As the ship pulled off from the dock, a few of the younger male refugees leaped out and caught the mooring lines that hung from the sides. Any who tried to climb to the ship’s rails were struck away and into the water by the butts of the sailor’s rifles. All who just hung there, in hope, eventually lost their grip and fell away into the waters of the harbor before the ship had gained the open sea.
The rest of the rabble on the docks, though, turned their fury on the one remaining ship lashed to the quay. The crew of this vessel wasn’t nearly as prepared for the sudden onslaught of panicked humanity, and the ship was quickly covered by maddened refugees who swarmed over it like a million ants. Pyotr was never to learn if the ship ever was able to put to sea with a load of passengers, or whether hope was lost for all by the total loss of any organization and control. Gunfire could be heard around the periphery of the wharfs; Pyotr could only hope that order was being restored.
Pyotr stood at the rails, in both disgust and shock, watching, as one by one, the young men hanging onto the mooring ropes hanging off the sides of the ship lost their grip and slid down the slimy side of the vessel and into the sea. He watched each one, in desperation, willing the young man to show that he could turn his face back to the wharf and swim the distance with strong, assured strokes. But each one whose progress he followed quickly foundered and sank from sight.
“It’s a horrible sight, isn’t it?” The voice was low, soft, and melodic—a stark contrast to the scene playing out before his eyes. Pyotr turned to see that the young woman he’d saved from being trampled on the wharf was standing beside him.
“I never thought to see anything like it, no,” Pyotr answered. He looked around to see if either Grigory Orlov or the ship’s officer who had been guiding the young woman were nearby, but he could see neither. He imagined the officer was busy helping to move the ship out to the sea. Orlov, he knew, was off trying to wrangle some sort of accommodation for them. Most of the refugees on board had to find just enough space to stretch out on the open deck or they had to disappear down into the smelly, dank hold. Pyotr assumed the deck would be where the fittest and most clever would stake their territory. He himself was prepared to bed down anywhere, just being grateful he was aboard this ship. He had yet to be able to mourn the loss of Mikhail and Vasily properly—intervening events hadn’t allowed for that. But he knew that in the dark of the night visions of them floundering in the water of the harbor just as the young men who had slipped from the ropes had done would invade his mind and challenge his emotions.
“I wish to thank you for preventing me from being trampled back there,” the young woman said. “I forever will be grateful.”
“I am glad I was where I could be of assistance to you,” Pyotr answered.
“I am Katya, from Kiev,” she said. “My father is Fydor Betskoy.”