The Valiant Sailors

by V. A. Stuart

  At seven bells in the Forenoon Watch, correctly attired in frock coat and cocked hat, Phillip set off in the duty boat for Agamemnon… .

  CHAPTER SIX

  1

  Having, under the proud guidance of her acting First Lieutenant, inspected “the finest steam-screw ship-ofthe-line in the British Navy” from poop to engine room, Phillip was warmly received by Sir Edmund Lyons in Agamemnon’s spacious and well appointed after-cabin.

  Here a party of about a dozen senior officers—most of them commanding ships of first or second rate—had gathered, at the Admiral’s invitation, to dine with him. An excellent meal was served and Phillip began to enjoy himself, finding the atmosphere friendly and informal, despite the presence of so many officers of post-rank. A number of Admiral Lyons’s guests, he realized, had served under his command as midshipmen in the Blonde and Madagascar frigates in the ’30s. Among them were his Flag-Captain, Thomas Symonds, Captain Colpoys Dacres of the Sanspareil, Captain Thomas Mitchell of the Queen, Captain Stephen Lushington of the Albion, and Captain de Saumarez Brock, who was attached to Britannia. Their friendship with their old commander had endured over many years and it was evident, as the meal progressed and conversation became general, that they all held him in the highest esteem and were looking to him—rather than to the Commander-in-Chief—for leadership in the coming war.

  This was, perhaps, not surprising since Sir Edmund Lyons, Rear-Admiral of the White, had an exceptional record. He had been chosen for his present appointment, Phillip knew, because of his extensive knowledge of the area and, in particular, of the Black Sea. Although only second-in-command to Vice-Admiral Dundas, he had been designated his successor before leaving England. An extremely talented and courageous man, Lyons possessed the unusual distinction of having made a brilliant career in the diplomatic service, after having served —with equal brilliance—in the Navy until he was forty-five. He was now sixty-four, to Admiral Dundas’s sixty-nine, and had been British Minister to the Court of King Otho of Greece from 1835 until the summer of 1849.

  It had been in this capacity, Phillip recalled, that—as a young midshipman—he had first made his host’s acquaintance. The Embassy in Athens had been open house to all British naval officers, however junior, who had called there during Sir Edmund’s term of office and he still remembered the many kindnesses he had received, in those far-off days, from both Sir Edmund and Lady Lyons. Since then, in the company of their younger son, Jack—Captain Edmund Moubray Lyons, now commanding the steam-sloop Miranda in the White Sea—under whom he had served for a time, he had met the Admiral on several occasions. The last occasion had been nearly four years ago, when Sir Edmund had spent a few months on leave in London at the termination of his Athens appointment, but he seemed to have changed very little.

  He had aged, of course, and his hair had turned white in the intervening years, but he had lost none of his driving energy, none of the strong personal magnetism and charm for which he had always been noted. Indeed, Phillip thought, listening to a discussion he was having with Captain Brock, the Admiral appeared to possess more energy than ever and his understanding of the present complex political situation in the Balkans was—as befitted a man who had spent the better part of fourteen years in Greece—impressively well informed.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Tom Johnson, who was seated beside him, touched Phillip’s arm. “Our Admiral is a remarkable man,” he observed softly. “One of the most brilliant commanders under whom it has ever been my good fortune to serve. Who else could have returned to the Navy as he has, after nearly twenty years ashore, as smoothly and efficiently as if he’d never been away? Who else could prove, as he’s proved, time and again, that he’s lost none of his professional skill, forgotten none of his early training? It is almost impossible to believe that his last active command was that of the Madagascar, which he relinquished when he went to Athens in 1835! His seamanship is as good as it ever was, which is saying a great deal, and I’d be prepared to wager that his knowledge of steam-power—both theoretical and practical—is at least as comprehensive as yours or mine. And we’ve both taken a course in steam, which the Admiral hasn’t.”

  “I’d concede you your wager,” Phillip answered smiling.

  “It’s a pity he ever left the Navy,” Lieutenant Johnson went on. “Imagine what he might have achieved, if he had not … a career which might well have emulated Nelson’s. He was said to have the ‘Nelson touch,’ wasn’t he, in Java in 1811 when he took Marrack Fort with two boatloads of bluejackets? And consider his early record, Phillip … he was a commander at twenty-one and a post-captain before he was twenty-three. Nelson himself did not win promotion any more rapidly than our Admiral. He never talks about it, of course, but I’ve often wondered why he left the service because he obviously loves it.”

  Phillip murmured a non-committal rejoinder. He knew, from what Jack Lyons had told him of his father, that as a young Post-Captain, Edmund Lyons had cherished a secret ambition to follow in the footsteps of England’s most famous naval commander to whom, in his youth, he had borne a strong physical resemblance. But with the ending of the Napoleonic War, the need for economy had compelled the British Admiralty to make a drastic reduction in the number of ships to be kept in commission. As a result, in common with a great many other brave and able officers, Captain Lyons had been placed on half-pay and his youthful dreams doomed to frustration.

  Phillip sighed reminiscently, his own father’s wrathful speeches on this subject fresh in his mind. The Navy List of 1816 had contained the names of two hundred admirals, eight hundred and fifty captains, nearly nine hundred commanders, and upwards of four thousand lieutenants … small wonder therefore that, in spite of his fine record, it had taken Edmund Lyons almost fourteen years to obtain another command. He had married and brought up a family when at last he was appointed to the Blonde, a 46-gun frigate, in which he had played a distinguished part in the blockade of Navarino in 1828. The following year, Blonde had been chosen to convey Sir Robert Gordon to Constantinople as British Ambassador, charged with a delicate diplomatic mission to the Porte and fate had taken a hand in deciding her commander’s destiny.

  Whilst there, Lyons had made so favourable an impression on the Sultan that he had obtained permission to embark on a cruise in the Black Sea. The Blonde was on record as the first British warship to pass through the Bosphorus—with the full knowledge and consent of the Turks—since the signing of the Treaty of Unkiar Skelessi, twenty years before. With the enterprise that was typical of him, Lyons had visited and drawn careful plans of the harbour defences and fortifications of Sebastopol and Odessa and he was said also to have conducted an extensive survey of the Black Sea coast … one of the reasons, presumably, for his recall to the Navy and his present appointment as second-in-command of the British Fleet in the Black Sea.

  The wheel, Phillip reflected, had turned full circle, so far as Admiral Lyons was concerned. It was evident, from what he was saying now, that he was aware of this and that he meant to turn his previous experience of the Black Sea to good account in the near future, if afforded the opportunity.

  “The capture of Sebastopol and the destruction of the enemy Fleet based there is and must be our aim, gentlemen,” the Admiral stated. “To me, the mere idea of our not striking a successful blow at Sebastopol is painful … it haunts me in my solitary evening walks on the deck of this splendid ship. I am convinced that, if we do not leave our mark on the Black Sea this time, we shall have to do the work again before many years elapse. It is, of course, a question of men and money, as was the campaign which ended at Waterloo. But in my considered view—which is supported by Captain Drummond of the Retribution, in his report on its defences to the Admiralty— it will require a combined assault, by both land and sea, to take Sebastopol.”

  “When, Admiral?” someone asked.

  “This summer, I trust,” Admiral Lyons answered. “That is the course I am urging on Sir James Graham and their Lordships. The measur
es already taken will be sufficient to ensure the safety of Constantinople and the Dardanelles … even if the Turks are driven back from the Danube, they will have gained us time. And Omar Pasha is still holding out, whilst inflicting heavy losses on the enemy … a state of affairs which, he has assured me, will continue with the minimum of help from us. But the little knowledge I have of human nature leads me to believe that the Emperor of Russia will not knuckle under until he has been dealt some hard blows … and certainly one of the hardest blows would be the destruction of his Fleet and the arsenal at Sebastopol.”

  “You mean, sir,” one of the Captains asked, “that we should launch an attack on Sebastopol—a combined naval and military attack—rather than go to the support of the Turks in the Danube provinces?”

  The Admiral gravely inclined his head. “Precisely … and with as little delay as possible, we should effect a landing of the British and French Armies on the Crimean coast, covered by the Fleets.” He went into details, illustrating his points in time-honoured fashion, by moving glasses and cutlery about the table in front of him, and his Captains crowded round him, listening with absorbed interest. “We cannot take Sebastopol with our Fleets alone,” he said. “On the other hand, once war is declared, there will be a great deal we can do, while we are waiting for the land-based forces to come to our support. By means of an effective blockade of the Russian ports and of raids on the coasts of Circassia and the Crimea—or even an attack on Odessa—I believe that we may compel the Russian Fleet to leave harbour and do battle with us. My plan would be this …”

  Phillip’s spirits rose as he listened to the Admiral’s cultured voice, expounding one bold, brilliantly conceived plan of action after another. He began to understand and share the admiration his brother officers felt for this white haired sailorturned-diplomat, who had now returned to his old profession and whose enthusiasm for the task he had undertaken was so infectious. Admiral Lyons’s whole heart, it was clear, was still very much with the Navy … as Tom Johnson had said, he might never have been away. He was very much at home here, in Agamemnon’s stern cabin among his ships’ Captains, energetically discussing the finer points of naval and military strategy with men who respected his views.

  Coffee was being served when, excusing himself to his other guests, the Admiral rose and came to take a chair at Phillip’s side. “Don’t move, Phillip my boy,” he admonished, as Phillip made to get to his feet. “This is an informal gathering and I just wanted a few words with you before you return to your own ship. You’ve seen my son Jack quite recently, I believe?”

  “Yes, sir … Miranda was fitting out at Devonport at the same time as ourselves. I had the pleasure of dining with Captain Lyons several times, sir.”

  “I’m delighted that he’s been given another command. Tell me how you found him, will you?” There was pride in the Admiral’s voice and a brightness in his eyes as he made this request and, aware of the strong bond of affection that existed between Jack Lyons and his father, Phillip did his best to comply with it explicitly and in detail. The Lyons family consisted of two sons—the elder, Bickerton, was in the diplomatic service and had remained in Athens after his father left—and two daughters, both of whom were now married. Lady Lyons, to whom they had all been devoted, had died the previous year in Stockholm, Jack had told him, and Phillip ventured diffidently to express his sympathy.

  “I feel her loss very deeply, Phillip,” the Admiral confessed. “But I was fortunate, we had a wonderfully happy life together …” he sighed and returned to the subject of Jack Lyons’s new command. “We’ve both chosen steam-screw. And you are First Lieutenant of Trojan, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Steam is going to be the thing of the future, I am convinced. Though with regret … it will be a sad day for the Navy when engineers take the place of seamen. But that day will come, Phillip, however little we want it to … the writing is on the wall. You made a fast passage out here, I’m told?”

  “Yes, sir. We had passengers on board who …” Phillip hesitated, uncertain of how much he ought to, say about Trojan’s passengers in the hearing of others.

  “I’ve also heard about your passengers,” the Admiral assured him. “By this time, let us hope they have reached Odessa in safety … and before the declaration of war. That had not reached Constantinople when you left, I gather?”

  “No, sir, not officially,” Phillip began, “But—” he was interrupted by one of Agamemnon’s lieutenants, who came up to the Admiral, cap in hand, to announce that the Furious had been sighted.

  “Good!” Admiral Lyons rose from his chair at once. “Send a boat across to her as soon as she drops anchor, I’m anxious to learn how she fared on her mission. Do you hear that, gentlemen? Furious is back from Odessa.”

  Phillip drew in his breath sharply. He, too, was anxious to learn how Furious had fared and he postponed his departure, following the Admiral and his other guests on deck when, not long afterwards, the boat sent from Agamemnon was reported to be returning. The First Lieutenant of Furious was on board and his account of what had happened was given to Admiral Lyons in person, creating something of a sensation among the other listeners. The frigate, it seemed, had reached Odessa at daybreak on the morning of 6th April and had stood-in to the harbour, showing her British colours and a flag of truce.

  “Captain Loring ordered me to take a boat ashore, also under a flag of truce, sir,” the First Lieutenant explained. “I brought the—er—the two passengers with me, together with a letter addressed to the British Consul. We secured alongside the Quarantine Mole, sir, at about five-thirty and were met by an official of the Port Health authority. When I made my mission clear to him, sir, he told me—in very bad French—that I was too early but he promised that the Harbour Master would come out to us at six o’clock and that he would undertake delivery of the letter to the Consul. The passengers went ashore at their own request, sir, and when they had done so, I ordered my boat’s crew to pull away from the Mole, sir, to wait for the Harbour Master.”

  “And did the Harbour Master come out to you at six o’clock?” the Admiral asked, with interest.

  The First Lieutenant shook his head. “No, sir, and nor to the best of my knowledge was the Consul informed. I waited with my boat for nearly an hour and then I received a signal to return to the ship. Captain Loring came in to meet us and, as we were pulling back to the ship, sir, six successive shots from cannon were fired at us from one of the shore batteries. The last three, which were shells, were aimed at Furious. The direction of the shots was good, sir, but none had sufficient elevation and neither we nor the ship were touched.”

  “But the fire was deliberate?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed, sir … quite deliberate.”

  “You were showing your British colours, as well as the flag of truce, were you not?”

  “Furious was, sir, all the time,” the young officer answered promptly. “My boat showed a flag of truce only. And we did not return their fire … when I returned to the ship, the Captain gave orders to stand-off out of range. A Russian gunboat came in close for the purpose of observing us, sir, and we gave chase. She escaped into Dnieper, after we had pursued her for about ten miles. After that, sir, the Captain deemed it expedient to rejoin the Fleet, in order to make a full report of what had occurred to Admiral Dundas and yourself. Captain Loring is aboard Britannia now, sir.”

  “And the Consul?”

  “We had to leave him, sir.”

  “I see … thank you,” Admiral Lyons acknowledged. He turned to the officers grouped about him, his expression grave. “Gentlemen, I must see the Commander-in-Chief immediately. The British flag has suffered unprovoked insult and aggression and I believe that the threat of an attack on Odessa would be fully justified, the instant war is declared. I say threat advisedly for, if we threaten Odessa with the steam squadron, Admiral Nachimoff can scarcely continue to skulk behind the protection of the guns of Sebastopol, can he? We may well find out, before
we are much older, gentlemen, of what stuff the hero of Sinope is made!”

  There was a loud murmur of assent, followed by excited discussion, which was interrupted by the officer of the watch, who touched his cap. “Signal from the flagship, sir,” he informed the Admiral. “Requesting you to come aboard. Shall I call away your barge, sir?”

  “If you please, Mr Douglas.” Sir Edmund Lyons turned to his guests. “I’ll take my leave of you, gentlemen,” he told them, smiling. “But it will not be for long … you may expect to be summoned on board the flagship for a council of war very soon, if I have my way. And I rather think I shall.” He laid a hand briefly on Phillip’s shoulder. “Dine with me again, Phillip.”

  “Thank you very much indeed, sir.” Phillip attended the Admiral to his barge and, after watching him depart with due ceremony for Britannia, accompanied by his Flag-Lieutenant Frederick Maxse, there was a general move on the part of Agamemnon’s visitors to return to their own ships.

  The following afternoon, 9th April, the Niger arrived with dispatches from Constantinople. Within a few minutes of these being delivered to Admiral Dundas, the long awaited signal “War is declared,” was broken out from the flagship’s masthead, the date of the actual declaration in England being given as 28th March.