The Valiant Sailors

by V. A. Stuart

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Shortly before daybreak on Monday, 4th April—the seventeenth day of her passage from England—Trojan steamed into the Sea of Marmora. It was a misty morning, with a heat haze lying low over the water and Phillip set course for the Bosphorus, keeping the screw down and hugging the northern coastline so as to avoid the full force of the current.

  Constantinople was sighted from the masthead some three hours later, appearing suddenly out of the mist and, a little later, the domes and minarets of the city’s three hundred mosques could be seen from the deck, as the sun at last broke through the obscuring haze. The vision grew in enchantment as it came nearer and brightly coloured buildings, magnificent cypress groves, and extensive gardens began to appear on both European and Asiatic shores, with the Bosphorus a gleaming silver ribband running between them. Passing the ruined Castle of the Seven Towers, Trojan rounded Seraglio Point and came-to, within sight of the Mosque of St Sophia at the entrance to the Golden Horn, her guns booming out in salute to the Turkish Sultan and Flag.

  Mademoiselle Sophie and the Baroness paid a brief visit to the quarterdeck and, as Phillip prepared to take the ship into harbour, the watch below crowded up on to the forecastle, the men eager for a glimpse of the legendary Turkish capital. Every officer not on duty made an excuse to come on deck with the same intention and Phillip turned a blind eye to them, listening sympathetically to the excited comments of the naval cadets and midshipmen, for whom this was an experience they would probably never forget.

  To his dismay, however, as the ship was nosing her way into her anchorage and the passengers went below, Captain North appeared unexpectedly on the quarterdeck. He still looked far from well, his angular face fine-drawn and lacking its usual florid colour but, although walking with obvious difficulty and discomfort, he announced his intention of going ashore immediately the ship dropped anchor. In reply to the polite enquiries which greeted his arrival, he returned testily, “I have my duty to perform, whether sick or well and it would seem I am resuming command none too soon.” He glanced about him sourly, taking no pleasure in the glittering scene and, to the little group of junior officers exclaiming in wonder at all they saw, he growled an ill-tempered order to go about their business. “You are not tourists … you are officers of Her Majesty’s Navy and I’ll thank you to remember it. Is the First Lieutenant unable to find you employment? Mr Hazard, what are you thinking of to permit my quarterdeck to be used for sightseeing in this unseemly manner?”

  The young officers reddened and moved hastily away, so as to leave the starboard side of the quarterdeck to their commander, who bellowed after them, “Since you are so anxious to gape, gentlemen … up to the cross-trees with you! You may do your gaping from there until such time as I see fit to bid you return to the deck, is that clear? Well, Mr Hazard … are you gaping too? Call away my gig immediately, if you please.”

  Too angry to trust himself to reply to the rebuke he had received, Phillip murmured a clipped, “Aye, aye, sir.” He called away the gig as soon as the ship was secured and, when North had departed alone and with due ceremony for the shore, he went back to the quarterdeck with Anthony Cochrane, who had the watch.

  “One of these days, Mr Hazard,” Cochrane said as, the watch set to the task of squaring yards and drying out sails, they paced the deck together, “I fear I may forget that I am an officer in Her Majesty’s Navy and then I shall tell Captain North precisely what I think of him. He will not find my opinion of him flattering, I can promise you!”

  “Keep a guard on your tongue, Mr Cochrane,” Phillip reproved him wearily. “At any rate in my hearing. Your remark is insubordinate but I shall endeavour to forget it.”

  “But, sir …” Cochrane protested indignantly, his Scottish accent very pronounced and his pleasant young face brick red, “Captain North does not treat any of us—including yourself— as officers, does he? And he speaks to us, when he deigns to address us at all, as if we were dogs! It was quite unnecessary to masthead those youngsters … they were off duty and were doing no harm, we both know that. If I am insubordinate, it is because his attitude makes me so and because he—”

  Phillip cut him short. “That will do, Mr Cochrane,” he said sharply. “You are under Captain North’s command and you will kindly remember that it is unbecoming in a junior officer to criticise his superior … no matter what provocation he may be offered. You’ll be getting yourself into serious trouble if you don’t have a care what you say.”

  Cochrane was silent for a moment and then he challenged, his tone bitter, “But you’ll admit that he offers us considerable provocation, will you not, sir? And that although few of us have ever been here before, this”—his gesture took in the tantalisingly lovely view on all sides—“this is all we shall be allowed to see of Constantinople, if the Captain has his way. Even if we remain at anchor here for a week!”

  “Distance lends enchantment …” Phillip quoted dryly. “The city is not quite so beautiful, when you see it at close hand, as it appears to be from here. The sanitation, for example, leaves much to be desired and the scavenging dogs—which here take the place of dust carts for the disposal of refuse— present a singularly unlovely spectacle to European eyes.”

  “Yes, but even so, Mr Hazard,” the young watchkeeper argued, “one has surely an obligation to find out these things for oneself as, presumably, you did on your first visit here? And of what crime are we guilty, that we should have our shore leave stopped at every port at which we call?”

  There was no answer to his last question and Phillip turned away from him, frowning. From where he stood, he could see the floating bridge which spanned the Golden Horn at Tophana and served to connect the suburbs of Galata and Pera with the main section of the city, known to the Turks as Stamboul. In memory he saw much more, saw the narrow, precipitous streets of Pera—the Christian residential quarter—the shuttered houses with their quaintly shaped rooftops, the cypress-shaded cemeteries, the fountains, and the brilliantly coloured gardens. He remembered the breathtaking beauty of the panoramic view from the Tower of Galata at sunset, as he had seen it years ago when, as a young midshipman, he had paid his first visit to Constantinople.

  There was so much to see and marvel at in the Turkish capital, he thought nostalgically, in spite of its poor sanitation and the filthy, half-starved dogs … there were the mosques, the palaces, the ruined Greek temples, and the magnificent cemetery at Scutari, on the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus. And there were the bazaars, a source of endless fascination to the European visitor … he could still recall with what eagerness he had explored the roofed-in bazaars of old Stamboul and stared goggle eyed, at the displays of silver and brass ware, Oriental silks, embroidered shawls, and finely woven carpets.

  But … Cochrane was almost certainly right in his contention that, even here, North would permit no shore leave. Trojan’s officers and men would see none of these things if their commander had his way. They would not wander through the cool, colonnaded interior of the far-famed St Sophia or the Mosque of the Sultan Achmet, or stare up at one of the city’s thousand slender minarets, as the meuzzin called the Faithful to prayer from the narrow balcony which encircled its graceful, tapering spire. Trojan’s bluejackets would be given no opportunity to bargain for souvenirs in the bazaars, no chance to slake their thirst at any of the bars on shore or enjoy a welcome change from their monotonous diet of salt junk, ship’s biscuits, and pease pudding. There would be no reception at the British Embassy for the senior officers, no picnics in the Valley of Sweet Waters for their juniors … not even a brief excursion across the Bosphorus to Scutari, in a hired caique, to seek out relatives and friends among the newly arrived British Army drafts.

  Indeed, Phillip reflected glumly, they might as well be on their way to the Black Sea as lying at anchor in one of the most picturesque harbours in the world. They had come to fight a war and he was suddenly impatient to begin the fight, eager to come to grips with the enemy and to have done with th
e time-wasting preliminaries, the incessant training exercises which were the prelude to war. He felt curiously depressed and as bitterly rebellious as the young officer he had reproved, only a few minutes before, for his outspokenness. It seemed a very long time since he had allowed himself to dream of escorting Mademoiselle Sophie ashore at Gibraltar and Malta … now, within the next hour or so, in all probability, she and her guardian would leave the ship, their destination secret, so far as he was concerned, and he was unlikely ever to see her again.

  He bit back a resentful sigh, conscious that his depression stemmed, in part at least, from the imminence of Mademoiselle Sophie’s departure, and Anthony Cochrane, misunderstanding the reason for his sigh, said apologetically, “I am sorry I allowed my tongue to run away with me, Mr Hazard. Perhaps you will be so indulgent as to forget that I spoke to you as I did.”

  “Certainly, Mr Cochrane, I shall be happy to do so.” Phillip made an effort to banish the thought of Mademoiselle Sophie’s departure from his mind but Cochrane unwittingly reminded him of it, asking innocently whether he knew at what hour the passengers would be leaving the ship. He shook his head.

  “I have not been told. Mademoiselle Sophie mentioned the possibility that a boat would be sent for them but, since no boat has yet arrived, I can only suppose that the Captain has gone ashore to make arrangements for their departure. They will definitely leave us today, I understand. But we are ready … I had the winch rigged before you came on watch and the baggage is stacked below.”

  “Where will they go when they leave us, sir?” Cochrane asked. “Do you know?”

  Again Phillip was compelled to admit that he had not been told and young Cochrane suggested diffidently that both ladies might be invited to partake of a farewell luncheon party in the gunroom.

  Phillip was considering his suggestion when the midshipman of the watch reported the return of the Captain’s gig. “We no longer have time for our farewell party, Mr Cochrane,” he said regretfully, as the gig came rapidly nearer.

  “No, sir,” Cochrane conceded. He crossed to the starboard rail, his glass to his eye and focussed on the approaching boat. “One moment, though, I rather think …” he broke off, turning to face Phillip again with a grin. “Perhaps we have, sir—the Captain isn’t aboard.”

  “Isn’t he?” Phillip strode across to join him at his vantage point, hearing the “No, no” in response to his hail which confirmed the watch-keeper’s claim. “Perhaps,” Cochrane added jubilantly, “he has been taken ill a second time! Dare we hope for it, Mr Hazard?”

  It would have been hypocritical to reprove him and Phillip did not do so. But Midshipman Booth, who was in charge of the gig, shattered the insubordinate hope when he returned on board. He delivered a note from the Captain which Phillip read with puckered brows, although its meaning was abundantly clear … the British Ambassador to the Sublime Porte, Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, would be coming in person to the ship to welcome her two distinguished passengers and later escort them ashore.

  “His Excellency,” the note concluded, “will be accompanied by Lady Stratford de Redcliffe and will be visiting H.M.S. Trojan unofficially and in his private capacity. Therefore, at His Excellency’s own request, the customary honours will not be paid and no Salute will be fired. His Excellency will, however, be received by a full side-party and a Marine guard of honour and the ship’s company will muster in white frocks. All officers to wear frock coats and swords …”

  Phillip passed the note to Anthony Cochrane, whose smile faded as he digested its contents. “When, sir?” he asked, his voice flat.

  “Mr Booth …” Phillip turned to the waiting midshipman, “Did the Captain tell you at what hour His Excellency would be coming aboard?”

  “No, sir, he didn’t say. But I don’t think they’ll be long, sir … the Ambassador’s boat is what they call a State caique, I believe, and if that’s the rum looking craft I saw as I left the jetty …” the tall young midshipman gave a rueful shrug. “Well, they were calling away her crew, sir, and rigging her awning then. And the cox’un, who’s been here before, told me she belonged to the Embassy. His Excellency uses her to travel between Therapia and the city, he said, sir.”

  “In that case,” Phillip said, consulting his watch, “we have no time to lose, have we, gentlemen? Mr Cochrane …”

  “Sir?”

  “Pipe all hands to muster, if you please. And then hail the masthead and tell Mr O’Hara to keep a sharp lookout for the Ambassador’s barge. The rest of the youngsters can come down and make themselves useful on deck. Mr Booth, take the gig round to the port side and secure to the main chains. Mr Lewis …” he gave his orders crisply, sending Lewis, who was midshipman of the watch, scurrying below with instructions to inform Mademoiselle Sophie and her guardian of the Ambassador’s impending arrival and then to escort them both on to the quarterdeck.

  The youngster had scarcely departed on his errand than the whistles of the boatswain’s mates started to shrill, and the watch below—due, in any case, to muster in twenty minutes— came swarming up on deck in answer to the pipe. For a time, all was confusion; then the petty officers formed them up in their divisions, the divisional officers taking their places in front of their men, most of them breathless from their hurried dash below to don frock coats and swords.

  The Marine guard of honour, under Captain Murray, marched smartly into position, their booted feet thudding rhythmically on the spotless planking of the deck, as a small party of seamen lowered the accommodation ladder into place. Phillip descended to the entry port, buckling on his sword; the white-gloved side-boys came to attention and the boatswain’s mates of both watches ranged themselves in two lines, facing each other, between the main deck guns.

  They had not long to wait. A hail from Midshipman O’Hara, from the masthead, announced the approach of the Ambassador’s caique and Phillip glimpsed young Booth’s “rum craft” skimming through the blue water of the harbour, propelled with considerable speed and skill by five pairs of dark-skinned oarsmen. The caique was a large vessel, high prowed and resplendently gilded, with a canopy covering its after-end, beneath which he was able to make out the figure of Captain North, seated beside an elegantly dressed lady in a picture hat … evidently Lady Stratford de Redcliffe, the Ambassador’s wife. The barge came alongside; the bowman, a slim youth in a scarlet fez, his white robes girt by a broad scarlet sash, reached deftly for the chains with his boathook and the craft lost way, as two of Trojan’s seamen, stationed at the foot of the accommodation ladder, drew her towards it.

  The boatswain’s mates put their pipes to their lips and the Marine guard of honour presented arms as, preceded by his wife, the British Ambassador ascended the ladder and stepped on to the deck, doffing his top hat in acknowledgement. He was a tall, upright man. Phillip saw, despite his seventy years, clean shaven and with a strong cast of countenance, his white hair thinning a little and worn a trifle longer than current fashion decreed. He had recently been raised to the peerage and, as Sir Stratford Canning, had had a very distinguished career in the diplomatic service of his country, mainly in Turkey where, if rumour were to be believed, he exercised considerable influence over the Sultan and his ministers. It was said that he had become arrogant and overbearing with advancing years but, if this were so, Phillip thought, there was singularly little sign of arrogance in his manner now. Indeed, Captain North, thrusting himself past the side-party with scant regard for their alignment, so as to be in a position to receive the Ambassador and his wife when they reached the quarterdeck, was displaying far more arrogance than either of his guests … Phillip saluted, his face expressionless, and stood aside to give the Captain precedence.

  North ignored him and, making no effort to present him, led the way up to the quarterdeck where, dressed for departure, Mademoiselle Sophie and the Baroness were waiting. He did not witness their meeting with the British Ambassador but, a few minutes later, the whole party descended once more to the entry port, Mademoiselle Sop
hie on His Excellency’s arm, North bringing up the rear with Lady de Redcliffe and the Baroness. He called the side-party to attention and himself stood at the salute, as the Marine guard of honour again presented arms and the boatswain’s mates blew shrilly on their whistles.

  Reaching him, Mademoiselle Sophie hesitated momentarily, flashed him a swift, shy smile and then passed on, her small hand still resting on the Ambassador’s deferentially extended arm. Phillip’s last sight of her was as she took her seat beneath the caique’s white canopy, with Lady de Redcliffe at her side. She did not look up, did not wave as the be-fezzed bowman released his boathook from the midships chains and she was talking gaily to her hostess when the cajees bent to their oars and sent the barge skimming at its usual rapid pace across the calm surface of the Golden Horn.

  She had gone, Phillip told himself, his heart heavy, and there could be little doubt—in view of Lord Stratford de Redcliffe’s deference to her—that she was of royal birth. His fingers closed about the tiny package she had given him, which he had carried in his pocket ever since … she had asked him not to open it, until she had left the ship but he was free, now, to do so. He was in the act of taking it from his pocket when the Captain called to him impatiently and he let it slide back once more into its resting place.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “For the Lord’s sake, Mr Hazard, where are your wits?” North demanded. “Dismiss the ship’s company … they are still at attention, while you are wool-gathering. And then see to the passengers’ baggage without delay. It is to be sent to Furious at once.”

  “To Furious, sir?” Phillip stared at him in some bewilderment. H.M.S. Furious was, he knew, a 16-gun paddle frigate commanded by Captain William Loring and forming part of the steamer squadron under Admiral Lyons’s command in the Black Sea, and he had not been aware of her presence in Constantinople.

  “She’s coaling, Mr Hazard,” the Captain explained irritably, “and due to weigh for the Bosphorus this afternoon. If you get the luggage loaded smartly and send the cutter away with it at once, you may be in time to catch her. If not, then the cutter will have to go after her to Beicos Bay … which is a pull of about ten miles, I believe, so perhaps you’ll bestir yourself.”