Hazard of Huntress Read online

  HAZARD OF HUNTRESS

  Historical Fiction by V. A. Stuart

  Published by McBooks Press

  THE ALEXANDER SHERIDAN ADVENTURES

  Victors and Lords

  The Sepoy Mutiny

  Massacre at Cawnpore

  The Cannons of Lucknow

  The Heroic Garrison

  THE PHILLIP HAZARD NOVELS

  The Valiant Sailors

  The Brave Captians

  Hazard‘s Command

  Hazard of Huntress

  For a complete list of nautical and military fiction

  published by McBooks Press, please see pages 251–253.

  THE PHILLIP HAZARD NOVELS, NO.4

  HAZARD

  OF

  HUNTRESS

  by

  V. A. STUART

  MCBOOKS PRESS, INC.

  ITHACA, NEW YORK

  Published by McBooks Press 2004

  Copyright © 1972 by V. A. Stuart

  First published in the United Kingdom by

  Robert Hale Ltd., London

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to

  McBooks Press, Inc.,

  ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

  Cover: British ships Merlin and Firefly struck by Russian “infernal machines” (mines), 1855. Drawing by James Wilson Carmichel, engraved by Armytage. Courtesy of Mary Evans Picture Library.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stuart, V. A.

  Hazard of huntress / By V.A. Stuart.

  p. cm. — (The Phillip Hazard novels ; no. 4)

  ISBN 1-59013-082-0

  1. Hazard, Phillip Horatio (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History, Naval—19th century—Fiction. 3. Crimean War, 1853-1856—Fiction. 4. British—Ukraine—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series.

  PR6063.A38H39 2004

  823′.914—dc22

  2003022133

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  Printed in the United States of America

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Books Consulted On The Crimean War

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  With the exception of the Officers and Seamen of HMS Huntress, all the British Naval and Military Officers in this novel really existed and their actions are a matter of historical fact. Their opinions are also, in most cases, widely known and where they have been credited with remarks or conversations—as, for example, with the fictitious characters— which are not actually their own words, care has been taken to make sure that these are, as far as possible, in keeping with their known sentiments. The main events described did actually take place but the “cloak and dagger” episode in Odessa is a figment of the author’s imagination … although it could have happened much as described. General Canrobert did oppose Admiral Lyons’s plan to occupy the Sea of Azoff and the first expedition, which sailed in May, 1855, was recalled by the French Commander-in-Chief.

  FOR MR JOHN TAYLOR

  with the author’s good wishes and in the hope that this novel may give him as much pleasure as, it seems, he has derived from its predecessors.

  FROM THE NAVY RECORDS SOCIETY MAP

  LETTERS

  From Captain George Broke (later Sir George Broke K.C.B.) of HMS Gladiator to Rear-Admiral Sir Edmund Lyons, Commander-in-Chief, British Black Sea Fleet.

  Gladiator, off Odessa

  19th January 1855

  Sir,

  I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your instructions of the 16th instant and to acquaint you that, in obedience to the same, notifications of the declaration of a blockade of Russian ports in the Black Sea, to commence on 1st of February next, was this day formally delivered at 10:30 A.M. by the Senior Lieutenant of this ship (in concert with an officer of His Imperial Majesty’s French steam-frigate Mogador) to the Russian officer designated in the margin, who was sent to meet the boats of the two ships on their arrival off the Mole under a flag of truce.

  The weather being foggy, the captain of the Mogador and myself deemed it advisable to make the communication at once. We therefore hoisted a flag of truce … and in order to call attention to it, I fired one blank gun to seaward.

  I beg to add, in consequence of the fog becoming denser after the boats had left the ship, the officers sent in them found it necessary to approach within musket shot of the Mole where, on a blank gun being fired, they stopped until the Russian boat came to them; with this one exception, your instructions were strictly carried out and under these circumstances I hope it will meet with your entire approval.

  I have etc.,

  (Signed) George N. Broke

  Gladiator, off Odessa

  8th February 1855

  Sir,

  I have the honor to inclose herewith a letter from the Spanish Consul at Odessa, which was sent out by a boat under flag of truce, at noon, on 6th instant, and delivered to Lieutenant Risk, of Her Majesty’s steam-vessel Wrangler, acknowledging the receipt of the notification of blockade sent in by your directions on 19 ultimo …

  I have etc.,

  (Signed)George N. Broke

  From: Russian War, 1855, Black Sea Official Correspondence. Edited by Captain A.C. Dewar, O.B.E., B.Litt., F.R.Hist.S., R.N. Published by the Navy Records Society.

  PROLOGUE

  On the morning of 20th December 1854, a heavy snowstorm, driven by an icy off-shore wind, struck the British Fleet anchorage at the mouth of the Katcha River, to the north of Sebastopol. Very soon, the decks of the ships moored there were covered by an eight-inch carpet of treacherous white slush, on which men moved at their peril and which—like the moisture on yards and rigging—swiftly froze. A blood-red sun lent the scene a weird, seasonable beauty which few of the various duty watchers were able to appreciate, as they hacked half-heartedly at icicles and endeavoured to clear the decks with brooms and shovels, blowing on their blue fingers and each man listening eagerly for the pipe that would summon him to his mess deck for breakfast.

  In the stateroom of his 91-gun steam-screw flagship Agamemnon, Rear-Admiral Sir Edmund Lyons, at present second-in-command of the British Black Sea Fleet—who kept early hours—had just begun his own breakfast when his Secretary, Lieutenant Cleeve, entered and, with a murmured apology, laid a bundle of letters on the table beside him.

  “I beg you to forgive my intrusion, sir, while you are still eating but mail from home has just been delivered by the Banshee. And—er—that is, sir …” the Secretary hesitated and then, gesturing to the envelope which lay on top of the small pile, he went on, his voice losing its impersonal correctness and betraying his excitement, “I felt sure, sir, that you would wish to see this letter immediately. The official dispatches have gone across to the Furious but they won’t have reached her yet and I thought, sir—”

  “Thank you, Frederick,” Sir Edmund acknowledged, cutting him short. He set down his coffee cup without undue haste and glanced at William Mends, his Flag-Captain, who was seated opposite, before picking up the letter to which Lieutenant Cleeve had drawn his attention. The envelope bore th
e Admiralty seal but was marked PERSONAL and was addressed to him in the familiar handwriting of the First Lord, Sir James Graham. Aware of what its contents were likely to be, the Admiral sighed and, again meeting the inquiring eyes of his Flag-Captain, answered the unspoken question in them with a brief inclination of his silver-grey head.

  “Yes, Willie, I imagine the moment has come. And now that it has, I confess I’m not sure whether to be glad or sorry.”

  “The officers and seamen of the Fleet will be glad, sir,” Mends assured him. “More than glad, every man-jack of them.” His tone was enthusiastic, holding no hint of doubt.

  The Admiral was silent, repeating his sigh as he broke the seal on the envelope. He had always known that Their Lordships had chosen him to succeed Vice-Admiral James Deans Dundas as Commander-in-Chief of the Black Sea Fleet, since it had been on this understanding that he had accepted his present subordinate appointment when the declaration of war on Russia had been imminent. Official notification of his promotion and his commission would, of course, be sent to the man he was to succeed, on board the steam frigate Furious to which, in readiness for departure, Admiral Dundas had recently shifted his flag. But his long friendship with the First Lord would, Sir Edmund Lyons knew, bring him news of the transfer of the command unofficially, in a personal letter delivered in the same mail bag as, in the past year, so many other personal letters had been sent, intended for his eyes alone. No other eyes had glimpsed them; he had respected the First Lord’s confidence with scrupulous loyalty and had never mentioned their correspondence to anyone save Lord Raglan, the British military Commander-in-Chief, and he found himself wondering now, as he looked down at the letter in his hand, whether his own Chief knew of the correspondence.

  Probably he did, although he had never said so, never raised any objection, which suggested that he was indifferent to the fact that the First Lord had, throughout the war, asked for and frequently acted upon the advice and opinions of the Fleet’s second-in-command, rather than those of its Chief. As indeed, Edmund Lyons reflected, had Lord Raglan. But Dundas had only himself to blame in this particular case, for had he not delegated what should properly have been his responsibility and left the necessary liaison between the Military Expeditionary Force and the Royal Navy to his second-incommand? Admiral Dundas never attended conferences ashore. He communicated with Lord Raglan, when he had to, by means of notes or messages which, as his subordinate, Lyons himself had been charged to deliver. The notes were usually brief, often discourteous and, at times, offensively critical of the military operations being conducted on shore and, Sir Edmund reflected wryly, they had made his task infinitely more difficult than it need have been.

  It had taken all the tact he had learned, during the nineteen years he had served in the Diplomatic Corps, to smooth over the ruffled feelings which those notes had caused, particularly when he had had to deliver them to their French and Turkish allies. Lord Raglan had been the soul of patience, however. He was a kindly and considerate man, a gentleman in the fullest sense of that sometimes misused word, and he had refused to allow Dundas to ruffle his feelings. Even when his naval counterpart had stated, in writing, that the bombardment of Sebastopol’s seaward defenses by the Allied Fleets on 17th October had been “a false action, which he declined to repeat and with which, as a naval officer of fifty years’ experience, he was profoundly dissatisfied,” Lord Raglan had not taken offense.

  “In the Admiral’s place, Sir Edmund, I fancy that I should have felt as he now does,” the military Commander-in-Chief had said quietly. “He has suffered grievous losses and, alas! to no avail. It might have been a very different story had circumstances enabled us to launch a simultaneous landward attack but … they did not. So he is right—the action was a false one and I, too, regret it.”

  Sir Edmund frowned, remembering, as he slowly unfolded the letter from the First Lord and read its opening paragraph.

  “We have sent orders to Admiral Dundas, empowering him to transfer the command of the Fleet to you and himself to return to England, unless some active operation be impending which it would not be consistent with his feelings and honor to leave unaccomplished in other hands …”

  He set the letter down on the table in front of him, permitting himself a brief and bitter little smile as he turned the last few words over in his mind.

  Admiral Dundas, having served three years as Commanderin-Chief, was due, in any event, to haul down his flag in January but he had applied—several weeks ago—to be relieved on the grounds of ill-health. Not that his health was noticeably impaired; there was no reason why it should be, since he spent all his time aboard his comfortable, well-provisioned flagship, his second-in-command thought cynically. James Dundas had had no enthusiasm for the invasion of the Crimea, right from the outset, and still less for the Allied efforts to bombard the fortress city of Sebastopol into submission. As Naval Commander-in-Chief, he had supplied ships and men and guns—the two latter items with ever increasing reluctance—at Lord Raglan’s behest, to aid the prosecution of the siege. With a Naval Brigade of over three thousand seamen and Marines manning the Upland batteries and many ships denuded of more than half their guns, the role of the British Fleet had become a secondary one. The Royal Navy now provided more troop carriers and supply ships than battle squadrons … an inglorious, although admittedly necessary service, the Fleet’s future Commander-in-Chief reflected.

  True, a blockade of the Russian Black Sea ports had been maintained by a few overworked steam frigates but this was effective only because the enemy Fleet lay immobilized in Sebastopol Harbour, imprisoned there by the line of scuttled battleships which Admiral Korniloff had been ordered to sink across its entrance, for the original purpose of barring the harbour to the Allied Navies. But as to any impending active operation … Sir Edmund Lyons’s mouth tightened.

  He had wanted to attack Kinburn and Anapa, to capture Kertch, and to lead his steam frigate squadron into the Sea of Azoff, since it was mainly along these routes that Prince Menschikoff, the Russian Commander-in-Chief, obtained his supplies and his seemingly endless troop reinforcements. But Admiral Dundas had heard his suggestions, listened to his plans, and had then ignored them. Now, alas, it was too late to put any of them into the active operation which Sir James Graham, in his letter, optimistically envisaged. Winter was upon them and the disastrous hurricane that on 14th November had struck the Cheronese coast, had led to so appalling a loss in ships and seamen—mainly off Balaclava—that a redistribution of the Fleet had become a matter of urgent necessity. The sailing ships-of-the-line, for which the gale had proved there was no safe winter anchorage, were to be sent home and replaced, as soon as possible, by steamers.

  Already the Britannia, Admiral Dundas’s flagship, had left for the Bosphorous on the first stage of her journey, in company with the Trafalgar, Queen, and London—a proportion of their seamen and all their Marines left behind with the Naval Brigade and borne on the books of other ships. The Bellerophon would follow them, as soon as sufficient Turkish troops had been convoyed from the Bulgarian theatre to Eupatoria, to relieve the garrison there. Henceforth, Admiral Lyons thought, aware of a brief lifting of his spirits, Omar Pasha—the courageous defender of Silestria—and the British General Cannon, on loan to the Turkish Army, would undertake responsibility for the defense of Eupatoria. He would have to leave them two or three steam frigates but at least he would once more have the services of the invaluable Captain Saumarez Brock, who had been left in command there ever since the Allied landing at Calamita Bay in September. A foolish waste of an able commander and of one who was an expert on the Russian Black Sea ports and their defenses—whom Dundas had left to kick his heels in Eupatoria and …

  “Forgive me, sir …” the voice of his Flag-Captain broke into the Rear-Admiral’s thoughts. “Shall I leave you to the perusal of your mail? Unless, of course, I can be of service to you?”

  Sir Edmund Lyons shook his head, an affectionate smile lighting his tired, over-th
in face as he looked up at the man who had been his right hand during the past seven months. “No, thank you, my dear fellow, there’s nothing I need. I shall enjoy the luxury of sitting here in the warmth, with my feet up, for a change—instead of riding through a blizzard to confer with Lord Raglan. Possibly the Commander-in-Chief may require my presence aboard the Furious later this morning, I don’t know.” He waved a slim hand in the direction of the First Lord’s letter. “But this does inform me that my commission as Commander-in-Chief has been sent out. And”—he quickly skimmed through the rest of the letter—“it also confirms that the Royal Albert is to receive my flag.”

  Captain Mends echoed his smile. “Then the moment has come, Admiral. Permit me to offer my congratulations, sir. No man on earth—or at sea—deserves it more and none is better able to undertake this command than yourself.”

  “You flatter me, Willie,” Admiral Lyons accused. “But you’re a loyal friend.”

  “I meant every word I said,” Mends answered, with complete sincerity. “Believe me, sir, I meant it with all my heart. It has been a privilege to serve under you.”

  “Sir James Graham is taking it for granted that you’ll transfer with me to the Royal Albert,” the Admiral said. “As I am, Willie. Sir Thomas Pasley is to bring her out and the First Lord says here that he is to succeed you in command of this ship. That’s in order, is it not? You’re happy about it?”

  “Indeed I am, sir.” William Mends’s habitually grave face was wreathed in smiles now, his pleasure self-evident as he rose to his feet. The Admiral noticed Frederick Cleeve hovering inconspicuously in the background and nodded in dismissal. “I shall not need you either, my boy, for an hour or so. But”—he turned back to his Flag-Captain—“when the Bellerophon reaches this anchorage, I should like to see Lord George Paulet—and Captain Brock, if he’s with him, and any other Captain who’s been engaged in convoying the Turks to Eupatoria. Keep me informed, if you please, Willie.”