Victory at Sebastopol Read online

  He was limping slowly away when a grey-haired man, with a neatly trimmed beard and wearing a smock over his uniform, emerged from a small room opening off the corridor and called out to him by name, in tones of startled recognition.

  Phillip turned, equally startled. Both face and voice were familiar, although he could not, at first, recall the man’s name or remember where they had encountered each other before. Yet evidently they had—the newcomer had addressed him correctly by rank and name, and he was a surgeon, judging by the bloodstained smock and the case of instruments he was carrying.

  “Sir,” he began uncertainly, “surely you are …” still the name would not come but now he remembered the circumstances of their last meeting, more than six months ago, when he had been a prisoner-of-war in Odessa. After he and poor young O’Hara had been dragged, half-frozen, from the icy sea, this man had marvelled at their powers of survival … and he had lent them his own set of chessmen, to while away the long hours of their captivity. “You are Dr Bozenko!” he exclaimed.

  The surgeon bowed. “And you, it would appear, are once again in need of my services, Commander Hazard,” he said, in his precise and careful French.

  “I regret to say I am, Doctor. But—”

  “You are only just in time—I was preparing to leave. Well, come in and let me see what I can do for you.” Dr Bozenko motioned to the room behind him, in which a stove glowed redly, emitting a pleasant warmth. He smiled faintly. “Should one enquire what you are doing here? This time, presumably, you are not a prisoner, since you have come here without an escort … but once again from the sea, I observe. Do you lead an advance party of the British force from whom we are about to retreat?”

  Evading the question, Phillip gave him the note.

  “Ah, this is from Major Stepanoff,” he said, the smile widening. “He asks that you be given what medical treatment is necessary and then instructs me to leave you here … so I will do as I am bidden and ask no questions. Sit down, Monsieur Hazard, if you please, and permit me to examine your wound.”

  The surgeon cut away the soiled bandages and thrust them hastily into the stove. An orderly, in response to his shouted instructions, brought in fresh linen and a steaming bowl of water and, with much tongue-clicking, he cleansed and made a careful examination of the wound, wrinkling his nostrils delicately as he inhaled the odour of putrefaction which was starting to emanate from it. Phillip caught a whiff of this too and had again to fight down the waves of nausea which threatened to overwhelm him. It was the same ghastly stench that had hung over the ward and he knew, only too well, what it portended …

  “Flex your fingers, if you please,” the doctor requested. “So … do you feel, when I touch the palm of the hand? Now the wrist … ah, there is sensation there, not much, but still a little. Now try to close your hand.” Phillip tried, the perspiration breaking out with the intensity of his efforts, but the hand would not close. He looked up to meet the surgeon’s pitying gaze.

  “It is my right hand, Doctor,” he said wretchedly.

  “Even so, Monsieur Hazard,” the doctor began, “You . . .” a tremendous explosion drowned whatever he had been about to say. The whole building shook and Phillip was toppled from his chair, as windows shattered and a shower of tinkling glass covered the floor beside him. Bozenko assisted him to his feet. “That was the magazine,” he stated breathlessly. “Excuse me for one moment—I must see to the men next door.”

  He was gone, and the orderly with him, for almost twenty minutes and as he waited, Phillip came very near to despair. He had seen men lose limbs in battlefield casualty stations and in the tossing cockpit of a ship but familiarity with the ghastly mutilations which had, of necessity, to be performed had not lessened the horror of it, so far as he was concerned. And this was his right arm . . . he shivered, looking down at the wound with sick disgust.

  “Monsieur Hazard!” The dapper little doctor returned, agitated and apologetic, his face and hands begrimed, his grey hair dishevelled and plastered with dirt. “I have orders to leave immediately, so I must ask your forgiveness for having to desert you. I will dress this arm but it should come off, you understand—it must come off. Your people will be here tomorrow—Kertch has fallen to them and already there are English and French ships in the Strait.” He took a bottle of colourless liquid from his case, lifted Phillip’s limp arm and with a murmured, “This will pain you but it may help to ward off the infection,” poured its contents over and into the wound.

  Phillip had to bite back the anguished cry which rose involuntarily to his lips and Dr Bozenko, with quick sympathy, placed the bottle in his left hand and invited him to drink what was left. The raw spirit burned his throat but it had the desired effect and the pain had eased a good deal by the time a fresh dressing had been deftly secured about his arm.

  “I regret that I can do no more for you,” the doctor told him, with genuine distress. “Remain here, in this room, and get what sleep you can. There are shoes and some clothing in the closet—help yourself to anything you need. And the samovar is full.” His orderly appeared in the doorway, calling out something Phillip did not understand but glancing round, he saw that there were three or four women with him, shadowy figures in the dim light dressed in dark robes, with shawls about their heads. Dr Bozenko gestured to them. “These women have offered to stay and care for the wounded until your troops and medical staff arrive. They are Jews and Armenians and they speak no English but they are good women, who have served us well, and they will do what they can, for you and the others. Although, God knows, there is little enough they can do for the others.” He closed his instrument case, gave it to the orderly and stripped off his smock.

  Phillip started to thank him but was cut short. “Take this, Monsieur Hazard.” To his astonishment, he saw that the doctor was pulling a pistol from the tail-coat pocket of his uniform. It was a large, unhandy weapon and he shook his head. “No, Doctor,” he objected. “I shan’t need it, I—”

  The pistol was placed on his knee. “You may, Monsieur Hazard, if the accursed Turks get here first. I would beg you, if you can, to protect these good and innocent women from them—even if you are unable to protect my wounded men in there. I ask you this, as one Christian to another.”

  He was gone before Phillip could bid him farewell, the orderly clumping after him, glum faced and stoical.

  A little later two of the women came in, long dresses rustling as they walked, and shyly offered him food, which he fell upon ravenously and washed down with tea from the doctor’s samovar. He felt better when he had eaten and, impelled by his conscience, managed to don a pair of boots, which he found in the closet and stumble unaided to the main ward. He felt curiously light-headed and his legs barely had the strength to hold him up but he contrived somehow to drag himself the length of the ward, no longer nauseated by its stench and conscious only of the need to satisfy himself that the occupants of the ward were being well cared for by the silent, dark-robed women.

  Evidently guessing his intention, they did not attempt to stop him, content to follow his unsteady progress with their eyes and only when his strength gave out did one of them, a grey-haired Jewess with a gentle smile, come to his assistance and, an arm about his waist, lead him back to the doctor’s room. They had made up a bed for him by the stove, he saw and, unable to argue with his smiling nurse, he let her help him to it, pull off his borrowed boots and cover him with a blanket.

  Silence fell over the deserted fort, broken only by the far-off crackle of musketry and an occasional moan from one of the Russian wounded. Phillip dropped at last into the exhausted sleep, from which he wakened, hours later, feeling as if his whole body—with the exception of his wounded arm—were on fire. The arm, by contrast, seemed to be ice-cold and try as he would, he could not lift it. He stirred restlessly and cool, soft hands moved soothingly about his burning face, while others gently restrained his threshing limbs and someone, he had no idea who, held a cup of water to his parched and stra
ining lips, murmuring words of reassurance in a language he did not understand.

  After a while, lulled by the voice, he slept again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Two Turco-Tunisian regiments were the first to reach Yenikale, which they entered—firing indiscriminately at anyone they met—at a little before noon on 25th May. They were not officially the advance guard of the successful Allied invasion force, which left Kertch two hours after them but, with the connivance of their Commander, Faruk Bey, they had slipped out under cover of darkness to make a rapid march along the coast road, killing and burning as they went.

  Phillip’s first reaction to their arrival was one of shocked disbelief, for it was heralded by the smoke rising from burning buildings and the terrified screams of their inhabitants, as they sought vainly for escape. Listening eagerly for the pipes and drums of the Highland Brigade, he was bewildered by the sounds he heard and unable to account for the presence of a mob of vengeful Turks, who appeared to be running wild without any semblance of discipline, slaughtering all who stood in their way.

  It was only afterwards that he learnt, from an Officer of the 93rd, the events which had led to their presence. The town of Kertch, Captain Campbell told him—occupied without opposition the previous day—had been sacked and brutally plundered by the five thousand strong Turkish contingent, which had been among the first to be landed. Appeals to their Commander-in-Chief, Reschid Pasha, to restrain his troops, had been met with the extraordinary assertion that this could not be done and that, in any case, it was contrary to Turkish military policy to deny the spoils of victory to the victorious.

  When some French Colonial regiments had followed their example and a few rapacious seamen from the British troop transports had also—albeit belatedly—come ashore to seize their share of the looted wine and provision stores, the situation had threatened to get out of hand. With part of the town already in flames, the British military Commander, General Sir George Brown, clamped down firmly on the rioters, sending in the well-disciplined Highland Brigade to restore order, protect the townsfolk, and assist them to fight the fires. This done, he issued instructions that any member of the Allied force, if caught looting or maltreating the inhabitants, was to be arrested, whatever his nationality, and flogged without the formality of a trial.

  The order—reminiscent of the great Duke of Wellington, under whom Sir George had served in the Peninsular War—was carried out with French support and strict impartiality but, inevitably, most of those arrested were Turks and feeling began to run high among the Sultan’s Officers.

  With a score of his men under arrest and awaiting humiliating punishment at the hands of infidels—who clearly did not know how to make war or understand that plunder was often the only pay a Turkish soldier received—Faruk Bey had started on his self-imposed mission in a spirit of bitter resentment against his British allies. Now, having left a ghastly trail of destruction in their wake, his men were beyond his power to control. They had raped, tortured, robbed and murdered, burnt crops and set peaceful dwelling places alight, and they were laden with plunder of every description.

  It had not been part of the Bey’s plan to enter the Russian stronghold of Yenikale; he had no means of knowing whether or not the fort was still defended and he would gladly have called a halt, had he been in a position to do so, but his soldiers had tasted blood and were deaf to the promptings of caution. They charged in, without skirmishers or reconnaissance, ignoring the shouted commands of the more responsible of their Officers and, meeting no resistance, went on a rampage in the town. There Faruk Bey lost most of them but, aware that the main body of the Allied land forces could not now be far behind and anxious to salvage what he could of his reputation, he gathered a handful of them and advanced boldly on the deserted fort.

  Warned of their approach by the fusillade of shots which preceded it, Phillip made what preparations he could to receive them. His first responsibility was to the women and, with no illusions as to the fate which would be in store for them if the Turks suspected their presence, he herded them all into the small room in which he had spent the night and warned them, by signs, to bar the door. They behaved with a courageous dignity that won his admiration; if they were afraid, they did not show it and were reluctant to abandon the men in the ward until he held up the pistol Dr Bozenko had left with him and indicated that he would use it to defend their charges.

  He could find no spare ammunition and wondered wryly for how long he would be able to defend even himself with so inadequate a weapon, if the Turks were really determined on slaughter. Not for the first time, he regretted the loss of his uniform jacket, which might have lent him sufficient authority to order them to seek their victims elsewhere and, conscious that he cut a singularly unimpressive figure in his stained blue trousers and filthy shirt, he positioned himself at the entrance to the ward.

  He felt considerably better after his night’s sleep and, although his right arm was ominously numb and the throbbing in his head continued unabated, he was able to stand without experiencing attacks of vertigo and to walk without too much difficulty.

  The Turks were quite a long time finding him and he was starting to hope that they would fail to penetrate the labyrinth of corridors and cellars which constituted the lower regions of the fort, when he heard voices and the scrape of booted feet on the steps leading down from the rear courtyard. Like jackals in search of carrion, he thought disgustedly, they had tracked down the hospital with its dead and dying Russians and their excited shouts suggested that they were aware that their hunt was at an end.

  Drawing himself up to his full height, Phillip waited, the pistol held, out of sight, in his left hand. The voices came nearer—there were between twenty and thirty of them, as far as he could make out, bunched at the end of the corridor. He called out to them in English and in his best quarterdeck manner to halt and the leaders did so, only to be thrust forward by those behind them, who either had not heard or chose to ignore the order. He repeated it, in the nearest he could get to a stentorian bellow and this time they did stop, eyeing him uncertainly from a distance of fifteen yards.

  “There’s nothing for you here, soldiers,” he told them, still in English. “Return to your duties.”

  A tall, dark complexioned Officer, holding a drawn sword, marched up to him arrogantly. “Who are you, to give orders to my soldiers?” he demanded in passable French.

  Relieved that at least he would be able to make himself understood, Phillip returned crisply, “I am Commander Hazard of Her Britannic Majesty’s ship Huntress, sir. And you?”

  “I am Faruk Bey of the Army of His Magnificence the Sultan of Turkey,” the tall Officer supplied sullenly. He ,scowled, his eyes bright with suspicion as he took in Phillip’s torn clothing, the bandage on his arm, and his unshaven cheeks. “You are not in uniform,” he observed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I am—that is to say, I was—a prisoner-of-war until the Russians evacuated the fort yesterday evening.”

  “The Russians fled yesterday?” The Officer sounded surprised. Despite his claim to be Turkish, he was of Arab ancestry, Phillip decided, and so were most, if not all, the men with him. His heart sank. The Turco-Tunisian mercenaries were among the most cowardly and the worst disciplined in the whole of the Turkish Army … he remembered their behaviour at Balaclava. Entrusted with the defence of the redoubts covering the vital Woronzoff Road, they had fled without firing a shot, abandoning their guns to the enemy. Worse still, as they ran screaming towards the harbour, they had attempted to loot the camp of the 93rd as they passed through it … and these men, judging by the bloodstained state of their garments and the sacks they carried, had been engaged in looting on their way here. Looting and killing … he said sternly, “Perhaps Your Excellency would be good enough to withdraw your men. There is nothing of value for them to steal here.”

  “Nothing?” Faruk Bey was not placated by Phillip’s courteous use of his title. He advanced to within a foot or two of
the ward entrance, attempting to peer into the dark interior. “No Russians? The swine cannot all have fled! Let me pass, Commander Hazard—if that is indeed who you are, which I take leave to doubt. Your ship, the Huntress, was amongst those which covered our landing. I fancy you are a deserter, whom the Russians did not choose to take with them. You have no uniform. The boots you are wearing are Russian.”

  Phillip ignored the accusation. “The men in there are dead or dying,” he stated with dangerous calm.

  “They are Russian curs! Death is what they deserve—let us at them!”

  “They are dying of disease, as well as from wounds. I do not advise you to enter for your own sake, Faruk Bey. In any case, they have nothing worth plundering. I request you to withdraw.” Phillip did not raise his voice but his quiet air of authority was not lost on the Tunisian.

  Faruk hesitated. “You, too, are wounded,” he suggested unpleasantly, flicking at the bandage with the point of his scimitar. He continued to hold his ground, encouraged by murmurs of approval from the men grouped about him, some of whom had evidently followed their conversation—or enough of it to realize that the hospital was not deserted. “And you are alone! One man, against many … stand aside, Englishman!”

  Like a wolf pack scenting blood, there was a concerted howl from the Tunisians and one or two started to edge cautiously forward.

  “I am also armed,” Phillip countered coldly. “And I shall shoot the first man who attempts to pass me.” He displayed the pistol and had the satisfaction of glimpsing sudden fear in the dark eyes, as those who had pressed forward thought better of it and hurriedly stepped back. They might have gone then—they were undecided, Phillip sensed—but, at that most inopportune of moments, he heard a soft rustling sound behind him and turning, saw to his dismay that the grey-haired Jewish woman with the gentle smile was coming to range herself beside him.