by Peter Greene
“We have not failed!” exclaimed Aggar. “We are delayed. I have already put the alternate plan into effect. That should please the commodore.”
“Begging the captain’s pardon,” said Nababkin, gulping nervously. “Kharitonov is rarely pleased. Ever.”
In the bay of Petrčane, just north of Zadar, two ships met. One was larger, designed with two decks and thirty-six guns—the other, a sleek eighteen-gun sloop with slightly raked masts and sails brig-rigged.
Commodore Ian Kharitonov commanded the thirty-six gun Navarkhia. He was angry and disappointed.
Captain Nikomed Aggar commanded the eighteen-gun Echo. He was afraid.
The ships anchored within fifty yards of one another, and even in the darkness, Aggar could see the small boat splash into the water off the side of the larger warship and immediately begin a rapid approach. He recognized the form of Kharitonov, over six and a half feet tall, standing at the bow of the craft, arms folded. His scowl was visible in the moonlight.
The small boat reached the Echo, and a Jacob’s ladder made of rope wound as steps descended from the deck.
Though his large frame had to weigh at least three hundred pounds, Kharitonov scaled the rope ladder to the main deck with ease. Only a few lanterns lit the scene, casting an ochre glow to the beams and rigging. Kharitonov surveyed the deck quickly, and there he saw Aggar, standing at attention.
“Commodore—” was all that Aggar was able to say before Kharitonov lunged at him, slapped him across the face, then landed a blow to the head with a massive fist.
“You!” yelled Kharitonov. “You have failed us! You could not obtain this ship the simple way at Telašćica. No, you needed two attempts! Now, I must take over!”
Aggar sat up, holding his jaw, and spitting blood. Blood from the reopened sword gash on his cheek began to flow.
“Without me, you are nothing!” yelled the commodore.
Aggar looked to Kharitonov and then to the deck. His instincts told him to avoid eye contact and show complete submission to this monster. However, a small part of him encouraged retaliation, a wave of embarrassment and hatred washed over him, until he took another breath. He calmed himself, his mind regaining control. Noticing his own crew, he could see that they too had been berated, subjugated under the wrath of Kharitonov. They hid their eyes, as if to ensure that they would not become involved or be in a position such that the commodore saw them, even for the briefest of moments, and his anger scorch them.
“I know I have disappointed you, Commodore,” Aggar finally said, “however, the English captain! He did not follow his orders. He would not come into the cove!”
“So was it then that you gave up?” asked Kharitonov, getting angrier.
“No, Commodore. I developed a plan, executed the first part, and now, together, we can capture the Paladin, the gem of the British Navy.”
Aggar stood slowly.
Kharitonov considered him as he stood within striking distance. Well over a hundred pounds heavier and two hands taller, the commodore towered above Aggar. His face was in a permanent frown, his tight white beard outlining a square jaw, his reddish skin made of rock. His light blue eyes flickered in the lantern’s light, and they bore a hole into Aggar’s soul.
“Aggar,” said the commodore softly. “Do you think I need you? Do you think that you are special in some way?”
“No, Commodore,” Aggar replied.
“I can find a hundred men like you and have all of them willing to do my bidding. I don’t need you or your ideas, your plans, or your dreams.”
Aggar thought this ironic. He had no dreams—none anymore. His only thought was for his family, wherever they were.
“I would be most honored if you would listen to my plan, Commodore. I think you will approve.”
Kharitonov folded his arms across his massive chest and smiled.
“I had better approve,” snarled the commodore, “or else I will take what is left of your life.”
18
The Viscount of Zadar
At the break of day, HMS Paladin continued southeast from Telašćica on fair winds and calm sky, approaching the large island named Kornati. From there, the ship navigated through the many islands that dotted the Dalmatian coast, approaching Zadar. It now seemed familiar to the crew, the mixture of tall, chalky cliffs and the lush green hills giving way to beautiful white-sand beaches and turquoise bays. In any other circumstance, Harrison would have anchored off a small bay and let the men enjoy the warm sun and a bath in the clear waters.
It was hard sailing, and as the crow would fly at ten knots, if one was able, the trip from Telašćica would have taken less than two or three hours. However, with the many turns and mostly unknown waters, the trip to Zadar would take almost half the day.
Now approaching their destination, Captain Harrison had ordered the crew to reduce sail to all but the topgallants, bringing the Paladin to almost a complete stop. He instructed Mister Fawcett to remain as long as was possible at the mouth of the bay.
The entrance was marked by two small towers, one on the north side of the wide inlet and another to the south. The bay then turned with a protected waterway to the south that was narrow, with a series of piers and a long quay along each side. Along the shoreline looked to be dense woodland and a few rolling hills beyond. One hill rose above the rest, possibly two hundred feet above sea level. Atop, stood a magnificent stone villa as described in the letter Harrison received from Bogát Gogomán at Telašćica.
Normally, there would be only the usual fishing skiffs and caïques plying the waters off Zadar. There were at rare times larger ships belonging to the Austrians who controlled the area, as well as the Venetians: Italians who had recently lost the area due to the war with Napoleon. All three parties continued to trade among one another, carrying goods of various types, and were sometimes in the company of protection—small- to medium-sized warships of similar proportion to the Paladin.
Today, only a small Austrian vessel of possibly twelve guns and an Italian merchant ship sat in the main part of the bay, anchored. Looking through their telescopes, the officers could see a dozen smaller fishing vessels and a yacht tied to the pier at the deepest end of the southern channel by the quaint village center.
British ships of His Majesty’s Navy took proper precautions when approaching other vessels anywhere other than their home port. Harrison knew this well. He instructed his two officers to place men in the tops to man sails; send Garvey, who had the best eyes of all the crew save Jonathan, to the crow’s nest; and send men to the guns on both sides and marines to various positions, muskets loaded and standing at attention. This accomplished two goals: one was to show the other ships that the British Navy was indeed the dominant force in all waters of the world and its crews professional, experienced, and most of all, dangerous to any who thought otherwise; and two, to be ready for battle at any time.
The Paladin had been at sea for just over two weeks, and news of political changes, in other words, the war, traveled slowly. Who was to know if at this given instant, as the Paladin sailed into Zadar, that hostilities might have once again broken out between Britain and any other country? Alliances were being forged between likely and unlikely bedfellows constantly, the pieces of the grand game of world trade being positioned through secret doings, public announcements, and not-so-public treaties.
Standing next to Captain Harrison on the bow were Midshipman Moore and Lieutenant Quinn. They continued to scan all parts of the Zadar coast, observing every ship in the main harbor or moored at the long quay and each building at the shoreline.
“I believe,” said Harrison, “that the inactivity aboard the ships in the harbor means the peace still holds in this pocket of the world. Otherwise, the crews would be ordered at least to stations. Still, our best position would be to anchor just at the mouth of the main bay, guns manned.”
“Why that position, sir?” asked Quinn. “I would assume any of these moorings at the pier would suffice, p
ossibly one closer to the center of town. It would make loading supplies easier.”
Harrison lowered his telescope and stared at Quinn. Before he could speak, Jonathan stepped in.
“A pier would be easiest and most convenient,” said Jonathan, “however, it would also make a repeat performance of the Telašćica attack easier as well.”
“But the bay is large,” argued Quinn. “At least a mile wide. I believe we could almost fight a battle in here with plenty of room to maneuver.”
“If we had forty-four guns, yes!” answered Harrison. “But our weapon is our speed. I will not lose that advantage. The wind is blowing off the shore, and we will keep it at our backs. Mister Fawcett?”
“Aye, sir?”
“Bring us to just the mouth of the main bay, then point our bow to the west. Moore, man the anchors and place axes by all the lines in case we need to leave in a hurry. Get the men to the guns.”
“Yes, sir,” Jonathan said and ran to execute the order.
“Quinn,” said Harrison softly. “I am not sure if you are simply an imbecile or have dropped below the line of common sense and descended into moronic stupidity.”
“Sir?” said Quinn, shocked. He lowered his telescope.
“Did you just suggest that we dock in a strange port, and then when I informed you of the ridiculousness of that idea, suggest that the bay is large enough for an engagement?”
Quinn swallowed hard.
Harrison looked him in the eye. He spoke quietly yet firmly.
“I am not sure if you are up to anything unsavory, but let me remind you, that I am watching. As are others on this ship.”
“But, sir!”
“Do not contradict me, Quinn! Carry out your orders to the letter for the remainder of this cruise, or, so help me, I will have you in front of the board upon our return, if I don’t dispose of you as is my right as captain of this ship! Is that understood?”
Quinn recoiled during this verbal attack and then recovered. He stood tall and stern facing Harrison, squared his shoulders, and pulled his coat downward with a firm tug to straighten out any creases or wrinkles—all in an effort to look serious, subservient, and in complete agreement.
“My apologies, Captain. I will endeavor to impress you and make amends for my incorrect assumptions.”
Harrison sighed. “That’s better. Please have the men in the tops ready to reduce all canvas on my command.”
“Yes, sir,” said Quinn. He marched off briskly.
Within a fraction of an hour, HMS Paladin had maneuvered into position and set anchor at the mouth of the wide bay, bow to the west, and all guns manned, yet doors closed. There was no need to ask for trouble; however, Harrison was sure to be ready if anyone approached the ship unannounced.
It was now time for a late breakfast. All crew not in the tops or manning guns were seated at prepared tables, eating a simple meal of hardtack, coffee, and some honey that had been saved for the halfway point of the journey. All had expected to be on their way home by this date; however, with the delay at Telašćica, only now did they feel it was time for the honey.
Normally, a breakfast for the officers would be served in the captain’s cabin, and Berkeley had prepared one of Harrison’s favorites: lightly fried and breaded flying fish fillets, with coffee and small corncakes. Berkeley had obtained the recipe from Jenkins, who had discovered it on a previous trip to the Lesser Antilles. Together, they had perfected the preparation with a few secret attempts over the last two weeks. Today, this feast was served on a small table placed on the stern deck, where Harrison and his officers could keep their eyes on the shore, the bay at Zadar, and the sea beyond.
Sean Flagon was also in attendance, and he took the opportunity to enjoy the fish and the slightly better bread. The coffee, growing on him each day, was strong and hot, and though in an almost tropical environment, it was still welcome. Sean had been up all night, walking the deck with Hicks and worrying. He knew he was to be part of this morning’s shore detail that would be led by Captain Harrison. He knew his musket would also be attending.
About them, marines marched around the deck, and Jenkins had a small detail of men scrubbing the teak, removing any signs of the bloody battle from the day before. There was much to do, as usual.
“Gentlemen,” began Harrison after finishing his third fillet, “let us review this morning’s mission. Most of all, I want to make sure that all know my most dire concerns.”
All stopped eating or drinking, wiped mouths and hands, and turned to the captain, giving him their full attention.
“I do not trust the information we have received,” said Harrison, “nor the information I have come to discover regarding this mission.”
Jonathan squirmed uncontrollably. Harrison was referring to his retaining of information. At least his friend had the manners not to call his name out loud.
“I am not going to simply hand over the treaty to this new player, Viscount Ragusa. He will need to know all the correct codes and passwords—and have at least an excellent bottle of Madeira before I am satisfied!”
“What do you propose?” asked Jonathan.
“I will leave the treaty aboard the Paladin and lead a small shore party to the viscount’s villa. Once there, I will test him. If he seems to fit all the criteria and know all the code words, then I will return to the Paladin, retrieve the treaty, and only then will I deliver it.”
Harrison looked at Quinn. He half expected him to begin a counterargument, considering he was once again greatly altering the particulars of the plan. Instead, Quinn nodded.
“A fine plan, Commander,” said Quinn. “Sensible and proper considering all the mishaps and unexplained events.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Quinn,” Harrison said, staring. “I will have you remain on board with Mister Moore.”
“Aye, sir,” said Quinn, apparently satisfied.
“Jonathan,” continued Harrison, “You are in command of the Paladin in my absence. Have Jenkins assist you if needed.”
Quinn was shocked.
“Sir!” he blurted out. “I’m a lieutenant! And though I respect and value Mister Moore, he is only a midshipman. I am surely the ranking officer!”
“I am well aware of that, Lieutenant Quinn. You will follow Mister Moore’s every command—and pay particular attention to the gun deck. Am I clear?”
There was a silence as all within earshot had heard the command for Jonathan to assume the role of captain. Jenkins and Welty had maneuvered their cleaning of the deck close to the officer’s table and had been listening since before the coffee was served. They smiled.
“I asked if I made myself clear!” exploded Harrison.
“Yes, sir!” they all said, even Jenkins and Welty.
“Quinn, I want every gun checked, loaded, and ready to fire. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, said Quinn, standing at attention. “I will attend to it personally.”
“Await our return, Mister Moore,” Harrison said, calming. “At any sign of trouble, use your speed. Warn us with three guns, then set sail. Keep the ship out of danger. Come back in three days’ time if you can—and every three days after, if necessary. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Jonathan.
“Hudson, I will need you, Hicks, and Flagon, along with twelve more able men. Assign Welty, Marshall, and Bowman as well. They are experienced fighters. Get your party organized and meet me at the jolly.”
Once the second shore party departed, Jonathan assigned eyes to all points about the ship, men to the tops, and Quinn, with his small crew of Crump and Crystal, inspected each gun, clearing touchholes and generally inspecting each piece.
Atop the hill overlooking the bay, the viscount of Zadar stood on the balcony of his home. Less than a mile from the shore in a wooded park, the superbly crafted stone villa had a commanding view of the area. Certainly, all in Zadar knew that this estate was home to the most important man in town. His wealth had been generated by mu
ch industry, some being legitimate business, though the vast majority was obtained by performing duties for some of his wealthy and powerful friends who had less-than-honest proposals. Sometimes, his services included murder, theft, kidnapping, or even more intricate performances that might require multiple crimes. Hidden behind his title of viscount, Baron Ragusa, an Austrian by birth, could claim his riches were part of his family’s wealth. They allowed him to employ a small band of men to do his work in this busy trade region—and also to afford the beautiful home overlooking Zadar.
Ragusa had been observing the English ship since he’d spotted her at the entrance to the main harbor earlier that morning. The fine telescope of superb workmanship he used was positioned on a pedestal in his loggia. Much stronger than the ones used by most seamen, he was always the first person to see any vessel approaching and even discover details others would not see until the ships had literally entered the bay.
The viscount had been paid—most handsomely, in fact—to alert Commodore Kharitonov of the arrival of a particular ship. He also was paid to perform a certain part, like an actor in a play, and convince his audience that what they were seeing was real. Challenging, yes, but he had a plan.
He could see the ship clearly now as a small boat left its side and headed for the shore. Its bow almost facing directly away from him, he could make out the letters across the ship’s stern. It read “Paladin.”
Now certain it was the ship he was looking for, he called his page.
“Chase!”
In a moment, his servant arrived.
“Send word to our friend that his ship has arrived. Take my quickest horse, and do not dally for any reason, understood?”
“Yes, Viscount!” said Chase. In less than a minute, the page was mounted on a white Arabian and speeding the well-known five miles over the hills to the north and to the small bay at Petrčane. There, the two Russian ships of Commodore Kharitonov sat anchored.
The jolly boat of HMS Paladin arrived at the southeast pier, deposited Harrison and his shore party, and quickly rowed away, returning to the ship. But as they departed, a scurrying was heard, and, leaping the yard or so from the jolly to the pier, was none other than Stewie, the cat.