‘A Cowan of another ilk, eh?’
‘You could say so.’
With knobs on. Considering that Bob’s grandfather had been a trawlerman, and his father a stowaway Scottish urchin turned trader. Very successful trader: self-made, and as rough-grained as he was generous and warmhearted. About as fine a character as ever lived, Bob thought – meeting Captain Fellows’ interested gaze and knowing that behind that entirely friendly interest the cruiser captain would be thinking to himself No – of course not. Of course not…
Alexander Cowan, the former runaway from an impoverished Scottish home, had died a rich man with a prospering investment company based in Glasgow, and he’d left the business lock, stock and barrel to his son Robert Cowan, formerly an officer in the Mercantile Marine and now Lieutenant-Commander, RNR, who instead of hotfooting it home to Scotland to take up the reins of his inheritance was at this point committing himself to—
Well – shifting in the bunk, relaxing tensed muscles as the rolling became less violent – committing himself, he thought, to God alone knew what.
*
When he woke it was after eight o’clock and the ship’s motion was gentle, rhythmic, a slow waltz compared to the wild fandango she’d been dancing a few hours earlier. She’d be in the shelter of the Crimean coastal mountain range, of course, and she’d have the benefit of it for most of the afternoon. Visualizing the chart, and the work he and Everard had done on it last evening, he knew they’d be on a course of about ENE and a dozen miles offshore, would have passed Balaclava and made two more course alterations while he’d been in dreamland, would now have Yalta somewhere abaft the beam with the white smudge of its sea-fronting villas and palaces possibly still in sight.
Yalta, which he and Temple had thought might be a likely place to find the two governesses; and where at an earlier time – before he’d received her letter – he’d daydreamed of reunion with Nadia. He’d enjoyed visions of the two of them on that warm, sunny coast with its palms, flowers, fruit and wine, an ideal setting for the kind of romantic dalliance there’d been no time or opportunity for earlier. At other times he’d been rather depressingly aware that the daydream was pure escapism, near-certainty being that he wouldn’t set eyes on her again until they met in Britain, probably in Scotland and in Glasgow at that – of all places. The picture in his mind then had been of wet streets, driving sleet, shabby grey housefronts, and local suspicions instantly aroused by a foreign accent – let alone by her title of Princess. Although one might have kept that quiet… But there’d also been the fear that she might hate it, soon wish she’d never come: while he’d be tied to the business, stuck there at least as long as it took to get the hang of things then reorganize and get new developments under way. No option – a future to be established, inheritance to be justified…
Whereas now, of course, it seemed extraordinary that these had been the areas of concern, that the possibility of never seeing her again anywhere at all had never occurred to him for a moment. Despite all the horrors and the chaos, the absence of any kind of certainty or security: as if their joint destiny had been something on another plane, untouchable.
One lived, and learned. Or if one lived, one learned…
Might Nadia – he wondered this while he was shaving, balancing himself against the ship’s pitching while he scraped at the dark stubble on his rather wide, blunt jaw – might she feature in his decision to go inland in search of these other women?
He didn’t think so. In fact, was sure not. All right, so they were working as nurses, as she was – or as she’d intended doing when she’d written that letter – and naturally enough she was still quite often in his mind, so it was hardly surprising if thoughts of them and of her sometimes overlapped. But there was certainly no thought in his mind of trying to find her. In fact he wouldn’t want to; and doing so by chance – such a chance being extremely remote anyway – would be an embarrassment. She’d made her choice, she was now the wife of Nicholas Solovyev – end of story. While this business of the governesses was simply a duty that had been imposed on one – so impersonal that at this moment he couldn’t even recall their names.
Thinking hard, as he wiped suds and stubble off his razor. Annoyed with himself for the lapse of memory…
Getting there, finally. Katherine Reid, and Mary Pilkington.
‘Silly girls,’ Captain Fellows had called them. Because they were making this nuisance of themselves, of course, causing so much trouble. But thinking about them now – the little that one knew of them – well, they’d had the initiative to volunteer as military nursing aides at a time when the risks were obvious – and the need for nurses and doctors probably acute – and then they’d managed somehow to cut short their training and get themselves to where the fighting was going on… Dressing himself – hurrying now, encouraged by a mouth-watering aroma of frying bacon, doubtless from the wardroom galley – he wondered, Silly girls?
*
Everard handed Bob his binoculars, and gestured shoreward.
‘Theodosia – Gulf of. The town’s on the left edge there. Lighthouse on the point, then another to the left of that, and between them that must be Benbow in the anchorage. Something Bay, that is, long Russian name, trip off your tongue I dare say…’
Focusing… The battleship was a grey miniature inside an encircling arm of land. Bob said, ‘Not much of a place to be when the wind’s in the south, is it?’
‘But the wind isn’t in the south. Would hardly ever be, this time of year. South-west’s all right, in any case.’ Leaning over the bridge’s port side, over the splinter-mattresses that were lashed around it, he added, ‘Far as we’re concerned, we’ll be round the next corner, off the town itself. That’s where the oiler-berth is.’
It was mid-forenoon now, and they were still in the lee of the coastal range although the mountains were much lower and sparser behind this Gulf of Theodosia, with gaps between them like missing teeth. Everard told him, glancing round first to check that McKendrick, the gunnery lieutenant and currently officer of the watch, was out of earshot, ‘Matter of fact, there are some friends of mine ashore there.’ Nodding towards the town…‘Long shot, but I don’t suppose you’d ever have known an extremely good-looking girl by name of Ilyana Dherjorakova?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Countess. She’s holed-up there with some friends. They trekked all the way from St Petersburg, via God knows where, went through the most frightful experiences. Brave as – well, I don’t know what.’
Bob nodded grimly – thinking of Nadia and the Solovyev family, their ordeal by terror. ‘I can imagine. It’s incredible what they’ve survived, a lot of them… Waiting for a passage out, is she?’
‘Well.’ A pause: hesitating… Then: ‘According to bloody regulations, she’s not entitled. As you know, only Volunteer Army dependents and one or two other categories can get on the list, and she lost both her parents almost before it started, poor kid, can’t claim to be anyone’s dependent.’
‘Rotten luck.’ He frowned. ‘But surely—’
‘Keep a secret, can you?’
He gave him back the glasses. ‘I hope so.’
Another glance round… Then, low-voiced, ‘I’m going to marry her. Tomorrow.’
‘You mean – this fuelling call—’
‘Exactly. And as my wife, she’ll be entitled to a passage to Constantinople – which is where we’ll be going, so she’ll come with us. See? She’ll probably be stuck there for a while, but – safe, d’you see. Believe me, I’m damn grateful to you. I was worried stiff, until you came along – well, you can imagine, being ordered straight to the Marmara, no way to get back for her, and a general evacuation imminent – or it could be, I was trying to convince myself it couldn’t, but – Lord, just imagine—’
‘This may be – well, too personal a question, but – is saving her life the primary reason – motive—’
‘No, it damn well is not!’
‘I’m sorry.�
� He shook his head: his own expression conciliatory – in contrast to taut anger in the other…
Like some large, placid hound facing a furious bull terrier… He explained, ‘Only the way you were putting it – entitlement to a passage, so forth—’
‘Ah – well…’ A shrug: anger fading as quickly as it had flared. ‘My fault – I’m sorry… Fact is, though, it’s – well, very much the opposite, you see, it’s absolutely – what’s the phrase – the real thing. Only more so, very much more—’
‘Captain, sir!’
Granger, pointing… ‘Ship fine on the bow there, sir.’
‘Excuse me.’ Everard moved to the front of the bridge. ‘Expecting to meet Kornilov, weren’t we?’
Kornilov was a White Russian cruiser, based normally at Kerch. If this was her there’d no doubt be an exchange of polite signals, presently. Bob leant with his shoulder against a nest of voicepipes, thinking about what Everard had just told him: reflecting (a) that now one knew why the destroyer man had been so ready, even eager, to make this trip, and (b) that he himself might similarly have married Nadia – if he’d been quicker off the mark, and more determined, had had some of Everard’s qualities of
– what, decisiveness? Ruthlessness, even?
Although it wasn’t easy to see how he could have managed it. Except by getting himself some Black Sea appointment while the Caspian show was still in progress – which his CO at that time, the Commodore of the Caspian Flotilla, would surely have refused to countenance.
But wouldn’t an Everard in that situation – ‘the real thing’, as he’d called it, and which undoubtedly it had been, at least as far as he was concerned – wouldn’t an Everard still have swung it, one way or another?
Everard was coming back to him now, while a signalman was uncovering the lamp on the starboard side and another was at the flag-locker further aft, whisking out Terrapin’s pendant numbers to have them ready for hoisting as identification. Bob murmured, ‘In advance – and with regrets that I shan’t be able to attend the ceremony – congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’ The younger man’s smile was warm. ‘And for making it possible in the first place, my heartfelt thanks, and hers.’
‘Will Benbow’s padre be doing the job?’
‘No fear!’ He looked appalled at the suggestion. ‘Red tape and brass hats? My God, no! No, Ilyana’s got a Russian Orthodox priest lined up, we’ll be doing it ashore.’
‘You won’t ask for anyone’s permission – your Captain (D) or—’
‘Indeed I won’t… Pressure of time and circumstances as justification. Oh, I expect I’ll get rapped over the knuckles. May even be deemed to have incurred their Lordships’ displeasure. Believe it or not, I’ve achieved that distinction before – once or twice. And I’m no worse off for it… Anyway – my life and hers, isn’t it, not their bloody Lordships’…’
*
Shortly before 2pm, Terrapin was coming up to the Kerch-Yenikale Strait, the bottleneck entrance to the Sea of Azov. Course was altered to NE, cutting the corner past Cape Takil, then to NNW, then due north. At this point, where the channel became very narrow, a seaman with a lead and line installed himself at the top of the fo’c’sl-break ladder on the starboard side – just below the bridge – and began taking and reporting soundings. Engine revolutions had been cut, but not by all that much, considering the navigational hazards as depicted on the chart – and confirmed by the leadsman singing out at this moment ‘A quarter less two, sir!’ Telling them in that high wail that there were only one and three-quarter fathoms of water, ten and a half feet, within a yard or two of the ship’s side as she rushed on past the point where the lead had touched bottom: and Terrapin drew only inches less than twelve feet. Cruickshank was stooped mantis-like over the binnacle, Everard leaning sideways from his wooden seat in the starboard forward corner, directly above the leadsman – who had his lead on the move again, three or four pendulum-like swings parallel to the ship’s side, demonstrating expert control in keeping it exactly parallel and each swing a little higher than the last until he let it go, the twelve-pound lead flying out ahead, describing a parabolic arc before splashing in, the line’s slack coming magically up into his hands then while the tautness below them changed fast from the long slant to vertical and he leant outward, peering down to read the mark that was nearest above water-level at that instant: ‘And a half, one!’
Nine feet…
Well, they’d been through here several times recently, knew the channel and the margins of safety. They were professionals – as he was himself, for God’s sake, feeling as the thought occurred to him not only that natural empathy with them but also a surge of envy. This being his own proper environment as much as it was theirs: while the job he’d been given made him an outsider to it, made him in their eyes some different kind of animal.
A ‘cloak-and-dagger merchant’ was what they’d call him. And he was nothing of the sort – neither by inclination nor aptitude. He was a seaman, nothing else, had nothing whatsoever in common with the Sidney Reillys of this world – or, for God’s sake, with any Alexis Lapins, until very recently of this world… For one thing, he didn’t have that kind of brain. Recalling for instance the effort it had taken to sort out that Ukrainian girl’s likely ulterior motives: hadn’t Ashmore, probably – and wouldn’t this quick-witted Everard character, for that matter – have seen the answers straight off the bat?
‘Ah. Here you are…’
Harriman, the destroyer’s first lieutenant: short, thick arms propelling him off the steel ladder into the rear end of the bridge. ‘Thought you might’ve had your head down. Won’t be getting much sleep tonight, sir, will you? Or many square meals after you land, either – which is the subject for discussion now, if it’s not inconvenient. The matter of what you’d like to take ashore with you in the way of rations. Sandwiches, for instance? If so – well, corned dog – beef – cheese…’
Like planning a picnic. But he’d have plenty of room in the holdall that he was taking, and food might not be plentiful or easy to come by, wherever he was going. Harriman – having settled the sandwich question, more or less – suggested a bottle of gin to wash them down. Bob declined this offer, but accepted the loan of a flask which would be filled with whisky.
‘Let’s see – what else… How about fruit? Crimean oranges, if you’ve room for some?’
Everard came aft to join them. At the binnacle, Cruickshank was settling the ship on a course of North 20 East and ordering revolutions for twenty knots. Out of the shelter of the straits now, the northwester was making itself felt again; she was rolling as well as pitching, dipping her bow into it and flinging the stuff back green and white as her speed built up. Everard said, ‘So far so good. Four hours now roughly, to the entrance of the gulf… Tell me – what do you do for a train ticket when you get there – or don’t you need one?’
‘I have a pass that takes me anywhere.’ He added, ‘Theoretically.’
‘Theoretically?’
‘Other than regions where the Bolsheviks preside.’
‘Ah. Quite.’ Blinking at him… ‘And money?’
‘Plenty of that. Not that one’s going shopping… Food, of course, once I’ve eaten the rations you’re very kindly providing – and especially when it comes to getting out, the long haul down to Novorossisk – and three mouths to feed by then, touch wood.’
‘That’s a point.’ Everard put a hand on his arm. ‘Subject of your exit – I was having a thought or two. If the Bolshies got into Novorossisk first, for instance. After all, if we’re pulling out – as we well may be – doubtless to resounding cheers from the tub-thumpers back home who think we should never have gone in… Look, come down to the chart for a minute, let me show you?’
‘Gladly… Although if the Reds did get there first—’
Harriman cut in, ‘Excuse me, sir. Just one thing more.’ He asked Bob: ‘Do you have a pistol of your own?
Because if you haven’t, it mightn�
��t be a bad idea—’
‘Webley and Scott .455 automatic – for better or for worse… And before you ask, I’ve two boxes of shells for it. Thanks for the thought, anyway.’
He yelled to Everard, on their way down to the chartroom – having to grab for handholds, now, the way she was tossing herself around – ‘You and your people are really nursemaiding me!’
‘Well,’ Everard laughed, lurching into the chartroom. ‘Only until you find your own governesses. Their job, then. But look here, now…’
Chartwork: alternatives to Novorossisk for evacuation purposes. Although there were no alternatives, realistically. If things got to such a stage that Novorossisk ceased to be useable, that would be it – curtains. At least, you’d be well and truly stuck… But it was good of Everard to be giving this much thought to one’s future wellbeing, and there was no harm in joining him in a bit of wishful-thinking.
4
‘Steady as you go…’
‘Steady, sir. North three degrees east, sir.’
‘Steer that.’
Cruickshank straightened from the binnacle – at least, straightened to his customary stoop – having put Terrapin on the last leg of her approach to Taganrog. Getting towards midnight: she’d been in the gulf for about four hours, steering ENE at a steady twenty knots, but more recently the speed had been cut to ten and now, having made the course alteration, he was ducking to the pipe again to reduce that by half again. Reducing wind-flow too, as the revs came off her; but the wind was over the bow now instead of on the beam and there was enough ice in it to make your eyes run. The sea was low, choppy, white-streaked, and the night was pitch-black, heavy cloud hiding whatever moon there might have been.
‘That you, Cowan?’
Everard: hunched on his seat, binoculars at his eyes… How he’d sensed one’s arrival in the bridge was a mystery: unless Cruickshank had muttered something. He might have: he’d peered around, a second earlier, and with the glow from the binnacle the bridge wasn’t entirely dark. But otherwise all eyes, watering or not, were strained into the surrounding darkness, primarily for other ships but also for floating mines. There was a westerly drift in this gulf, no doubt created by the influx of rivers at its eastern end, and it was thought that mines which had been spotted and destroyed in the Sea of Azov might well have been floated out from Bolshevik-held settlements on the northern shore.
Look to the Wolves Page 5