by V. A. Stuart
Phillip shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Martin. I’m simply repeating the opinions I heard expressed in Constantinople. Or, possibly more truthfully, putting my fears into words.” He raised his Dollond to his eye, as a string of signal pennants fluttered to the masthead of the transport steamer Prince, with which they were now closing rapidly. The sixteen-yearold Midshipman Robin Grey, who was acting as signals officer, responded alertly to his summons, forestalling the Chief Yeoman, who was also on watch. The boy had joined the Trojan at Constantinople, after surviving a severe head wound—sustained while serving with the Naval Brigade—and two months in the naval hospital ship, Bombay at Therapia—and already he had impressed Phillip with his courage and efficiency. He was skin and bone and still looked desperately ill but he never complained and obstinately resisted all well-intentioned attempts to lighten his duties or relieve him of watch-keeping chores.
Now as he crossed to the weather side of the deck, eyes bright and eager in his pale, bony young face, Phillip found himself admiring the youngster afresh. At an age when most of his contemporaries were still untried schoolboys, Robin Grey was already an experienced naval officer, his manhood proven and his gallantry recognized by no less than three mentions in Captain Lushington’s despatches from Naval Brigade Headquarters. He wondered, as the midshipman and his Chief Yeoman checked the signal flags in their code book, how Lord Henry Durbanville would shape up, in comparison to Grey.
There were only a few years between them—Martin Fox, he recalled, had said that the Guards officer was about twenty and Grey was a month or so from his seventeenth birthday although, with his small stature and over-thin body, he did not look much more than twelve or thirteen. Nevertheless, the comparison would be interesting … lowering his glass, he met Fox’s gaze and guessed that the First Lieutenant’s train of thought had followed his own when he said quietly, “That is an exceptionally fine boy, Phillip. I hope we’ll be allowed to keep him. He’s worth twenty Durbanvilles, in my estimation.”
“Sir …” Midshipman Grey was at his side, signal pad in hand. “The Prince asks us to arrange immediate berthing for her at Balaclava. She has sprung a leak in her forward hold and her pumps are unable to reduce the level of water.”
“Thank you, Mr Grey,” Phillip acknowledged. Again his gaze met that of his First Lieutenant. “In the light of our previous conversation, Martin, this is rather an ironic request, is it not? But …” he shrugged. “Make a signal to the Prince, if you please, Mr Grey. ‘Will report your condition immediately on arrival.’ Oh, and better ask if we can be of any assistance to her now.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Young Grey made for the signal locker, the Chief Yeoman at his heels, an approving smile lighting his weatherbeaten face as he touched his hat to Phillip.
“That’s a mighty keen young gentleman, sir. It does my heart good to see him at it.”
“You hear?” Martin Fox asked, when the two were out of earshot. “It would be a pity to lose that youngster to the Naval Brigade, don’t you agree, sir? If you were to contrive a word in the Admiral’s ear, then perhaps we should be permitted to hold on to him. Put him on shore in a gun battery again and his keenness would almost certainly get his head shot off, once and for all next time.”
“I’ll do my best,” Phillip promised and added dryly, “for your sake, Martin … and that of the Trojan’s next commander.”
“Don’t speak of it, Phillip. If your promotion’s confirmed—”
Phillip shook his head regretfully. “I still shan’t rate the Trojan and you know that as well as I do.” He broke off, as Midshipman Grey again approached him. “Yes, Mr Grey?”
“Sir, the Prince requires no other assistance. She intends to keep the Resolute in company. She asks, sir, if her barometer reading is accurate. I can give her ours, sir, which I checked with Mr Burnaby and I should like to send by semaphore, to give my men the practice.”
“And what do you make of the barometer reading, Mr Grey?” Phillip asked, his tone encouraging.
“It’s very low, sir, isn’t it?” The boy’s face was grave. “I should think it could mean a very severe storm, with gale force winds within … well, at a guess, sir, within the next thirty-six hours. And—”
“Well?” Phillip invited.
“I read somewhere, sir—in the Illustrated London News, I believe it was, when I was in hospital—that the Black Sea is notorious for its winter gales. These begin about November and are intermittent. They rage for a day or so and then the wind drops, just as it has now, sir. But the glass remains low and the wind gets up again, so that it blows a—a succession of gales, over a period of a week or more. The prevailing wind on the Crimean coast is northly, sir, but in the article I read, it stated that the westerly gales are the worst and, of course, they would be for our Fleet, wouldn’t they? They would have little protection at anchor off the mouth of the Katcha. Although in port at Balaclava the high cliffs do offer shelter, don’t they, sir?”
They did, Phillip thought glumly, as he dismissed Midshipman Grey. They offered a high measure of protection to shipping berthed below their massive, almost perpendicular, red sandstone walls but the whole anchorage was barely half a mile long, with a maximum width of three hundred feet. Even before the order to clear the harbour had been given, merchant and supply ships had been kept beating about outside—often for days—because there was no space available at the congested, makeshift wharves for them to tie up and discharge their cargoes. In anything like a wind, they ran a grave risk of being driven ashore, on to the cliffs, but … he stifled a sigh. Perhaps the Prince would be lucky. A leaking hold and a cargo for which the commissariat must anxiously be waiting might swing the scale’s balance in her favor—even if his grim forebodings were right and the decision to abandon Balaclava had been reached, it surely could not be implemented immediately. The troops on shore needed the winter clothing which the Prince carried for them, as much as the siege batteries needed the Resolute’s powder and besides, if there had been an engagement on the Inkerman Ridge on the 5th, then undoubtedly there would be more wounded to be evacuated to the hospital at Scutari. Probably the Trojan would again be one of the ships called in to load them from the hospital wharf. He hoped, if this proved to be the case, that he would be able to put back to sea before one of Midshipman Grey’s intermittent gales returned to plague him. In the open sea, with room to manoeuvre, a storm held fewer terrors for him than one which might strike when his ship was lying at anchor off the Balaclava cliffs. He …
“Are you ready to dine, sir?” Martin Fox’s voice broke into his thoughts and Phillip glanced up, to see his steward hovering in the lee of the quarterdeck hatchway. He nodded. “Yes, indeed. I hadn’t realized what time it was.”
He did not, as Captain North had always done, dine in the solitary seclusion of the captain’s cabin, but ate in the gunroom with the rest of his officers, feeling more at home there.* Occasionally, more for their sakes than his own, he entertained a few of them in the day cabin and he took his breakfast there, often with one or two of the midshipmen as his guests … the nearest he had come, he reflected wryly, to playing the role of Trojan’s Captain. But now, on impulse, he decided to do so and called his steward over.
“Serve dinner in my cabin, if you please, Smith. For three … no, for four. My compliments to Major Leach and Captain Lord Durbanville and ask them if they would care to join me.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The steward departed on his errand and Phillip turned to Martin Fox. “You, too, Martin, if you will.”
The First Lieutenant’s raised brows betrayed his surprise. “Of course, sir, if you wish,” he acceded dutifully. “But—”
“But what, my dear fellow? Remember this may well be my last opportunity to entertain you aboard this ship.”
“We’ll meet that hurdle when we come to it, shall we? But I was thinking … if your aim is to encourage Major Leach and Durbanville to bury the hatchet before they land—”
“Which it is
,” Phillip agreed. “Carry on.”
“Well, why not invite young Grey in my place?” Fox suggested. “His age and his record might well, let’s say they might put Durbanville in his place.”
It was a good suggestion, Phillip decided, and he nodded appreciatively. “They’ve both recovered from their—er—temporary indisposition—Leach and Durbanville, I mean?”
“The Major has, although he’s still keeping to his cabin.”
I don’t know about Durbanville. I haven’t set eyes on him since we sailed from Constantinople. Shall I arrange a relief for our Mr Grey and send him to you in ten minutes?”
“Thanks, if you would. It will be an interesting experiment.” Phillip smiled. “Don’t you want to watch it yourself? Smith can easily set an extra chair for you and—”
“To be frank,” Fox put in apologetically, “I’d rather not, Phillip, if you’ll forgive me. I should not eat with the smallest enjoyment in Durbanville’s company. I had as much of him as I could stomach the day we sailed.” He followed Phillip to the companionway. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, not in the least.” Phillip clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. “I’ve no wish to spoil your appetite, my dear Martin … though I confess to a certain curiosity concerning the man who can do so!”
They separated, Fox to go in search of Midshipman Grey and Phillip to return to his day cabin where his steward, busy setting covers on the table, told him that both Army officers had accepted his invitation to dine there.
Lord Henry Durbanville was the first to arrive. He entered the cabin, still somewhat white of face but freshly shaven and dressed in an impeccably tailored uniform, his sword buckled on and his bearskin carried, very correctly, in the crook of his arm, as if he were about to parade for guard mounting at Windsor Castle, rather than share a midday meal with his naval host.
“‘Captain Hazard?” Both tone and bow were formal and both contrived somehow to seem faintly condescending.
“Commander Hazard,” Phillip amended. Hospitably he waved the new arrival to a chair. “This is quite an informal gathering and my other guests should not be long. Sit down, will you not, and let me pour you a glass of Madeira?”
“I thank you, no, sir.” Pale, almost lashless blue eyes met Phillip’s in a hostile stare. “There are certain matters which, in my view, should be attended to at once.” Still standing to attention, the young Guards officer waited. He was not a particularly prepossessing young man, Phillip thought, returning the stare. His face was inclined to a puffy plumpness, the skin sallow and disfigured by what appeared to be a German duelling scar, running downwards in a livid line from the left cheekbone to the corner of his small and now tightly compressed mouth. For all the stiffness of his stance, his bearing was curiously unmilitary and his body, like his face, looked unhealthily flabby. Even the expertly cut scarlet coatee, with its new, untarnished rank badges and glittering braid, could not entirely conceal the paunchy corpulence it covered nor disguise its wearer’s lack of height.
But perhaps he was prejudiced, Phillip reminded himself, perhaps he was allowing Fox’s forcibly expressed opinion to cloud his judgement. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony,” he suggested mildly and, to add emphasis to his words, resumed his own seat. “I shall, of course, attend to any matter you consider urgent but at least let my steward relieve you of your sword and headgear, so that we may talk in comfort.”
“Thank you, I prefer to remain as I am,” Durbanville returned uncompromisingly. “You will not find what I have to say to you pleasant.”
“Very well.” Phillip gave up all attempt to placate his guest. He had liked most of the Army officers he had met, with one or two exceptions, but this young man was, he decided, definitely one of the exceptions. He shrugged and helped himself to a glass of Jack Lyons’s excellent Madeira, signaling to his steward to leave them. “If I cannot persuade you to drink or to sit down with me, then perhaps we had better dispose of whatever business you have before our meal is served. I trust that it won’t take very long? Er—your name is Durbanville, I believe—Lord Henry Durbanville?”
“It is. My father is the Marquis of Leyton—a close friend of your Commander-in-Chief and I hold a captain’s commission in Her Majesty’s Foot Guards.” There was no alteration in the studied arrogance of the boy’s tone as he went on, “I have a number of complaints that I must bring to your attention, Commander Hazard, concerning certain of your officers and the treatment I have received since I boarded this ship.”
“Then state them, if you please,” Phillip invited coldly. Henry Durbanville had seemed to him at first to cut a figure more likely to inspire merriment or derision than any stronger emotion, but now he was not so sure, becoming himself aware of a far stronger and more primitive emotion than either of these. He must, he knew, keep a tight rein on his temper, whatever the provocation offered, since he could not—as Major Leach had so wisely decided to do—retire to his own quarters, in order to avoid being provoked. And Durbanville, as he started to list his complaints, appeared maliciously eager to provoke him.
The complaints included several slighting references to Martin Fox, whom he accused of incivility and incompetence and who, he insisted, had deliberately deprived him of his two horses and his sergeant, and he dwelt at some length on the discomfort of the quarters allotted to him. Midshipman O’Hara had, he claimed, insulted him; the Surgeon had refused him medical treatment, despite the fact that he had felt unwell when he came on board; and Lieutenant Cochrane had ordered him below when he had sought fresh air on the quarterdeck.
“This morning, when I informed your Officer of the Watch that I wished to parade my men, he told me that—on your instructions, Commander—they could not be permitted to muster on deck.”
“These are normal instructions when the weather makes it necessary.” Patiently, Phillip explained the reason for the instructions he had issued. “I gave permission for your men to come on deck as soon as the weather improved. If you look, you’ll see that a number of them are on the fo’c’sle now.”
“And not before time,” the young Guards officer retorted waspishly. “They have been confined in the most appalling conditions in the bowels of your ship which, I may tell you, is an apt description of its filthy and insanitary state. Indeed, Commander Hazard, I would go so far as to say that I consider this ship a disgrace to the British Navy and I intend, at the first opportunity, to make the fact known to your commanding Admiral who, as I mentioned, is a very close friend of my father’s.”
Phillip stared at him, shocked into momentary speechlessness by such effrontery. Was this boy quite sane, he wondered, could he possibly be? The threat he had uttered did not worry him unduly—young Durbanville would not find it as easy as he imagined to gain the ear of Admiral Dundas, whatever terms the latter might be on with the Marquis of Leyton. But the malice underlying both threat and complaints appalled him, the more so because it came from one who was little more than a schoolboy. …
“You are, I am given to understand”—the insolent voice broke abruptly into his thoughts—“only temporarily in command of this ship? And, indeed, the holder only of the acting rank of Commander?”
“You understand correctly,” Phillip confirmed, his voice dangerously quiet. “Is that all you have to say?”
“No, it is not. I wish deck space to be provided, so that I may parade and inspect the men under my command. It is my duty to ensure that they land in good order and I will thank you not to interfere with me in the execution of my duty.”
“I have no desire to do so. You are at liberty to muster your men for the purpose of inspecting them, Captain Durbanville, so long as the weather does not worsen.”
“Is it likely to worsen?” the boy sneered. “Or don’t you know?”
Phillip could feel his temper rising. But it was absurd, he chided himself sternly, to allow this little—what had Martin Fox called him, that first evening?—this little upstart to get under his skin. By tomorrow,
he would be gone and it would be left to his own Commanding Officer to put him firmly in his place—which, no doubt, he would do, with very little loss of time.
“The glass is falling,” he replied, careful to speak without heat. “It seems not unlikely that we shall meet with another gale.”
“In that case, I shall order a parade at once,” Durbanville told him. “But there is one other matter, before I go … the matter of the officer I placed under arrest, Major Leach of the 7th Fusiliers.”
“Pray continue,” Phillip bade him. But before this invita tion could be accepted, there was a tap on the cabin door. The Marine sentry threw it open and Major Leach came in, followed by Midshipman Grey. Both were smiling, evidently over some jest they had shared on their way to his quarters, and both were bare-headed, Leach in his faded coatee with its patched bullet holes, the empty sleeve hanging limply at his side. Phillip rose to welcome him but Durbanville, his sallow face suddenly suffused with angry colour, moved to place himself in the Major’s path.
“I have just had occasion to remind Commander Hazard that I placed you under arrest,” he said waspishly. “Is it necessary to remind you, sir—who profess to have so much more service than I—that an officer under close arrest is in honor bound to remain in his own quarters, until released? And I do not recall having released you.”