As Eagles Fly Read online

  He planned for Djemmal Eddin to enter the Cadet Corps with the sons of the Russian Nobility with the object of eventually obtaining a Commission in one of the Guards Regiments.

  Caucasian Princes, who had sworn allegiance to Russia rather than to Shamyl, were very popular at the Russian Court.

  They were known as ‘furious eagles’ and it is said that, as they moved about the streets, the Court, the ballrooms and the Army headquarters of St. Petersburg, they had an ‘eagle glance and a light half-fleeting step that was peculiar to them’.

  Women found them irresistible and their horsemanship was fantastic. At full gallop standing in the stirrups, the reins held in their teeth, flourishing a kind-jal and shashka in either hand, they would leap to the ground and back onto their horses.

  Lord Athelstan had been in St. Petersburg only three years previously, when he had met Djemmal Eddin and realised that he had become not only the pet of the Czar but of everyone at Court.

  He was immensely popular.

  His large, mournful, rather dark eyes above his high cheekbones and his densely black glossy hair made him outstanding even among the handsome good-looking young Russians.

  He rode magnificently, he spoke several languages, was musical, had studied astrology and liked to paint.

  What was more significant, Lord Athelstan thought, was that he seldom wore his native dress, not even the tcherkessha that made every Caucasian look so dashing.

  He preferred to wear Russian uniform and this was in fact a symbol of his conversion to the West.

  Lord Athelstan wondered now if it was possible to convey to Shamyl the fact that, if Djemmal Eddin was brought back home in exchange for the Georgian Princesses, he would come reluctantly.

  Then with his usual reserve, Lord Athelstan told himself that it was none of his business.

  He had merely been told to enquire after the health of the Princesses and to find out how soon the exchange was likely to be made.

  “We are at the moment at an impasse,” Shamyl explained. “I understand that my son will be returned to me, but there is apparently some difficulty in raising the ransom money.”

  “Their Highnesses are in good health?” Lord Athelstan enquired.

  “They are a part of my household,” Shamyl replied.

  “Would it be possible for me to see them?”

  There was a moment’s pause and then Shamyl said,

  “I wish to speak to Your Excellency on a private matter.”

  “I would deem it a privilege – ”

  Shamyl made a gesture with his hand and the Murids, with their drawn swords, and the interpreter left the room, leaving the two men alone.

  There was a little pause before Shamyl began,

  “I would ask a favour.”

  “If it is possible the favour is already granted,” Lord Athelstan replied in the extravagant language of the East.

  Shamyl hesitated and Lord Athelstan felt that he was finding difficulty in expressing himself.

  Then he said,

  “Among those I hold as hostages there are two who were brought here unnecessarily.”

  Lord Athelstan raised his eyebrows and Shamyl went on,

  “You will understand that my instructions were to bring everyone who was in the home of Prince David Tchavtchavadze. It was not possible for my men to distinguish between individuals.”

  “I understand.”

  “There was, for instance, a French governess, Mrs. Drancy, who has been nothing but a trouble to us.”

  There was a faint smile on Shamyl’s lips as he spoke and Lord Athelstan guessed that a voluble French woman would not behave with the same dignity or reserve as the Princesses.

  “And also staying at Tzinondali was a friend of the Princess Nina, who is only seventeen and unmarried.”

  Lord Athelstan did not speak, wondering what Shamyl was about to reveal to him.

  “Her name is Countess Natasha Melikov,” Shamyl went on. “She and her young brother, aged nine, were conveyed here with the rest, although as hostages they have no significance.”

  “Why not?” Lord Athelstan enquired.

  “They are orphans, and there is no one, so they tell me, who would make any effort to ransom them,” Shamyl answered.

  “Surely they can return to Russia with the rest of your prisoners when the terms of exchange are agreed?” Lord Athelstan asked.

  “My people are loath to part with two Russian aristocrats who cannot pay for their release,” Shamyl said simply. “I have, therefore, to find a solution.”

  Lord Athelstan waited.

  He had a feeling he was somehow bound up in all this, but he could not for the moment see how.

  “The Countess Natasha is extremely attractive,” Shamyl said. “In fact by most standards she is undoubtedly a great beauty. I have, therefore, with her agreement, arranged that she should become the wife of the Sultan Abdul Aziz.”

  “With her agreement?” Lord Athelstan questioned sharply.

  “In exchange for which,” Shamyl continued, “her brother, Prince Dimitri, will be exchanged with my other prisoners.”

  Lord Athelstan was too experienced a diplomat either to allow his feelings to show in his face or to be expressed hastily by his lips.

  But he knew what the world outside would think of a Christian woman being sent as wife to the Sultan of Turkey – a Moslem who already had four wives and a notoriously large harem of concubines.

  As if he knew what he was feeling, there was a faint smile on Shamyl’s lips as he said,

  “I am asking Your Excellency if you will escort this young woman to Constantinople, where I understand you will go for a ship to carry you to England.”

  Lord Athelstan stiffened before he replied,

  “You will understand that it is quite impossible. I am a diplomat and I claim diplomatic immunity in every country I visit because I play no part in their politics, their intrigues and interfere in nothing except that which affects my own country.”

  He felt as if Shamyl did not understand the point he was making and went on,

  “It would be inconceivable for me to take under my protection a woman whose action in agreeing to marry the Sultan would deeply offend the Russians through whose country I must pass when I leave here.”

  “I thought perhaps that would be your Excellency’s attitude,” Shamyl said, apparently quite unperturbed. “It was, in fact, the Countess herself who suggested it.”

  “You will please convey my regrets to the Countess,” Lord Athelstan said coldly. “But there is nothing I can do in this matter to oblige either you or her.”

  Shamyl nodded his head.

  Then he said,

  “Your Excellency will realise that it is quite a problem. My gift to the Sultan concerns me deeply because as a Moslem he has always given me his encouragement and good wishes.”

  He paused to continue,

  “I would, however, ask for something more substantial such as arms and men, if I am to continue to fight the Russians. It is not only in the interests of my own country but of Great Britain also.”

  “That is appreciated,” Lord Athelstan agreed.

  “It is, of course, also essential that my gift should arrive unharmed,” Shamyl went on. “Apart from the insult to the lady in question, if she should be violated on the way, she would on arrival at the Sultan’s Palace be put to death by one of the less swift and certainly more painful methods of execution.”

  Lord Athelstan thought briefly of the Turkish method of death by strangulation, the manner in which badly behaved concubines were dropped into the Bosphorus and of unspeakable tortures that were often repeated and re-repeated amongst those who knew the East.

  It only confirmed his conviction that this was a matter he could take no part in.

  “Again you must accept my apologies,” he said quietly.

  Shamyl did not reply.

  He rose to his feet and the interview was at an end. Only as he withdrew from the room where the audi
ence had taken place did he say,

  “We will meet again after sunset, Your Excellency, and I hope in the meantime you will think a little further on the subject we have just discussed.”

  He disappeared before Lord Athelstan could answer him and Hadjio, the Steward, re-joined him to take him to his quarters where he was to sleep.

  The room that he was allotted was small and contained only mats on the floor with shelves around the room on which were piled rolls of bedding should he require it.

  Lord Athelstan, however, always travelled with everything necessary for his own comfort.

  His Major Domo, who had once been a Sergeant Major in his Regiment, would, he was convinced, have managed to provide him with everything to which he was accustomed, even if they found themselves at the North Pole.

  A bluff Englishman in appearance, Hawkins was, in fact, an extremely clever and astute man.

  He spoke a number of foreign languages in the vernacular and he had methods of his own of making himself understood even in dialects that perplexed his Master.

  “What do you think of Dargo-Vedin?” Lord Athelstan asked him.

  “Might as well settle down in an eagle’s nest, my Lord,” Hawkins answered.

  He glanced over his shoulder as if he thought someone might be listening and then he went on in a low voice,

  “From all I hears, my Lord, these Caucasians won’t be able to hold out much longer against them Russians.”

  “Why do you think that?” Lord Athelstan enquired.

  He was, however, listening intently.

  He relied on Hawkins, on journeys such as this, to find out from native gossip and from his own observations as much, if not more, than he was able to do through the usual diplomatic channels.

  “A great many of the Caucasians, my Lord,” Hawkins answered, “are desertin’ to the Russians. They want to be on the winnin’ side.”

  “That was what I heard in Teheran,” Lord Athelstan said.

  “Well, learn all you can, Hawkins. It is important, as you well know.”

  “I only hopes, my Lord, that we’re not stayin’ long,” Hawkins said with an air of disgust. “I never fancied heights and I’ve not much to say for these mountaineers except they can ride!”

  He went from the room and Lord Athelstan smiled to himself. Hawkins was always the same.

  He had a contempt for foreigners wherever he might find them, but many of Lord Athelstan’s missions had been brought to a successful conclusion by the help of Hawkins.

  Lord Athelstan ate alone because, whatever happened elsewhere, it was impossible in Shamyl’s house for a Christian to sit down with a Moslem.

  The tough lamb, the rice, a sparsity of vegetables, hard goat’s cheese and tea were what he might have expected and not even the most exciting conversation would have made them more palatable.

  But he knew that the Caucasians ate very sparingly and could fight without the cumbersome supply wagons with samovars of tea that were essential for the Russians.

  Meat was a rarity for the Murids and then only lamb, goat or chicken was permitted.

  Cakes of roughly ground millet and goat’s cheese formed their main diet, which sustained their incredible stamina and magnificent physique.

  “During a campaign,” a Russian General told Lord Athelstan, “these creatures will subsist on flowers or leaves and they consider rhododendrons very sustaining.”

  The tea with which Lord Athelstan was served was the kind generally used by the Caucasians. A heavy compote of tea leaves was mixed with sheep’s blood and formed into square bricks that dissolved when put into hot water.

  Lord Athelstan was used to it and did not mind the somewhat pungent flavour, but he knew that Hawkins would grumble.

  With the dark it was bitterly cold.

  The snow-clad Mountain of Stais towered over them and the wind made eerie sounds not unlike a banshee’s wailing.

  Lord Athelstan was waiting for a summons to join Shamyl when there was a knock on the door of his room.

  “Come in,” he said and the door opened.

  He turned, expecting to see a Murid with a drawn sword. But instead into the room came a woman and, when he looked at her, he realised that she was quite the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

  At first glance she appeared to be dressed in rags. Then he saw that what had once been a smart silk dress with a fashionably tight bodice and full skirts, had been torn, ripped and pulled until there was hardly an inch of it that was not stitched and darned.

  The effect of this, combined with the fact that the material was discoloured by exposure to the elements, was to give the appearance of a beggar.

  Lord Athelstan realised that the hostages must have no clothes other than those they stood up in when they had been kidnapped from the house in the country.

  He was well aware what their journey must have been like before they reached Dargo-Vedin and he had already heard that they had had to walk most of the way.

  But even her ragged dress could not detract from the beauty of the girl who faced him.

  She carried herself superbly, was taller than any Moslem woman and had the gazelle-like grace of the Russian aristocrats.

  Her face was a perfect oval but, because she was so emaciated by the deprivations of the last few months, her eyes seemed to fill her whole face.

  Huge dark eyes, full of Slav mystery, they stared at Lord Athelstan enquiringly as if she scrutinised him and summed up everything she saw.

  For a moment neither of them spoke and then the girl said in English,

  “I am Natasha Melikov. I wish to talk to Your Excellency.”

  “It will be an honour,” Lord Athelstan said. “Will you sit down?”

  He indicated a pile of soft cushions that had been in his baggage and were covered with a rich silk brocade.

  “Thank you,” the Countess said, inclining her head.

  She seated herself and Lord Athelstan did likewise.

  She noticed as he did so that he was one of the few Western men she had ever met who could sit gracefully and with dignity on Eastern cushions.

  Most Europeans felt it an indignity to sit so low. They were not certain what to do with their feet and because they were embarrassed they hunched their backs.

  Lord Athelstan sat upright, his hands on his knees and he might, in fact, have been Shamyl himself granting an audience with an almost Royal condescension.

  “I think you know why I am here,” the Countess Natasha began.

  “The Imam has already spoken of his desire that you should become the bride of the Sultan,” Lord Athelstan replied. “I am sure that you do not wish to hear my opinions on the matter.”

  “It is important that I should reach Constantinople,” the Countess said, “and there is no way of my doing so if you will not take me.”

  “I have already informed the Imam that such a suggestion is impossible,” Lord Athelstan replied, “As a diplomat I cannot involve myself in the intrigues of those whose countries I visit.”

  “These are somewhat exceptional circumstances,” Countess Natasha said slowly. “Your Excellency knows as well as I do that it will be impossible for the Imam’s men to escort me through Georgia. If my brother is to go free, I have to find some way of reaching Constantinople.”

  “There must be, surely, less drastic methods of ensuring his release,” Lord Athelstan suggested.

  An expression of anger made Countess Natasha’s eyes seem to flash as she answered,

  “You cannot be so obtuse as not to realise that I have considered every other method of escape from this prison. But it happens to be the only possibility open to me.”

  “I am deeply sorry for you,” Lord Athelstan said. “I will be honest and say that the idea of your becoming the wife, which I imagine is a polite word for your future position, of the Sultan disgusts me, but I cannot help you.”

  “Do you realise what the alternative is?” the Countess asked in a low voice.

  “No.”r />
  “Then I will tell you. I shall be left here when the others leave. If I am fortunate, I shall be married to a Naib – one of Shamyl’s Officers. His sons already have their full complement of wives and, as you must know, no woman is allowed to remain unmarried under the Imam’s jurisdiction.”

  Her voice sharpened as she went on,

  “Every widow must be remarried within three months. It ensures, of course, a continuance of Caucasians to go on fighting against my country.”

  There was a pause and then she added,

  “If I cannot marry an Officer, then I shall just be offered to the first Murid who fancies me. As far as I am concerned, it will just be a question of how quickly I can kill myself.”

  Lord Athelstan rose to his feet.

  “This is preposterous!” he exclaimed. “Surely this cannot happen?”

  “Are you so ignorant as not to realise that it has happened a thousand times before?” Countess Natasha asked contemptuously. “We are not the first women who have been brought to Dargo-Vedin. We just happen to be the most important and therefore a commodity the Imam can bargain with for the release of his son.”

  “I wish I could help you,” Lord Athelstan murmured.

  “I have told you what will happen to me,” Countess Natasha said, “but there is also my brother, Count Dimitri, to be considered.”

  Lord Athelstan did not reply and she continued,

  “He is nearly nine. After a few years here he will forget his own country and he will become a Caucasian. He will be taught the horsemanship and the other skills at which they excel and then he will fight against his own people.”

  She drew in her breath and went on,

  “Make no mistake, he will not be given a choice. Once he is of the right age he will fight or die.”

  Lord Athelstan sat down again on the cushions.

  “I think both alternatives are appalling,” he said, “but they are your problem and not mine.”

  “Are you afraid to take me with you?” Countess Natasha asked contemptuously. “I could be well disguised. I assure you that the Russians whom you meet in Georgia would never for one moment guess my identity.”

  “That is not the point.”