Produced by Barbara Tozier, Barbara Kosker, Bill Tozier
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
_The_
VAGRANT DUKE
BY GEORGE GIBBS
The Vagrant Duke
The Splendid Outcast
The Black Stone
The Golden Bough
The Secret Witness
Paradise Garden
The Yellow Dove
The Flaming Sword
Madcap
The Silent Battle
The Maker of Opportunities
The Forbidden Way
The Bolted Door
Tony's Wife
The Medusa Emerald
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Publishers New York
[Illustration: PETER STRUCK HIM FULL ON THE HEAD]
_The_
VAGRANT DUKE
BY
GEORGE GIBBS
AUTHOR OF "THE SPLENDID OUTCAST," "THE YELLOW DOVE,"
"THE SECRET WITNESS," ETC.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1921
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1920, by The Story Press Corporation
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PROLOGUE 1
I INTRODUCING PETER NICHOLS 15
II NEW YORK 27
III THE OVERALL GIRL 42
IV THE JOB 56
V NEW ELEMENTS 71
VI THE HOUSE OF TERROR 88
VII MUSIC 105
VIII THE PLACARD 121
IX SHAD IS UNPLEASANT 137
X "HAWK" 153
XI ANCIENT HISTORY 170
XII CONFESSION 186
XIII THE CHASE 207
XIV TWO LETTERS 226
XV SUPERMAN 236
XVI IDENTIFICATION 253
XVII PETER BECOMES A CONSPIRATOR 266
XVIII FACE TO FACE 276
XIX YAKIMOV REVEALS HIMSELF 291
XX THE RUSSIAN PAYS 308
XXI THE INFERNO 326
XXII RETRIBUTION 343
XXIII A VISITOR 357
_The_
VAGRANT DUKE
THE VAGRANT DUKE
_PROLOGUE_
_At the piano a man sat playing the "Revolutionary Etude" of Chopin. The
room was magnificent in its proportions, its furnishings were massive,
its paneled oak walls were hung with portraits of men and women in the
costumes of a bygone day. Through the lofty windows, the casements of
which were open to the evening sky there was a vista of forest and
meadow-land stretching interminably to the setting sun. The mosquelike
cupola of a village church, a few versts distant, glimmered like a pearl
in the dusky setting of wooded hills, and close by it, here and there,
tiny spirals of opalescent smoke marked the dwellings of Zukovo
village._
_But the man at the piano was detached, a being apart from this scene of
quiet, absorbed in his piano, which gave forth the turbulence which had
been in the soul of the great composer. The expression upon the dark
face of the young musician was rapt and eager, until he crashed the
chords to their triumphant conclusion when he sank back in his chair
with a gasp, his head bent forward upon his breast, his dark gaze fixed
upon the keys which still echoed with the tumult._
_It was at this moment that a door at the side of the room was opened
and a white-haired man in purple livery entered and stood in silence
regarding rather wistfully the man at the piano, who raised his head
abruptly like one startled from a dream._
_"What is it, Vasili?" asked the musician._
_The servant approached softly a few steps._
_"I did not wish to intrude, Highness, but----"_
_As the old servant hesitated, the young man shrugged and rose,
disclosing a tall, straight figure, clad in a dark blue blouse, loose
trousers and brown boots liberally bespattered with mud. The glow of the
sun which shot across his face as he came forward into the light, showed
swarthy features, level brows, a straight nose, a well turned chin, a
small mustache and a generous mouth which revealed a capacity for humor.
He was quite calm now, and the tones of his voice were almost boyish in
their confidence and gayety._
_"Well, what is it, Vasili?" he repeated. "You have the air of one with
much on your conscience. Out with it. Has Sacha been fighting with you
again?"_
_"No, Master, not Sacha," said the old man clearing his throat
nervously, "it is something worse--much worse than Sacha."_
_"Impossible!" said the other with a laugh as he took up a cigarette
from the table. "Nothing could be worse than a Russian cook when she
gets into a rage----"_
_"But it is, Master--something worse--much worse----"_
_"Really! You alarm me." The Grand Duke threw himself into an armchair
and inhaled luxuriously of his cigarette. And then with a shrug,
"Well?"_
_The old man came a pace or two nearer muttering hoarsely, "They've
broken out in the village again," he gasped._
_The Grand Duke's brow contracted suddenly._
_"H-m. When did this happen?"_
_"Last night. And this morning they burned the stables of Prince
Galitzin and looted the castle."_
_The young man sprang to his feet._
_"You are sure of this?"_
_"Yes, Master. The word was brought by Serge Andriev less than ten
minutes ago."_
_He took a few rapid paces up and down the room, stopping by the open
window and staring out._
_"Fools!" he muttered to himself. Then turning to the old servitor,
"But, Vasili--why is it that I have heard nothing of this? To-day
Conrad, the forester, said nothing to me. And the day before yesterday
in the village the people swept off their caps to me--as in the old
days. I could have sworn everything would be peaceful at Zukovo--at
least, for the present----" he added as though in an afterthought._
_"I pray God that may be true," muttered Vasili uncertainly. And then
with unction, "In their hearts, they still love you, Highness. They are
children--your children, their hearts still full of reverence for the
Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch in whom runs the same blood as that which
ran in the sacred being of the Little Father--but their brains! They are
drunk with the poison poured into their minds by the Committeemen from
Moscow."_
_"Ah," eagerly, "they returned?"_
_"Last night," replied the old man wagging his head. "And your people
forgot all that you had said to them--all that they owe to you. They are
mad," he finished despairingly, "mad!"_
_The Grand Duke had folded his arms and was staring out of the window
toward the white dome of the church now dyed red like a globule of blood
in the sunset._
_The old man watched him for a moment, all the fealty of his many years
of service in his gaze and attitude._
_"I do not like the look of things, Highness. What does it matter how
good their hearts are if their brains are bad?"_
_"I must go and talk with them, Vasili," said the Grand Duke quietly._
_The old man took a step forward._
_"If I might make so free----"_
_"Speak----"_
_"Not to-night, Master----"_
_"Why not?"_
_"It will be dangerous. Last night their voices were raised even against
you."_
_"Me! Why? Have I not done everything I could to help them? I am their
friend--because I believe in their cause: and they will get their rights
too but not by burning and looting----"_
_"And murder, Master. Two of Prince Galitzin's foresters were killed."_
_The Grand Duke turned. "That's bad. Murder in Zukovo!" He flicked his
extinguished cigarette out of the window and made a gesture with his
hand._
_"Go, Vasili. I want to think. I will ring if I need you."_
_"You will not go to Zukovo to-night?"_
_"I don't know."_
_And with another gesture he waved the servant away._
_When Vasili had gone, the Grand Duke sat, his legs across the chair by
the window, his arms folded along its back while his dark eyes peered
out, beyond the hills and forests, beyond the reddened dome of the
village church into the past where his magnificent father Nicholas
Petrovitch held feudal sway over all the land within his vision and his
father's fathers from the time of his own great namesake held all Russia
in the hollow of their hands._
_The Grand Duke's eyes were hard and bright above the slightly prominent
cheek bones, the vestiges of his Oriental origin, but there was
something of his English mother too in the contours of his chin and
lips, which tempered the hardness of his expression. The lines at his
brows were not the savage marks of anger, or the vengefulness that had
characterized the pitiless blood which ran in his veins, but rather were
they lines of disappointment, of perplexity at the problem that
confronted him, and pity for his people who did not know where to turn
for guidance. He still believed them to be his people, a heritage from
his lordly parent, his children, who were responsible to him and to whom
he was responsible. It was a habit of thought, inalienable, the product
of the ages. But it was the calm philosophy of his English mother that
had first given him his real sense of obligation to them, her teachings,
even before the war began, that had shown him how terrible were the
problems that confronted his future._
_His service in the Army had opened his eyes still wider and when Russia
had deserted her allies he had returned to Zukovo to begin the work of
reconstruction in the ways his awakened conscience had dictated. He had
visited their homes, offered them counsel, given them such money as he
could spare, and had, he thought, become their friend as well as their
hereditary guardian. All had gone well at first. They had listened to
him, accepted his advice and his money and renewed their fealty under
the new order of things, vowing that whatever happened elsewhere in
Russia, blood and agony and starvation should not visit Zukovo._
_But the news that Vasili brought was disquieting. It meant that the
minds of his people were again disturbed. And the fact that Prince
Galitzin had always been hated made the problems the Grand Duke faced
none the less difficult. For his people had burned, pillaged and killed.
They had betrayed him. And he had learned in the Army what fire and the
smell of blood could do...._
_With a quick nod of resolution he rose. He would go to them. He knew
their leaders. They would listen to him. They_ must _listen...._
_He closed the piano carefully, putting away the loose sheets of music,
picked up his cap and heavy riding crop from the divan, on his way to
the door, pausing, his hand on the bell-rope as a thought brought a
deeper frown to his brow.... Why had Conrad Grabar, his chief forester,
said nothing to-day? He must have known--for news such as this travels
from leaf to leaf through the forest. Conrad! And yet he would have
sworn by the faithfulness of his old friend and hunting companion.
Perhaps Conrad had not known...._
_The Grand Duke pulled the bell-rope, then went to the window again and
stood as though listening for the voices of the woods. Silence. The sun
had sunk, a dull red ball, and the dusk was falling swiftly. The aspens
below his window quivered slightly, throwing their white leaves upwards
as though in pain. The stately pines that he loved, mute, solemn,
changeless, filled the air with balsam, but they gave no answer to his
problem. It was difficult to believe that, there, in the restless souls
of men war could rage. And yet...._
_He peered out more intently. Beyond the pine forest, a murky cloud was
rising. A storm? Hardly. For the sun had set in a clear sky. But there
was a cloud surely, growing in darkness and intensity. He could see it
more clearly now, billowing upward in grim portent._
_The Grand Duke started and then stared again. The cloud was of smoke.
Through the woods, tiny lights were sparkling, picked out with ominous
brilliancy against the velvet dusk. Peter Nicholaevitch leaned far out
of the window, straining his ears to listen. And now he seemed to hear
the crackle of flames, the distant sound of hoarse voices, shouting and
singing._
_And while he still listened, aware that a great crisis had come into
his life, there was a commotion just below him, the sound of voices
close at hand and he saw a man come running from the woods, approaching
the gateway of the Castle._
_He recognized him by the gray beard and thickset figure. It was Boris
Rylov, the Huntsman, and as he ran he shouted to some one in the
courtyard below. The Grand Duke made out the words:_
_"They're burning the Hunting Lodge--where is the Master----?"_
_Peter Nicholaevitch waited at the window no longer, but ran out of the
room and down the flight of stairs into the great hall below. For he
knew what had happened now. The Red Terror had come to Zukovo._
_He went out to the garden terrace, crossing quickly to the courtyard
where he met the frightened group of servants that had assembled._
_Boris, the Huntsman, much out of breath was waving his arms excitedly
toward the cloud of smoke rising above the pine trees, now tinged a
dirty orange color from beneath._
_"They came from all directions, Master," he gasped, "like the black
flies upon a dead horse--hundreds--thousands of them from the village
and all the country round. I talked with the first that came, Anton
Lensky, Gleb Saltykov, Michael Kuprin and Conrad Grabar----"_
_"Conrad----!" gasped the Grand Duke._
_"Yes, Highness," muttered Boris, his head bowed, "Conrad Grabar. They
tried to restrain me. Michael Kuprin I struck upon the head with a
stick--and then I fled--to warn your Highness--that they mean to come
hither."_
_The face of the Grand Duke, a trifle pale under its tan, was set in
stern lines, but there was no fear in his manner as he quickly
questioned, his eyes eagerly scrutinizing the frightened men and women
about him while he spoke to them with cool decision._
_"Thanks, Friend Rylov--you have done me a service I shall not forget."
Then to the others, "If there are any of you who fear to remain with me,
you may go. I cannot believe that they will come to Zukovo Castle, but
we will close the gate to the courtyard at once. I will talk with them
from the terrace wall."_
_"Master! Highness!" broke in the Huntsman violently, "you do not
understand. You cannot stay here. They are mad. They will kill you. It
is for that they come----"_
_"Nevertheless--I mean to stay----"_
_"It is death----"_
_"Go thou, then, and Vasili, and Ivan. For before they burn Zukovo, I
mean to talk with them----"_
_"It is madness----!"_
_"Come, Highness," broke in Leo Garshin, the head-groom, eagerly, "I
will put the saddle upon Vera, and you can go out of the iron gate from
the stable-yard into the forest. Nothing can catch you and you can reach
the river----"_
_"No, Leo----" put in the Grand Duke kindly. "I shall stay."_
_The servants glanced at one another, appalled at the Master's attitude.
Some of them, had already disappeared into the Castle but others, less
timorous, had already rushed to close the courtyard gate._
_"You say they are many, Friend Rylov?" he asked again._
_"As the hairs of your head, Master--from Ivanovna,
Jaroslav--everywhere--and women, Highness, more terrible than the
men----"_
_"And the leaders----?"_
_"Dmitri Sidorov of the Zemstvo and Michael Kositzin and Anton Lensky.
See, yonder! Where the road turns from the clearing--they come!"_
_The keen eyes of Boris saw further through the forest than those of
most men but in a moment those of the Grand Duke Peter confirmed him.
Figures were moving in the twilight, along the roads and bypaths._
_To Peter Nicholaevitch they seemed like a great river which had flooded
over its banks seeking new levels. Behind them the flames from the
wooden hunting lodge roared upward painting a lurid sky. He saw that the
flood came rapidly, and above the roar of the flames came the sound of
voices singing the Russian version of the "Marseillaise." The Grand Duke
stood at the terrace wall watching their approach. He knew that if they
meant to attack the Castle the gate could not hold long, but he had hope
that he might still be able to prevail upon them to listen to him. In a
moment they saw him and began running forward toward the courtyard gate.
He recognized individuals now--Anton Lensky, Michael Kuprin, with his
head tied in a dirty handkerchief--and Conrad Grabar. The defection of
his old instructor in wood-lore disturbed him. Conrad must have known
what was to happen and he had said nothing. If Conrad had turned against
him, what hope had he of prevailing against the others?_
_The singing died away and in its place, shouts and cries burst forth in
a bedlam. "Open the gate!" "Let us in!"_
_The Grand Duke had heard that note in men's voices in the Carpathian
passes, and he knew what it meant, but while his gaze sought out the fat
figure of Michael Kositzin who was the leader of the uprising, he held
up his hand for silence._
_There was a roar of voices._
_"Peter Nicholaevitch wishes to speak."_
_"It is our turn to speak now."_
"Nasha pora prishla," (_our time has come_).
_"Let the little master speak."_
_"We know no little masters here!"_
_"No, nor old ones!"_
"Smiert Bourjouiam" (_Death to the bourgeoisie_).
_But as the young Grand Duke began to speak the voices of the most rabid
of the peasants were hushed for a moment by the others._
_"My friends and my children" he began, "one word before you do
something that you will forever regret. I am your friend. I am young--of
the new generation. I have kept abreast of the new thought of the time
and I believe in the New Life that is for you and for us all. I have
proved it to you by bringing the New Life to Zukovo by peaceful means,
by friendliness and brotherhood while other parts of Russia near by are
in agony and darkness." (Cries of "That is true.") "It was in my heart
that I had brought the Revolution to Zukovo, a Revolution against the
old order of things which can be no more, implanting in you the strong
seeds of Peace and Brotherhood which would kill out the ugly weeds of
violence and enmity."_
_Here a hoarse voice rang out: "Fire--only fire can clean." Then the
reply of a woman, "Yes,_ Tovaristchi, _it is the only way."_
_Peter Nicholaevitch tried to seek out the speakers with his gaze. One
of them was Michael Kuprin whom when a child the Grand Duke had seen
flogged in this very courtyard._
_"There are sins of the past," he went on, raising his voice against the
low murmur of the mob, "many sins against you, but one sin does not wash
out another. Murder, rapine, vengeance will never bring peace to
Zukovo. What you do to-day will be visited on you to-morrow. I pray
that you will listen to me. I have fought for you and with you--with
Gleb Saltykov and Anton Lensky, against the return of Absolutism in
Russia. The old order of things is gone. Do not stain the new with crime
in Zukovo. I beseech you to disperse--return to your homes and I will
come to you to-morrow and if there are wrongs I will set them right. You
have believed in me in the past. Believe in me now and all may yet be
well in Zukovo. Go, my friends, before it is too late----"_
_The crowd wavered, murmuring. But just then a shot rang out and the cap
of the Grand Duke twitched around on his head._
_A roar went up from near the gate,_ "Nasha pora prishla! _Break in the
gate!" cried the voices and there were those of women among them
shouting_ "Tovaristchi! _Forward!"_
_Over the heads of those in the front ranks, Peter Nicholaevitch saw
some men bringing from the forest the heavy trunk of a felled pine tree.
They meant to break down the gate. He knew that he had failed but still
he stood upright facing them. Another shot, the bullet this time grazing
his left arm. The sting of it angered him._
_"Cowards!" he yelled, shaking his fist at them. "Cowards!"_
_A volley followed but no other bullets struck him. Behind him in the
Castle doorway he heard the voice of Boris Rylov, calling to him
hoarsely._
_"Come, Master. For the love of God! There is yet time."_
_There was a crash of the heavy timbers at the gate._
_"Come, Master----"_
_With a shrug Peter Nicholaevitch turned and walked across the terrace
toward the Castle._ "Bolvany!" _he muttered. "I've finished with
them."_
_Boris and Vasili stood just within the door, pleading with him to
hurry, and together they made their way through the deserted kitchens
and over past the vegetable gardens to the stables, where Leo Garshin
awaited them, the saddles on several horses. Behind them they could now
hear the triumphant cries as the courtyard gate crashed in._
_"Hurry, Master!" cried Garshin eagerly._
_"Where are the others?" asked the Grand Duke._
_"Gone, Highness. They have fled."_
_Boris Rylov was peering out past an iron door into the forest._
_"There is no one there?" asked Garshin._
_"Not yet. They have forgotten."_
_"Come then, Highness."_
_But the Grand Duke saw that the aged Vasili was mounted first and then
they rode out of the iron gate into a path which led directly into the
forest. It was not until they were well clear of the buildings that a
shout at one side announced that their mode of escape had been
discovered. Men came running, firing pistols as they ran. Boris Rylov,
bringing up the rear, reined in his horse and turning emptied a revolver
at the nearest of their pursuers. One man fell and the others halted._
_Until they found the other horses in the stables pursuit was
fruitless._
_Peter Nicholaevitch rode at the head of the little cavalcade, down the
familiar aisles of the forest, his head bowed, a deep frown on his
brows. It was Vasili who first noticed the blood dripping from his
finger ends._
_"Master," he gasped, "you are wounded."_
_"It is nothing," said the Grand Duke._
_But Vasili bound the arm up with a handkerchief while Leo Garshin and
Boris Rylov watched the path down which they had come. They could hear
the crackling of the flames at the Hunting Lodge to the southward and
the cries of the mob at the Castle, but there was no sign of pursuit.
Perhaps they were satisfied to appease their madness with pillage and
fire. Half an hour later Boris pointed backward. A new glow had risen, a
redder, deeper glow._
_"The Castle, Master----" wailed Vasili._
_Peter Nicholaevitch drew rein at a cross-path, watched for a moment and
then turned to his companions, for he had reached a decision._
_"My good friends," he said gently, "our ways part here."_
_"Master! Highness!"_
_But he was resolute._
_"I am going on alone. I will not involve you further in my misfortunes.
You can do nothing for me--nor I anything for you except this. Vasili
knows. In the vault below the wine-cellar, hidden away, are some objects
of value. They will not find them. When they go away you will return.
The visit will repay you. Divide what is there into equal parts--silver,
plate and gold. As for me--forget me. Farewell!"_
_They saw that he meant what he said. He offered these few faithful
servitors his hand and they kissed his fingers--a last act of fealty and
devotion and in a moment they stood listening to the diminishing
hoof-beats of Vera as the young master went out of their lives._
_"May God preserve him," muttered Vasili._
_"Amen," said Boris Rylov and Leo Garshin._
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCING PETER NICHOLS
The British refugee ship _Phrygia_ was about to sail for Constantinople
where her unfortunate passengers were to be transferred to other vessels
sailing for Liverpool and New York. After some difficulties the refugee
made his way aboard her and announced his identity to the captain. If he
had expected to be received with the honor due to one of his rank and
station he was quickly undeceived, for Captain Blashford, a man of rough
manners, concealing a gentle heart, looked him over critically, examined
his credentials (letters he had happened to have about him), and then
smiled grimly.
"We've got room for one more--and that's about all."
"I have no money----" began the refugee.
"Oh, that's all right," shrugged the Captain, "you're not the only one.
We've a cargo of twenty princes, thirty-two princesses, eighteen
generals and enough counts and countesses to set up a new nation
somewhere. Your 'Ighness is the only Duke that has reached us up to the
present speakin' and if there are any others, they'll 'ave to be brisk
for we're sailin' in twenty minutes."
The matter-of-fact tones with which the unemotional Britisher made this
announcement restored the lost sense of humor of the Russian refugee,
and he broke into a grim laugh.
"An embarrassment of riches," remarked the Grand Duke.
"Riches," grunted the Captain, "in a manner of speakin', yes. Money is
not so plentiful. But jools! Good God! There must be half a ton of
diamonds, rubies and emeralds aboard. All they're got left most of 'em,
but complaints and narvousness. Give me a cargo of wheat and I'm your
man," growled the Captain. "It stays put and doesn't complain," and then
turning to Peter--"Ye're not expectin' any r'yal suite aboard the
_Phrygia_, are ye?"
"No. A hammock for'rad will be good enough for me."
"That's the way I like to 'ear a man talk. Good God! As man to man, I
arsk you,--with Counts throwin' cigarette butts around an' princesses
cryin' all over my clean white decks an' all, what's a self-respectin'
skipper to do? But I 'ave my orders to fetch the odd lot to
Constantinople an' fetch 'em I will. Oh! They're odd--all right. Go
below, sir, an' 'ave a look at 'em."
But Peter Nicholaevitch shook his head. He had been doing a deal of
quiet thinking in those starry nights upon the Dnieper, and he had
worked out his problem alone.
"No, thanks," he said quietly, "if you don't mind, I think I'd rather
preserve my incognito."
"Incognito, is it? Oh, very well, suit yourself. And what will I be
callin' your Highness?"
"Peter Nichols," said the Grand Duke with a smile, "it's as good as any
other."
"Right you are, Peter Nichols. Lay for'rad and tell the bos'n to show
you up to my cabin."
So Peter Nichols went forward, avoiding the cargo aft, until within a
day's run of the Bosphorus when he found himself accosted by no less a
person than Prince Galitzin who had strolled out to get the morning air.
He tried to avoid the man but Galitzin planted himself firmly in his
path, scrutinizing him eagerly.
"You too, Highness!" he said with an accent of grieved surprise.
The Grand Duke regarded him in a moment of silence.
"It must be evident to you, Prince Galitzin, that I have some object in
remaining unknown."
"But, Your Highness, such a thing is unnecessary. Are we not all
dedicated to the same misfortunes? Misery loves company."
"You mean that it makes you less miserable to discover that I share your
fate?"
"Not precisely that. It is merely that if one holding your liberal views
cannot escape the holocaust that has suddenly fallen there is little
hope for the rest of us."
"No," said the Grand Duke shortly. "There is no hope, none at all, for
us or for Russia."
"Where are you going?"
"To America."
"But, your Highness, that is impossible. We shall all have asylum in
England until conditions change. You should go there with us. It will
lend influence to our mission."
"No."
"Why?"
"I am leaving Russia for the present. She is outcast. For, not content
with betraying others, she has betrayed herself."
"But what are you going to do?"
Peter Nicholaevitch smiled up at the sky and the fussy, fat, bejeweled
sycophant before him listened to him in amazement.
"Prince Galitzin," said the Grand Duke amusedly, "I am going to do that
which may bring the blush of shame to your brow or the sneer of pity to
your lips. I am going to fulfill the destiny provided for every man with
a pair of strong hands, and a willing spirit--I am going to work."
The Prince stepped back a pace, his watery eyes snapping in
incomprehension.
"But your higher destiny--your great heritage as a Prince of the Royal
blood of Holy Russia."
"There is no Holy Russia, my friend, until she is born again. Russia is
worse than traitor, worse than liar, worse than murderer and thief. She
is a fool."
"All will come right in time. We go to England to wait."
"I have other plans."
"Then you will not join us? Princess Anastasie, my daughter, is here.
General Seminoff----"
"It is useless. I have made up my mind. Leave me, if you please."
Prince Galitzin disappeared quickly below to spread the information of
his discovery among the disconsolate refugees and it was not long before
it was known from one end of the _Phrygia_ to the other that the fellow
who called himself Peter Nichols was none other than the Grand Duke
Peter Nicholaevitch, a cousin to his late Majesty Nicholas and a Prince
of the Royal blood. Peter Nichols sought the Captain in his cabin,
putting the whole case before him.
"H-m," chuckled the Captain, "Found ye out, did they? There's only a few
of you left, that's why. Better stay 'ere in my cabin until we reach
Constantinople. I'd be honored, 'Ighness, to say nothin' of savin' you a
bit of bother."
"You're very kind."
"Not at all. Make yourself at 'ome. There's cigarettes on the locker and
a nip of the Scotch to keep the chill out. Here's a light. You've been
worryin' me some, 'Ighness. Fact is I didn't know just how big a bug you
were until to-day when I arsked some questions. You'll forgive me,
'Ighness?"
"Peter Nichols," corrected the Grand Duke.
"No," insisted the Captain, "we'll give you yer title while we can. You
know we British have a bit of a taste for r'yalty when we know it's the
real thing. I don't take much stock in most of my cargo aft. And beggin'
yer 'Ighness's pardon I never took much stock in Russia since she lay
down on the job and left the Allies in the lurch----"
"Captain Blashford," said the Grand Duke quietly. "You can't hurt my
feelings."
"But I do like you, 'Ighness, and I want to do all that I can to 'elp
you when we get to anchor."
"Thanks."
"I take it that you don't want anybody ashore to know who ye are?"
"Exactly. Most of these refugees are going to England. I have reasons
for not wishing to go with them."
"Where then do you propose to go?"
"To the United States," said the Grand Duke eagerly.
"Without money?"
"I'd have no money if I went to England unless I subsisted on the
charity of my friends. My branch of the family is not rich. The war has
made us poorer. Such securities as I have are in a vault in Kiev. It
would be suicide for me to attempt to reclaim them now. I'm going to try
to make my own way."
"Impossible!"
The Grand Duke laughed at the Englishman's expression.
"Why?"
"Yer 'ands, 'Ighness."
The Grand Duke shrugged and grinned.
"I'll risk it. I'm not without resources. Will you help me to a ship
sailing for America?"
"Yes--but----"
"Oh, I'll work my passage over--if nobody bothers me."
"By George! I like your spirit. Give me your 'and, sir. I'll do what I
can. If the _Bermudian_ hasn't sailed from the Horn yet, I think I can
manage it for ye."
"And keep me clear of the rest of your passengers?" added His Highness.
"Righto. They'll go on the _Semaphore_. You stay right 'ere and mum's
the word." And Captain Blashford went out on deck leaving Peter Nichols
to his cigarette and his meditations.
Many times had the Grand Duke Peter given thanks that the blood of his
mother flowed strongly in his veins. He was more British than Russian
and he could remember things that had happened since he had grown to
adolescence which had made the half of him that was English revolt
against the Russian system. It was perhaps his musical education rather
than his University training or his travels in England and France that
had turned him to the _Intelligentsia_. In the vast republic of art and
letters he had imbibed the philosophy that was to threaten the very
existence of his own clan. The spread of the revolution had not dismayed
him, for he believed that in time the pendulum would swing back and
bring a constitutional government to Russia. But in the weeks of
struggle, privation, and passion a new Peter Nicholaevitch was born.
The failure of his plans in the sudden flood of anarchy which had swept
over Zukovo, the treachery of those he had thought faithful and the
attempt upon his life had changed his viewpoint. It takes a truly noble
spirit to wish to kiss the finger that has pulled the trigger of a
revolver, the bullet from which has gone through one's hat. From
disappointment and dismay Peter Nicholaevitch had turned to anger. They
hadn't played the game with him. It wasn't cricket. His resolution to
sail for the United States was decided. To throw himself, an object of
charity, upon the mercies of the Earl of Shetland, his mother's cousin,
was not to be thought of.
To his peasants he had preached the gospel of labor, humility and peace,
in that state of life to which they had been called. He had tried to
exemplify it to them. He could do no less now, to himself. By teaching
himself, he could perhaps fit himself to teach them. In England it would
perhaps be difficult to remain incognito, and he had a pride in wishing
to succeed alone and unaided. Only the United States, whose form of
government more nearly approached the ideal he had for Russia, could
offer him the opportunities to discover whether or not a prince could
not also be a man.
To the Princess Anastasie he gave little thought. That their common
exile and the chance encounter under such circumstances had aroused no
return of an entente toward what had once been a half-sentimental
attachment convinced him of how little it had meant to him. There were
no royal prohibitions upon him now. To marry the Princess Anastasie and
settle in London, living upon the proceeds of her wealthy father's
American and British securities, was of course the easiest solution of
his difficulties. A life of ease, music, good sportsmanship, the comfort
that only England knows.... She was comely too--blond, petite, and
smoked her cigarette very prettily. Their marriage had once been
discussed. She wanted it still, perhaps. Something of all this may have
been somewhere in the back of Prince Galitzin's ambitious mind. The one
course would be so easy, the other----
Peter Nicholaevitch rose and carefully flicked his cigarette through the
open port. No. One does not pass twice through such moments of struggle
and self-communion as he had had in those long nights of his escape
along the Dnieper. He had chosen. Peter Nichols! The name amused him. If
Captain Blashford was a man of his word to-night would be the end of the
Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, and the Princess Anastasie might find
some more ardent suitor to her grace and beauty.
She did not seek him out. Perhaps the hint to Galitzin had been
sufficient and the Grand Duke from his hiding place saw her pretty
figure set ashore among the miscellany of martyred "r'yalty." He turned
away from his port-hole with a catch of his breath as the last vestige
of his old life passed from sight. And then quietly took up a fresh
cigarette and awaited the Captain.
The details were easily arranged. Blashford was a man of resource and at
night returned from a visit to the Captain of the _Bermudian_ with word
that all was well. He had been obliged to relate the facts but Captain
Armitage could keep a secret and promised the refugee a job under his
steward who was short-handed. And so the next morning, after shaving and
dressing himself in borrowed clothes, Peter Nichols shook Captain
Blashford warmly by the hand and went aboard his new ship.
Peter Nichols' new job was that of a waiter at the tables in the dining
saloon. He was a very good waiter, supplying, from the wealth of a
Continental experience, the deficiencies of other waiters he had known.
He wore a black shell jacket and a white shirt front which remained
innocent of gravy spots. The food was not very good nor very plentiful,
but he served it with an air of such importance that it gained flavor
and substance by the reflection of his deference. There were English
officers bound for Malta, Frenchmen for Marseilles and Americans of the
Red Cross without number bound for New York. Girls, too, clear-eyed,
bronzed and hearty, who talked war and politics beneath his very nose,
challenging his own theories. They noticed him too and whispered among
themselves, but true to his ambition to do every task at the best of his
bent, he preserved an immobile countenance and pocketed his fees, which
would be useful ere long, with the grateful appreciation of one to whom
shillings and franc pieces come as the gifts of God. Many were the
attempts to draw him into a conversation, but where the queries could
not be answered by a laconic "Yes, sir," or "No, sir," this paragon of
waiters maintained a smiling silence.
"I'm sure he's a prince or something," he heard one young girl of a
hospital unit say to a young medico of the outfit. "Did you ever see
such a nose and brows in your life? And his hands----! You can never
mistake hands. I would swear those hands had never done menial work for
a thousand years."
All of which was quite true, but it made the waiter Peter uncomfortably
careful. There were no women in the kitchen, but there was an amatory
stewardess, fat and forty, upon whom the factitious technique of the
saloon fell with singular insipidity. He fled from her. Peter, the
waiter, was already a good democrat but he was not ready to spread his
philosophy out so thin.
He slept forward, messed abaft the galley, enriched his vocabulary and
broadened his point of view. There is no leveler like a ship's fo'c'sle,
no better school of philosophy than that of men upon their "beam ends."
There were many such--Poles, Slovaks, Roumanians, an Armenian or two,
refugees, adventurers from America, old, young, dissolute, making a
necessity of virtue under that successful oligarchy, the ship's bridge.
In the Americans Peter was interested with an Englishman's point of
view. He had much to learn, and he invented a tale of his fortunes which
let him into their confidences, especially into that of Jim Coast,
waiter like himself, whose bunk adjoined his own. Jim Coast was a
citizen of the world, inured to privation under many flags. He had been
born in New Jersey, U. S. A., of decent people, had worked in the
cranberry bogs, farmed in Pennsylvania, "punched" cattle in Wyoming,
"prospected" in the Southwest, looted ranches in Mexico, fought against
Diaz and again with the insurgents in Venezuela, worked on cattle-ships
and so, by easy stages, had drifted across the breadth of Europe living
by his wits at the expense of the credulous and the unwary. And now, for
the first time in many years, he was going home--though just what that
meant he did not know. He had missed great fortune twice--"by the skin
of his teeth," as he picturesquely described it, once in a mine in
Arizona and again in a land-deal in the Argentine. There were reasons
why he hadn't dared to return to the United States before. He was a man
with a grievance, but, however free in his confidences in other
respects, gave the interested Peter no inkling as to what that grievance
was.
No more curious acquaintanceship could possibly be imagined, but
privation, like politics, makes strange bedfellows, and, from tolerance
and amusement, Pete, as the other called him, found himself yielding,
without stint, to the fantastic spell of Jim Coast's multifarious
attractions. He seemed to have no doubts as to the possibility of making
a living in America and referred darkly to possible "coups" that would
net a fortune. He was an agreeable villain, not above mischief to gain
his ends, and Peter, who cherished an ideal, made sure that, once safe
ashore, it would be best if they parted company. But he didn't tell Jim
Coast so, for the conversational benefits he derived from that
gentleman's acquaintance were a liberal education.
We are admonished that they are blessed who just stand and wait, and
Peter Nichols, three days out of New York harbor, found himself the
possessor of forty dollars in tips from the voyage with sixty dollars
coming to him as wages--not so bad for a first venture upon the high
seas of industry. It was the first real money he had ever made in his
life and he was proud of it, jingling it contentedly in his pockets and
rubbing the bills luxuriously one against the other. But his plans
required more than this, for he had read enough to know that in the
United States one is often taken at one's own estimate, and that if he
wasn't to find a job as a ditch-digger, he must make a good appearance.
And so it was now time to make use of the one Grand Ducal possession
remaining to him, a gold ring set with a gorgeous ruby that had once
belonged to his father. This ring he had always worn and had removed
from his finger at Ushan, in the fear that its magnificence might betray
him. He had kept it carefully tied about his neck in a bag on a bit of
string and had of course not even shown it to Jim Coast who might have
deemed it an excuse to sever their strange friendship.
Through the Head Steward he managed a message to Captain Armitage and
was bidden to the officer's cabin, where he explained the object of his
visit, exhibited his treasure and estimated its value.
The Captain opened his eyes a bit wider as he gazed into the sanguine
depths of the stone.
"If I didn't know something of your history, Nichols," he said with a
wink, "I might think you'd been looting the strong box of the Sultan of
Turkey. Pigeon's blood and as big as my thumb nail! You want to sell
it?"
"I need capital."
"What do you want for it?"
"It's worth a thousand pounds of English money. Perhaps more, I don't
know. I'll take what I can get."
"I see. You're afraid to negotiate the sale ashore?"
"Exactly. I'd be arrested."
"And you don't want explanations. H-m--leave it with me over night. I'll
see the Purser. He'll know."
"Thanks."
The Captain offered the waiter in the shell-jacket the hospitality of
his cabin, but Peter Nichols thanked him gratefully and withdrew.
The result of this arrangement was that the ruby ring changed owners.
The Purser bought it for two thousand in cash. He knew a good thing when
he saw it. But Peter Nichols was satisfied.