by V. A. Stuart
Still less, the Admiral reflected regretfully, could he confess to the growing mistrust he felt for his own second-in-command, since it was apparently at their Lordships’ wish and certainly with their knowledge that Sir Edmund Lyons occupied the privileged position he did, vis à vis Lord Raglan. Rear-Admiral Lyons, rather than himself, was regarded as the final authority on naval matters by Lord Raglan, enjoying his confidence, having his ear, influencing his decisions.
He blamed the French—and General Canrobert in particular—for yesterday’s failure. Although, so far as yesterday was concerned, Sir Edmund Lyons was, in his opinion, almost as much to blame as the French were. Had it not been Lyons who had originally conceived the idea of the ill-starred naval attack on the forts? Had it not been he who, thirsting for action and seeking an opportunity to distinguish himself, had persuaded Lord Raglan of its merits?
The Admiral drew the draft of his despatch towards him and studied it again in frowning concentration, his frown deepening when he re-read the paragraph he had numbered 8. To have linked the name of his second-in-command with that of the Captain of the Fleet, Rear-Admiral Stopford—who, like himself, had watched the action from Brittania’s unscathed poop—was perhaps a trifle ungenerous. He had deliberately refrained from singling out for praise the gallantry displayed by Admiral Lyons in bringing his fine steam-screw ship Agamemnon so close to the fort but … there was a certain justice in the omission.
No one, least of all himself, Admiral Dundas thought wryly, could deny Edmund Lyons’s personal courage or his splendid seamanship—although he possessed an exceptionally able Flag-Captain in William Mends. Thanks to their skilful handling of Agamemnon in the action, her total casualties had been four men killed, two officers and twenty-four seamen wounded … a remarkable achievement, in the circumstances. But no doubt word of this and of Lyons’s dashing leadership of his inshore squadron would, in due course, reach the First Lord, Sir James Graham, by other means. Lyons himself regularly exchanged letters with Sir James, and Lord Raglan would probably mention the matter in his despatch to the Duke of Newcastle. There would also be glowing reports in the Press, to the majority of whose “special correspondents” Lyons was already a hero, in the Nelson tradition. He would not be denied the credit he deserved by those to whom courage was the supreme virtue but for himself … Admiral Dundas passed an impatient hand through his thinning white hair.
He himself set greater store by forethought and sagacity, in a commander, and by a fitting sense of responsibility. Courage and dash, of the kind Lyons had exhibited yesterday, were qualities one looked for in junior officers; but when a man accepted promotion to high rank, he assumed with that rank responsibility for the lives of thousands of other men and the safety of the ships in which they served. A commander-in-chief was answerable for defeats, as well as being given credit for victories, and must, therefore, learn to temper courage with caution. Nelson—on whom, if rumour were to be believed, Edmund Lyons had sought to model himself throughout his service career—had died young.
Nevertheless … Admiral Dundas sighed. Lyons would succeed him as Commander-in-Chief of the British Black Sea Fleet when his own appointment came to an end, in two months’ time, and he found himself wondering, a trifle cynically, whether this would bring about a change of attitude on the part of his successor-designate. With the burden of command resting squarely on his shoulders, Lyons might not be quite so eager as he had been yesterday to send his ships in to shell Sebastopol’s formidable harbour defenses—even at Lord Raglan’s request. He might not be so insistent on defending Balaclava at all costs when the costs would be his own, the lives sacrificed in its defense his to explain to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, his to remember long after the battles were over and forgotten.
To give the devil his due, though, Lyons was efficient and a fine organizer and he had proved repeatedly, since his return to the Navy after almost twenty years in the diplomatic service, that he had forgotten none of the seamanlike skills he had acquired as a frigate captain. He inspired devotion in the officers and men serving under him and he was popular with the Army, particularly with its senior officers, most of whom—including Lord Raglan—were only too eager for him to assume command of the British Black Sea Fleet. Indeed, Admiral Dundas thought, when the time came, even he would not be sorry to pass on the burden of high office which now rested so heavily upon him, leaving Edmund Lyons, the sailor-diplomat, to make what he could of a difficult and unrewarding task. But … he thrust the draft of his dispatch from him, reaching again for his pen. He had not yet done so; he was still Commander-in-Chief of the British Fleet, he reminded himself, decisions as to naval strategy and the employment of the Fleet his to make—his and his alone—until he should haul down his flag.
If he decided to abandon Balaclava, neither Lyons nor Lord Raglan could gainsay him. Already the tiny, landlocked harbour was proving totally inadequate for the number of ships and the immense volume of stores, ammunition, and supplies it was required to accommodate. It was difficult of access; everything landed there had to be manhandled up a steep track to the head of a gorge and thence, for a further five or six miles, to the siege-works on the Upland—and it was daily becoming more congested. The choice of Balaclava as the British base had been made by Lord Raglan, on Lyons’s advice. Admittedly Lyons had chosen it in the belief that its use as a base would be temporary. He had expected to land the siege-trains and troop reinforcements there and, in the unlikely event that winter quarters might be required for the Army and a secure harbour for the ships of the Fleet he, like many others, had anticipated that Sebastopol would be captured in ample time to afford both.
As indeed, it might have been, the Admiral thought sourly, had the British and French troops launched their expected assault on the place yesterday. Taking a fresh sheet of paper, he wrote Lord Raglan’s name at its head.
“I consider,” he wrote, his pen moving firmly and decisively over the paper, “yesterday’s action a false one, which I decline to repeat and with which, as a naval officer of fifty years’ experience, I am profoundly dissatisfied …” The Admiral paused, to read through what he had written. He had expressed himself without finesse, even harshly, but every word was true and must be said, if he were not to fail in his duty. Sir Edmund Lyons could be requested to deliver the note in person and would, no doubt, exercise his skill as a diplomat in order to make his protest palatable to Lord Raglan and … he would defer making any decision concerning Balaclava for the time being. Perhaps the place could be held. He shrugged, added a few meaningless, conventionally polite phrases, and signed his name at the foot of the paper.
This done, he summoned his Secretary. Having given instructions for copies to be made of his despatch and the enclosures and a fair copy of the former to be delivered to him for signature, he asked for a number of other documents to be brought to him, including his Rear-Admiral’s report of the bombardment of Sebastopol’s sea defenses.
Promotions would have to be recommended, letters written to those Captains whose conduct merited recognition, and the command of several ships settled. Triton’s commander, Lieutenant Lloyd, had been killed yesterday, Firebrand’s Captain wounded, and there was the Trojan whose Captain, Thomas North, had died of cholera just before the frigate left Balaclava. She had been commanded in the action by her First Lieutenant, Admiral Dundas recalled … and very ably commanded. The First Lieutenant’s name was Phillip Hazard, he saw, aged 27, with fourteen years at sea, and a son of old Admiral Sir John Hazard, under whom he had served for a short time on the Cambrian, longer ago than he cared to remember. There had been a brother—an elder brother, if his memory was not at fault—who had been tried by court martial and dismissed the Service in … the date eluded him. But the ship had been the Comus, he was certain, and she had run aground at the mouth of the River Plate about ten or twelve years ago.
The Hazards were a fine old naval family but there was the brother and, of course, there were also the extraor
dinary accusations which the late Captain North had made against his First Lieutenant a few hours before he died. It was possible that he had been delirious—his behavior had been strange, to say the least, and his record as a commander left much to be desired but, in the circumstances, the sooner a new Captain was appointed to the Trojan the better, probably.
His Secretary laid the papers he had asked for in front of him and the Admiral thanked and dismissed him. Sir Edmund Lyons’s file lay on top of the rest and he read the report it contained again, with even more care than he had given to it initially, noting in particular the glowing tribute his second-in-command had paid to Captain Dacres of the Sanspareil.
“… never in the glorious annals of the British Navy … was an admiral better supported than I was by the commander of the Sanspareil …” Admiral Dundas frowned. There was praise also for the commanders of several other ships and a lengthy explanation of the circumstances in which the Rodney had gone aground, which exonerated her Captain, Charles Graham, of any suggestion of negligence. Admiral Lyons commended the conduct of several junior officers serving in his flagship, and drew attention to that of his Flag Lieutenant, Cowper Phipps Coles who, at the height of the engagement, had volunteered to go in a small boat to Bellerophon and Sanspareil—which had not seen his signals through the smoke of the guns—to request them to close the Agamemnon again.
“A service of great danger,” the Rear-Admiral wrote, “for the water all round the ship appeared a mass of foam from the projectiles which were passing her in all directions. Nevertheless, Lieutenant Coles accomplished his mission and returned in safety… .”
Admiral Dundas’ expression relaxed. He had witnessed Lieutenant Coles’ act of heroism from Britannia’s poop, when the smoke had momentarily cleared, and he made a note of the young officer’s name. This, at least, was a promotion he could endorse with a clear conscience, together with that of Frederick Maxse—Sir Edmund Lyons’s previous Flag Lieutenant—who had distinguished himself when acting as naval aide-de-camp to Lord Raglan, during the flank march to Balaclava. The other recommendations would require more thought. He had himself mentioned Commander Augustus Kynaston of the Spiteful in his despatch to the Admiralty, which should suffice to have that officer advanced immediately to post-rank, and there was Mr Codrington Ball, Second Master of the steam-tug Circassia, who had undertaken the dangerous and responsible task of piloting the inshore squadron across the shoal to within six hundred yards of Fort Constantine. But Admiral Lyons, he noticed, turning over the pages of his report, had also requested promotion for his senior Lieutenant, William Rolland, and for the commanders of Lynx and Trojan—Lieutenants Proctor-Luce and Hazard.
Of Lieutenant Phillip Hazard, the Rear-Admiral had written another glowing report, which concluded: “In view of the exemplary and gallant manner in which, as her First Lieutenant, he commanded the Trojan, I should like to recommend that he be confirmed in his command. As, however, this is a post-command and it seems to me probable that your Excellency may have an officer of higher rank in mind as successor to the late Captain North, I would request that Lieutenant Hazard be appointed to the Agamemnon … until such time as the command of a suitable ship … should become vacant… .”
Admiral Dundas picked up his pen once more, his broad, red-complexioned face set in thoughtful lines. He had several officers of higher rank in mind, of course. There were a number of commanders due for advancement, to whom the captaincy of a modern, 31-gun steam-screw frigate would be a fitting reward for good work and devotion to duty. Young Hazard was, as his sponsor had pointed out, too junior to be given the Trojan, save in exceptional circumstances. In the last war officials in their early twenties had attained post-rank—including Nelson and Lyons himself—but times had changed and there were now captains, with twice Hazard’s service, commanding smaller ships than the Trojan.
Besides, the Admiral reminded himself, there had been some ugly rumours concerning the Trojan during Captain North’s period of command. Her crew had been said to be disaffected, discipline poor and desertions numerous … he frowned, remembering. True, she had made a record passage out from England carrying, as passengers, a member of the Russian Imperial Family and her chaperone—the former a youthful Grand Duchess, who had somehow been overlooked during the course of an educational visit to London—both of whom had been repatriated to Odessa, just before the official declaration of war. It was also true that North had had the reputation of a taut hand but … his accusations against Lieutenant Hazard had been specific and damning and he had demanded a court martial under Article Nineteen of the Articles of War. Delirious or not, he had claimed that Hazard had been responsible for the disaffection of his ship’s company and had stated, quite positively, that he could prove his charges before a court martial. North was dead now, his proof and his charges dying with him but nevertheless … the Admiral’s quill spluttered over the paper.
He made a note that Lieutenant Hazard was to be appointed temporarily to the Agamemnon, but to serve with the Naval Brigade ashore in his present rank, unless specifically required for staff duties by Rear-Admiral Lyons. Still frowning, he placed a query against the note and laid it aside, whilst applying himself to the difficult task of deciding to which, of at least a dozen equally deserving senior officers, the vacant command of Trojan should be given.
He had reached no definite decision when his Secretary returned with a copy of his despatch for signature and the information that Rear-Admiral Lyons’s barge had been sighted, putting off from Agamemnon for the mile-long pull to Britannia’s anchorage.
“The Banshee is alongside, sir,” the Secretary added. “And mail for Constantinople has been collected from all ships at this anchorage, with the exception of the Agamemnon, sir. I understand that they are holding the postbag for Admiral Lyons, sir, who has been ashore at Lord Raglan’s headquarters all day.”
“Very well.” Admiral Dundas appended his signature to the despatch. “You will kindly see that this goes with the Banshee to Constantinople. And inform Commander Reynolds that he is to get under way immediately, if you please. The rest of the mail can be consigned to the Spiteful tomorrow morning.”
His own despatch would thus, he was fully aware, be the first official report of the naval bombardment to reach Whitehall … but he was conscious of no regrets on this account, as his Secretary took the document and its enclosures from him and went obediently to carry out his instructions.
The Banshee was under way before Admiral Lyons’s barge had covered more than half the distance which separated the two flagships. Her sturdy paddle-wheels churning the water to foam, the little despatch-steamer was a dark silhouette against the evening sky by the time the barge tied up to Britannia’s starboard chains. The side party stiffened to attention, as the boatswain’s mates raised their calls to their lips, preparatory to piping the Rear-Admiral aboard with due ceremony.
In the stern cabin, sipping a glass of Madeira, the Commander-in-Chief awaited his coming with equanimity. He had now made up his mind as to the Triton’s new commander—a comparatively easy decision, since Triton was only a 3-gun paddle-wheel steamer—and he had reduced the list of those he was considering for the command of Trojan to four names.
All were equally deserving, so that it might, perhaps, be politic in the circumstances to consult his Rear-Admiral or even to permit him to decide which of the four should be given advancement … Admiral Dundas smiled quietly to himself. Loyal as always to his little coterie of one-time Blonde or Madagascar officers, Lyons would almost certainly plump for Charles Crawford who, like Dacres of the Sanspareil, had served under his command in the Blonde in 1828.
Well, Crawford would not be a bad choice; he was the senior, even if his health was not as robust as it might have been and had put him ashore on half-pay for the last few years, his seniority entitled him to a better command than his present one … the quill spluttered again, as Captain Charles Crawford’s name was underlined. A good man, Charles Crawford, the Ad
miral reflected—taut enough, yet invariably a well-liked and respected officer. Just the man to put a stop to any disaffection there might still be among Trojan’s people … and it would do no harm to let Lyons imagine that the choice had been his.
Sipping his Madeira, Admiral Dundas wondered what had gone wrong during Captain North’s command. Some incident involving the passengers, perhaps? It was a possibility, of course. Women had no place aboard a ship of war; they invariably caused trouble, and the presence, on board the Trojan, of a Russian Grand Duchess on the eve of the declaration of war might well have caused trouble of the worst kind … particularly when the Trojan’s Grand Duchess had, apparently, been young and very beautiful.
Draining his glass, the Admiral wondered, with fleeting curiosity, what had happened to her. Perhaps she had been among the ladies of Sebastopol for whom, it was said, Prince Menschikoff had caused a pavilion to be set up overlooking the Alma, in order that they might witness the victory of his Imperial Army over the invaders from England and France. Or on the other hand, she … there was a knock on the door of his cabin. He rose heavily to his feet and, forcing a smile, prepared to welcome his second-in-command and successor-designate, Rear-Admiral Sir Edmund Lyons… .
2
The heavy coach lurched drunkenly over the rutted, uneven surface of the post-road from Perekop, to Simpheropol, its four sweating, mud-spattered horses urged on by the whips of the postillions crouching low in their saddles. Ahead galloped a dozen cavalrymen in the green uniform of the Chasseurs of Odessa, seeking to clear the way with shouts and curses but having, at times, to use the flat of their sabres in order to force a passage through the packed ranks of plodding foot soldiers, whose weariness made them deaf to commands and curses alike. But they halted thankfully when their own officers waved them to the road verge and stood there, leaning on their muskets, grateful for the unexpected respite which enabled them to draw breath and shift the heavy packs they bore to a more comfortable position.
