By My Sword Alone by David Black (ebook reader ink TXT) 📕

start James had found Dorothea von Kettler a fascinating woman, and a most definitely desirable one. But equally he’d always known that trouble and danger lay down that path. A red flag waved about her head, telling him, ‘stay away!’ But could he stand by while she was casually rubbed out, her life extinguished because it had become inconvenient in the great diplomatic game? Or was there something he was prepared to do? He wasn’t sure.

‘So tell me, chevalier, how does this service you are now embarked upon suit you?’ Business done, Lacy had changed the subject. ‘Is the work rewarding? In rank and compensation?’

‘You are surely not inquiring if I am here to haggle for a better commission, sir!’ said James, with what might be construed as a faux archness, but then again, might not. ‘I would have thought that quite beneath you.’

Lacy laughed out loud. ‘Touchy when it comes to your honour, chevalier! What a likeable chap you are! No, I would never suggest such a thing my good young man. Nor, as we both know, would it be friendly to your reputation for you to even consider such an offer. In the trade we ply, reputation, like honour, is everything, is it not? No, I was merely leading up to asking you to speculate on your future career once all extant duties have been performed.’

‘I would need to survive all my extant duties first, sir,’ said James.

‘Before you give yourself over to reflection in any direction?’ asked Lacy. ‘How very wise and contained of you. But perhaps I can tempt you to un-contain yourself just a little, chevalier, for the evening, and dine with me. I have another guest I think you would be fascinated to meet.’

*

There was little space around the dining table that evening, such was the press of senior officers; Russian, Saxon as well as Polish, to James’ mild surprise. ‘Yes, there is a pro-Tsarina Anna faction amongst the Polish nobility,’ Lacy had whispered in his ear on noticing. ‘They are the ones who have the brains to take cognisance of the obvious … that life is more rewarding under her imperial majesty’s patronage than going all giddy over some romance of “la patrie Polonaise”.’

The table was most grandly presented, with a cloth, various regimental silver and ranks of serving knives and cutlery, and it groaned with food and wine and spirits, so that by the time the boar was being carved a level of boisterousness prevailed that was more fitting to a junior officers’ mess. A quintet of bandsmen struggled to make their oboes and trumpets heard above the babble. It was then that Lacy introduced James to an elderly gentleman in a uniform he did not recognise. And he did it, James noticed, in English. That made him study the old man more closely. He wore a full wig that accentuated a long nose in a long, leathery face. It was a face that looked used to command in the most extreme of circumstance, but also it had a familiar set to its features. Not as in James might know the man, personally; but that he might know his ilk.

‘This is Colonel the Chevalier James Lindsay of Branter, currently in the service of M’sieur Leszczyński in Danzig.’ Lacy addressed the elderly gentleman first; Leszczyński being King Stanislas I’s family name. James did not miss the snub to his boss, but knew it was intended for amusement, not insult. ‘And, chevalier, please meet Admiral Thomas Gordon of the Imperial Russian Navy. Not a Russian name, you will have noticed. However, when my particular friend addresses you, I think you will determine Russia is not his birth home.’

‘I dare say ye shall, young chevalier,’ said the admiral, with a warm smile, ‘but that country is ma home now. I am at your service.’

James put the old sailor’s age as at least his mid-seventies, but there was no doubt of his accent; it was pure Doric, straight from the streets of Aberdeen. The long nose, the deep upper lip, the sardonic droop of the eyebrows – he had recognised the ilk, after all.

‘My lord admiral, it is I who is at your service,’ said James, with a reverential nod. ‘Especially as we both find ourselves a long way from home.’

‘Admiral Gordon was an officer of the Royal Scottish Navy until your Act of Union, when he passed over to the Royal Navy …’

But Lacy was interrupted.

‘Where I might have bided, but ma conscience wouldna’ thole swearing an oath to that Hanover fellow,’ said the admiral. ‘And so I found gainful employ with Tsar Peter while he was still with us. And it is here I’ve bided.’

Another of those Wild Geese, thought James. We are indeed many. And for a moment all the unacknowledged yearnings he’d felt – always there below the surface, unarticulated through all those exile years – left him. Just went. And he felt part of a greater fellowship. A benign wave washed over him; he wasn’t aware of it, but it must have shown in his expression, because when his eyes came back and he was looking at Lacy and Admiral Gordon, he saw they were looking back at him with broad smiles that were as knowing as they were friendly. As if they’d looked right into him, and were familiar with the view.

After a distinguished career at sea under Tsar Peter, Lacy told James, Admiral Gordon was now Governor of the Kronstadt fortress, which guarded the roadstead of St Petersburg, and he was here as Lacy’s guest to witness the opening bombardment of Danzig. ‘That, and because many of the larger siege guns, the real smashers, are manned by Admiral Gordon’s sailors,’ said Lacy. ‘It is sad, but they will do great damage to property, and to life. Because M’sieur Leszczyński will not budge, no matter the generosity of the terms. Perhaps when you