Hazard's Command

by V. A. Stuart

  “I know that only too well, sir,” Phillip assured him.

  The older man’s smile widened. “If you’ll take my advice,” he offered, “you’ll keep away from the Fleet anchorage and the Commander-in-Chief. You—” there was a tap on the cabin door and a midshipman appeared, cap in hand. “Yes, Mr Race, what is it?”

  “Message for Commander Hazard, if you please, sir,” the youngster replied. “You are requested to report to Captain Dacres on board the Sanspareil at once, sir,” he added, addressing Phillip. “Your gig’s alongside, sir.”

  Was this the summons he had been dreading, Phillip wondered, as he took his leave of the hospitable Captain Heath. Would he find himself relieved of his temporary command and, if so, would Admiral Lyons again employ him as a member of his staff? His gig was waiting for him, with Midshipman O’Hara in charge, and he sat in the sternsheets as her crew began the long pull into the harbour, lost in his own thoughts.

  The Sanspareil was moored in her old berth inside the harbour, dwarfing the ships about her. Apart from the Diamond—denuded of her guns and most of her crew and in use as a naval hospital ship—most were small transports engaged in loading wounded. And there were not many of them, Phillip noticed; the harbour was less crowded than he could remember seeing it, although Lord Cardigan’s private yacht still occupied her privileged position at the head of the harbour, presumably with her owner and his French chef on board. The hospital wharf was the only one where any signs of activity could be seen; on the rest, a few soldiers lounged, waiting for stores in a straggling line, and the stench of putrefying vegetables rose, as always, from the filthy waters of the inlet.

  Phillip’s interview with Captain Dacres was brief. The port commander greeted him kindly but he was, as Captain Heath had said, obviously a very sick man. He asked about the Prince, seeming more interested in Phillip’s opinion of her seaworthiness and her crew’s ability to deal with her leaking hold than in the cargo she carried. He said, with resigned bitterness, “I cannot permit her to enter this port, Hazard … I wish to heaven I could. But I have my orders and have no choice but to adhere to them, without fear or favour.”

  “I breakfasted with Captain Heath, sir, aboard the Niger,” Phillip told him, anxious to spare the sick man an unnecessary explanation.

  Captain Dacres looked relieved. “Ah, then I do not have to justify myself to you, Mr Hazard.”

  “No, sir.”

  The Captain shifted in his chair, closing his fever-bright eyes for a moment and Phillip waited, fearing what was to come as, opening his eyes again, the older man started to search among the papers on his desk. “I have orders for you from the Admiral, who was here a couple of days ago to meet his son … you remember Jack Lyons, of course. In fact, I believe you served under him at one time, did you not? Ah, yes, here are your instructions, Mr Hazard.” He looked up unexpectedly to meet Phillip’s gaze and smiled in sympathetic understanding. “Oh, don’t worry, you are not being relieved of your command as yet. There is a strong probability that Captain Crawford will soon be fit enough to resume it but, until he is, you are to remain in acting command and you are to take your ship to Eupatoria, at once.”

  “Very good, sir.” Phillip could not hide his elation. He listened to the rest of his instructions and said diffidently, “I can sail as soon as we have landed the troops we are carrying, sir. I understand they will require to be taken ashore by tender and—”

  The port commander cut him short. “No, Mr Hazard—you are to take the troops with you. They are needed to reinforce the garrison at Eupatoria. The place has been attacked several times recently and, due to sickness, it is undermanned. So you can sail immediately and you will remain under Lord George Paulet’s command for as long as necessary in order to meet the present emergency. I don’t anticipate that you will be there for very long because your frigate will be needed here and Lord George has, in any case, his own Bellerophon, in addition to several small steamers and, I understand, the French three-decker Henri Quatre has been sent there. Captain Brock’s anxiety, as garrison commander, is natural—he had to despatch nearly four hundred Marines from the garrison to meet a request from Lord Raglan, so that his strength on shore is greatly depleted.”

  “Yes, sir”—Phillip had listened with interest—“I understand. Will that be all, sir?”

  “It is, Mr Hazard. Good luck to you!”

  “And to you, sir. I hope you may soon enjoy improved health and also Sir George Brown, whom Captain Heath told me was severely wounded and—”

  Again Captain Dacres cut him short. “Your good wishes are appreciated and I shall convey them to the General. As for myself I shall not, I fear, know any improvement in my health until I leave Balaclava and I pray God that may be soon!” He sighed. “Good-bye, Hazard—when you return I trust you will find Captain Heath in this cabin.”

  Phillip left him and returned to his gig. On board the Trojan once more, he acquainted Martin Fox with their change of destination and instructed him to get under way as soon as possible, sending a midshipman below to impart this information to Major Leach and Durbanville.

  “Well,” Fox said wryly, “I think I prefer Eupatoria to our present berth although it means, alas, that we are not yet rid of Lord Henry Durbanville. Which is a pity!”

  “I don’t fancy it will please Durbanville over much,” Phillip returned. “He will not enjoy being at Eupatoria, away from all contact with his father’s influential friends … and unable even to report the filthy state of this ship to the Commanderin-Chief!” They both laughed and Fox said, still smiling, “But our young hero may see some action which, I feel sure, he is anxious to do.”

  “Are you, Martin? I confess I don’t share your conviction. But so far as we’re concerned, I hope we may find an opportunity to exercise our guns … well, pass the word for Mr Burnaby, will you please? And then pipe bands to stations—I’ll be in the chartroom if you want me.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. And needless to tell you, I’m glad that you are still in command of this ship.”

  “And so, my dear Martin, am I,” Phillip confessed.

  He was in the chartroom, with the Master, when Henry Durbanville made his appearance, looking upset. But he spoke politely enough, addressing Phillip as “sir” and phrasing his request to be put ashore before sailing in an almost humble tone.

  “My Division is here, sir, not at this Eupatoria place and I’m under orders to join my regiment, so that if you could spare me a boat, I should be most grateful.”

  “But you are in command of this contingent,” Phillip pointed out, careful to avoid Mr Burnaby’s eye.

  “I can hand over command to Major Leach, sir,” the young Guards officer volunteered eagerly. “He is a most competent officer and, in any case, most of the men are his Seventh Fusiliers. I only have my servant—my sergeant, as you will recall, was left … er, that is inadvertently left behind in Constantinople. I sent him to—”

  “I do recall the circumstances,” Phillip assured him unsmilingly. “But I, too, have my orders and these are to get under way immediately. I cannot therefore spare you a boat, since to do so would delay our sailing. But”—he relented—“I will, if you wish, make a signal concerning you to the shore station and if a boat can be sent out for you, I’ll delay until it’s alongside.”

  “I’m uncommonly grateful, Commander Hazard,” Durbanville responded. “Er—I … perhaps I had better hand over command to Major Leach now and—”

  “Major Leach is under arrest,” Phillip reminded him coldly.

  “Oh, but I’ll withdraw the charges I made against him.” Durbanville reddened. “Not that I ever intended to press them, you understand, Commander. It was simply that I—that he …” he shuffled his feet, obviously embarrassed. “I—er—excuse me, if you please. I’ll find Major Leach and explain the situation to him.”

  “Very well,” Phillip agreed. “I trust you are ready to go ashore, if required?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed, sir. My kit is pac
ked. I shall not keep the boat waiting or delay you an instant longer than I must, if you would be good enough to send that signal for me.”

  Phillip and Burnaby exchanged glances as he hurried off in search of Major Leach and the Master’s faded blue eyes held an amused glint as he asked, “Will you make the signal, sir?”

  “I’ll make it, Mr Burnaby,” Phillip assured him. “But whether or not I receive a favourable answer is, I fear, another matter.”

  The signal was duly made and acknowledged. But, although Durbanville, attended by his servant and surrounded by his baggage, stood hopefully by the entry port, no boat was sighted and the signal station, after some delay, eventually answered with an uninformative, “Shore to Trojan: proceed to sea.” Captain Durbanville’s services did not appear to be urgently required on shore and Midshipman Grey, with undisguised satisfaction, made this fact known to the discomfited young Guards officer, in a rapid interpretation of the semaphore signal. He approached Phillip, grave-faced but a suspicious gleam in his eyes, to ask, on Durbanville’s behalf, if he might be transferred to one of the other warships remaining at anchor and the gravity vanished when Phillip shook his head.

  “I have no orders to transfer Captain Durbanville.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. May I tell him so, sir?”

  “Yes, Mr Grey. But”—Phillip eyed him sternly—“don’t rub it in too hard, will you?”

  “No, indeed, sir. No harder than I have to, sir,” Grey promised, grinning openly now and clearly enjoying his errand. “Thank you, sir.”

  The Trojan weighed anchor and, with a gusty and constantly shifting wind which necessitated much work for the duty watch, weathered Cape Kherson and set course for the ancient Ottoman town of Eupatoria. The small town, with its mixed population of Tartars, Cossacks, Greeks, Armenians, and Germans had surrendered to the Allies on 13th September, when the two Fleets had been on their way to Calamita Bay to land the invasion forces, and a garrison of Marines, under Captain Saumarez Brock, had been put ashore to hold it. Situated about ten miles from the landing place, Phillip remembered it as a pleasant-looking little town, with white-painted stone or wooden houses, red-tiled roofs, and unexpectedly friendly inhabitants who, far from opposing the British landing, had appeared to welcome it. Its position was of some strategic importance which, he supposed, was the reason why the town was under such frequent attack. The road to Perekop ran northwards across a flat plain, on the edge of which the town was built and a second road, winding through a low range of hills to the south, led to Simpheropol, where Prince Menschikoff, the Russian Commander-in-Chief, had established his field headquarters. Most of the reinforcements from Odessa had come via Perekop, he recalled his brother Graham telling him, in a series of overland marches which the Allied sea blockade had been powerless to prevent and the Russians, presumably, either feared a land attack on their supply route from Eupatoria or else wanted to deny the ships of the Fleet the port facilities it afforded. Whatever the reason, Eupatoria was well guarded by the British three-decker Bellerophon and the Henri Quatre, the finest first-rate the French possessed, built only five years ago and mounting a hundred guns.

  Phillip spent most of the night on deck. He was anxious about the weather, which was becoming steadily worse. An easterly wind, which rose to gale force at times, lashed the sea to fury and, rather than beat against wind and sea, he ordered steam up and set his course away from the treacherous, cliff bound coastline. By 5 A.M., the Trojan was proceeding under her engines, with only her treble-reefed topsails set. Even so, she shipped a good deal of water and the pumps had to be kept going throughout the night. He had hoped to make port by first light but, fearful of being driven on shore in darkness prudently stood off at a safe distance from the rocky shore, aware that his charts were not always accurate and remembering all too vividly how the Tiger had been wrecked on this coast when on her way to Odessa. Then it had been fog which had led to her undoing but this strong, shifting wind was even more dangerous, he knew.

  Mr Burnaby shared his apprehension. The white-haired old Master had grown old in the Service and Phillip had learned to respect his instinctive ability to read and assess the weather portents. When Martin Fox came on watch at 4 A.M., Burnaby came with him, to spend twenty minutes or so on deck engaged in what one of the midshipmen had once irreverently described as “sniffing the wind like a bloodhound.” He welcomed Phillip’s decision to order the screw lowered and when, toward the end of the Morning Watch, he again made his appearance on the quarterdeck, he was looking frankly worried. But he said nothing until he had studied his charts and checked their position and then, after his usual ten minutes “sniffing the air,” he crossed over to where Phillip was standing, with Martin Fox, both holding themselves upright with some difficulty, and said bluntly, “Commander Hazard sir, I don’t like this—I don’t like it at all.”

  “It’s blowing,” Phillip agreed ruefully, having to shout to make himself heard.

  “And it will blow a great deal harder,” the Master stated positively. “The wind has shifted to south by west and the glass …” he shrugged, raising his eyes to the heavens. “In all my experience, Mr Hazard, I’ve never known the glass so low. I fear we are in for a hurricane, sir.”

  “A hurricane, Mr Burnaby?” Phillip exchanged an anxious glance with his second-in-command. “When do you anticipate it will strike?”

  “Within the hour, sir.” There was the same conviction in the old man’s voice. He added grimly, “As I see the situation, you have two possible alternatives.”

  “And what are they?”

  “I think you know as well as I do, sir.”

  “You mean try to make port at Eupatoria or give up the attempt to do so, and ride it out, with the help of our engines, well away from shore?” Phillip suggested.

  The Master nodded his grizzled head. “Aye, sir. Both courses have their dangers, as again you know.”

  He did, Phillip reflected grimly, conscious that a decision would have to be made, one way or the other, and that it would be his—and his alone—to make. Leaving Fox and Burnaby together, he started to pace up and down by himself, considering every aspect of the problem with which he was faced.

  The Bay of Eupatoria offered shelter and, under engines, would be easy enough to enter but it was open to southerly winds, which blew right through, making it—although good holding ground—none too safe an anchorage. The wind was south by west now. With so many ships at anchor in the bay already, there was always the added danger of anchors dragging or chains snapping and ships running foul of each other, if they were not driven on shore.

  The Trojan was tightly battened down, her guns secured with extra lashings, her upper yards sent down and no trouble had been reported from the engine room. If he stood out to sea, there was no risk of being driven ashore or of being fouled by a three-decker and the question of dragging his anchors would not arise—all he would have to do would be to keep his ship’s head to wind, under bare poles, if necessary, and wait until the gale abated. On the other hand, he was carrying reinforcements for the garrison, which was under strength and which might also be under attack, and his orders were to land them as soon as possible. But was it possible? If he ran ashore, of what use would his passengers be to the garrison? Being driven ashore, on this coast, meant the loss of any ship unfortunate enough to suffer such a fate; in addition, this was an enemy coast, offering no hope of succor to the shipwrecked. Rather men who did manage to escape the wreck were liable to find themselves under fire from wandering Cossack bands and the ship herself might be captured, as the Tiger had been. … Phillip drew in his breath sharply, as he remembered the Russian guns, firing red-hot shot into the Tiger’s defenceless decks, setting her ablaze.

  It was this thought that finally decided him. To run any risk of losing the Trojan was a prospect he could not contemplate. He had been entrusted with her command and, he told himself, her safety and the safety of her passengers and crew must be his first concern. But, as he crossed th
e quarterdeck to rejoin his First Lieutenant and the Master, he was very conscious of the loneliness of command and of the isolated position he occupied—and must continue to occupy, until the danger was over.

  He made his decision known and, seeing the relief in old Burnaby’s face and the approval in Martin Fox’s smile, felt better in his own mind. Neither said more than the formal, “Aye, aye, sir,” but he sensed that both had been afraid that he might decide to adhere strictly to his orders as a grim little smile twisted his lips. As Captain North would, undoubtedly, have done—rightly, perhaps. But, right or wrong, he had decided and events would prove which of the two alternatives open to him was the one he should have taken. …

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was a long and nerve-straining day, mentally and physically one of the most exhausting Phillip had ever spent in his life. As the Master had predicted, the wind rose to hurricane force soon after six in the morning and this continued without ceasing throughout the hours of daylight. A tremendously heavy sea got up, crashing over the ship and sending hundreds of tons of water streaming across her from stem to stern so that, at times, she seemed to be buried beneath the deluge and her exposed upper deck became a place of extreme peril.

  Even with two men at the wheel, who were relieved every hour, Phillip experienced the greatest difficulty keeping the ship’s head to the wind and there were moments when, despite the aid of her engines, she did not respond to the helm but lay like a log, her lee channels awash. He himself remained on the quarterdeck all day. He lashed himself to the mainmast backstay and clung there, wet and chilled to the bone for hour after anxious hour, scarcely knowing whether it was night or day, so intense was the gloom of the wintery sky and so slowly did the time pass. Any sort of conversation was impossible. His orders, when he had to issue any, were shouted into the ear of a seaman and relayed from man to man, until they reached the officer for whom they were intended.