"Lights," he said in a baritone voice that identified him as the figure who had been the first to come aboard.
Tovrov pulled the cord for the bare bulb that hung from the overhead. The man had thrown back his hood. He was tall and lean and wore a white fur hat known as a papakha at a rakish angle. A pale dueling scar slashed his right cheek above the beard line, his skin was red and blistered with snowburn and sparkling drops of moisture matted his black hair and beard. His left iris was clouded from an injury or disease, and his staring good eye made him look like a lopsided Cyclops.
The fur-lined cloak had fallen open to reveal a pistol holster at his belt, and in his hand he carried a rifle. A cartridge bandoleer crossed his chest and a saber hung from his belt. He was dressed in a muddy gray tunic and his feet were shod with high, black-leather boots. The uniform and his air of barely repressed violence identified him as a Cossack, one of the fierce warrior caste who inhabited the rim of the Black Sea. Tovrov stifled his revulsion. Cossacks had been involved in the death of his family, and he always tried to avoid the belligerent horsemen who seemed happiest when instilling fear.
The man glanced around the deserted wheelhouse. "Alone?"
"The first mate is sleeping back there," Tovrov said, with a jerk of his head. "He is drunk and doesn't hear anything." He fumbled with a cigarette and offered the man one.
"My name is Major Peter Yakelev," the man said, waving the cigarette away. "You will do as you are told, Captain Tovrov."
"You may trust me to be at your service, Major."
"I trust no one." He stepped closer and spat out the words. "Not the White Russians or the Reds. Not the Germans or the British. They are all against us. Even Cossacks have gone over to the Bolsheviks." He glared at the captain, searching for a nuance of defiance. Seeing no threat in the captain's bland expression, he reached out with thick fingers.
"Cigarette," he growled. Tovrov gave him the whole pack. The major lit one up and drank in the smoke as if it were an elixir. Tovrov was intrigued by the major's accent. The captain's father had worked as a coachman for a wealthy landowner, and Tovrov was familiar with the cultured speech of the Russian elite. This man looked as if he had sprung from the steppes, but he spoke with an educated inflection. Tovrov knew that upper-class officers trained at the military academy were often picked to lead Cossack troops.
Tovrov noticed the weariness in the Cossack's ruined face and the slight sag to the powerful shoulders. "A long trip?" he said.
The major grinned without humor. "Yes, a long, hard trip." He blew twin plumes of smoke out of his nostrils and produced a flask of vodka from his coat. He took a pull and looked around. "This ship stinks," he declared.
"The Star is an old, old lady with a great heart."
"Your old lady still stinks," the Cossack said.
"When you're my age, you learn to hold your nose and take what you can get."
The major roared with laughter and slapped Tovrov on the back so hard that sharp daggers of pain stabbed his ravaged lungs and set him coughing. The Cossack offered Tovrov his flask. The captain managed a swallow. It was high-quality vodka, not the rotgut he was used to. The fiery liquid dampened the cough, and he handed the flask back and took the helm.
Yakelev tucked the flask away. "What did Federoff tell you?" he said.
"Only that we're carrying cargo and passengers of great importance to Russia."
"You're not curious?"
Tovrov shrugged. "I have heard what is going on in the west. I assume these are bureaucrats running away from the Bolsheviks with their families and what few belongings they can bring."
Yakelev smiled. "Yes, that is a good story."
Emboldened, Tovrov said, "If I may ask, why did you choose the Odessa Star? Surely there were newer ships fitted out for passenger service."
"Use your brain, Captain," Yakelev said with contempt. "Nobody would expect this old scow to carry passengers of importance." He glanced out the window into the night. "How long to Constantinople?"
"Two days and two nights, if all goes well."
"Make sure it does go well."
"I'll do my best. Anything else?"
"Yes. Tell your crew to stay away from the passengers. A cook will come into the kitchen and prepare meals. No one will talk to her. There are six guards, including myself, and we will be on duty at all times. Anyone who comes to the cabins without permission will be shot." He put his hand on the butt of his pistol in emphasis.
"I will make sure the crew is informed," the captain said. "The only ones normally on the bridge are the first mate and myself. His name is Sergei."
"The drunk?"
Tovrov nodded. The Cossack shook his head in disbelief, his good eye sweeping the wheelhouse, then he left as suddenly as he had appeared.
Tovrov stared at the open door and scratched his chin. Passengers who bring their armed guards are not petty bureaucrats, he thought. He must be carrying someone high up in the hierarchy, maybe even members of the court. But it was none of his business, he decided, and went back to his duties. He checked the compass heading, set the helm, then stepped out onto the port wing to clear his head.
The damp air carried a perfume laden with scents from the ancient lands that surrounded the sea. He cocked his ear, straining to hear over the erratic thrum-thrum of the Star's engines. Decades at sea had honed his senses to a sharp edge. Another boat was moving through the fog. Who else would be so foolish as to sail on such a terrible night? Maybe it was the vodka at work.
A new sound drowned out the boat noise. Music was coming from the passengers' quarters. Someone was playing a concertina and male voices sang in chorus. It was the Russian national anthem, "Baje Tsaria Krani." "God Save the Tsar." The melancholy voices made him sad, and he went back into the wheelhouse and closed the door so he could no longer hear the haunting strains.
The fog vanished with the dawn, and the bleary-eyed mate stumbled in to relieve the captain. Tovrov gave him the course orders, then stepped outside and yawned in the early-morning sunlight. He swept his eyes over the blue satin sea and saw that his instincts had been right. A fishing boat was running parallel to the Star's long wake. He watched the boat for a few minutes, then shrugged and made the rounds, warning every crewman that the officers' quarters were off-limits.
Satisfied that all was well, the captain crawled into his bunk and slept in his clothes. His first mate was under strict orders to awaken him at the first sign of anything unusual. Nevertheless, Tovrov, who had mastered the art of the cat-nap, rose several times and returned to a deep slumber in between. Around midday, he awoke and went into the mess, where he ate bread and cheese, plus sausage purchased with his newfound wealth. A stout woman was there, bending over the stove, and standing by was a tough-looking Cossack who helped her carry the steaming pots back to the passenger section. After his meal, Tovrov relieved the mate for a lunch break. As the day wore on, the fishing boat fell back until it could have been anyone of the dots visible on the horizon.
The Star seemed to shed years as she glided over the mirrored surface of the sunlit sea. Eager to reach Constantinople, Tovrov ordered the ship kept at nearly top speed, but finally, the ship paid for its coltish behavior. Around dinner-time, an engine broke down, and though the first mate and the engineer tinkered with the engine for hours, their only accomplishment was to coat themselves with grease. The captain saw that further effort was futile and ordered them to push forward on one engine.
The major was waiting in the wheelhouse and roared like a wounded bull when the captain laid out the problem. Tovrov said they would get to Constantinople, only not as soon. An extra day, perhaps.
Yakelev raised his fists in the air and affixed the captain with his baleful eye. Tovrov expected to be smashed to goulash, but the major suddenly whirled and swept from the cabin. The captain exhaled the breath he had been holding and returned to his charts. The ship was moving at half speed, but at least it was moving. The captain prayed to the icon of Saint Basil on the wall that the good engine would hold out.
Yakelev was calmer when he returned. The captain asked how the passengers were doing. They were fine, the major said, but they would do better if the stinking rust bucket they were on got to where it was going. Fog moved in later, and Tovrov had to reduce speed by a couple of knots. He hoped Yakelev was asleep and wouldn't notice.
Tovrov had the nervous mental tic that comes to men who have spent their lives on the water, his eyes constantly darting here and there, checking the compass and barometer dozens of times in an hour. In between, he walked from wing to wing to observe weather and sea conditions. About one o'clock in the morning, he went out onto the port wing... and his neck began to tingle. A vessel was overtaking them. He listened intently. It was closing fast.
Tovrov was a simple man, but he was not stupid. He cranked the phone that connected the bridge to the officers' cabin.
Yakelev answered. "What do you want?" he snapped.
"We must talk," Tovrov said.
"I will come by later."
"No, it is very important. We must talk now."
"All right. Come down to the passengers' quarters. Don't worry," Yakelev said with an evil chuckle, "I'll try not to shoot you."
The captain hung up and woke Sergei, who reeked of alcohol. He poured the mate a mug of the strong black coffee.
"Keep a heading due south. I will be back in a few minutes. Any mistakes and I will take away your vodka until we reach Constantinople."
Tovrov hurried below and cautiously pushed open the door, half expecting to be met by a hail of bullets. Yakelev was waiting. He stood with his legs wide apart and his hands on his hips. Four other Cossacks were asleep on the floor. Another sat cross-legged with his back to the cabin door and a rifle balanced on his knees.
Yakelev glared accusingly. "You woke me up."
"Come with me, please," the captain said, leading the way outside. They descended to the fog-shrouded main deck and made their way to the stem. The captain leaned over the fantail and peered into the wooly darkness that swallowed their broad wake. He listened a few seconds, blocking out the burble and hiss of the water.
"A boat is following us," he said.
Yakelev looked at him with suspicion and cupped his hand to his ear. "You're crazy. I hear nothing but the noise from this stupid ship."
"You're a Cossack," Tovrov said. "You know about horses?"
"Of course," the major replied, with a contemptuous snort. "What man doesn't?"
"I don't, but I do know ships, and we're being followed. , A piston on that boat is missing a stroke. I think it is the fishing boat I saw earlier."
"So what of it? This is the sea. Fish swim in the sea."
"There are no fish this far from shore." He listened again. "No doubt. It's the same boat and it is moving in on us."
The major uttered a string of curses and pounded the rail: "You must lose them."
"Impossible! Not with one engine down."
Yakelev's hand grabbed the front of Tovrov's coat and he lifted the captain onto his toes.
"Do not tell me what is impossible," he snarled. "It took us weeks to come from Kiev. The temperature was thirty degrees below zero. The wind lashed our faces like whips. There was a burin, a blizzard like none I have ever seen. I had a full sontia of one hundred Cossacks when I started. These pitiful fellows are all I have left. My other men stayed behind to watch our backs when we came through German lines. If not for the Tartars' help, we would all be dead. We managed to find a way. You will, too."
Tovrov stifled the urge to cough. "Then I suggest we change our course and cut the lights."
"Do it then," Yakelev ordered, releasing his iron grip.
The captain caught his breath and dashed back to the bridge, with the major close behind. As they approached the ladder that led up to the wheelhouse, a bright square of light appeared on the deck above. Several people stepped out onto the open platform. The light was from behind, so their faces were in shadow.
"Inside!" Yakelev shouted.
"We came outside for air," a woman said, speaking in a German accent. "It is stifling in the cabin."
"Please, Madame," the major said in a softer, pleading voice.
"As you wish," the woman said, after a moment. She was clearly reluctant, but she herded the others back inside. As she turned, Tovrov saw her profile. She had a strong chin, and her nose was slightly curved at the tip.
A guard emerged from the ship and called down. "I couldn't stop them, Major."
"Go back inside and shut the door before all the world hears your stupid excuses."
The guard vanished and slammed the door behind him. As Tovrov stared up at the empty platform, the major's fingers dug into his arm.
