by V. A. Stuart
But Phillip frowned, as he studied Cowper Coles’ neatly labelled sketch map.
There was, he reminded himself, Lord Lucan’s Cavalry Division, consisting of the Light Brigade under Lord Cardigan, and the Heavy Brigade under Brigadier-General Scarlett, encamped in the South Valley but, strictly speaking, this was a separate command. As a Lieutenant-General Lord Lucan was not under Sir Colin Campbell’s orders—despite his 44 years of distinguished military service, Sir Colin ranked only as a brigade commander in the British Army—and in any case, if faced with a heavy concentration of fire from the field guns which accompanied every Russian infantry attack, what could fifteen hundred lightly armed horsemen do? Lucan was known to be difficult and obsessed with trivialities, on bad terms with his brother-in-law and immediate subordinate, Major-General Lord Cardigan, and the cavalry had by no means distinguished themselves so far in the campaign.
As if guessing his thoughts, Admiral Lyons said, “Lord Lucan and Sir Colin Campbell are cooperating most admirably with each other. Undoubtedly, if an attack is made on Balaclava, Lucan will do all in his power to help in its defense. And I have promised him a navel battery, with guns from Niger and Vesuvius, to support the 93rd. The guns are already on their way up and a strong redoubt has been prepared to receive them … they’ll be in position by this evening.”
“Here, sir?” Phillip pointed to the map.
“Yes, at Kadi-Koi,” the Admiral confirmed. “Which is where I am going to send you, Phillip … to act as naval liaison officer to Sir Colin Campbell. Report to him at Kadi-Koi today.” Phillip made to rise but he was waved back to his seat. “Not yet, boy. The Commander-in-Chief won’t be ready to receive me until eight bells. He never is, no matter what the urgency but …” the Admiral broke off, smiling wryly. “I’ve some paper-work to attend to, before I go to the Britannia, which will give us time to get your brother here. He’s acting as Second Master of the Trojan, I think you said. Good, then we’ll send for him. I’d like to hear what he has to say myself and, in all probability, I shall take him with me to make his report to Admiral Dundas in person. The Admiral will not like denuding the Sanspareil or the Algiers of their Marines, but your brother’s intelligence may help to convince him that such a course is necessary and urgent, if we’re to hold Balaclava … and hold it we must.”
“Do you wish me to have my brother sent for, sir?” Phillip offered.
“You can pass the word for the Flag Lieutenant to report to me—he can attend to it. I haven’t quite done with you, Phillip. And you’ll need an orderly … if you’d prefer one of your own men from the Trojan, now’s your opportunity.”
“Thank you, sir.” Phillip thought of O’Leary, as he carried out his instructions, and smiled to himself. When Lieutenant Coles had gone, Frederick Cleeve brought some papers for the Admiral’s attention and signature. These dealt with, Admiral Lyons turned to him again.
“According to a Polish deserter from Sebastopol, Phillip, Admiral Korniloff was mortally wounded during our bombardment …” To Phillip’s surprise, there was a note of sadness in the Admiral’s voice, as if he mourned the departed enemy and he added, in explanation, “Korniloff was a very courageous officer, from what I have heard of him and, if your brother’s information on this point is accurate, it must have broken his heart when he was ordered to sink his ships, instead of leading them out to do battle with ours. He was killed as a result of his own reckless heroism, the Pole said … to encourage the defenders, he rode from one strong-point to another, exposing himself to our fire. He was on the ramparts of the Malakoff Tower when a round shot shattered his thigh.”
The Admiral paused, his gaze fixed on some object above Phillip’s head and it was a moment or two before he resumed, in his normal quiet, controlled voice. “But now our immediate concern is Balaclava—the place must be held, no matter what the cost. When I recommended it to Lord Raglan as our base, I did not anticipate our having to use it as such for more than a week or so, at the outside. I believed that a few days would suffice for the Allied armies to gain possession of Sebastopol … and, had it not been for General Canrobert’s excessive caution, a few days would have sufficed. But … the Allied High Command estimated that an assault on the town from the Balbec might result in five hundred casualties, and that was considered too high a price to pay for a successful end to our campaign.” He spread his hands, the gesture one of mingled resignation and despair. “Now, if we are not to lose all hope of taking Sebastopol, we cannot afford to abandon Balaclava, Phillip. And, I daresay, we shall deem ourselves fortunate if we lose only twice the number of men, in its defense, that the Generals feared to risk a month ago, when the prize was of infinitely greater value.”
Phillip still remained respectfully silent. It was evident that the Admiral was speaking as much to himself as to his newly appointed liaison officer and would welcome no comment. He looked weary and downcast as he bent over the table on which Cowper Coles’ sketch map of the Balaclava defenses was spread, studying it despondently, as if in search of inspiration which he did not expect to find. But Sir Edmund Lyons, Phillip knew from past experience, was not a man to lose heart easily. Nor, indeed, was it in his nature to admit defeat if an answer could be found to a complex problem, and now his fine white brows met in a frown of deep concentration as he stared at the map in front of him.
“In this situation, our fleet is of even less use than Korniloff’s,” Phillip heard him murmur bitterly, beneath his breath. “Save for its guns, and we can land no more of those. But …” His mood changed with startling suddenness. “By gad, boy, I have it! Of course … why did I not think of it before?” His voice was clipped and decisive, full of confidence. “We can hold Balaclava, if need be, with a ship-of-the-line!”
“With a ship-of-the-line, sir?” Phillip echoed incredulously, unable to restrain himself any longer. True, he reminded himself, Captain Mends had taken the Agamemnon into Balaclava Harbour to meet Lord Raglan and his staff, at the conclusion of the army’s flank march to the south of Sebastopol … but then it had been virtually empty, apart from Niger and Highflyer and the two small steam-sloops which had preceded her, sounding as they went. He had a swift mental vision of the harbour as it had been when he last saw it, choked with shipping, the wharves overloaded with supplies of every kind, and the temporary Captain of the Port—the Simoom’s able commander, Captain Tatham—working far into the night in a vain attempt to bring order to the chaos about him… .
“Yes, a ship-of-the-line, Phillip,” the Admiral declared. He sprang to his feet, galvanized into action as if impelled by some inner reserve of energy that his frail body looked unlikely to possess, yet seemed always able to summon up when it was needed. In an instant, his depression vanished and he was once again the bold resourceful leader so beloved of the officers and seamen he commanded. Quick thinking and determined, every detail of the plan of action he had conceived was, Phillip realized, already taking shape in his mind.
“A steamer, moored bow and stern across the upper end of the harbour, to sweep the approaches to it with an over-whelming battery of fire from her broadside! It’s the only solution. Even should the enemy carry the position of the 93rd at the head of the gorge we could drive them back … we could prevent the harbour falling into their hands. A channel will have to be cleared to permit her to enter, of course, but with the assistance of two or three steam frigates, the tugs can see to that, and the depth of water is more than adequate, as we know. With the Marines on the Heights above her, one ship will suffice, well commanded … although I think the Diamond’s remaining guns might also be manned. Niger and Vesuvius are in the harbour … they can find the guns’ crews and if the rest of their seamen join Sir Colin and the 93rd at Kadi-Koi, then I fancy …” He broke off, to ring the bell at side. His Secretary answered it and was told to request the immediate presence of the Flag Captain, William Mends.
“Come back, Frederick,” Admiral Lyons bade him. “I shall need you and Cowper Coles before I call on
the Commander-in-Chief. And tell my steward to clear this table, if you please.” He consulted his pocket watch, stifling an impatient sigh. “We haven’t very long.” Phillip again attempting to efface himself was, for the second time, waved back to his seat.
“I am going to anticipate the Commander-in-Chief’s orders, Phillip,” the Admiral told him. “You will go at once to the Sans-pareil. Here …” As his steward hastily cleared the table of its breakfast debris, he reached for pen and paper and started rapidly to write. “Take this as your authority. Request Captain Dacres to get steam up and prepare to take his ship to Balaclava, as soon as he receives a signal to proceed from the flagship. You can explain matters to him in detail. He’s to anchor outside the harbour to land his Marines but be prepared to enter and defend it, with every gun he can bring to bear, should the Russians attack and, by some ill chance, carry the position of the 93rd at Kadi-Koi. I shall be outside, with this ship, to support him. If he is short of shot or experienced guns’ crews, I’ll see that he is given whatever he needs … tell him that, will you?”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Phillip placed the note in his breast pocket.
“The harbour must be cleared of all empty transports and storeships … and that infernal yacht of Lord Cardigan’s—the Dryad.—if she’s in the way. The depot and hospital ships cannot be moved, of course but …” The Admiral sighed. “Precise instructions will be sent, Captain Mends will work out what is likely to be required whilst I’m with the Commander-in-Chief. In the meantime, it may avoid unnecessary delay if you call on Captain Tatham, Phillip, to warn him of what is in the wind. When you’ve seen him, call on Commander Heath and give him the same warning … say that he will probably be required to take command of a party of seamen from his own ship and Vesuvius, to reinforce the 93rd, but he’s to await confirmation.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Phillip was on his feet.
The Admiral smiled at him. “After which, my boy,” he said, “report to Sir Colin Campbell at Kadi-Koi. Inform him fully of what I intend to suggest to the Commander-in-Chief and tell him that I shall call on him myself at the earliest possible opportunity. But if Sir Colin has any immediate communication to make, concerning this or any other proposal, then bring it back to me, because I may not manage to get ashore today. You had better take one of my horses and …” Again he consulted his watch, as a knock on the door of the cabin heralded the arrival of his Flag Lieutenant, which was followed a moment or so later, by that of Captain Mends and the Secretary.
“Gentlemen, we have work to do,” the Admiral announced, when he had greeted Agamemnon’s commander and, with his usual courtesy, invited him to be seated at the table. “Carry on, Phillip … you know what you have to do. The Beagle can convey you to Balaclava—she’s standing by to perform this service for me, but I doubt if I shall require her until this afternoon, if at all.” His hand rested briefly on Phillip’s shoulder. “Godspeed to you, my boy. I shall see you, no doubt, at Kadi-Koi.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Phillip acknowledged, drawing himself to attention. He bowed his farewells to the other occupants of the Admiral’s cabin, whose brows had risen almost in unison at the mention of Kadi-Koi, and, having hastily packed his immediate requirements into a valise, made his way to the quarterdeck. The duty boat, with Graham and O’Leary on board, came along-side as he made his orders known to the officer of the watch and he had barely had time to exchange a dozen words with his brother before the senior midshipman of the watch came to inform him that his valise had been stowed, and the boat was now ready to take him to the Sanspareil.
The huge, red-headed O’Leary beamed his gratification in a gap-toothed smile when Phillip told him why he had been sent for and followed him into the boat with alacrity, lest some unexpected change of plan should rob him of the opportunity he wanted so badly.
2
The call on Captain Dacres did not take long. Like all the officers in his squadron now holding post-rank, Sidney Colpoys Dacres had been privileged, over twenty years before, to serve as a junior officer under Sir Edmund Lyons’s command in the Blonde and Madagascar frigates, and no order the Rear-Admiral might choose to give him was ever questioned. He looked tired and ill and confessed that he was feeling a trifle off-color but his eyes lit up as Phillip, in accordance with his instructions, outlined the proposal that the Sanspareil should undertake the defense of Balaclava Harbour. The only criticism he expressed was the fear that clearing the upper anchorage might take longer than anticipated, thus delaying his ship’s entry.
“The Russians won’t wait for us, Mr Hazard,” he said dryly. “But, so long as they postpone their attack until my ship is at her station, then the Admiral need have no cause for anxiety. It is a brilliantly conceived plan of defense. We’ll hold Balaclava. They could send an army against us, but the gorge is too narrow to permit more than a hundred or so to attack at one time … and with the Marines’ 32-pounder howitzers to enfilade them from the Heights, I don’t fancy many will get through. Should there be a chance of it, I’ll position a couple of extra batteries there myself.” He smiled, clearly pleased with the role assigned to him. “Well, I shall get steam up at once, as the Admiral desires but … I am to await a signal from the flag before proceeding, you say?”
“Those were the Rear-Admiral’s instructions, sir.”
“I see.” Captain Dacres’ smile faded momentarily. “Does that mean that our Admiral is in any doubt as to whether the Commander-in-Chief will approve his plan for the defense of the harbour?”
“I don’t know, sir. Admiral Lyons will be on his way to Britannia by this time to confer with the Commander-in-Chief, sir, but …” Phillip hesitated. It was common knowledge throughout the Fleet that Admiral Dundas had not approved of the choice of Balaclava as the British base, which had been made by Lord Raglan on the advice of Sir Edmund Lyons, and he wondered suddenly whether the Commander-in-Chief would agree to risking a line-of-battle ship in its defense. “My instructions,” he ended, choosing his words carefully, “were simply to request you to prepare to take the Sanspareil to Balaclava on receiving a signal from the flagship, sir.”
“Ah! And whom else have you been instructed to—er—to warn of this matter, Mr Hazard?”
“Captain Tatham at Balaclava, sir, in case it should be necessary to clear the harbour at short notice. I understand that Lord Raglan himself has requested a reinforcement of the Marines, sir, and that Admiral Lyons intends to suggest that your ship and the Algiers should find the reinforcements.”
“Good … then the Admiral means business,” Captain Dacres decided. He looked relieved. “Give Captain Tatham plenty of warning, Mr Hazard, because it will take time to get that shipping cleared and … he’s another one who doesn’t like Balaclava. One can scarcely blame him, in the circumstances but, whatever its disadvantages, now we’re there, we’re committed to hold the place. Tell me—how are you to get to Balaclava? With us?”
Phillip shook his head. “No, sir, aboard the Beagle.”
“The Beagle, eh? Excellent! Then carry on, my young friend, I won’t detain you.” The captain was smiling again, enthusiastic as a schoolboy. “I’ll send you across to the Beagle …” He gave the necessary order to the officer of the watch and turned to Phillip again. “Au revoir, Mr Hazard. I trust that we may meet again very soon … in Balaclava. And perhaps you will be so good as to convey my compliments to Sir Colin Campbell and tell him that, should his duties permit, I shall be happy if he will dine with me aboard this ship, when she takes up her station in the harbour. As his naval aide-de-camp, no doubt he will wish you to accompany him.”
Thanking him, Phillip found himself echoing that infectiously boyish smile as he took his leave. The Beagle conveyed him at top speed and somewhat uncomfortably to Balaclava. She was a flat-bottomed, steam-screw gunboat, useful because of her light draft but inclined to roll unpleasantly in any kind of sea, and Phillip did not envy her Master, Mr Boxer, his temporary command. She was short of both officers and seamen; her Capta
in, Lieutenant Hore, and his second-in-command, a young mate, William Hewett, were both ashore with the two 68-pounder Lancaster guns with which the Beagle was normally armed, together with the guns’ crews and two midshipmen. With his ship in constant demand as a despatch vessel, Mr Boxer and the rest of his crew got little rest; but they were keen and smart and having, by this time, become accustomed to the Beagle’s eccentricities and immune to her rolling, were united in their esteem for their ungainly craft and proud of her record.
Learning something of his passenger’s mission, the Master glumly expressed the opinion that Balaclava was “hardly worth fighting for,” but he blamed the army commissariat and the lack of land transport for the state of disorganized congestion which now existed there.
“You’ll see a change, Mr Hazard,” he added, still glum. “And not, I fear, one for the better.”
Phillip decided to reserve judgement but certainly the harbour, when they reached it, presented an even more alarming picture of over-crowding than he recalled from his last sight of the place. It was, in fact, an inlet from the sea rather than a harbour, lacking roads and hemmed in by massive, almost perpendicular cliffs of dark red sandstone, whose summit was marked by the ruins of an ancient Genoese fort built, many years before, to command the entrance. This was narrow and difficult of access, so that ships under sail had usually to be towed into and out of harbour by a steamer … and there were few available for the task.
In consequence or because there was no room for them inside, a great many transport vessels were at anchor beneath the towering cliffs, their crews idling on deck. Others beat back and forth, presumably awaiting permission to enter or the arrival of a steam tug and, in the meantime—like those at anchor—they lacked shelter and protection from the prevailing northerly wind. Within the harbour itself, the five hundred-foot-high cliffs afforded ample protection from wind and weather but the anchorage was barely half a mile long, with a maximum width of three hundred feet and, although its depth of seven fathoms permitted the entry of large vessels, the northern end, Phillip knew, was blocked by shoal water a few feet deep. In order to reach her station, the Sanspareil would require skilful pilotage and adequate room in which to maneuver, or she would run the risk of tailing on to the shoal but … he drew in his breath sharply. There was no room; ships were moored every-where and he counted over a score tied up, head to stern, in two tiers, along the eastern shore alone. Most of these, Mr Boxer told him, were provision ships waiting to discharge cargoes, for which—owing to the length of time required to clear the wharves of cargoes previously unloaded—no space could yet be found.
