Swords From the Sea (56 page)

"Well?" he said again.

"That is not my report. It is a version written in Kherson, omitting everything of the truth, except the number of killed. Mon cher camerade-" Jones flushed and sprang to his feet-"the loss of life in my squadron was nearly eight hundred; my men, uncovered in open boats, towed the vessels of the flotilla into action. Nassau's loss was five men."

Suvarof nodded. He had the details from Ivak and the officers of the Vladimir.

"His Highness," he remarked, "was in Kherson, sixty miles from the scene of the battle; but you must understand, Jones, my friend, that he desires to have the Court and the empress believe that all the credit is due to him and Nassau."

"The Chevalier Ribas informed me that his Highness was pleased to order me to sign this report and return it to headquarters. It is utterly false."

One by one the old Russian took up the silver chessmen and put them back in the box.

"Jones, you do not understand the Court. Wounds are not the only hardship; injustice and malice can cut as deep. A soldier must bear everything."

As the American was silent, he went on quizzically:

"Twenty-four gold swords of honor were given the Prince-Marshal by the empress at the beginning of the campaign. He has bestowed one on himself, one on Nassau, and twenty-two to the officers of the flotilla."

Suddenly Jones laughed heartily, seeing the absurdity of a commanderin-chief receiving a distinction for services in a battle that he did not know had taken place until long afterward, for orders that he had never given.

"Undoubtedly," went on Suvarof, "Potemkin will be granted the high honor of the Order St. George, of the first grade-Nassau has already been recommended for the second-as well as a gift of valuable estates in White Russia with several thousand souls-serfs."

He pointed to the sheets of paper.

"Sign this, Jones, and you also will be decorated. You will be given the estates of a grandee of the empire."

"And my men-my officers?"

"Ah." Suvarof was silent.

"My men, who were exposed at all times," Jones's voice broke. "Mes amis-mes braves!"

His finely cut lips twisted in sudden distress, and anyone watching the two, as Ivak and Pierre were, with all their eyes through the wide stern windows, would have thought that he and not the old Russian had been wounded that day.

"Ah." Suvarof closed the lid upon his chessmen and picked up a candle to light his pipe, which had gone out. "My friend, we in Russia are of the old world, half Asia in our blood. You are of the new, and perhaps the old must learn of honor from the new. I would rather lose this leg than have you leave us. Consider, Jones: Otchakof will fall to us in a month, and we will advance on Constantinople; we will march across Moldavia and drive the Moslems from the Adriatic. Potemkin will not always hold the reins of power. You would not refuse to serve with old father Suvarof-eh?"

"Would to God I could go with you!"

"If you refuse your signature to the report, it means the end of your career on the Black Sea. "

"Aye, the end!"

Jones picked up the folded sheets, and tore the pieces across, and tore the pieces again, tossing them to the deck.

Before the American could move to prevent him, Suvarof gripped the table and limped erect on one leg, holding fast to the hand of his companion. Eye to eye they stood for a full moment, the swarthy seaman supporting the wound-scarred soldier.

"Sir," cried Paul Jones, a little hoarsely owing to the lump in his throat, "surely I have had honor, since I have had Alexander Suvarof for a friend."

After the manner of men who know their own minds, and the luxury of an hour's ease after hard days, they talked henceforth of anything but their parting-of horses, the rigging of ships, the campaigns of other days, and comrades who were dead. Suvarof, remembering the two men on the gallery, called them in, bidding them to their blankets and saying that he would look after the chest and the bundle.

What the two friends said after that no one heard, although orderlies who were in the service of Potemkin tried their best to listen at keyhole and casement.

The Prince of Nassau-Siegen was in high good humor when a month later, his barge rowed down the Dnieper to the flagship. He was surrounded by officers who sought his favor; he wore the ribbon of the George, and the flag of a vice-admiral was on the ensign staff.

He had come to the Vladimir to see how the American would take his cogee-his dismissal. An imperial courier had arrived the day before from Petersburg with an order for Jones:

According to our imperial desire, based upon necessity, the sphere of service for our Vice-Admiral, the Chevalier Paul Jones, is now fixed in the northern seas. His Excellency the Vice-Admiral will at once proceed on the journey to our capital. His Excellency the Vice-Admiral will without ceremony present himself at our Palace of the Hermitage, where he will be acquainted with our further wishes.

Catherine.

Nassau was a little surprised that Jones should have invited Potemkin and the staff of his Highness as well as the captains of the fleet to a banquet on the flagship the day of his departure. He found a distinguished gathering on the afterdeck where an awning had been spread.

In full court attire and dress swords he found the Prince de Repin and de Ligne, the diplomat. Ribas and Popoff, the chief of staff, waited on Potemkin, who had gratified his whim of sailing down in the galley of Hassan of Algiers. In attendance were Greve Fanshawe and the other captains.

And the courtiers who had come from Kherson were more than a little surprised when they noticed the dress swords of the officers of Jones's squadron. Edwards wore jauntily thrust through a silk sash an almost priceless scimitar of Yemen with an inscription worked in gold, the weapon of a shah.

Fanshawe had a tulwar of blue steel, and Korsakof -the Russian lieutenant who had boarded the galley with Jones-a sword with a hilt set with matched sapphires and diamonds. These blades aroused the instant envy of those who lacked such trophies from the Moslems, and questions were asked the owners, who replied that Admiral Jones had taken from Hassan Pasha his sidearms and given them away.

Jones himself wore only the plain rapier he had brought to the Black Sea.

And Nassau, who was familiar with the quarters of the Vladimir, noticed that the dinner was served on massive plate, fashioned after the Venetian and Spanish manner, plate that he had never laid eyes on before and superior even to Potemkin's almost royal service. He learned by dint of questioning that the admiral had made a gift to the various ship captains of certain jewels that were to be sold and the proceeds divided among the crews.

"Some say that Suvarof gave the things to Jones," whispered one of the flotilla officers. "He has no notion of values-that little grandfatheralways gives everything away."

A search of the faces around the tables disclosed that Suvarof was not there, and Nassau, although he had a suspicion as to the source of the splendor that had appeared on the flagship, had no opportunity to mention it.

Jones stood up to give the first toast, and not a man there but expected that he would compliment the Prince-Marshal by mentioning his name.

"Your Highness, my lords, messieurs, I give you a name that will stand in the pages of history. When we are forgotten-one who is fortunate in being served by courageous men-" he glanced fleetingly at Nassau, his dark eyes mocking-"one who has achieved what other centuries failed to bring to pass, the downfall of the Turk in Europe; but who, gentlemen, is worthy of the homage placed at the feet of-"

He lifted his glass, bowing to Potemkin.

"The empress! Messieurs, I give you Catherine the Great." Potemkin started in surprise and displeasure, but the Russians tossed down their wine and dropped the glasses over their shoulders, to shatter on the deck.

The innate courtesy that had inspired this toast to the woman who had shown not the least gratitude for his services stirred the approval of the officers. They braved Potemkin's growing dissatisfaction by accompanying Jones to the side of the Vladimir when it was time for him to enter his barge to go ashore.

They waited at the rail and then glanced at one another curiously. Nassau had given orders that no salute was to be fired when the American left his flagship.

Jones swept a glance along the deck, dwelt on the massed crew for a moment, and turned to the ladder, a smile at the edges of his lips. Edwards and Pierre were already in the boat.

A Cossack advanced from the waist of the ship, and it was a moment before Jones recognized Ivak, in his dress uniform, a red coat, trimmed with fur, polished black boots, and a white ermine cap.

The sotnik pushed past the other officers and stood at salute. Then he brought his other arm in front of him and held out in both hands a sword. There was no mistaking the weapon, shaped like a scimitar, with the diamonds flashing in the hilt, Suvarof's sword.

Not an officer present but would have given an arm to be its possessornot Potemkin himself.

"The General Prince Alexander Suvarof presents his compliments and bids adieu to his friend, Paul Jones," Ivak said in Russian, raising his voice.

A murmur arose in the waist of the Vladimir and grew to a roar that was echoed by the crews of other ships who heard it. No one ordered, and no one could have suppressed it.

"Little Father Jones!"

An Arab's dhow lowered its sail and drifted into the bay. When it grounded on the beach the old man at the steering oar looked around with keen eyes at the drowsy fishing huts and the empty hills rising to a solitary gray tower. "0 my Rais," he said softly, "here at last thou art safe."

At the sound of his voice the tall man who had been sleeping by the mast sat up. As the old Arab had done, he glanced about him. Then he yawned. "What is it?"

"This," the Arab explained, "is the very small island I told thee of. It is verily a place of peace, being ruled by an honorable Christian lord. A man like to thee, except that he never quarrels and hath no enemies. Yonder, up there is his tower. Now, God being willing, have I done all that I promised thee."

"Aye, Khalil," assented the tall man, "and, God being willing, someday thou wilt be paid."

Stepping over the prow of the slender dhow, he drew it farther up the beach with a powerful lunge of his long body. Although the old seaman addressed him as Rais-Commander-he was not an Arab. Blue eyes gleamed from his sun-darkened face.

"Wait, Khalil," he added over his shoulder, "until I come again."

"If it be written, my Rais, thou wilt come, but not otherwise."

The tall man smiled. He walked up the shore, planting his feet wide, because he had not felt solid earth beneath him for many months. Now at last he was free. He would taste Christian food and wine, and hear the voice of friends: best of all, he would sleep under a roof where the sound of a foot's tread would not mean death.

As he passed the huts, children ran out to stare at him. He wore no hat, and his fine gray mantle was ripped and stained with salt and blood. Few strangers landed upon this miniature island, between Christian Sicily and Moslem Africa. Fewer still were sea-battered giants who smiled. Yet this tall stranger with the head of a dark god walked alone up the road to the castle.

Once he stopped, seeing another sail heading in to the bay. Then he made it out to be a small trading galley-a Venetian, no doubt, putting in for water. Here, he told himself, he was safe from his enemies and he need not watch every sail.

Impatiently-for he was very hungry-he turned off the winding road into a path that seemed to lead direct to the castle. He wanted to cool his throat with wine and hear a Christian voice give him welcome. Through deep brush he passed into a narrow ravine and stopped abruptly.

A stream ran by his feet, and on a rock a spear's length away sat a young girl. She held a hawk on her gloved wrist, and she was feeding it bits of meat from a pouch, smiling the while at a big black hound who rested his head on her other knee and gulped enviously whenever the falcon caught a tidbit from its mistress's fingers.