by Chris Paton
“It's this way.”
They passed two more patrols on the way to the shipyard, and each time Stepan said a little prayer that the Cook would behave himself. The Cook, for his part, danced a short jig with the safe passing of each patrol. He played on Lena's sense of fun and Stepan's lack of the same.
“Don't you find it terribly exciting, Kapitan?” the Cook said as he sidled up to where Stepan surveyed the next street, the one before the shipyard. Stepan could see the cranes on the docks and, with their goal in sight, he felt closer than ever to finding Nikolas.
“No, I don't,” he said and nodded at the Cook to move back as another patrol turned the corner of the street. Stepan stared at the two emissaries pulling a cart behind them. The cart held a battered emissary that looked to have run out of fuel. But it was the small group of soldiers guarding a small, thin boy, that walked behind the cart that made Stepan step out of cover and into the street.
“Kapitan,” Lena hissed. She pushed past the Cook, grabbed Stepan by the belt and dragged him into the shadow of the wall.
“It's Nikolas,” Stepan said and struggled forwards.
“Cook,” said Lena. “Help me.”
“Shall I sit on him?”
“Da.”
Stepan grunted as the Cook tackled him, pressing his body to the ground and the air out of his lungs. Lena watched as the soldiers pushed Nikolas behind the cart and down the street. She waited until they were gone before kicking the Cook's backside for him to crawl off the Kapitan.
“Such fun,” said the Cook and slid off Stepan and onto his bottom.
Stepan rounded on Lena only to stop when she pressed a finger to his lips and mouthed the words, “Trust me.” Stepan nodded and backed down.
“He looked thin,” he said as he sat on a piece of rubble.
“But well,” said Lena. “And alive.”
“Yes,” Stepan said and took a breath. “The mission first.”
“We can't free the city if we don't control the water.”
“Then,” said the Cook, “to the shipyards we go.”
Stepan brushed the dust from his uniform and stepped into the street. The shipyards, he knew, would be heavily guarded. There was no way of knowing if the Germans had discovered the hidden submarine pens beneath the shipyard, and there was only one way of finding out. Stepan led the Cook to the wall of the building opposite the shipyard entrance and signalled for Lean to follow at a distance.
“Two guards,” Stepan whispered into the Cook's ear as the man pressed himself against the wall next to Stepan. At last, he is playing his part.
“Two,” the Cook said and drew two thin knives from his bandolier.
“And.” Stepan placed a hand on the Cook's shoulder. “Another one on a break, there, behind the wall.”
“Three.”
“Four,” said Lena as she crept along the wall. “In the window on the first floor. He is sitting on the window ledge.”
“Can you get him?” Stepan said.
The Cook straightened his shoulders and gave Stepan a serious look. “I can, and I will,” he said and took a step forwards. “Of course,” the Cook said and nodded at Stepan's musket. “If I don’t, it will be up to you.” He winked and turned his back, moving along the wall in a manner Stepan would never have believed possible.
“I hope you are right about him, Lena.”
“Just wait.”
Stepan could see two blades dangling from the fingers of the Cook's right hand. His left was raised and a single, heavier blade, whistled through the air as he threw it straight and high towards the guard in the window. Lena grasped Stepan's arm and squeezed as the knife struck the German in the chest. The man slumped out of the window and began to fall.
The Cook moved faster than Stepan thought possible, throwing the second knife with his right hand and the third with his left. Both knives hit their targets before the German from the window landed on the ground with a wet thump and the clatter of metal as his musket rattled away from his body.
“That's it then,” Stepan said and shouldered his musket as the German taking a break sprinted around the corner.
“Wait,” said Lena and tugged on Stepan's arm as the Cook drew two small knives and threw them with a moment's pause, one after the other into the German soldier. The first struck him in the thigh, and, as he doubled over in pain, the second buried itself in his throat. The Cook continued to run forwards, catching the German in his arms before he fell to the ground. The Cook was dancing a new jig by the time Stepan and Lena jogged over to him.
“I owe you an apology,” Stepan said as he held out his hand.
“Oh, Kapitan, don't make threats you can't follow through,” the Cook said. He waited for a moment and then gripped Stepan's hand and kissed it. Lena giggled as Stepan reeled backwards.
“Time to go, Kapitan,” she said and pointed at the door.
“There will be more guards inside,” Stepan said as he watched the Cook collect and clean his knives. “I think you should go first.”
“Me? Oh, Kapitan,” said the Cook. “Such an honour.”
Without another word, the Cook moved quickly to the main door of the shipyard and cracked it open an inch to look inside. Stepan covered him with the musket while Lena watched their backs.
“Clear,” said the Cook as he slipped inside the door. Stepan followed, his eyes adjusting to the gloom as he entered the building. A murmur from the loading bays either side of the building forced the Cook into cover and Stepan followed him into the shadows behind a steam crane. Lena closed the door behind her and hid behind a stack of crates opposite the crane. From his position, Stepan could see the large well in which the ships were laid and the cranes lining the well on either side. Below that, he hoped to find the hidden entrance to the submarine pens, locked and forgotten. He whispered to the Cook to follow and signalled for Lena to do the same. They ran the short distance to the well and slipped over the side, one after the other. Lena spun slow circles with her pistols pointed upwards as Stepan put down his musket and sweated to turn the handle of the round iron door covering a thick rusted pipe like a shield.
“Let me help you,” the Cook said and took hold of the handle. Together they rocked the handle a quarter of an inch before it squealed open another inch and then two more. The wheel began to spin but the squeal of rusted metal in an otherwise empty area of the shipyard attracted the attention of two guards. Lena shot them both, the boom of her pistols crashing around the ship well and ricocheting between the round steam cranes.
“Sorry,” she said and crouched. She tucked one pistol under her arm as she reloaded the other. Stepan picked up his musket and covered her as the Cook spun the wheel, unlocking the entrance to the submarine pens.
“It is open,” the Cook said as Stepan pushed him down with one hand and fired his musket at a soldier with the other. The German dropped to the ground and crawled into cover.
“Kapitan,” Lena shouted and threw a pistol at Stepan. He caught it and slung the musket over his shoulder. Lena primed her second pistol and duck-walked over to the door.
“Get inside,” Stepan said and fired the pistol at the soldier as the man took aim from his position behind the crane. Stepan swore as the bullet thwacked into the crane's metal plates. Lena's was the better shot, hitting the man in the forehead as he rose to his knees to aim.
The shipyard erupted in a volley of musket fire and gunpowder clouds as more soldiers and two emissaries moved to flank Stepan and his team on both sides.
“Inside, now,” he shouted and grabbed Lena by the bandolier. Stepan shoved her inside the round door and reached for the Cook, ducking at another volley of musket fire.
“No, Kapitan,” the Cook said and lifted a bloody palm from his stomach. “You go. I will play my part,” he said and drew one of the large Saami knives from his belt.
“You're a good man,” Stepan said and clapped the Cook on the shoulder.
“Well, we can't all be perfect,” the Cook sa
id and laughed. “Now go, before I get all teary-eyed and emotional.”
Stepan nodded once and ducked inside the door as the third volley of lead bullets slammed into their position. He heard the Cook cry out in pain as he slammed the door closed and turned the handled into the locked position.
“The Cook?” said Lena as she unbuckled her bandoliers and passed them to Stepan.
“He didn't make it,” he said and wrapped the leather straps around the metal handle and tied it to a metal bar welded to the side of the door. “I am sorry, but we have to go,” Stepan said and flinched as the fourth volley found its mark and peppered the door with lead shot.
“Down?” said Lena and waved the barrel of her pistol into the darkness before them.
“Yes. This is a pipe. It leads to a grille door, after which is another door and then the pens themselves.”
“So we are nearly there?”
“Yes. We just have to get past the grille, and it gets lighter from that point.”
“Good,” Lena said and stumbled forwards into the dark. She smoothed her left hand along the wall of the pipe and aimed her pistol ahead of her with her right. Stepan followed a few paces behind her, memory-stepping over obstacles that tripped Lena.
“Feel with your feet,” he said. “It will get easier in a moment.”
“That depends,” said a voice, “on your definition of easy.”
Stepan placed his hand on Lena's shoulder and squeezed for her to stop. He crawled past her and took the pistol from her hand. He gave her his empty pistol and Lena began to reload as Stepan moved forwards.
“There are only a few people who know about this place,” he said and stopped. “I wonder which one you are?”
“You have to ask, Kapitan?” said the voice as a man stumbled forwards, bent double inside the pipe, his massive frame filled the space between them.
“Poruchik Pavlutskiy,” Stepan said. He stuffed the pistol inside his belt and gripped the hand of the man in front of him.
“Kapitan Skuratov. It has been a while.”
“You're hurt?” Stepan pulled back his hand, recognising the thick wet substance for what it was. “And bleeding?”
“I am.”
“Vlad?” cried Lena as she shouldered Stepan to one side and barrelled into the man. “Vladimir,” she said and gripped the man's head between her hands. Lena kissed him on the mouth until Vladimir coughed and she released him.
“I am sorry, Lena. It is good to see you. But this poor Russian is not strong enough for a fire-red Cossack just now.”
“What happened?” Stepan said as Lena held Vladimir's hand.
“A knife wound that just won't heal.”
“We'll see what we can do about that. But first,” Stepan said as another round of bullets whacked into the door. “We have to get out of this pipe.”
Chapter 26
The Tanfana
Imperial Russia
July, 1851
Luise woke with a start, gasping for breath as thick smoke filled her quarters. She reeled from the door as flames licked at the wood. Her ears rang with the drum of missiles striking the side of the passenger car and shattering the windows. Luise rolled onto the floor in search of air as the smoke thickened and she struggled to see her hands in front of her face. She tried to call out but choked on the words and gasped at the pain in her side as it flared with each movement she made. The floor was warm beneath her palms as Luise crawled to the window only to pull back as another round of missiles struck the side of her cabin. One of the missiles shattered the window and crashed, spent of energy, onto the floor. It rolled against Luise's leg and she picked it up, recognising the warm lead shot as she turned it within her fingers.
I have to get out.
Luise forced herself onto her knees, coughing as she crawled to the window. The door hissed as the flames worked their way up the wood panels, stripping the varnish into blisters. With a grunt of pain, she pressed her palms on the floor and pushed herself onto her feet only to fall down as the side of the cabin was ripped away with a screech of metal. A faint green glow shone through the smoke like a searchlight probing the inside of the cabin. As the fresh air from outside The Tanfana cleared the smoke, Luise saw a huge metal hand reach in and stretch its fingers. She took hold and let the emissary pull her gently to her feet, lift her out of the cabin and place her on the ground, shielding her with its back as another burst of lead shot hailed towards them.
“Kettlepot,” said Luise as she filled her lungs with fresh air. “Where is Emilia?”
The emissary turned its head and dipped it up and down in the direction of a group of emissaries crouched in a defensive ring, muskets bristling between their shoulders as Wallendorf's soldiers returned fire against their attackers.
“But where are we? And who is attacking?” Luise turned to look around Kettlepot's globus tank and saw a posse of six riders, dust billowing from beneath the horses hooves as they turned towards the soldiers and let loose another volley of lead.
“Are they from Arkhangelsk?” Luise said as she stood. Kettlepot stretched and followed her, shielding her from a potential attack. She stumbled along the tracks in the direction of the steam engine, turning her head as the emissary tapped her on the shoulder with a large brass finger. It pointed towards the soldiers. “No,” she said. “I need to see who we are fighting. And why.”
Kettlepot moved its shoulders in a gesture that Luise took to be a shrug. It seemed that Emilia had given the emissary strict instructions and it followed her as she walked.
Luise waved her hand through a cloud of smoke and stared at the gates of the city in front of her. That must be Arkhangelsk, she thought as she stumbled forwards. Kettlepot increased the length of its stride and lifted Luise into its arms.
“What?” she said and then relaxed as the emissary cupped its hand and bent its arm. Luise leaned her back against Kettlepot's arm and pointed in the direction she wanted to go. “There,” she said and nodded at what looked like a command tent, four hundred yards in front of the gates to Arkhangelsk. “Take me over there.”
Luise felt the thunder of hooves rippling up the emissary's armour. She twisted in her seat and glimpsed the approach of four horsemen as they yelled and drew their short cavalry swords. Kettlepot placed Luise on the ground and dipped its head towards the only available cover – a wounded horse lying on its belly. Luise crawled over to the horse and ducked beneath its saddle as the first of the horsemen wheeled in from the right to attack. Kettlepot ducked and toppled the horse with one arm. The rider's sword bounced off the emissary's head as he flew over the head of his mount and landed close to where Luise hid. She crawled out from cover to remove the man's sword from where it wobbled in his grasp. The man panted on the ground, winded but otherwise unhurt. His comrades checked their horses advance and sheathed their swords in favour of their short-barreled muskets.
“You might want to reconsider this,” Luise said to the man as she crawled backwards and into cover. “It's just a suggestion,” she said as he looked at her. The crack of three muskets, one after the other, split the air above them, punctuated by the dull ring of three lead balls as they flattened against Kettlepot's armour. The man looked again at Luise and she shrugged. “Do you see what I mean?”
The sudden command to stop, bellowed from the command tent made Luise lift her head over the saddle. She recognised the language as a Russian dialect, and began to imagine that she might be surrounded by Cossacks, given the horses and their mix of wool, leather and fur clothing. Luise stood up and smiled as Kettlepot clanked the short distance towards her. The winded Cossack pushed himself to his feet and joined his comrades as a large man strode from the tent followed by a woman. Luise stared and then realised that Hannah had had the same idea as her – that they were fighting the wrong battle. She watched as Hannah quickened her pace and walked side by side with the man until they stopped within a few feet of Luise and her emissary bodyguard.
“This is Ivan Timofeye
vich,” said Hannah. “The leader of the Cossacks ringing the city.” Luise turned to Ivan and nodded in greeting. “My Russian isn't very good,” Hannah continued, “but I think I have convinced him we are not the same Germans as those inside the city. Although, I must admit, it is an easy mistake to make – they are our emissaries after all.”
Ivan stared at Kettlepot and made a point of looking at Luise, drawing the shape of a box in the air with his hands.
“No,” said Luise with a slight shake of her head. “No box.”
Ivan raised his eyebrows and then said something in Russian before taking his pipe from his pocket and lighting it.
“I think,” Hannah said, “he is impressed.” She turned to ask Ivan a question but he was already moving back towards the tent, followed by a small cloud of sweet smoke. He stopped by the horsemen who had attacked Luise and ordered one of the men to sound the end of battle on the bugle he wore around his neck. On the last of three short blasts, Luise turned to see the Cossacks on the battlefield rein in their horses and trot back towards the tents and entrenchments in front of the city, shrugging the battle from their shoulders, chatting, smoking and joking as they rode. The Wallendorf defensive ring of emissaries dispersed, and Luise watch as Emilia led a startled emissary out from behind the soldiers and in her direction.
“That's the new emissary?” Luise said and suppressed a smile.
“Ja,” said Hannah. “Apparently not all Şteamƙin are cut out to be warriors. I was going to have it scrapped but Fräulein Ardelean would not hear of it.” Hannah studied Luise before asking, “Are you feeling better? The doctor was concerned you were bleeding again.”
“And I think I did, for a short while at least. He must have given me a sedative. When I woke up, the cabin was burning.”
“Yes, Ivan's men scored a lucky hit with some explosives. The doctor, I am afraid, did not make it.”
“What?” Luise felt the colour and warmth flush from her cheeks. She wrapped her arms across her chest and shivered. “He is dead.”