The Valiant Sailors

by V. A. Stuart

  Phillip found this to be no exaggeration when he joined the rest of the British naval commanders on board Britannia to receive his final orders. Long faces greeted him and the atmosphere, as the assembled officers studied a memorandum which Admiral Dundas had issued for their information, was gloomy and despondent. The senior Captains, when invited to state their views, without exception condemned the French plan of attack and the conference developed into a series of heated arguments, only interrupted by the arrival of Admiral Dundas, who made his appearance accompanied by Admiral Lyons and the Captain of the Fleet, Rear-Admiral Montagu Stopford.

  The Commander-in-Chief looked about him and then called for silence. “Gentlemen, I like this operation no more than you do,” he announced. “Indeed, I confess to having the gravest possible doubts concerning it. Nevertheless, we are committed to putting into it our best endeavours, in order that we may assist the attack which—if all goes well—is to be launched by our troops on shore.”

  He spoke quietly but with telling emphasis and as he outlined details of the stations to be taken up by the various ships, there was complete and respectful silence. The sail-of-the-line were, as Admiral Lyons had originally suggested, to be towed into position by the steam-ships and he paused for his Flag Captain to read out the order in which they were to do so. Trojan was not named and Phillip leaned forward, listening anxiously.

  The Admiral went on, when the list had been read, still in the same quiet, unhurried voice, “Whilst I am bound to cooperate, as agreed, with the French Fleet, gentlemen, I have decided to detach certain ships under the command of Admiral Lyons, which will form an inshore squadron and adhere to our original plan of attack. Admiral Lyons’s squadron will consist of the following ships … Agamemnon, flying his flag, with Sanspareil, London in the tow of Niger, Albion towed by Firebrand, Arethusa towed by Triton, Circassia acting as pilot, and Trojan in reserve. This division of the Fleet will pay special attention to Fort Constantine, which mounts some ninety guns, fifty of which command the north side of the channel, here …” He pointed to a chart hanging behind him. “And the Wasp Fort on the cliffs here, which has twelve guns, mounted en barbette. Admiral Lyons will approach as close in as he may deem necessary for the purpose of engaging these forts effectively with the starboard broadsides of the ships under his command.”

  There was a murmur of approval from the commanders of the ships he had named and the Admiral permitted himself a fleeting smile. “All other instructions are set out in my memorandum but it should be clearly understood, gentlemen, that in an attack of this kind, ships may not be able to keep their exact stations. Therefore …” He eyed them gravely. “No one can do wrong who keeps up a well-directed fire upon the enemy … is that clear?”

  The Captains murmured their assent, their faces suddenly more cheerful, as the implications of Admiral Dundas’, last words sank in.

  The Admiral continued, “You will appreciate that it will be impossible in the smoke for me to see all your ships, so I wish every Captain to consider his own position after he gets into action. If you find yourselves in particular danger of being dismasted or running on shore, the decision to haul off will be your own responsibility and you should take it, without waiting for a signal from me. When hauling off, keep well to the southwest so as not to be raked by the north-side batteries. And finally, gentlemen, as a general rule, I do not wish more than fifty rounds from each gun to be fired. Spitfire is due from Constantinople with stores and ammunition and you will transfer all sick, together with spare topmasts and yards, to Vulcan, which will remain at this anchorage. Clear for action at first light tomorrow morning. I expect to open our attack at noon. That is all … have you any questions to ask me before you return to your own ships?”

  There were a number of questions, which the Admiral answered or referred to Admiral Lyons or the Captain of the Fleet and, when these had been dealt with, the conference broke up, Admiral Dundas taking courteous leave of his departing Captains.

  The morning of 17th was calm and sultry and, as the day advanced, it became oppressively hot. Soon after daylight the land-based batteries opened fire, which was returned with spirit by the enemy. The ships of the Fleet were busy with their preparations for the coming bombardment, getting up powder and shot, taking down bulkheads, stowing hammocks, sanding decks, and running out guns. By noon, all was in readiness, the steamers secured alongside the sailing ships, and the men went to dinner. The signal to weigh came half an hour later.

  True to his promise to the French, Admiral Dundas, in Britannia, led his main body in a long, southward sweep, which caused the expected delay in getting into position. When at one o’clock, the French and Turkish Fleets were seen to be firing on the forts on the south side of the harbour entrance, he made a signal to Sir Edmund Lyons to proceed to engage those to the north. Agamemnon’s helm was at once put to starboard and, followed by the rest of the inshore squadron, she steamed boldly towards her target.

  Phillip, on Trojan’s quarterdeck, felt his heart quicken its beat. This was the first time that he had ever commanded a ship in action and he knew, as the minutes ticked slowly by, the thrill and the isolation of command. Trojan’s role, as reserve, was to stand by ready to take the place of any ship of the squadron which was compelled to withdraw, or to answer a request for assistance, should one be made. From the weather hammock netting, he watched the little Circassia steam ahead of the flagship, sounding as she went, and saw the guns of the Wasp Fort on the cliffs open up on her. She held her course and, astern of her, Agamemnon came within range of the guns of Fort Constantine, as well as those on the cliffs, and she was struck repeatedly, suffering some damage aloft. But she, too, held her course and—as he afterwards learnt—with only two foot of water under her keel, dropped anchor first at the stern and then forward, so as to bring her starboard broadside to bear on her target, which was now less than eight hundred yards distant.

  Just as her Admiral had planned, Phillip thought admiringly, the very closeness at which Agamemnon was engaging the fort constituted her principal advantage … the guns on the cliff-top could not be depressed sufficiently to fire on her and, as she discharged her first thunderous broadside at the fort’s massive walls, he could scarcely forebear to cheer. Sanspareil, no less gallantly handled, followed the flagship’s movements and anchored off her starboard quarter, adding the weight of her own formidable broadside to Agamemnon’s. Astern of the two leading ships, London, Albion, and Arethusa were towed up to support them, swinging round so as to give the small steam frigates to which they were lashed the protection of their greater bulk.

  It was a perfectly executed operation and, from two until two-thirty, the inshore squadron continued to throw shot at Fort Constantine whilst the rest of the British Fleet was still getting into position in line with the French and Turkish ships. At two-thirty Britannia opened fire with her lower deck guns at maximum elevation and the action became general. Shortly afterwards Phillip observed a heavy explosion inside Fort Constantine, which caused a temporary cessation of the enemy fire, but this was soon resumed and the hulls, masts, and yards of the attacking ships were struck by a stream of projectiles, the smoke of battle so thick that, at times, they were hidden by it.

  At three-thirty Albion, engaging the cliff-top batteries of the Wasp Fort, was hit by a shell and, blazing fiercely, had to be towed out of the action, her crew taking refuge aboard Firebrand, which had her in tow. Phillip was about to take Trojan in to fill her place when, to his dismay, he saw first London and then Arethusa withdrawing from their stations, both under heavy and accurate fire from the Wasp and Telegraph batteries. Sanspareil had been compelled to alter her position, having evidently found her guns masked by Agamemnon, and, as she manoeuvred to bring her broadside to bear once more, the flagship was left alone and unsupported, every gun in Fort Constantine directed at her. Through the thick pall of smoke, Phillip saw tongues of flame leaping from her upper deck and, a moment later, one of her boats was lowered and, wit
h an officer in the sternsheets, this started to row furiously in the direction of Sanspareil … no doubt in an attempt to request her to close the flagship again. Realizing that it would take her some time to do so, Phillip bade his quartermaster change course, intending to draw some of the heavy fire from the flagship if he could.

  He succeeded almost too well in his intention. Hitherto at extreme range, as her orders demanded, Trojan had suffered little from the guns on shore, but suddenly it was as if she had become the target for every piece of ordnance on the cliff-top. Chain-shot tore through her rigging and she was hulled a dozen times before Phillip, peering vainly into the smoke, was able to bring his own guns to bear and reply to the enemy cannonade with a series of rapid broadsides. He was heartened by the way his gunners worked, heartened, too, by the speed and courage with which the topmen, in instant response to his shouted order, set about clearing the tangled mass of spars and rigging which the Russian chain-shot had brought crashing down on the upper deck. A blaze, started on the forecastle by a hail of red-hot shot, was swiftly extinguished and he saw, as the pall of smoke parted momentarily, that the crew of Agamemnon had also succeeded in getting their blaze under control during the brief respite his arrival had won for them.

  At his elbow, Martin Fox shouted that Queen and Rodney were bearing up in order to give the flagship their support and that Sanspareil was forging ahead with the same purpose. But, within a few minutes of receiving this news, Phillip saw to his dismay that Queen was blazing from stem to stern and she signalled shortly afterwards that she was hauling out of range. Rodney, in the tow of Spiteful, kept heroically on, her Captain so determined to assist the flagship that he steered between her and Sanspareil, being compelled finally to let go his anchor in perilous proximity to Agamemnon’s bow. Her stern swung round and grounded on the shoal, which gripped her fast. In the gathering dusk, unaware of the fate which had befallen her would-be rescuer but finding Rodney close athwart her hawse, their jib-guys touching, Agamemnon slipped her bower anchor and steamed astern, so as to clear her and the approaching Sanspareil. She then made a sweep, with the evident intention of bringing her lower deck guns to bear on two Russian batteries which had been raking her continuously in her previous position, and, once again, was temporarily hidden from Phillip’s sight in the smoke. Bellerophon and London closed in and, in response to a signal from the latter, Phillip took up the station previously allocated to Arethusa.

  It was now almost five o’clock and, as far as he could make out, there was no sign of the expected land assault on the city of Sebastopol. Had they, he wondered wearily, failed despite all their efforts? The walls of Fort Constantine were pitted and riddled with shot but the fire from its powerful guns continued unabated. Above them on the summit of the cliffs, the Wasp Fort, the Telegraph Battery, and the guns mounted behind a recently completed earthwork, although wreathed in smoke, went on pouring out a hail of missiles, aimed at the British ships beneath them. On the south side of the harbour, the French and Turkish Fleets appeared to have fared no better and now, he saw, were withdrawing. He glimpsed Terrible to the north-east, flying the recall signal, evidently repeating that of the Commander-in-Chief and was about to obey it when Martin Fox gripped his arm.

  “Rodney’s in trouble, sir. She’s requesting assistance from a steamer. She … I think she’s aground, sir.”

  Phillip climbed the starboard hammock netting and turned his glass on the stricken two-decker. Spiteful, he noticed, was still lashed to her port side, the little 6-gun steamer making valiant efforts to extricate her from her dangerous position. Rodney lay stern-on to Fort Constantine, keeping up a strong fire with such guns as she could use effectively, but the Russian gunners had her range and were subjecting her to a merciless cannonade. On her forecastle, a party worked frantically to warp her off by means of her bower anchors, but she remained motionless, held fast by the stern on the shoal on which she had grounded.

  Like the ill-fated Tiger, Phillip thought, reliving the scene in all its remembered horror. Other ships were flying the recall signal now and he saw London haul off, a fire blazing on her upper deck and her crew at the pumps, as Niger towed her clear. Obviously Rodney’s distress signal was hidden from them and he knew that Trojan would have to answer it.

  “Mr Fox … we must get a tow rope across to her.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Fox was at his side, alert, obedient, not questioning his decision. Phillip gave his orders with a calm that belied his inner anxiety for the safety of his ship and her crew. Once again Trojan steamed towards the guns of Fort Constantine, once again the chain-shot hurtled through her rigging but now, with Rodney in their sights, their fire was divided and the Russian gunners permitted the frigate to approach her objective comparatively unscathed.

  “Lynx is with us, sir,” Martin Fox said. “On our starboard bow …” He pointed. “And … she’s drawing their fire. Do you suppose she means to attempt a tow?”

  Phillip studied the Spiteful’s small consort through his glass, saw her run up a signal, and, reading it, nodded. “Yes,” he confirmed, “She means to and she may stand a better chance than we should, since she draws less water. So we had better reverse our roles, I think … we will try to draw the enemy’s fire, while she passes her tow-rope to Rodney. Make a signal to Lynx, if you please, to say that we will stand by her.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Fox acknowledged.

  “And put a man on the lead—a good man. I’m going as close in as I can and we don’t want to run on to that shoal. Quartermaster …”

  “Sir?”

  Once again, Phillip found himself issuing his orders with a calm confidence he did not feel. It seemed to him, as he brought Trojan in on her new course, to take the tiny Lynx twice as long to accomplish her mission as such an operation ought normally to take her, but as he watched her manoeuvre herself close in to Rodney’s bows, he did not betray his impatience or the fear he felt for his own ship. To all outward appearances, he was unworried and the men about him on Trojan’s quarterdeck drew confidence from his semblance of calm. Her main deck guns roared defiance, as she stood-in to the shore and dropped anchor so as to screen the rescue operation, and only when Rodney was afloat again did the hard pressed guns’ crews pause in their work to cheer. The most serious damage Trojan had suffered throughout the whole action came with the loss of her fore-mast, which crashed down in a welter of tangled rigging just as she was steaming out of range in the wake of Rodney and her two escorting steamers. Her total casualties, Phillip was amazed and thankful to learn, were one man killed and thirteen wounded.

  The wreckage of the fore-mast had been cleared away by the time Trojan rejoined the inshore squadron and dusk was setting in as, with the main body of the British Fleet, the squadron set course for the anchorage off the mouth of the Katcha River. But it was not too dark for those on her quarterdeck to see the signal Agamemnon ran up as she steamed past.

  “Signal from flagship reads ‘Well done, Trojan … congratulations to Commander,’” Martin Fox announced proudly. He added, smiling at Phillip, “That must mean you’ve won your promotion, sir. You’ll be confirmed in command of Trojan.”

  “No, my command is still only temporary,” Phillip reminded him. “I shall not be promoted to post-rank, Martin, so they will have to give Trojan to someone else.”

  “After the way you commanded her today?” his second-incommand objected. “I take leave to doubt that, sir.”

  Phillip sighed. Whatever happened, he thought, feeling suddenly very tired, he had commanded his ship in action and her crew had fulfilled his highest hopes of them. He wondered, recalling Mademoiselle Sophie’s parting words to him, whether she knew and whether, across the miles that separated them now, she was sharing this moment with him, in her heart. Perhaps she was … the heart, she had said, did not forget and his had not forgotten. But … he turned back to Martin Fox.

  “Mr Fox, we’ll splice the main brace, if you please, as soon as we drop anchor. And I should like the
grog issue doubled, for all hands … if any men have earned it, these men have today.”

  “Aye, aye, Commander Hazard,” Fox acknowledged, grinning hugely. And then, to Phillip’s gratified surprise, his officers gathered round him—Cochrane, Laidlaw and Sutherland, Burnaby the Master, the midshipmen and mates, even young Smithson of the Marines, wringing his hand and offering their congratulations.

  Last of all came his brother Graham, the lead-line he had been using to sound Trojan’s way across the shoal water still in his grasp. They smiled at each other, without the need for words and Phillip turned away, his throat tight as, from the deck below, he heard his seamen cheering.

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