Britannia's Guile: The Dawlish Chronicles January - August 1877 by Antoine Vanner

Author:Antoine Vanner [Vanner, Antoine]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Old Salt Press
Published: 2021-12-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

The pinnace nudged against the curving precipice of the Nevski’s side. A ladder led to the open entry port above. The Russian officer gestured to it.

“Après vous, Messieurs les Anglais.” He smiled, a man proud that he knew of the mad courtesy at Fontenoy.

Dawlish did not stir, did not respond.

“Pas un Anglais alors?”

No answer possible. Admitting that he was an Englishman would not save him. Topcliffe had been clear that prisoners would be disowned and he had accepted that. Now that the reality was upon him, he felt baffled and helpless.

The Russian shrugged and spoke to his men. The nearest caught Dawlish by the shoulder and pushed him against the ladder. He began to climb the tumblehome. The ascent seemed endless.

Suspended hurricane lamps cast a pool of yellow light at the entry port. At its outer fringes he could discern a half-circle of armed seamen or marines in white uniforms, their bayoneted rifles levelled at him. The smell of gunsmoke hung heavy in the air. He hoisted himself to the deck and paused, uncertain whether to advance further.

“Step forward please, sir.” The words English, so too the intonation.

He obeyed, but a sound from behind caused him to glance back. Two marines were slipping in from the cover of the bulwarks to left and right, their bayonets directed at his spine. They halted, blocking his retreat. A figure came towards him from the soft darkness ahead, right hand extended in greeting.

Dawlish half-expected to be confronted by some heavily-bearded and elderly officer. Instead, he was facing a tall, slim, clean-shaven man of his own age. He wore no uniform – indeed the white open-necked shirt above equally immaculate linen trousers looked like silk rather than cotton. The curling hair above his chiselled features was golden, the expression pleasant and welcoming. Despite the dead, humid warmth, his brow carried just the faintest film of perspiration. Dawlish caught a distinct whiff of eau-de-cologne.

It could do no harm to shake his hand.

“Prince Vladimir Mikhailovich Krestovski, my dear sir.” His English had only the slightest betrayal of a foreign accent. His handshake was firm but from the reluctance of Dawlish’s grip he seemed to sense his unease. “Allow me to be the first congratulate you and your gallant crew on such a courageous attack, sir. The spirit of Balaclava is indeed not dead.”

Dawlish kept his face impassive, hoped that he showed no flicker of recognition of the heroic failure in the Crimea. Better to stay silent, to let this man talk and get his measure.

“And your name, sir?”

No answer.

“I can understand your reluctance,” Krestovski said. “I deem it an honour nonetheless to welcome a gentleman of such obvious courage on board one of His Imperial Majesty’s ships.” He smiled. “We might have wished to meet in a more pleasant circumstances but, that aside, I’m proud to offer you whatever hospitality is at my disposal in this God-forsaken spot.”

He might have been some rich young amateur yachtsman on a summer cruise. But there was also an air of command about him, of lordly assurance and authority that underlay that benign impression.

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