Hazard's Command

by V. A. Stuart

  Phillip tensed, his glass again to his eye, as Lieutenant Cochrane yelled an excited warning. “Guns, sir, cannon, I fancy—firing from the shore!”

  “Yes,” Phillip confirmed grimly, catching a glimpse of the cannon flash in the darkness ahead. “Indeed, yes, Mr Cochrane. Well, we need look no further for our ship in distress. I fear she’s aground and the Russians are trying to take her.”

  History, it seemed, was about to repeat itself. Phillip’s heart sank, as he remembered the brief and bloody battle he had fought beside the crew of the ill-starred Tiger, similarly stranded on the enemy shore in thick fog. The Russians had sent a gun battery galloping up, to unlimber and fire from the cliff top on to the defenceless frigate below them—a ship whose own guns had not sufficient elevation to reply to the murderous hail of grape and red-hot shot which had rained down on her. They had set her ablaze and her seamen and Marines had fought the blaze with despairing gallantry, refusing to haul down her colours until, to avoid useless loss of life, her dying Captain had ordered them to do so. His own leg had been shattered by an exploding shell, Phillip recalled, conscious that the old wound was paining him as, from the cliff top a second gun opened up.

  He swung himself up the mainmast shrouds, glass in hand, hoping to get a better view. The two guns on the summit of the cliff were firing rapidly now and it was possible to pinpoint their position, although that of the stranded ship was less clear. It became clearer as the distance between the Trojan and the shore diminished and finally all too clear, when a fire was started on her deck amidships—the result, as nearly as Phillip could judge from its explosive nature and rapid spread, of a lucky hit on some ammunition brought up for the unhappy vessel’s own upper-deck guns. That she could not use them with any effect became evident for, like the Tiger, she was lying close under the cliff and could not elevate any of her guns sufficiently to find their target. She tried but the few shots she managed to get off either buried themselves harmlessly in the overhang of the cliff face or ricocheted high above the heads of the Russian gunners. After this puny display of defiance, her crew were all engaged in fighting the fire on deck and their guns were—temporarily, at any rate—abandoned.

  The Russians, satisfied that they were secure in their vantage point, lit a bonfire—for the purpose, Phillip could only suppose, of making the service of their field-pieces easier—and soon both guns and gunners could be seen, dark shapes silhouetted against the red glow of the brushwood blaze. Evidently they had not, as yet, seen or heard the Trojan’s approach. The roar of their own guns and the pounding of the breakers on the rocks beneath them would, no doubt, drown the sound of her engines when he called for them, and probably the Rus sians were concentrating too intently on their helpless victim to observe the navigating lights of a ship at sea.

  The Trojan was out of their range, of course and they, for that matter, were out of hers, Phillip decided regretfully. To have a chance of hitting them with his main-deck guns, he would have to come dangerously close inshore and, even then, in a heavy swell and at extreme elevation, it was doubtful whether even the Trojan’s well-practised gun crews could do more than force the enemy to withdraw temporarily. Whilst this might give the crew of the stranded ship a welcome respite, it would not, in the long run, save her, since he could not remain in position for very long and dared not attempt to anchor in deep water, lest Trojan suffer the same fate as the vessel she was endeavouring to assist. The darkness was an added hazard, as the fog had been when the Tiger was driven on shore—accurate ranging on so small a target would be far from easy.

  He descended to the deck and glanced at the sixty-eightpounder mounted just forward of where he stood. Its range was greater than that of his main-deck guns and positioned as it was, perhaps he could harry the enemy into retreat for long enough to send boats to take off the shipwrecked crew. If boats could be launched and if they could survive in this sea … he turned to Cochrane.

  “Pass the word for the First Lieutenant and the Gunnery Officer, if you please, Mr Cochrane. And then pipe hands to stations to wear ship. I’m coming about and—” he was interrupted by a voice urgently calling his name.

  “Commander …” It was Major Leach, pale and evidently still far from well but gamely determined as, with his single arm to aid him, he staggered awkwardly from the companionway. Anthony Cochrane went to him and assisted him to Phillip’s side. “I heard gunfire,” the Fusilier officer began and broke off, as he saw and slowly took in what was happening. With a murmured apology, he crossed to the starboard rail and stood there, clinging to it and staring across the heaving expanse of black water to the scene on the cliff top.

  “Give the Major this, Mr Cochrane,” Phillip said, offering his glass and, as the Officer of the Watch took it from him, Martin Fox emerged from below. His gaze, too, went to the Russian gunners grouped around their bonfire and he winced as the twelve-pounders spoke again.

  “So that’s it!” His voice was low and shaken and, after a swift study of the scene, he turned to glance enquiringly at Phillip. “I don’t recognize her, do you? But I don’t believe she’s one of ours although, in this infernal murk, it’s hard to tell and I can’t see her colours, if she has any hoisted. What are we going to do, Phillip? What in heaven’s name can we do?”

  Phillip was silent. The men of the duty watch were assembling at their stations in obedience to the pipe and he nodded to Cochrane to carry on and then, brows knit in a frown, gave all his attention to the attempt to find an answer to the question his First Lieutenant had asked him. He considered one plan, only to discard it as impossible, thought of another but was compelled to discard that also, as being equally impossible. Finally, he said, “She’s lying stern-on, Martin, and I fancy she’s a transport—French, probably, although, as you say, it’s hard to tell. From the little I can see of her, she doesn’t appear to be badly damaged and her stern’s afloat—though God alone knows what she’s suffered for’ard.”

  “Perhaps not a lot,” Fox suggested. “If her stern’s clear, she can’t have grounded too hard.”

  “Quite,” Phillip agreed. “I’d like to tow her off, if I could. But we should have to close her to get a tow rope aboard and, even if we fire one across by rocket, we could still run a hell of a chance of joining her on shore ourselves. Failing a tow, perhaps we could send boats across and take her people off. I know it’s a risk, in this sea but at least it would be the lesser risk. Whatever we attempt, we’ve got to drive those enemy gunners off for long enough to enable us to do it.”

  “The quarterdeck guns?” Martin Fox queried.

  “The quarterdeck gun,” Phillip amended. “We—” young Sutherland, the Gunnery Officer, was standing breathlessly at his side.

  “You sent for me, sir?”

  “I did, Mr Sutherland.” Briefly Phillip told him what he wanted done. “Pick your best crew and man the sixty-eightpounder. I’m going to wear and close the shore … go aloft and get the best sight you can on those field pieces. You won’t have long on target and the range will be extreme …” he added a few technical instructions and dismissed the young Gunnery Officer, turning again to Martin Fox. “That’s the best we can do, for the present, I’m afraid. At least it will give them a breathing space and a chance to get their pumps to work and hose down that fire. Sutherland will distract the enemy’s attention, for a time, anyway, though his chances of hitting them are pretty slim, I fear.”

  Fox inclined his head in thoughtful agreement.

  “Shall I volunteer a boat’s crew and have them standing by?”

  “If you will, yes. And lend me your glass, Martin, for a moment … the Major has mine.” Phillip gave the shoreline a careful and anxious scrutiny, and when, on Cochrane’s shouted orders, the ship came about, he crossed the deck to continue his study of its rocky, dimly seen contours, marked here and there by a line of foaming breakers, lighter than the dark water from which they had emerged. With the Trojan close reaching on the port tack, he lowered the glass and, seeing
that Sutherland and his gun’s crew were waiting alertly by their gun, he called the Midshipman of the Watch over to him.

  “Sir?” It was O’Hara, eager as always, his voice high-pitched with excitement.

  “Stand by to pass on my orders to the gun’s crew, Mr O’Hara,” Phillip bade him and again swung himself up into the mainmast shrouds. From there, his visibility was only a little better than from the deck and he silently cursed the dark murkiness of the night and the storm-driven clouds which had, once more, blotted out the faint light of the moon.

  He knew now, as he clung to the shrouds, the nightglass to his eye, how helpless the crews of the other ships of the Tiger’s squadron must have felt when she had been under attack. Fog had obscured their vision, as the darkness was obscuring his … they had heard the guns but had been unable to see them or even to make out exactly where the stricken frigate had been lying. He, at least, thank God, could catch occasional glimpses of his target and the Russians’ bonfire, glowing through the darkness, enabled him to keep them in sight. He called down an order to the man at the helm, which O’Hara efficiently passed on at the pitch of his powerful young lungs, his voice under control now and then, as the light of the bonfire steadied and came abeam, he gave the order to open fire.

  Sutherland’s men worked well, maintaining a creditably rapid fire but, as Phillip had feared, with the best will in the world, it was not accurate. During the few minutes that he was able to allow them, they strove tirelessly to correct their errors but their last few shots fell short and, alarmed lest they should hit the grounded ship, he ordered them to cease fire. Twice more he came about and ran past, closing the range as much as he dared and, on the third tack, an exultant cheer from the men announced a near miss which sent the enemy gunners running for cover. But the Trojan was now perilously close inshore and he was forced to haul off. They had, however, achieved their first objective by scattering the Russian gunners, and the bonfire, starved of fuel, was reduced to a tiny red glow.

  “That has bought the poor devils on the transport a little time,” Martin Fox observed, when Phillip descended to the quarterdeck. “Let us hope they may use it to good purpose. They …” he gave a smothered exclamation, as from the deck of the transport, a flare zig-zagged skywards, momentarily bathing the whole area in a golden light. Phillip saw the boat pulling desperately towards the Trojan an instant before the maintop look-out yelled out a warning of her approach. In the brief glimpse he had, his mind registered the fact that the boat was a small gig, with only two men at the oars and two others, apparently baling in a frantic effort to keep their frail craft afloat. Then the light from the flare died away and he was left, peering badly into the darkness, uncertain whether or not he had really seen a boat but … the look-out had reported one and Martin Fox, when he turned in mute question, nodded emphatically.

  “It was a boat all right, sir. Shall we try to pick her up?”

  “We must try,” Phillip told him, wondering how, in that wilderness of tossing water, they would manage to do so. He issued his orders with a confidence he was far from feeling but, to his own thankful surprise, when the Trojan brought-to, a second flare from the stranded transport revealed a gig less than twenty yards from her. Two seamen, with scant regard for their own safety, assisted her crew to secure her to the frigate’s chains and, aided by others leaning dangerously from the entry port, the four shipwrecked men were brought on board.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The four rescued men proved to be French, as Phillip had surmised, one of them the transport’s Second Mate, who gave his name as Gaspard and introduced his fellow oarsman as Lieutenant Lejeune, of the Chasseurs d’Afrique.

  Leaving Martin Fox in charge of the deck, and the Gunnery Officer with instructions to return the enemy’s fire whenever the opportunity arose, Phillip sent the French seamen below and escorted the two officers to his own cabin. He despatched his steward for hot coffee and, in the meantime, poured Gaspard and Lejeune liberal tots of rum. Wrapped in blankets and gratefully sipping their rum, they gave him a brief and moving account of what they had endured since the gale had driven their ship on to the rocky shore. The ship, the Rapide, was a small steam transport, schooner-rigged, Gaspard told him, carrying two Army surgeons, two Sisters of Mercy, and medical supplies—all destined for the French base hospital at Kamiesch—and, in addition, fifteen cavalrymen and their horses. The Rapide had been making for Eupatoria in the hope of finding shelter there at the start of the gale but her rudder had been damaged and the mountainous seas had flooded her engine-room, and she had drifted helplessly until driven aground some three hours before the first of her distress rockets had been sighted by the Trojan.

  “We sent them up,” Gaspard explained, in tolerably good English, “in the faint hope that someone might see them and come to our aid. They brought you, Monsieur, praise be to God … but alas, we were already under enemy attack, for they also brought the Russians. Their guns would, it is certain, have destroyed or set us ablaze had you not driven them off with your shells. You gave us time to extinguish the fire they had started on our forecastle.”

  Phillip questioned him about damage and learned that the engine-room had been pumped dry, temporary repairs made to the rudder and—apart from whatever harm the fire had caused—as far as Gaspard knew, his ship was seaworthy.

  “Our cargo is sorely needed by the hospital at Kamiesch,” the Second Mate added. “Also the surgeons and the two brave women we carry, les deux religeuses . . . I—my capitaine sent me out to you to beg that you will assist us, if you can, to get our ship off the rocks. Had you, perhaps, thought that it might be possible to tow us off, Monsieur?”

  “Yes,” Phillip assured him. “I have given it much thought. But, before I can attempt to get a tow-rope aboard you, those Russian gunners must be forced to withdraw. I can only bring one quarterdeck gun to bear on them, Monsieur Gaspard and, as you will have observed, at night and with this sea running, accurate fire is virtually impossible. But, if I am to attempt to tow you off, our best chance will be before daylight, there is no doubt and—”

  “But you have surely more than one gun?” the Chasseur lieutenant put in, his tone puzzled. “Is this not an English frigate of ”—he spread his hands—“at least twenty guns?”

  “My ship has thirty-one,” Phillip answered wryly, “or to be strictly accurate, thirty—we lost our second 68-pounder in the storm. But without running the risk of joining your ship on the rocks, I cannot use my main-deck guns. You will understand. …” He was explaining the reason for this to the mystified young cavalryman when Major Leach requested his permission to join them.

  “I have a suggestion to put to you, Commander Hazard. That is why I have ventured to intrude on you, I—”

  “You are not intruding, Major,” Phillip assured him. He made the necessary introductions, hearing as he did so, the renewed thunder of guns from on shore. Guessing his thoughts, Major Leach observed gravely, “Yes, they are again firing on the Rapide and now they’ve brought up a full battery of four guns—I suspect with the intention of holding off your ship, Commander. The guns are well spread out, to make them an even more difficult target than they were before … which is the reason behind my suggestion, if you will hear it.”

  “Of course, sir.” Time was passing, Phillip thought uneasily, aware that if he were to have even a slim chance of rescuing the passengers and crew of the wrecked transport, he must do so while darkness hid the approach of the Trojan’s boats. Or, indeed, of the Trojan herself, if he attempted a tow for, with daylight, the Russians could bring up still more guns and blow her out of the water if she came within their range. …

  Again uncannily as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud, Leach said, “Mr Fox tells me that you would endeavour to tow off the Rapide if there were any way of silencing the enemy battery—is that so?” Phillip nodded and the soldier went on, turning briefly to the young Chasseur officer, “One of your men informed me that you found a path leading to the cliff t
op and that you led a party up there, mon lieutenant, intending to try to pick off the enemy gunners with muskets?” The cavalryman looked blank until Leach repeated himself in excellent French, upon which, beaming, he replied with a torrent of excited words in the same language.

  “He says, Hazard, that the cliff path is only about fifty yards from their ship,” Leach translated. “And that, at the summit, he found a place among the rocks which offered excellent protection for a party of, perhaps, up to a dozen men. I’d like to volunteer to lead a party of eight of my men, all good shots, up that path … if you can put us ashore. Once in position, I would guarantee to occupy the attention of the enemy gunners for long enough to enable you to tow off the French ship. Or, if that should prove impossible, then to take off her passengers and crew. Will you consider my suggestion?”

  It was almost the only practical suggestion he could consider, Phillip thought, but he hesitated, frowning. “Why did Lieutenant Lejeune fail when he made the attempt?” he asked.

  Gaspard answered him with a resigned shrug of the shoulders. “They had capsized the boat in which they went to the foot of the path, Monsieur, and their powder, as well as their carbines, became wet. They were unable to open fire when they reached the summit of the cliff and therefore returned to the ship for fresh ammunition. They were not seen, ascending or descending, and would have gone back without hesitation, had we not sighted your frigate. Lejeune will, I am certain, volunteer to guide your party to the path or even back to the summit—n’est pas, mon lieutenant?”