Hazard of Huntress

by V. A. Stuart

  As Anthony Cochrane had done, Graham Hazard raised his glass. “To the Huntress,” he offered quietly. “And to her Captain! My sincere congratulations, Phillip, on being given your own command. Judging by what I have seen of the ship, it’s one a good many of your seniors will envy. The Old Man will be very proud of you. You’ve written to tell him, of course?”

  “Yes,” Phillip assured him. “I’ve written. But there has been no time for him to reply. My letter went from Varna and we’ve had no mail from home since November.”

  “The mail from England has just arrived, sir,” Cochrane volunteered. “Ours was delivered this afternoon. You’ll no doubt receive yours tomorrow morning.”

  “It is to be hoped that we’ll receive it early, then.” Phillip glanced from one to the other of them. “We’re under orders to leave this anchorage tomorrow morning.”

  Both his guests regarded him enquiringly. “For Bulgaria?” Graham suggested, without enthusiasm. “To convoy more Turks to Eupatoria?”

  Phillip shook his head. “No, heaven be praised—for Odessa. My orders are confidential but …” He went into brief details concerning the nature of the vigil which the Huntress was to keep off the rocky, inhospitable enemy coast, telling them as much as he could. To Graham, later, he would and, indeed, must tell more, for on him would largely depend the success of the mission that Admiral Lyons had entrusted to him, if—in the Admiral’s own words—“circumstances should permit its accomplishment without undue risk to the ship or her company.”

  His brother had spent the best part of five months as a Russian prisoner-of-war, mainly in Odessa; he had picked up a useful knowledge of the language or a working knowledge, at all events, and he knew the town well, since the Tiger’s seamen had been allowed almost complete freedom during their captivity. Whereas he himself had been confined to bed by his wound and had seen little more of Odessa than the four walls of the room placed at his disposal by the Governor, Baron Osten-Sacken, Graham—in common with the rest of his unwounded shipmates—had taken full advantage of their jailers’ laxity and the unexpectedly generous hospitality lavished on them by the townsfolk. And … Phillip frowned, remembering. His brother’s story had, somehow, become known to the Governor and, in the firm conviction that he would not refuse, Graham had been sent, with a number of the Tiger’s midshipmen, to the Imperial Naval Academy, there to be examined in seamanship and subsequently offered command of a Russian frigate in the Baltic.

  In the past, Phillip was aware, the Russian Navy had welcomed expatriate British officers to its service, many of whom—like the German soldiers of fortune in the imperial Army—had risen to high rank, their loyalty to their adopted country unquestioned. To Baron Osten-Sacken therefore, as to the Naval Staff in St. Petersburg, the offer would not have seemed dishonorable in the circumstances, but, eternally to his credit, Graham had refused it. He had elected to return to Odessa and the British Fleet although, perhaps, even he might have reconsidered his decision had he been able to anticipate Captain North’s reaction to it.

  Indeed, but for North’s death, Graham might well have found himself facing a court martial on charges of … How had North framed them? Having treasonable dealings with the enemy in time of war—yes, that was the substance of the accusation he had made and such a charge would have been hard enough, in all conscience, to disprove. Had not the Tiger’s seamen met with stunned disbelief when they had described the receptions held in their honor by the citizens of Odessa and the lack of restriction placed on their movements, once the port medical authorities had given them a clean bill of health?

  His own account of the consideration he had been shown by the Governor and the excellent medical attention he had received had, Phillip reminded himself, caused more than a few skeptically raised eyebrows … and small wonder since at Balaclava and on the Heights of Inkerman the war had been bitterly waged. During the great storm, a month ago, ship-wrecked seamen had been shot by Cossack marksmen as they struggled, half-drowned, to reach the shore. On the blood-soaked battlefields, as in the trenches facing Sebastopol, Russian soldiers—and the Cossacks in particular—had committed acts of savage atrocity on those who fell into their hands. They gave no quarter to the wounded and, deaf to pity, apparently expected none for themselves as, dying, they attempted to kill any who sought to succor them.

  Odessa’s attitude to its prisoners-of-war in May and June had stemmed, almost certainly, from the Governor, who was a humane and civilized autocrat. But he was now in the field himself, commanding Prince Menshikoff’s reserves, and therefore that attitude—like the whole character of the war—had probably changed. Fear, hatred, and mistrust were the inevitable outcome of any war, as he had learned by experience, Phillip reflected wryly. Chivalry and even respect for a gallant foe gave place to primitive brutality and indifference to suffering when men were killing and being killed; and when the only choice lay between taking the life of an enemy or losing your own, you did not pause to think, as a rule.

  But if war revealed what was worst in human nature it also, on many occasions, brought out the noblest and best. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” He had seen examples of that love too. Phillip felt a lump rise in his throat. He thought fleetingly of the girl who had come to him in his delirium in that small room in the Governor’s palace at Odessa and then sternly banished the memory of her gentle kindness from his mind. In view of the Admiral’s confidential instructions to him, it would be madness to remember Mademoiselle Sophie now. And it would be equally unwise to let his thoughts dwell on the Prince Narishkin, her husband and technically an enemy, who had died so valiantly in the battle for Balaclava and who now lay buried with the dead of the 93rd, against whose “thin red line tipped with steel” he had led the Russian cavalry charge.

  He glanced again at his brother and uncannily, as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud, Graham observed flatly, “I have some exceedingly pleasant memories of my sojourn in Odessa—as you have also, no doubt, and with reason. Although perhaps even here, among friends, it’s best not to say so.”

  “Perhaps,” Phillip agreed. “I confess that I was thinking along those lines too. But we’re at war and we’ve been given our orders, so …” He shrugged. “Some more wine, Mr Cochrane?”

  “No, thank you, sir.” Cochrane rose. “You’ll want to talk to your brother, I feel sure so, unless there is anything else you wish to say to me, I’ll ask your permission to retire.”

  “There’s nothing that won’t keep till morning,” Phillip assured him. “I’ll see you then … and Mr Grey also, if you’ll be good enough to pass the word to him.” He accompanied Cochrane to the door of his cabin and then returned to his seat facing his brother. They spoke of Service matters and of Graham’s application to have his commission restored and then, at some length, of the Huntress, going into technical details of her design and potential with professional enthusiasm. This absorbing subject at last exhausted, Graham said unexpectedly, “I received a letter from the Old Man, Phillip— the second in eleven years! Needless to tell you, he continues to applaud my ‘patriotic and self-sacrificing decision’ to reenlist in the Royal Navy and he’s even invited me, like the Prodigal Son, to return to the bosom of the family when this war comes to an end … if it ever does.”

  “Have you replied?” Phillip asked careful to keep his voice expressionless.

  Graham spread his big, scarred hands in a resigned gesture. “Not as yet. The letter only came in today’s mail. I shall answer it, of course but … well, it remains to be seen whether or not I can accept his invitation.”

  “He would not have issued it unless he really wanted to see you again—and wanted it very much.”

  “Wouldn’t he? Dear God, it’s taken him long enough then!” The rigid control Graham usually kept over his emotions had relaxed a little and his tone was harsh with bitterness. “Eleven long years, Phillip, during every one of which I’ve felt his disapproval and his contempt reach
ing out to me, however great the distance between us! Eleven years without a word and without allowing me to utter a word in my own defense. It’s a long time, you know.”

  “All the same, you will wound him very deeply if you reject his overture, now that he’s made it,” Phillip pointed out. “He has aged almost out of recognition and he’s very frail. Oh, I haven’t forgotten what he used to be like … that icy, unbending, quarter-deck manner, the way he could freeze you with a look … the stories he used to tell of the Service in his day and his own exploits, which you knew you could never match. And yet he always expected you to match them because you had a name to live up to; he never ceased to remind me of that! There have been times when, I confess, I’ve wished my name were anything but Hazard.”

  “You too?” Graham sounded surprised. “Why, for heaven’s sake? You were always the apple of the Old Man’s eye, Phillip.”

  “If that was the case, he never let me know it.”

  “No, that was his way, of course. But he’ll have to change his tune now, so far as you’re concerned. You’ve done well, Phillip my lad—you’ve lived up to the name, even by his standards.” Graham’s smile was warm. “You’ve got your own command which, I’d be prepared to wager, was the goal he set for you.”

  “Yes,” Phillip confirmed, smiling too. “It was and, at the time, it seemed as impossible a goal as any of the others he wanted me to achieve.” He recalled his last talk with his father and his smile abruptly faded. The Admiral had insisted on accompanying him to Paddington Station, despite a feverish cold, and he remembered wondering, as he watched the old man drive off in the cab they had shared, whether he would ever see him again. He had looked ill and pinched and very small, seated alone behind the clopping horse. “If you could see him now,” he told his brother, “you would be shocked by the change in him, believe me. He’s nearly seventy and he hasn’t worn well. Graham, he’s a sick, proud, and rather pathetic old man, still adhering to outworn values and living in the past, because the present has no meaning for him. Do you remember, when we were boys, we used to imagine he was about seven foot tall? And how scared we both were of him?”

  Graham nodded, his mouth tight. “I do indeed.”

  “He’s a lot shorter than I am,” Phillip said. “And there’s no reason to be scared of him now—only to pity him. Besides, there’s Mother and the girls … they’ll want to see you, to welcome you back. Mother kept in touch with you, didn’t she? She went on writing, in defiance of the Old Man’s orders.”

  “Yes, indeed she did, bless her! But how did you know that she wrote to me? I thought she kept it a secret from the entire family.”

  Phillip clapped an affectionate hand on his brother’s shoulder. “She told me just before I left home. I think she guessed what you were planning to do and hoped we might run into each other out here—as, in fact, we did, rather sooner than she had anticipated.”

  They talked nostalgically of family matters, closer to one another in spirit than they had been for years and, when Graham prepared to take his leave, Phillip had extracted the promise that he would not refuse their father’s invitation. This, however, was the most he would concede.

  “If Their Lordships restore my commission, I might see the whole question in a different light although, between ourselves, Phillip, I don’t really imagine they will. I’ll write to the Old Man before we sail, since you’re so insistent about it, but without committing myself to a definite yea or nay. Will that satisfy you? I’m afraid I cannot find it in my heart to feel sorry for him—I wish I could.” He smiled briefly. “Before bidding you good night, may I echo our Mr Cochrane’s sentiments? I’m grateful to you for having obtained my transfer from the Trojan and more pleased than I can say to be serving under your command. I owe you a great deal, Phillip my dear fellow—not least my promotion and much else that I fear I’ll never be able to repay. But—”

  “I need you,” Phillip assured him. “If I’m to make anything of this ship’s company, I really do need you and Cochrane and the two mids very badly, you can take my word for it. I wish I could have had Duncan Laidlaw too, for a number of reasons, but apparently Captain Crawford couldn’t spare him.”

  “Captain Crawford could have let you have him, if he’d a mind to,” Graham said dryly. He paused, a hand on the door of the cabin and his dark brows meeting in a frown. “Just one more small matter, before I leave you. It concerns your First Lieutenant, Phillip. I take it he’s the reason for your having asked for Laidlaw?”

  Phillip inclined his head. “In strict confidence, yes, he is. But I’d prefer not to say any more—you’ll be working with him and can form your own opinion. One thing in his favor is that he’s a very fine seaman. Like yourself, he was an officer in the merchant service. You met him, didn’t you, when you came aboard?”

  “Let’s say I caught a glimpse of him through a heavy fall of snow, at a time when he was too preoccupied with that unfortunate cadet to concern himself with any newly appointed junior officers.” Graham spoke cynically but there was a hint of anxiety in his eyes as he looked across at his younger brother. “I thought there was something vaguely familiar about him, though I could be mistaken, of course. But he’s come in from the merchant service, you say, so it’s possible that I might have run across him. What’s his name, Phillip?”

  “Quinn,” Phillip answered. “Ambrose Quinn.”

  “No.” Graham shook his head, still frowning. “I can’t recall the name. It was probably my imagination—and the snowstorm. Unless … tell me, was he ever in the Navy?”

  “Yes, he was—he had ten years’ lower deck service, I understand, joining as a boy and finishing up as a chief bo’sun’s mate. I don’t know which ships he served in, I haven’t asked him, but he makes it pretty plain that he has no love for the Queen’s Navy and least of all for its commissioned officers. …” Phillip broke off, wondering whether to tell his brother what Surgeon Fraser had said on the subject of Quinn, but finally deciding against it. As he himself had mentioned, a few moments before, Graham would have to work with the First Lieutenant and—in fairness to Quinn—it was best to leave him to form his own opinion.

  Graham did not question him further, merely repeated his headshake. “No, I still can’t place him. No matter … at least we’ll have one or two things in common. Good night, Phillip, I trust you’ll sleep well. I’ll have a course for Odessa charted whenever you’re ready for it.”

  “Thanks—and good night to you, my dear fellow,” Phillip acknowledged. “I’m hoping to get under way as soon as we’ve transferred Surgeon Fraser and young Lightfoot to the Trojan.”

  The following morning, however, just after the surgeon’s departure with his patient and the three officers who had been replaced, the Huntress’s orders were changed. Instead of proceeding to her station off Odessa, she was instructed to weigh at once and set course for Baltchik Bay, in Bulgaria, there to report to Captain Wilmot of the Sphinx, for the purpose of transporting more Turkish troops to Eupatoria.

  Phillip received his new orders with oddly conflicting emotions, of which the strongest—to his own surprise—was relief. He did not enjoy transport duty but, in this bitter winter weather, a patrol off the enemy coast had very little of advantage to offer, and any activity was preferable to remaining at the Fleet anchorage indefinitely. Coal stocks in Bulgaria were relatively plentiful, which meant that he could use his engines in transit whereas, on patrol, he would have few opportunities to replenish the Huntress’s bunkers. In addition there were, of course, Graham’s feelings and his own concerning the ethics of their proposed mission which, when he paused finally to analyse them, were the main cause of his relief.

  “Thank you, Mr Quinn,” he responded cheerfully enough, when the First Lieutenant reported steam up and the ship ready to proceed to sea. “Weigh and proceed under engines, if you please. We are ordered to Baltchik Bay to pick up more Turkish troops.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Quinn’s stentorian voice bellowed his orders an
d, in obedience to the pipe, the duty watch assembled at their stations. In a fresh flurry of snow, the Huntress slipped from her moorings and headed out into the grey waste of water which separated her from her destination.

  * In a frigate, officers of wardroom rank messed in the gun-room.

  CHAPTER THREE

  For the next four weeks the Huntress continued to plough her way across the Black Sea, carrying Turkish troops of Omar Pasha’s Army of the Danube to Eupatoria. There were in the region of forty thousand men—veterans of the successful defence of Silestria—with their guns and horses, all waiting to be transferred to the Crimea. With few steam-transports available there was little pause for those ships engaged in the mammoth task and no rest for the weary seamen who manned them.

  The weather was appalling but, no matter what conditions they met on the two-hundred mile passage, no sooner were their passengers disembarked than the ships were ordered to return to pick up more, sometimes from Baltchik, at others from Varna. The French, engaged in convoying their own reinforcements from Marseilles, could spare only two steam frigates to assist their British allies and the Porte possessed few transports which were not under sail so that, inevitably, the major burden was borne by the British Fleet.

  Phillip, although he still chafed at the ill-effects of overcrowding on the good order of his ship, was pleased by the manner in which her crew were, at last, starting to shake down. The influence of his four reliable and experienced Trojan officers was, he knew, to a great extent responsible for the improvement in morale and efficiency at all levels; and this influence was, perhaps, most noticeable in the effect it had upon his First Lieutenant.