Chapter 4
Lady Sarah came into Saint Helena on the morning tide nine days after it cleared out. William Astor met it at its berth and came aboard while the customs inspectors did their work.
Volkov saw him coming up the gangplank and gestured him to the quarterdeck. At a nod, a crewman interrupted Sherwood, who was headed to join them.
Before Astor could say a word, Volkov said, “Gospodin Astor, while we have a private moment, you will explain to me what you know of gospodin Sherwood’s intentions.”
“Captain Volkov—”
“Gospodin Astor. You will favor me with the truth, as a condition of my continued employment by your company.”
Astor scowled, an expression Volkov knew was intended to wither lesser men. Volkov ignored it: he was not afraid of William Astor—and what was more, the man wanted information that he had.
“Sherwood is a spy.”
“Da, of course he is. But who is his employer? I would have thought he was in the pay of the Great Autocrat, but I am not so sure. Do you know?”
“Not entirely. I was directed by the tsar’s governor here in Novaya Rossiya to include him in the crew of Lady Sarah, but he seems to have an agenda separate from the Russian government. I think he is taking a stipend from another monarch. The British, or perhaps the French.”
“You’re not certain?”
“Did he hinder your mission?”
“Not truly. We captured Don Domingo’s ship; it is at anchor in a secluded bay just south of here. He was generally polite and deferred to me as captain. But there was every indication that he had his own agenda, as you say. I would have thought you might know what it was.”
“That is a disparaging tone, Captain Volkov.”
“If you find it inappropriate, you may dismiss me from your service. I had thought, gospodin, that we had an understanding that we should be honest with each other—at least when lives were at stake.”
Another withering scowl, and another air of indifference. At last Astor said, “I wish I knew more. But I am obliged to cooperate in certain ways with the local authorities, as you can imagine. The governor here in Saint Helena does not want to start a war with the Spanish; but he knows that my Vigilance Squadron could do just that.”
“So you will abandon this project?”
“The hell I will,” Astor answered. “Let us assume that I am right. If Sherwood is in the pay of His Majesty William III, then a war with Spain—a Russian war with Spain—would be just what Whitehall would want. On the other hand if he is in the pay of His Most Christian Majesty, having the Russians fight with the Spanish would give the French a pretext to undertake another war against their greatest rival. It has been scarcely fifteen years since New Orleans—surely they’re ready to fight again.”
“So on all counts, Sherwood is likely in the employ of a government that wants a war.”
“It seems so.”
“And you will not hesitate in giving it to them.”
“It seems so, on that account as well. Does that trouble you?”
“That depends largely on what you think the objective of such a war might be. If the goal is to end piracy on this coast, to keep the Spanish out of Russian waters, I would be happy to join in such an effort. But if this is about the taking of territory—I am not interested in playing the Great Game, gospodin. Let men in London and Paris do that and leave me out of it.”
“What has happened to your taste for revenge, Captain Volkov?”
You seek to goad me, Volkov thought.
“Sea air is remarkably helpful in that regard, gospodin.”
“You still work for me, Captain.”
Volkov did not look away from Astor’s hard glance. “I know that,” he said. “And the Embarcadero is right there. If I am dissatisfied with the terms of my employment, I can walk down that gangway and disappear into the crowd. I do not think I would find as comfortable or as lucrative a position, but I am sure I could find work.”
The Astor gaze lasted a few more moments, then he looked down. “Very well, Captain. What is your recommendation?”
“If you want the Vigilance Squadron to make a demonstration, then we should sail along the Novaya Rossiya coast and capture every Spanish privateer that we encounter. The governor in San Diego or the Viceroy of New Spain can pay to retrieve them or leave them to rot.
“Within a year, gospodin, ships will be able to travel safely along our coasts, or else Russia and Spain will be at war. But it will be decided by kings and tsars and viceroys, not merchant princes and captains.”
✽✽✽
The coast from Saint Helena to Monterey had numerous coves and inlets; the Spanish privateer had been hidden between a small island and the coast. Lady Sarah anchored nearby and Volkov had himself rowed to the Spanish privateer.
Sharovsky was waiting for him as he came aboard. They exchanged salutes and handshakes.
“How are things, my friend? All quiet?”
“A Spaniard coaster went past a few days ago, but they didn’t see us.”
“No other trouble?”
“A few of the Spaniards have received swimming lessons, but other than that, nothing.” Sharovsky could not help but smile.
“And our hidalgo. How is he?”
“Fuming. Every day he asks me when I will accord him proper dignity and respect. Now that you are here, Captain, I am sure he will assert his—”
“Ah, Captain.” It was spoken in Russian, but the accent was Spanish.
The two Russians turned to face a figure emerging from belowdecks. Don Domingo was dressed in a uniform for which the adjective resplendent was wholly insufficient. It was adorned, decorated, and fitted out with every elaboration of medal and award that could be imagined—more a creation of the director of some mad opera than of a military organization. Clearly Don Domingo had had the thing made for himself, and felt the need to make use of it.
“Sir,” Volkov said, with the slightest of bows.
“I am moved to inquire,” Don Domingo said, “when my vessel and my crew are to be released.”
“I am not sure what you mean. I believe this ship was taken in Russian territorial waters.”
“So we are prisoners of war then?”
“There is no war.”
“Then—”
“Really, gospodin, you are in no position to bargain, and I find your bluster tiresome. I have a simple question for you: what are you worth to Don Pío? What will he pay to have you back?”
“Are you suggesting that Governor Pico ransom me? I am an officer in His Catholic Majesty’s Navy!”
“Then what were you doing in Russian territorial waters? And I don’t mean just here in Monterey Bay—you took my ship near Fort Ross some weeks ago. Surely you must recognize—”
“Spain does not recognize the false Russian claim at all.” Don Domingo waved his hand imperiously, as if none of it had any merit whatsoever.
“Your king, the British king, and the Tsar of all the Russias put their hands to a treaty, gospodin, that absolutely recognizes the Russian claim. It is not your place to contravene that. And if you claim that you are acting under orders from Governor Pico, then he is acting against the explicit desires of His Catholic Majesty—and committing an act of war.
“So are you acting under orders or not?”
“I am trusted to do what I think best.”
“Well, then.” Volkov turned to Sharovsky. “Lieutenant, prepare a noose for this pirate.”
As Don Domingo’s face reddened, Sharovsky said, “Aye, Captain. Shall I do so for the rest of his crew?”
“Perhaps the principal officers, Lieutenant. The rest of the crew we can put ashore.”
“Captain Volkov—” Don Domingo began.
“Don Domingo,” Volkov said, holding up his hand. “If you don’t want to be hung like a pirate, then convince me that you are worth something to Don Pío Pico. Because if you have value, we will trade you back. If not, a few roubles worth of rope will solve this and we’ll send your uniform back instead.”