Hazard of Huntress

by V. A. Stuart

  Forcing himself to do so without haste, he started to move towards the main door of the Cathedral and saw, out of the tail of his eye, that the bearded man who, a few minutes before, had attempted to hold him back, had now gone over to one of the ushers. He was whispering and gesticulating, pointing to where they had both stood and, after listening to what the fellow had to say, the usher went to confer with a superior, the bearded man at his heels. All three men came thrusting a way through the crowd after him and Phillip heard one of them call out but, with no idea of what they expected of him, he effected deafness and did not pause. If he could reach the main door before his pursuers caught up with him, he thought desperately, he might manage to make his escape. A dash down the steps, to mingle with and, if he were lucky, vanish into the crowd in the square below—that seemed his only hope. The crowd might, of course, react in a hostile manner to his appearance in their midst but he would have to chance that. So long as no one spoke to him expecting a reply, he could probably bluff his way through, his uniform affording him at least temporary protection, as it had done before.

  He gained the head of the Cathedral steps and was about to make his dash for safety when a giant of a man, in resplendent livery, moved swiftly to block his path. Doffing his furred cap, he bowed and offered Phillip a folded scrap of paper. The two ushers and the bearded man jerked to a standstill at the sight of this livened messenger, clearly disconcerted by the fact that he had approached their quarry. One ventured a nervous question and the messenger shouted at him disdainfully, gesturing to the note he had just delivered, upon which both ushers shrugged and turned to retrace their steps into the Cathedral. The bearded man, after hesitating uncertainly, took to his heels and—as Phillip had planned to do, a moment or so before—vanished into the crowd thronging the square.

  Greatly relieved by his disappearance, Phillip opened the note. It was written in English and was very brief, scribbled hurriedly in pencil on a sheet torn from a memo pad. “This man is my servant and may be trusted,” it informed him. “He will guide you to where my carriage is waiting. Come quickly and speak to no one.” There was neither address nor signature but, in no doubt as to who had written it, Phillip’s heart leapt. He was filled with so reckless a sense of elation that, forgetful of his recent narrow escape in the Cathedral, he went bounding down the steps ahead of his guide and had to wait for the giant to catch up with him.

  The carriage, he realized, had moved away and the servant, a restraining hand on his arm, led him across the square and into a deserted side street where, to his joy, he saw the vehicle waiting, the coachman at the horses’ heads. The door opened at his approach and Mademoiselle Sophie’s voice bade him enter. He did so, a prey to conflicting emotions, at once eager and afraid now that the moment had come, and she gave him her hand, looking down at him as he kissed it with anxious, tear-filled eyes.

  “Phillip … oh, Phillip, is it really you? I had not expected to see you ever again … and least of all here! Did you not realize the risk you ran in coming to the Cathedral, showing yourself openly as you did? And you are hurt …” Her fingers gently touched the loosely wound strip of cloth on his head. “Come …” she indicated the seat beside her. “I will take you to my house, so that your wound may be attended to and you may rest and eat. You look exhausted.”

  Phillip took the place she had indicated and the carriage slowly moved on. Her companion, seated opposite, eyed him curiously but did not speak and Mademoiselle Sophie answered his unspoken question reassuringly, “Do not fear— she is my maid and she does not understand English. You may speak quite freely in her presence.” She drew back her veil, smiling at him a trifle hesitantly through her tears. “I … it is wonderful to see you again … so wonderful that I cannot really believe it. But, oh Phillip, you are in such danger, every minute you remain here, that it worries me, for your sake. Why did you come? Not—surely not—to see me?”

  “I came to the Cathedral in the hope that you would be there,” Phillip admitted truthfully. He felt suddenly as gauche and awkward as a schoolboy, uncomfortably aware that his whole body was trembling violently and misunderstanding the reason for this, Mademoiselle Sophie, with a little cry of pity, placed a heavy fur rug across his knees.

  “You are cold … and you look so ill. It was a great shock to me, when I recognized you in the Cathedral. I was afraid, I did not know what to do … I had not dreamed that you were here, because I …” there was a catch in her voice. “The Trojan, it—she, I mean—is not with the other English ships. I looked with a telescope, when the fog cleared and they were anchored in the bay, but I did not see her there.”

  So she had looked for him, Phillip thought. She had looked for his ship, daring to hope, perhaps, as he had hoped that the impossible might happen, as … he sighed, bemused by the sheer, incredible wonder of their meeting. As it had happened, so miraculously that neither of them could yet believe it … unless, of course, it was a dream.

  “No,” he said, somehow finding his voice again. “No, the Trojan is not here. I’ve my own ship now, the Huntress and—”

  “And you are its—her— Captain?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “I’m in command of her.”

  Mademoiselle Sophie exclaimed in innocent delight at this news, her smile the lovely, radiant smile of a happy child, the memory of which he had carried in his heart for so long. He kept his gaze on her face, refusing to let his eyes stray to the small, swollen body with its mute evidence that she was no longer a child, refusing to accept—in this miraculous moment of meeting her again—that, for him, she was and must always remain unattainable.

  “Oh, my dear English sailor, I am so pleased for you! And the hateful Captain North?”

  “He is dead of the cholera.”

  “Oh?” she shrugged. “I cannot pretend to feel any sorrow for him, Phillip. But …” She was grave again. “So much has happened since you were last here, so much that is cruel and tragic and wrong. But that is war, I suppose. And … the war goes on. We are enemies, Phillip.”

  “Yes,” he conceded regretfully, thinking of her husband but, to his heartfelt relief, she did not mention Narishkin’s death. Instead, still gravely searching his face, she asked, “Phillip, why did you come? You are not foolhardy or reckless. You are English, the Captain of an English ship, and the English are always well disciplined, obedient to their orders … that is why they fight so well. Tell me the truth, I beg you— you did not land here without orders, did you?”

  Phillip shook his head. He owed her the truth, he knew— nothing less would suffice. “No, I did not. I had orders to come ashore. Will you permit me to tell you why I came?”

  Her dark eyes reproached him. “You came to spy on us, I am afraid. And you believed that I would help you because once I …” she broke off, colour flaming in her cheeks, and then went on bitterly, “I will help you to return to your ship but that is all. I am betraying my country by doing even that, Phillip. I should have let them take you in the Cathedral but I—I could not. They do not treat prisoners-of-war in Odessa as they did the last time you were here.”

  “I went to the Cathedral with no thought of asking for your help,” Phillip assured her quietly. “I give you my word … all I wanted was to catch a glimpse of you, perhaps to speak to you. Please, Mademoiselle Sophie, will you not allow me to explain my purpose here and the reason for my orders?”

  She smiled faintly at his use of the name by which she had been know aboard the Trojan and then bowed her head. “Very well—I am listening.”

  Without mention of the proposed expedition to the Sea of Azoff, Phillip told her of his mission and its underlying purpose, and of what he and Graham had so far accomplished. He dwelt briefly on his brother’s illness and his own return to Odessa that morning, to enable him to confirm the conclusions they had drawn the previous day. Mademoiselle Sophie listened to what he had to say in pensive silence and, when he had done, she spread her hands in a sad little gesture.

  “I
think I understand, Phillip,” she said. “Your mission is, in fact, one of mercy—of mercy, that is to say, for Odessa? It is the French who want to bombard us again, not your Admiral?”

  “So I was informed, mademois—madame.”

  “Oh, Phillip, this poor town is not worth the expenditure of powder and shot! It is as you observed, when you and your brother were on the Mole … the last attack by your Fleet left half the town in ruins!” Her voice shook with the intensity of her feelings. “There are few men left here and little money for the repairs that should have been made, so nothing has been done. We have sent all we had—every soldier fit for fighting service, our guns, what was left of our grain and materials of war, everything—has been sent to the Crimea. In order that Sebastopol may be defended, Odessa has been left defenseless. Phillip, the only soldiers we have are old men or boys, our ships rot in the harbour basin, as you have seen for yourself; not even the fishing boats dare venture out. Our trade is at a standstill and we are even short of food. It has been a bad winter for us, the roads to the interior blocked by snow and the river by ice. When your naval blockade is resumed, it will be worse.”

  She caught her breath on a sob and Phillip did not doubt that she was telling him the stark, unhappy truth.

  “I will show you, if you wish,” Mademoiselle Sophie offered. “And if it will enable you to convince those who would bombard us again that we are not worth their trouble, I will show you everything you need to see. Do you require the proof of your own eyes?”

  Her voice was flat now, devoid of feeling and, sick with pity, Phillip inclined his head. “It would assist me in making my report, certainly … although, I assure you, I do not require proof—nor, I believe, does the Admiral. But the French have to be convinced and—”

  “Very well. You shall have your proof, Phillip. But”—again her eyes searched his face anxiously, pleading for reassurance—“I am trusting you, not only with my life—which is of small account to me now—but also, perhaps, with the lives of many of the citizens of this already sorely stricken town. I believe that you came here for the purpose of which you have told me but … it is possible that you did not. We are at war and … oh, Phillip, it is possible that your appearance will be followed by an attempt to—to invade us, for which I might be, if not wholly, in part responsible. Will you give me your word that I can trust you?”

  Phillip flushed but he met her frightened gaze steadily. “I give you my word of honor, Your Highness, that what I have revealed to you of the purpose of my mission is true, to the best of my knowledge and belief. I am not a spy and I was not set ashore in order to initiate an attack on this town, but rather, as I understand my instructions, to prevent one. But”— he hesitated—“in all honesty, I cannot tell you that there will be no attack in the future, because I do not know—such decisions are made by the High Command. I do know, however, that my own Commander-in-Chief is opposed to the suggestion and that he sent me here in order that my observations might confirm information received from deserters and prisoners we have taken.”

  Mademoiselle Sophie considered his words and then solemnly laid her small, gloved hand on his. “I will trust you, Phillip.” She spoke rapidly in Russian to her maid and the woman obediently leaned out of the carriage window to pass on her orders to the coachman. The heavy vehicle lurched to a standstill and the tall footman, who had been Phillip’s escort from the Cathedral, jumped down from the box, to stand bareheaded in the open doorway, while his mistress gave him precise instructions as to the route they were to follow. His face was wooden and expressionless, as the maid’s had been, neither showing surprise at the change of plan. They resumed their journey, the carriage jolting over the rutted road as the coachman skillfully brought his horses’ heads round, and Mademoiselle Sophie motioned Phillip to take the seat her maid had occupied.

  “You will be able to see better from there,” she told him quietly. “It will not take long to provide you with your proof that we are defenseless, Phillip—an hour, perhaps. And then you must go, you must return to your ship … I dare not let you stay much longer. Will they send a boat for you?”

  “Yes—two hours after nightfall. The boat will pick me up at a cove some five miles along the coast and—”

  “Five miles? Then you will need a horse. And there will be time to have your wound attended to, for which I am glad.” She smiled at him again and there was tenderness in her smile. Phillip felt a knife twist in his heart as he looked across at her.

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle Soph—forgive me, Your Highness. I … I keep forgetting to address you as I must now, I—”

  “And I prefer ‘Mademoiselle Sophie’ from you, my dear English sailor,” she said softly. “It reminds me of happier times, although, alas, those times will never come again, for either of us, I fear. But now …” She leaned forward in her seat. “We are approaching the Cavalry Barracks, where once the Chasseurs of Odessa were quartered under my husband’s command. Look well, Phillip.”

  Unhappily, little relishing his task, Phillip obeyed her. By no stretch of the imagination had he expected to complete the final part of his mission from the safe refuge of a princely carriage-and-four, with a niece of the Tsar as his guide, but fate had ordained that he should and, he supposed, he was fortunate. The tour on which he was taken was a comprehensive one and it confirmed all that Mademoiselle Sophie had said concerning the stricken town. Odessa had been left in ruins by that first naval bombardment and was now, it was self-evident, sucked dry and abandoned, no longer capable of contributing anything to the prosecution of the war.

  “You see?” Mademoiselle Sophie asked, her eyes filled with tears. “Have you seen enough now, Phillip, to convince even the French that this poor town offers no menace and would make a—a truly unworthy target for your Fleets?”

  He bowed his head in pitying assent. “Yes, I have seen enough, more than enough, I—”

  “Then rap, if you please, on the roof of the carriage. That will tell the coachman to drive us to my house.”

  Phillip did as she had asked. “Why do you stay here?” he ventured diffidently. “Surely you need not?”

  “Why?” she echoed, sounding almost angry. “Because this is now my home and because it was my husband’s wish that our child should be born here.” Her momentary anger faded. “You … Phillip, you do not perhaps know that my husband died of his wounds at Balaclava?”

  This was the question he had been dreading but, aware that he must answer it truthfully, Phillip braced himself. “Yes, I know,” he told her gently, his mind going back to the lamp-lit tent in the 93rd’s lines, to which Catriona Moray and some of the Highlanders’ women had carried the dying Narishkin, wrapping his broken body in a tartan plaid. “I was with him and we talked of you, madam—Mademoiselle Sophie. Of you and of the child … he was happy about the child, happy and proud.”

  “He wanted a son, Phillip,” she whispered brokenly. “I pray that I may give him one—with all my heart I pray that I may give him one. He … how did he die?”

  “Most gallantly, madame. And what could be done for him was done, I give you my word.”

  Mademoiselle Sophie’s small, gloved hands were tightly clasped together, in a vain attempt to hide their trembling. “Phillip, how did you find him, when there were so many killed that day, so many on both sides? God Himself must have guided you, I … Please tell me, please tell me all you can.”

  Phillip told her briefly, with scrupulous honesty, sparing her only the details of Andrei Narishkin’s long agony and the fact that he had lain for so many hours on the field of battle before Catriona Moray had found him.

  “Your name was constantly on his lips and at the end, he … There was a girl, a young Highland girl—one of those who found and brought him in—who looked a little like you. She sat with him and he imagined that you were there, that you were caring for him. She played her part well and he was comforted.”

  “Oh, I am thankful.” Her voice was choked with sobs but she con
trolled herself, bravely fighting back the tears. “I had wondered … about his death. I am glad that you were with him, you and that girl, glad and … grateful to you both, so truly grateful. Poor Andrei … he had not fully recovered from the wounds he received at the Alma.” Remembering the empty sleeve and the dreadful, partially healed leg wound which, Catriona had told him, was already gangrenous, Phillip nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “He could have stayed here,” Mademoiselle Sophie went on, her hands, in the tight-fitting black gloves, still moving restlessly. “But he would not. His regiment was with the Army of the Crimea. It was his duty, he said, to lead them when they went into battle. He could not walk but he could sit a horse and so, when the time came and I could not persuade him to wait until his wounds were healed, I—I went with him to Simpheropol and later to Backshi-Serai. He sent me back here when I—when we knew that I was with child. He would not permit me to stay with him.”

  So that had been her marriage, Phillip thought, the muscles of his throat tight … and he had envied Andrei Narishkin, God how he had envied him! And yet he had had so tragically little—a few short weeks and then the war had claimed him. He had fought at the Alma and returned from there, for another few weeks, with an arm amputated and one leg so badly injured that he could not walk and then, with everything to live for, he had thrown away his life in the shambles that had been Balaclava.

  “Phillip …” Mademoiselle Sophie’s smile was tremulous but she managed to smile at him and he leaned forward, putting out a hand to separate her tightly clasped fingers. They were cold, in spite of the gloves, and their trembling hurt him, as if her pain were his own. With his free hand, he took the ring she had given him from his pocket and, opening the case, held it out to her.