The Brave Captains

by V. A. Stuart

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me for giving you your due.” Graham held out his hand. “I wish you well in your new appointment.”

  Phillip took the extended hand and wrung it. “Au revoir, Graham. You are to stay, you know, as Second Master, subject to Captain Crawford’s approval.”

  “So I’ve been given to understand by Mr Burnaby. I trust that Captain Crawford will approve … if he does not, you may yet find both O’Leary and myself manning a gun in the Seaman’s Battery. Captain Crawford may be thankful to be rid of us, whatever Fleet Orders ordain … we’re both Queen’s hard bargains, are we not?” Graham grinned wryly and, tucking his hat under his arm again, moved to the cabin door. “Good luck, Phillip my dear lad … may God be with you.”

  “And with you,” Phillip responded, meaning it with all his heart. He donned his cocked hat and went on deck.

  Punctually at five bells, Captain Crawford’s gig came alongside. He was received with the ceremony to which his rank entitled him and, having read his commission to the assembled ship’s company, became officially Captain of Trojan.

  At the conclusion of Divine Service, Phillip stepped into the boat which was to take him to Agamemnon. As the midshipman in charge called out the order to give way, he looked back, once. After that, he kept his gaze fixed resolutely on the flagship, drawing rapidly nearer, as the boat’s crew bent with a will to their oars… .

  CHAPTER TWO

  1

  Sir Edmund Lyons was ashore at Lord Raglan’s headquarters when Phillip reported aboard the Agamemnon.

  “He is likely to remain there until well into the afternoon,” his friend Tom Johnson, the flagship’s senior watchkeeper, told him. “After that, I understand, he will go straight to Kadi-Koi for a conference with Sir Colin Campbell. Tell me … is your business with him urgent, Phillip?”

  “In my view it is,” Phillip answered. “The Admiral may be aware of something I have learnt recently but, if he is not, then I think he would wish to be made aware of it.”

  “In that case, I’d have a word with his Secretary, Frederick Cleeve,” Lieutenant Johnson advised. “You know him, of course. Well, ask him to arrange for you to report to the Admiral first thing tomorrow morning … and I mean first thing. His barge is called away as soon as he has broken his fast which, when he is going ashore, is seldom later than five bells of the Morning Watch.”

  “Does he go ashore daily?” Phillip asked.

  “Almost daily. Once of the small steamers conveys him to Balaclava and then he rides to Lord Raglan’s headquarters which, as you know, is nearly seven miles.” Tom Johnson sighed. “It’s taking it out of him, and he’s beginning to feel the strain, for he doesn’t spare himself. But we have to remain here, in order to conserve our fuel, if you please! There’s talk that we are to be permitted to shift from this anchorage to Kherson, which would be a blessing from our Admiral’s point of view. It would greatly shorten the fatiguing journey for him and would also lessen the risk he’s compelled to take. Imagine it, Phillip … this morning the Beagle took him to Balaclava, yesterday it was the Arrow, and both ships landed their Lancasters to help with the siege!”

  “You mean they’re unarmed?” Phillip asked, shocked.

  Tom Johnson nodded, tight-lipped. “I do. And the Russians, as you’ll have observed, have several steamers anchored just inside the boom, ready to sally forth on the chance of picking up a prize. The Vladimir is especially active in this respect. Her gunnery is excellent and she’s well and boldly commanded—our troops on shore had to erect a battery for the express purpose of returning her fire. And I imagine you heard of the occasion ten days ago, when she would have taken an Austrian bark—on passage from Eupatoria to Balaclava, with hay for our commissariat—but for a very smart piece of work on the part of Beagle and Firebrand?”

  “No, I hadn’t heard. What happened?”

  Lieutenant Johnson smiled. “Oh, it was a splendid thing! The bark ran herself aground on the shoal off Fort Constantine, with all the guns the fort could bring to bear blazing away at her, and the Vladimir and another Russian running at full speed out of harbour to take her in tow and bring her into Sebastopol. But in went Boxer, the Second Master, who was in command, with the unarmed Beagle, to slip a tow-rope to her and, as he got her away, Firebrand stood by to cover him. Captain William Houston Stewart, in Firebrand, got the worst of it … she was hulled four times. But neither Beagle nor the bark received a hit. The Russian gunners have improved since then, alas! You took a pounding from Fort Constantine in last Tuesday’s action, did you not?”

  “We did,” Phillip agreed. They exchanged news and then, Tom Johnson being due on watch, Phillip went, as he had suggested, in search of Frederick Cleeve. The Secretary promised to put forward his request and the following morning, at five bells, he was summoned to join the Admiral at breakfast in his quarters. He went with alacrity.

  “Well, Phillip my dear boy, it’s good to have you aboard again …” As always, Admiral Lyons’s greeting was warm and friendly but he looked tired, Phillip observed. His thin, pale face—which, in his youth, had borne so strikingly a resemblance to that of the great Admiral Nelson—was unusually lined and haggard and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes, as if he were sorely in need of sleep. As Tom Johnson said, he never spared himself and he was now in his middle sixties, a man of frail physique but—like Nelson—of indomitable courage. Phillip returned his greeting respectfully and the Admiral waved him to a seat.

  “Sit down, my dear boy, and help yourself. You are fortunate … I have a rare treat to offer you this morning. Grilled kidneys, no less, and obtained, I am given to understand”—he smiled engagingly—“from an animal that strayed inadvertently into the bivouac of the 93rd Highlanders at Kadi-Koi.”

  A rare treat indeed, Phillip thought, as he helped himself from a silver entrée dish offered by the Admiral’s steward—and a welcome change from his accustomed breakfast of stewed salt pork and ship’s biscuit. The steward poured his coffee and then the Admiral dismissed him.

  “I believe that you wish to see me on a confidential matter, Phillip? Well, I have half an hour to spare, as it happens so …” Sir Edmund refilled his own coffee cup and regarded him expectantly. “Say what you want to. If it concerns your lack of promotion—a promotion which, in my opinion, you have fully merited—then I can only tell you that I did my best to get you your step, but I failed.”

  Phillip reddened. “It doesn’t sir. I—”

  “Does it not? Good … but since we’re on the subject, I should like to give you my assurance that you will get your promotion—and a command of your own—when I am Commander-in-Chief of this fleet. In the meantime”—the Admiral’s small, slim hand rested lightly on his guest’s shoulder—“you are appointed to this ship as third lieutenant, since there was no other vacancy available. But with the experience you have had as a staff officer and the ability you have shown, I can find employment for you on my staff.”

  “Thank you very much indeed, sir,” Phillip acknowledged with sincere gratitude. “There is no service I would rather perform and I will do all in my power to be worthy of your confidence. You have already done much more for me than I deserve, sir.”

  “Nonsense, boy! More kidneys?” The dish was pushed invitingly across the table. “Finish them up, Phillip. I’ve had all I want … my appetite is poor these days and it would be a pity to waste such excellent fare.”

  “Indeed it would, sir … thank you.” Phillip needed no second bidding and, as he obediently emptied the dish, Sir Edmund eyed him thoughtfully.

  “You know, I imagine, the reason why the Commander-in-Chief was unwilling to promote you?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. In the circumstances—”

  “Quite … there was nothing else he could do, in these particular circumstances.”

  Phillip stopped eating, feeling suddenly nauseated.

  “I understand that, sir, perfectly.”

  “Good.” The Admir
al’s smile was both warm and approving. “It takes courage to accept injustice but you’ll get your chance again, Phillip, don’t worry. Admiral Dundas expressed the wish that you should serve for a time ashore with the Naval Brigade, unless I needed you for staff duties. Well, I do need you but I can find very useful employment for you ashore. Officially you will be under the orders of Captain Lushington and quartered with the Naval Brigade, as from today. But your responsibility will be to me and your duties those of a liaison officer, wherever I may find it expedient to send you … is that clear?”

  The feeling of nausea slowly passed. “Aye, aye, sir,” Phillip acknowledged. Lower deck rumour, as Graham had claimed, wasn’t wrong after all, he reflected. Officially, at any rate, he was to join the Naval Brigade and, if O’Leary’s supposition should also prove to be correct, he would see more action ashore than afloat … a prospect he could not but welcome in his present situation. He finished his kidneys with relish.

  “Then that is settled,” the Admiral said. “I trust as much to your satisfaction as to mine. And now … what is this confidential matter of which you wish to speak to me? What—or whom—does it concern?”

  Phillip looked up to meet his gaze. “It concerns my brother, sir. You may recall that he is serving with the fleet as an able-seaman, acting as Second Master …” He hesitated but Sir Edmund nodded to him to continue. “He was with the Tiger, sir, and he rejoined Trojan recently, having been a prisoner of war in Odessa since May. The information he gave me may already be known to you, sir, and to Lord Raglan, but I thought it might be of some importance. May I be permitted to tell you what he told me?”

  “When did you receive this information from your brother?”

  “Yesterday, sir. But he made a full report to the Captain of Fury immediately after leaving Odessa and it’s possible—”

  “That the report was passed on to me?” Admiral Lyons put in. “It was not. Carry on, Phillip, I should be interested to hear what your brother learnt in Odessa.”

  “Aye, aye, sir …” Phillip repeated, as concisely as he could, everything that Graham had told him. The Admiral listened, for the most part, in silence, occasionally interposing a question when some detail was not quite clear to him, his brow deeply furrowed as the recital continued.

  When it was over, he said quietly, “Thank you, Phillip—I am glad that you, at any rate, wasted no time in bringing me this information. Had it reached us earlier, it might have been of inestimable value … although I doubt whether even this would have influenced the decision, made by the French General Staff, to delay the assault on Sebastopol until the siege guns were in position. I doubt it very much—and Lord Raglan mistrusts any intelligence of the enemy’s strength or movements received at second-hand. But I wish that I had known how few men stood between us and final victory on the twenty-fourth of September!” He smothered a sigh. “However, your brother did not rejoin the fleet until a week or so ago, did he? By then, of course, it was too late.”

  “Yes, sir,” Phillip confirmed, hiding his disappointment at the Admiral’s reaction to his report. What he had said was true, admittedly. By the time that Graham had returned from Odessa, the garrison of Sebastopol had been substantially reinforced; and the landward defenses—which Sir George Cathcart had once contemptuously described as “being in the nature of a low park wall”—were now almost as formidable as those guarding the approaches to the harbour.

  In three short weeks, while the British and French had labouriously set up their siege-batteries on the Upland and hacked out their parallels in the rocky ground, the Russians had not been idle. Working night and day like so many busy, purposeful ants, soldiers, sailors, and civilians had constructed a defensive system four miles in extent—earthworks, interspersed with strong redoubts and bastions—between the original stone-built forts. As Graham had remarked, Sebastopol was now no easy nut to crack and, if Prince Menschikoff launched a counter-attack on Balaclava, then the tables might well be turned and the besiegers become the besieged… .

  As if he had read Phillip’s thoughts, the Admiral went on, still in the same quiet voice, “Your brother’s information confirms what Sir Colin Campbell and I have feared for some time … that the Russians intend to drive us from Balaclava if they can. Sir Colin, as you may be aware, has been placed in command of the Balaclava defenses, but these have been hastily prepared and he is by no means satisfied that they are adequate. I saw him yesterday, on my way to confer with Lord Raglan, and he told me that a Turkish spy had reported that a Russian attack was imminent … and coming, as your brother suggests it will, from the valley of the Tchernaya. That is on our right flank, which Sir Colin considers to be dangerously undermanned. And, if a general of the caliber of Liprandi has been sent here, I do not for a moment imagine that he will fail to exploit the weakness on our right, once he becomes aware of it … as he undoubtedly will. Rustem Pasha’s spy reported that he has at least thirty squadrons of cavalry under his command.”

  “Cossacks, sir?” Phillip suggested.

  The Admiral shook his head. “Not merely Cossacks, Phillip … crack regiments of Hussars and Lancers, it seems, if the Turk is to be believed. His report worried Sir Colin and, in response to his request for aid, Lord Raglan ordered Sir George Cathcart’s Fourth Division down from the Upland plateau, and Lord Lucan had the Cavalry Division standing-to all night. But no attack materialized so …” He shrugged. “The Fourth Division returned to their position, too exhausted to undertake their normal duty in the trenches it would seem, according to their commander, who was far from pleased when the alarm proved to be a false one.”

  “And our right flank, sir?” Phillip inquired diffidently.

  “Is still dangerously undermanned and vulnerable,” Admiral Lyons returned, his mouth compressed. “The Russians have reconnoitered the position several times during the past week, with both cavalry and infantry, but Lord Raglan says he has no troops to spare to reinforce it. He has requested that we land more Marines from the fleet. I shall make his wishes known to Admiral Dundas this morning, before I go ashore, and I hope he’ll comply with them. The Algiers is due to reach this anchorage some time today—she is from England and has a full complement of Marines. With these and, if the Commander-in-Chief agrees, a further two hundred from the Sanspareil, our contribution to the defense of Balaclava can be brought up to over fourteen hundred men. But Sir Colin Campbell has few enough under his command, God knows! He has the 93rd, from his own Highland Brigade—his other two regiments are with the First Division—and about a hundred invalids and convalescents, newly returned from hospital in Scutari. In addition he has Captain Barker’s troop of Horse Artillery and about fourteen hundred Turco-Tunisian irregulars.”

  “Turks, sir?” Phillip exclaimed. “To defend Balaclava?”

  The Admiral inclined his head gravely. “Yes. And they are ill-equipped and badly disciplined, from all accounts, and Sir Colin says he places little reliance on them. But nevertheless, for want of better troops, he has been compelled to post them on the Causeway Heights, in the redoubts constructed by Major Nasmyth. There are six of these but only four have, as yet, received the guns with which they are to be armed … naval twelve-pounders, placed so as to command the Woronzoff Road. They constitute our first line of defense, in conjunction with Canrobert’s Hill, on which Sir Colin has placed a Turkish battalion with three of the twelve-pounder guns. Cowper Coles made a sketch map of the position for me this morning. I’ll show it to you.”

  Phillip waited in silence, as the Admiral rose to look for the sketch map. The force at Sir Colin Campbell’s disposal sounded wholly inadequate, he thought grimly, yet it was expected to defend the harbour on which the very existence of the British infantry divisions on the Upland depended.

  The Marines from the fleet, manning the parapet on the eastern heights above the harbour, would form its last line of defense but they were thinly spread along a wide perimeter and possessed no guns heavier than 32-pounders … and few enough of
these. Even if reinforced from Algiers and Sanspareil they, too, must eventually be driven back once their supply of ammunition was exhausted and then …

  The Admiral returned to the table, his Flag Lieutenant’s sketch in his hand. “Here is the map, Phillip. It will give you an idea of the position.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Phillip took the proffered map and subjected it to a careful scrutiny. Having been in charge of the shore party from Trojan, which had assisted in the task of hauling the heavy naval guns from Balaclava Harbour to the Upland, he was familiar with the terrain in general. In particular, every twist and turn of the rutted, three-mile-long track which led through the gorge to Kadi-Koi, and thence to the Woronzoff Road, was etched indelibly in his memory. Climbing steeply from the valley of the Tchernaya—or Black—River, this road crossed the Plain of Balaclava and, following a ridge of high ground known as the Causeway Heights, passed through the camps of the British infantry divisions on the Upland and eventually entered the town of Sebastopol.

  The whole area of the Balaclava Plain was about three miles long and two wide, divided into two by the ridge and forming a valley on each side of it, which Cowper Coles had marked on his sketch map as North and South.

  In the South Valley, at the head of the gorge and a mile above the harbour, was the village of Kadi-Koi. Here the 93rd Highlanders were positioned, their encampment to the rear of the village, two strong gun emplacements to their left and the Marines on the Balaclava Heights, in an extended semi-circle, to their right rear. With the limited means at his disposal, Sir Colin Campbell, Phillip saw from the plan, while concentrating on covering the entrance to the gorge, had also done his best to defend the Causeway Heights and the road it carried, which was of immense strategic importance as the British army’s main line of communication with the harbour and ships. To lose the Causeway would be to lose the only good road to the camps of the infantry divisions and the siege-batteries overlooking Sebastopol, which must be kept supplied with shot and shell … whatever else they went without.