The Commodore

“We’re heading sou’west now, sir,” commented Hurst; “we’re out of the fairway.”

He climbed up out of the little cabin and peered ahead.

“Land right ahead, sir,” he reported, “but no sign of any palace.”

“I know nothing about the Peterhof,” remarked Wychwood. “I was in Tsarskoe Selo and the old Winter Palace as a subaltern on Wilson’s staff before Tilsit. The Peterhof’s one of the lesser palaces; I expect they chose it for this meeting so that Bernadotte could arrive direct by sea.”

It was quite futile to debate what would be the result of this evening’s meeting, and yet the temptation was overwhelming. The minutes slipped by until the coxswain shouted a new order. The lugsail came down, and the piles of a jetty came into sight beside the pi

“There are carriages waiting for us, sir,” Braun interpreted, Hornblower could see them at the end of the jetty, two big open landaus, with fine horses to each; in the drivers’ seats sat coachmen pigtailed and powdered wearing red coats—not the scarlet of the British Army or of the British royal liveries, but a softer, strawberry red. Footmen similarly dressed stood at the horses’ heads and at the carriage doors.

“Senior officers go in the first carriage,” explained Braun.

Hornblower climbed in, with Wychwood and Hurst after him; with an apologetic smile the Hussar followed them and sat with his back to the horses. The door shut. One footman leaped up beside the coachman and the other sprang up behind, and the horses dashed forward. The road wound through a vast park, alternate sweeps of grass and groves of trees; here and there fountains threw lofty jets of water at the sky, and marble naiads posed by marble basins. Occasional turns in the road opened up beautiful vistas down the terraced lawns; there were long flights of marble steps and beautiful little marble pavilions, but also, at every turning, beside every fountain and every pavilion, there were sentries on guard, stiffly presenting arms as the carriages whirled by.

“Every Tsar for the last three generations has been murdered,” remarked Wychwood. “It’s only the women who die in their beds. Alexander is taking precautions.”

The carriage turned sharply again and came out on a broad gravelled parade ground; on the farther side Hornblower just had time to see the palace, a rambling rococo building of pink and grey stone with a dome at either end, before the carriage drew up at the entrance to the salute of a further guard, and a white-powdered footman opened the doors. With a few polite words in Russian the Hussar led the party forward up a flight of pink marble steps and into a lofty anteroom. A swarm of servants came forward to take their boat-cloaks; Hornblower remembered to put his cocked hat under his arm and the others followed his example. The folding doors beyond were thrown open, and they went towards them, to be received by a dignified official whose coat was of the same Imperial red where the colour was visible through the gold lace. He wore powder and carried in his hand a gold-tipped ebony stave.

“Kotchubey,” he said, speaking fair French. “Grand Marshal of the Palace. Commodore Hornblower? Lord Wychwood?”

They bowed to him, and Hornblower presented the others; he saw the Grand Marshal run an all-embracing eye over their uniforms to make sure that nothing unworthy of the Court of the Tsar would penetrate farther into the palace. Then he turned back to Hornblower and Wychwood.

“His Excellency the Minister of Marine would be honoured if Commodore Hornblower would grant him time for a short interview.”

“I am at His Excellency’s service,” said Hornblower, “but I am here at the command of His Imperial Majesty.”

“That is very good of you, sir. There will be time before His Imperial Majesty appears. And His Excellency the Minister of Foreign Affairs would be honoured by Lord Wychwood’s attention for a few minutes in a similar way.”

“I am at His Excellency’s service,” said Wychwood. For a man of his experience his French was remarkably poor.

“Thank you,” said Kotchubey.

He turned, and three more officers of the Court approached at his gesture. They wore less gold lace than Kotchubey, and from the gold keys embroidered on their lapels Hornblower knew them to be chamberlains. There were further introductions, more bows.

“Now if you have the kindness to accompany me, sir—” said Kotchubey to Hornblower.

Two chamberlains took charge of the junior officers, one took charge of Wychwood, and Kotchubey led Hornblower away. Hornblower gave one last glance at his party. Even the stolid Hurst, even the deliberately languid Mound, wore rather scared expressions at being abandoned by their captain like this in an Imperial palace. Hornblower was reminded of children being handed over by their parents to a strange nurse. But Braun’s expression was different. His green eyes were glowing with excitement, and there was a new tenseness about his features, and he was casting glances about him like a man preparing himself for some decisive action. Hornblower felt a wave of misgiving break over him; during the excitement of setting foot in Russia he had forgotten about Braun, about the stolen pistol, about everything co

“Sir Hornblower,” he a