Hazard's Command

by V. A. Stuart

  “Damn them, damn them!” he swore aloud, not caring who heard him. He had been counting on the emotional impact of the flogging to take his mind off his growing nausea but, although the prisoner was eventually secured to the grating, the lash was never laid on. A stentorian bellow from close at hand ordered his men below and, as they hesitated in their broken, swaying ranks for him to endorse this order, the shrilling of the boatswain’s mates’ pipes sounded above the roar of the wind. And suddenly Leach was beside him, calm and purposeful and authoritative amidst the confusion as he gave the command to dismiss, which was instantly obeyed by all save the two drummers who—again on Leach’s orders—paused to release Fusilier Denton from the gratings.

  “Come on, Durbanville,” the hated voice urged, “I’ll assist you to your cabin.” Leach had him by the arm, holding him upright, urging him towards the companionway but again the waves of nausea were flooding over him, irrepressible now. He could not avoid the final humiliation. Dragging his rescuer with him, he lurched to the rails, as the ship began to plunge like a mad thing and his stomach churned uncontrollably. He could not speak and tried to free himself from the grasp of Leach’s single arm but the Major held on, standing over him when they reached the ship’s side and a swarm of seamen made a rush for the shrouds in response to the insane yelling of their petty officers.

  “All right, boy, take your time,” Leach bade him, with unexpected gentleness. The topmen vanished into the rigging above their heads but, a few yards away, more seamen were hauling on the braces and he remained where he was, his arm about Durbanville’s heaving shoulders, hiding him from their view. “You’ll feel better in a minute.”

  “Damn you,” Durbanville retorted thickly. “Damn your eyes, leave me alone.” Leach ignored his plea and when, at long last, the young Guardsman was able to stumble away from the rail, he helped him to negotiate the slippery companionway and led him to his cabin.

  “Brandy is what you need, my lad,” he stated with conviction. “I have a bottle in my quarters. I’ll fetch it and we’ll share a glass or two, shall we? I’m feeling nearly as seasick as you are and I find it’s the only thing that does me any good.”

  Slumped on his cot, Henry Durbanville avoided his eye. “Thank you, Major,” he muttered shamefacedly. “I’m grateful.”

  “Curiously enough, so am I,” Major Leach admitted. “Although not to you, on this occasion. But you’ve taught me a few things about myself that I didn’t know. I fancy it’s about time I returned the compliment.” He went out, the door of the cabin slamming shut behind him with the force of the ship’s motion, and Durbanville lay with closed eyes, sunk in misery. …

  On the quarterdeck, Phillip watched with relief as the topmen regained the safety of the deck. The upper sails and jib had been lowered and furled without incident and now, maneuvering with fore and main courses and the rudder, he had brought the ship’s head round. Laidlaw’s watch had been due for relief in less than twenty minutes, so that the men of the watch below, already out of their hammocks, had answered the call almost as speedily as those on deck. And both watches—the Starboard on the starboard side, Port on the port side—had done their work quickly and well, almost if not quite compensating for his deliberate delay in shortening sail. So far as Durbanville and his soldiers were concerned, his improvised plan had succeeded … there was now not a soldier in sight, save for two who were clinging to the lee rail, evidently overcome by seasickness and, as he watched them, they staggered across to the companionway together and vanished below.

  At his side, Martin Fox said, having to shout to make himself heard above the shrieking of the wind, “Did you recognize those two, sir? I believe it was Leach and Durbanville!”

  “Impossible,” Phillip objected.

  “Indeed it was, sir,” Laidlaw confirmed. He had, by this time, understood the reason for the oddly contradictory orders his commander had given him when the squall had first been sighted, and he looked at Phillip now with renewed respect. “Durbanville was overcome by mal de mer, sir, and Major Leach went to his assistance. I saw him, saw the whole thing, sir. He was standing beside me and he suddenly let out a yell—something about the young imbecile falling overboard—and then he legged it across the deck after him, sir.”

  Wonders, Phillip reflected a trifle cynically, would never cease but he doubted whether, in Leach’s place, he would have risked crossing the heaving, rain-swept deck to succour any man who had behaved as Durbanville had behaved to him. Still less would he have remained there, he told himself, in infinite danger of being flung overboard or knocked down by the seamen of the augmented watch, as they doubled to their stations but … he shrugged. There was no doubt that Major Francis Aloysius Leach, of Her Majesty’s Seventh Royal Fusiliers, was a remarkable officer—and a Christian gentleman, if ever there was one. Indeed he … the ship was wallowing in the trough of a mountainous swell, he realized, and jerked his thoughts back to the task in hand. It was time to take the mainsail off her and time, too, to permit Laidlaw’s watch to go below. They had done enough and were due for relief.

  Mr Burnaby, he saw, like the good man he was, was standing by.

  “All right, relieve the watch,” he said and, meeting Burnaby’s faded blue eyes, nodded in confirmation of his unspoken question. “Brace in the mainyard, if you please, Mr Burnaby, and haul taut the rolling tackle. Send your maintopmen aloft when the yard’s secured. We’ll have the main course off her now.” He gave his orders with the confident certainty of long experience, knowing that the risk he had taken was virtually over and that, if he were ever called upon to justify his actions, he could do so.

  The rain lashed down, soaking him despite the oilskin his servant had brought him, and a deluge of water broke over the forecastle, momentarily hiding the fore part of the ship from his sight. The Trojan heeled over, shipping water fore and aft and Phillip shouted to the quartermaster to ease the helm down. Burnaby had the mainyard secured and his topmen aloft and, when she was relieved of her main course, the ship righted herself, her bows rising buoyantly as she responded to her helm. The gusty wind shifted and the watch were fully occupied, trimming and shortening sail but within another half hour, the squall had blown itself out and, leaving the deck to the experienced old Master, Phillip went below with Martin Fox to change into dry clothing.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Just after seven bells of the Morning Watch, the red sandstone cliffs of Balaclava were sighted and Phillip stared about him in dismay as these drew nearer and he saw the number of ships at anchor or beating to and fro off the entrance to the port. There were twice, if not three times as many now, as there had been when he had sailed for Constantinople with his cargo of wounded. Most were supply ships and troop transports, at least two of which, he was certain, had been at anchor off the port when he left. There was no sign of the Agamemnon, Admiral Lyons’s flagship, but he recognized the steam frigates Retribution, Niger, Vulcan, and Vesuvius lying close inshore. He made his number and, as he had feared, after some delay received instructions from the signal station at the cliff head to remain outside the harbour with the rest. His signal concerning the Prince was acknowledged, again after some delay, and when he made “Where to anchor?” was given no more precise instructions than “Where convenient.”

  The wind had dropped considerably since the previous evening but was gusty and shifting and, not liking the haphazard manner in which the majority of the motley fleet appeared to have distributed themselves, Phillip told Martin Fox, as they ran in, “I think we’ll be best off lying at a single anchor, for the present. If it should come on to blow, I don’t much fancy mooring too close inshore, do you?”

  Fox looked up at the towering cliffs and shook his head.

  “Indeed I do not . . and the glass is still too low for comfort.” He gestured ahead. “I see the Niger is still outside—didn’t you tell me that Captain Heath was to succeed Captain Dacres, as port commander?”

  Phillip shrugged. “So I was told and poor
Dacres was certainly very ill the last time I saw him on board the Sanspareil. But no doubt we shall find out in due course. In any case, if Captain Heath is port commander, he’ll have been appointed to the Sanspareil and Niger will have a new commander. Bring up two cables’ length from the Niger’s port quarter and perhaps we shall find out.”

  The Trojan had scarcely dropped anchor when a boat put off from the Niger, bringing an invitation to Phillip to take breakfast with her Captain. He found Leopold Heath awaiting him on board the 14-gun steam frigate and, as they ate, Heath confirmed most of his suppositions.

  “Poor Dacres is still officially in command of the port but he’s a very sick man, Hazard, and I am doing most of the work for him. My promotion has come through but”—as Phillip started to speak—“don’t congratulate me, for I’m to succeed him and it is not an appointment I am at all eager to accept.” He sighed, his dark eyes frankly worried. “You’ll have observed the fleet of, as yet, not unloaded supply ships we have at this perilous anchorage, I imagine?”

  “I have, sir. And I share your opinion of the perils of this anchorage,” Phillip said. Captain Heath was an old friend and he knew that, to him, he could speak freely. “Why are all these ships here, sir? Why are they not permitted to enter the harbour to discharge their cargoes?”

  Leopold Heath’s expression was glum. “Captain Dacres has his orders and, strictly between ourselves, Hazard, the reason he is remaining in command of the port is because he is anxious to spare me the odium that attaches to his enforcement of those orders, which he likes as little as I do. Decent, kindly fellow that he is, he is aware that I shall have a better chance if, when I succeed him, I am able to reverse his orders. And I do not, I feel sure, need to tell you by whom or, indeed, for what reason we have been instructed to keep Balaclava Harbor clear of shipping.”

  Admiral Lyons, Phillip thought, as he nodded his understanding of this cryptic statement, would also have small liking for the orders he had been compelled to issue.

  “Is the port to be abandoned then?” he asked.

  “This would seem to be the Army commanders’ considered wish,” Captain Heath admitted reluctantly. “Since the battle on the Inkerman Ridge on the fifth, I gather most of them feel strongly that to defend Balaclava is—if not impossible—likely to prove too great a drain upon the land forces available to be strategically wise. You’ve heard about the battle, I suppose?”

  “I heard no details, sir. Only that it had taken place and that the Russians were beaten off.”

  “More by the sheer heroism and fighting qualities of the regiments involved than by the strategic wisdom of the generals who directed the battle,” Heath told him bitterly. He launched into a brief and scathing description of the action. “Her Majesty’s Foot Guards fought magnificently, I am told … but now, like the Light Cavalry Brigade, they scarcely exist as a fighting force, poor devils. Their Divisional Commander, the Duke of Cambridge, has repaired on board the Retribution—heartbroken, Captain Drummond says. I believe that, though I haven’t seen His Royal Highness. Sir George Cathcart was killed and poor old Brigadier Strangeways, Goldie, and Torrens, too. Sir George Brown was severely wounded and John Campbell is said to be dying on board the Agamemnon, at the Fleet anchorage off the Katcha—both may be already dead, for all I know. Men of their caliber can ill be spared, Hazard …” his voice charged with emotion, the Niger’s commander listed some of the killed and wounded who were known to them both and Phillip listened in stunned dismay.

  “How did the enemy fare?” he asked when, at last, Captain Heath was silent.

  “Well, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of the figures but I’ve heard that they lost five thousand dead, in addition to three times that number wounded and taken prisoner. But the Russians do not mind sacrificing their unfortunate soldiers. They’re said to have attacked with upwards of sixty thousand and they’ve plenty more to use as cannon fodder. We, alas, have not and we lost something like two thousand five hundred in killed, wounded, and missing, I believe. The Inkerman Ridge was a shambles for days after the battle, with still-unburied enemy dead. The Russians left us to inter them.”

  “And the French, sir?” Phillip questioned. “Did they take part in the battle?”

  “Oh, yes—but too late and there were too few of them, which I fear is all too often the case.” Heath’s resentment was in his voice. “Bosquet’s division was sent to our aid but the remainder of their forces were kept in reserve. They had suffered a feint attack earlier on and Canrobert refused for a long time to believe that the main attack was against our Second Division and he would risk no more, until he’d come to see for himself. Nevertheless, Bosquet is a brave man and his Zouaves, as always, fought with zest and courage. Their losses are put at less than half ours—a fact that speaks for itself, does it not?”

  Phillip supposed that it did. Captain Heath gave him scraps of other news, adding that Sir Edmund Lyons was well but seemed in poor spirits. “He was here two days ago. The Vulcan brought him and then he shifted his flag to the Miranda and Jack Lyons conveyed him back to the Fleet anchorage. He was, of course, delighted to see his son … I believe you saw him also, did you not, in Constantinople on his way here?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “Let’s hope he’s able to cheer the Admiral up … more coffee, Hazard?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Well, I’m going to have some more. Tell me—how were things in Constantinople?” Captain Heath poured himself a second cup of coffee and, as he drank it, Phillip gave him an account of what he had seen and heard during his short stay in the Turkish capital.

  “One, at least, of our officers emerged with great credit from the Inkerman engagement,” the Captain said suddenly. “I almost forgot to tell you, although heaven knows, it’s an event in this war when the British Navy is allowed any chance for its officers and men to distinguish themselves! But William Peel, the Diamond ’s captain, managed to do so as an infantryman. He and his A.D.C., a midshipman named Daniel, who’s serving with him in the Naval Brigade, chanced to be visiting the ridge when the Russians launched their attack. From what I hear, they both joined in the action and were largely responsible for saving one of the Guards’ regimental Colours. The Duke commended them and I understand they’ve both been mentioned in one of Lord Raglan’s despatches.” His blunt featured, be-whiskered face relaxed a little. “He’s a remarkably fine fellow, Peel, and should go a long way in the service if he survives this campaign. You’ve met him, of course?”

  “Yes, indeed I have, sir,” Phillip replied. “Also his mid., young St John Daniel, who always seems to be in the thick of it whenever I’ve come across him.” He liked and admired William Peel, second-in-command of the Naval Brigade under Captain Lushington, and the youngest officer in the Black Sea Fleet to hold post rank and, remembering what Midshipman Daniel had told him about his Chief, he smiled. With his record, Captain Peel should indeed go far, as the Niger’s commander had said … if he lived long enough. According to his young aide-de-camp, he paid very little heed to his own safety and only recently had picked up an unexploded forty-twopounder Russian shell, which had fallen into one of the naval gun batteries, and very coolly rolled it over the parapet, where it exploded harmlessly.

  “You smile?” Captain Heath observed. “Well, I’m glad you still have it in you to smile, Hazard. I very much doubt if you will after a week or so lying at anchor here.”

  “I have troops on board, sir,” Phillip reminded him.

  “They’ll be landed by tender, my boy. You will not be allowed inside the harbour, no matter what reasons you may advance. Some of these supply ships have been here for over a fortnight, a few even longer. And don’t tell me their cargoes are badly needed—I know they are! Captain Dacres is being driven nearly mad by the pleas of their commanders to let them unload and go … but there is nothing he can possibly do, poor fellow, if Lord Raglan decides that Balaclava can’t be defended.”

  “What is the
alternative, sir?” Phillip’s smile faded. “To share Kamiesch with the French or take over Kazatch? We must have a port, surely—”

  Leopold Heath’s face looked suddenly old and careworn. “Lord Raglan is, I fear, the only man who can answer your questions, Hazard—I cannot. And by the same token, your message regarding the Prince should have been directed to his lordship, not to those in nominal command of this harbour. She may be leaking like a sieve but that won’t get her inside and God help her if we get any bad weather … judging by the glass, it appears on the cards that we may. But”—he relented—“go ashore in your gig or in the steam tender with your passengers, if you wish, and have a word with Captain Dacres, on behalf of the Prince. I’ve heard that the Army commissariat is anxiously looking for her arrival. You’ll find General de Lacy Evans on board the Sanspareil, incidentally.”

  “Wounded, sir?”

  “No, Hazard—like poor Dacres, he’s sick, and was so when his Division was attacked on the Inkerman Ridge. He was there but he left the tactical command to General Pennefather, his second-in-command. Talking of seconds-in-command, my young friend”—Captain Heath smiled faintly—“for how much longer do you expect to have the Trojan?”

  Phillip spread his hands. “I don’t know, sir. I had hoped that perhaps you might be in a position to tell me.”

  Captain Heath pushed a box of cigars across the table to him. “No,” he answered, “I can’t. All I can tell you is that Captain Crawford went with General Bentinck and other wounded officers to Constantinople in the Caradoc and Bentinck, I know, is for home. But your Captain may convalesce there and return to his command.” He lit his cigar and puffed at it, a thoughtful frown bringing his dark brows together. “I have received no instructions concerning either you or your ship, so presumably you’ll remain in command for the time being. And consider yourself lucky, my lad—a 30-gun steam-screw, at your age, is quite a prize.”