibly do so … although I’m only guessing, of course, putting two and two together, as you might say. That’s why I inquired as to your intentions. You see, sir, I realize you’re all in and I wasn’t sure whether you had decided to—well, to give up the attempt to carry out your orders.” He hesitated, as if in embarrassment, and then added softly, “No one could blame you, if you did decide to give up, Commander Hazard. In the circumstances, it might be more prudent to do so, perhaps.”
This suggestion, uttered in the same sympathetic tone as he had used earlier, nevertheless stung Phillip on the raw … as, he thought resentfully, no doubt Ambrose Quinn had known it would. It lacked subtlety and the implied criticism of him was there, as always, thinly disguised. He expelled his breath in a frustrated sigh.
Since leaving the brig, he had given the question of whether to go or stay no thought; his sole object had been to get Graham safely back to their rendezvous in the cove but— Quinn was right, he was forced to admit. His observations were not yet complete; his report to the Admiral would have to be based largely on supposition and, if he went back to the ship now—while there was still a chance that he could carry out the whole of his mission—he would be, as Quinn had put it, giving up the attempt to carry out his orders.
Quinn’s opinion of him did not matter, of course, but to give Admiral Lyons an incomplete report, merely because he had suffered a slight setback and felt exhausted, was scarcely to enhance his own opinion of himself. The hours of daylight lay before him. He could see all that he needed to see quite easily during those hours and, even without Graham to interpret for him, the danger that he might arouse suspicion was comparatively slight. Had they not proved this, during their visit to the harbour? No one had questioned or paid them any attention—in fact, they had walked as freely about the town and the harbour as had the Tiger’s seamen, throughout their brief captivity. He had only to do as he had done the previous morning, Phillip told himself, in order to achieve his purpose, and the gig could come back here for him tonight. … He turned to Quinn.
“Has any reply yet been received to the note the Gladiator delivered to the port, do you know?”
Quinn shook his head. “No, sir, not yet.” There was an odd gleam in his eyes as he looked up into Phillip’s face. “Where did you leave your brother, sir?”
They had reached the top of the rocks, Phillip realized and he stood there for a moment or two in tired perplexity, peering about him and becoming aware, as he did so, of the first grey streaks of dawn in the sky.
“We haven’t much time,” Quinn reminded him unnecessarily. “If we’re to get back to the ship before dayl
ight.”
“To the left,” Phillip said thickly, getting his bearings at last. “A few yards below that high, misshapen rock, I think … no, further to your left, Jackson.”
One of the seamen, following these directions, called back a low-voiced, “Aye, aye, sir—here he is!” and Phillip limped across to join him. Graham lay as he had left him, still apparently unconscious but he stirred uneasily when Able-Seaman Jackson bent over him, feeling for his heart.
“Well, sir?” Quinn prompted impatiently. “Shall we get him down to the gig? It’ll be daylight soon and—”
“A moment, Mr Quinn, if you please.” Phillip dropped to one knee beside his brother and, at the sound of his voice, Graham roused himself and opened his eyes, “Phillip—is that you?” he asked dazedly.
Phillip laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
“Yes, I’m here and so is the boat. Don’t you fret, old man, we’ll have you aboard the Huntress almost before you know it.” He got to his feet to find Quinn at his side, regarding him expectantly and he said, before his second-in-command could question him again, “I shall remain ashore in accordance with my orders, Mr Quinn. Take Mr Hazard back with you to the ship at once and you may send the gig to pick me up, as we arranged, two hours after nightfall. Should I fail to rendezvous with it then, it should return once more, an hour before daybreak. I’ll show a light, should there be danger.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Quinn acknowledged, unable to hide his satisfaction. “I’m aware that you have good reason for your decision to remain here but I should be failing in my duty were I not to point out to you the risk you’ll be running. You are exhausted and without food, sir, and—”