Victory at Sebastopol

by V. A. Stuart

  Listening to different accounts of the battle, Phillip was horrified, as much by the thinly veiled hints of confusion and mismanagement, as by the sickening details of the inferno of shot and shell in which so many brave men had gone to their deaths. Under open arrest, the date of his Court Martial not yet announced, he went ashore, accompanied by John Macdonald, to visit friends in both naval and military camps and it was on one such visit that he heard the tragic news that Lord Raglan himself was dying.

  “He looked quite done up when he returned to his headquarters, after the battle on the 18th,” a Coldstream Guards Major told him. “Pélissier bungled the whole affair; it was not Lord Raglan’s fault—the French went in against his advice and hours earlier than had been agreed between them. But His Lordship took it to heart … the defeat, the loss of so many Officers and men, with nothing to show for their sacrifice. Oh, he was at pains to appear cheerful and confident at dinner that night—he was pleasant and kind, as he always is. But afterwards, I heard him telling Colonel Steele that it had been a catastrophe, and Burghersh said he spent half the night in prayer. Then, on Sunday, he visited the hospitals, and called to see General Estcourt, who died next day of cholera.”

  “You mean that he—that Lord Raglan has cholera?” Phillip asked, shocked.

  His informant shrugged despondently. “Dr Prendergast, who is attending him, says not. He is exhausted, weak from an attack of dysentery and … heartbroken. It’s rumoured that he is sinking fast. The Chaplain is with him. Poor, gallant old gentleman—his will be an irreparable loss, to the Army and to the nation. It may even cost us this ill-omened war!”

  And it would deal a grievous blow to Admiral Lyons, Phillip thought, recalling the brief interview he had had, when he had requested permission to deliver Jack’s last message to him. The Admiral, normally the most courteous and kindly of men, had stared through him as if unable to recognize him and had dismissed him with a wave of the hand, without saying a word. First his son and now, it seemed, Lord Raglan who was, perhaps, his closest friend outside his own naval circle …

  Lord Raglan died that evening and the news, unexpected and sudden to the ordinary soldiers and seamen, cast an even deeper gloom over camp and ship alike. General Pélissier, already nicknamed “l’homme brutal” by his own troops, was reported to have stood for upwards of an hour beside the simple iron camp-bed on which the body of his English colleague lay, weeping like a child. Everywhere, men spoke in hushed voices, expressing regret. “It’s as if,” one young soldier said sadly, “we had all of us lost a near relative. It won’t be the same, now he’s gone from us. We didn’t see much of him, except when we were under fire—he was always there then, in the thick of it, too. And he came to the hospital, to give us a word of cheer when we’d been wounded. He never failed us, not when it really mattered.”

  The funeral took place on 3rd July and it left a confused impression on Phillip’s mind. Looking back afterwards, he remembered that the sun was shining and that—strangely—both the Allied guns and those defending Sebastopol were silent, as the cortège left Lord Raglan’s farmhouse headquarters at a little after four in the afternoon. The coffin, borne on a nine-pounder gun carriage, was draped with a Union Jack, on which lay the sword and plumed hat of the late Commander-in-Chief. To the roll of drums and the solemn music of the Dead March, the gun carriage—with General Simpson, the new British Commander-in-Chief, General Pélissier, Omar Pasha, and General della Marmora riding on either side of it and the other Allied Commanders following behind—passed between double ranks of British and French infantry, to wend its slow way down to the landing stage at Kazatch.

  There a launch was waiting, to take the coffin out to the Caradoc—the little despatch steamer, in which Lord Raglan had made his first reconnaissance of the Crimean coast. She steamed out of the bay, to begin the long journey back to England, with guns booming in salute and a signal-hoist at her masthead, which Phillip read, with a lump in his throat, as the single word “Farewell.”

  The troops marched off, to return to their duties in the camps and trenches on the Upland; a groom led off Lord Raglan’s riderless charger; General Pélissier climbed into his carriage, which bore him swiftly away; and Omar Pasha and della Marmora rode back to the farmhouse with Lord Raglan’s successor.

  Admiral Lyons, on medical advice, did not attend the funeral but Phillip heard later that, on his instructions, the Caradoc brought-to under the stern of his flagship to enable him to make his personal farewell, standing in salute on the Royal Albert’s lofty poop-deck, where he remained, his head bowed in sorrow, until the Caradoc was out of sight.

  A week afterwards, on 10th July, Phillip’s Court Martial was convened on board the Hannibal.

  The atmosphere, when he presented himself before his judges, was formal but far from hostile. Most of the members of the Court were known to him by name and repute, if not by sight, but he was a trifle disconcerted to learn that Captain Crawford—now in command of the Trojan—was acting as President.

  Normally, naval Courts Martial were conducted without spectators being present, although, in fact, all such Courts were legally open to members of the public, few ever took advantage of their right to attend. Today, however, there were six chairs placed to the left of his own and he saw, with some surprise, that these were occupied by two French Officers, both from Colonial regiments; three Turkish Officers, and a British civilian, whom he recognized as a member of Lord Stratford de Redcliffe’s diplomatic staff.

  “Interested parties, one can only suppose,” John Macdonald whispered, when Phillip uneasily drew his attention to them. “I shouldn’t let them worry you.” But he frowned, clearly puzzled, as the prosecuting Officer accepted a small package of papers from the well-dressed young diplomat before taking his own seat.

  “Politically interested parties in search of a scapegoat, Hazard,” his defending Officer qualified, laying a consoling hand on Phillip’s knee. “But they are here as observers only—they cannot influence the Court.” He smiled, without amusement. “I shall make mincemeat of them if they try, never fear!”

  Commander James Fraser was a cousin of the Trojan’s surgeon and Phillip had received his offer to act in his defence with gratitude and relief, when old Angus Fraser had sought him out to pass on the offer. The Commander was an astute, grey-haired Scot, with outspoken views and a strong radical bias, who had retired on half-pay many years before and had been a writer to the Signet in Edinburgh until the outbreak of war had brought him back to the Royal Navy. In their preliminary conferences, Fraser had expressed a heartening and almost aggressive belief in his ability to refute the charges, which he described indignantly as venomous and beneath contempt, but Phillip found it increasingly difficult to share his confidence. He felt ill and depressed, unable to shake off the conviction that he was, indeed, being made a scapegoat in an affair which had been deliberately exaggerated out of all proportion to its importance. The Admiral’s silence—although not difficult to account for—added a great deal to his depression and, at one stage, he had wanted to plead guilty in order to have done with the whole unhappy affair.

  “You’ll be broken, if you do,” James Fraser had warned him. “You’ll need to fight, man, or see your career in ruins. These are malicious charges, brought by men with ulterior motives, who are out to smash you so that they may save themselves. And those who are backing them have each an axe to grind, too! All you’ll have to do is to stand up there and tell the truth … leave the rest to me. I’ll get you off, I give you my word, just so long as you don’t leave me to fight alone.”

  He had given in, in the end, of course, but he cherished only faint hopes and even Fraser’s confidence had been a trifle shaken when he had been informed officially, just before the Court opened, that the witnesses from the crew of the Huntress had, for some inexplicable reason, failed to arrive. His ship was still with the Azoff squadron, Phillip knew, but he found it hard to believe that the two men he had chosen—Thompson and Higgins�
�would, on their own account, have let him down. Or that his brother Graham would have done so, if he had received Fraser’s request in time. Indeed, he …

  Commander Fraser nudged him and he rose to his feet. The charges, their venom hidden beneath the legal phraseology in which they were couched, sounded unsensational as they were read out to him but, when he entered a formal plea of Not Guilty, he knew that it was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to prove his innocence with neither witnesses nor the report from Jack Lyons, which might have enabled him to justify his actions.

  He resumed his seat and the prosecuting Officer, a Commander named Danvers, after a brief opening address, called Captain Kirkoff as his first witness. His examination, to Phillip’s surprise, was conducted through an interpreter, and it occupied most of the morning. As he listened to question and answer, laboriously translated, his surprise turned to stunned dismay. There was a basis of truth in every assertion his one-time prisoner made but each incident, small enough in itself, had been twisted, added to and even misinterpreted, so that a damning picture was built up of himself and the men he had commanded. He was shown as a ruthless glory-hunter, out to distinguish himself no matter what the cost, whilst at the same time imposing a minimum of discipline upon his crew.

  The fight which, heaven knew, the Russian had brought upon himself, became—as Kirkoff now described it—a brutal and quite unjustified attack on his person, aimed at compelling him to betray his country by revealing the secrets of a new weapon which, rather than besmirch his honour, he had tried to destroy. Even poor young O’Hara’s death was misrepresented as yet another example of lack of discipline, and the responsibility for it laid, fairly and squarely, at the door of the man who, as Commander, should have prevented it. Phillip had to exercise iron self-control to prevent himself voicing a bitter denial when Kirkoff, dark eyes bright with malice, referred to “the gallant young Officer, hardly more than a boy,” whose life had been needlessly thrown away.

  Predictably, he glossed over the Tarkhan’s unhappy fate, laying emphasis instead on the fact that he had been compelled to remain on deck whilst the brig Constantine was under fire, under the added threat of a rifle held to his head, in an attempt to force him to disclose the Russian recognition signals.

  When the Court was adjourned, at mid-day, his evidence had just concluded and Phillip, sick at heart and unable to eat, paced the cabin in which he was confined, living for the moment when James Fraser would be given the opportunity, in cross-examination, to make the bearded Russian retract some, at least, of the lies he had told. His blood was up, he was seething with anger, as ready to fight now as, before, he had been apathetic and resigned but all the fight went out of him when the Court resumed and he had to listen, in impotent silence, to the failure of all Fraser’s efforts to shake the Russian Captain’s testimony.

  Kirkoff was unshakable; he retracted not one word. His gaze fixed unflinchingly on the President, he insisted that the account he had given was true in every particular. When Fraser pressed him, he took shrewd refuge behind the not very competent interpreter, delaying his replies until the defending Officer, losing patience, brusquely repeated the questions he had asked and received a reprimand from the President for his pains.

  Finally, in a well-simulated show of indignation, the Russian complained that his honour was being impugned and the Court adjourned with his cross-examination still unconcluded and the President’s sympathies clearly directed towards him.

  Phillip spent a sleepless and miserable night. His worst fears had been realized and he now regretted having taken Fraser’s advice and agreed to defend himself against the charges. Had he pleaded guilty, he would not have had to endure the calumny which had been heaped upon his head, he told himself wretchedly—he would have been broken, probably, but that, at least, would have been the end of it … and he looked like being broken in any case.

  When Fraser joined him early next morning, he was in the depths of despair.

  “For heaven’s sake!” he exclaimed bitterly. “Kirkoff complained that his honour was impugned, after lying himself hoarse … but what has he left me of mine?”

  “We’re not beaten yet, Hazard, we’re not by any means beaten,” the Scotsman assured him. “I’ve spent most of the night going through his testimony and I’ve found three or four instances when he contradicted himself. Once just here, do you see?” He indicated the notes he had been working on. “When he stated that those bombs of his were defused and harmless. And then, a few minutes later, he said just as positively that they were not.”

  “I fear that won’t help,” Phillip objected. “It’s a very minor detail, after all.”

  “Ah, but if I can catch him out and make him admit one inaccuracy, I’ll have him on another. Don’t lose heart, my friend. He’s a tough nut to crack, I grant you, because he has no compunction whatsoever about lying to his enemies, but he’ll go too far and when he does, I’ll make him eat his words.”

  He fulfilled his promise, within a few minutes of resuming his cross-examination and for the first time since he had faced them, Phillip sensed that the members of the Court had begun, at last, to doubt Kirkoff’s veracity. His flagging hopes revived a little and they remained high when the Russian was permitted to stand down, on the plea—made through the interpreter—that he felt unwell and could not continue.

  “We shall recall Captain Kirkoff later on, if we deem it necessary,” the President announced. “In the meantime let us hear evidence relating to the second charge, if you please, Commander Danvers.” He consulted his papers, eyeing Phillip thoughtfully before adding, “That is to say the charges brought by Faruk Bey.”

  Faruk gave his evidence truculently, as if expecting his claims to be challenged. They were extravagant claims and they had neither the ring of truth nor the authority which—at any rate until his final cross-examination—had characterized Kirkoff’s. It was obvious, even to Phillip, that the members of the Court Martial were inclined to doubt his statement that his precipitate march to Yenikale had been undertaken for any of the reasons he gave. Captain Crawford and at least one of the junior Captains had been with the expedition to Kertch; they had, presumably, witnessed the looting which had taken place there and knew who had been responsible for it, and they were probably aware that a Turkish force had laid waste a number of villages on the coast road, between Kertch and Yenikale.

  When it came to his account of his arrival at the underground hospital, however, Faruk’s description was accurate enough.

  “There were Russians in this cellar,” the interpreter translated. “Soldiers of the garrison, who were in hiding in what appeared to be a fortified place and who, for all the Bey knew, were armed and prepared to resist capture. In his zeal, he was about to take them prisoner but a man, without uniform, in his shirtsleeves and armed with a pistol, positioned himself at the entrance and threatened to shoot the Bey, if he permitted his soldiers to enter. The man was unknown to him. He might have been a Russian or a European mercenary, in the employ of the Tsar’s forces—he had no identification and he made no attempt to prove who he was. He—”

  “Ask the Bey, if you please, whether he is now able to identify the man he has described,” the President requested.

  There was a brief consultation between Faruk and his interpreter and the Tunisian inclined his head sullenly.

  “He is the Officer on trial, your honour,” the interpreter said carefully. “Commander Hazard. But he was not in uniform at the Yenikale Fort, he had not shaved and he was wearing boots of Russian manufacture.”

  “Did he claim to be Commander Hazard?” the President persisted. “Did he tell the Bey that he was a British Naval Officer?”

  After a slight hesitation, Faruk nodded again.

  “His excellency the Bey wishes me to tell your honour that at this time Commander Hazard bore no resemblance to a British Officer.”

  “That is understood. Ask the Bey to continue.”

  Faruk continued his evidenc
e and Phillip was forced to concede that, if still delivered in a truculent tone, it was accurate enough, although no mention was made of the sudden appearance of the Jewish woman, which had so inflamed his men. Describing the shooting of his brother, however, Faruk’s omissions became more blatant and, encouraged by the fact that neither Captain Crawford nor Commander Danvers interrupted him, his version was a travesty of the truth.

  “I did not shoot the fellow in cold blood,” Phillip whispered to Fraser. “He’d decapitated an unfortunate Russian, who had attempted to drag himself to his feet, long before I fired at him.”

  Fraser made a note and smiled. “This one is a poor liar,” he answered. “He’ll be easy to break down.”

  His cross-examination was brief but telling. Taxed with his omissions, Faruk simply but unconvincingly denied them, losing his temper in the process.

  “Ask the Bey, if you please,” Fraser pursued relentlessly. “To describe Commander Hazard’s manner.”

  “His manner, sir?”

  “Yes—how did he appear? Was he angry, excited, threatening, or did he seem calm when he denied the Bey’s entry to the hospital?”

  “He was excited and angry,” Faruk answered eagerly. “I believed him to be mad … a mad Russian mercenary, not a British Officer!”

  “How many soldiers had accompanied you to the cellar? Twenty, thirty perhaps?”

  “About twenty-five or thirty.”

  “Thirty armed soldiers,” Fraser said gravely. “And one man, whom you believe to be an enemy—one man, with a severely wounded arm and a pistol as his only weapon—barred your way to the cellar! Why did you not shoot him? Why did you not order your soldiers to shoot him down?”

  “Because he held a pistol to my head,” Faruk admitted furiously. “He held it a few centimetres from my head.”

  “In his left hand,” Fraser observed. Again addressing the interpreter, he went on, “Did Commander Hazard not tell the Bey that the hospital contained only dead and dying Russian soldiers? Did he not warn him that his men would find no plunder there?”