by V. A. Stuart
“Yes, it is. But—”
“Then there’s no earthly reason that I can see to prevent you taking a couple of hours on your cot,” Graham interrupted firmly. “For pity’s sake, Phillip, I’m not Ambrose Quinn—you can delegate chores like this to me and stop driving yourself into the ground, surely?”
Phillip gave in with a good grace. He duly rested his leg until his brother returned, to tell him that the Turkish commander had willingly agreed to provide General Guyon’s niece with a passage to Batoum, if she required one. “He’s under Mustapha’s orders, of course, but he expects eventually to return to Batoum, since the Pasha has his headquarters there,” Graham added.
And this, Phillip thought, was all he could do, until Selina reached Ghelenjik. He dined with his officers in the gunroom and, at five bells of the Afternoon Watch, a signal from the Vesuvius requested his presence, and that of the Viper’s Captain, on shore. Leaving Midshipman O’Hara at the now familiar fish quay, with orders to occupy the time of waiting by taking off Lieutenant Roberts and his Marines, Phillip joined his two fellow commanders and, with Aslam trotting breathlessly after them, walked at a leisurely pace to the fort.
The conference, surprisingly, appeared to be almost over. Mustapha Pasha, a fine-looking man, whose age was difficult to guess, was addressing the assembled Circassian chiefs when the three British officers entered the room and, from Aslam’s rapid translation, it looked and sounded as if he were willing to offer them more assistance than they had expected.
“His Excellency is saying, sir,” Aslam repeated in a hoarse whisper, “that he cannot spare more than two or three thousand regular troops from Abassia and this only with some risk. But he is proposing to establish a military post here, at Ghelenjik, within two or three weeks and he says that he has already established one at Ponahs, which is sixty miles from here . . .” he paused for breath and then went on, “His Excellency is thanking you for having given him the opportunity to make a reconnaissance of both Anapa and Soujak Kaleh in one of Her Britannic Majesty’s ships . . . if you would bow, gentlemen, this would be a pleasant compliment.” All three officers gravely bowed and the Pasha responded with a dignified smile.
Serfir Pasha rose when, after more courteous bows, the Turkish General resumed his seat on a pile of cushions. “His Circassian Excellency,” Aslam stated, “is saying that a spy, who returned here yesterday from Soujak, has told him that the Russians observed the presence of His Excellency Mustapha Pasha on board the British ship and they are now offering large rewards, in gold, to anyone who can tell them when and in what manner the Ottoman forces will attack them.” There was a deep roar of amused laughter and even the plump little Turkish interpreter was smiling as he explained that the spy had shown Serfir two pieces of gold, given him for the information that Mustapha Pasha and a large army were close at hand.
Serfir’s speech was brief, but well received by his fellow chiefs and, it seemed from his expression, also by Mustapha. “He is promising a general uprising throughout Circassia,” Aslam translated. “Which will include every Circassian soldier in Russian employ in the Kouban and elsewhere. Within twenty days, His Excellency is confident that he can collect a force of between twenty and thirty thousand armed men, both horse and foot. And now, your honour”—the swarthy little Turk turned excitedly to Phillip—“His Excellency is paying a tribute to you in person, sir, for having risked your life to seek him out in the mountains.”
Phillip flushed scarlet with embarrassment, suddenly aware that he had become the centre of attention and Sherard Osborn whispered, lips close to his ear, “A speech is now called for from you, I fancy, Commander Hazard. Come on, old man—don’t lose your nerve, with the honour of the Service at stake!”
“Tell His Excellency, if you please, Mr Aslam,” Phillip said, after a moment’s anxious thought, “that it was a privilege, as well as a—a valuable experience, to serve under his command. I am only deeply sorry that my presence with His Excellency’s forces should have cost the life of the brave man who guided me to him, Colonel Gorak . . .” Aslam got no further with his interpretation, for Serfir crossed the room, both hands outheld, and laying them on Phillip’s shoulders, embraced him warmly.
“His Excellency Serfir Pasha wishes me to tell you,” Aslam said delightedly, “that your honour will be welcome at his campfire for as long as Allah shall spare you both. He takes leave of your honour with regret but trusts that the English Admiral Commander-in-Chief may, when your honour shall report to him, send you back with your ship to assist His Excellency’s attack on Anapa. In this hope, he bids your honour farewell.”
“The shrewd old devil!” Sherard Osborn observed, as Serfir returned to his place. “Doesn’t miss a trick, does he? But well done, Phillip . . . well done on all counts, not least for getting him here. You’ve created much goodwill for us all and your speech was excellent—brief and to the point. I can see you’re wasted in the Royal Navy—you should be in the Diplomatic Service!”
“Heaven forbid!” Phillip retorted. “Don’t wish that on me, I beg you.”
Osborn laughed. “Well, the meeting appears to be breaking up. Could you lend me your Mr Aslam for half an hour or so? I want to have a word with both Mustapha and Serfir before they leave—I’ll write my report here, I think, and read part of it to them both, so that they know exactly what they’ve committed themselves to. And then you can get under way, Willie my friend, and deliver the good news to our Commander-in-Chief.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Lieutenant Armytage acknowledged. “Whenever you’re ready.”
The Vesuvius’s commander went off with Aslam, and Phillip felt a touch on his arm. Turning, he recognized Yusef. “They have returned, Monsieur Hazard,” the young Circassian announced.
“They, Yusef? Do you mean Selina Gorak and my seaman, Erikson?” Phillip questioned, conscious of relief when Yusef inclined his dark head in assent. “Are they here?”
“At the camp,” Yusef answered. “I have horses outside—will you ride back with me? It is no distance and will not take you long.”
Puzzled by his manner, Phillip hesitated and Willie Armytage, who had followed the conversation in their still somewhat hesitant French, offered helpfully, “Go with him, if you want to, Phillip. We’ll be here for at least an hour, I imagine—Sherard is a very conscientious fellow, as you know, when it comes to writing reports. I’ll tell him you’ll be back, shall I?”
“All right—thanks, Willie. I won’t be any longer than I can help.” Phillip nodded to Yusef and followed him outside to the waiting horses. He asked, as they rode, “What news of Colonel Gorak? He’s dead, I take it?”
“Yes, he is dead. My people gave him a Christian burial, as he would have wished.”
“A Christian burial? But—”
Yusef smiled. “There are Christian priests in the villages in the mountains—not many, but a few. One of them came to— how do you call it? Administer the last rites to our good friend the Colonel. Rest assured, Monsieur Hazard, we shall not forget him.”
Phillip felt curiously warmed by these words and, turning in his saddle, he echoed Yusef’s smile. “That was good of you.”
“My people are not savages,” the young Circassian told him quietly. “True, we hunt down and kill our enemies but we respect and are loyal to our friends.” He was silent for the rest of the short ride to where Serfir’s men had made their camp but, when they pulled up close to the main camp-fire, he said, “Monsieur Erikson has a favour to ask of you. My father and I would be very happy if you will grant it.”
“Of course,” Phillip began uncertainly, “if it is within my power, I—”
“It is within your power, Monsieur Hazard,” Yusef assured him. “I will tell Einar Erikson you are here.”
Erikson appeared instantly in response to his summons and came to attention, freshly shaven and spruce in a change of clothing which, Phillip noticed, must have been borrowed from one of the Circassians. He made his report in a flat, expressionle
ss voice, repeating in more detail what Yusef had said concerning the Colonel’s death, the brightness in his intelligent blue eyes somehow belying the carefully controlled voice and disciplined manner. Phillip listened in some bewilderment, sensing the man’s tension but at a loss to know what could have caused it.
“Thank you, Erikson,” he said, after being assured that Selina had borne up bravely after her father’s death. “You have done well, very well indeed. I shall see to it that you are given the first vacancy that arises in a higher rank, because you’ve more than earned it. You had better report back on board at once and—”
“Commander Hazard”—Erikson’s voice was no longer flat— “I beg to make a request, sir.”
The favour Yusef had mentioned, Phillip’s mind registered the favour that was within his power to grant and which . . . light dawned on him suddenly as Erikson said urgently, “I wish to request leave of absence, sir.”
“You mean you want to remain here, with the Circassians?”
“Yes, sir. If you could second me—I believe that’s the official term, sir—for service under Serfir Pasha, I’d be very grateful indeed, sir.”
Was it within his power to grant the man’s request, Phillip asked himself and then decided that, in certain circumstances, it might be. He would have had to leave Erikson here indefinitely, had his sailing orders come before the seaman reported his return to Ghelenjik and he had not, as yet, reported back to the Huntress . . .
“I’ve been offered the rank of captain, sir,” the Norwegian added. “By the Pasha himself and I’d be fighting the war—I mean I’d go on fighting the war with them, sir, would I not? Perhaps more usefully than I could as a member of your ship’s company. But I don’t want to be posted as a deserter, sir, if it can be avoided, although I . . . well, sir, you see—”
“Are you trying to tell me that you’ll desert if I do not grant you leave of absence?” Phillip asked, his tone quite mild.
The seaman reddened. “I . . . yes, sir. But I don’t want to, believe me. And I do have a very—a very good reason for making this request, on my word of honour.”
There was a soft footfall, coming from behind him and Phillip spun round, guessing who would be there and—when he saw her face—intuitively aware of why she had come.
“Is this to be your Christian marriage, Selina?” he asked her softly. “And is Einar Erikson the man you have chosen to be your husband?”
Her lovely face was raised to his and he saw that it held a warm glow of happiness and pride. “Yes,” she answered simply and, smiling, held out her hand to Erikson. “But we are already married. The priest, the one they brought for my father, married us before he returned to his village. And now my—my husband requests that you will permit him to stay here, if only for a little while. Please, Phillip . . . you have many sailors, surely you can do without one of them?”
And that one, Phillip recalled, not really a sailor at all but a schoolteacher and a mountain man, who felt at home here and to whom Serfir had offered a command of his own . . .
“Your request is granted, Erikson,” he said formally and was conscious of a feeling almost of release as he realized that he need no longer let the promise he had made to Colonel Gorak weigh upon his conscience, since Erikson had kept it for him. “My sincere congratulations to you—you have a wife to be proud of, one in a million, I think.”
“Thank you very much indeed, sir,” Einar Erikson acknowledged. “Have you time to eat a meal with us? We—”
Phillip shook his head regretfully. “No, I must get back to the ship, I’m afraid. But we shall meet again—your leave is not permanent, you know, and you’ll want a passage back to England for your wife when the war is over, I imagine. I—I’d better be on my way. Farewell to both of you and . . . may God be with you!”
“And with you, sir.”
They stood, hand in hand, as Phillip mounted his shaggy Circassian horse, and watched him go into the gathering darkness, with Yusef again at his side.
“You will permit us to keep Einar Erikson?” Yusef asked.
“Yes, I have given him leave of absence and I shall record it in my ship’s log.”
The Pasha’s son grunted his approval. “Good,” he said. “He will help us to capture Anapa.” His hand rested lightly on Phillip’s shoulder and then he raised it in salute, swung his horse around, and was gone.
At the fort, Osborn and Armytage were waiting, but Mustapha Pasha and the Circassian chiefs had gone.
“Emin Bey and several of the others are to accompany the Pasha to Soukoum Kaleh in the Turkish frigate,” Osborn volunteered. “To raise more troops—and Serfir is to have the field-guns he wanted, so that he may, in the meantime, harass the enemy and keep them guessing. I gather that command of the artillery is being given to the boy you had with you— Najib Bey’s son, isn’t he?”
“Dafir—yes, that’s right,” Phillip confirmed “He’s a trifle young but as brave as a lion.”
“There’s some other fellow they’re hoping will share the command with him—a fellow with a Scandinavian name. A mercenary, I suppose, although I didn’t think they had any Scandinavian mercenaries, did you?”
Phillip smiled. “Einar Erikson?” he suggested.
“Yes, do you know him?”
“I do indeed.” Phillip’s smile widened. “He is one of my Jacks—a Norwegian mountaineer, well educated, completely trustworthy. At Serfir’s request I’ve just given him leave of absence to serve with the Circassians.”
“Ah—the one you said was adrift? That’s fine then—you can sail for the Straits of Kertch with me tomorrow, can’t you?”
“Yes, of course, if you want me to.”
Osborn sighed. “I need you, Phillip, if we’re to survey that channel. McKillop’s Snake is the only other ship we’ve got with as light a draught as your Huntress and she’s still with the Fleet at Kazatch. You said you were low on coal, didn’t you? Well, the Prompt should be back in the Straits by tomorrow—she’ll supply you. Just one other thing—how about the girl you mentioned, the Polish Colonel’s daughter? Have you been able to make satisfactory arrangements for her?”
Phillip inclined his head. “Yes, I have—most satisfactory arrangements. There’s nothing to keep me here now, Sherard.”
Sherard Osborn subjected him to a searching glance and then gestured to the papers in front of him. “Splendid,” he said, “and there’s nothing to keep me here either, once I finish this despatch to the Admiral. I’d like you to read it, Phillip, before Willie takes it for delivery. I have not mentioned your exploits but rest assured that I shall, when I report to the Chief in person, and you’ll be making your own report to him in any case, I imagine.” He held out the despatch. “This is simply an account of this afternoon’s proceedings and I’ve set out the promises made by Mustapha and Serfir with regard to Anapa, and Soujak. I hope you’ll agree that it is accurate.”
Phillip read through the short, two-page report and returned it with a nod of approval.
“Completely accurate, in my view, Sherard.”
“Thanks, my dear chap. Well, here you are then, Willie. I need not tell you to get this to the Chief as speedily as you can.”
“You need not,” Armytage confirmed. “I have steam up, so I’ll get under way at once.” He smiled, offered his hand first to Osborn and then to Phillip and, with a quiet, “Good luck to you both,” took his leave.
Sherard Osborn rose, stretching his cramped limbs. “Come back to the Vesuvius for a meal and a yarn, Phillip, will you? We probably shan’t have much chance of a peaceful chat once we return to Kertch . . . and if our blockading squadron becomes the Sea of Azoff squadron, then we probably won’t even have time to eat.”
Phillip thanked him. “I hope like the very devil there will be no last minute hitch on this occasion, though,” he added gravely. “I hope that with all my heart.”
“So do I,” Osborn agreed, with equal gravity. “Like our revered Commander-in-Chief, I am quite cer
tain that, if we can cut the enemy’s supply routes from the Sea of Azoff, we shall take Sebastopol and win the war . . . and with half the losses and in half the time it might otherwise take us. Dear God, when you think how many lives have been lost in the siege this winter, it makes you sick, doesn’t it? And they’ve been thrown away, with nothing to show for their sacrifice— at least if we take Kertch and Yenikale and if the Circassians capture Anapa and Soujak, we shall be on our way to victory.” He gathered up his writing materials and put his arm round Phillip’s shoulder. “Oh, well . . . I’m ready. Shall we go back to where we belong?”
They left the fort and walked down towards the fish quay in companionable silence. Feeling the cool touch of a fresh, offshore breeze on his cheeks, Phillip’s gaze went to where his ship lay at anchor, her riding lights gently rising and falling on the slight swell which lapped against her stout wooden sides. He was pleased to be going back to her, excited by the prospect of action, for which the Fleet had waited for so long, and thankful that he could leave Ghelenjik—and the Circassians—with a clear conscience and no serious regrets.
He did not think of Selina, as he set his face once more towards the sea and, although he thought of Mademoiselle Sophie, it was fleetingly, and no tantalizing vision of her came to haunt him. Instead it was a vision of his Huntress that he saw and he was, he realized, content that this should be so. As Sherard Osborn had remarked a few minutes before, he was going back to where he belonged and instinctively he quickened his stride.
APPENDIX
SOURCES
Despatch from Commander Sherard Osborn to Rear-Admiral Sir Edmund Lyons.
Vesuvius, off Ghelenjik 19th May, 1855.
Sir,
I reached this place last night and had an interview with His Excellency Mustapha Pasha, as well as with Serfir Pasha (the Circassian). The information I have gleaned, as well as what took place between His Excellency and myself, is as follows: