by V. A. Stuart
“Captain Durbanville isn’t with you, sir?” Smithson said, sounding puzzled. “Isn’t he coming?”
“No, he’s not.” Phillip gave a brief explanation of the circumstances, which seemed to satisfy Smithson, and added crisply, “Right, Mr Smithson. Carry out your withdrawal.”
The return to the beach was made without trouble. The Cossacks did not come in pursuit and, apart from a few isolated shots from Durbanville’s Minié, Phillip heard nothing. The shots came at long intervals and evidently served their purpose in discouraging pursuit, as Durbanville had promised they would. Meeting the second party of Marines, under their Sergeant, about half-way down the cliff, Phillip learned that two boat-loads of wounded had already put off to the ship and he was tempted to relinquish command to Smithson and retrace his steps in order to make an attempt—however useless—to bring Durbanville down. But one boat had to come back, for a second load; his responsibilities could not yet be delegated, and he stumbled on down the steep, uneven path, now bathed in pale, watery sunlight. He could see the Trojan close inshore, watched first one boat and then a second go alongside and then saw his own boat returning, with O’Hara in the sternsheets. There was still a moderately heavy swell running but the wind, he realized with relief, had dropped. The crackle of musketry from the cliff top sounded fainter and soon ceased altogether but, as his party gained the beach, he saw that a small band of mounted Cossacks were galloping along, keeping the British party in sight. Half-a-dozen of them dismounted and essayed a few shots from the summit of the cliff but the range was extreme and their shooting—by Henry Durbanville’s standards, at any rate—poor, so that they soon desisted and stood by, watching helplessly, as the Marines filed down to the waiting boats.
“You are coming, sir, aren’t you?” Smithson asked, a note of concern in his voice as if, now that the moment had come, he sensed Phillip’s inner conflict and his reluctance to return to the ship without Henry Durbanville.
Phillip hesitated, aware that what his conscience bade him do was both foolhardy and foredoomed to failure … and would be so judged by his superiors, if his conduct were ever the subject of enquiry. Yet his conscience plagued him relentlessly and he knew that he must satisfy himself on Durbanville’s account before he could hope to enjoy peace of mind. The Trojan, under Martin Fox’s command, ran no risks now—Fox could take her into Eupatoria and land the troops under Major Leach, the two French surgeons and the nuns. No doubt the Rapide would be waiting there for the latter, so that he need not concern himself with the question of their transport to Kameisch. Phillip glanced up at the cliff top and saw that the Cossacks had vanished. This decided him and, turning to Smithson, he said curtly, “No. I am going back to see if anything can be done for Captain Durbanville.”
“But what can be done, sir?” Smithson objected. “You said yourself that he had a leg shot away.”
“I know, Mr Smithson.” Phillip sighed. “All the same my conscience won’t allow me to leave him up there alone to die. I must go back.” Now that he had made up his mind, he felt a lifting of his spirits and he shook his head firmly to Smithson’s offer to accompany him. “No, I’ll go alone … one man might escape notice, a party might bring the Cossacks back. Besides, I have no right to risk any more lives in what I realize may well prove a hopeless task. So embark your Marines, if you please, in Mr Grey’s boat.” He led the way and Smith-son followed him reluctantly.
“Sir—”
“Yes, Mr Smithson?”
“At least permit me to wait for you, sir, with this boat,” the Marine Lieutenant pleaded but again Phillip shook his head. “No. You and your men have done enough—all of you and you’ve done extremely well—but now return to the ship, if you please, and leave this to me. It is my responsibility and mine alone.”
“Permit me to disagree, sir,” Smithson persisted. “I’ll obey your orders, of course. But I beg you to change your mind.”
Phillip relented a little. “I would if I could, Mr Smithson, believe me. But I truly do not think I can.” He turned to Midshipman Grey, who had been a silent but interested listener to this exchange. “Mr Grey, I am returning to see whether it is possible to aid Captain Durbanville, who is severely wounded. When you report to Mr Fox, ask him to give me a couple of hours. He can remain where he is with the Trojan for that time but tell him to keep a sharp look-out, in case the enemy bring back their gun battery. If they do, he is to take the ship out of range. When I require a boat I’ll signal for one—and I can use hand signals, now that it’s daylight. We’ll keep them simple …” he detailed the signals he would use and continued, “But make it quite clear to Mr Fox that his first concern must be the safety of the ship and her crew and that he is not to send a boat in response to any signal of mine if, by doing so, he considers it might endanger either. If, for any reason, he is compelled to haul-off, he may leave me the cutter at his discretion and with a volunteer crew … you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir. But, sir …” Grey was at his side, his tone pleading, “May I not accompany you? I was at school with Durbanville and I would appreciate it very much indeed if you’d take me, sir. Lieutenant Smithson will, I am sure, convey your instructions to the First Lieutenant and my cox’n could take command of the boat. Also, sir”—the boy reddened under Phillip’s silent scrutiny—“I haven’t been ashore. I’ve been with my boat all the time, so I’m quite fresh. And you will need someone to help you carry Durbanville down to the beach—you can’t do that single-handed, sir, can you? If he’s … if he’s had a leg shot away, he’ll have to be carried, won’t he, sir?”
If he were in any state to be moved, Phillip thought, but he smiled down at the pink-cheeked midshipman. “You advance a great many reasons in favour of my acceding to your request, Mr Grey,” he observed. “And you are, of course, right on the score of the last one—save that I fear we may not find it possible to carry Captain Durbanville down to the beach. His injuries are severe—he may have succumbed to them, poor fellow.”
“But may I come, sir?” Grey begged. “In case he’s alive? I’ll make myself useful, sir, truly I will.”
Phillip eyed him thoughtfully. “You appreciate what may be involved, if you do?”
“You mean that it may not be possible for us to get back here ourselves, sir? Yes, I do. But the Cossacks seem to have gone and that makes the chance worth taking, doesn’t it, sir?”
“Very well, Mr Grey, your request is granted,” Phillip told him. If it were possible to move Durbanville, he thought, then he would need help. He glanced at Smithson in mute apology and the younger man smiled. “I did not want you to go alone, sir,” he confessed. “And Mr Grey’s uniform has the advantage of being less conspicuous than mine.”
“Thank you,” Phillip acknowledged. “Then embark your men, if you please, Mr Smithson. And perhaps you would permit us the use of two of your muskets, in case of need.”
“Certainly, sir.” Smithson passed on the order to his Sergeant and then draw himself up and saluted. “I’ll convey your instructions to the First Lieutenant and—may I wish you both a safe return?”
“You may indeed and I thank you.” Taking a Brown Bess from the Sergeant of Marines, Phillip echoed Smithson’s smile, his own a trifle wry. “Remember, if you please, that Mr Fox is to give us two hours—no longer. If we have made no signal or have failed to return here, to the beach, within that time, he is to take the Trojan to Eupatoria so that the troops may be landed. After that he will be under the orders of Captain Lord George Paulet of the Bellerophon.”
“Very good, sir.” Smithson barked an order and his Marines started to file into the waiting boat but, before it could put off, there was a brief altercation and a single red-jacketed figure jumped ashore and, brushing past Smithson, came to a halt at Phillip’s side.
“Commander Hazard”—Phillip, a trifle to his surprise, recognized the young military surgeon who had so unwillingly assisted Henry Durbanville with his floggings. “I did not fully comprehend what you int
ended to do. But if Captain Durbanville is wounded and you are going to his aid, it is my duty to accompany you, sir. I trust you will permit me to do so?”
Phillip hesitated. The young man had more than done his duty already, he thought, attending to the wounded members of the shore party, and he looked exhausted but … “If you wish,” he assented reluctantly. “Although I fear there may be little or nothing you can do for poor Durbanville. His wound seemed to me to be mortal.”
“Nevertheless, sir, I should like to do what I could. As military surgeon, it is my duty.”
His name, Phillip recalled, was Vernon. He nodded acquiescence. “Then come with us, Mr Vernon … and thank you.” He waved to Smithson and, as the boat finally put off from the beach, led the way back to the cliff path.
In daylight, the climb was easier and took less than the 25 minutes the first ascent had taken but all three climbers were beginning to feel the strain by the time the head of the pathway came in sight. Phillip halted to regain his breath and, having done so, explained the lie of the land to his companions.
“I see, sir.” Young Grey was looking eagerly about him. He was admirably composed but his voice betrayed his excitement as he gestured ahead of them. “The Cossacks do appear to have gone, don’t they? I mean, they would surely have fired on us if they were still in position, would they not?”
It was possible, Phillip reflected but, on the other hand, it was equally possible that they were waiting in ambush at the top of the cliff. As if reading his thoughts, Surgeon Vernon diffidently suggested advancing under a flag of truce and took a crumpled white handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “If I tie this on to the muzzle of your musket, Commander, they would heed it, surely? We are, after all, on a mission of mercy.”
“Perhaps,” Phillip conceded but without conviction. His experience of Cossack patrols had hitherto led him to place little reliance on their respect for flags of truce or, indeed, for anything in the nature of aid to the wounded. However, he allowed Vernon to attach the handkerchief to the barrel of his Brown Bess and, when this was done, motioned his companions to stay where they were and, as he had done earlier, covered the last few yards bent double, his musket—belying its symbol—at the ready. A careful scrutiny revealed no Cossacks and he straightened up, waving to the other two to join him. When they did so, he turned his glass on the rocky escarpment which had given Henry Durbanville shelter, seeking for some sign that he was still alive. But he was well hidden and Phillip knew that there was nothing for it except to climb up once more to his lonely stronghold—to hail him might bring the Cossacks back.
“Wait here, both of you,” he ordered and silenced the young surgeon’s protest with a crisp, “If you’re needed, I’ll wave.” He turned to the midshipman. “Keep your eyes skinned, Mr Grey.”
Robin Grey, firmly grasping his musket, flashed him a quick smile. “Aye, aye, sir.” He, too, had had experience of the Cossacks’ treatment of wounded, Phillip recalled, and significantly had no white banner on his weapon. He echoed the boy’s smile and set off on his climb, moving with caution and pausing occasionally to sweep the surrounding countryside with his glass. As he neared the summit of the escarpment he realized that he could see the white ribbon of a post road and frowned, seeking to get his bearings. It was the post road from Perekop to Simpheropol, of course—it could be no other—and was the road by which the Russian reinforcements from Odessa had travelled to Prince Menschikoff’s headquarters at Simpheropol. The road by which, only a short while ago, Madamoiselle Sophie must have travelled with her husband, Prince Andrei Narishkin … he stifled a sigh. In darkness, when he had previously ascended this escarpment, he had been unable to see the road and had not guessed how close it was … he slipped his Dollond from his breast pocket and studied the road minutely, taking in the fact that it was deeply rutted and pock-marked with holes, evidence—if evidence were needed—of the heavy traffic it had borne during the past months.
But now, bathed in the strengthening sunlight, the dusty road was deserted and, replacing his glass, Phillip continued on his way. He saw the body of Guardsman Leeston first, pathetically spread-eagled on the rock face and, guided by this, dragged himself the last difficult five yards to Henry Durbanville’s hiding place. The boy still lay full length in the rocky crevice, his greatcoat covering him and both rifles placed ready to hand. But he did not move or give any sign that he was aware of Phillip’s approach so that, until he touched the young Guards officer’s extended hand and felt its warmth, he imagined that the man he had returned to rescue must be already dead. The touch roused him and instinctively sent the hand Phillip had touched groping blindly for the rifle.
“Durbanville … it’s Hazard. Lie still.” The warning reached the semi-conscious Durbanville. He turned, his lackluster eyes momentarily lighting in relieved recognition, his fingers ceasing their vain search for the Minié. “You … came back. You … shouldn’t have … troubled, I … haven’t got much longer.” His voice was so weak as barely to be audible and Phillip had to lean closer in order to make out what he was trying to say. “I’m afraid … you’re a … sentimentalist, Commander.”
“Probably,” Phillip agreed, without resentment. “But now we—”
“It was good of you,” Durbanville put in. “And I confess I’m … grateful. To die … alone is … a frightening prospect. I …” memory returned and he asked suddenly, his voice a little stronger, “Did your Marines get down to the boats all right?”
“Yes—without a single casualty,” Phillip told him. “You held off the Cossacks for us magnificently.”
“I said I could.” Henry Durbanville’s cracked, almost bloodless lips curved into a gratified smile. “Now I’m watching the road in case they come back.”
“They’ve gone,” Phillip said gently. “And three of us have come to take you back to the ship. Your Army surgeon, young Vernon, volunteered to come and patch you up.”
“Good of him. But you cannot move me, Hazard, and Vernon … can’t patch me up,” the boy demurred. “Don’t you … understand, my … my leg’s half off? For God’s sake, I … don’t want a sawbones. I told you that, Hazard, I said it was no use, I …” his voice trailed off into sudden, abrupt silence, as if the effort to talk had been too much for him and his eyes lost the brightness which had briefly illuminated them, glazed over and then wearily closed. Phillip moved him carefully into a more comfortable position and, rising, clambered to the edge of the crevice to wave an urgent summons to the two men waiting below.
They both joined him, young Grey skipping over the rocks with enviable agility. “No sign of a soul, sir,” he reported. His glance went to the unconscious Durbanville but he offered no comment and added, looking about him with interest, “What a capital position this is! Why, it even commands the road, does it not? Shall I carry on as look-out, sir?”
“Yes, if you will,” Phillip agreed. “Keep the cliff path under observation, as well as the road—and keep under cover. That road is the post road to Simpheropol and I don’t imagine it will be deserted for long. Let me know of anything you see.” He turned to Vernon who had slipped into the rock crevice beside Henry Durbanville and was examining the boy’s wound, his face expressionless. “Well, Doctor … what do you think of his chances? Can we get him down to the beach?”
The surgeon did not look up, his fingers busy with the length of cord secured about the lower part of the young Guards officer’s left thigh, which had acted as a tourniquet. “He’s pretty far gone, sir, and I’m afraid this leg will have to come off. I doubt if he’ll survive being moved, still less the shock of amputation—he’s lost a lot of blood already. I cannot amputate here but I could splint the leg and we might try to get him down. But …” he shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t give much for his chances.”
“He’ll die for certain if we leave him here,” Phillip pointed out. He looked back, over his shoulder, to where the Trojan still faithfully held her off-shore position and then anxiously consulted his pocket
watch. Almost forty minutes had elapsed since they had left the beach; it would take at least another forty—or possibly even longer—to return there, with the added burden of Henry Durbanville. But they could not leave him, to a lonely and inevitable death … he sighed. “Splint the leg, Doctor, and we’ll rig a makeshift stretcher with his greatcoat and those rifles. Do you want any help?”
The surgeon shook his head. “No, I can manage.” He added, as if in answer to Phillip’s unspoken warning, “I shall be as quick as I can.”
“Good man,” Phillip acknowledged. He wished that they could take the body of Durbanville’s servant down with them also but knew that this was out of the question—poor Leeston would have to lie where he had fallen. There was no means of burying him here, unless his body were placed in the crevice now occupied by his master and …
“Sir—Commander Hazard, would you come over here, if you please?” Midshipman Grey’s voice, controlled but holding a note of urgency, broke into his thoughts. Phillip moved cautiously across to where the boy had taken up his position, well out of sight at the far end of the rocky crevice.
“Yes, Mr Grey—what is it?”
“Over there, do you see, sir—that dust cloud above the road?” The midshipman pointed. “I’ve no glass but could a cloud like that be raised by enemy cavalry, sir?”
Phillip took out his Dollond and focused it in the direction Grey had indicated—that of Perekop, to the north west. The dust cloud was a long way away but, as he watched, it slowly resolved itself into a long column of mounted men—cavalry, as young Grey had suspected. The pale sunlight glinted on their lance-tips and behind them, Phillip saw, came gun limbers, which were stirring up most of the dust, followed by an almost unbroken line of plodding, grey-coated infantrymen. A considerable force was on the move, he realized—reinforcements destined for the Tchernaya Valley perhaps or … he scanned the road ahead of the cavalry column and saw that just ahead of it, a second road branched off to the right. The road to Eupatoria, his mind registered, and he waited, not really expecting the advancing cavalry to take it. But they did so, a squadron putting their horses to the gallop, which brought them to the turn-off ahead of the main body. When this, too, turned in the direction of Eupatoria. he knew that they could have only one objective. An attack was to be launched against the town—a major attack—aimed to overwhelm its small garrison at a time when they might be expected to have suffered some disorganization, as a result of the recent storm.