Hazard in Circassia Read online

  HAZARD IN CIRCASSIA

  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 Captains

  Hazard’s Command

  Hazard of Huntress

  Hazard in Circassia

  Victory at Sebastopol

  For a complete list of nautical and military fiction

  published by McBooks Press, please see pages 253–255.

  THE PHILLIP HAZARD NOVELS, NO.5

  HAZARD

  IN

  CIRCASSIA

  by

  V. A. STUART

  MCBOOKS PRESS, INC.

  ITHACA, NEW YORK

  Published by McBooks Press 2004

  Copyright © Vivian Stuart 1973

  First published in Great Britain by Robert Hale & Co.

  Also published under the title Hazard to the Rescue.

  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: “Reporter After Inkerman,” 5 November 1854, The Illustrated London News. Courtesy of Mary Evans Picture Library

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stuart, V. A.

  [Hazard to the rescue]

  Hazard in Circassia / by V.A. Stuart.

  p. cm. — (The Phillip Hazard novels ; #5)

  Originally published: Hazard to the rescue.

  ISBN 1-59013-062-6 (trade pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Hazard, Phillip Horatio (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History, Naval—19th century—Fiction. 3. British—Russia (Federation)—Circassia—Fiction. 4. Great Britain. Royal Navy— Officers—Fiction. 5. Crimean War, 1853-1856—Fiction. 6. Circassia (Russia)—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series.

  PR6063.A38H395 2004

  823’.92—dc22

  2004005298

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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

  Appendix

  Note

  Books Consulted On The Crimean War

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  With the exception of the Officers and Seamen of HMS Huntress, and of Colonel Gorak and his daughter, all the characters in this novel really existed and their actions are a matter of historical fact. 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.

  Extracts from official despatches and telegraphic communications are made from existing records, with the addition of the names of fictitious characters and ships only when necessary to add credibility to this novel, which is based on fact and could have happened as narrated.

  The author thanks the Navy Records Society for permission to reproduce map from the Society’s publications Russian War, 1854 and Russian War, 1855—Captain A.C. Dewar, R.N., and D. Bonner Smith, also Commander W.M. Phipps Hornby, R.N., for technical advice on ships mentioned, most kindly and generously given at her request.

  The action of this story is based on the despatch from Commander Sherard Osborn of HMS Vesuvius, published in Russian War, 1855 (No. 74 Inclosure, dated 18th, May, 1855), see page 241.

  Sir Colin Campbell remained in command at Balaclava—at Lord Raglan’s request—when the second expedition to Kertch sailed from Sebastopol on 22nd, May, 1855, although he was himself most anxious to accompany the troops of his Highland Brigade.

  FOR LADY ELIZABETH MATHESON

  FROM THE NAVY RECORDS SOCIETY MAP

  PROLOGUE

  At precisely one hour before sunset on 3 May 1855 Her Majesty’s steam-screw three-decker Royal Albert weighed anchor and put to sea, flying the flag of Rear-Admiral Sir Edmund Lyons, Commander-in-Chief of the British Naval Forces in the Black Sea. Two Generals—Sir George Brown and the no less redoubtable commander of the Highland Brigade, Sir Colin Campbell—stood with the Admiral on her poop, watching as the men of the 93rd Highlanders, brave in their faded scarlet and tartan, mustered on the deck below for inspection.

  The flagship was followed from the Fleet anchorage off Sebastopol by five other ships-of-the-line, all of them laden, as she was, with troops, including several thousand French infantrymen and a battalion of Turks. The liners were joined by fifteen frigates and gunboats, led by the Miranda, a steam-screw corvette of 14 guns, under the command of the Admiral’s son, Captain Edmund Mowbray Lyons. Taking station in three lines, the two- and three-deckers in the centre, the Fleet set course in a north-westerly direction, as if making for Odessa, with the object of deceiving those enemy watchers who might have witnessed and, in consequence, be speculating as to the reason for this carefully timed departure.

  A smaller French squadron, commanded by Admiral Bruat in his flagship Montebello, 120, slipped their moorings and steamed out of Kamiesch Bay shortly afterwards, also with a General—D’Autemarre—and a large contingent of troops on board. The French naval Commander-in-Chief, however, made no attempt to conceal his destination. Prior to sailing, he had ordered his captains to proceed at once to the pre-arranged rendezvous with their British allies, off the heavily fortified towns of Kertch and Yenikale, which, standing at the end of a jutting peninsula, guarded the entrance to the shallow, landlocked Sea of Azoff, to the east of Sebastopol. Here the combined force of some eleven thousand men—over seven thousand of them French—was to be landed at two points to the south of Kertch, from whence they were to advance, take the town by assault, and put its formidable gun batteries out of action. This would permit the entry of an Allied squadron of light-draught steam frigates and gunboats to enter the Sea of Azoff for the purpose of cutting the Russian supply routes to the Crimea and Sebastopol.

  Throughout the long, bitter Crimean winter Sebastopol had held out against the pounding of the Allied siege-guns, despite casualties which averaged two hundred and fifty a day and which rose to six thousand at the height of a single day’s bombardment. Such a feat would have been impossible had it not been for the constant stream of men, munitions, and food supplies entering the beleagured city from the north, where the road from Prince Gortchakoft’s army headquarters at Bakshi-Serai lay outside the investing lines of the Allies, secure from attack by land or sea and far beyond the range of the cannon ringing the Heights to the south.

  A survey of the coast had confirmed the existence of a military road, linking Bakshi-Serai and Simpheropol with towns on the shores of the Sea of Azoff, by means of which virtually all the needs of the Russian army in the Crimea were being supplied. In the six months since he had succeeded his former Chief, Vice-Admiral Deans Dundas, as Commander of the British Fleet, Admiral Lyons had advocated the launching o
f a combined naval and military expedition to seize control of the Sea of Azoff, and he had planned the operation down to the smallest detail, in the deeply held conviction that, if successful, it would shorten the war and starve Sebastopol into submission.

  Once through the Strait, the gunboat squadron could maintain itself and go about its task unsupported, since the enemy had no ships in the Sea of Azoff capable of opposing the intruders. For this reason the troops, save for a small Turkish garrison, could be withdrawn after Kertch, Yenikale, and Arabat were taken.

  It was a bold, well-conceived plan, and Admiral Lyons had pleaded for its adoption by the Allied High Command with all the fervour and eloquence he possessed.

  Up to the last moment, however, General Canrobert, the French military Commander-in-Chief, had wavered—first giving his approval to the plans put forward by Admiral Bruat and then rejecting them. He could not plead any shortage of troops, since he had reinforcements already disembarking at Constantinople, amounting to a reserve corps of twenty-five thousand men, which would bring his total strength up to almost three times that of the British.

  Finally, on 29th April, at a lengthy conference held at Lord Raglan’s headquarters, he had, with extreme reluctance, agreed to contribute seventy-five hundred of his troops to the expedition, for a limited period of fourteen days. He had only then agreed to do so as an alternative to continuing the bombardment and assault on Sebastopol’s Central Bastion, which had been urged upon him by Lord Raglan and his own General Pélissier, concerning the initial launching of which he had twice changed his mind in the course of a single week.

  Admiral Lyons, pacing the poop of his flagship as she steamed majestically into the crimson glow of the setting sun, found himself thanking his Maker that the squadron was, at last, on its way. An eleventh hour change of heart by Canrobert had always been on the cards, but now, thanks be to heaven, it was too late for the French Général-en-Chef to have second thoughts. Forcing a smile to his lips, he walked slowly over to join the two British Generals on whom the success of the whole expedition would depend.

  They could not have been better chosen, he thought. Both were Scots and, between them, they had more experience of the harsh realities of war than the rest of the British divisional commanders put together. Both men were in their late sixties, white-haired veterans who, as young officers, had served with great gallantry under the Duke of Wellington, in almost every battle of the Peninsular War. Sir George Brown had subsequently fought under General Ross in America; Sir Colin Campbell in India, under Napier and Gough—indeed, he had commanded a division at Chilianwala and Gujerat in 1849, although here, in the Crimea six years later, he merited only a brigade.

  The Admiral’s smile faded, as he reflected wryly on the rewards of nearly fifty years’ distinguished military service when—as in the case of these two fine old soldiers—an officer had neither the money nor the necessary influence to purchase advancement in his profession. In the Navy, at least, commissions were not bought and sold and, although the right connections undoubtedly helped, promotion was not—as it seemed so often to be in the Army—the perquisite of the rich and titled, regardless of ability.

  “Ah, Admiral . . . my congratulations!” Erect and soldierly in his immaculate frock coat, Lieutenant-General Sir George Brown turned from his rapt contemplation of the kilted Highlanders parading on the forward deck, a thoughtful frown drawing his bushy white brows together. Despite his sixty-seven years, he was a man of prodigious physical energy and—a martinet of the old school—was far from popular with the wealthy and titled younger officers, of the type who had been in the Admiral’s mind, a few minutes earlier. He set, and insisted upon, a high standard of discipline in the Light Division he commanded, and was a firm believer in the efficacy of flogging, but the men, while they might complain of his severity and deplore his aversion to change, had nevertheless learnt to respect his personal courage and reliable leadership. They bestowed uncomplimentary nicknames on him behind his back, but having, at the Alma, recognized him for the competent professional soldier he was, they took a grudging pride in the demands he made on them and would have followed him anywhere. “Damme, you must be deuced glad,” he suggested gruffly, “that we’re at last headed for Kertch.”

  “I am,” Admiral Lyons admitted. “To be honest, General, I expected—no, feared—right up to the moment we weighed, that one of Canrobert’s aides would arrive with orders for us not to sail.”

  “So did I . . . infernal fellow! Incapable of coming to a decision and then sticking to it.” Sir George Brown seldom minced words. “Poor Lord Raglan has a shocking time with him, just as he had with St Arnaud. Mind, I like Bosquet well enough, and Sir Colin”—he laid a hand on Sir Colin Campbell’s thin, bowed shoulder—“has been trying to sing Pélissier’s praises to me all afternoon. But damme, they’re all the same, these infernal Frenchmen . . . one’s just as bad as the other, in my view. I was happier when we were fighting against them and that’s the truth!”

  Sir Colin Campbell spread his hands in an indulgent disclaimer of this somewhat sweeping statement and observed quietly, “Ah, come now, my friend, we found the French worthy of our steel forty years ago—and they’re not all tarred with the same brush as their present Commander-in-Chief. General Pélissier has a fine record and he was Canrobert’s superior officer until they came to the Crimea, so I doubt if he’ll let himself be overawed by anyone—not even the Emperor!”

  Sir Colin’s accent was strong and, listening to him, Admiral Lyons was reminded of another occasion when that dry, rasping Scottish voice had been raised to exhort the men of the 93rd to stand firm. They had been all that stood between the might of the Russian cavalry and the port of Balaclava, one misty October morning the previous year—two ranks of Highlanders whom Mr Russell, Special Correspondent of The Times, had described in his despatch as “a thin red line tipped with steel” . . . a dramatic but not inappropriate description.

  “Remember, Ninety-third,” Sir Colin had warned them, as they waited tensely for the expected cavalry charge, “There’s no retreat from here—you maun die where ye stand, if need be . . .” and then, a little later, as some of the men started to surge forward to meet the advancing enemy, “Damn all this eagerness, Ninety-third! Keep your lines!”

  The Admiral permitted himself a grim little smile, as he recalled the report of this incident which he had received from Lieutenant—now Commander—Phillip Hazard, who had been present, on his instructions, his task to order the immediate evacuation of Balaclava Harbour should the 93rd fail to hold the line at Kadikoi.

  Sir George Brown grunted. “God in heaven!” he exclaimed indignantly. “If it hadn’t been for Canrobert, we could have walked into Sebastopol seven months ago, with scarcely a shot fired—and this infernally ill-conducted war would have been over by now! Damme, Colin, you know as well as I do that the Russians were ready to surrender the place to us after the Alma. They were routed and demoralized, they had no fight left in ’em and with the best will in the world, Korniloff couldn’t have stopped us with his handful of sailors. But . . . Canrobert wouldn’t have it. Land the siege-guns, he said, knock down their defences—an assault without a preliminary bombardment would be suicidal. He, more than anyone, is responsible for the ghastly losses we’ve sustained this winter, but in London they’re blaming Lord Raglan for them.” His voice rose in angry exasperation. “Unhappily for us, Canrobert commands the only army worthy of the name out here now—ours is pitifully inferior, both in size and equipment, as you also know—and so we’re powerless to engage in any offensive operation without the French. Even for this expedition, Canrobert has supplied three times as many men as we have and, the devil fly away with him, I would not put it past him to recall the whole lot within twenty-four hours of our landing! He’s quite capable of it—don’t you agree, Admiral?”

  While privately sharing his fears on this score, Admiral Lyons decided that it might be wiser not to say so. “I earnestly trust not, General,�
� he answered diplomatically. “Now that we have actually sailed with General Canrobert’s troops aboard, it seems hardly likely that he can go back on his word—and he will have Lord Raglan to reckon with, if he does. Well . . .” He glanced skywards, inhaling the now dank evening air. “We shall change course as soon as darkness falls and there’s a chance that we may run into fog tomorrow morning which—provided it is not too thick—will aid our enterprise. Let us go below to my quarters, shall we, gentlemen, and share the last of some excellent Madeira my son Jack brought out for me when he joined my flag.”

  They followed him to his spacious stern-cabin, but it was evident that Sir George Brown was not appeased.

  “I don’t trust Canrobert,” he said. “I don’t trust him any further than I can see him, ’pon my soul I don’t.” He accepted a glass of Madeira from the Admiral’s nephew, Algernon Lyons, who was acting as Flag Lieutenant, and stared into it moodily. “Damnation, Sir Edmund!” he went on explosively. “I’d give six months’ pay to know what’s going on at the French headquarters at this moment—and I’m not a rich man, as heaven’s my witness. Nor am I one who normally sets much store by premonitions, but I have to confess to you that I’m devilish uneasy.”

  Young Lieutenant Lyons regarded him in stunned surprise, as if afraid that he had suddenly taken leave of his senses, but the Admiral, aware that old Sir George was the last person in the world to allow his imagination to run away with him, heard him in frowning silence. Then, remembering his duties as host, he raised his glass. “Come, gentlemen,” he invited. “Shall we banish our cares and drink to the capture of Kertch?”