by V. A. Stuart
For the next two hours, battling against an almost overwhelming longing for sleep, he compelled himself to review everything that had occurred on the cliff top the previous evening, from every possible angle and to the best of his recollection. At times he endeavoured to defend Quinn, at others to condemn him, going carefully over what they had said to each other both privately and in the hearing of the two seamen, who had carried Graham down to the boat—the Welsh lad, Williams, and the one-time fisherman, Jackson. But, for all his efforts, he came no nearer to a solution of his problem. Whether Quinn had hurled that rock at him intentionally or whether the fall had been sheer chance, he could prove nothing, he decided wearily, and without proof—however strong his suspicions might be—his hands were tied and he would be compelled to give his First Lieutenant the benefit of whatever doubt existed.
At length, despairing of ever being able to find a satisfactory answer to any of the questions which plagued him, Phillip ate the food Boris had left with him and settled down to uneasy slumber, so numb with cold that he had twice to swing himself back to the summit of the cliff and there pace up and down, stamping his feet to restore his circulation. It was a clear, moonlit night and he could see quite a distance across the flat, marshy plain, although a low-lying, patchy mist, creeping slowly in from the sea, obscured his view of the entrance to the cove.
Well, that would be to the advantage of the gig, he reflected, and possibly to his own, when the time came for his second attempt to set a trap for Ambrose Quinn. He smothered a sigh and once again lowered his cramped body into the cleft in the rock, swallowing the last few mouthfuls of wine before lying down. This time, sleep came more easily and deeply but he wakened, after what seemed to him quite a short while, with the uneasy conviction that something was wrong. He lay there tensely, listening for whatever sound had awakened him and flexing his stiff limbs, in the hope that they would obey him, should he need to move swiftly. Then, without warning, two hands came out of the darkness above his head, one to grasp him by the shoulder, the other to close over his mouth to prevent him crying out.
Still bemused by sleep, his first thought was that Quinn had come, for the purpose of finishing what he had started, and he struggled desperately to free himself. But the hands holding him down were immensely strong … yet, he realized, in bewilderment, their grasp was quite gentle. Whoever had found his hiding-place clearly had no desire to harm him and, as soon as he had ceased to fight against them, the hands relaxed their grip, permitting him to sit up. When he did so, still too numb with cold to rise to his feet without assistance, he found himself looking into the round, smiling face of Boris, Mademoiselle Sophie’s giant footman. The man held a finger to his lips, to enjoin silence and then assisted Phillip to join him on the summit of the cliff. He was on foot, his horses nowhere to be seen, and he gestured urgently to the cove below them, muttering something unintelligible in his own language.
The mist still lay low over the water but above it, lying perhaps half a mile off the entrance, Phillip could just make out the riding-lights of a ship. As he stared at her, the moon came from behind a cloud and he recognized her, from her rigging and upperworks, as his own Huntress. But what, in the name of all that was wonderful, he asked himself, was she doing here? Why had she shifted from her anchorage, to lie off the cove? As if in answer to his unvoiced question, Boris pointed, again saying something he could not understand, and Phillip bit back an exclamation of dismay as he saw a light flash from the Huntress’s upper deck. It was followed by a second and a third, in rapid and rhythmic succession—three short and then one long … interrogative. She was making a signal, evidently intended for himself which, after watching the light flashes for a few moments, he read as: Are you there?
He stared across the intervening stretch of water in angry disbelief. What strange game was Ambrose Quinn playing now, he asked himself. Had he not left specific instructions that the ship was to remain at her anchorage, astern of the rest of the squadron, and that on no account were signals of any kind to be made to him during the time he was ashore? All four ships of the squadron could be seen from the road and the coastal fort and, depleted though the garrison of the town might be, it was unlikely that the fort, at least, would fail to post a night watch for as long as enemy ships lay in the offing. By shifting her anchorage, the Huntress must, sooner or later, draw the attention of the fort look-outs to this cove and it would certainly not be long before a cavalry patrol was sent to his hiding-place to investigate the reason for the signals, which— Phillip’s mouth tightened—which, presumably, was Lieutenant Quinn’s intention, although he was at a loss to understand why. But he wasted no time in trying to think of reasons; his brain, wide awake now, was racing, as he considered what he must do.
It could well be disastrous for Captain Broke’s squadron, as well as for himself, if he were found here, in breach of the truce and … he caught his breath in agonized realization of how disastrous his arrest, in these circumstances, might prove for Mademoiselle Sophie. He had been seen leaving the Cathedral this morning, escorted by her footman in his distinctive livery and seen, also, probably, entering her coach so that, for her sake, he dare not stay here, dare not let himself be taken, still in the company of that same all-too-conspicuous servant. He turned to Boris, with the intention of sending him back to his mistress at once but the man gestured into the darkness behind him, indicating by signs that he had the horses tethered nearby. The loyal fellow must have waited, Phillip thought, having realized that the gig had left without him, presumably in obedience to Mademoiselle Sophia’s orders, to make sure that he returned safely to his ship. And had not Mademoiselle Sophie said that, if need be, Boris would defend him with his life?
He hesitated in momentary indecision, reluctant to keep the footman with him and thus put his life at risk. But … it would take a cavalry patrol, riding hard, some twenty-five to thirty minutes to reach here from the town and, if he went with Boris now, they would have a good chance of eluding the patrol, so long as it was dark. He glanced skyward, frowning. It would not be dark for much more than an hour and a half, he calculated. In daylight, even on horseback, it would not be easy to escape pursuit and he could no longer seek sanctuary at the Narishkin palace, lest his presence there endanger Mademoiselle Sophie. At all costs he must avoid that and, if he kept Boris with him, he might be exposing her to considerable danger, he was unhappily aware. Besides, his mission was completed and there was his report to deliver to the Admiral. If he did not get back to the Huntress now, it might be days before he was able to do so and each day he remained ashore would add to the risk of capture, once the hunt for him was on. Broke’s squadron could not stay at anchor off Odessa indefinitely, either. Once a reply to his note was delivered, Broke would have to put to sea, taking the Huntress with him.
The gig was due to pick him up very soon, unless … Phillip became aware of a swift, prickling sensation of alarm. Did the signal mean that the gig would not be sent for him, unless he replied to it? Oh, dear God, was that Quinn’s game? Was that why his second-in-command had made the signal, why was he continuing to make it at regular intervals—to afford an excuse for not sending the gig to pick him up? Or was he using those flashing lights from the Huntress’s deck to direct an enemy search party to the cove, so as to ensure his capture, if he were alive or the discovery of his body, if he were not?
It was hard to believe, even of Quinn, but, Phillip had bitterly to admit, it was a possibility he could not discount. He wondered for how long the signals had been coming before Boris had wakened him. Not for long, probably, since he had not slept for more than ten or, perhaps, fifteen minutes. But even that might cut down the time he had estimated for a cavalry patrol to reach here from the town, reducing by nearly half the margin of safety he had allowed himself. Boris caught urgently at his arm, pointing to their rear and clearly anxious that he should mount his horse and make a run for it but he shook his head, his mind finally made up.
He would endea
vour to get back to his ship, he decided, he must get back to her, whatever the risk. It was his duty, if what he had achieved in Odessa was of any value at all. He had already waited too long, thanks to his abortive attempt to set a trap for Quinn—an attempt which, he recognized regretfully now, had been a grave dereliction of duty, for which he had no excuse and could only reconcile with his conscience if he did rejoin his ship without further delay.
But how? If he called the gig in at once, ordered it to lie off the entrance to the cove—out of range of the muskets or carbines of any search party that might arrive on the scene— he would have a chance. A slim chance, admittedly, but he would have to take it. He could order the boat in, if it was safe to do so, or, if not, then … he shuddered at the prospect. If not, he would have to brave the icy water and swim out to the boat; there was no alternative.
Boris again tugged at his arm and Phillip repeated his headshake, trying to make the fellow understand that he was to make good his own escape and, whether or not he had made his meaning clear, the Russian released his arm and obediently vanished into the darkness. Relieved, Phillip bent down, feeling for the lantern he had hidden in the cleft of the cliff face when he had first taken shelter there. He must stop Quinn’s signals, that was imperative, and send his order for the boat for, without a boat, he could not hope to reach the Huntress. A swim of a hundred yards or so might be possible— just possible—but it would, he knew, be suicidal to try to swim much further. He found the lantern and, with numb fingers, struggled to set it alight, succeeding in doing so after two abortive attempts. Then, shielding the light with his body, he crouched low beneath the overhanging cliff top and opened the signal shutter.
The naval code was a simple one, easy enough to remember but requiring time to send and Phillip knew that his time was running out. His message must be brief but explicit, for it could be sent only once and he found himself praying that Acting-Mate Grey was on the Huntress’s deck to read it. He sent Stop—three long flashes—and to his heartfelt relief, the signals from the ship ceased at once. Perhaps Grey was on deck, he thought; the acknowledgement had been almost instantaneous. His fingers getting colder and more clumsy in his haste, he sent the rest of his message and thankfully closed the shutter but, in the act of extinguishing the signal lantern, changed his mind. Shuttered, it would be quite safe to take with him to the foreshore and should an enemy patrol appear before the gig entered the cove, he could use the lamp for its original purpose—to serve as a warning to the boat commander to back off, which—Phillip smiled wryly to himself … which had been Quinn’s suggestion, he recalled and, ironically, had proved invaluable to him in this crisis.
He straightened up, still holding the lantern against his chest and, to his dismay, heard the pounding of horses’ hooves coming towards him. His first instinctive impulse was to hurl himself down the cliff in the hope that he might gain the foreshore before he was seen or his descent could be heard, but then he realized that the hoofbeats were too few for a cavalry patrol and he stayed where he was, ready for instant flight should this prove necessary. There were only two horses approaching him, one riderless and he guessed that Boris, misunderstanding his attempt to communicate his instructions by signs, had returned, bringing both horses with him. How, in heaven’s name, he asked himself, was he to persuade the faithful giant to seek safety and leave him to his fate, when the man so obstinately refused to accept his dismissal? Boris was trying very hard to tell him something but he had no idea what it was until, climbing up beside him, he saw lights flickering on the curving coast road, as nearly as he could judge about two miles away. If this were the patrol, then he might just have time to call his gig into the cove to pick him up before the cavalrymen crossed the marsh, Phillip calculated, but it was going to be a close-run thing and he had somehow to induce Boris to abandon him.
He gestured to the cove, going through the motions of rowing and then pointing in the direction of the Huntress and, at last, saw comprehension dawn on the Russian’s round, moon face. He fumbled in his pockets, searching for some reward to give him but all he could find were his pocket watch and compass. The watch had been a gift from his father and, on this account, he was loathe to part with it but Boris deserved some recognition for his tenacious loyalty and, after only a momentary hesitation, he unclipped the chain and thrust the silver timepiece into the footman’s hand. Then, realizing that when he waded—or swam—out to meet the incoming boat, he might have to leave his borrowed cloak on the foreshore, he quickly divested himself of the garment and handed this, too, to Boris.
“Narishkin!” he said aloud and pointed in the general direction of Odessa. “Sophia Mikailovna Narishkina …” adding, in halting Russian, “Go … go quickly! Je te donne congé … laissesmoi partir!” He had no idea whether he had the right words or whether Boris had understood his schoolboy French but his gifts had the desired effect. The man pocketed the watch and draped the cloak about his massive shoulders, a pleased smile lighting his face as he did so. Still mindful of his duty, however, he pointed to the cove, the gesture almost pleading and only when Phillip nodded acquiescence did he take his leave. A hand raised in parting salute, he set spurs to his horse and was off at full gallop across the desolate marshland, the led horse pounding after him.
Phillip waited no longer. Slithering and sliding like a drunken man, he flung himself down the cliff face, careless of how much noise he made or how many loose rocks he sent cascading down ahead of him. He gained the beach, bruised and breathless but somehow, miraculously, still clutching the signal lamp and limped painfully across to the water’s edge. He was below the level of the sea mist now, he realized, and was thankful, since the mist—though patchy—meant that neither he nor the gig would present an easy target to any marksman firing down at them from the top of the cliff. It would also mean that the gig’s commander might experience some difficulty in reading his signal but, if he kept his eyes on the shore, he ought to be able to make out the glow from the signal lamp and, so long as this was intermittent, there should be no likelihood of his mistaking it for the warning to lie off the entrance to the cove. Unless Quinn were in command of the gig … in the act of raising the lantern shutter to make sure that the candle was still alight, Phillip let it fall back into place, the brief elation he had felt on gaining the beach fading abruptly.
With his First Lieutenant in command, his signals might be ignored or deliberately misread, he thought. But would Quinn be in command? He would not risk his neck, if he could help it, being Quinn and, if he had good reason to believe that the gig’s crew might be met—or even be taken—by the enemy, surely he would be more likely to send O’Hara or Cochrane, perhaps, in his place? Sweet heaven, of course he would! Quinn hadn’t merely good reason, he had every reason under the sun to believe that, by this time, a Russian patrol would be on its way to the cove! Hadn’t he done all he possibly could to draw the attention of the fort’s look-outs to the cove, with his infernal, unauthorized flashing light signals and his shift of anchorage? What he hoped to gain by his efforts was beyond comprehension … unless he intended to recall the gig before it could enter the cove or wanted to justify his failure to send it at all. In either case, he’d gone to an extraordinary amount of trouble to achieve very little and laid himself open to a charge of disobeying his orders, which wasn’t like Quinn. It wasn’t like him at all … unless he wanted the gig’s crew to be taken, together with the person, if living, or the dead body of his Captain. Could that be the explanation of his recent manoeuvers?
If it was, then surely … Phillip swore, aloud and bitterly. Fool that he was, he reproached himself, not to have seen what Quinn’s game was until this moment! He had thought it a strange game but he hadn’t understood, hadn’t guessed for what stakes the man was playing or to what lengths he was prepared to go to ensure the safety of his own skin.
His hands clenched impotently at his sides. He had answers to the questions which had plagued him for long, answers in which he found i
t well nigh impossible to believe, but they fitted the facts. Not even Quinn would have gone as far as he had tonight unless he had attempted murder on his conscience—attempted murder or worse—and, in consequence, feared for his skin. Although Phillip realized, it was of small use to him now to know, with growing certainty, that the rock fall the previous evening had been deliberately contrived to kill or maim him … because Ambrose Quinn would see to it that did not return to the Huntress. A whole boat’s crew would, if necessary, be sacrificed to prevent his doing and to enable Quinn to go through the motions of rescuing him … motions that were not intended to succeed. He shivered, the cold biting into his very bones now that lacked the protection of his cloak.
The proof would come in the next five minutes, he thought wretchedly. If his deductions were correct, Quinn would send the volunteer crew with the gig this time—a crew that included Grey, O’Hara and O’Leary; and, very probably, Williams and Jackson, the two seamen who’d been on shore when that thrice-damned rock had fallen and who, no doubt, had heard it fall. There would be a risk that either or both might have wondered why the First Lieutenant had failed to hear it and why he’d taken no action and so, like the rest, they’d be sent with the gig … Graham, too, perhaps, if he had recovered sufficiently. As Russian prisoners-of-war their recollections would not harm Quinn, and if he were to lose a boat’s crew, he would obviously select one that could afford to do without. Phillip gave vent to a tense and troubled sigh.
For God’s sake, he asked himself, was he going out of his mind? Or was this—as he had thought it must be when he had first recovered consciousness on that precarious ledge of rock—was this a nightmare, an ugly dream from which he would waken? He found himself praying that it might be a dream, unwilling even now to believe that any man, least of all an officer of Her Majesty’s Navy, could be capable of such callous and even treasonable behavior as that which he was being forced to attribute to Ambrose Quinn.