by V. A. Stuart
“Lean on me, sir,” Thompson’s voice invited and, in spite of the acute vertigo he was experiencing, Phillip managed to do so. After a while, the stars ceased their extraordinary gyrations and he was able to sit up unaided and, a little later, to identify the faces of the men grouped about him. Yusef was there, Cochrane, of course, several Circassians and Thompson . . . but he could see no sign of Erikson and neither Selina nor her father were there. He must have asked a question, although he had no recollection of having done so, because Cochrane answered him with the assurance that he need not worry.
“The Cossacks have withdrawn, sir, all of them. And Erikson’s with Colonel Gorak and the girl . . . they’re being taken back to the cave. We’ll probably catch up with them before they get there, because the Colonel’s badly wounded and they’re having to carry him on a litter. But we’ve got horses and, as soon as you’re fit to ride, we can go after them.”
Horses, Phillip thought, trying to take it in. He drew a rasping breath and a hand came out to touch his right temple, gently and speculatively. Yusef said, his tone apologetic, “I struck you harder than I intended, my friend, but in truth, I could think of no other way to save you. The accursed sons of bitches were almost on top of us and I had to make them believe that I had left you for dead, for I could not otherwise have deprived you of your horse. Not, that is to say, with a clear conscience.”
Of course, it was Yusef who had hit him with the butt of his pistol, Phillip thought. Memory slowly returned and he grinned at the young Circassian ruefully. “I should not like to be your enemy,” he confessed. “If this head of mine is an example of how you treat your friends!” He had spoken in English; Cochrane translated for him and Yusef gave vent to a delighted guffaw of laughter.
“But all is well that ends well, is it not?” he suggested. Then, gesturing to the sky, he asked whether Phillip felt sufficiently recovered to mount a horse. “I have brought your mare back to you, monsieur, without a scratch on her. But we should not delay any longer here than we must so, if you are ready, let us get out of this place.”
With Thompson’s unobtrusive assistance, Phillip limped stiffly down the slope to the waiting horses. He felt unbearably weary and every bone in his body was aching as well as his head, but he managed to sit his horse and the frosty night air helped to revive him. As they rode, Cochrane gave him a report of his operations on the ridge and added, with conscious pride, that his total casualties had been three men—all Circassians—slightly wounded. “The Circassians fought well and I fancy we could have held them till nightfall, sir, if we hadn’t run our ammunition so low. I was thankful that I had those extra rounds of yours, sir—they were a godsend.”
“You did well, Mr Cochrane,” Phillip told him, with sincerity. “Damned well . . . and that goes for you all. But tell me—what happened to Colonel Gorak? I couldn’t see him from where I was but I thought that Selina would get to him without any trouble. Didn’t she?”
Cochrane shook his head. “Not for quite a while, sir. Her horse fell and broke its neck and she couldn’t just dash straight across to the Colonel, you see, she had to work her way round through the trees to him. And he just stood there, making no attempt to get away on his own . . . I don’t think he was fully aware of what was going on or the danger he was in and his horse was pretty done up, too, of course.” Then the shadowy form he had glimpsed had been the Colonel, Phillip thought, remembering, as his young second-in-command continued his account. “I confess I didn’t notice him at first, sir. But Yusef did, after you signalled us to retire from the ridge. It was he who organized the rescue party—Erikson went with them, sir, he volunteered to take a fresh horse down for Selina, so I let him go. He’s better than the rest of us at mountaineering, so I thought—”
“You did the right thing, Mr Cochrane,” Phillip assured him.
“Thompson and I stayed at the top of the hill,” Cochrane went on. “We were rather worried about you. Yusef promised he would signal us if you needed help, and he told me that he would keep the—er—the accursed Cossacks occupied.”
“He didn’t tell you how he was going to do it, I imagine?”
“No, he did not, sir,” Anthony Cochrane agreed with feeling. “You saw rather more of that than we did, of course. But the way he went down that hill . . . I felt quite sick, just watching him!”
“Frankly, Mr Cochrane, so did I,” Phillip admitted. “How was the rescue organized?”
“Yusef divided the men into two parties, sir. One party went down on foot, working their way behind the Cossacks, and the others—including Erikson—took the horses. They didn’t ride, they drove them down in front of them, when Yusef gave them the signal. I think, sir, he intended them to distract the Cossacks, too, in case anything happened to him.” Cochrane smiled. “He’s quite a man, that Yusef, isn’t he, sir? And he must think a good deal of the Colonel, to have taken the risks he did to bring him out.”
Of the Colonel . . . or of his daughter, Phillip wondered, shifting his weight awkwardly, in an attempt to ease the nagging pain in his right leg. His old wound was playing up, as it was wont to, when he had been under physical stress but he shook his head to Cochrane’s anxious enquiry.
“There’s nothing wrong with me that food and sleep won’t cure, Mr Cochrane. And, reverting to your earlier observation—Yusef is indeed quite a man.”
“Yes, sir. I—er—I rather fancy he thinks the same about you, sir,” Cochrane said. “He told me that you . . .” he was interrupted by a shout from Yusef himself and Thompson, who was just ahead of them, said with relief, “It’s the rest of them, with the Colonel and Miss Selina, sir. I’m glad to see that she’s all right, sir, though I’m afraid the Colonel’s in a pretty bad way.”
Selina was, as Thompson had observed, apparently unharmed. She was on horseback, riding beside the litter— fashioned from rough tree branches—on which her father was being carried. Her face, Phillip saw, as he drew level, was deathly pale but she replied to his greeting composedly. He could see little of the Colonel, who was wrapped in sheepskin cloaks but he was obviously unconscious and Selina shook her head to his unvoiced question.
“I have done all I can for him,” she stated flatly. “All that is in my power. But he has so many wounds and he has lost so much blood, I fear that he . . .” her voice trailed off into silence. She did not weep, as most other women would have done; instead her teeth closed fiercely over her lower lip in a valiant struggle for control and Phillip, sick with pity, laid his hand gently on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Selina, truly I am. We all are, we—”
She weakened for a moment then and there were tears in her eyes when she thanked him and added, half in explanation, half in apology for her momentary weakness, “He . . . he is all I have, you see. My father is the only person in the world who . . .”
Phillip’s throat tightened. The Colonel, he recalled unhappily, had said much the same to him, only a few hours ago. “If anything should happen to me, Selina will be alone. That is my nightmare . . .” and now the nightmare had become tragic reality. He racked his brain for some words of consolation to offer but could think of none. Selina turned in her saddle to look at him and then, her head erect, she rode to the head of the small procession and they resumed their journey, silent now as the moon came from behind a cloud, bathing the scene in bright, silvery light.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It took the better part of an hour to reach the cave and Colonel Gorak was still unconscious when the litter-bearers laid down their burden and carefully moved him on to the pile of skins Selina had prepared as a couch for him. She stayed at his side, refusing food and all offers of assistance and Yusef drew Phillip aside and said quietly, “Come—eat with us, monsieur, you and your sailors. It is best to leave the girl with her father. That is her wish and”—he shrugged despondently—“I do not think that he can last very long.”
Despite the fact that they had been for a long time without food, none of the party from t
he Huntress could do justice to the lavish helpings of goats’ meat which their Circassian hosts offered them. Phillip was grateful for the thick, sweet coffee, however; he was completely worn out, his right leg causing him agonizing pain and his head feeling as though ten thousand demons were at work inside it. He longed to sleep but his conscience, roused on Selina’s account, gave him no peace. He sat apart from the others, his arms about his knees, gazing morosely into the fire and wrestling with the seemingly insoluble problem which, he knew, her father’s death would pose. He had his duty, he reminded himself. His orders were to return to Ghelenjik, with Serfir, the day after next, at the latest . . . the meeting with Mustapha Pasha and the other Circassian chiefs was of vital importance, he knew, and must not be delayed, whether the poor old Colonel lived or died. And yet . . . he frowned, stifling a tired sigh. Had it not been for him, the Colonel would still be safe and sound, nursing his injured arm at the base camp . . . it had been in order to assist him in the successful completion of his mission that the old man had left his sick bed and risked his life. How could he bring himself to leave Selina here, when the time came to accompany Serfir to the rendezvous with Mustapha Pasha, if her father’s wounds proved to be mortal? The alternative was to take her with him, of course but . . . he and his ship could not remain at Ghelenjik indefinitely. The Huntress would have to rejoin the Fleet—within a few days, if Admiral Lyons had his way and a second expedition to take Kertch was launched, so that . . . his head fell on to his knees and he slept, the questions that plagued him still unanswered.
Serfir and his officers returned to the cave sometime afterwards. Phillip roused himself for long enough to see that the Circassian leader looked tired but less disappointed than he had expected and, lulled by the sound of their voices as they, in turn, broke their fast, he again drifted into an uneasy sleep, haunted by nightmarish dreams, from which he wakened in a cold sweat of fear, to find Erikson shaking him by the shoulder.
“What is it?” he demanded, reaching automatically for his rifle. “Are we being attacked?”
The seaman shook his blond head reassuringly. “No, sir, it’s all quiet. It’s the Colonel, sir—he’s conscious and he’s asking for you.”
“Conscious?” Phillip echoed incredulously. He sat up, his head swimming and Erikson’s hand rested for a moment on his forehead. “Are you all right, sir?” the young Norwegian asked with concern. “Your head’s burning hot, sir, and—”
“I’m all right, thanks,” Phillip said, aware that this statement was far from the truth. He attempted to get to his feet and would have fallen but for Erikson’s supporting arm. The seaman was too well disciplined to dispute his assertion; instead he offered his arm in silence and Phillip was glad enough to lean on it as he limped across the dimly lit cave to where Selina knelt beside her father. She looked up at his approach, a tremulous smile on her lips and then rose to yield her place to him, with a whispered apology for having had to waken him.
“I am so sorry—you need your sleep, I know but . . . Papa is insisting that he must speak to you and I did not think that you would mind. You . . .” her eyes widened in concern, as Erikson’s had done a moment before. “You are sick, Commander Hazard, you—”
“I’m all right,” Phillip managed thickly. He dropped stiffly to his knees, fighting off the waves of nausea that swept over him. “Colonel Gorak . . . you wanted to talk to me, sir? It’s Hazard.”
The Colonel had aged almost out of recognition, he saw, shocked by the change a few short hours had wrought in him. His face was ashen and the skin had the look of old parchment, criss-crossed by a myriad of tiny lines and stretched so taut that it seemed almost transparent. His eyes had sunk deep into their sockets and were glazed and lacklustre, peering sightlessly in the direction from which his visitor’s voice had come. “Hazard . . . it is you?” The bloodless lips parted in a thin parody of a smile. “My young friend, I . . . I have a favour to ask of you. That is why I . . . had to disturb your rest.”
“What can I do for you, sir?” Phillip asked, guessing his answer. He hesitated, fighting a losing battle with his conscience and then went on with new-found determination, “I will do anything you ask of me.”
The thin, bony fingers tightened about his. They felt cold, as if the life had already gone from them and he leaned closer in an effort to catch the whispered words, although he had little doubt what they would be. “Will you take care of Selina for me? It is . . . a great deal to ask of you but . . . you are British and there . . . is no one else whom I can trust, you see. That was why I . . . why I had to get away from the Cossacks. I had to find you, to . . . beg that you would . . . look after her. She cannot stay here without . . . a protector.”
“I’ll look after her,” Phillip promised, his throat tight. “To the very best of my ability, sir.”
“A . . . Christian marriage, Hazard,” the Colonel urged, his voice now clear and firm. “I do not want my Christian child in a Moslem harem, you understand.”
“I understand, Colonel Gorak. I’ll do everything in my power, sir, to see that your wishes for Selina are carried out. That is, of course, if it should be necessary. You—”
“It will be necessary, my dear young friend.” The old man spoke with finality. “I wish that it were not so but . . .” his voice faded once more to a faint whisper. “We do not . . . choose the moment when . . . we come to the . . . to the end of the road, alas.” He closed his eyes and lapsed into so long a silence that Phillip bent over him anxiously, feeling for the pulse at his wrist. The movement roused him and he said, his tone dry, “No, not yet. I am a soldier, you know, and my instinct is . . . to fight, not to . . . surrender. Strangely, I feel no pain. That is odd, is it not? I had expected that there would be pain.”
“I am thankful that you feel none, sir.” Phillip sat back on his heels. He felt curiously light-headed, uncertain whether he was awake or dreaming and the Colonel’s parchment-yellow face swam and then seemed to dissolve in front of his eyes, adding to his sense of unreality.
“Selina is . . . a good and dutiful child, Hazard,” he heard the tired old voice say. “And she . . . she pleases you, does she not? You find her . . . beautiful?”
“Yes, indeed, sir,” Phillip managed to respond, his sense of unreality growing. This could not be happening, he told himself—he must have dropped asleep again, must still be dreaming the confused, nightmarish dreams which earlier had haunted and given him no peace.
“I would give my child to you, Hazard,” the Colonel told him faintly. His voice was a thin whisper of sound in the dimly lit cave of sleeping, exhausted men. “I would give her to you . . . more gladly than to any other man living, for I know that with you she would be safe. Take her, my dear young friend, so that I may go in peace. She will make you a good wife . . . a good and dutiful wife, as her . . . as her mother was . . . to me.”
The words hung between them, unanswered and unanswerable and then, to Phillip’s shamed relief, he was saved from the need to commit himself to a reply by Selina’s light touch on his shoulder. She gestured to the small, still figure on the couch of piled-up skins, whose eyes, he saw, were now closed. “He cannot hear you, Commander Hazard,” she whispered. “He is no longer conscious.”
He stumbled to his feet, wondering uneasily how much of his conversation with her father she had overheard and then, as the significance of her words slowly sank in, he asked anxiously, “You don’t mean that he’s—”
“Dead?” Selina finished for him, when he shied from the word. “No, he is not yet dead, poor Papa.” She spoke without bitterness and sinking to her knees beside the couch, quietly resumed her vigil, her face a white blur in the flickering firelight, apparently devoid of expression. Phillip turned away, at once moved and further shamed by the sight of her dignified resignation. He wanted to go to her, to kneel at her side and share her vigil but his leaden limbs would not take him the few paces that lay between them. He staggered unsteadily, the roof of the cave seeming to disintegrate
above his head and the alert Erikson put an arm round him and helped him back to his place beside Cochrane and Thompson near the fire.
“You’re bleeding, sir,” the seaman told him. “You must have been hit without realizing it. I’ll have a look, shall I?” Without waiting for permission, he rolled up Phillip’s right trouser leg. “Your boot’s full of blood, sir.”
“It’s an old wound,” Phillip said indifferently. “Nothing to worry about . . . what are you doing, man? You—”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood, sir,” Erikson informed him, working deftly with his clasp-knife.
“I tell you, it’s an old wound,” Phillip snapped irritably. “It probably opened when we were coming down that cliff face, on our way here, and Dafir fell on top of me. For the Lord’s sake, Erikson, it only needs a fresh bandage . . . don’t ruin my boot, as well as my trousers . . .” Ignoring his protests, Erikson busily hacked at the trouser-leg and then started to ease the boot off, exclaiming as he did so.
“This is no old wound, sir,” he said and began to cut away the bandage. “I can see the old wound all right but”—he probed painfully, with rough, untutored hands. “You have a musket ball in the thigh—a ricochet or a spent ball, I’d say, sir, which may be why you didn’t feel it when it hit you.”
“I can feel it now, my lad!” Phillip gritted his teeth. “Lay off, will you?”
“I’m sorry if I hurt you, sir—but I’ve found where the ball is and it’s pretty deep.” Erikson ceased his painful probing and looked up enquiringly. “Shall I pass the word for Miss Selina to remove it for you? Because it’ll have to come out, sir, and she—”
“No!” Phillip flung at him wrathfully. “Leave Miss Selina in peace, can’t you?” He controlled his irritation and, craning his neck in order to inspect the wound for himself, was astonished to see how much bleeding the spent ball had caused. The bandage he always wore on his right leg to protect the still imperfectly healed injury from jolts and knocks had absorbed most of the blood but, as a result, it was now saturated and useless. Erikson finished cutting it away and eyed him expectantly. “The ball ought to come out, sir,” he said at last, his tone apologetic.