Hazard's Command

by V. A. Stuart

  “Sir,” Midshipman Grey was beside him. “I’ll run ahead, shall I, sir, and find out how the First Lieutenant is?”

  As he had run down the cliff path—could it only have been yesterday?—with warning of the attack which had just been driven off, Phillip reflected, conscious now not only of nausea but of his limp, which always affected him when he was tired. And he was tired, dear heaven how tired he was!

  “Thank you, Mr Grey,” he said, careful to control his voice. “I should be obliged if you would.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The youngster sped off on his self-imposed mission. He was waiting, with Laidlaw, at the entry port when Phillip and the weary Thompson boarded the ship. Neither spoke for a moment and, looking from one to the other of their two distressed faces, Phillip knew that what they had to give him could only be bad news. “Sir—” Laidlaw began but Phillip cut him short, glimpsing Surgeon Fraser behind them.

  “Thank you, Mr Laidlaw … Mr Grey. Carry on, if you please.” He joined Fraser, a mute question in his eyes, and the Surgeon said quietly, “He’s dying, I’m afraid. I’ve done all I can to ease his pain but that is all I can do. The pistol ball is lodged in one of his lungs and it would only hasten the end if I tried to remove it. But he’s able to talk a little and he’s asking for you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” It took all the self control Phillip possessed to speak normally. “Where is he?”

  “In his own cabin, sir. That is where he wanted to be.” The Surgeon laid a hand on his arm and added kindly, “You look just about all in yourself. May I get you a tot of whisky or brandy, perhaps?”

  Phillip shook his head. “No, thanks, I’m all right. I’ll go to him at once. Are you coming?”

  “Aye, just to take a quick look at him.” Surgeon Fraser stood aside, to allow Phillip to precede him. “I hear that the attack was successfully repulsed.”

  “Yes, it was.” They descended the after-companionway and, at its foot, Phillip paused for a moment, bracing himself. “You are quite sure nothing more can be done for Mr Fox, Doctor? I’m not questioning your professional judgement but—”

  “I am quite sure.” The Surgeon met his gaze steadily, pity and regret in his kindly grey eyes. “I wish I were not so sure, believe me. Poor fellow, he has other wounds—sabre cuts, some cracked ribs, and a smashed collar-bone. I could patch those up but I cannot remove the ball from his lung, nor can I staunch the hemorrhage it is causing. That pistol must have been discharged straight at him, from a distance of a couple of feet.” He sighed. “From what the other men in Mr Fox’s party have told me, it must have been a very hot engagement while it lasted. But none of the others are badly hurt.”

  “That’s something,” Phillip said. Of the whole party, it had to be Martin Fox, he thought bitterly, the one man, above all others, that he—and the Trojan—could least afford to lose but … controlling himself, he enquired about Henry Durbanville.

  “He is making quite good progress. Still shocked, of course, but I think he’ll pull through.” Reaching the door of the First Lieutenant’s cabin, Surgeon Fraser assumed a cheerful smile before opening it. “Commander Hazard is here to see you, Mr Fox.” He dismissed Fox’s servant, who had been in attendance, his blunt, capable fingers feeling for the pulse at the injured man’s wrist and then he again stood aside, yielding his place to Phillip. “Send for me, if he needs me,” he requested, lowering his voice and then, raising it once more, “You are doing fine, Mr Fox, just fine. Your pulse is improving and so are you.”

  Martin Fox, heavily bandaged about the chest and propped up with pillows, eyed him quizzically, a faint smile playing about his lips. But be did not speak and, when the Surgeon had gone, his smile faded.

  “Who is deceiving whom, I wonder? Because I fear he’s wrong, Phillip. He has told you the truth, hasn’t he? Oh, don’t trouble to deny it”—as Phillip attempted to evade the question—“I knew, hours ago, that there wasn’t much hope for me. I’m not in pain—the good doctor has filled me so full of laudanum and his own Scotch whisky that I can feel very little.”

  “Ought you to talk, Martin?” Phillip demurred, shocked by his pallor and labored breathing and by the feverish brightness of his eyes.

  “I must talk to you, my dear Phillip. There are matters to settle … a letter I must ask you, if you will, to send home to my mother, to which, perhaps, you could add a few lines. But be careful what you say, I do not want to upset her … she is not young and her health is poor.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Phillip promised.

  “Thank you. The letter is here, with some other papers, but I made no Will. Perhaps you could attend to that for me as well? Not that I’ve much to leave but … I’ll dictate it, if you like. My servant set out pen and paper for you on my bureau, did he not? I asked him to.”

  “Yes, he did.” Phillip picked up the pen, his hand not quite steady. The writing of the Will did not take long and, when it was done, Fox signed the single sheet of paper and entrusted it, as well as the letter, to his care. After that, they talked, the wounded man’s voice growing gradually fainter, as his strength drained from him. He talked of the past, recalling events which had taken place years before and reliving shared adventures, when both had been lively midshipmen, serving in the Maeander frigate under Captain Henry Keppel, in the China Sea and in Borneo and Sarawak, and later in Australia.

  “Those were good days, weren’t they, Phillip?” Martin Fox was smiling. “I don’t regret any of them and I certainly don’t regret having made my career in the Navy. They say Captain Keppel’s coming out here, from the Baltic Fleet—had you heard? In the St Jean d’Acre, steam-screw and a hundred and one guns. I’d like to have seen our ‘Little Captain’ again. When you do, give him my respectful regards, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will. But don’t be too sure—you may deliver them yourself.”

  “You and old Fraser?” Fox accused reproachfully. “Why, Phillip, my dear chap—do you imagine that I am afraid to die? I am not, I promise you. I believe in God and in a life, of some kind, hereafter, so how can I be afraid? I regret it, I admit but … it’s a chance one takes in war. And I have seen a great many other men die, better men than I am, and so have you. …” he started to cough and Phillip saw that the cloth he held to his mouth was heavily stained. He leaned forward anxiously but Fox, waved him away. “Do you suppose,” he asked, when at last the coughing had subsided, “that Captain Crawford will resume command of this ship, Phillip? If he does, will you remain as her First Lieutenant?”

  Phillip shrugged. “I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it.”

  “Think about it, Phillip. She’s a good ship,” her First Lieutenant said softly. “And there is scarcely a man of her company I’d change. Not now, not under your command. You have commanded the Trojan well, it’s a thousand pities you cannot keep her.”

  “You know I shan’t be given the chance. I’ve been fortunate, all things considered, to have held the acting command for so long. And to have had you, to back me up, Martin. That made all the difference.” Phillip forced his stiff lips into a smile. “Having you as my friend, as well as my second-incommand.”

  “I have valued our friendship very highly,” Fox told him gravely. He talked on, of Captain North, of Mademoiselle Sophie and the Baroness von Mauthner, and then, his tone oddly regretful, of Catriona Moray. “I should have liked to see her again, Phillip … more especially since you said that your intentions towards her weren’t serious. Mine, I believe, might have been if she had given me any encouragement, for I held her in great esteem. Perhaps you will tell her so, if you should ever have the opportunity or if you write to her.”

  “Yes, of course I will,” Phillip promised, feeling suddenly ashamed because, in his blindness, he had not guessed the truth and because, in Constantinople, he had monopolized Catriona. “Martin, I think you should try to rest. Talking cannot be good for you and—”

  “Does it matter what is good—or bad—for me now?” the injure
d man asked. “And I want to talk. There are so many things to tell you.” He continued to talk but now his memory was failing, Phillip realized, and the ghastly coughing became more frequent. The Surgeon came twice, unbidden, to visit him and, on the second occasion, warned Phillip that it could not be much longer and urged him to rest. Obstinately he refused, leaving the cabin only when a staff officer came aboard, with a message from Captain Brock to inform him that he could withdraw his guns and their crews from the defence works the following morning.

  “Guns, powder and shot and virtually every man of the Henri Quatre’s company have been taken off,” the officer said. “By noon tomorrow, all being well, we shall have conveyed the men, at least, to the town—perhaps, if you will be good enough to provide these—with the assistance of your boats, Commander, so that we may shift some of her guns as well.”

  Phillip promised him what assistance was required and returned to his vigil in the small, cramped cabin that had been his during Captain North’s command.

  Martin Fox died in the early hours of the following morning, slipping quietly and almost imperceptibly from semiconsciousness into his last and final sleep, his fingers, which had been gripping Phillip’s hand, suddenly relaxing their hold. Rising stiffly from his seat beside the cot, Phillip stood looking down at the still, calm face and then, wearily, went to his own quarters to compose a letter to his friend’s mother.

  There were two other sons, he knew, and four daughters but Martin had been the eldest and the pride of his mother’s heart. The letter took him a long time and, when he had sealed it, he hesitated, wondering what he should write to Catriona Moray. But there would be time for that later. He flung himself, fully clothed, on to his cot and slept. …

  CHAPTER TEN

  Midway through the Forenoon Watch on 19th November, the Trojan dropped anchor off Balaclava and, in response to an order from the signal station on shore, Phillip entered the harbour in his gig, to be received on board the Sanspareil by Captain Leopold Heath.

  It was now almost a week since the gale had struck the Crimean coast with such devastating fury and a certain amount had been done to repair the damage to those ships which had survived its onslaught. Many of the less fortunate had vanished, broken up by the pounding seas but several still lay, like stranded whales, at intervals along the rocky, inhospitable shore and, turning his glass on them, Phillip wondered how many of their officers and men had been saved.

  Within the small, land-locked harbour, the congestion was now worse than it had ever been, he saw, and, with few exceptions, most of the vessels lying inside the entrance or tied up to the wharves bore signs of the terrible ordeal they had endured. They lay, in lines of up to six or eight ships, broadside on to each other, some dismasted, others with rudders missing and boats stove in, a few barely afloat. Even the Sanspareil, her tall masts towering impressively above those of the frigates and transports, lay with her forefoot high and dry on shore and her shattered bowsprit foul of one of the stone-built houses which circled the inner harbour, looking for all the world as if some giant hand had picked her up and flung her there like a discarded toy.

  “And so it felt to all on board, I’m told,” Captain Heath said, his tone wry. “Imagine it—a ship of this size, with two anchors down!” He led the way to the stern cabin, apologizing for the absence of Captain Dacres. “He’s resting but he’ll join us in a little while. Poor, dear fellow, he is far from well. You will see a great change in him, Hazard, but …” he sighed. “He is still in official command of this ill-fated port and refuses to ask for sick leave, although what happened here during the gale almost broke his heart. As, indeed, it has broken mine … but I’m being a bad host. Sit down, my dear Hazard, and I will send for coffee. Unless you would fancy something stronger? No—then coffee it shall be. We are expecting Admiral Lyons sometime before dinner, so I suggest you stay and make your report in full to him, because be will certainly want to see you and hear all you are able to tell him of the situation in Eupatoria.”

  Over coffee, Leopold Heath embarked on a harrowing account of the toll taken, in ships and seamen, by the gale which had struck Balaclava, with hurricane force, during the hours of darkness on 14th November. “We, I suppose, were lucky. After discussing the matter with Commander Powell of the Vesuvius, I decided to bring the Niger into the harbour and he followed my example. By some miracle, we both entered safely but I should not like to try it again as long as I live!” He went into graphic and horrifying detail and then continued, “We lost the Prince and the Resolute, the Rip van Winkle, Wild Wave, Progress, Kenilworth, Wanderer, and Malta. All were lying outside the harbour, all parted from their anchors and were driven on to the rocks, where they have gone to pieces. From all these ships, thirty men were saved. The rest went down with their ships.”

  “The Prince!” Phillip exclaimed, in shocked surprise. “You say the Prince is lost, sir?”

  “Yes, the Prince, with vast quantities of winter clothing for the Army and a crew of a hundred and fifty three,” Captain Heath confirmed bitterly. “She lost one anchor and cable and was dragging on the other but she was apparently holding her own, with her full power of steam, when either her commander or her crew yielded to panic, for she was seen to be cutting away her mizzen-mast. The rigging fouled her screw and she drove ashore like the rest. The Resolute followed her and”—he sighed deeply—“she is much on Captain Dacres’ conscience, as she is on mine, for her Master made the most strenuous efforts to persuade us to give him permission to enter the harbour, the day she arrived. It was not in our power to give him permission—our orders had not been changed. Nor, were they, until the storm was at its height …” he talked on, sadly describing the loss of each ship and Phillip listened in numb silence.

  He was speaking of the narrow escape of the steam frigate Retribution, with the Duke of Cambridge on board, when Captain Dacres came into the cabin. He looked ill and strained and he stared at Phillip without recognition, until his secondin-command prompted, “Hazard, sir—acting Commander of the Trojan, which has just returned from Eupatoria.”

  “Ah, yes, of course—welcome aboard, Mr Hazard. Forgive me, I’ll be with you in a moment but I must have a word with Captain Heath. Sit down, please.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Obediently, Phillip resumed his seat and Dacres turned his white, tortured face to Leopold Heath and said wearily, “I have composed an urgent request to the Commander-in-Chief, Leo, for shipwrights. God knows where he’s likely to obtain them but I’ve told him of our disastrous losses and explained that this harbour is now filled with crippled ships and, without help of some kind, I cannot possibly repair a quarter of them. Some, I suppose, can be towed to Sinope or to the Bosphorus … I have asked for any steam tugs the Admiral can spare.”

  “You’ve had no rest, sir,” Heath reproached him.

  “For heaven’s sake, how can I rest? My sleep is haunted by visions of dismasted transports and rudderless frigates and, God help me, I can still hear that poor devil Lewis, beseeching me to allow him to bring the Resolute into harbour! And all I could do was advise him to follow the example of the commander of the City of London and get up steam at once and take his ship to sea. You heard his reply, did you not?”

  “No, sir.” Leopold Heath crossed to the table, poured out a cup of coffee and put it into his chief’s hand. Dacres thanked him but set it down untouched, as he went on tonelessly, “Lewis said, ‘I have the working stock of powder on board, I cannot go. What would be said if it were required and I was not on hand? The whole siege might be stopped and I should be responsible.’ Now his cargo is under twenty fathoms of water and—God rest his conscientious soul—so is he … but still they tell me I must keep this harbour clear, in case it has to be evacuated! Merciful heavens, Leo, how many more ships must we lose, how many more men’s deaths must I have on my conscience, before these confounded soldiers believe that it is quite out of the question to abandon Balaclava now?”

  “Perhaps, sir,” Heath offer
ed consolingly, “Sir Edmund may have succeeded in persuading Lord Raglan that, in these circumstances, it is out of the question.”

  “Perhaps he may,” Captain Dacres conceded, but without conviction. “It’s a pity some of the Generals did not have their tents blown down and—”

  “I was about to tell Commander Hazard that the news we received from the main Fleet anchorage was not quite as bad as we had feared,” his second-in-command put in, catching Phillip’s eye and obviously anxious to change the subject. Reminded of his visitor’s presence, Captain Dacres courteously pushed a handsome silver box of cigars across the table towards him. “Forgive me, Hazard … I am not myself. Indeed, I wish I were anyone else at this moment. No doubt Captain Heath has given you an account of what happened here, so that you will understand why.”

  “Yes, sir, he has. I’m deeply sorry, sir.”

  “So am I.” Captain Dacres took a cigar from the box, but did not light it, twirling it absently between his fingers. “However, as our good friend Captain Heath pointed out, the effects of the gale were not quite as appalling at the Katcha anchorage as they were here. The ships of war are all safe, according to Commander Reynolds of the Beagle, who called here on his way to the Bosphorus and despatches. He said the Sampson was dismasted and the Terrible suffered some damage to her stern but the liners are all right. Five transports were driven on to the beach but their crews were all saved by boats from the Fleet. We saved thirty men here, that was all … thirty! And the rescuers risked their own lives, hauling the poor fellows by rope up the cliffs. We could launch no boats, alas …” he spread his hands in a helpless gesture, letting the untouched cigar fall unnoticed, and then, after eyeing Phillip thoughtfully for a moment, he frowned, “The Trojan—good heavens, I sent you to Eupatoria, did I not?”

  “Yes, sir,” Phillip confirmed.

  “Is your ship damaged? You must have sailed straight into the storm.” His eyes widened in astonishment when Phillip shook his head. “Ah, then you made port in time?”