by V. A. Stuart
The tall young First Lieutenant shrugged. “Very well then. You’ll probably think I’m concerning myself unduly with a matter that is not my affair but …” he sighed. “I had understood that the troops we are carrying were to be under the command of Major Leach of the 7th Fusiliers. Most of the men are his, with a sprinkling of the 23rd and some N.C.O.s of the 19th and 33rd—and they are all men recovering from wounds received at the Alma, like Leach himself, who lost an arm.” Martin Fox paused, glumly sipping his wine. “Leach is a delightful fellow,” he went on. “He came aboard yesterday, to have a word and to inspect our accommodation and, because he saw at once the state we were in, he sent a working party out—ahead of his main body—to assist in cleaning up and slinging hammocks. So I was very grateful, as you may imagine, because it enabled me to use our men to coal ship and take on water. I thanked him, of course, but he told me to think nothing of it because he owed you a debt … it seems that you and a stretcher party from the Agamemnon carried him down from somewhere near the Great Redoubt, after the battle, when he’d been left for dead. And furthermore, Phillip”—Fox permitted himself a quick smile—“he said you’d filled him up with brandy before you attempted to move him!”
Phillip’s brows met, as he endeavoured to remember the incident. But there had been so many badly wounded officers and men lying where they had fallen beside the Great Redoubt, many of them Colonel Lacy Yea’s heroic 7th Royal Fusiliers, who had led the first charge on the strongly entrenched 12-gun Russian battery on the Heights of the Alma.
“I don’t recall his name,” he admitted, “though I may know his face when I see him again. What are you so concerned about, anyway? With an officer like the Major commanding our troops—”
“Oh, but he’s not, Phillip,” Martin Fox broke in. “After he and his party came aboard, late last night, and settled in, another boat put off to us … the Ambassador’s caique, no less. Laidlaw was on watch and, knowing that you were spending the night at the Ambassador’s residence, when the caique was reported approaching us, he took it into his head that you must be bringing Lord Stratford de Redcliffe on board and that, for some reason, you hadn’t been able to warn us. So he turned up the side party and a Marine guard of honor and sent the midshipman of the watch, in a rare panic, to waken me.”
“Good Lord!” Phillip smiled. “The Ambassador was entertaining a large party last night, including a number of Turkish Pashas, and it went on until the small hours. I was regaling myself on Turkish coffee and sherbet, in the company of Miss Moray, and listening to a string orchestra until well after midnight, virtually surrounded by dignitaries of the Porte.” He laughed, enjoying the thought of Martin Fox’s discomfiture. “Well, well! And whom did you receive with so much undeserved honor?”
Fox set down his wineglass with a clatter, almost knocking it over and his expression, Phillip saw to his astonishment, was anything but amused. His own smile swiftly faded, as his First Lieutenant answered explosively, “We received the most unutterable young swine I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet in British uniform, Phillip! He came swaggering on board, followed by a sergeant and a couple of orderlies and a mountain of baggage and, with scarcely the courtesy of a greeting, said he felt ill and demanded to be shown to his cabin at once. When he was shown to the Second Master’s cabin—the only one we had left—he told young O’Hara, who escorted him below, that it was only fit for a pig. Major Leach, who heard this, very decently offered to give up his own, since the fellow was supposed to be ill and, of course, he took it. He’s still occupying it and—”
“I’m sure we can rely on Major Leach to teach him his manners,” Phillip interrupted, his tone placatory. “In any case, Martin, he’s a soldier, isn’t he? If so, he’s simply a passenger and his behaviour is no business of ours. What’s his name, do you know?”
“His name,” Martin Fox replied harshly, refusing to be placated, “is Captain Lord Henry Durbanville. He holds a Guards commission—presumably purchased for him by a rich and indulgent parent—which, according to himself, entitles him to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel in a mixed force and thus to out-rank Major Leach. So that he is in command of our military passengers, not Leach which—ill or not—he wasted no time in pointing out before he retired to Leach’s cot for the night.”
Still not quite certain why so easy-going a person as Martin Fox should feel so strongly about the new arrival, Phillip said quietly, “He’s right about his Guards commission, you know, Martin.”
“Is he? Do you mean that a little upstart of about twenty, who has never been under fire, is entitled to take precedence over an officer of Leach’s age and service, merely because he’s a captain in the Guards?”
Phillip nodded. “Strictly according to the letter of the law he is, yes—but in point of fact most of the young Guards officers don’t take advantage of it.”
“This one has,” Fox assured him wrathfully. “And to some tune! Ever since he rose five hours ago, Phillip, he’s been throwing his weight about and he’s had the troops mustered for inspection twice. The first time, he wasn’t satisfied with their turn-out and complained of the filthy state of the uniforms of the recovered men from hospital as if they could help that, poor devils! Leach tried to explain but Lord Henry wouldn’t listen. He ordered them to clean every article of kit they possessed and then mustered them again, with full packs and wearing their stocks, when he kept them standing to attention for over an hour, by my count, whilst he examined each man minutely, from head to heels. Those who didn’t pass muster he’s put on a charge and threatens to flog.”
“To flog?” Phillip echoed, beginning at last to understand the reason for his second-in-command’s indignation.
“He won’t do anything of the kind on board this ship, don’t worry. But surely Major Leach—”
“Major Leach, my dear Phillip,” Fox told him, “has been put under arrest and confined to his cabin.”
Phillip stared at him, scarcely able to believe the evidence of his own ears. “You can’t be serious?”
“I regret to say I am.” Martin Fox’s expression was grim. “I’ve been praying for your return because, as commander of this ship, you’re the only man who out-ranks the little upstart. I could not interfere—and Leach advised me not to—when he was giving his orders to the troops but, in spite of that, I’ve had a run-in with him.”
“Why?”
Fox shrugged his powerful shoulders. “He wanted me to send a boat to pick up his two horses from the Turkish cavalry pound. I refused, on the grounds that we had no space in which the animals could be accommodated and that, in any event, I had no boat to spare for such an errand. He was damned rude to me and the next thing I heard was that he had sent his sergeant ashore in the duty boat, which went to collect mail—intending, I can only suppose, to try to smuggle the horses on board!” His expression relaxed a little. “The sergeant and the horses hadn’t appeared when you returned and ordered me to get the ship under way, so …” the ghost of a smile twitched his lips. “We sailed without them, Phillip.”
Phillip grinned back at him. “I cannot say that this distresses me unduly, if all you tell me of this young gentleman is true.”
“It is, I give you my word. The young so-called gentleman is quite impossible. Er—he intends to report me to my commanding officer, perhaps I should mention.”
“For what reason?”
“The reasons are too numerous for me to recall, but they include insolence, sailing without our full complement, and being generally obstructive. Thanks. …” As Phillip refilled his glass, Fox laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve almost restored my temper or perhaps it’s this excellent wine. But thanks, whichever it was. I confess I was in some danger of losing my sense of humor.” He raised his glass, smiling now. “My gratitude, Phillip. You—” there was a tap on the door and he broke off, as a pink-cheeked midshipman entered the cabin in response to Phillip’s invitation.
“Yes, Mr Lovell?”
“Sir, the Offi
cer of the Watch requests permission to make sail,” the boy announced breathlessly and, eyes half closed in an effort to concentrate his thoughts, he reported the ship’s position. Martin Fox jumped to his feet, but Phillip shook his head, as he dismissed the midshipman with his assent.
“Mr Cochrane is quite capable of making sail without supervision, Martin,” he reminded his second-in-command, when the door closed. “In any case, make sure that your sense of humor is fully restored before you risk another run-in with our double-ranking Guardsman.”
Obediently the First Lieutenant resumed his seat. “If you wish. But”—he turned to meet Phillip’s gaze—“how do you propose to deal with the infernal fellow?”
“I haven’t made up my mind,” Phillip admitted. From the deck, he heard the shrilling of the boatswain’s mate’s pipe and the sound of running feet, as the men on watch answered the string of shouted orders which followed it. “Loose and make all plain sail! Hands away aloft to set tops’ls and jibs! Man the tops’l sheets. …” He was silent for a moment, visualizing the topmen swarming up the shrouds, laying out along the yards to let go the topmast halliards and the studding-sail tacks. He hoped that young Cochrane would take care to see that the men were clear in the fore part of the tops and that the outside hands were given time to lay in, clear of the topsail sheets, before he ordered these hauled taut and the sail sheeted home and he waited, instinctively counting the seconds until he heard the order given and again listened to the thud of bare feet, as the men on deck obeyed the shout of “Man the lee braces!”
Soon the pulsating hum of the engines would cease and the ship would take on a new, exhilarating motion as the sails started to fill and Cochrane trimmed her yards. A sailing ship man always, despite his recent familiarity with steam-screw propulsion, Phillip felt his heart lift. Engines were a great convenience, particularly when entering or leaving harbour but there was nothing to touch a fine frigate under sail, nothing in the world and he …
“The glass is falling,” Martin Fox observed, distracted from the subject of Lord Henry Durbanville as he too, listened to the sounds reaching them from the deck. “We could be in for a fairly rough passage, if the wind veers to the nor’west. …” They discussed the weather prospects and then Phillip said thoughtfully, “Martin, I fancy it might not be a bad idea to invite Major Leach to take a glass of this Madeira with us, before we decide what’s to be done concerning his temporary superior.”
“The Major is under arrest,” Fox reminded him.
“Then he’ll require an escort, will he not? Would you care to act in that capacity?”
“With the greatest of pleasure.” Again the First Lieutenant got to his feet. “Shall I warn Mr Cochrane not to set too much sail?” He flexed his feet against the movement of the deck, frowning. “If we strike a sudden squall to windward with what she’s carrying now, he—”
“No.” Phillip shook his head. “Mr Cochrane will have seen the glass too, and he knows what he’s about. Don’t wet nurse him, Martin. In any event, Mr Burnaby will be in the chart-house for some time yet and the boy’s not too proud to ask advice from him. If he doesn’t, Burnaby will offer it should he deem it necessary.” He smiled, hearing the hum of the engines fade and, in the sudden comparative silence, the Master’s voice carried quite clearly to them. “There, you hear? Don’t worry about Tony Cochrane … it is Major Leach we should concern ourselves with, so bring him along, like a good fellow, would you? We may have ruffled feelings to soothe.”
Major Leach, however, when he made his appearance in the cabin, did not look in the least ruffled. He was a big man with greying hair, and a tanned, deeply lined face which betrayed long years of overseas service. As nearly as Phillip could judge, he was in his late forties and he found himself taking on sight to the newcomer. Leach’s handshake—made with his left hand, for the right sleeve of his faded scarlet jacket was empty—was firm, his smile cheerful and friendly and, when Phillip invited him to be seated and poured him a glass of Madeira, the smile became an almost boyish grin.
“The last time we met, Commander Hazard,” he said, “You made me drunk, for which act of mercy I shall always remember you with the deepest gratitude. This evening, however, I should prefer you to curtail your hospitality, if you do not mind, lest that of insobriety be added to the charges against me!”
He was so evidently amused by the situation that Phillip asked, surprised, “You are not unduly put out then, sir, by the high-handed behaviour of your—er—your comrade in arms?”
“I would scarcely call him that but … the Major shrugged resignedly. “No, I am not put out on my own account, Commander. I’m accustomed to finding myself out-ranked by officers of tender years and greater wealth or influence than, alas, I have ever possessed. Believe it or not, until the outbreak of this war I was a Lieutenant, with twenty-three years’ service—most of it active service, in India—and little hope of promotion. So at least I’m better off than I was, for I have my majority but …” his smile faded. “I am, as I’m sure I do not need to tell you, anxious for the welfare of my men. All of them were wounded at the battle at the Alma River and they have endured a great deal of suffering. To keep such men, who are barely recovered from sickness and severe wounds, standing to attention for almost an hour, with full packs, is not conducive to their continued physical fitness, is it? Or perhaps you are not aware that this was done before your return aboard?”
“Mr Fox informed me fully, sir,” Phillip answered. “Needless to say, this would not have been done had he been able to prevent it. Now that we are at sea I can make certain that nothing of the kind occurs again—by various means which cannot be construed as interference with military discipline.”
“I’m immeasurably relieved. But how?”
“Well, the weather will probably help, Major. All the signs point to the likelihood of a rough passage.”
“Capital, my dear fellow!” the Major exclaimed. “And the punishments—can you prevent those being carried out?” He glanced at Martin Fox and then back to Phillip, all trace of amusement gone from his face. “Mr Fox will have told you that three floggings have been ordered? Ordered for men who aren’t fit to receive them, as I need hardly tell you.”
Phillip met his gaze steadily. “I’m not one who approves of flogging, sir, save for the gravest of offences. But I am not sure what power I have to prevent these officially—I shall have to consult a manual of Military Law, if you have one you could lend me? And there’s also the matter of your own arrest, is there not?”
“I can dig you up a manual, Commander,” Major Leach offered. “But my own arrest does not worry me one jot, since it will simply mean that I shall be compelled to keep to my quarters. And that will suit me very well if the passage is as rough as you predict—I’m a poor sailor, I fear. For the rest, the fact that I shall have no duties to perform will be a relief, so long as I know that the recovered men from Scutari Hospital will not be paraded with unnecessary frequency or punished for their inability to turn out like guardsmen in London. Poor fellows, most of them have only the uniforms they stand up in and few have seen the packs they had to leave behind them at the Alma. Those they have were issued to them in hospital and, like myself, they’ve had to patch up their coatees as best they could. My own, as you can see, would scarcely pass muster at St James’s.” His single hand indicated the numerous but all too obviously repaired rents in the scarlet cloth of his jacket and he added, with a wry twisting of the lips as he touched the patch on his empty sleeve, “This still bears the mark of the Minié ball which shattered my arm but the rest are bayonet thrusts, most of them made long after the battle was over. The Cossacks hacked at us where we lay wounded too, as possibly you heard.”
“The Cossacks are inhuman,” Martin Fox said and shuddered. “They show no mercy to the wounded.”
“No. And it is not only the Cossacks. But …” Major Leach dismissed the subject, as if it were still a painful one for him. He questioned Phillip about the Battle
of Balaclava at some length and all three officers discussed the present position of the Allied Armies, Phillip supplying a description of the harbour defences and those on the right flank of the British Army which lay along the Inkerman Ridge.
“You are extremely well informed, for a sailor,” the Major observed.
“I acted as naval liaison officer to Sir Colin Campbell and was with the 93rd when the Russians attempted to break through and recapture Balaclava,” Phillip explained. “Officially I am still a member of Admiral Lyons’s staff and appointed to the Agamemnon. My command of this ship is only, a temporary one, due to the illness of her commander, Captain Crawford, and I expect to be relieved of it when we rejoin the Fleet. I came out from England as the Trojan’s First Lieutenant—”
“I should not, if I were you, mention this to my present superior officer,” Leach put in, his tone faintly derisive. “Or he may decide that he out-ranks even you!” He set down his glass and rose, shaking his grizzled, close-cropped head to the offer of more wine. “I thank you, no, Commander Hazard. I will return to my cabin but I do so with a considerable weight taken from my mind. And, to my own astonishment, with the prayer that you may be proven right in your forecast of bad weather. I’m very pleased indeed to have had this opportunity of meeting my preserver at last. Believe me, Hazard, I thought of you often during my stay in hospital—thought of you and blessed your name because, but for you and your splendid seamen, I should not now be standing here.” He waved aside Phillip’s embarrassed disclaimer and went on gravely, “Mine are splendid fellows too and if, on their account, I find myself once more in your debt, rest assured that I will repay you, should it ever lie in my power to do so.” He wrung Phillip’s hand warmly. “Goodnight, Commander … and thank you.”
Martin Fox went with him to his cabin and returned to Phillip’s almost immediately with the information that the glass had fallen still further. “The wind’s veered a point, too, Phillip. …” He went into technical details and added, frowning, “I don’t much like the look of things and nor does Mr Burnaby.”