Hazard's Command

by V. A. Stuart

  Phillip drew in his breath sharply, wondering how badly the storm had hit them, how many of the warships lying at anchor in the exposed bay had, like the Rapide, been driven ashore, or wrecked. There were two first-rates at Eupatoria, he knew—Lord Paulet’s Bellerophon and the French Henry Quatre of 100 guns. Surely neither of these could have failed to ride out the storm? But … he peered again into his glass, attempting to assess the size of the enemy force. How many other ships, like his own Trojan, carrying reinforcements, had failed to make port, failed to land the troops they carried? He could delay no longer, he knew; he must get back to the Trojan, take her with all speed into Eupatoria and warn the garrison commander, Captain Brock, of the coming attack. If necessary he must signal Martin Fox to proceed without him and …

  “Sir, they are enemy cavalry—cavalry and guns—are they not?” Young Grey’s voice was awed.

  “Yes,” Phillip confirmed grimly, “they are indeed. On your feet, youngster—there’s no time to be lost. Cut down the cliff as fast as your legs will carry you—I’ll signal for a boat to take you off. Inform the First Lieutenant that a mixed enemy force of several thousand—cavalry, artillery, and infantry—is advancing along the road from Perekop, almost certainly with the intention of attacking Eupatoria. I estimate that they will be in a position to attack by …” he frowned, trying to judge the speed of the column and the distance it had to travel. The infantry would slow it down, of course, to marching speed and, if they kept to the road—which seemed probable—then this would add four or five miles to the actual distance. “By nightfall, at the latest, though possibly before. Mr Fox is to give this information to Captain Brock and land our troops immediately.” He added a few brief instructions and saw the midshipman’s eyes widen.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” he acknowledged dutifully, on his feet now and drawing himself to attention. “But what about you, sir—and Durbanville and the surgeon?”

  “We shall follow you,” Phillip told him, his tone one that did not encourage question, “with what speed we can. But do not wait for us, Mr Grey. The information you bear is of the greatest urgency and must be conveyed to Eupatoria without delay.” He hesitated, aware of his duty, wondering how he could justify his decision and yet obstinately determined not to change it. “A second boat—the cutter—may be sent for us, at Mr Fox’s discretion,” he added, “if we’re seen to reach the beach in time. We can sail ourselves into the bay or he can come back to pick us up, after he has landed our troops and delivered my message. Is that clear?”

  “It’s clear, sir, but”—young Grey swallowed hard, torn between the habit of obedience and his own personal feelings. “May I not stay to help the surgeon with Henry Durbanville, sir, instead of leaving you to do so? After all, sir, you’re in command of the Trojan and—”

  Phillip cut him short. “I appreciate your offer, Mr Grey, but your legs are younger than mine and I have a limp, as you may have noticed. You’ll make the descent in half the time it would take me … and time is of importance. So cut along, will you please—now?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The midshipman turned and, obeying his instructions to the letter, flung himself recklessly down the steep escarpment. Reaching its foot, he made for the cliff path with scarcely a pause and went racing down towards the beach, showing little regard for his own safety. Phillip clambered to the summit of the escarpment and, heedless now of any possible enemy watchers, made his signal to the Trojan. She had steam up, as he could see, but in addition to his request for a boat, he warned his second-in-command to prepare to sail immediately, receiving an acknowledgement by semaphore from her deck, which was repeated a moment or so later by a flag hoist. He waited until he saw a boat put off for the beach and then descended to join Vernon, who was still kneeling beside his patient. Briefly, he explained the enemy troop movements he had seen and the action he had taken and the surgeon nodded, without looking up, as he continued to work on Durbanville’s splint.

  “Is he ready?” Phillip asked.

  “As ready as I can make him, Commander.” The Army surgeon rose, tight-lipped. “He regained consciousness, unfortunately, a little while ago but I managed to get some rum into him, which may help to deaden his pain.” He bent and deftly thrust one of the Minié rifles into the sleeve of the bloodstained great-coat with which the wounded boy had been covered. Phillip followed his example with the other and, between them, they lifted the limp body from the crevice and laid it on their improvised stretcher. Henry Durbanville stirred, muttering something but did not open his eyes and the surgeon added, looking up into Phillip’s face, his expression wry, “It’s going to be the devil’s own job to get him down from here and I can’t promise you that he’ll ever reach the ship alive. This may well be an unnecessary sacrifice on your part, Commander Hazard.”

  “Sacrifice?” Phillip questioned. “Of what, pray?”

  “Of your command and perhaps of promotion—certainly of the honor and glory of being able to convey a timely warning to the Eupatoria garrison. And for the sake of a man”—Surgeon Vernon’s gesture in Durbanville’s direction was expressive—“whom few of us have any reason to like, you least of all, I should have thought.” He shrugged. “You could have gone with your midshipman and left me here with Captain Durbanville, since it is my duty, as medical officer, to remain with him—not yours. But you stayed—why, Commander Hazard? I should like to know.”

  Phillip reddened. No doubt others would ask him this same question—Lord George Paulet, Admiral Lyons, the Commanderin-Chief, Admiral Dundas, and probably their Lordships of the Admiralty, if the matter should be brought eventually to their attention. They would expect an answer and he would have none to give them, no excuses to offer, still less a rational explanation of his conduct. His duty had been plain but he had ignored its call. He had chosen to stay, instead of returning to the ship entrusted to his command because … Phillip looked down at Henry Durbanville’s white, shuttered face, touched already by the shadow of death, and expelled his breath in a long-drawn sigh.

  Because, like Leach, he had misjudged the boy, he asked himself—because be disliked him, yet had been compelled to respect him for his courage this morning?

  “You’ve given me no answer, sir,” Vernon prompted.

  “All right, no doubt I should not have stayed,” Phillip admitted reluctantly. “But I felt I owed him something—a chance, however slight. He earned that, up here this morning when he covered our withdrawal. And the debt was mine, not yours … the more pressing because, as you say, I had little reason to like him.” He bent to pick up one end of the stretcher they had fashioned. “Come, Doctor, we are wasting time. Let’s get him down to the path. If you go ahead of me, I’ll lower him down to you.”

  With difficulty, frequently slipping themselves, they contrived alternately to slide and drag their awkward burden to the foot of the escarpment. Durbanville’s eyes opened before they had completed the first ten yards of the descent but, in spite of the fact that he must have been enduring a great deal of pain, he did not utter a sound. When at last they were on level ground, Vernon held the flask of rum he carried to the boy’s bloodless lips and he swallowed a few sips before turning his head away.

  “Please …” his voice was a tortured whisper. “I can’t … stand any more. Leave me, for … pity’s sake! Why don’t you leave me?”

  “You heard what he asked you, Commander Hazard,” the surgeon observed flatly. “There’s still time for you to go—look!” He pointed below them to the beach, on which the Trojan’s gig had just grounded and Phillip saw Midshipman Grey go stumbling across the shingle to meet it, breathless and spent but gamely determined not to slacken speed until his objective had been reached. The coxswain splashed ashore to assist him and Vernon added, “You could order them to wait for you. I’ll stay with Durbanville.”

  He was right, Phillip knew. The boat commander, Midshipman O’Hara, was looking up to where he stood, as if expecting a signal—he had only to raise his hand. “Young Grey
is there,” he said. “It will take me twice as long as it took him to get to the beach—and he knows what to do. The First Lieutenant will also know, when the youngster delivers my orders and he can be relied upon to carry them out, whether or not I’m aboard. It is essential that the Eupatoria garrison should be given warning of the attack which is about to be launched against them—and that our troop reinforcements, which may be sorely needed, are landed with the least possible delay. You must see that, Doctor. I have instructed Mr Fox, as I told you, to send the cutter to pick us up.”

  “The decision is yours, sir,” Surgeon Vernon returned stiffly. “I was merely endeavouring to offer you the chance to change it. And I must again warn you that, in my professional opinion, Captain Durbanville has very little hope of reaching even your cutter alive.”

  “He’s alive now, Doctor,” Phillip pointed out, suddenly angry, as much with himself as with his companion. “Let us see whether we can get him down to the beach—that is what we came to do, is it not?” He lifted the two rifle butts and the surgeon, flushing, picked up the other end of the improvised stretcher. As they set off down the steep cliff path, Midshipman O’Hara’s boat put off for the ship, with young Grey aboard. The boat was alongside the Trojan’s midship chains before the stretcher party had covered half the distance separating them from the beach and, a few minutes later, with a curious sense of loss, Phillip watched his ship get under way. From her deck, as she set course for Eupatoria Bay, a semaphore signal told him that Martin Fox had received and understood his orders. The cutter was lowered according to his instructions and two of her crew, jumping ashore before she grounded, ran up the path to relieve Vernon and himself of their burden. Both men grinned at him in unconcealed pleasure and relief—unlike Surgeon Vernon and, perhaps, his naval superiors, Phillip reflected wryly, they saw no reason to criticize or condemn his absence from his ship or, indeed, to remark on it. One said, knuckling his brow, the pleased grin widening, “Glad to see you, sir. We was afraid we’d lost you for a while.”

  “Thank you, Matlock,” Phillip acknowledged, recognizing him as a maintopman and not a regular member of the cutter’s crew. In answer to his unspoken question, the seaman added, “The First Lieutenant called for volunteers, sir, to man the cutter. That’s why I’m here. And Mr O’Hara sir—he jumped the gun and brought her in, instead of Mr Fisher.” He looked down at Durbanville’s unconscious face and asked wonderingly, “Is the poor young gentleman still alive, sir?”

  Surgeon Vernon, fingers on the wounded boy’s wrist, inclined his head. “Yes,” he said, avoiding Phillip’s eye, “Thanks to your Captain, he is.”

  Reaching the boat, willing hands lifted the stretcher and laid it carefully across the midship thwarts and Midshipman O’Hara, his own grin as wide as his men’s, touched his cap in salute. “Welcome aboard, sir. You’re just in time.”

  “In time?” Phillip echoed, puzzled. “What do you mean, Mr O’Hara?”

  “Look, sir!” O’Hara pointed. At the head of the cliff path, Phillip saw, a dozen Cossacks had reined in their panting horses and were reaching for the carbines slung from their saddles. A few ill-aimed, half-spent musket balls spattered into the water as the cutter ran through the shallows and then, with her mainsail and jib hoisted and filling, she drew away, heeling sharply as O’Hara brought her on to the port tack and the full force of the lively breeze caught her. It was an offshore breeze, which would mean beating into the bay, Phillip realized, and the Trojan, under engines, was already almost out of sight … they would not catch up with her now, however skilfully O’Hara handled the cutter. Well, he had made his decision, back there on the rocky escarpment where Henry Durbanville had held the Cossacks at bay, and he could only abide by it. Martin Fox would deliver his warning and would report to Lord George Paulet—if questions were asked concerning his absence he, and not his First Lieutenant, would have to answer them.

  He leaned forward, to look at Durbanville and, to his surprise, saw that the wounded boy was smiling at him. The smile was brief; a moment later his eyes closed and it faded, as Henry Durbanville again lapsed into merciful unconsciousness but … it was enough. Not enough, perhaps, to justify the foolhardy decision he had made in any eyes save his own but enough to satisfy his conscience, Phillip thought. Feeling suddenly very tired and lulled by the pleasantly lively motion of the cutter he, too, closed his eyes and permitted himself to relax.

  O’Hara’s voice roused him—he had no idea how much later—from his doze. “We’re almost in the anchorage, sir, and …” the boy’s voice sounded shocked. “Oh, dear heaven, sir, look!”

  Phillip sat up, instantly alert. Well might young O’Hara be shocked, he thought, for the sight which met his eyes would have shocked the most hardened seaman. Broadside on the beach to the south-east of the town lay a line-of-battle ship, her upper decks awash and a mass of wreckage surrounding her. Her masts were, however, still standing and, from the main her ensign, tattered but still flying, proclaimed her French. With a feeling of stunned disbelief, Phillip recognized her as the 100-gun Henri Quatre, the most modern steam-screw liner in the French Fleet. Not far from her was another French ship, also a steamer denuded of her masts and the incoming swell swirling over her. Then, as he swept the rocky coastline with his glass, he saw a two-decker, wearing the Turkish flag, well aground and lying on her starboard bilge scarcely a cable’s length astern of the Henri Quatre. There were others, some too badly damaged to make recognition possible and Phillip counted five before, his hands shaking, he turned his glass on those which were still afloat.

  The 80-gun Bellerophon and the 50-gun sailing frigate Leander, were, he saw to his heartfelt relief, among this number. The Bellerophon had three anchors out and her lower yards struck, the wreckage of several small boats and other flotsam rising and falling on the tide between her and the Leander, whose jib-boom had apparently been carried away. Phillip was also able to recognize three small frigates of Admiral Lyons’s steam squadron—the paddle-steamer Cyclops and the steam-screws Magaera and Spiteful—also afloat but all three showing signs of storm damage, their boats stove in and the 6-gun Spiteful with a heavy list to port, and men on deck working her pumps.

  Finally, her spick and span appearance in marked contrast to the scene of desolation about her, Phillip’s glass found his own ship. The Trojan had come to anchor close to the wharf which served the Eupatoria garrison for the landing of stores and a line of scarlet-jacketed figures, now drawn up there, bore witness to the fact that Martin Fox had lost no time in putting the troops on shore. As he watched, Phillip saw two more boatloads of uniformed men leave the ship’s side and make for the jetty. They came alongside and he watched them disembark and—ant-like figures, at that distance—form up with the rest and march away. They looked like Marines but, even with the aid of the Dollond, he could not be sure.

  “Make for the Trojan, Mr O’Hara,” he ordered, aware of anxiety. “I’ll report aboard the Bellerophon later.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” O’Hara put the cutter’s helm up and the small craft came about, skimming close-hauled under Bellerophon’s stern and demanding all the skill of her young commander in order to avoid collision with some pieces of wreckage floating on the littered surface of the water.

  As they drew nearer to the town, Phillip counted another five vessels aground, three of them with masts still standing and their crews on board but the other two dismasted and deserted. All five were British transports and he found himself wondering with dismay, how those other transports—including the Prince—had fared, lying off Balaclava and forbidden the shelter of the harbour. If the gale had wrought such havoc here, in what had always been considered a reasonably safe anchorage, how much worse must be the toll taken of the transport fleet exposed to its full fury beneath the towering cliffs outside! He drew in his breath sharply, recalling several of the ships he had seen there by name—the Niger, Retribution, Vesuvius, Trojan’s sister ships in the steam squadron, the Vulcan, the Sampson. And Admiral Lyons
’s flagship, the Agamemnon … she had not been at Balaclava when he had last called there—dear God, how many days and nights ago had that been?—but she might have returned. Phillip shuddered, involuntarily, as he caught sight of yet another leaking, battered vessel, her crew despondently at work clearing away the chaotic mass of spars and rigging with which her upper deck was strewn. At least, he told himself grimly, as O’Hara gybed to give her a wide berth, at least one decision he had made was now proved to have been the right one—by riding out the gale at sea, the Trojan had suffered less damage than most of the ships at this anchorage and he was thankful that he had remembered Eupatoria Bay’s vulnerability to southerly gales.

  “There’s the Rapide, sir, I do believe.” Young O’Hara pointed, smiling and, following the direction of his gaze, Phillip echoed his smile.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “and in fairly good shape, by the look of her.” And perhaps, he thought, looking back as the cutter left her astern, he would be able to claim the rescue of the Rapide as a mark in his favour, should his absence from his command ever become the subject of official enquiry. Turning, he glanced down at Henry Durbanville, still lying limp and unconscious across the cutter’s thwarts, his blood-soaked greatcoat wrapped about him and the two Minié rifles, which had served him so well, at his side. Surgeon Vernon, crouched beside the wounded boy, looked up to meet his gaze and said quietly, “He’s alive, Commander Hazard but only just. That leg will have to come off as soon as we get him back on board the ship and, if he survives it, then you’ll have been vindicated, and I shall be proved wrong.” He smiled and added, to Phillip’s surprise, “I hope I am proved wrong, sir, believe me.”