by V. A. Stuart
“I’ve lost, haven’t I?” he said, when Fraser joined him there about twenty minutes later. “And it’s entirely my own fault—you did everything you could.”
James Fraser clapped a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Aye, you’ve lost,” he agreed. “But you’ve no reason to be ashamed of the manner in which you lost, Hazard. Like many a good man before you, you’ve been condemned for showing initiative and for refusing to make excuses for what you did. In other circumstances—and if it hadn’t been for that scoundrel of a Turk—they would be pinning a medal on your chest, instead of giving you a reprimand.”
Phillip sighed. “Do you honestly think that’s all they’ll give me—a reprimand?” he asked, afraid to believe it.
“Before heaven, they can hardly give you more!” Fraser asserted with conviction. “And they would not have been able to give you that if those two seamen of yours had got here in time. I hear there’s been a severe storm in the Sea of Azoff, by the way … that may have delayed them.” He smiled. “You did damned well, my young friend! I’d sooner lose in your company than win in that of a fellow like Kirkoff, believe me. Well, I’ve one or two matters I must attend to, so I’ll see you in Court. They’ll not be very long in making up their minds, if Captain Crawford has anything to do with it.”
Phillip thanked him and settled down to wait. An odd calm possessed him. He was no longer anxious or strung up; the worst was over, he told himself, the ordeal he had been dreading was at an end and, if James Fraser was right, he would not lose the Huntress. That had been his greatest fear—he could live down a reprimand but the loss of his command was quite another matter.
There was a tap on the cabin bulkhead and John Macdonald, returning the salute of the Marine sentry posted at the door, came in, smiling.
“This is it, Phillip old man,” he said cheerfully. “If you’re ready. They haven’t wasted much time, have they?”
“No,” Phillip said. He hadn’t expected them to but he wondered, as he led the way back to the Hannibal’s spacious stern cabin, whether they had all agreed on the verdict. He saw his sword which, throughout the trial, had lain across the table in front of the President, and the last faint hope to which he had clung was dashed when he realized that its point was now facing towards him. So they had found him guilty but not, surely not on all the charges … instinctively he glanced over to where the six observers were sitting. They kept their faces studiously averted, not even looking round as he went to his own seat and it was not until he drew level with them that he saw, to his dismay, that the young man from the Ambassador’s staff was smiling. Dear heaven, that augered ill for him, it was …
“Steady, Phillip,” John Macdonald whispered, a hand on his arm. “They can’t hang you, you know.”
That was true, Phillip reflected wryly. He drew himself to attention and waited, outwardly calm and controlled but inwardly sick with apprehension, his heart thudding against his ribs as he tried vainly to concentrate on what was being said to him.
The first two charges brought by Kirkoff were dismissed; the third upheld—well, he had brought that on himself when he had accepted responsibility for O’Hara’s death, he knew, and given the chance again, he would still have accepted it. But … he listened incredulously. Two out of three of Faruk’s charges were held to be proven … it wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be happening. Faruk was a cowardly murderer, a rogue who had lied quite blatantly about the reason for his presence in Yenikale and yet a board of British Naval Captains had taken his word, accepted his evidence … Phillip gasped, feeling as if he were living a nightmare, cold sweat prickling out on his body.
His judges, their faces grim and unsmiling, avoided his gaze; he listened to the sentence, the blood pounding in his ears, and was hard put to it to maintain his rigid, disciplined pose and the pretence of calm which went with it. The sentence of the Court was that he was to be severely reprimanded and dismissed his ship—Captain Crawford’s clear, cold voice seemed to echo from end to end of the shadowed cabin, sounding the death knell of all the hopes he had cherished, all the dreams, all the ambitions. He had lost the Huntress … and, he thought dully, she probably would not even be given to Graham, which might have been some slight consolation. He hadn’t enough seniority—they would appoint another Commander and …
“ … this Court wishes it to be placed on record,” the President was saying, “that, whilst the accused Officer has been found guilty of exceeding his authority and acting in accordance with his own interpretation of the instructions he was given, these findings in no way detract from his personal gallantry, which was of an exceptionally high order … and will, it is hoped, in due course merit suitable reward.”
The members of the Court Martial filed out; the observers went off with Commander Danvers and two clerks busied themselves collecting papers before they, too, hurried out of the cabin. John Macdonald, his cheeks suffused with angry colour, took Phillip’s sword from the baize-covered table and assisted him to buckle it on.
“I don’t know what to say,” he began awkwardly. “Except that it was a parody of justice … and I hope the blasted Turks choke on their pound of flesh! I wouldn’t in the least mind shooting Faruk myself, Phillip. For God’s sake, I—”
“They didn’t hang me,” Phillip pointed out. He offered his hand. “I’ll take my leave of you, John. My truly grateful thanks for all you have done—you were the best and most considerate of escorts. And you—”
“Devil take it!” Macdonald exploded. “Don’t thank me, Phillip, I did nothing. Come and have a drink with me, won’t you? My cabin’s at your disposal.”
“Thank you … but no. It’s kind of you but I have business ashore. If you’d procure me a boat, I’ll be on my way.”
“Yes, of course. I … I really am most damnably sorry about all this. I—”
“Forget it, please,” Phillip begged. They walked over to where James Fraser was standing by himself, staring out of the stern windows. He turned at their approach and said gruffly, “The sentence has yet to be promulgated. I shall appeal to the Admiral and—”
“No,” Phillip bade him, his tone one that precluded argument. “I want no appeal. Let it stand.”
“The papers will go to him in any case, Hazard. As Commander-in-Chief, he has the right to decide whether or not to confirm the sentence, so—”
“I want no appeal, Fraser. But I thank you sincerely.”
They faced each other for a moment and then the onetime lawyer bowed his greying head. “As you wish, then. But my cousin Angus won’t forgive me as easily as you have, I’m afraid.” He shook Phillip’s extended hand, avoiding his gaze. “Where are you going?”
“Ashore—to procure my next appointment.” Phillip forced a smile. “I’m happy to say that I’ve already been offered one by my old Commander, Captain Henry Keppel. He has just assumed command of the Naval Brigade and he suggested—before the Court’s findings were known—that I should volunteer to serve under him again. I intend to do so at once.”
“Then God go with you,” James Fraser answered and turned away to hide the pity in his eyes.
CHAPTER NINE
Life in the Naval Brigade had a strange, unrealistic quality to which—to his own surprise—Phillip quickly and even gladly adjusted himself. There was plenty of action; the guns fired night and day for long periods at a time, casualties were high, and the risk of death never far away.
Captain the Hon. Henry Keppel, renowned for his cool courage and love of action, was in his element, inspiring the Officers and men under his command by his own example, always ready to share any dangers they faced and swift to praise and appreciate the daring of others. He was under five foot in height, with red hair and a charm none could resist and, within a few days of assuming command of the Naval Brigade, he had won the respect and affection of every member of the Brigade. The men cheered him whenever he appeared and would have followed him anywhere. A new spirit of optimism and aggression had been born with his comi
ng and the talk was now of victory, not defeat.
The Naval Brigade Camp was situated at the head of a ravine between the French camps and British Army Headquarters at Khutor Karagatch. It had its own field hospital, a supply of fresh well-water, and—a blessing to men returning cold and soaked to the skin after a night of rain in the batteries—a drying-room for clothing. The sanitary arrangements were a legacy from the previous Commander, Captain Lushington, and were so well organized that the general health of the men was excellent, the proportion of deaths from disease much lower than in the Army camps, where less attention was paid to hygiene. Each morning, the seamen were paraded to drink hot cocoa or coffee under the supervision of their Officers and, in addition to regular issues of lime juice and quinine, a ration of hot soup, prepared by the cooks, was served to every man when he came off duty.
As a result, morale was high and the men did their work with a will. They served their guns uncomplainingly—from the thirty-two-pounders, which normally formed the main armament of a man o’ war, to the giant Lancasters, whose range was thirty-six hundred yards—repaired damaged emplacements and carried up shot and shell, often under fire, with the greatest nonchalance. They were a splendid body of men and Phillip, who had at first tended to shy away from the company of his fellows, soon found himself taking both pride and pleasure in their company. He worked as hard as they did, frequently for longer at a time, and gradually the sense of loss he had felt, after being removed from his own command, became less acute.
To his surprise, his brother Graham was left in acting command of the Huntress and he was gratified to learn that, in a spirited action with several other ships of the Azoff squadron at Genitchi, Graham had held off an attack on a shore party and received immediate promotion. As an acting Commander, he might have been superceded at any time but now, with a step in rank, his position was secure and Phillip could not find it in his heart to begrudge his elder brother’s good fortune.
By the end of August, he had himself become wholly involved in the day-to-day activities of the Naval Brigade, thinking and caring for little else. News of the arrival off Balaclava of the Pendletons’ yacht Fedora, a few weeks before, had left him unmoved. He had made no effort to seek out Catriona and even when the hospitable Captain Keppel had given a dinner party at the camp, to which her employers had been invited, he had chosen to stay on duty in the battery in preference to attending. Keppel, who dined fairly frequently on board ships of the Fleet commanded by his friends, had now—to Phillip’s secret relief—given up asking him to accompany his party. With the understanding kindness that made him one of the most popular Commanders afloat, Harry Keppel left him to work out his own salvation at the guns.
“You feel bitter now, Phillip,” he said. “And I fancy you have good reason to—they made a scapegoat of you and gave you less than justice. But if there’s a lesson to be learnt from your experience, it is that throughout life there’s precious little justice. Few men get the rewards they deserve and not all that many are punished as they ought to be. You have to take the rough with the smooth, my dear boy. Keep faith with your Maker and ‘to thine own self be true,’ as the Great Bard so aptly put it … you can’t do more than that. In any event, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good—I’m glad to have you. And you’ll have no regrets when Sebastopol falls to our final assault, because you’ll be in the thick of it, as a fighting man should be, and you’ll know that you’ve played your part in bringing this war to an end.”
The final assault was now the main topic of conversation, in mess tent and battery; everyone believed that it would come soon and that, this time, it would not fail. The French had pushed their saps up to the abattis round the great Malakoff Tower, until they were a scant thirty paces from the ditch which surrounded it and there were over two hundred British guns—fifty of these manned by men of the Naval Brigade—ranged on the enemy defences. The Russians were reported to be constructing a floating bridge, from the south side of the harbour and opinion was divided as to their reason for doing so. Some Allied Officers believed that it was for the purpose of bringing in more troops and munitions, in case of assault, but others—who included Admiral Lyons—held that the enemy were contemplating retreat from the city.
Phillip was uncertain, finding it hard to believe that, after their epic resistance, the Russians would abandon Sebastopol, but he joined in the general acclamation when Captain Keppel assembled his Officers to announce that a bombardment had been ordered, to commence on 5th September, and continue for the next two days.
“If we can make sufficient impression on the defences, the assault will take place, gentlemen,” he told them, blue eyes gleaming. “A Council of War was held yesterday and, I’m told, a definite decision will be made on the 7th. I can only hope that it will be an affirmative decision because this may well be our last chance of taking Sebastopol before winter is upon us. The plan is for the French to attack the Malakoff Tower at about 11:30 in the morning and our signal to attack the Redan will be when the French hoist the Tricolour from the top of the tower. As before, we shall supply ladder parties to go in with the first wave of assault troops, but our main task will be to bring down the defences of the Redan and I am confident that we shall succeed in doing so. Failure will mean a second winter on these bleak Heights, so I do not contemplate failure.”
A cheer went up and everyone was smiling when Keppel dismissed them.
The cannonade opened next morning, supported by fire from rocket and mortar-vessels in Streletska Bay, which was directed against the Quarantine Battery and the enemy ships-of-the-line at anchor in the harbour. The bombardment was continued for two more days with telling effect—several enemy ships were hit and burnt to the waterline, and both the Malakoff and the Redan suffered so tremendous a pounding that, for the first time in almost a year, the return of fire from both slackened noticeably. On 7th September, as Captain Keppel had predicted, the men of the Naval Brigade learnt that the attack was to be launched, as planned, the following morning.
“The French will attack with four divisions, under General Bosquet,” Keppel told his Officers. “MacMahon’s division, with the Zouaves, will lead the assault on the Malakoff, and two others will be sent simultaneously against the Little Redan and, assisted by a Sardinian brigade, they will attempt to capture the Central Bastion and then wheel right, to take the Flagstaff Bastion in the rear. The fourth division will advance against the Curtain.” He indicated the various points of attack on his map. “They have learnt their lesson from the last costly failure, when over-crowding in the forward parallels permitted the assault troops only to advance in twos and threes and support was late in reaching them. They have built a road, fifty yards in width, cutting straight through the parallels and, at present, hidden from the enemy by gabions, which are merely laid in position and can easily be removed when the attack is due to begin.”
“How about our attack, sir?” Captain Moorsom, his second-in-command asked, a faint edge to his voice. “Have we learnt our lesson?”
Henry Keppel sighed. “I am not sure,” he admitted. “It is not for me to criticize military decisions made by the High Command. But we are sending in two divisions only—General Codrington’s Light Division, which is bled white and the Second, both of which, as you know, failed and suffered heavy losses in the last attack on the Redan on the eighteenth of June. These two have been given ‘the honour of the assault,’ as the Commander-in-Chief calls it, in consequence of their having defended the batteries and the approaches to the Redan for so many months. Their losses have been made up by large intakes of raw boys, who have never seen action and cannot be expected to fight like the gallant veterans of the Alma and Inkerman, whom they have replaced.” The little Captain repeated his sigh. “If the choice had been left to me, gentlemen, I confess that I would have entrusted this crucial attack to Sir Colin Campbell and his Highland Brigade, which still contains a high proportion of splendid veterans, and to the Third Division, which is also unimpa
ired by recent losses. As it is, both these will act only as the second line of reserves.”
There were murmurs of agreement with this view, in which Phillip joined with some feeling. He had been at the Battle of Balaclava as naval liaison Officer to Sir Colin Campbell and had the greatest admiration and respect for the Highlanders and their tough, experienced Commander. And it was, he knew, a maxim of war that troops which had suffered a severe defeat should go to reserve for a considerable period and not be used again in an identical operation. He leaned forward to study the map which Henry Keppel had spread out for this purpose. The Redan, which had been the main target for the Naval Brigade’s guns for so long, was a familiar sight to him but now he was seeing it with new eyes and from a different angle, as a fortress to be taken by assault—and by soldiers on foot, who would charge with the bayonet.
It was built on a vineyard some three hundred feet above sea level and it had two faces, each seventy yards long, which met at an angle of 65°. Its base was a fortified line of earthworks, in front of which lay a ditch, twenty feet in width and fourteen in depth. Above this, the Redan rose to a height of fifteen feet, forming an escarpment nearly thirty feet from top to bottom, which could only be surmounted with the aid of scaling ladders. It was defended by over fifty guns, Phillip was aware, some of them in two tiers, sited behind well constructed embrasures, with traverses to the rear. To reach it, the assault troops would have to cross two hundred yards of uphill ground, exposed to the fire of batteries to right and left, as well as those of their objective, and they would have to negotiate an abattis of felled trees and intertwining branches, fifty yards in front of the ditch. It would be a daunting prospect for seasoned troops, he thought, and for half-trained replacements, who had never been in action … he found himself echoing Keppel’s sigh.
