by V. A. Stuart
“Miss Moray is here, sir,” Phillip told him. “If you would care to speak to her.”
“Is she? Alas, I cannot see her … it is dark, is it not? I can scarcely see your face and I should like to. Have you a lamp, by any chance?” Phillip was about to move the lantern but Catriona forestalled him with a swift headshake and a finger to her lips. He apologized awkwardly. “You haven’t one? Well, no matter, the darkness is not unpleasant, and so long as my benefactress is aware that I am grateful …” Narishkin sighed. “It is good to have a woman’s care, when one is in pain. Sophia was with me in Perekop and Simpheropol, you know, and would have remained with me in Bakshi-Serai in order to … fulfil her wifely duty and care for me. But”—his expression relaxed and his eyes no longer held even a hint of mockery—“she is to have my child, Mr Hazard, which rejoices us both.”
Taken off his guard a second time, Phillip managed to control his voice. “Permit me to offer you my congratulations, sir,” he said stiffly. He was conscious of Catriona’s hand, resting lightly on his arm and added, with more warmth, “That is indeed wonderful news.”
“I think it is,” the Russian said. “At least my name will be carried on and my estates have an heir, God willing. Sophia is in Odessa now—as soon as I knew she was with child, I forbade her to … stay any longer with me. I sent her back to my mother’s house, which is outside Odessa. She will be safe there, I trust, she and … the child. Your army, as well as your navy, will have … all they can do to reduce Sebastopol to … submission. Too much to … waste men and … ships on Odessa. The assault … was too long delayed, Mr Hazard. Your generals have … faint hearts, fainter than … the splendid soldiers they … command. It is … curious, is it not, that I … am in my … present predicament because Sophia’s cousin, the … insufferable Nicolai … accused me of … cowardice. Very … curious and somehow … ironic …” His voice was gradually becoming fainter, the words more slurred and indistinct and, observing this, Catriona signed to Phillip to stand aside.
“His life is ebbing fast,” she told him, with a pity she made no attempt to hide. “Already his sight is almost gone but—he has had his wish, he has talked to you and I believe that you have set his mind at rest. So leave him to me now, Mr Hazard, and I will do what is necessary. I do not think he feels any pain but, if he does, there is this draught the surgeon left me.” She held a cup to Andrei Narishkin’s lips and he gulped its contents thirstily as, deftly raising his head, she pillowed it against her breast. “We cannot summon a priest of his own faith but I will say a prayer for him, the same prayer that I have said for many soldiers since yesterday morning. Please God it may suffice …” Her voice was low and infinitely gentle. Phillip could not hear what she said but evidently the words of her prayer reached the dying man, for he emitted a deep sigh of relief.
“Sophie—Sophie beloved! Is it possible that you are here?” His voice was miraculously stronger and his left hand reached out to grasp Catriona’s, the blind eyes lit with a glow that held neither mockery nor arrogance but only joy and a strange sort of contentment. He had spoken in French and Catriona answered him in the same language. “Yes, I am here. My place is with you, Andrei.”
“With the arrogant, strutting poseur to whom you have the misfortune to be married, brought up—according to your cousin Nikita—by women?” Narishkin asked wryly. “With the soldier who, Nikita claims, has no taste for English steel?”
Catriona hesitated, clearly bewildered by the bitterly phrased questions and at a loss to know how best to answer them. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if seeking guidance in prayer, and then said quietly, “I am with my husband, Andrei —with the father of my unborn child and I—I am proud that it is so.”
To Phillip, listening intently yet hearing only part of their whispered conversation, it was as if Mademoiselle Sophie herself were speaking. The answer was, he knew in his heart, the one that she would have given. He wanted to go but, an unwilling eavesdropper, was nevertheless incapable of taking the few steps which would have rendered their voices inaudible to him and, as he heard Andrei Narishkin refer again to the coming child, he was conscious of a sense of deep and irreparable loss. He held her ring in his hand, the man she had married was dying in front of his eyes but, for the first time since their parting, he faced and accepted the fact that the lovely, innocent child whom he had known as Mademoiselle Sophie had no existence, outside his memory. She had become, in the interim, the Princess Narishkin and, treasure it how he might, the memory was only a memory. The heart, as she told him, did not forget but … there was room in it for reality as well as dreams.
From outside the tent, Sergeant MacCorkill’s voice broke into his thoughts. “’Tis dawn, Lieutenant Hazard, sir, and your galloper here with orders for you to report to Sir Colin Campbell at Number Four Battery in half an hour. Your horse is ready saddled for you and I have myself to report for duty, by your leave, sir.”
“Thank you Sergeant,” Phillip acknowledged. “Carry on—I’m coming immediately.” He picked up his cap and then, on impulse, knelt and his lips brushed Catriona’s tear-wet cheek. He could not have said whether it was of the ghost of Mademoiselle Sophie he thus took leave, or of Catriona herself and she, instinctively aware of his inner conflict, did not lift her head or took at him, but he heard her catch her breath on a sob. Prince Narishkin, he saw, as he rose to leave the tent, lay very quietly, his dark head still pillowed on the girl’s breast and a faint smile curving his mouth. Compassionately, Catriona drew the blood-stained tartan plaid closer about him but he did not stir.
2
Outside, the usual Crimean mist swirled this way and that, half obscuring the shadowy figures who waited there and it was not until he spoke that Phillip recognized his brother Graham, standing at Sergeant MacCorkill’s side.
“Good morning, sir,” Graham greeted him, with correct formality but a broad smile. Still smiling, he added in reply to his brother’s startled question, “Trojan has been ordered into Balaclava Harbour to assist in its defense. We are moored just astern of the Sanspareil and I am assigned to a gun position on the Heights. But we haven’t got our guns up yet, so I asked for an hour’s leave of absence.”
“I see.” Phillip took his horse’s rein from Sergeant MacCorkill and, after repeating his thanks, led the animal through the line of tents in the direction of No. 4 Gun Battery, Graham falling into step beside him. “You want to talk to me?”
“Yes … and the deuce of a job I had finding you! I’m not curious, Phillip, and your 93rd sergeant was the soul of discretion but what were you doing in the Highlanders’ camp? All the sergeant would say was that you had come on an errand of mercy.”
“I suppose one might describe it thus.” Phillip sighed. “It is a long story, so perhaps we could defer explanations until a more opportune moment. You understand, I—”
“Of course,” his brother assured him. “If I do not understand, at least I can wait for the explanation. In any case, there isn’t much time, for you’re wanted and I must return to my gun’s crew. I sent your cavalry orderly to brigade headquarters, by the by, because I wanted an opportunity to speak with you alone. As naval liaison officer, there’s something I fancy you may wish to tell Sir Colin Campbell.”
“Oh—and what is that?”
Graham eyed him gravely. “Phillip, the last transport left harbour last night, with wounded for Scutari. She took every man who could be crammed aboard her, but the hospital is now filled to overflowing and, with every hour, more wounded are being brought down from the cavalry lines. Some, because there is no room for them in the hospital, have lain all night on the wharf, awaiting embarkation. They are without food, water, or medical attention apart from what they were given in the field hospitals …” He paused and Phillip stared at him in shocked and uncomprehending surprise.
“I don’t think I follow you, Graham,” he said. “What do you mean by the last transport? There are plenty of transports at anchor outside the harbour entrance—
I saw them myself yesterday. They were only cleared to enable the Sanspareil to enter and permit her room to maneuver—”
“But they will remain at anchor outside Balaclava,” Graham put in. “Captain Dacres, as senior officer, has taken command of the port. He has issued orders that no ships are to enter, for whatever purpose—and that includes for the purpose of evacuating the wounded, Phillip.”
“What! You cannot mean that. Why—”
“Alas, I do. Evacuation of the wounded must take second place to the defense of Balaclava, unless and until we abandon it. There are strong rumours current that the harbour is to be abandoned”—Graham spoke with stark earnestness—“and I am not, I assure you, repeating gossip. It is widely believed that we are, in future, to share Kamiesch and Kazatch with the French, and that our seamen and marines, together with the Sanspareil and the remaining frigates in the harbour, are to fight a rearguard action. We’re to hold off the enemy for as long as we can and then retire on the ships of war, for evacuation. That means, of course, those who can walk—or run. The wounded will be left to the tender mercies of the Russians, while the Kadi-Koi defenders retire to the Upland.”
“You say this is rumoured?” Phillip demanded.
“Yes. But Captain Dacres’ order lends credence to the rumour. He, presumably, is acting on instructions from higher up, for he is normally a humane man.”
“From higher up?” Phillip echoed, more shocked than ever. “Do you mean from Admiral Lyons?”
“You will know more about that than I, my dear Phillip,” his brother evaded. “Since you delivered Admiral Lyons’s instructions to the Sanspareil in person, did you not? You spoke to Dacres, surely?”
True, Phillip thought, he had but … his heart sank, as the full significance of his brother’s words sank in. “That was two days ago, Graham!” he exclaimed. “Or three, I’m losing count of time. But the Admiral was determined that we should not abandon Balaclava then and, as recently as yesterday, he expressed the same determination. So, too, did Sir Colin Campbell …” He repeated brief details of his instructions from the two commanders. Graham listened, obviously unimpressed.
“Since then, the situation has undergone a drastic change,” he stated, his tone clipped. “With yesterday’s appalling disaster to the Light Cavalry Brigade, the number of wounded has increased fourfold, at least, and the decision whether or not to abandon Balaclava does not rest with either Admiral Lyons or Sir Colin Campbell, does it?”
“No, but—” recalling what Captain Tatham had told him the previous day, Phillip broke off abruptly. An aide-de-camp from General Airey had come, bearing a signed order from Lord Raglan’s headquarters and … what had the Simoom’s commander said? “I began to fear that the Turks were right, after all, and the battle lost …” And had not Sir Colin talked of the risk that “more heed might be paid to panic counsels than the situation here warrants” when he had read Sir Edmund Lyons’s message?
“I see you now share my qualms,” Graham observed dryly. “Which was why I sought you out to tell you of them. But I cannot absent myself from my post any longer, so”—he laid an affectionate hand on Phillip’s shoulder—“au revoir, Phillip. Have a care for yourself, lad.”
“And you, my dear fellow.”
“Of course I shall. Oh, by the by, you won’t find O’Leary on the Vesuvius’ gun at Kadi-Koi. He has been ordered, with the rest of Commander Heath’s guns’ crews, to reinforce Captain Lushington’s Brigade on the Upland.” Graham smiled, without amusement. “Sebastopol must continue to be battered into sub-mission, whatever losses we sustain at Balaclava. Commander Heath’s party of over two hundred left last night, in darkness. The Highland Brigade, our Marines and seamen on the Heights, what is left of our cavalry and the Turks and, I was told, a French brigade under General Vinoy, remain to guard the approaches to Balaclava. Will they suffice, Phillip?”
This was the question Phillip asked himself as, having parted with his brother, he rode the short distance which separated him from No. 4 Battery. He found it manned by skeleton naval guns’ crews and learned from Captain Shadwell that Sir Colin had insisted on spending the night there, constantly visiting outposts and showing himself to his men.
“If they loved him before, he won their hearts anew last night,” the aide-de-camp said admiringly. “And he insisted of having Rustem Pasha with him, in order publicly to demonstrate that he still reposes confidence in the Turks. It’s not a confidence the rest of us share but—” He shrugged. “It is nonetheless typical of Sir Colin. He wants to see you, I understand, Mr Hazard. As a favour to me, though, do not keep him any longer than you can help … he’s had no sleep and has not yet broken his fast. And he is human; his physical strength isn’t inexhaustible, as I endeavour to convince him when he will listen! And he is the one man we cannot afford to lose at his critical hour. You’ll find him”—Shadwell’s shrug was expressive—“predictably, in our forward gun position. He’s convinced that another attack is coming.”
Sir Colin, when Phillip found him, confirmed what his aide had said, “If I were in command of Sebastopol, Mr Hazard, I should most certainly order a sortie in force, within the next few hours. To be followed, if successful, by a full scale attack on the Balaclava defenses, from the high ground above Kamara—our weakest point. Since I do not underestimate Prince Menschikoff or his subordinate commanders, I am preparing for the sortie as best I may. Now as to the harbour defenses …” He went into details and Phillip, in response to his questions, repeated what Graham had told him, as briefly as he could, also mentioning his short but illuminating interview with Captain Tatham.
Sir Colin Campbell sighed. He looked exhausted but in his tired eyes was kindled suddenly the unmistakable light of battle. “This was what both I and your Admiral feared,” he confessed. “The panic counsels, eh? Well, they shall not! Find Sir Edmund, Hazard, find him and bring him here with all possible speed, no matter what other plans he may have. Tell him the matter is one of the utmost urgency and that …” He hesitated for an instant and then smiled. “Tell him that I shall request Lord Raglan to confer with us here … since the only way to combat panic counsels is to offer those of a bolder kind. You’ll find your Admiral on shore, I believe—with Captain Lushington’s Naval Brigade, where he told me he intended to spend the night. And hurry, my young friend—there’s no time to be lost!”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Philllp acknowledged and was on his way.
CHAPTER NINE
The momentous conference, which was to decide the fate of Balaclava, took place that morning. Waiting anxiously with his fellow aides, Phillip witnessed Lord Raglan’s arrival, on horseback, accompanied by senior members of his staff and a cavalry escort, and he watched as Admiral Lyons and Sir Colin Campbell greeted the new arrivals and led them into the battery. He heard nothing of the deliberations that followed but, within less than an hour of their commencement, was sent post-haste to summon Captain Dacres from the harbour. He found the Sanspareil’s Captain in his cabin, laid low by an attack of fever but, when the urgency of the matter had been explained to him, the gallant Dacres swallowed a draught of quinine, was assisted into his uniform and managed, in stoical silence, to ride through the gorge to Kadi-Koi. By the time he arrived, the decision had been made. He received his orders and emerged, tight-lipped and deathly pale, in Lord Raglan’s wake and leaning on the Admiral’s arm and Sir Edmund himself accompanied him back to the harbour.
Phillip was given a written message to deliver to Commander Heath and would have departed on his errand in ignorance of the result of the conference, had not Sir Colin Campbell called him back.
“Balaclava is to be held at all costs, Mr Hazard,” the Highland Brigade commander told him soberly. “I believe that we have made the right decision—indeed, I pray God we have. But you may rest assured that, whatever the outcome, the wounded will not be abandoned while any of us have breath in our bodies. And if we survive the attack which, I feel sure, must come either today or during the nig
ht, then I am hopeful that we shall retain possession of the port of Balaclava for as long as we are required to do so.”
The attack Sir Colin had predicted came that afternoon and, as he had predicted, it was launched against the British right flank. A force of some four to five thousand Russian infantry, supported by field guns and some squadrons of Cossack, issued from Sebastopol soon after mid-day. Advancing under the cover afforded by the numerous deep gullies and ravines by which it was indented, this force, divided into eight separate columns, ascended the six-hundred-foot high plateau known as Mount Inkerman unobserved. Reaching the northern end of the plateau, they flung out skirmishers and advanced at a rapid pace across the rough, stony ground in an attempt to surprise and drive in the thinly held British outposts and pickets which were spread, at intervals, across the summit. The pickets put up a valiant resistance but were gradually forced to fall back, until three British nine-pounder field batteries were sent to their support. Galloping up, the gunners unlimbered and poured a rapid and accurate fire into the Russian columns, enabling the hard-pressed pickets to withdraw.
In the Second Division camp, situated a quarter of a mile south of the neck of land connecting the Inkerman Ridge with the Upland, bugles sounded the alarm and the startled troops hurriedly stood to arms. As a picket of the 49th, fighting every foot of the way, was finally driven back, the 1st Battalion of the Rifle Brigade—many of them in their shirtsleeves—launched a spirited counterattack, which succeeded in halting the Russian advance, and the Rifles hung on grimly, waiting for the arrival of the rest of their division.
Phillip, who had called on the commander of the Five-Gun Naval Battery after delivering his despatch to Commander Heath, unexpectedly found himself in the thick of the action. He was standing with young “Bully” Hewitt, acting-mate of the Beagle and in command of the battery’s rear Lancaster gun, when the sound of musket fire reached them, coming from the direction of Inkerman and rapidly increasing in intensity. It was still too distant to occasion them serious concern and both were standing on the gun platform, glasses to their eyes in an endeavour to make out what was going on, when a fierce hail of Minié balls showered down on the battery and sent the guns’ crews diving for cover.
