The fur-lined cloak had fallen open to reveal a pistol holster at his belt, and in his hand he carried a rifle. A cartridge bandoleer crossed his chest and a saber hung from his belt. He was dressed in a muddy gray tunic and his feet were shod with high, black-leather boots. The uniform and his air of barely repressed violence identified him as a Cossack, one of the fierce warrior caste who inhabited the rim of the Black Sea. Tovrov stifled his revulsion. Cossacks had been involved in the death of his family, and he always tried to avoid the belligerent horsemen who seemed happiest when instilling fear.

The man glanced around the deserted wheelhouse. “Alone?”

“The first mate is sleeping back there,” Tovrov said, with a jerk of his head. “He is drunk and doesn't hear anything.” He fumbled with a cigarette and offered the man one.

“My name is Major Peter Yakelev,” the man said, waving the cigarette away. “You will do as you are told, Captain Tovrov.”

“You may trust me to be at your service, Major.”

“I trust no one.” He stepped closer and spat out the words. “Not the White Russians or the Reds. Not the Germans or the British. They are all against us. Even Cossacks have gone over to the Bolsheviks.” He glared at the captain, searching for a nuance of defiance. Seeing no threat in the captain's bland expression, he reached out with thick fingers.

“Cigarette,” he growled. Tovrov gave him the whole pack. The major lit one up and drank in the smoke as if it were an elixir. Tovrov was intrigued by the major's accent. The captain's father had worked as a coachman for a wealthy landowner, and Tovrov was familiar with the cultured speech of the Russian elite. This man looked as if he had sprung from the steppes, but he spoke with an educated inflection. Tovrov knew that upper-class officers trained at the military academy were often picked to lead Cossack troops.

Tovrov noticed the weariness in the Cossack's ruined face and the slight sag to the powerful shoulders. “A long trip?” he said.

The major grinned without humor. “Yes, a long, hard trip.” He blew twin plumes of smoke out of his nostrils and produced a flask of vodka from his coat. He took a pull and looked around. “This ship stinks,” he declared.

“The Star is an old, old lady with a great heart.”

“Your old lady still stinks,” the Cossack said.

“When you're my age, you learn to hold your nose and take what you can get.”

The major roared with laughter and slapped Tovrov on the back so hard that sharp daggers of pain stabbed his ravaged lungs and set him coughing. The Cossack offered Tovrov his flask. The captain managed a swallow. It was high-quality vodka, not the rotgut he was used to. The fiery liquid dampened the cough, and he handed the flask back and took the helm.