by V. A. Stuart
“I see,” Phillip said, frowning.
“Do you, Phillip?”
“Yes, I think so. Admittedly my brain is not functioning particularly well at the moment but—”
“My dear chap, it’s not functioning at all!” Martin Fox was regarding him with a delighted grin that almost split his face in two. “Why do you imagine the Admiral ordered an intensive search for you? Captain Crawford has also asked to be relieved and there is surely only one possible choice as his successor? You, Phillip, don’t you understand? The only reason for your not being given your old command would be if you were too severely wounded to take it. For heaven’s sake, I’ve been praying ever since I started to hunt for you that O’Leary was right and the worst you were suffering from would prove to be a concussion. And my prayers have been answered. You appear perfectly fit to assume command of this ship to me. Or at any rate, after a few hours’ sleep, you will be. I’ll call our assistant surgeon to look at you, of course, and I can fit you out with a frock coat and cocked hat, when you go to report to the Admiral.”
“When,” Phillip asked weakly, “am I supposed to report to the Admiral, Martin?”
“Agamemnon is expected to anchor outside the harbour entrance during the afternoon. You’ll be summoned by signal … sir!”
Martin Fox offered his arm but Phillip, echoing his smile, refused the proffered assistance. He mounted the gangway and, apart from a barely perceptible limp, was walking quite steadily when he reached and saluted Trojan’s quarterdeck.
2
The Admiral’s summons came during the First Dog Watch and Sir Edmund Lyons, who had come ashore from Agamemnon, received Phillip in the Sanspareil’s spacious day-cabin, where the unfortunate Captain Dacres lay, pale and obviously ill, stretched out in a cot which had been rigged there for him. Besides members of the Admiral’s personal staff, Commander Heath and Colonel Hurdle, of the Royal Marines, were also present and a short conference, with a discussion of new plans for the Balaclava Harbour defenses, took place first and was swiftly concluded, to enable the commander of the all-important Marine Heights to return to his post.
When he had gone, Sir Edmund turned to Phillip.
“Captain Dacres and the commander of Trojan, Captain Crawford, have both requested to be relieved of their commands due to ill-health,” he stated formally. “With the Commander-in-Chief’s full knowledge and approval—although needless to tell you, with his and my deep regret—both these requests are to be granted. Captain Heath is to be appointed to command of the Sanspareil and of Balaclava Harbour … which leaves the command of the Trojan to be filled. It is a senior command, as you know, and in normal circumstances could not be offered to an officer of your rank, Mr Hazard. But I have an arduous and difficult task for this frigate to perform and you have previously served as her First Lieutenant and acting-commander, so …” He paused, eyeing Phillip searchingly. “If you are fit for duty, I intend to place you again in acting-command, with a temporary step in rank which, I trust, their Lordships will, on my recommendation, see fit to confirm. In the light of your gallant conduct during yesterday’s attack on the Lancaster battery—which, of course, I shall bring to their notice—I anticipate that your promotion will be made permanent.”
“Thank you, sir, I … thank you very much indeed, sir. I assure you”—in his borrowed frock coat and with a clean dressing on his head, Phillip faced his Chief confidently—“I am perfectly recovered, sir, and fit for duty.”
“You received a blow on the head, did you not?” the Admiral enquired, still formally.
“Yes, sir. From a rifle butt—”
“Which did not succeed in splitting your skull? Amazing! Well”—dropping formality, Sir Edmund Lyons laughed—“I suppose there is something to be said for thick-headed commanders! Eh, Heath?”
“A great deal, sir.” Leopold Heath was also laughing and even the tormented face of Captain Dacres wore the suspicion of a smile as he listened. The Admiral held out his hand. “Congratulations, Phillip. You have fulfilled the high expectations I had of you, my dear boy. And you will, I’m sure, be pleased to hear that young Hewett’s conduct is also to be brought to their Lordships’ notice.”
“Indeed, sir, I am,” Phillip answered, with sincerity. “No one deserves it more.”
The Admiral asked him a few questions concerning Hewett’s feat and then, smiling in Captain Dacres’ direction, told him that both he and Captain Crawford were to be transferred to the Banshee as soon as they had recovered sufficiently to be sent to Constantinople. “Captain Dacres prefers to remain here but I have made arrangements for Captain Crawford to nurse his fever aboard my flagship, where we shall give him the best of care. A boat will be sent for him at once.”
“At once, sir?” What, Phillip wondered, was the “arduous and difficult task?” that Trojan was to perform? He waited, in respectful silence, and Admiral Lyons went on, “Yes, at once, Commander Hazard. You will prepare your ship for sea immediately. I want you, if it is humanly possible, to get under way for Constantinople or, at all events, leave this harbour tonight, in darkness, so that your departure attracts no undue attention. The enemy is, in Sir Colin Campbell’s opinion—for which I have the greatest respect—preparing for another attack on us. Yesterday’s affair, although no doubt it seemed to you much more, was only a sortie in force, according to Sir Colin, intended to probe our defenses on the Inkerman Ridge … and that is where he believes the big attack will come. So you see, it’s essential that we evacuate the wounded from here before it comes.”
Light slowly dawned and Phillip was conscious of a feeling of intense relief and elation. “Do you mean, sir, that Trojan is to take them?”
“I do, Phillip.” The Admiral spoke gravely. “You are to load every wounded man your ship can accommodate. They’ll be packed like sardines but clear the embarkation wharf, if you can—you’ll have all available boats and parties from this ship and the Simoom to assist you. I shall give you as many surgeons as can be spared, although I fear they will be too few for the number of sick and wounded you will have on board. But adequate medical care is awaiting them at Scutari where, I understand, a party of English nurses is expected, brought out to care for the wounded by a Miss Florence Nightingale. Women in a military hospital are a new departure but—”
“Forgive me, sir,” Phillip put in. “But if I might make a suggestion?”
“Certainly. What is it?”
“The Highlanders’ women, sir … could I not ask for volunteers from amongst their number to accompany us? They were doing a great deal for the wounded on the embarkation wharf last night, sir, and there are some skilled nurses in their camp, as I have good reason to know. I myself spent last night on the wharf, sir, and …” Warming to his subject, Phillip saw that the Admiral was smiling.
“I believe you, Phillip—you do not, I assure you, have to convince me. Take them, if you can persuade any to volunteer for the task … three or four, let us say. But you must not delay your departure for the women—or even for members of your ship’s company whom there’s not time to recall. Clear this harbour in darkness, you understand? Niger will come into your berth and, if there are Russian spies watching, they will be unable to report a change in our harbour defenses.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I understand.”
“I have recalled your brother,” the Admiral said, almost as an afterthought. “To be your acting Master, pending a review of his case, on Captain Crawford’s recommendation.” He cut short Phillip’s attempt to thank him. “He has earned a second chance and, in any case, I need your present Master—Mr Burnaby—to take command of one of our harbour tugs. Well”—his smile was warm—“carry on, Commander, because you have very little time. May God go with you … and with your passengers.”
He would need that blessing, Phillip thought, as he returned post-haste to Trojan. With a depleted crew and several of his officers in command of gun emplacements on the Marine Heights, he had been set a formidable task. But remembering what the young Hus
sar had said to him so bitterly that morning, he was grateful to have been given an opportunity at least to endeavour to clear the embarkation wharf of its pathetic cargo of suffering humanity.
Back on board Trojan, he learnt that Captain Crawford had already departed in a boat from Agamemnon, leaving a kindly message of congratulation for him, and that Graham had rejoined. He took over his command without ceremony and, mustering the ship’s company, informed them of what was to be done and gave his orders as briefly and concisely as he could. Normally, as commander, he would have remained on board but, on this occasion, he decided to delegate the responsibility for unloading and stowing Trojan’s human cargo to his First Lieutenant, himself returning to the embarkation wharf … and Martin Fox, with rare understanding, did not question his decision.
There was no lack of volunteers or of boats and, within minutes of his arrival there, the wharf was a seething hive of well-organized activity. The bluejackets toiled and sweated and the officers worked with their men, handling the slings and stretchers as gently as they could. A number of the boats had brought hammocks with them, slung on oars, and these were used when stretchers began to be in short supply and proved a better means of transporting the more severely wounded when the transfer from wharf to boat had to be made.
At intervals of supervising the evacuation of the wharf, Phillip searched for Catriona Moray but failed to find her. He did, however, eventually run Morag MacCorkill to earth and the Sergeant’s wife promised to convey a message to her.
“Mistress Catriona is at the hospital, sir, where conditions are almost as bad as they were here this morning. But I will go to her for, indeed, it would be a great blessing if she were to leave this terrible place and never return to it. Our camp is not the place for a young lady of quality and …” She sighed. “You are busy and I must not detain you. But do not worry, Mr Hazard, I will persuade Mistress Catriona to go with you and four or five more besides, skilled nurses all of them now, even if they were not before. At what hour will your ship be sailing, if you please?”
Phillip consulted his pocket watch and with the aid of her lantern, looking from it to the sky, still dark and overcast with a pale moon and the promise of more rain to come. “We must sail before first light. A boat will be waiting for you at the wharf two hours from now … will that give you time, Mistress MacCorkill?”
“Ample time, sir, God willing—save that we shall not be able to go back to our tents to pack up necessities for the voyage. There will not be time for that but—”
“I can spare you a few seamen, if that would help, and you could send some of your women with them—some who are not coming with us—to pack for you.”
Morag MacCorkill smiled. “Thank you, sir. Then you may expect us on the wharf, with our belongings, in two hours’ time.”
She was as good as her word. The wharf was clear and the last boat standing by when the little procession of women arrived and, with a pleasure and relief that surprised even himself, Phillip saw that Catriona was with them. He handed her into the boat and invited her to seat herself beside him in the sternsheets. She was, he observed, very tired, a wan, slim shadow in the darkness, with the face of a sleepwalker and the slow, laboured movements of one who had driven herself to the limit of physical endurance and beyond. But, as the boat cast off and the weary seamen bent to their oars, she said with a gratitude he found oddly moving, “Thank you, Mr Hazard, for what you have done for those poor men. They would never have been able to get away, had it not been for you.”
“I am only obeying my Admiral’s orders,” Phillip told her. “He is the one those poor men should thank.”
“Is he? Then I’m sure they do. But I have you to thank for making it possible for me to leave this place. I … I do not think I could have borne another hour there.” Her lower lip trembled but bravely, Catriona bit back her tears. “Morag did not come, you know—she would not leave her husband and I did not try to persuade her to change her mind, I … I could not. But there is someone on board whom you will be glad to know is alive—the Indian Army officer you asked me about, the one with the beautiful grey Arab horse. I … forget his name, I’m sorry. Was it Sheridan? I … seem to be so … tired, I cannot remember anything.”
“You are exhausted, Catriona.” Phillip put his arm about her. “Spare yourself—rest a little, my dear. We can talk later. And your memory isn’t failing you—the name was Sheridan, Captain Alexander Sheridan. I am glad he is alive.”
“Yes,” she agreed and with the touching trust of a child, let her head fall back on to his shoulder. She was in a deep sleep when the boat came alongside the Trojan and, refusing the coxswain’s offer to assist him, Phillip picked her up in his arms and carried her on board. Men lay everywhere on the decks, packed as they had been on the embarkation wharf and he wondered what he could do with his helpless burden. Then he remembered that the commander’s cabin, lately vacated by Captain Crawford, was still empty; there had been no time to shift his own gear into it, if, indeed, he thought wryly, he still possessed any gear. And it was, in any case, unlikely that he would be able to snatch more than the odd few hours of sleep, with his ship so overloaded and under-manned.
He carried Catriona to the cabin and laid her gently on the cot. She stirred but did not waken and he stood looking down at her white, shuttered face, his heart going out to her in helpless pity. No man’s courage could, he reflected, really match hers and none transcend it; she and the other women were the real heroines of Balaclava. Drawing the blankets about her, he found her small, roughened hand and bore it to his lips in silent tribute to her heroism, his own eyes suddenly filled with tears of which—strangely—he was not ashamed. Then he tucked the hand beneath the coverlet and rose, knowing he would have to leave her now. But she could sleep off her exhaustion and, as he had told her, they could talk later, discuss and decide on her immediate future and, no doubt, arrange for her to be given a passage home … if she wanted to return home.
But perhaps she would not want to, perhaps she …
“Sorr—begging your pardon, Commander Hazard, sorr—” the voice was O’Leary’s and Phillip turned from his contemplation of the sleeping girl, controlling his momentary resentment of the interruption. O’Leary’s right leg was heavily bandaged, his honest, ugly face a mass of purpling bruises but he was, as always, beaming cheerfully. “First Lieutenant’s compliments, sorr, and he says, with your permission, he’ll pipe hands to stations for leaving harbour. And I brought you this, sorr, with my compliments, thinking you’d maybe drink it before you go on deck. ’Twill put fresh heart into you, sorr.”
Phillip accepted the mug his ex-orderly held out to him and gulped down the scalding mixture of coffee and a liberal lashing of rum which it contained. “You’re a good man, O’Leary,” he said, meaning it. “A damned good man!”
“And so are you, sorr,” O’Leary answered promptly. “If you’ll pardon the liberty, sorr.”
It was not, perhaps, the most graciously expressed compliment he had ever received, Phillip thought but, all things considered, it was one that, for as long as he lived, he would never forget. Buoyed up by this and by the rum, he made his way to the quarterdeck, his spirits high and—as O’Leary had predicted—fresh hope in his heart, to take his ship to sea.
As the new day dawned, grey and damp, Trojan cleared Balaclava Harbour and set course for Constantinople. By the time a watery sun rose to lighten the eastern sky, the toiling cooks had prepared huge cauldrons of soup and men of the watch below were moving about the crowded decks with their mess-kits, offering these to any of the wounded who could manage to swallow a few mouthfuls.
From astern, the sound of heavy guns firing from the Crimean Upland grew gradually fainter.