by V. A. Stuart
On board the Rapide, as they neared her, lights could be seen, coming from her lower deck. The fire on her upper deck had, seemingly, been put out and, although he could see nothing, Phillip guessed, from the sounds carrying across the water, that her crew were at work heaving guns and other heavy gear overboard, in an effort to lighten her. This could only mean that Martin Fox had reached her with the information that the Trojan would attempt to take her in tow … he turned to Burnaby and the Master nodded his understanding, as from the cliff top high above their heads, first one and then another of the Russian guns again opened up. They were firing on the luckless Rapide but a few shots, wildly off target, spattered the narrowing gap between the two ships. Burnaby’s ruse had succeeded, Phillip’s mind registered, but for how long they could conceal the Trojan’s presence was a matter of conjecture, and the most difficult part of the manoeuvre had yet to be attempted. He had to bring his ship about and ease her, stern first, close enough to the French ship to be able to take her in tow … and the tow-rope must be got across to her. He expelled his breath in a long sigh, listening tensely to the leadsman’s monotonous chant.
There was a crackle of musketry, almost drowned by the echoing roar of the Russian guns, but Phillip knew that Major Leach and his party were now firing on the enemy gunners. That their fire was effective very soon became apparent, since that directed on the French ship grew suddenly less and then ceased altogether. He blessed Leach and blessed him still more warmly when O’Hara’s boat hailed them and, a few minutes later, secured to the starboard chains. The first of the Rapide’s passengers were in it and they included the two nuns, shivering in the tarpaulin sheets in which O’Hara’s men had wrapped them but, mercifully, unhurt and unafraid. …
It took a further seemingly interminable thirty minutes to work the Trojan into position and get the tow-rope aboard the stranded Rapide. Aware that, at times, he had little more than a fathom of water under his keel, Phillip—although outwardly calm—felt almost sick with apprehension. Both wind and swell had moderated considerably but his anxiety did not lessen until he was able, at last, to take his ship into deeper water. Even then, he waited anxiously for the Russian guns to open fire on her, unable to believe that they were still in ignorance of her presence or that Leach and Durbanville and their tiny party could have held the enemy at bay so consistently and for so long. But, apparently, they had. The sound of musketry still reached him faintly, coming from several different parts of the cliff top but the wind distorted the sound and he could not tell whether only Leach’s fusiliers were firing or whether the Russians were answering their challenge.
Towing the Rapide off the stony beach was, to his surprised relief, the easiest part of the whole operation. She slid off, as if eager to return to her accustomed element and only for a short time was there any undue strain on the Trojan’s 300-horsepower engine. Then she was afloat, stern on and with a distinct list to starboard, but with no other visible sign of damage and Phillip let out his breath in a deep sigh of thankfulness.
By reason of her list and the crashing breakers which sought constantly to cast her back from whence she had come, she was an awkward tow and only became more manageable when Phillip increased the Trojan’s engine speed and her own screw started to turn. The Russian gunners, as if suddenly wakening to the realization that their prey was about to escape them, blazed away at both ships in a frenzy of activity. Their aim, however, was hurried and the range rapidly lengthening, so that most of their shots fell short. Three or four half-spent round shot thudded against the Trojan’s quarter, as she came about, and then fell harmlessly into the sea. Only when two of the guns loaded with chain shot did they cause either ship any trouble and then it was of short duration, the Rapide coming off worst in the encounter.
Sutherland’s sixty-eight-pounder, once more operational, returned the cannonade from the shore and a series of small flashes from the head of the cliff path revealed that Leach’s party was still a force to be reckoned with. Regretting now that he had not insisted on leaving a boat to take the soldiers off, Phillip called out to Midshipman Grey to fire the recall signal for his remaining boats, and the Trojan brought-up, well out of range of the enemy guns, to await their return. As she did so, the Rapide’s captain hailed Phillip with the news that he could proceed under his own power.
“I will cast off your tow-rope, Monsieur, with my deepest thanks for your so timely assistance.” He added, in his strongly accented English, that his ship was leaking fairly badly but that her pumps were holding their own and he would make for the anchorage in Eupatoria Bay.
Phillip wished him well and the Rapide, leaving her passengers on board the Trojan, dropped astern and was soon lost to sight in the darkness. From the shore a fierce cannonading could be heard and Phillip began to worry about the safety of his boats and the two landing parties. To aid them, he ordered that a second recall rocket should be fired and, almost immediately, two boats made their appearance in the brief light of the rocket. First to return was Laidlaw’s and then, a few minutes later, Martin Fox’s came alongside, two men assisting the First Lieutenant from the sternsheets. Phillip met him at the entry port and saw that his head was roughly bandaged and his right cheek dark with congealed blood.
“It’s nothing, sir—a splinter from the Rapide’s deck, which looks worse than it is.” He forestalled Phillip’s question, and then posed one of his own, “I’d like permission to return to shore, sir, if you’ve no objection.”
“In your present state, I have every reason to refuse you permission but”—Phillip drew his second-in-command to one side—“why do you want to go back, Martin? Is Cochrane in trouble?”
Fox inclined his bandaged bead, wincing involuntarily as he did so. “Yes, I’m afraid he is. I sent him to support Major Leach’s party but the Russians caught him on his way up the cliff path and he’s suffered a number of casualties. We brought three of his men back”—he gestured to where, from the boat he had just left, three injured seamen were being assisted on board the Trojan. “Wilks, Strachan, and Mackay, sir. But there are others, from his party and Leach’s, although Laidlaw took off two of the fusiliers … all men who were able to walk, with assistance. The rest will have to be carried.”
“I see.” Phillip’s heart sank. “Exactly what is the situation, as briefly as possible?”
“Well, sir, the Russians have four guns, 12-pounders mounted in battery and apparently they’ve been joined by a mounted Cossack patrol. When Leach’s fusiliers started their sharpshooting, all four guns were ranged on the Rapide. The attack from the head of the cliff path obviously took them by surprise and must have been fairly successful. All four guns ceased fire, a wounded fusilier told me, and the gunners ran for cover. But …” Fox sighed. “The Cossacks took a hand and must have reported how few men Leach actually had. The next thing we heard, just after you took the Rapide in tow, was a terrific cannonading. We realized they had housed two guns round in order to range them on Leach’s party and, although I gather from Lejeune that the position they’re holding is quite a strong one, behind a natural barricade of rocks, it’s hardly proof against cannon. And Leach can’t hope to make his way to Eupatoria overland, because those infernal Cossacks are there to cut him off. Also he has wounded. I think they’ll have to be taken off by boat, Phillip, there’s no other way. Which is why I—”
Phillip cut him short, his gaze on two more wounded men, both unconscious, now being handed up from Laidlaw’s boat. Two of the Rapide’s seamen, he decided, as Surgeon Fraser gave each man a cursory examination and then ordered them to be carried below. “What of Cochrane, Martin?” he asked. “Do you know where he is? Did he join Leach or what?”
“That was his intention,” Martin Fox confirmed. “Or, alternatively, he said he would try to work his way round behind Leach, in order to create a diversion and enable Leach to withdraw down the cliff. But I’m afraid be must have been spotted—by the Cossacks, probably—before he could get his party under cover. Wilks and Strachan were
wounded before they were halfway up the cliff path. That’s why, I want to go back. You see—”
“No.” Again Phillip interrupted him. “I’m sorry, Martin, you’re in no fit state to go back. Carrying wounded down that cliff is a task for fit men. You and your boat’s crew are wet and exhausted and Laidlaw’s too. You—”
“But, Phillip, I can volunteer a fresh boat’s crew and—”
“I shall go myself,” Phillip told him. “You will please take command of this ship in my absence.”’
“Sir, is it not my prerogative, as First Lieutenant, to take command of boat and landing parties?” Fox objected. “Besides I—”
“Mr Fox, I have given you an order.” Phillip’s tone was one that brooked no further argument. “Is it not my prerogative, as commander, to have my orders obeyed without question?”
“Yes, of course, sir. But …” Martin Fox abandoned formality and added, his tone pleading, “Phillip, I beg you to permit me to go. I’m perfectly fit and I let young Cochrane in for the trouble he’s met with, so that I—”
“We are wasting time,” Phillip pointed out. He called the Master over and gave his orders with crisp decision, before turning once more to his discomfited First Lieutenant. “Mr Sutherland can continue to give support with the sixty-eightpounder. Have that wound of yours attended to, Mr Fox, and then take command of the ship. We will employ the same system of signals but with one addition—a red followed by a white rocket will be the signal for you to close the shore, but remain out of range of the enemy’s guns. You understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Martin Fox acknowledged resignedly. He gripped Phillip’s arm. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, Martin. And I’d be obliged if you would have that head wound of yours attended to at once. Mr Burnaby”—the old Master was at his side. “Volunteer fresh crews for both boats, if you please. There are wounded to be taken off. I shall be in command of Mr Fox’s boat and I’d like Mr Smithson to divide his Marines between the two boats. And we shall need stretcher parties and a medical officer.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Burnaby’s shrewd old eyes met his with an unvoiced question in them but, when Phillip did not answer it, he went silently to carry out his orders. Burnaby, it was evident, did not wholly approve of his decision to leave the ship but … Laidlaw was soaked to the skin and exhausted and, as he had told Martin Fox, this was a task for fresh men. He had to go, the men on shore were his responsibility, as well as the ship, Phillip told himself, as he crossed to the entry port. His gig’s crew, with the addition of three others, had now manned Fox’s boat, and Laidlaw’s, secured astern of it, was in the process of taking aboard a fresh crew, under the command of Midshipman Grey. Lieutenant Smithson was in his own boat, a Marine Sergeant in the other, their men’s muskets protected against immersion. Grey’s boat cast off and his own came to the foot of the accommodation ladder. A small figure, smothered in oilskins, sat in the sternsheets, but it was not until Phillip took his place beside the boy that he realized it was O’Hara.
“Mr O’Hara,” he said sternly, “I gave instructions that fresh crews were to be volunteered. You’ve already been ashore with a boat, have you not?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy admitted. “But I’m your gig’s midshipman, sir, and these are my men. Let me come, sir, please. I’m perfectly fresh, sir, I promise you I am.”
There was no time to waste and Phillip gave in. “Very well, Mr O’Hara, you may come. But you’ll stay in the boat. Carry on.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” O’Hara acknowledged happily. “Cast off forrard,” he shouted to the bowman and, as the boat left the shelter of Trojan’s stout wooden side and felt the full force of wind and swell, “Give way together—come on, my lads, put your backs into it! Pull!” The boat’s crew pulled with a will but it was a long, hard pull and they were all exhausted and breathless by the time the boat grounded on the rocky beach. The boat which still waited for the return of Laidlaw’s party was only a few yards off and the midshipman sent the two men who were waiting with him to assist in hauling Phillip’s boat on to the shingle.
“Bale her out, while you’re waiting, Mr O’Hara,” Phillip instructed his young boat commander. “And signal the shore party, as soon as you can, to let them know we’re coming. Also I think you’d better post a look-out at the first bend in the path. As wounded are brought down to the beach, load them into Mr Malcolm’s boat, and then into Mr Grey’s and each is to put back to the ship as soon as his boat is fully loaded. On no account are any of the boat commanders to leave their boats, is that understood?” Both midshipmen assured him that it was. “You know the signal for recall, Mr Malcolm?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy repeated it.
“Right. Keep a watch on the cliffs. A red and white rocket will be my signal for the Trojan to close the shore but, if that is followed by a second red, you are to put off to the ship as soon as you see it—without waiting for anyone else to rejoin you. Clear, Mr O’Hara?”
“Aye, aye, sir. But—” O’Hara hesitated. “When you say anyone else, sir, are you including yourself?”
Phillip smiled at him. “I am, Mr O’Hara. One has to be prepared for every possible contingency and I want no heroics from you or your boats’ crews, either of you. Tell Mr Grey the same. You are here to take off wounded. If you are fired on by the enemy, take cover close under the cliff. If necessary, drag the boats up with you.”
“I understand, sir.” Shyly O’Hara held out his hand. “Good luck, sir. It—it’s like the Tiger, isn’t it, in a way?”
It was, Phillip, reflected ruefully, remembering that O’Hara had been in command of the boat which had taken him out to the ill-starred frigate. He wrung the outstretched hand.
“Don’t worry, youngster—I’ll make a point of coming back this time!” He smiled again at both youngsters and followed the rest of his small party to the beach.
The darkness was not quite so intense now and the gun flashes from the cliff top gave him his direction. Head bent against the wind, he led his party to the foot of the path, finding this without much difficulty. Smithson, the Marine Lieutenant, gestured above their heads to where the crackle of musket fire could faintly be heard and observed gravely, “They’re not firing quite so rapidly now, sir, are they? I wonder how many of them are left?”
Phillip had also been wondering much the same thing and, as they ascended the path in single file—the Marines in advance of the seamen with stretchers—he was listening intently and with growing apprehension to the sporadic firing. There were some of the landing party left, obviously but … how many? And were they Leach’s men or Cochrane’s?
After a steady ten minutes’ climb, a faint voice hailed them—an English voice—and, rounding a curve in the steep path, they found four seamen of Cochrane’s party, all wounded, sheltering beneath an outcrop of rock. The man who had hailed them told Phillip that the rest of his party had, as far as he knew, joined up with Major Leach’s men.
“They caught us a bit higher up the path, sir,” the seaman said. “Cossacks, I think they were, firing down on us with muskets and pistols … we walked right into them. Mr Cochrane returned their fire and drove them off—our shooting was better than theirs, sir. Then he had us carried down here and he said we was to wait until he could get back to us … not that there was much else we could do. Then he went on up, sir, with the others, and we’ve not seen him since. The Bo’sun’s Mate, Cleary, sir, he’s hurt pretty bad. I did what I could for him but he’s bled a lot, sir.”
“Good man,” Phillip told him warmly. “We’ll have you down to the boats as soon as we can.” He left the young military surgeon, who had volunteered to accompany him, to care for the injured men and detailed two of his stretcher parties to get them back to the beach. With his now depleted party, he continued to climb, after cautioning all of them to move as quietly as possible and to maintain strict silence. They met no one—the enemy apparently not having seen the approach of the two boats or else not expecting that an attem
pt at rescue would be made. From above them, the sound of firing continued but now it was almost exclusively small arms fire, with an occasional roar from a single cannon. Lieutenant Smithson said, his voice low but holding a note of suppressed excitement, “They obviously don’t think the opposition merits the use of their guns, sir.”
Or more probably, Phillip thought, the Russian commander believed that the Trojan, having accomplished her purpose and towed the French transport safely out of his clutches, had abandoned the shore parties, leaving them to fend for themselves. In which supposition, he would imagine that there was no reason for undue haste. Lack of ammunition, food and sleep must eventually compel the survivors to surrender, so that, by his reckoning, the expenditure of his own ammunition would be wasteful. He had only to wait, employing a few of his men to pin down the British party and prevent their escape, either back by the way they had come or overland to Eupatoria … climbing steadily upwards, Phillip frowned. The sky, he realized, was lighter than it had been. Dawn was not far off and with daylight, the danger to his own party would increase. His resources were limited, those of the Russians were not and, at present, all he had in his favour was the element of surprise—an advantage of which the dawning of day would rob him, unless he could make effective use of it. But how? They were nearing the head of the path and he paused to get his bearings, a hand on Smithson’s shoulder to bring him to a halt. To his right, judging by the sound of desultory musket fire Leach was entrenched, with Cochrane and the rest of their two parties. He could not see them, but could glimpse a massive outcrop of rock in dark silhouette against the now greying sky, which appeared to answer the description Lejeune had supplied.
“Shall I make a reconnaissance, sir?” Smithson offered but Phillip shook his head.
“No. I’ll have a look round myself. You wait here.” Careful to make no noise, he moved on and upwards, aware that the Trojan had ceased her supporting fire, which had until now come at regular and almost predictable intervals. That could, of course, mean that the sixty-eight-pounder had again jammed or … cautiously he raised his head. It could mean that the Russian gun battery had withdrawn or was about to withdraw, leaving the Cossacks to await the surrender of the British landing party. And if that were so … Phillip inched his way forward, his eyes straining into the darkness. He heard the clink of metal on metal, a shouted order and then the thudding of horses’ hooves on the iron-hard ground and, abandoning caution moved swiftly forward, the wind knifing through him as he emerged from the shelter of the cliff path. One gun, at any rate, was withdrawing—however limited his vision, the sounds were unmistakable. He waited, his heart thudding as if it were echoing the hoofbeats, and heard a second gun limber up and canter past him.