The Valiant Sailors

by V. A. Stuart

  The signal midshipman, glass to his eye, read and repeated the order to the Captain, his young voice commendably steady.

  “Very good.” North’s voice was as devoid of emotion as the expression on his face. “Carry on, Mr Hazard.”

  The boatswain’s mates put their whistles to their lips and the links ground harshly through the hawse pipe, as the order was obeyed. In line astern of Retribution and followed by the eight other British and French steam frigates composing the squadron, Trojan steamed towards Odessa’s Imperial Harbour. Phillip, standing motionless on her quarterdeck, felt the muscles of his stomach knot into a tight, painful ball and, glancing at North, saw that the Captain’s normally florid countenance had drained of colour, although it retained its mask-like blankness.

  Every gun which could be brought to bear on them from the shore opened fire as Trojan and Retribution approached the Mole but the first few salvoes fell short and Retribution, holding her course without deviation, discharged her first broadside and put her helm over. Trojan followed her, the roar of her guns deafening and her decks wreathed in smoke, which cleared slowly as she, in turn, put about to yield her station to the French frigate Descartes. One by one the ten ships of the attacking squadron discharged their starboard broadsides and, each tracking in the wake of her next ahead, wheeled in the circle which Admiral Lyons had envisaged.

  The Admiral’s unorthodox plan of attack proved extremely successful. The gunners on shore were accustomed to aiming at stationary targets and anchored ships, and they were confused by the constant twisting and circling of their attackers, as well as by the heavy volume of fire to which their batteries were subjected. No sooner had they managed to find the range of one ship than she had passed on, making way for her successor in the ever-revolving circle. An almost continuous cannonade was maintained, each ship delivering her fire from that point in her orbit which was nearest to the enemy, then wheeling and reloading her guns the instant they were discharged and once again, in her turn, coming into the attack. In spite of this and the naval gunners’ increasing accuracy, the Russians replied with praiseworthy steadiness. Those manning the 26-gun battery in the fort on the Imperial Mole pounded away ceaselessly, firing a stream of red-hot shot, shells and chain-shot … the latter, even when it passed overhead, wreaking havoc with the spars and rigging of the attacking ships.

  Within an hour the French frigate Vauban of 20 guns was set on fire by red-hot shot and, blazing furiously, was forced to withdraw from the circle, out of range. As boats from the Fleet went to her assistance, H.M.S. Highflyer 26, took her place. A small dispatch-steamer—which Phillip thought he recognized, through the smoke of battle, as the 2-gun Banshee— arriving with mail from Constantinople, disputed with Highflyer for the honour, until she was recalled by a signal from the flagship, which she obeyed with obvious reluctance.

  Some distance away from the circling steamer squadron, the 50-gun sailing frigate Arethusa, employed for the purpose of intercepting any Russian ships that might attempt to escape, was fired on by a coastal fort. Under all sail and brilliantly handled by her commander, Captain William Mends, Arethusa accepted the challenge. Sailing majestically in, she fired her port broadside, tacked, and fired her bow guns, then hove about to fire her starboard broadside and finally wore round and brought her stern guns to bear. She continued her classically executed manoeuvres, to the admiration of the watching Fleet, until she, too, was recalled by a signal from Britannia, to which she responded with even greater reluctance than Banshee had shown. She was enthusiastically cheered when at last she returned to the Fleet anchorage.

  As the morning wore on, Retribution was hit but she remained in action, concentrating her fire on a battery mounted on the quay of the so-called Port de Pratique, from which a dangerously accurate rain of red-hot shot appeared to be coming. Phillip drew Captain North’s attention to this battery and, receiving permission to direct Trojan’s long 52-pounders at it, had the satisfaction of recording several hits, which eventually silenced all but one of its eight heavy guns.

  The guns on the south side of the fort on the Imperial Mole began to find the range of the circling ships, however, and despite an extension of the circle’s orbit, Retribution and Sampson were hulled half a dozen times and the foremast of one of the French ships went over the side and she steamed out of action. Trojan, after seeming to bear a charmed life, received a direct hit from a shell, which struck the starboard side of her quarterdeck and, narrowly missing the crew of the after-52-pounder, tore up the deck planking as it exploded, three of the gun’s crew being injured by flying splinters.

  The men were not severely wounded but one of them cried out blasphemously in pain and Phillip, hurrying across to their aid, happened to glance back at his commander and was shocked by what he saw. Captain North had been several yards from the path of the exploding missile and in no danger from it but he was now standing as if transfixed, his gaze fixed on the charred timber it had left in its wake, his cheeks ashen and his big body trembling violently. He recovered himself almost immediately and shouted for the Surgeon but Phillip was left with the uneasy conviction that, for an unguarded moment, he had seen the real North beneath the bullying and the bluster. And if he had … he fought down the anger which rose in him. If he had, he thought resignedly, then God help Trojan should she be called upon to face any more dangerous opposition than she was facing at this moment. He knelt beside the man who had cried out and said reassuringly, “All right, lad, we shall get you to the Surgeon … I don’t think you’re too badly hurt.”

  North said nothing. When the injured men had been taken below to have their wounds dressed, he snapped an impatient order for replacements to be put on the gun and then, turning his back, abruptly vanished below. He returned to the quarterdeck, ten minutes later, his breath smelling strongly of rum… .

  The bombardment continued, seemingly with little effect, and, just before one o’clock, H.M.S. Terrible, 21, commanded by Captain James McCleverty, signalled that she—as the most powerfully armed of the British frigates—would endeavour to put the fort out of action by closing the range. She steamed close in to the extremity of the Mole and, although greeted by a fierce hail of shot and shell and hit a score of times, she maintained her course and gallantly held her own fire until she was within seven or eight hundred yards of the fort.

  Her commander’s courage was rewarded as, her four squat funnels belching thick clouds of black smoke and her paddlewheels churning the water about her to a frenzy, she came about and brought her heavy 68-pounder Lancaster cannon to bear, firing these, as well as a shower of rockets, with deadly accuracy. The rockets landed on a shed at the rear of the Imperial Fort, which instantly burst into flames. The flames spread to the magazine and this blew up with a dull roar, the violence of the explosion shattering part of the outer wall of the fort, the rest of which was soon caught up in the general conflagration. The garrison fled in terror, as a series of explosions brought their stronghold crumbling about them, and Terrible was cheered to the echo by the crews of the other frigates when she returned to her station.

  A signal from the flagship, relayed by Sanspareil, ordered the squadron to stand in closer and continue the bombardment, concentrating on the destruction or capture of the Russian ships lying inside the Imperial Harbour and the dockyard beyond. One by one they obeyed, wheeling into line ahead and running the gauntlet of the guns mounted on the Quarantine Mole, which had hitherto been unable to bear on them effectively. Retribution, supported by Sanspareil, broke off to engage the Quarantine batteries. Her attack, although it failed to silence the Russian guns, enabled a number of British and French trading vessels to escape in the confusion from the Quarantine Harbour, bravely flying their national colours.

  The rest of the steam frigates pressed on towards their original objective, followed now by the rocket-boats, which were rowed or towed into position. A Russian corvette, abandoned by her crew, was the first victim, a shell from Tiger penetrating to her magazine
and blowing her to pieces. Two new warships, together with several other ships still in the course of construction, were burnt on the stocks, and a brig, a sloop of war, and an armed schooner sunk. Half a dozen others, laden with supplies, were captured and towed out into the bay by the victorious frigate squadron, Trojan taking an armed schooner and 25 prisoners.

  Before long, despite the spirited resistance of a troop of horse artillery which unlimbered and opened up on them unexpectedly from the quay, the rocket-boats, ably led by Agamemnon’s Commander Dixon, entered the Imperial Harbour. There they destroyed a quantity of naval and military stores and munitions of war and set the dockyard ablaze. The fires spread, fanned by a strong breeze, to the lower part of the town and—due, in part at least, to the inefficiency of Odessa’s fire service—took a strong hold. By dusk, when the signal came to break off the engagement and return to the Fleet anchorage, much of the town was burning fiercely and a pall of flame-tinged smoke hung heavily over the rest of it.

  Phillip gazed back at the devastation they were leaving behind them, his heart heavy as distress succeeded the excitement that, during most of the action, had buoyed him up. Admiral Lyons had wanted to spare the town and its civilian inhabitants, he thought sadly, but the strong wind, for which he had not bargained, had made this impossible. The fires had spread too rapidly for the damage to be confined strictly to military targets and inevitably, whatever had been the Admiral’s intention, the civilian population would suffer. He felt conscience-stricken, wondering again whether Mademoiselle Sophie had remained in Odessa and, if she had, where she was now, conscious of a haunting anxiety and a longing—which, he knew, could not be gratified—to go ashore in search of her.

  Beside him, the Captain said thickly, his smoke-grimed face relaxing in an unaccustomed smile of satisfaction, “Well, we have dealt the Russians a blow they won’t forget in a hurry, Mr Hazard … and at a surprising small cost to ourselves. We can repair most of the damage we have suffered in under 24 hours and we haven’t lost a man.” He gestured to the charred ruins astern, the gesture contemptuous. “Soon, let us hope, we shall leave Sebastopol in a similar state. I confess I am eager for that day to come.”

  “I don’t imagine that we shall find Sebastopol quite so easy as we found Odessa, sir,” Phillip demurred. “We met with no opposition from the Russian Fleet today but, if we launch an attack on Sebastopol where it is based, it must be a different story, I think … quite apart from the fact that the fortifications are said to be very formidable. I understand Captain Drummond reported them to be impregnable from the sea and—”

  “Have you no stomach for such a fight, Mr Hazard?” North put in, a sneer in his voice. “Let the Russian battle squadrons come, I say … and the sooner the better. We shall be more than a match for them, ship for ship.”

  Phillip avoided his gaze. “Perhaps we may be, sir,” he began, “Although I hardly think—”

  Captain North ignored the interruption. “There is nothing to equal British naval discipline and training,” he stated, with conviction. “You’ve seen proof of that today, have you not? Or has the lesson been wasted on you?”

  “I do not believe so, sir.”

  “Thanks to my insisting on the maintenance of proper discipline aboard this ship,” North went on, “her crew bore themselves well and did all that was required. I am not yet by any means satisfied with the standard of discipline we have achieved but … it is better than it was when I assumed command. So you may send all hands to dinner as soon as the galley is functioning again, Mr Hazard, and you may order the grog ration doubled, as a mark of my approval of the manner in which the ship’s company conducted themselves today.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Phillip acknowledged. He tried not to think of the expression of stunned terror he had surprised on his commander’s face a few hours before and added a dutiful, “Thank you, sir, I will see that the Divisional Officers pass the word to their men, sir.”

  Young Lieutenant Sutherland appeared, at that moment, looking unutterably weary, to report all guns secured and to request permission to dismiss his guns’ crews. North gave the required permission with a curt nod and, since he offered no praise, Phillip said, choosing his words carefully, “The Captain has expressed his approval of the manner in which your men conducted themselves today, Mr Sutherland. It is his wish that you inform them … and he has ordered the grog ration doubled, as a mark of his approval.”

  Sutherland’s exhausted, sweat-streaked face lit up as he stammered his thanks. When he had gone, North said, with heavy emphasis, “The fact that we have been in action is not to be made an excuse for slackness, Mr Hazard. Let that be made quite clear … and see that you remember it yourself. Small thanks are due to you for the measure of efficiency and discipline this crew has attained. But I trust I shall be able to count on better co-operation from you in the future.” Afraid to trust himself to reply, Phillip was silent, hoping to be given his dismissal. When this was not forthcoming, he ventured diffidently, “Will that be all, sir?”

  “No, it will not be all, Mr Hazard. I shall require a full report of the damage we have sustained as soon as we drop anchor. And”—the Captain glanced skywards, his eyes narrowed—“there will be a moon, which should give you enough light to work by, should it not?”

  “To work by, sir?” Phillip stared at him in unconcealed dismay. “But the men are exhausted, sir, they—”

  North waved him to silence. “They are seamen, not children, Mr Hazard, and this is a ship of war,” he stated coldly. “The duty watch will commence repairs to spars and rigging at once. Give them an hour for dinner and then put them to work … ” He issued a string of orders and then said, his smile thin, “I intend Trojan to be the first ship in the squadron to declare herself ready for sea. If she is, then the Admiral can hardly refuse my request for an independent patrol … and I want some prizes, prizes I don’t have to share with three or four other commanders.” He jerked his head in final dismissal, his expression one that discouraged argument. “Very well, you may carry on, Mr Hazard. And I shall expect you to have the ship ready for sea by tomorrow afternoon, if you please.”

  With the exception of a few minor replacements of burned and splintered deck planking, Trojan’s repairs were completed by the following evening, when the First Dog Watch was called. To her commander’s chagrin, however, his request to be given an independent patrol was refused, without explanation, by Admiral Dundas. She was sent instead to Constantinople, acting as escort to some damaged British merchant vessels which had escaped from the Quarantine Harbour during his bombardment. In addition, she took a number of prize ships to be sold by auction to the Turks, returning with their crews to rejoin the combined British and French Fleets off Sebastopol on 4th May.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  1

  The Fleets had been at anchor off the Russian Naval Base for a week but, prudently refusing to accept the challenge which their presence offered, the enemy line-of-battle ships remained behind the shelter of their guardian fortresses, making no move to pick up the gage of war. In an effort to provoke them to action, Admiral Dundas eventually yielded to the pleas of his second-in-command and directed him to lead a combined steamer squadron on a series of harassing raids on the Crimean, Georgian, and Circassian coasts.

  Admiral Lyons divided his force, sending Highflyer, Trojan, Niger, and Firebrand to Kertch Bay, at the entrance to the Sea of Azov, under the command of Captain Moore of Highflyer, with orders to sink, burn, or capture enemy merchant shipping and to destroy military stores on shore. A second squadron, under the Admiral’s personal command and including three French ships, made for Kaffa Bay on the north-east of the Crimean peninsula with a similar purpose.

  Neither expedition took any prizes. Niger, with a Turkish pilot aboard, sighted two Russian merchant brigs on rounding Cape Takti and gave chase, only to run herself aground on an uncharted ledge of rock … from whence it took five hours hard work on the part of the crews of her sister-ships to free
her. Admiral Lyons decided to proceed to Anapa in Agamemnon, taking Highflyer and Firebrand with him, his intention to raid and reconnoitre the coast and, if possible, make contact with the Circassian chief, Schamyl, in order to assist his revolt against the Russians.

  Trojan, to Captain North’s intense disappointment, was ordered to rejoin the Fleet with the damaged Niger in company. He obeyed sullenly, bewailing his ill fortune, but his hopes rose once more when, on 11th May, Trojan was dispatched to patrol the coast off Odessa, with Tiger, Niger, and Vesuvius. “If we can contrive to get away on our own,” he confided to Phillip, with unusual expansiveness, “we may yet take a few worthwhile prizes. I think we’ll shape our own course to Odessa. Pass the word for Mr Burnaby to report to me with his charts before we sail.”

  The four frigates left the Fleet anchorage at noon. Captain Giffard of the Tiger, as senior officer, took command and just before dusk, signalled the course he intended to steer during the night. It was agreed, much to Captain North’s satisfaction, that in the event of parting company, all four would rendezvous off Odessa the following day but no definite hour for the rendezvous was specified. When darkness fell, North, having set his chosen course, retired for the night in a better humour than he had been for weeks.

  But when day dawned a thick fog shrouded the whole coastline in mist and it was impossible to see the bows of the ship from the quarterdeck. Duncan Laidlaw had the Morning Watch and, when Phillip came on deck to join him soon after five bells, an impenetrable curtain of dank white vapour hemmed Trojan in on all sides. She was running under engines, in accordance with the Captain’s instructions, but at reduced speed, with look-outs doubled and a man at the lead, taking regular soundings, and Laidlaw asked, when he had reported these precautions, whether he ought to stop the engines until the fog cleared.

  “It’s a real pea-souper, is it not, sir?” he observed and Phillip, frowning, agreed that it was. The Captain’s permission would have to be sought before he could order the screw raised but … he went to consult the Master and study the charts. They were apparently in no immediate danger of running ashore; nevertheless, the Niger’s example before him, he decided to take no risks and dispatched the midshipman of the watch to make a report to Captain North and ascertain his wishes with regard to the continued use of the engines. North, without coming on deck, ordered them stopped.