Hazard's Command

by V. A. Stuart

  “And Mr Cochrane?” Phillip questioned, a faint smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.

  The First Lieutenant relaxed a little and echoed his smile. “Oh, Mr Cochrane asked me if I thought it would be prudent to shorten sail and, in accordance with your instructions, I told him that he should judge for himself, while having regard for standing orders and … you hear?” His smile widened as the sound of the pipe reached them, followed by shouted orders and the thud of feet, as the watch on deck went to their stations. “Er … Mr Cochrane had men standing by the to’gans’l halliards and the weather braces.”

  “Fine. You told him to keep the fore-course on her?”

  “I didn’t need to tell him. He told me.”

  “Excellent!” Phillip approved. “Then we may both rest easy. And you have the Morning Watch, when we can expect to run into some weather, so …” he laid a hand on the younger man’s arm affectionately. “I can sleep off my shoregoing excesses without a qualm, can I not, even if the wind does veer to the nor’west?”

  “I hope so, my dear Phillip. I—er …” Fox hesitated. “Have you made up your mind as to the line you intend to take with Durbanville?”

  “That will rather depend on what line he takes, I think. He’s done nothing so far to which I can take official exception, has he?”

  “N—no, I suppose not. But he’s a nasty piece of work, believe me.” Martin Fox spoke with conviction.

  “I do believe you. But don’t worry, Martin. If necessary, we’ll find a way of keeping him under double-reefed tops’1s, should the weather fail to do it for us,” Phillip assured him. He smothered a yawn, feeling suddenly very tired. “Let’s sleep on it, shall we?”

  “Of course.” Fox moved towards the cabin door. Reaching it, he turned, eyeing Phillip thoughtfully. “I did not ask you how you fared in the matter of Miss Moray’s passage home, which wasn’t for lack of concern but rather because we’ve had so much else to discuss. But I trust all went well?”

  “Reasonably well,” Phillip answered. He explained what steps he had taken and added, “I have left her in the care of Lady Stratford de Redcliffe and I gave my brother Graham ten days’ sick leave, so that he could arrange her passage and escort her to her ship. There are plenty of transports returning home virtually empty, so that I don’t think she will have very long to wait.”

  He had expected his First Lieutenant to take his leave but, a trifle to his surprise, Fox lingered, concerned eyes still searching his face. “Well?” he demanded at last, when his companion still did not speak. “Do you think I should have done otherwise? I had to inform her grandfather of her whereabouts, let him know that she was safe surely?”

  “But of course—”

  “Well, then?” Phillip challenged, a hint of impatience in his tone. “What else would you have had me do?”

  Martin Fox shifted his feet uncomfortably. “Nothing, I suppose. Although she did express a wish to remain in Constantinople, Phillip … in fact, she told me that she intended to offer her services to Miss Nightingale at the Military Hospital and I thought—”

  “My dear Martin!” Phillip exploded. “Have you been to the Military Hospital? Have you seen conditions there?” He launched into a brief and bitter description of what he himself had seen. “Ask Major Leach, if you imagine I am exaggerating.”

  “I don’t.” Fox shook his head. “But were conditions on the wharf at Balaclava any better? Or in this ship, with the wounded crammed cheek by jowl with the dead and dying and the cholera victims? Miss Moray helped to nurse them, did she not, without flinching? And her care of you on the wharf probably saved your life.”

  “True,” Phillip admitted, his momentary anger fading, as he recalled with gratitude all that Catriona Moray had done for him. A Russian rifle butt had all but split his skull during the first attack on the Inkerman Ridge and, if he had been left to lie unconscious on the hospital wharf at Balaclava for a second night, he might well have perished. Catriona had searched and had gone on searching until she had found him, she had brought him help, enabled him to return to his ship and Surgeon Frazer’s skilled ministrations. Yet for all that … he sighed. “Martin, I could not let her go on enduring such a strain. I had to send her back to Scotland, to her home … it was the only thing to do and, I am convinced, the best for her.”

  “Did she think so?”

  “Catriona …” Phillip broke off, recalling the manner in which Catriona Moray had bidden him farewell. She had been distant, almost cold as if, submissive to his wishes and agreeing to the plans he had made for her, she yet resented having to fall in with these. Had she imagined that he wanted her to leave, he wondered … did she suppose that he would not miss her? Dear God, how he would miss her! His gaze met that of Martin Fox and he shrugged. “No, perhaps she did not, Martin.”

  “I did not imagine she would,” Fox told him. There was an edge to his normally pleasant, deep voice as he went on, “Phillip, no doubt you’ll tell me to mind my own business but … we’ve been friends, close friends, for a good many years and for this reason I—well, that is, I …” he reddened, looking down at his feet now and at pains to avoid Phillip’s eyes. “I was aware of the regard you had for our little Grand-Duchess, Mademoiselle Sophie—indeed, I had a high regard for her myself. But I cannot help wondering about Catriona Moray, wondering whether you … whether you entertain any serious feelings for her?”

  Phillip hesitated. This was a question he had been careful not to ask himself and he was still uncertain of the answer. Since Mademoiselle Sophie’s marriage to the Prince Narishkin, he had resolutely determined to put all thought of her out of his mind, yet the memory of her remained, enshrined in his heart, refusing to be displaced even by Catriona. Yet …

  “You can tell me to mind my own business if you wish, Phillip,” Martin Fox said, when he did not at once reply. “It was only that I—”

  Harshly Phillip cut him short. “How can I—how can any of us—entertain serious feelings for any woman in such circumstances as these? We are at war, for heaven’s sake! None of us may live through it. In any event I’ve always believed that a professional naval officer is a fool to allow himself to become seriously entangled, at least until he reaches post-rank. We’ve discussed it, haven’t we, many times … and you used to agree with me? To make a successful career in the Navy one can have no divided loyalties, no ties on shore and one is best to wait for marriage until one can afford to live decently on half-pay. Besides—”

  “And you still feel this?” Fox put in gravely.

  “Certainly I do.” Phillip’s tone was still impatient and a trifle resentful but, for all his effort to do so, he was aware that he did not sound entirely convincing. Perhaps, he thought wryly, because he himself was not entirely convinced; the few short days he had spent ashore in Catriona’s company had been enchanting, a glimpse of a world he had almost forgotten, with dinners and receptions at the British Ambassador’s palatial residence, good food and wine, cultured conversation during the course of which the war had hardly been mentioned … he expelled his breath in a long-drawn sigh. He had answered Martin Fox’s question without giving it sufficient thought, had trotted out the old, well-worn sentiments with which impoverished junior officers defended their enforced decision not to marry, until they attained a rank that would enable them to do so without too many financial worries. And … he had sent Catriona away. She had not wanted to go but he had insisted, telling himself as well as her that it was for the best. But what was the real reason? Was it not because he was afraid to let her stay, because he …

  “In that case, Phillip,” Fox said, with finality, “I’ll bother you with no more questions. They weren’t prompted by mere curiosity—I honestly wanted to know. And you’ve told me, so …” he smiled. “I’ll bid you goodnight. As you reminded me, I have the Morning Watch.”

  “Good night, Martin,” Phillip acknowledged. It was too late, he realized, to correct the assumption his First Lieutenant had made concerning his
feelings—or the lack of them—for Catriona Moray. But there was no harm done and later, when he had had more time to give the matter his full and careful consideration, he could bring up the subject again. Mademoiselle Sophie was a dream, as he had so often told himself, and dreams faded, even if they could never be quite forgotten. He thought of her still, he realized, as he undressed, not as the now tragically widowed Princess Narishkin but as the lovely, unsophisticated girl for whom—as Martin Fox had put it—he had formed a high regard during the voyage out from England and who, when he had been a prisoner-of-war in Odessa, had shown him so much kindness until … he sighed. Until her marriage to Prince Andrei Narishkin had raised the final, insuperable barrier between them and that barrier remained, in spite of Narishkin’s death. It would always be there.

  Phillip sighed again and swung himself into his cot. Within a few minutes he was asleep, undisturbed by the increasingly lively motion of the ship as the wind rose in a sudden, blustering squall. He wakened briefly when, during the early hours of the Morning Watch, Martin Fox wore ship and sent hands aloft to put a second reef in her topsails but, confident of the ability of his second-in-command to cope efficiently with wind and weather, he resisted the instinctive impulse to join him on deck and, instead, forced himself to sleep again. The Trojan was snugly battened down, her crew experienced and well disciplined and Fox would, he knew, summon him if he were needed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  For the next 48 hours the wind blew up to fresh gale force from the north-west, lashing the waters of the Black Sea into a desolate grey wilderness of spume-crested breakers.

  With two good men always at her helm and under double-reefed topsails, the Trojan weathered the storm without trouble, but the seamen were weary and chilled to the bone when they came off watch and, below decks, conditions were far from pleasant for the over-crowded soldiers. Phillip had, of necessity, to forbid them the upper deck whilst the gale raged, in order to give his own men room to work the ship. In consequence, apart from his daily inspection of their quarters, he saw little of them and nothing at all of Captain Lord Henry Durbanville. The military commander kept to his cabin and, according to Midshipman O’Hara, who was sent by Martin Fox to see how he was faring, he was “disgustingly seasick” and quite incapable of carrying out any of his self-imposed duties.

  By the morning of the second day, the wind dropped sufficiently to permit one reef to be shaken out of the topsails and by midday, although there was still a strong swell running and the glass remained low, Phillip was able to accede to a request from Mr Burnaby, the Master, who had the watch, and order the courses set. He had kept an anxious eye on the fore-mast—replaced after the bombardment of Sebastopol’s sea forts less than a month ago—but a careful inspection convinced him that this had stood up well to the gale and was in no danger of being sprung.

  A freak change of wind, just before midnight, had carried away the jib-stay and halliards and two men of Cochrane’s watch had suffered slight injuries in their efforts to haul down and furl the sodden, wildly flapping sail. But young Cochrane had ordered the helm put down very smartly and the sail had not split. The gun deck had shipped a good deal of water before, with the aid of a swiftly hoisted fore-topmast staysail, he had brought the ship back on course, but the pumps had done their work well and the carpenter’s report of the present level of water in the well had brought a smile of satisfaction to Phillip’s lips.

  Now, with a watery sun lending pale beauty to the scene, the wind had again shifted to a favourable quarter and the Trojan was running before it at a lively ten knots and steadily overhauling two steam transports, sighted half an hour before on the same course and both wallowing sluggishly in the heavy swell, with engines going and very little sail set. The sight of the other ships had a cheering effect on all hands and even the soldiers, Phillip noticed, when he made rounds—despite the prevailing dampness of their surroundings—seemed in better spirits. His announcement that they were once more at liberty to take the air on deck was greeted with subdued cheers but evident relief.

  Pacing the weather side of the quarterdeck with Martin Fox, a short while after the first scarlet jacket had made a wary appearance on the forecastle, Phillip observed dryly, “The gale did all we hoped for, did it not, my dear Martin? It may have caused some minor inconvenience but it did, at least, succeed in keeping our youthful Guards Captain below out of harm’s way. If old Burnaby’s calculations are accurate and provided this wind holds, we ought to be off Balaclava soon after first light.”

  “Yes,” Fox nodded. “But did Mr Burnaby also tell you that he thinks we’re in for more dirty weather? Much worse, he maintains, than anything we have hitherto experienced.”

  “He mentioned it and he could be right. The glass is still falling.”

  “If he is right,” the First Lieutenant remarked feelingly, “I hope we’ll be able to put our passengers ashore before it hits us. However, that should not take long once we berth and—”

  “If we are permitted to berth in Balaclava Harbor, Martin,” Phillip interrupted. He gestured to the ships they were overhauling. “The Prince is carrying a cargo of winter clothing, stores, and animal fodder for the Army worth half a million pounds, according to Lieutenant Baynton, who is aboard her as Admiralty agent and whom I met in Constantinople. And the Resolute carries munitions, sorely needed, by this time, I imagine, for our gun batteries on the Upland. Both are likely to be given priority over us, if the port commander is still under orders to restrict the number of ships entering harbour. Our troops can be landed by tender.”

  “But, Phillip”—Fox halted, to stare at him in surprise—“surely those orders will have been cancelled by now?”

  “I would not be too certain of that,” Phillip returned. “In confidence, Martin, I learnt one thing when I was acting as naval liaison officer to Sir Colin Campbell.” He paused and then went on, choosing his words with care, “Had it not been for Admiral Lyons, acting in conjunction with Sir Colin, Balaclava would have been abandoned after the first attack was launched on the 93rd’s position at Kadi-Koi. Orders had been issued for the harbour to be evacuated but our Admiral had the Sanspareil standing by and I carried his orders for her to enter and undertake its defence. The decision that the harbour was to be kept clear, even after the attack had been beaten off, was not made by Captain Dacres. Nor was it made by our Admiral.”

  “Then by whom was it made?” Martin Fox asked, frowning. “I don’t think I understand you, Phillip.”

  Phillip ceased his pacing and drew his First Lieutenant over to the rail. “It is not easy to understand,” he agreed. “Until you realize that what the Admiral once described as ‘panic counsels’ are, on occasions, heeded at Army Headquarters. That was such an occasion and I should not like to gamble on the supposition that anything has changed. Captain Heath of the Niger was, as I feel sure I told you, preparing to relieve Captain Dacres as commander of the port when we left. Dacres was ill and he asked to be relieved.”

  “Yes, you told me. But surely Captain Heath—”

  “Captain Heath,” Phillip put in, “will be under the same obligation to keep Balaclava Harbor clear of shipping as Captain Dacres, was. For heaven’s sake, Martin, Dacres is both a humane and a courageous man! You don’t imagine that he refused to permit transports to enter, in order to take off the wounded, because he wanted to add to their suffering, do you? He had his orders and he had to obey them and so will Heath, whatever his personal feelings.”

  “Unless the orders are changed. But …” Fox glanced at him uncertainly. “You evidently don’t think they will be changed. Why, Phillip? Are you trying to tell me that the—the panic counsels are still being heeded … even by Admiral Lyons?”

  Phillip shook his head. “Not by Admiral Lyons but perhaps in spite of him. There is, I was told, a strongly felt opinion amongst the Army High Command that Balaclava can’t be held without the constant threat of attack and that the troops employed to defend it ought, instead, to be used in
the prosecution of the siege. For which reason they believe that the place should be evacuated and abandoned before the onset of winter. I heard this opinion expressed openly at Lord Stratford de Redcliffe’s table, both before and after he received the report of a second attack by the Russians—in great strength—on the Inkerman Ridge position.”

  “The report gave no details, you said—except that the attack had not succeeded?”

  “No, nothing except that.” Phillip’s brows met, as he recalled his own experiences on the thinly held right flank of the British line, when young Hewett’s naval Lancaster had done so much to drive off the enemy. But that day the Russians had not attacked in strength; their sortie had, in all probability, been intended merely to test the British defences and to ascertain which gun sites on the ridge were armed and manned. He sighed, remembering how few these had been and how precarious the whole position had seemed to him … even the so-called Sandbag Battery had contained no guns, although prepared for them. Yet the brief and uninformative report which had reached Lord Stratford de Redcliffe had stated that the second attack—like the first and the earlier one on Balaclava—had been beaten off, with what losses to both sides the report had omitted to mention. Balaclava had already cost the British Light Cavalry Brigade. Since the Inkerman Ridge was a vital part of the port’s defensive system, God knew what more it had cost in maimed and slaughtered men. …

  “We shall find out when we rejoin the Fleet,” Martin Fox said, as if in answer to his unspoken thoughts. “When did you say the attack took place?”

  “On the fifth. And it was repulsed. On this point, at any rate, the report was quite definite. The Ambassador read it aloud to us.”

  “A victory—and yet you still believe that the port of Balaclava may be abandoned?” Fox pursued, his tone puzzled. “Phillip, I have not the advantage, as you have, of service on shore as a member of Admiral Lyons’s staff. But to my simple sailor’s mind it seems quite essential that we continue our occupation of Balaclava, if the Army is to be supplied and reinforced. As a harbour, it leaves a great deal to be desired, admittedly, and it is too small but … we have to have a port, since all supplies come by sea. And what other is there? The French have Kamiesch and Kazatch, the Fleet anchorage at the mouth of the Katcha is, by reason of its distance, out of the question … so what is left, if we do not hold Balaclava? Only Sebastopol itself and God forbid that we attempt another seaward assault on Sebastopol!”