Victory at Sebastopol Page 12

  The last sound he heard, before he lapsed into unconsciousness, was the renewed thunder of cannon fire but he could not be sure whether or not he had imagined it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A booted foot prodded him to wakefulness and Phillip struggled to sit up, flinching from the bar of bright sunlight which filtered through a small window set high in the wall opposite to which he was lying. His whole body ached, his head was throbbing unmercifully, and he could scarcely see. He was as weak as a kitten, he realized disgustedly and, finding the effort to sit up beyond him, he slithered back on to a heap of straw behind him and let his heavy eyelids fall so as to shut out the light.

  The foot prodded again with, it seemed, the deliberate intention of causing him pain, and a soldier in a grey uniform thrust a coarse earthenware cup into his right hand. He tried to hold it but his fingers were so stiff that they would not retain their grasp. The cup tilted and the warm, evil smelling liquid it contained spilled over his chest, compelling him to drag himself into a sitting position in order to rid himself of it. The soldier swore at him, deposited a hunk of black bread on the floor at his side and went out, slamming the heavy wooden door of his prison with a force that set every nerve in his head jangling anew. There were guns firing, close at hand—a great many guns, which shook the building with their thunder—and these added to his discomfort.

  Phillip eyed the bread distastefully and lay back once more, to seek refuge from his pain and exhaustion in sleep. The next time he wakened—some hours later, as nearly as he could judge from the position of the sun—he felt stronger and was able to sit up, his back resting against the dank stone wall of his cell. His right arm was swathed in a filthy, blood-soaked bandage, behind which he decided not to look. It was stiff and numb and resisted all his attempts to move it—the Cossack’s sabre, he thought, memory returning, must have severed both bone and muscle. If it had, he would lose the arm. His right arm … devil take it and the man who had inflicted the wound!

  Probing cautiously with his left hand, he discovered a lump the size of a pigeon’s egg over his temple, which was painful to the touch and sticky with dried blood. He could have been in a worse state, he told himself philosophically; his Cossack captors could have let him bleed to death, instead of applying a bandage to his arm, or the man who had struck him with the pistol could, as easily, have shot him with it. Evidently they wanted him alive but, recalling Captain Kirkoff’s complaints of the treatment meted out to him aboard the Constantine, he smiled wryly. Kirkoff had talked of the civilized usages of war and the respect due to his rank but his compatriots, it appeared, cared little for such niceties, when the boot was on the other foot …

  After a while, finding the silence of his prison unendurable, Phillip managed to crawl over to the window and drag himself up to it, the fingers of his left hand gripping the sill. But he could hear no sounds that had any meaning for him; no gunfire, no voices, no churning paddle-wheels, and he could see nothing. Yet he must be in one of the forts—he could be nowhere else, with walls over ten feet thick and windows like arrowslits … and rats, like the pair which were now fighting for the hunk of black bread he had left on the floor.

  Yenikale, perhaps? He drew in his breath sharply. Wherever he was, the day was well advanced and the Allied attack—if it had taken place as planned—should, by this time, be under way. Unless there had been another setback such as the one, three weeks ago, when General Canrobert, the French Commander-in-Chief, had ordered the withdrawal of his entire force a few hours before they were due to be landed … but surely, surely that could not have happened again? It was unthinkable. With fifteen thousand troops, five batteries of artillery, and virtually every ship in the Allied Black Sea Fleets committed to the expedition and lying off Kaffa the previous night, ready to move on to Kamiesch-Bourno for the landings at first light today, Admiral Lyons would have permitted no change of plan. With or without the French, he and Sir George Brown, the military Commander, would have set the troops ashore and Jack Lyons, the Admiral’s son, who had been appointed to command the Azoff squadron, would be leading his gunboats and light-draught steam-frigates up the channel to Yenikale. But no cannon were firing … for God’s sake, what could be going on? Kertch was only five miles overland from Yenikale … would not the sound of battle have carried, however faintly?

  In an agony of uncertainty, Phillip strained his ears but there was nothing. Could he have slept through the battle, he wondered—without his watch, he had no idea for how long he’d lain unconscious in this filthy, rat-infested dungeon. Or—an appalling thought—had the landings been made and repulsed? He tried vainly to drag himself to a level with the sloping window-sill, only to fall back on to the uneven stone floor, gasping with pain, his injured arm crumpled beneath him. Then, as he was making a second attempt to reach the window, a series of dull, booming explosions shattered the silence and he stood, his body pressed against the wall and his heart pounding, endeavouring to count them and identify their source. He heard at least half a dozen before the dreadful throbbing in his head compelled him to draw back, reeling with nausea, the cell walls whirling about him.

  It was almost a relief when, about an hour later, two soldiers came into his prison and dragged him roughly to his feet. The orders they shouted at him were unintelligible but a rifle butt, jabbed into the small of his back, made their meaning clear and he staggered out into a dark stone corridor with the men half-driving, half-carrying him between them. Stone steps, which he ascended with difficulty, led to an open courtyard, above one side of which he could see the ramparts of a fort, silhouetted against the setting sun, with heavy iron cannon mounted at each embrasure.

  There were artillerymen, in green uniforms, moving about the guns but they were not, as he had expected them to be, working or standing to their guns. They were engaged in spiking them … Phillip halted, heedless of the prodding rifle butts, and stared up at them incredulously, as another party descended from the ramparts carrying boxes of ammunition. Then, from somewhere to the rear, beyond his line of vision, he heard a further series of muffled explosions which he identified, after a moment’s puzzled thought, as the destruction of other and probably heavier guns by means of blocked charges, set to blow up their barrels.

  Dazed though he was, his spirits lifted. If the garrison were putting their guns out of action, it could mean only one thing—the Allied landings had taken place and the attack had been successful. Kertch must have fallen and this fort was about to be evacuated—the Russians were not staying to defend it or to contest the entry of the Azoff squadron into the Strait. He breathed a heartfelt prayer of thankfulness and, buoyed up with new hope, was walking erect and without their aid when his guards opened a door at the head of another flight of stone steps and thrust him into a small room, furnished as an office, which was built into the thickness of the massive wall.

  An Officer, in the uniform of a Colonel of artillery, was seated at a desk in the centre of the room, sorting out papers, assisted by two others. He was middle-aged and wore pincenez and he looked glum and out of temper, his cheeks unshaven and his eyes puffy and bloodshot, as if he had been for a considerable time without sleep. The other two were younger, one a Major in the blue and silver of a Lancer regiment, the other an Engineer Lieutenant, with fair hair and duelling scars, which disfigured his square, Teutonic face.

  When Phillip was brought to a halt in front of the desk by his escort, the Colonel glanced up with a flicker of interest in his lacklustre eyes and said, in French, “Ah, this is the man! He appears to be the sole survivor. I can only suppose that he was drunk, since he failed to take to the boat with the rest.”

  “Or mad,” the Lancer Officer suggested with a hint of cynical amusement. “Like those madmen at Balaclava, the English light cavalry, who were annihilated when they charged our guns in the North Valley. We believed them to be drunk but I spoke to some of the men we took prisoner, Colonel, and they swore that not a drop of liquor had passed their lips the whole da
y! Most of them had not eaten, either, so they must have been mad—there can be no other explanation. I wish, however—and particularly at a time like this—that I had a regiment of English madmen under my command. We should not be preparing to retreat if I had!”

  “The orders to retreat are not mine, Vladimir Ivanovitch,” the Colonel returned sourly. He subjected Phillip to a brief scrutiny, taking in his filthy clothes and unkempt state and snapped an order in his own tongue to one of the escort. The man clicked his heels and left the office. “The unfortunate fellow was roughly handled by the Cossack dogs who took him prisoner,” he went on, reverting to French, which he spoke with easy fluency. “And, of course, these cretins of mine have neglected him but”—he shrugged—“I have had other and more pressing matters on my mind.”

  “Haven’t we all!” the man addressed as Vladimir agreed feelingly. He ruffled the pile of papers in front of him and sighed. “Must we really go through all these, Colonel? Surely it would be simpler merely to make a bonfire of the lot?”

  “I have my orders.” The Colonel’s tone was stiff but he thrust two large, unopened bundles across the desk with an impatient hand. “These can be burnt. Attend to them, Walburg.”

  The Lieutenant said woodenly, “I will read them, if you wish, Colonel.”

  “There is no need—don’t waste time on them. You’ll have plenty to do when we receive the order to blow up the magazine.”

  Phillip maintained a cautious silence, head down and eyes averted. It was evident from the freedom with which they were speaking of confidential matters in front of him, that they believed him to be an ordinary seaman, no more capable than his escort of understanding any language but his own, and he was well content to play the part for which they had cast him. Had they suspected that he was an Officer, he would probably by this time be on his way to Prince Gortchakoft’s headquarters at Simpheropol, under heavy guard, but as it was … he stared down at his shoeless feet with well simulated indifference as he heard the cavalry Major say, “And what of our mad—or drunken—sailor, Colonel? What do you intend to do with him?”

  “Ah, yes—the sailor.” The Colonel searched in his pockets. “The watch they found on him puzzled me. It bears the Imperial cypher and the personal arms of the late Grand-Duke Michael who, as you are doubtless aware, died long before this accursed war broke out. I have it somewhere … yes, here it is.” He produced the watch from his breast pocket and offered it for the cavalryman’s inspection. “As you can see, it is a magnificent and extremely valuable timepiece, and I asked myself what an English sailor could be doing with it.”

  Phillip stiffened involuntarily, feeling a shiver of apprehension course through him but the eyes of all three Officers were on the watch and he breathed again, thankful that he had not betrayed himself.

  “I imagine he looted it,” the Major said. He smiled, with genuine amusement. “An enterprising fellow, this madman!”

  “Quite so,” the Colonel agreed dryly. “So I decided to satisfy my curiosity before letting him go. You speak English, Vladimir, do you not?”

  “After a fashion, sir, but I’ve had little practice of late.”

  The Colonel waved the excuse aside. “Question the man, if you please. Ask him how he acquired the watch and—”

  “You surely do not intend to set this man at liberty, Colonel?” the Engineer Lieutenant interrupted, unable to contain his indignation. He was German, from his accent, and there was thinly veiled scorn in his young voice as he added accusingly, “Russian discipline is too lax! In the German Army, looters are shot out of hand. It is the only way to set an example to the others and to make soldiers out of a rabble. This—this enterprising fellow, as Major Stepanoff so humorously calls him—no doubt murdered the Officer from whom he stole that watch. Yet you speak of letting him go unpunished!”

  Phillip, endeavouring to follow the conversation without appearing to do so, passed his tongue over his dry lips. His head was throbbing again and it was all he could do to hold himself upright but, to his intense relief, the Russian Colonel exchanged an expressive glance with his compatriot and said curtly, “Attend to your own responsibilities, Lieutenant Walburg, and leave me to mine. As you are aware, I have to evacuate my garrison before nightfall and get them to Arguine before the enemy cut the road. It will be a long march and I have no desire to be burdened by prisoners—least of all wounded prisoners. I am leaving my own sick and wounded behind.”

  “As you say, Colonel.” The fair-haired young German shrugged resignedly. He looked for a moment as if he intended to argue and Phillip waited, stony-faced and silent, having to make a great effort to control the trembling of his limbs.

  “In any case,” the Colonel went on, with a tight-lipped smile, “I’m sending him to the hospital … and the wretched fellow will probably lose his arm. The wound was severe and has been neglected—he’ll be of little use to the English Navy when the surgeons have done with him.” He held up the watch and nodded impatiently to Major Stepanoff. “Ask him, Vladimir!”

  “Sailor,” the cavalry Major began hesitantly. “This watch—you see?”

  Phillip braced himself. The news concerning his arm was not encouraging but he thrust the thought from him. If the garrison was to be evacuated by nightfall, the surgeons would go with it—certainly they would leave before the arrival of the Allied troops. He nodded and held out his hand for the watch. “If you please, sir,” he said, in English. “Give me the watch.”

  “It is not yours,” Major Stepanoff said. “Is it?”

  Deciding on a half-truth, Phillip shook his head. “No, sir. It belongs to my Captain—to Commander Hazard, of the Royal Navy. He gave it to me for safe-keeping, sir.”

  “Safe-keeping?”

  “To look after for him, sir.”

  Major Stepanoff translated for the Colonel’s benefit and then asked, “Where did he get it? This is a Russian watch, is it not?”

  “It was a gift to the Commander, sir, from a Russian Officer—Prince Narishkin. He was killed at Balaclava and the Commander was with him when he died.”

  “What does he say about Prince Narishkin?” the Colonel asked. He listened thoughtfully to the translation but, before he could express any opinion, a cavalry Officer in a mud-spattered uniform clattered into the room, saluted and proffered the despatch he was carrying. The Colonel read it with furrowed brows, sighed deeply and rose. The room filled, in response to his shout. “We are to leave at once,” he announced, as his Officers gathered round him. “Lieutenant Walburg, you will light the fuse to the magazine. And take these with you.” He indicated the heap of documents littering the desk. “Dispose of them as best you can …” he gave his orders, in a flat, expressionless voice and Phillip, forgotten in the sudden commotion, moved slowly towards the door. He was at the head of the stone steps when Major Stepanoff caught up with him.

  “Wait!” he called in English. The guard who had escorted him from his cell was there also, Phillip saw, and he waited, aware that it would be impossible to escape from both of them. The Russian Officer put the watch into his hand. “You are a brave and noble fellow,” he said softly. “Whoever you are! I am from Odessa and I have heard of Commander Phillip Hazard of the Trojan, so I gladly return his watch to you for safe-keeping. Now … this soldier will take you to the hospital. You will be safe there until we have gone and I have given him a note for the surgeon.”

  He offered his hand and, pocketing the watch, Phillip took it unthinkingly, to see a smile of sudden pleasure light the cavalryman’s dark, expressive eyes.

  “As I thought—this is not the hand of a common sailor and I suspected when I first set eyes on you that you do not ordinarily walk barefoot. Oh, do not concern yourself, I shall say nothing. Andrei Narishkin was my friend and patron and I held my first commission in the Hussars of Odessa. I wish you Godspeed, Commander Hazard!”

  Only when he had gone did Phillip realize that Vladimir Stepanoff had spoken in French and that he had thanked him in the same
language. But he was permitted no time for speculation; his escort, anxious to carry out the orders he had been given and join his unit for the evacuation, hurried him down another flight of stone steps and along what seemed an interminable corridor, sparsely lit by rush torches at infrequent intervals. The soldier did not use his rifle butt to enforce his prisoner’s compliance; he behaved respectfully and, for most of their journey, offered the support of his arm. When they were in sight of their destination, however, the soldier pointed to it, gave him Stepanoff’s note and hurried off, leaving him to his own devices.

  For a moment, Phillip was tempted to make his escape into the town but, having little idea of its whereabouts or the situation there, he thought better of it. Without shoes, he could not walk far and his arm was becoming increasingly painful. He looked down at the stained and filthy bandage and sighed. It would be asking for trouble if he did not, at least, have the dressing changed, and the surgeons would be in as much of a hurry to leave as his escort had been. They would not do more than change the dressing, unless he insisted, and … he smiled wryly to himself, as he crossed another courtyard filled with hurrying men. He would ask for no more; if he had to lose the arm, as the Colonel had predicted, he would prefer a British surgeon to take it off for him when he rejoined the Fleet.

  The hospital proved to be a cold, cheerless cellar, with little more in the way of furnishing for the wounded than lines of straw palliasses and, scattered here and there, a few wooden tables for the surgeons and orderlies to work from. There was a nauseating stench of mortifying flesh, stale vomit, and excreta rising from the score or so of wounded men who still occupied the ward and he drew back at the entrance, his stomach heaving. Better retain the foul dressing on his arm than submit to being treated here, he thought. This was a place of the dead and the poor devils who were left here were being left to die …