by V. A. Stuart
He had decided to keep steam up and the screw lowered, however, in case of emergency. Whilst by steering east towards the Yujnaia Spit, he could give the Pavlovskaia Fort a wide berth and might slip by Akbourno unseen, he knew that if the 40-gun battery at Ferrikale opened up on him from the north side of the bay he would have to make off at full speed, since the passage he was seeking lay within range of most of those forty guns. The Huntress would have no defence against them apart, that was to say, from her speed and manoeuvrability under engines and her own two pivot-mounted Lancaster guns, on the upper deck. Her draught was light; like a number of other ships in the British Black Sea Fleet, the Huntress had been specially designed and built for operations in the shallow inland Sea of Azoff. With even a scant two fathoms of water under her keel, she would be in no danger of grounding.
Even so, there were other dangers which had to be taken into account. Captain Moore’s survey had, of necessity, been restricted by his obligations under the truce. There might well be sandbanks which his soundings had failed to reveal and, should the Huntress run on to one of these at full speed, she would be at the mercy of the shore guns, as helpless as a stranded whale, left high and dry by the receding tide. A silent approach was therefore essential, so that the gunners in the fort did not detect her presence and open fire … or at any rate, Phillip thought wryly, not until after he had dropped his buoys and was ready to make a cautious run for it into the obscurity of the misty darkness. Once out of range, he … something caught his eye and, with a smothered exclamation, he raised his glass again. The glass was of little use and he lowered it.
“Masthead there!” he called sharply, cupping his hands about his mouth. “Do you see anything? Breakers off the weather bow?”
“No, sir,” came the prompt reply, in a boy’s shrill treble. Then, after a pause, “Nothing, sir.”
He must have imagined the breakers, Phillip told himself. Midshipman Patrick O’Hara was a keen-eyed, alert youngster and his gig’s midshipman. For all his youth, he was a tried and trusted veteran of this war, accustomed to accept responsibility and to command men of more than twice his age with the assurance that came with professional competence. He was not the kind to relax his vigilance, even for a moment—had there been breakers visible from the masthead, O’Hara would have seen and reported their presence. Phillip snapped the Dollond shut and began to pace the quarterdeck with slow, measured strides, in an effort to calm his taut nerves.
The ship was under as much sail as she could carry but, in spite of this, the light, fitful southerly breeze was barely keeping steerage way on her and he again found himself wishing that he could use his engines. In a situation like this, the engines were invaluable; if the wind dropped any more, he might have to lower boats in order to tow her into the channel, he thought glumly—there would be nothing else for it, if he were to complete his buoying and return to the Fleet rendezvous off Kamiesch by first light. The preliminary soundings would probably have to be taken by boat, in any case and … the mist cleared unexpectedly and, in a momentary break in the dank, greyish-yellow clouds of vapour, he glimpsed a rocky headland rising steeply out of the sea ahead and to port.
Midshipman O’Hara saw it too and made his report with commendable speed and accuracy. “It looks like the White Cape, sir,” he finished eagerly.
It undoubtedly was the White Cape, Phillip saw, recognizing the square outline of the fort and the white sandstone cliff from which the headland took its name, and then the mist closed in once more, hiding both land and buildings from his sight. The ship was on the course he had plotted with Captain Moore and there was no sign of life from the shore; he felt some of the tension drain out of him and his voice was calm and level when he gave the order to permit the Lancaster guns’ crews to stand down for a brief respite. The immediate danger was past, the first hurdle cleared and, once the White Cape was safely astern, he could bring her about, tack across the open expanse of Kertch Bay and put a man on the lead when he closed the coast again. He resumed his measured pacing of the deck, the charts he had studied and memorized in his mind’s eye as he paused to peer into the binnacle before ordering a slight correction of course.
There was no reason to anticipate trouble while crossing the bay—the Huntress would be more than a match for any enemy ship she might encounter there and he intended to give the fort of Akbourno, on the southern arc of the bay, as wide a berth as he had given Pavlovskaia. The Ferrikale battery was less easily avoided and the fog was a mixed blessing, making it infernally difficult to pick up landmarks or judge distances with any accuracy. The wind, too—such as it was—was backing again … anxious not to lose way, Phillip sang out a warning to the Officer of the Watch to trim after- and head-yards and strode, frowning, to the weather hammock netting.
He would come about in another fifteen minutes, he decided and would endeavour to approach Ferrikale from the Kertch side of the bay. It was going to take very nice judgement indeed to slip the Huntress past the battery unseen … nice judgement and more luck than he could reasonably count on, even with the fog to hide her. He would have a chance if he could deceive the gunners into mistaking her for one of their own small war steamers on her way up channel from Kertch although, without knowing their recognition signals, he would require more than luck to succeed in his attempt at deception. Nevertheless, it was worth trying.
The minutes ticked slowly by. The line of faintly disturbed water he had been watching disappeared to leeward and he expelled his breath in a pent-up sigh.
“Bring her about, if you please, Mr Cochrane,” he said crisply and gave his instructions for the necessary change of course.
Anthony Cochrane, the young red-haired Officer of the Watch, who had been one of his Trojan Officers, gave him an alert, “Aye, aye, sir,” and repeated the order into his speaking trumpet. “Ready about, Bo’sun’s Mate!” The pipe sounded, there was a thud of bare feet on the deck planking as the duty watch took up their stations for tacking, and the quartermaster eased the helm down in obedience to Cochrane’s shouted command.
“Helm’s a-lee!” The spanker-boom was hauled amidships, forcing the stern to leeward and, as head and fore-sheets were let go, the sail started to shake, spilling their wind. “Raise tacks and sheets … haul well taut the mainbrace! Handsomely, lads!” With the mainyards braced round, the jibs were hauled over and sheeted home. “Head braces!” Cochrane ordered, as the main course started slowly to fill. “Of all haul!” His orders, relayed by the boatswain’s mate of the watch, were obeyed with swift efficiency as, his gaze on the mist-shrouded canvas above him, he trimmed sail to the light breeze.
Phillip watched, conscious of a sense of pride in his ship and in the seamen who manned her. Most of them had been civilians a little over a year ago—the same men whom his late First Lieutenant, Ambrose Quinn, had contemptuously described as “ploughboys and counter-hoppers.” They had done well, he thought … it was no longer possible to pick out those who had been fishermen or coastguards from Quinn’s ploughboys.
“Right the helm, Quartermaster,” Lieutenant Cochrane ordered. “Brace up the mainyard, look lively, lads!”
“Marker-buoys ready, sir. Shall I relieve Mr Cochrane of the deck?” The elderly master was beside him and Phillip turned to give him an answering smile and a nod of assent. It was good to have old Burnaby in charge of navigation again; they had served together in the Trojan and it had taken all his powers of persuasion—and Burnaby’s—to arrange his transfer to the Huntress. Captain Crawford had, understandably, been reluctant to part with him, since men of his skill and experience were hard to come by, but eventually Burnaby’s own patiently repeated requests had achieved the seemingly impossible and, although Phillip had had to dispense with his Third Lieutenant in order to have the master appointed, he was well satisfied with the exchange. Burnaby was worth his weight in gold to his young and comparatively inexperienced ship’s company.
“Have Mr O’Hara relieved at the masthead, if you please, Mr
Burnaby. Once we’re across the bay, it might be as well to relieve all look-outs every half hour—this fog is damnably trying on the eyes.”
“A wise precaution, sir,” the master agreed. He scowled at the swirling clouds of moisture which hemmed them in and shook his grizzled head. “It’s getting thicker. I fancy it won’t disperse till well into the night.”
“Well, that should suit us.” Phillip shrugged. “So long as it doesn’t delay the Fleet rendezvous tomorrow.” They discussed the course to be followed and, when the watch changed and Burnaby went to take over the deck, Phillip turned to find his brother Graham, now acting as his First Lieutenant, standing at his elbow.
He made his report with correct formality. Since the restoration of his commission, Graham Hazard had become a changed personality and their relationship—although, as Commander of the Huntress, Phillip still out-ranked him—had been established on a new and happier footing. Not quite as it had been in their boyhood, of course; Graham was the elder by seven years and those lost years, when he had drifted round the world, sometimes as an Officer but more often as a seaman in the merchant service, had left their mark on him. But he was a conscientious and able First Lieutenant, under whose taut yet always just administration the ship’s company had shaken-down in a manner Phillip had almost despaired of, when Lieutenant Quinn had been his second-in-command.
“You’re going in now, are you, Phillip?” Graham asked, as they crossed to the weather side of the quarterdeck. “You aren’t waiting till dark?”
“No point in waiting.” Phillip gestured to the opaque curtain of fog which closed them in. “Burnaby doesn’t think this will clear much before morning—and he’s usually right. In any case, there’s no wind to disperse it, is there?”
“Or to take us into the Strait,” his brother observed. “If you still intend to go in under sail.”
“It’ll be devilish slow work,” Phillip admitted. “But I daren’t risk using the screw unless I have to—and only then if the batteries fire on us and we have to haul off fast.”
“Then let us hope the gunners aren’t keeping too vigilant a watch … and that the fog impedes them more than it impedes us!”
“Amen to that!” Phillip echoed. He grasped his brother’s arm. “Let’s walk, shall we? As always, I should appreciate your advice, Graham.”
Pacing the deck together, they discussed what would have to be done, attempting to allow for any unexpected complications and, deeply concerned for the safety of his ship as some of the more unpleasant possibilities were considered, Phillip said feelingly, “I must confess that I’ll be damned glad when this is over. The fort at Yenikale mounts something in the region of forty guns, according to Moore—about half of them of heavy calibre. My nightmare is that I’ll run us aground on some sandback we know nothing about, right under their muzzles! Our charts are by no means reliable, as you know … but they’re all we’ve got, so I suppose we’ll have to do the best we can with them.”
Understanding his feelings, Graham eyed him sympathetically. “You said you wanted a good man on the lead, Phillip. I’ve detailed Jackson.”
“A good choice,” Phillip approved. He lifted his glass to his eye and lowered it again almost immediately, with a rueful smile. “For God’s sake—I must be seeing things! All the same, Graham, I could swear …” he thrust the Dollond into his brother’s hand. “Do you see riding lights? There, look, abeam of us … oh, damn this miserable fog!”
Graham looked obediently, then lowered the glass and wiped the moisture from its lens before training it once more in the direction Phillip had indicated. “No, I can’t see anything. Wait a minute, though … I believe you’re right. There is something and it’s not on shore. By heaven, Phillip, I think it’s a ship! And she’s at anchor. Curse this fog, I can’t see her now! I’ll go up to the crosstrees, shall I, and see if I can make her out?”
“No, wait—young O’Hara’s just back on deck. Mr O’Hara!” The midshipman scampered over eagerly and came to attention in front of his Commander, his oilskin jacket streaming with moisture. It had been cold and damp during his vigil aloft and his teeth were chattering. “S-sir?” Phillip pointed to the flickering light, now clearly visible off the starboard bow and the boy reddened in dismay. “I—I’m awfully s-sorry, sir. I didn’t see anything from the masthead, not even when you hailed, sir. S-shall I go back and—”
Phillip shook his head. “No, youngster, you cut along below and change into dry clothes. It’s not your fault—the way the fog’s swirling about, you could not be expected to see that light from the masthead. Off you go—I only wanted to confirm that you hadn’t seen it. Who is the look-out who relieved you?”
“Williams, sir.”
A reliable man, Phillip reflected … and there had been no hail from Williams either. He glanced at Graham as Midshipman O’Hara, in obedience to his nod of dismissal, touched his cap and ran off in search of a change of clothing. “One of the enemy gunboats, do you suppose?” he suggested. “They have four or five lying off Yenikale according to Captain Moore. Steamers, brig-rigged and armed with long thirty-twos. And …” the germ of an idea was beginning to form in his mind and he added thoughtfully, “The chances are she hasn’t seen us … we’re showing no lights. If she had seen us, she would have anchored under the protection of the battery, would she not?”
“Yes, I imagine she would. But”—Graham gave him a searching glance, sensing his sudden preoccupation with the anchored ship—“what have you in mind, Phillip? You’re not thinking of trying to take her, are you?” It was evident, from his tone, that he did not expect his question to be taken seriously.
“Well …” Phillip hesitated, peering with narrowed eyes into the fog. The light showed again and this time he caught a brief glimpse of the Russian vessel. It was enough and he said forcefully, “Yes, damn it, why not? It would not be difficult.”
“She’ll run for the battery the moment she sights us,” his brother objected. “And that will effectively put paid to our entering the channel. Besides if she—”
Phillip cut him short. “She won’t sight us now. If we stay on this tack and then wear and bring-up between her and Akbourno, we could lower a couple of boats and cut her out without any trouble. But we must go about it quietly—I’ll warn Burnaby.” He crossed the deck with long, impatient strides and, reaching the master’s side, requested him to issue no shouted orders. Burnaby dutifully passed on these instructions but he looked puzzled and Phillip gave him a brief explanation, wasting no words. When he indicated the approximate position of the enemy steamer, the master’s faded blue eyes lit with a gleam of apprehension but he offered no comment.
Graham, however, appeared to share his concern. “I’m not questioning your decision, Phillip,” he said, lowering his voice. “But may I know why you want to cut out the brig? Are you afraid that she might alarm the batteries?”
“No, no,” Phillip assured him. “If she hasn’t seen us now—and I’m pretty certain she hasn’t—we’re in no danger on that account.”
“Then why waste time on her?”
“Because we could use her to make our survey of the channel, don’t you see, instead of risking this ship?”
“Put a prize-crew aboard her, you mean?” Graham sounded suddenly less doubtful and Philip permitted himself a brief smile.
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” he returned. “Jackson to take soundings, and a party to lay out the marker-buoys—a dozen men would suffice. The gunners on shore are unlikely to fire on the brig if they sight her—they’ll recognize her as one of their own ships. They must have seen her in the Strait hundreds of times, so they’ll presume that she’s going about her legitimate business. As to wasting time … we’d be able to use her engines and that, you must admit, would save us a great deal of time and effort.”
His half-formed germ of an idea was beginning to take shape and to reveal a number of advantageous possibilities and Phillip enlarged on these, point by point. There was an element
of risk involved, of course, but only to himself and the boarding party, not to the Huntress. She would be safely out of range of the batteries and, in fact, need not enter the channel at all, provided all went well. “Even if I should run the brig on to a sandbank,” he added, “there’ll be no serious harm done. You can stand by with the Huntress, can you not, Graham, ready to pick us up if necessary?”
His brother eyed him in frowning silence but Burnaby came unexpectedly to his support. “The Captain’s right, Mr Hazard,” he asserted with conviction. “If you’ll forgive me for putting my oar in, sir. There would be far less likelihood of those batteries firing on the brig than on this ship and that’s a fact … and being able to use engines, for a task like this, would halve the time required, as you don’t need me to tell you.”
“I don’t deny that,” Graham answered. “It’s a most ingenious idea and I believe it would work but …” he broke off, avoiding Phillip’s gaze. “There’s just one thing wrong with it.”
“Well?” Phillip prompted, as the master tactfully moved out of earshot. “What do you think is wrong with it?” There was a slight edge to his voice. Although technically his subordinate, Graham was still his elder brother; controlling his impatience, he invited quietly, “Tell me—I’m listening.”
Graham’s expression relaxed. “You always listen to me, don’t you, Phillip? I’m grateful, believe me—but you are in command of this ship and I’m your First Lieutenant. You—”
“What has that to do with it, for God’s sake?”
“Everything, my dear fellow. It is a First Lieutenant’s duty to spare his Captain by taking command of such minor operations as boat and landing parties. Yet it would seem, from what you have just been saying, that you intend to lead the cutting-out party and, when the brig is taken, to command her yourself.” Graham smiled but his tone was reproachful. “I am right, am I not—that is what you intend?”
