Hazard of Huntress

by V. A. Stuart

  “Fifteen,” Phillip decided. “It should not take any longer but we’ll allow another five for emergencies.”

  It was, indeed, a heaven-sent opportunity, he thought, but after a scant ten minutes spent groping his way about in the gloom, he had seen all that he needed to see. With a sense almost of shock, he realized that the harbour was virtually defenseless. The gun batteries on the Imperial Mole, which had so stoutly resisted the steam squadron’s attack just over eight months ago, were non-existent. The embrasures were manned but only by riflemen, the majority of these of the age and caliber of the sentry they had bluffed and the remainder mere boys, who handled their heavy muskets awkwardly, as if untrained in their use. The cannon had been removed, with the exception of four ancient brass pieces, beside which the gunners lounged in anything but a warlike state of readiness— although, he observed, all four guns were loaded and trained to seaward.

  Graham, when they met again well within the stipulated time, had a similar story to tell.

  “Both batteries at the foot of the cliffs appear to be armed,” he said in a low voice. “I did not risk making too close an inspection, because they had a guard posted. The gunners were seamen, incidentally, but I would hardly class them as able-bodied. And for the rest …” He shrugged. “The arsenal is a burnt-out shell, just as our rocket attack left it, and I only saw a couple of ammunition wagons that weren’t empty.” He supplied a few more details and added, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow, “Phillip, I think they must have sent everything they had in the way of troops and guns to Simpheropol during the summer, when the road to Perekop was passable. In fact, the coastal forts must now be virtually their only defense. If General Canrobert is serious in his desire to take this place, I honestly believe it could be done, without much trouble, by the four ships of our squadron now lying out in the bay. No wonder the people were so alarmed when they first sighted us—they probably imagined that this was our intention!”

  Phillip felt inclined to agree with his brother’s assessment, judging by what they had so far seen, but there was, he knew, always the danger of jumping to a premature conclusion and, when Graham asked if he had seen sufficient for their purpose, he shook his head. “No, not yet. We shall have to go into the town, of course, before we leave. First, though, I should like to take a closer look at what shipping is in the basin and try to find out if the batteries at the Port de Pratique and at Dohinafta are still in existence, if that is possible. And it may well be possible, under cover of the general excitement when the Gladiator sends her boat in. We can gain access to the inner harbour easily enough—there are steps down to it at intervals all along the Mole—and there’s bound to be a dinghy or a boat of some kind that we can lay our hands on.” He consulted his pocket watch. “It’s only ten-thirty, so we have plenty of time. How do you feel?”

  “All right,” Graham assured him. “Lead on. The Gladiator’s emissaries cannot be much longer, can they?”

  They strode on to within sight of the seaward end of the Imperial Mole and positioned themselves as inconspicuously as they could, on the edge of the small crowd which had gathered there. The majority of these were in uniform, either naval or military, the collars of their cloaks or of their heavy, ankle-length greatcoats drawn up to protect their faces against the cold as they peered anxiously into the fog to seaward. Amongst a group of harbour officials, Phillip recognized the Commandant of the Port in earnest conversation with two of its uniformed health inspectors and, recalling a previous occasion when two of these gentlemen had protested wrathfully because their quarantine regulations were being ignored, he permitted himself a wry smile. As always, it seemed, a strict quarantine must be imposed on all visitors to Odessa, war or no war, and he wondered what Lieutenant Risk would make of it, if the Harbourmaster yielded to the pleas of the two with whom he was now arguing and … His thoughts were interrupted by the crack of a musket shot, coming from somewhere fairly close at hand.

  Graham whispered, mouth close to his ear, “The boat from the Gladiator, Phillip. I fancy it’s coming in now. That was a blank, wasn’t it, fired to seaward?”

  They both listened intently. A few minutes later, heralded by the splash of oars cutting through the water and the creak of rowlocks, the Gladiator’s pinnace emerged from the mist, followed by a second boat, each with a flag of truce prominently displayed. As the crew of the pinnace backed their oars, Phillip saw that she was carrying the Gladiator’s First Lieutenant, in addition to a midshipman, and that there was an officer from the Mogador in the sternsheets of the second boat.

  “Messieurs …” the French officer, a speaking trumpet to his lips, announced the purpose of their visit and requested that a boat from the port be sent out to them, in order that they might deliver the communication they had brought which, he explained, was addressed to the neutral consuls resident in the town.

  After a lengthy consultation with the Harbourmaster, one of the port officials replied, also in French and with impeccable courtesy, promising that a boat would be manned and sent out to them as soon as possible. His reply ended with the plea that no one should attempt to set foot on shore, which would contravene the quarantine regulations and, hearing this, Phillip again found himself smiling. Then, recalling the reason for his own presence on the Imperial Mole, his smile faded and he nudged his brother.

  “Now,” he breathed softly, “while they are all occupied with the boat. The steps are on your right.”

  “I’ll follow you,” Graham answered, in an oddly strained voice. They had covered barely a dozen yards when he halted, gripping Phillip’s shoulder. “Oh, dear heaven! I … I’m sorry, Phillip, I don’t think I … can go on.” His face was contorted with pain but, by the exercise of an agonizing effort of will, he controlled himself. “I … I’ll try. If you could give me your arm—” Leaning heavily on Phillip’s arm, he managed to gain the head of the flight of stone steps which was their objective but once there—out of sight, if not yet out of hearing of the officials on the Mole—he sank to his knees. “Go on … alone,” he urged thickly. “I’ll stay here … until you’ve made your—” he broke off, writhing helplessly in the grip of a fresh spasm of pain, his lips drawn back and teeth tightly clamped together in a valiant attempt to still the cry that rose to his throat.

  “You will be safer at the foot of these steps,” Phillip told him, endeavouring to hide his anxiety when at last the spasm lessened in intensity and Graham raised a tortured, chalk-white face to his in mute apology. “Here”—he took the small flask from his pocket, unscrewed its top and, ignoring his brother’s protests, held it to his lips. “Take a few sips, if you can.”

  Graham did so and then pushed the flask away. “Thanks, I … Oh, God, I’m sorry. It came on me without warning and I … for pity’s sake, Phillip, leave me, won’t you? This miserable attack will pass off and when it does, I can make my own way back to the cove. You’ll be caught if you stay with me and—”

  “No, we’ll stick together.” Phillip replaced the flask in his pocket. “I tell you, it’s not safe for you to stay here; you’ll be seen, if the fog lifts. Come on, put your arm round my neck and ease yourself down, one step at a time. Don’t worry, I’ll take your weight. But have a care … the steps are like glass and if either of us slips, we’re done for.”

  Testing each step with his foot, he slowly assisted his brother to lower himself to the bottom of the flight of stone steps, fearing that at any moment they might be heard. By the time they had reached the sanctuary of the narrow slab of stone to which the steps led, he was sweating freely despite the dank chill of the water lapping about it … but at least it offered them a temporary refuge.

  The fog hid them from anyone standing above them on the Mole and, to his infinite relief, he saw that there was a small, two-oared dinghy moored to an iron ring within arm’s length of where they were crouching. He had counted on finding a boat of some sort fairly near at hand but this was nearer than he had dared to hope and of a size that he could
manage single-handed and, as he drew the tiny craft towards him, he breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness. The boat gave them a better than even chance, he thought, pausing for a moment in order to look about him and get his bearings. In it they could cross the inner harbour and either return to the town by a different and safer route than the one they had taken to the Imperial Mole or … he studied his brother’s face apprehensively. Or, if Graham’s condition made this advisable, they could take refuge aboard one of the many small vessels lying in the basin, and wait there until the sick man recovered sufficiently to be able to reach their rendezvous at the cove on foot.

  “Graham …” The dinghy secured, Phillip leaned closer, an arm about his brother’s waist. “One last effort, old man, if you can make it.”

  “All right, Phillip.” Ashen-faced but grimly determined, Graham struggled to his feet and, with Phillip’s help, managed to get into the dinghy, where he collapsed with a low moan on the bottomboards. He had lapsed into semi-consciousness long before Phillip had taken his place on the thwart beside him, his big body limp and helpless as a child’s and his eyes closed.

  Phillip took off his cloak and covered him with it, his anxiety suddenly acute. There was, he decided as he slipped the dinghy’s painter and cautiously pushed off from the Mole, only one alternative left to him now. Somewhere, among the fog-enshrouded ships moored in the basin, he must find one in which, for the next few hours, his brother would be safe. Safe and, above all, warm and dry; protected from the deadly chill of the fog and the icy water lying in the bottom of the dinghy for, in spite of the additional cloak, Graham had started to shiver violently, he saw, and his face was blue with cold.

  For an instant, such was his concern for his brother, that he was tempted to abandon their mission and, instead of pulling further into the harbour, to put about and endeavour to row out to the Gladiator. But, almost as soon as this wild idea entered his head, he decided against it. For one thing, this small, leaking boat was unseaworthy and might founder in the open bay; for another, he knew that their chances of passing the seaward extremity of the Mole unobserved would be extremely slim. The fog might lift without warning or a vigilant gunner, hearing the splash of oars, might open fire on them … and he dared not attempt to make contact with the Gladiator’s pinnace, even in his extremity, since to do so would be to violate the truce and, perhaps, draw the enemy’s fire on the pinnace or even cause it to be seized.

  Phillip glanced quickly over his shoulder and then bent to his oars, pulling in the direction of the first line of anchored ships. He had no choice but to get his brother aboard one of them, he told himself resignedly, and that soon, before Graham’s condition deteriorated still further. But he must take care not to select a vessel with a watchman on board—no easy task in the fog—and he could not afford to make a mistake, which must rule out the larger ships, many, if not all, of which might be expected to set a harbour watch.

  In the end, he found what he was looking for by chance … a small brig, moored at some distance from the rest, into which he ran the dinghy’s bows inadvertently and with a resounding thump. He waited, his heart pounding, for some response to the noise he had made, but there was none and, after pulling round the hull—still without eliciting any sign of life—he secured the dinghy to the brig’s midship chains and, leaving Graham where he was, slipped silently on board. Satisfied, after a careful inspection, that she was deserted, he located a snug cabin on the lower deck, piled blankets on to the single berth this contained, and then went back to get his brother out of the dinghy.

  This proved almost the hardest part of his task, for Graham resisted all efforts to rouse him and had, eventually, to be half-dragged and half-lifted on to the brig’s deck. Once there, however, Phillip was able to turn him on to his back and, staggering drunkenly under the unconscious man’s weight, to carry him to his cabin.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  For the next hour or more, Phillip worked desperately to restore his brother to consciousness, stripping him of his damp clothing, chafing his cold limbs and hunting for more blankets with which to cover him, in the hope of putting a stop to the fits of violent shivering by which he was periodically convulsed.

  The brig possessed a galley but the risk of lighting a fire was, he decided, too great. In any case, there were no provisions on board which might have made the risk worth taking, apart from a keg of foul-smelling water that—even if he had managed to boil it—would probably have been undrinkable.

  The blankets had been stored for a long time and had a musty odor but at least they were dry and he had been fortunate to find them, Phillip thought as, after a while, the warmth began to return to his brother’s body and the ghastly shivering became less frequent. Finally it ceased altogether, to his heartfelt relief, and he made another search for provisions, which yielded some oilskin coats—which he put aside for future use—but nothing edible.

  When he returned to the cabin, Graham had dropped into what seemed to him a deep sleep and he wondered, as he stood looking down at the white, shuttered face on the bunk, whether he dare leave him to sleep off the ill-effects of his food-poisoning, in order that he himself might complete their mission alone. There was, of course, the language difficulty; without his brother to translate for him, he might find himself in trouble, from which his schoolboy French would not suffice to extricate him. Only the better educated of Odessa’s 70,000 inhabitants would be likely to speak or understand French and he hesitated to take any action which might delay his return to the brig without, at least, informing Graham of his whereabouts and intentions.

  Finally, after a careful weighing up of the situation, he decided to compromise. The fog still shrouded the harbour and would enable him, if he were careful, to row across to investigate the battery at the Port de Pratique and get back to the brig before nightfall. He could, at the same time, plan their route to the cove and choose a point on the quay where they could go ashore without attracting any unwelcome attention and, in case Graham woke before he was able to rejoin him, he could leave a note for him, with a brief explanation.

  This decision reached, Phillip lost no time in putting it into effect and luck was with him. He had completed the task he had set himself and was back on board the brig a good hour before dusk, to find that his brother was still sleeping, the note where he had left it, unread. And the sleep had done some good, judging by the sick man’s improved colour and the lack of tension in his face. Whether the would now be capable of tackling the exhausting journey to the cove on foot was, of course, another matter but … he leaned over and gently shook Graham’s shoulder.

  “Graham … wake up, old man. It’s me, Phillip!”

  Graham opened his eyes, to regard him dazedly at first and then, as memory stirred, with some anxiety. “For heaven’s sake, where am I?”

  Phillip told him and saw his expression change to one of shamed contrition. “Oh, my God! I’ve let you down badly, haven’t I? I’m exceedingly sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I … I must have gone out like a light, because I remember nothing after you dragged me down those steps on the Mole. Except that I was as sick as a dog and …” He accepted the flask Phillip offered him and gulped down a few sips of the brandy it contained. As he handed back the flask, his fingers touched his brother’s damp cloak. “Where have you been?”

  “I had a look at the gun battery on the Port de Pratique and rowed round the basin but I could not see a great deal— the fog has lifted a little but it’s still persisting. However, there’s no doubt that extremely little has been done to repair the damage we caused during last year’s bombardment. …” Phillip went into details and Graham said thoughtfully, “I recall hearing of an edict from the Tsar, which the Governor received after the bombardment. His Imperial Majesty, after praising the citizens of Odessa for their heroic defense, made them responsible for the full cost of restoration! I imagine that they may well feel that they have made their contribution to the war and, in view of what it has cost them, the
y now intend to stay out of it—if they can—by offering no threat or provocation which might lead to a second attack.”

  “If that is the case,” Phillip returned dryly, “let us hope that General Canrobert will see their situation in the same light!”

  “Let us, indeed, hope he does.” Graham pulled himself into a sitting position and glanced round the tiny cabin. “You found me a very snug refuge! But I don’t suppose that you want to stay here for much longer, do you?”

  “That depends on you.” Phillip eyed him searchingly. Anxious though he was to get his brother back to the Huntress, he knew that it would be madness to attempt to reach the cove until Graham had recovered his strength sufficiently to walk unaided. “We could delay our departure for a few hours,” he pointed out. “The gig will come in for us a second time, an hour before daybreak, if we fail to make the first rendezvous. And we are safe enough here, I think, at any rate during the hours of darkness, so I’m quite prepared to wait. On the other hand, you’ll be better off on board the Huntress—there’s no food here and—”

  “Food, my dear Phillip,” Graham said and could not suppress a shudder of revulsion, “is the last thing I want, believe me. But I agree … the sooner we can get ourselves back aboard the ship, the better. I take it that you have now seen enough of Odessa to enable you to make a full report to the Admiral?”

  Phillip hesitated, his conscience pricking him. The day had not, alas, gone according to plan. He had, it was true, with his brother’s help, made as close an inspection of the Imperial Harbour and its immediate defenses as, in the circumstances, anyone could ask of him. Nevertheless, his report would have to be based largely on conjecture, he realized. The fact that the only troops they had actually seen had been garrison troops, while it undoubtedly suggested that Odessa possessed no others, was not proof—it was supposition. He sighed, glancing uneasily at Graham. He had not entered the town itself, had not so much as glimpsed the main barracks where—if they were anywhere—troop reinforcements for Prince Menshikoff’s army in the Crimea would be quartered, awaiting the clearing of the ice and snow from the Perekop road before they could be transferred.