by V. A. Stuart
“Are they so many, Martin?”
Martin Fox nodded, his mouth tightly compressed. Phillip searched his face anxiously. Although healthily tanned, the younger man did not look himself. Indeed, he gave the impression of one who, whilst holding himself under iron control, was rapidly approaching the limit of his endurance and he had aged almost beyond recognition. Meeting Phillip’s gaze, he smiled but the smile was forced and it lacked all amusement.
“Let’s sit down, shall we?” he suggested. “We can talk until the boat’s loaded.” They walked together to the far end of the beach and sat down facing each other. “Take a mouthful or two of this, Phillip,” Fox said, offering his flask. “I brought it for the wounded but I think it will do you more good.”
The potent spirit eased Phillip’s aching weariness. He lit a cigar, also provided by his companion, and they smoked for a few minutes in silence. “You nearly died, while you were in Odessa, didn’t you?” Fox said at last. “Or so we heard but quite honestly, Phillip …” He emitted a deep sigh. “This may sound a gross exaggeration but I’d gladly have changed places with you, not once but a hundred times. I’d change places with you now, limp and all.”
“As bad as that, is it?” Phillip echoed his sigh.
“Worse than it has ever been,” Martin Fox asserted grimly. “The men are completely demoralised … sullen, resentful, bitter. Even the petty officers and marines are disaffected, the rot has spread everywhere. Seventeen men deserted in Constantinople the last time we called there … we recovered eleven of them and each was given ten dozen lashes, from which two have since died. There’s not an officer who has not requested a transfer but the Captain now refuses to put their requests forward. Anthony Cochrane is under open arrest, awaiting court martial … perhaps you heard?”
“Yes, Martin, I heard.”
Fox inhaled smoke. He went on, his voice harsh with bitterness, “The trial hasn’t yet taken place, so Cochrane has not been relieved of his duties. He has been on watch-and-watch for five weeks … Laidlaw has now joined him and most of the midshipmen are in a like case.”
“Cochrane is to be charged with insubordination, isn’t he?” Phillip asked, frowning.
Martin Fox wearily inclined his head. “We could all be court martialled on the same charge,” he confessed, “Perhaps we all shall be, because we’re at the end of our tether, Phillip. North is a sadist and … to be frank, I think he’s insane. We were badly hit by the cholera, when we returned to Kavarna in July, after a spell of blockading Sebastopol. At one time we had nearly eighty men down with it or dysentery, lying helpless in their hammocks. The Captain ordered the whole ship’s company to turn out, at three bells in the Middle Watch, and he drummed to quarters for a practice alarm … lying at anchor in Kavarna Bay! Even the wretched men who were sick were forced to turn out and, because they were longer about it than he considered they should have been, North ordered all hammocks stowed in the nettings. Cochrane had the watch and he refused to obey the order so … ” He spread his hands helplessly. “So he has been charged with insubordination and he is living for the day when his trial takes place, for then he intends to tell the court what it is like to serve under the command of Captain Thomas North!”
Phillip asked sharply, “Does North know this, Martin?”
Fox repeated his shrug. “He must know … but it does not appear to worry him. That’s why I believe him to be insane. No man in his right mind could behave as he does and be so completely indifferent to the consequences. If the men weren’t so cowed, I’d have expected an attempt on his life before this.” He smiled unhappily. “I’ve even, in my more desperate moments, considered making one myself!”
Phillip stared at him in horrified disbelief. “You, Martin? But in heaven’s name—”
“Oh, I haven’t made it yet. Perhaps because I, too, am afraid of him.”
“I suppose you have considered petitioning the Commander-in-Chief, to have him removed from command?”
“We’ve considered that,” Fox confessed gravely. “Indeed, we talk of little else. But it is a serious matter in wartime, Phillip, and if our petition failed, it could break us all. At present we’ve decided to give evidence in Cochrane’s defence when he is brought to trial … we shall all give evidence, on oath, to the court. That must surely lead to an enquiry, don’t you think?”
“I should think it must,” Phillip agreed, forcing his tired brain to review the possibilities. “When is the trial?”
“We have not been told but presumably the war must be prosecuted first. In any event …” Fox spoke with bitter cynicism, “we are virtually prisoners aboard Trojan, you know. No shore leave for anyone, no ship-to-ship visiting, save by the Captain, of course. Believe it or not, this is only the second time our boats have been sent ashore. I did not see you yesterday and, had we not met here by chance today, I should have been unable to pour out my woes to you as I have. And of what use to pour them out to anyone else? You, at least, will believe me.”
“Yes, Martin, I believe you. And I am sorry.” Phillip laid an affectionate hand on his friend’s shoulder and gripped it hard. He was stunned by what Martin Fox had told him, sickened by it as, a short while ago, the sight of the battlefield of the Alma had sickened him. He hesitated, every instinct he possessed warning him against doing what, he knew, he would have to do. Trojan was his ship, the men his men … he breathed a resigned sigh and, hearing it, Martin Fox made to rise.
“I must go, Phillip. The boat will be loaded, I can’t keep those poor devils of wounded waiting. But it has helped to talk to you and—”
“Martin, wait a moment.” Phillip clambered stiffly to his feet. He felt ill, his head aching unbearably and his throat dry, but there was no escape. “Would it help if I applied to be reappointed to Trojan? There may be nothing I can do but at least I could try.”
“For God’s sake …” Phillip Fox turned, every vestige of colour draining from his cheeks. “You will be mad if you do! Leave Agamemnon for Trojan, when you’ve made your escape? Don’t be such an idiot!”
“Leaving the question of my sanity aside, Martin … would it help?”
“You cannot possibly mean it—”
“I do mean it, I promise you.”
“Then come back,” Fox said huskily. He clasped Phillip’s hand in both his own, a suspicious brightness in his eyes. “From the very bottom of my heart, Phillip, I shall thank you if you do.”
They stood looking at each other for a long moment in silence and then walked back to the waiting boats together.
Tom Johnson’s boat returned to the beach a few minutes after Martin Fox’s had left it and he said, as Phillip joined him, “Your prisoner was safely delivered into the surgeons’ hands, Phillip … he’s probably lost his arm by now. I asked him his name, incidentally and … you did capture quite a prize. He is Colonel Prince Andrei Narishkin, aide-de-camp to Prince Menschikoff, and the Admiral is very interested. We’ve also a General on board, General Karganoff, who is severely wounded. Both, I understand, are to be transferred tonight or tomorrow to a transport containing about five hundred other Russian wounded, which Fury will escort to Odessa.”
“Do you mean,” Phillip asked, surprised, “that they are to be repatriated?”
“On the Admiral’s orders,” Tom Johnson assured him. “And as a mark of appreciation of the way in which Tiger’s men— including yourself, of course—were treated by the Governor.” He smiled. “Does that please you? I imagine it must.”
“Yes, indeed it does.” Phillip fumbled in the breast pocket of his jacket and his fingers closed about the emerald ring Mademoiselle Sophie had given him. He looked down at the beautiful thing, lying in its opened case, and suddenly his expression relaxed. “Will you do me a small favour, Tom?”
“Of course, if I can. What is it?”
Phillip passed him the ring. “Give this to Colonel Prince Andrei Narishkin before he leaves the ship and tell him … tell him that it belongs to his wife and that I�
��d like to restore it to her.”
“His wife? But surely you—”
“Don’t ask me any questions, Tom. Just give it to him, will you please, like a good fellow?”
“Well … if you wish. But I scent a mystery and, in any case, why can’t you give it to him yourself? You are coming back to the ship, are you not?”
Phillip nodded. “Yes … but only for long enough to pack my gear and see the Admiral. I am going to ask to be reappointed to Trojan and I don’t think he will refuse me.”
Tom Johnson’s jaw dropped. “Are you mad, Phillip?” he demanded incredulously.
“Yes, perhaps I am,” Phillip conceded glumly. He glanced once more at the ring, seeing in memory Mademoiselle Sophie’s small, sweet face and then, as Tom Johnson closed the case and thrust it into his pocket, the vision faded. It was the end of a dream, he thought, the only end this particular dream could have had … the only one Mademoiselle Sophie would want it to have, in the circumstances. He was glad that a quirk of fate had enabled him to return her husband to her, as well as the ring because now, if that same unpredictable fate were to ordain that they should meet again, his conscience would be clear … burdened only with the awareness that, for a little while, they had loved each other.
Admiral Lyons agreed to his request without demanding his reason for making it and, within an hour, one of Agamemnon’s boats took him back to Trojan.
CHAPTER NINE
1
On 23rd September the Allied Armies reformed and marched down from the Heights of the Alma to continue their advance on Sebastopol. The Fleets made contact with them that evening at the mouth of the River Katcha, in order to land stores and provisions and take off the sick for transport to the Bosphorus.
To Phillip, the days immediately following his reappointment to his old ship were among the most frustrating that he had ever experienced. Captain North did not welcome his return and made no attempt to conceal the fact and the atmosphere on board Trojan was tense and unhappy, the men sullen and the officers dispirited and close to despair. As always— although fully informed, at Captains’ conferences aboard the flagship, of what was going on—North kept his officers in ignorance of what he learned and his orders were issued without explanation and with a minimum of detail. Phillip, accustomed to being at Admiral Lyons’s elbow when plans were made and discussed, and aware—since he had written out so many of them—of the orders issued to the entire Fleet, found this deliberate refusal to tell him anything a source of increasing irritation. In common with the rest of Trojan’s officers, he was forbidden shore leave and given little opportunity to pay or receive visits from other ships in the squadron, so that he was cut off from contact with those who would willingly have shared their knowledge with him.
Tom Johnson, however, contrived to make an official call with orders from Admiral Lyons late in the evening of Sunday, 24th September, by which time the Armies were bivouacked less than four miles from their objective, on the Balbec River. From him, Phillip learnt that Captain Jones, of H.M.S. Sampson—who had been keeping Sebastopol under observation—had reported several changes in the position of the Russian line-of-battle ships at anchor in the harbour. The significance of these changes became apparent when Admiral Dundas stood off the port with his battle squadron and, under cover of Britannia’s guns, Retribution was sent close inshore to examine them.
“Yesterday there was a two-decker, flying an admiral’s flag at the mizzen, in Artillery Creek … looking as if she were about to put to sea,” Johnson said. “But according to Captain Drummond’s observations this morning, Phillip, the Russians have scuttled a large portion of their Fleet in order …” his tone was indignant, “In order to block the entrance of the harbour to us!”
“To block the entrance?” Phillip echoed incredulously.
“Captain Drummond told the Admiral that seven sail ofthe-line, most of them two-deckers, have been sunk between Fort Constantine and the fifty-gun battery on the north shore of Quarantine Bay,” Tom Johnson continued, still indignant. “Their masts are more or less above water. Eight others, including a three-decker, are moored from east to west, inside the booms. Three of these are heeled over to give their guns greater elevation and enable them to sweep over the land to the northward. The rest are lying at the head of the harbour, with their guns covering its entrance and the Russians have reinforced their land defences to the north. A large octagonal fort, which is marked on our charts as the Star Fort, mounting at least forty guns, covers the Balbec River where the French would have to cross, and they want a complete change of plan.”
“What sort of change of plan?” Phillip asked.
“A change of direction.” Johnson shrugged. “Admiral Lyons, as you know, had envisaged sailing into the harbour with our combined battle squadrons, to engage the Russian Fleet at anchor, while the Armies launched a simultaneous assault on land from the north. But now, of course, with the harbour entrance barred to us, that is impossible. So …” he sighed. “There have been conferences all day, the Admirals as well as the Generals have attended. And … I don’t know this for certain, Phillip, but they say that Marshal St Arnaud is so gravely ill that he is about to hand over command of the French Army to General Canrobert. Not that this will affect French policy since both, apparently, are now of the opinion that Sebastopol is unassailable from the north. They consider that, without support from the Fleets, an attack launched from their present position north of the Balbec River would be doomed to failure. So a flank march has been decided upon, it seems, by means of which the Armies will circle Sebastopol and launch their attack from the south.”
“But that will take days, Tom!” Phillip exclaimed. “And, once they leave the coast, they’ll be cut off from us completely.”
“Nevertheless that is what has been agreed,” Tom Johnson said positively. “Reluctantly by Admiral Lyons, as you may imagine … but with the harbour entrance blocked, what can he do save agree? The orders I have just delivered to your commander are for the steam squadron to prepare to proceed to Balaclava and—escorting transports and the siege train— take possession of the harbour there and await the arrival of the armies on the completion of their march.”
Phillip pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “When do we sail, have you any idea?”
“No.” Tom Johnson shook his head. “But probably tomorrow. Frederick Maxse is to accompany Lord Raglan and bring back instructions from him. Highflyer or Retribution may be dispatched to reconnoitre Balaclava and also Kamiesch and Kazatch or Admiral Lyons may go himself, this hasn’t yet been decided. But Maxse says that both the Admiral and Lord Raglan favour Balaclava as our base for the final assault on Sebastopol … it is a good harbour and, according to our reports, is undefended or virtually so. Well, I must go.” He held out his hand. “Good luck, Phillip … I shall probably see you at Balaclava in a day or two.”
Tom Johnson proved to be right in this assumption and also regarding Marshal St Arnaud’s failing health. Next day General Canrobert assumed supreme command of the French land and sea forces. The Marshal—rumoured to be on the point of death—was carried on board the French battleship Berthelot for what was expected to be his last journey. He died four days later.
In the meantime, the Allied Armies struck inland on a compass bearing, so as to circle Sebastopol. It was a difficult march, over trackless, thickly wooded country but, in spite of this, the march was rapidly and successfully accomplished. Apart from an encounter with the rear guard of a Russian division marching out of Sebastopol in the direction of Simpheropol, they met with little opposition and Sir George Cathcart’s Fourth Division, left to guard the approaches to the Balbec, was unmolested. The Fleets remained off the mouth of the Katcha—save for a few steam frigates engaged on reconnaissance or on escort duty with transports on their way to the Bosphorus with sick and wounded—to await final instructions from Lord Raglan.
These arrived early on 26th September, brought by Frederick Maxse, after a hazardous ride on
horseback and in darkness, across fifteen miles of enemy territory, and requested Sir Edmund Lyons to proceed forthwith to Balaclava with his squadron and the siege train, in order to co-operate with the Army. Once again, Phillip was indebted to Tom Johnson for this information and the story of Lieutenant Maxse’s perilous ride … North merely ordered him to get steam up and prepare to weigh under engines, on a signal from Agamemnon.
By noon, the steam squadron, accompanied by transports carrying stores and provisions for the Army and the heavy guns of the siege train, was off Balaclava. Agamemnon silenced the token resistance offered by an ancient Genoese fort on the cliffs with a single broadside and Niger went inside to take soundings. Next day, just as the first British troops were descending on the little town from the hills above Kadikoi, Admiral Lyons shifted his flag to the Caradoc, in order to go ashore to greet Lord Raglan. Captain Mends, with his usual consummate seamanship, brought Agamemnon into the small, landlocked harbour a few hours later and landed an advance guard of Royal Marines to assist in its defence.
At first sight, Phillip decided, Balaclava appeared to be an excellent choice for the British base. The soundings taken by Niger indicated that there was sufficient depth of water for even the largest ship to enter and secure to the quay while her stores were unloaded … and Agamemnon had proved this, to resounding cheers from the troops on shore. The harbour, half a mile long and some three hundred yards in width, was an inlet of the sea, entered by a narrow opening and hemmed in by towering cliffs. It provided safe anchorage and shelter and was possessed of powerful natural defences. The town, a cluster of small wooden houses, was within seven miles of Sebastopol, and its inhabitants, who were of Greek origin, were evidently not enamoured of their Russian rulers, for they welcomed the invaders warmly.
General Canrobert, however, after inspecting the place, decided that the harbour was too small to serve as a base for his forces as well as the British. After consultation with Lord Raglan, he waived the traditional French claim to the right of the line and chose the Bay of Kamiesch, with that of Kazatch, as the French base. These two roomy sheltered bays were in the neighbourhood of Cape Kherson—closer to Sebastopol than Balaclava—with a comparatively easy road giving access to the plateau above. The two Armies swung round and established themselves on this plateau, known as the Kheronese Upland, the French left flank at Kamiesch Bay on the west and the British right resting on the River Tchernaya, eight miles to the east. Five hundred feet below them lay Sebastopol, seemingly at their mercy, defended by a few forts and earthworks and denuded of troops. Preparations for its capture began at once.