Hazard of Huntress

by V. A. Stuart

  They ran in with infinite caution, the men pulling a few strokes and then resting on their oars but there was no sound save that made by the oars in their well-oiled rowlocks and the lapping of the changing tide against the stout timbers of the gig’s quarter. The cove—in reality a narrow inlet from the sea—curved slightly in a northeasterly direction. It was bounded on its eastern side by high, almost perpendicular cliffs, which were a feature of the rugged coastline, but Graham had said that this cove dipped sharply from the foreshore from which, after a relatively easy climb of sixty or seventy feet, access to the coast road could be gained by crossing a mile or so of flat marshland.

  It was to be hoped that his memory was not at fault, Phillip thought. In wintery conditions, the marshland ought to be frozen over with hard-packed snow and therefore possible to cross on foot although, since it would offer little or no cover, he wanted if possible to get to the road before full daylight. Once on the road itself, two men, muffled like local peasants against the cold, would not be likely to excite much interest … there were isolated farms in the neighborhood, whose owners presumably made periodic visits to the town, in order to market their produce. If he and his brother could pass as two such men, on their way to market, probably no one would spare them a second glance, except that … his cold fingers touched the smoothly woven wool of his boat-cloak. It effectively hid the uniform he was wearing beneath it, but no peasant farmer would have owned a garment of such quality, he well knew, so that it would behoove them to do all they could to avoid submitting to close inspection … at all events, until they reached the town.

  The gig grounded gently on the foreshore and two of the seamen lowered themselves gingerly into the icy water to drag her bows clear of a rock, which O’Hara’s sharp eyes had spotted just in time.

  “Right, Mr O’Hara …” Phillip laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You know your orders.”

  “Yes, sir.” Midshipman O’Hara’s voice was steady and controlled as he repeated his instructions but he fingered the dirk at his side and added eagerly, “Sir, may I not wait until I know you’re safely ashore and that you’ve met with no resistance?”

  Phillip looked up into the now gradually lightening sky and gave him a firm “No, you may not.” Graham, he saw, was already wading through ankle-deep water to the beach and he got to his feet. “You’ll hear shots, if we do meet with any resistance,” he told the midshipman. “But it’s unlikely … even the Cossacks don’t enjoy patrolling at night in this weather. And it’s of vital importance that your boat is not seen … so be off with you, lad. It will take you all your time to get back to the ship before dawn.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” O’Hara acknowledged reluctantly. “If you say so, sir. Er … good luck, sir. We’ll be back for you two hours after nightfall.”

  “Thank you, Mr O’Hara. Don’t forget to watch out for my signal. If you see a light in the cove—”

  “I’m not to enter … aye, aye, sir.”

  “In no circumstances, Mr O’Hara,” Phillip warned him sternly. “And whether or not you hear shots … your men, remember, are only armed with cutlasses.” He swung one leg over the gunwale and the stroke-oak grasped his arm to steady him. Despite the darkness, there was no mistaking the gap-toothed grin on the face so close to his own and he swore softly. “The devil take it, O’Leary! Since when did a Gunner’s Mate become a member of my gig’s crew?”

  “’Twas not until this morning, sorr,” O’Leary returned, with a dry chuckle. “I’m a volunteer, as ye might say.” His strong right arm guided his commander into the water. “Sure, I only came along to wish yez the luck o’ the Oirish, sorr … but if ye’d consider taking me with yez, then you’ve only to say the word, for I—”

  “No,” Phillip said. “But thanks, O’Leary.”

  The boat put off and Phillip waded ashore to join Graham, feeling curiously warmed by the encounter with O’Leary. He ought to disrate him for what he had done, of course, but … He smiled to himself in the chill darkness and then, abruptly recalling his surroundings, halted to stand beside his brother, listening intently.

  “I think we’ve got the place to ourselves,” Graham told him. “Shall we press on?”

  They did so, scaling the low cliff with little trouble in spite of the fact that it was crumbling in places but, having reached the top, they had to scramble over a number of massive boulders perched precariously along its edge before finally gaining higher and smoother ground. The marsh was, as they had anticipated, a frozen wilderness but at least it was level and, with the coming of dawn, they made better progress, no longer stumbling over unseen obstacles and able, now, to glimpse the huddled rooftops of the town of Odessa, which lay ahead of them to the north-east. They stepped on to the road—little more, in fact, than a rutted cart-track—some fifty minutes after leaving the cove, and concealed the signal lantern they had brought with them on its verge, a stunted clump of brush-wood as a landmark.

  The sun rose over a desolate vista of low-lying, deserted countryside, all evidence of cultivation buried beneath a carpet of frozen snow and the nearest human habitation a cluster of peasants’ huts which, like the fields about them, appeared quite devoid of life.

  “They must hibernate in winter,” Graham remarked. “Although probably there’s little else they can do; the ground’s too hard to till, I should imagine.” He paused, looking about him and then pointed ahead to where the road they were following rose steeply, curving towards the bay round which the town was built. “We should be able to sight the squadron from up there, Phillip—unless the fog descends on us again. And I rather think it may.”

  His forecast proved to be an accurate one. By the time they breasted the slope, the sun had vanished behind a swirling succession of damp grey clouds and, as they looked down from their vantage point at the four anchored warships, the fog closed in, all but obscuring them from view.

  “The Gladiator will have to stand-in to the port, if she’s to make herself seen,” Phillip said and, almost as if his words had carried across the intervening distance to her captain, the corvette weighed anchor. As they peered into the patchy mist, straining their eyes to follow her progress, she came slowly about and, her paddle-wheels churning, fired a gun to seaward. This was answered, after a considerable delay, by the boom of a single cannon from a battery situated—as nearly as Phillip could judge—in the coastal fort with which, during the naval attack on Odessa the previous April, the 50-gun frigate Arethusa, under sail, had so brilliantly tried conclusions.

  “She’s going in now,” Graham observed, pointing. The Gladiator, still manoeuvering very slowly, altered course and with the flag of truce streaming out behind her for all on shore to see, she stood-in to the bay, dropping anchor once more when she was clear of the fog.

  “It will probably take her all morning to get her boat away,” Phillip said, frowning. “But I don’t think we’d better chance that, all the same, do you? Obviously our best opportunity to inspect the gun batteries on the Mole will be when a crowd collects to watch the exchange of notes—as one almost certainly will. So perhaps we should be on hand, ready to join it, just in case the preliminaries are more speedily disposed of than they usually are.”

  His brother nodded in agreement but excused himself with a muttered excuse, and walked quickly over to the cover of some nearby bushes, from behind which Phillip was alarmed to hear him coughing and retching violently. He returned, however, a few minutes later, very pale and tight-lipped but insisting that he was fully recovered.

  “It must have been some of that tainted beef Cochrane complained of,” he said ruefully. “I had it too, alas!”

  “It laid Cochrane exceedingly low,” Phillip told him. “I think it might be as well if we waited here for a while, Graham, to make sure you’ve got over it. We’ve made pretty good time and—”

  “No, no, there’s no need for that. I feel a lot better now,” Graham returned and added dryly, “Damn it, Phillip, my digestion is in a different class
from Anthony Cochrane’s. I’ve eaten lower-deck fare for years—my stomach is cast-iron. Come on, let us be on our way before the crowd becomes too numerous to permit our making a proper inspection of those batteries.” Shoulders hunched, he started towards the road, but, concerned by his pallor, Phillip gripped his arm to detain him.

  “No, wait. We can afford to give ourselves a ten-minute breather. In any case, I want to see what the Gladiator is up to. She’s had no acknowledgement from the port yet and she appears to be waiting for one.”

  “You are in command,” Graham said, a trifle stiffly, and then flashed him a brief smile as he relaxed, full length, on the ground. “Perhaps you’re right, after all—my legs do feel somewhat unsteady.”

  Phillip returned the smile and passed him the small flask of brandy he had always kept topped up and carried with him since the battle at the Alma River. “Take some of this … it should help.” He squatted down at his brother’s side and asked, thinking to distract him, “Did you know that O’Leary was in the gig’s crew this morning?”

  “Oh, yes, I knew.” Graham took a few sips of the brandy and, replacing its silver screw-top, returned the flask with a nod of thanks. “You told the First Lieutenant to volunteer a crew, didn’t you? Well, about half the ship’s company volunteered for the honor and it was finally decided—by O’Hara, I fancy—that they should draws lots for it. Poor O’Leary was unlucky—he drew a blank. It cost him his grog ration for a fortnight, I was told, to secure someone else’s place! And young Grey also contrived to get himself into your crew but I didn’t hear what he had to pay for the privilege. Possibly his payment will not be exacted until after his return to the ship, when our Mr Quinn learns the reason for his absence … if, indeed, he does. He certainly won’t hear it from any member of the gig’s crew and I doubt if anyone else will volunteer the information.” His tone was dry but he added, with sudden warmth, “You’ve worked a miracle with the whole ship’s company, Phillip, in a remarkably short time. Their morale and their pride in the ship are both sky high.”

  This unexpected tribute—the more valuable because it came from his elder brother—took Phillip by surprise and he reddened. “I’m gratified that you should think so, but I haven’t done it alone, you know. Indeed, I couldn’t have done anything without the help I’ve had from you and the other Trojan officers … not to mention O’Leary.”

  “With or without our help, you’ve done it in spite of Quinn,” Graham told him. “By any standards, that makes it a considerable achievement, believe me.”

  “Then,” Phillip suggested, “you’ve formed your own judgment of Quinn?”

  “Most certainly I have. It can be summed up in a nutshell: if the Huntress were my ship, I’d do all in my power to replace her present First Lieutenant. Need I put it more plainly? I can, if you wish.”

  Phillip shook his head. “No, you needn’t. And I intend to replace him but unfortunately it’s easier said than done. He’s a first-rate seaman and he’s committed no crime of which I could accuse him.”

  “No, he’s careful, I grant you, but he’s a sadistic bully and he has no conscience. I would not trust him—to use an inelegant expression from the lower deck—further than I could spit, Phillip, and if you’ll take my advice, you won’t either. He pays you lip-service now, because he has to but …” Graham sat up. “I feel in splendid heart now, thanks to your brandy and this interesting discussion, so shall we push on? The fog is becoming denser, I think.”

  Phillip rose at once. The ships anchored below them had not taken any further action that he could see, but the fog, as his brother had remarked, appeared to be closing in and was increasing in density. His gaze lingered for a moment on his own ship and then he followed Graham back to the road. They quickened their pace as it started to descend, walking in silence, each busy with his own thoughts.

  The surface of the road improved as they neared the outskirts of the town and soon they were walking between rows of stone-built houses, seen dimly through the mist, which here was much thicker than it had been on the higher ground from whence they had come. But the fog—annoying as it must be to Captain Broke—was becoming their ally, Phillip thought, lending them anonymity. The few people they passed, all hurrying in the same direction as themselves, spared them scarcely a glance. They were talking agitatedly amongst them selves and Graham said, his own voice a whisper, “They’ve seen the ships and are afraid that the town is to be attacked again. Half of them don’t seem to have understood that the Gladiator is flying a flag of truce—poor souls, they are scared out of their wits!”

  Remembering the aftermath of that first bombardment, which had left the dockyard and the Imperial Mole ablaze and the lower part of the town a blackened, smoke-filled inferno, Phillip could understand the townsfolk’s agitation. They wanted no repetition of the terror they had endured last April and clearly would flee their homes, rather than face anything of the kind a second time. Nearer to the center of the town, however, the panic largely subsided, as better informed citizens were met with and the news spread that the enemy warships wished only to parley with their officials. Despite the initial fear of attack, there were few soldiers in evidence until they reached the harbour, when they encountered a party in artillerymen’s green uniforms—about thirty strong and few of them in their first youth—marching in somewhat slovenly fashion in the direction of the stone steps which led to the Imperial Mole.

  “Garrison troops,” Graham observed. “Mostly pensioners, by the look of them … and with no great enthusiasm for their task. Shall we follow them down?”

  Phillip nodded assent. The harbour at Odessa lay at the foot of the cliffs on the south-east side of the town. It was an artificial one, he recalled, formed by four long stone piers, which projected into the sea and divided the harbour itself into two basins, known respectively as the Quarantine Basin and the Imperial Harbour. Each pier was guarded by a stone parapet, split with embrasures for cannon on the seaward side, but the port’s main defenses were a citadel built on the cliff-top to the west and a series of gun batteries extending from the Quarantine Mole to the quay of the Port de Pratique, on the eastern side. Of these, the two immediately below the steps they were now descending had, Phillip remembered, caused the most trouble during the attack by Admiral Lyons’s steam frigate squadron the previous spring. Each battery consisted of eight heavy caliber guns, well sited and massively protected by the cliffs into which they were built, and they had been bravely fought. Eventually, however, they had been silenced when the Terrible had hit and exploded the principal magazine by which they were supplied, and a squadron of rocket-boats, led by Commander Dixon of the Agamemnon, had entered the Imperial Harbour with instructions to destroy the dock and shipbuilding yards and the main arsenal at the rear of the Mole.

  The success of the rocket attack had exceeded even the Admiral’s expectations and Phillip found himself wondering, as he and Graham approached the landward end of the first pier, whether the enemy had managed to repair the appalling damage which had been wrought that day. It seemed probable that they would have made an attempt to do so and he decided that he would find out, if he could, to what extent their repairs had progressed … although, perhaps, this was not essential. With the Allied Fleets in almost complete control of the Black Sea, the shipwrights of Odessa could only keep such vessels as they had contrived to build on the stocks, since none could put to sea without running the risk of capture. Even river craft were not entirely safe, if they were sighted by a patrolling British frigate. The Trojan had cut out and captured several small sailing vessels in this area the previous year and, with the blockade of the Black Sea ports now re-established, it was doubtful whether many of them would dare to run the gauntlet. At all events, not those under the Russian flag and even neutral ships, if they were carrying the grain which was Odessa’s chief export, were liable to be stopped and searched, so that …

  “Hold hard,” Graham warned softly. “There’s a guardhouse, with a sentry on duty.”


  Phillip followed the direction of his brother’s gaze and saw that the sentry—like the artillerymen who had just marched past his box—was an elderly man, clad in a tattered uniform. He was leaning on his musket, taking little interest in what was going on around him and, when two civilians, heavily muffled in fur-trimmed overcoats and wearing Boyar caps, drew level with him, the old soldier made no attempt to challenge them. A little knot of women had, it was true, collected to the rear of the guardhouse in a shrilly chattering group, evidently with the intention of watching whatever spectacle might present itself from there, but … Phillip did not slacken his stride. In their naval caps and boat-cloaks—and in the fog— he and Graham would probably pass as Russian naval officers, he reasoned, and, so long as they approached him with an air of authority, it was unlikely that the rheumy-eyed old soldier would dare to question their right of access to the Imperial Mole. At any rate, it was worth trying; they could, if necessary, beat a hasty retreat into the fog. He whispered his intention to Graham, who nodded in agreement.

  The bluff succeeded, the sentry even rousing himself sufficiently to ground arms as they reached him and, at a deliberately measured pace, Phillip led the way on to the Mole. The fog was now so thick, at this lower level, that he could see only a few yards in front of him, so, once out of what he judged to be the sentry’s range of vision, he halted to allow Graham to catch up with him. His brother was again looking very white, he noticed with concern, but shook his head impatiently to the suggestion that he might be feeling ill.

  “Don’t worry, I shall be all right. What have you in mind, now that we are here?”

  “Well, if you’re sure that you are up to it, I thought we might take this opportunity to look over their defenses. I doubt if we shall be given a chance like this again—and the fog is a godsend.”

  “Then let us waste no time,” Graham advised. “We shall cover more ground if we separate, don’t you agree? I’ll double back and try to check the lower gun battery and meet you back here in what … fifteen minutes—twenty?”