The Brave Captains Read online

  “Deck there! The Sanspareil is off the port, sir, in company with two steam sloops. Wasp, sir, and … Lynx, I believe, with Marines aboard.”

  Phillip’s spirits rose. So Admiral Lyons had, after all, obtained the Commander-in-Chief’s approval, he thought with elation, and Sir Colin Campbell was to receive his Marine reinforcements. The Wasp was, he knew, a steam-screw corvette of fourteen guns, commanded by Lord John Hay and, when another shrill hail from the masthead announced that she was signalling for permission to enter harbour to land troops, his spirits rose still higher. Beside him, Commander Heath exclaimed with satisfaction, “Good! Now, perhaps, we may see some positive action … and not before time.” He had his glass to his eye. “The signal station is making acknowledgement.”

  “I think, sir,” Phillip said, “that I had better take this news to Kadi-Koi without delaying any longer. But I should be very greatly obliged if you could send word should the Sanspareil make any signal concerning her intentions. If—”

  “I’ll do better than that, my dear fellow,” Commander Heath put in. “I’ll bring you word in person, God willing.” He clapped a hand on Phillip’s shoulder in smiling farewell and then, shaking his head to some question his officer of the watch asked him, swung himself with the swift ease of long practice, into the mainmast shrouds. He had reached the crosstrees and had his glass to his eye once more before his guest had left the quarterdeck.

  Niger’s duty boat took Phillip across the harbour to the wharf at which he had landed earlier from the Beagle. Fifteen minutes later, mounted on one of Admiral Lyons’s horses and accompanied by a midshipman on a white pony, who had mail for the Naval Brigade, he set off at a brisk canter along the narrow, rutted track which led through the Balaclava gorge to Kadi-Koi. Before he had gone very far, however, he slackened speed on the midshipman’s advice, for the track rapidly became as congested as the harbour he had left.

  A steady stream of wagons, loaded with provisions and drawn by bullocks, creaked up the steep ascent at snail’s pace, meeting mule carts or an occasional camel train proceeding in the opposite direction. Artillery wagons bearing shot and shell and others laden with fascines and gabions lurched over the churned-up, uneven surface, making little better progress than the bullock carts, despite the fact that they were horse-drawn. Here and there, having to draw rein to let them pass, they encountered an infantry fatigue party, the men in faded scarlet coats and a variety of headgear, plodding wearily along like so many sleepwalkers, ration sacks instead of muskets slung over their shoulders. One melancholy little party they met consisted of sick and wounded, on their way to Balaclava for evacuation. A dozen or so stumbled painfully down the track supported by their comrades or hobbling with the aid of roughly fashioned crutches. The rest, too ill to walk, lay huddled in a springless Turkish araba, inert and barely conscious, a few bundles of filthy straw all that was provided to ease the appalling discomfort of their jolting, carelessly driven conveyance.

  The suffering they endured must, Phillip thought pityingly, have been indescribable, especially for those sent down from the field hospitals with shattered or freshly amputated limbs. The manner in which the wounded had been brought down from the Alma had been bad enough, in all conscience, but this—when a distance of almost seven miles had to be covered—seemed to him infinitely worse. Casualties in the batteries and field trenches were high, the midshipman told him, mostly from grape and cannister, and fire from the Russian men-of-war anchored in Sebastopol Harbour, which was usually very accurate.

  “The Vladmir and another steamer caused us a lot of trouble early on, sir. Both ships took a leaf from our book at Odessa, steaming in a circle and firing their broadsides in turn, as they came on target. I was in the One-Gun Battery at the time and it took us all day before we disabled one of them and drove the other off …” He described the action, with evident relish but added regretfully, “Our Lancaster guns are not proving as satisfactory as had been hoped, sir, to tell you the truth. We take the greatest care in laying and in putting in the exact charge and length of fuse but at maximum range—which is supposed to be three thousand six hundred yards—only about one shot in thirty is effective. Even at half this range, we don’t seem to do much better and when you think, sir, that each shell is made by hand and costs about twenty pounds, it’s expensive work, isn’t it, sir?”

  Phillip listened with interest, encouraging the intelligent youngster to talk of his experience with the Naval Brigade and of conditions ashore of which, for a fifteen-year-old, he seemed to have a remarkable grasp. He was, he said, aide-de-camp to the second-in-command of the Naval Brigade, Captain William Peel of the Diamond—the frigate that, stripped of her guns, was now in use as a hospital ship in the harbour at Balaclava. It was evident, as the boy talked on, that he had the greatest admiration for Peel who, according to his enthusiastic account, had already proved at least half a dozen times that he was of the stuff of which heroes were made.

  “The other day—the day after the Fleet bombarded the Sebastopol Forts, it was, sir—a Russian 42-pounder shell fell right in the middle of one of our guns’ crews in the Koh-i-nor Battery, just as some cases of powder were being passed into the magazine. The men threw themselves flat on the ground but Captain Peel, cool as you please, stooped down and picked up the shell. Holding it against his chest, he carried it back to the parapet, stepped up onto the banquette, sir, and rolled it over … whereupon it burst! Our men all think the world of him, of course, and so do I. I feel it’s a great honor to serve as his aide, although it … well, it takes a bit of living up to, as you can imagine, sir.”

  “Indeed I can, Mr Daniel,” Phillip assured him. He knew the gallant Captain Peel well by repute and had met him during the arduous days when the siege-guns were being dragged from Balaclava to the Upland. A son of Sir Robert Peel, he had gained early but well merited promotion and, at thirty, was the youngest officer in the Black Sea Fleet to hold post-rank.

  “I spoke to him about it once, sir,” Midshipman Daniel went on, reddening a little. “And asked his advice … about being afraid, I mean. He told me that everyone was afraid at times, including himself, and the thing was never to show it. He advised me to walk with my head up and my shoulders well back when under fire, and not to do anything with undue haste … he said that was what he did himself, sir, because as officers it was up to us to set the men an example. Well, I took his advice and it was wonderful how much better it made me feel. I don’t like being under fire—the shells aren’t too bad because, when you’ve had a little practice, you can judge pretty well where they’re going to burst. Especially at night, when you can see the glow of the fuses. But when it comes to round shot and cannister …” He looked up to meet Phillip’s gaze, his thin, boyish face suddenly adult in its bitter disillusionment. “I hate to see men killed and wounded, sir … still, in spite of seeing so many, and I fear I always shall hate it, sir.”

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, youngster.”

  “No, sir. I suppose not. But …” The boy hung his head. “Our bluejackets take so little care of themselves, it worries me. They lark about and they can’t resist jumping on to the parapet, trying to make out whether we’ve scored a hit, sir. When we do, they cheer their heads off and most of the time it’s all you can do to make them take cover. That’s why our casualties in the Naval Brigade are higher, in proportion to numbers, than the Army’s. But we lose fewer men from cholera than the soldiers do. Our men are fitter and, although they draw the same rations when they’re ashore as the Army, they’re better fed. I also believe they’re better officered, sir.”

  “Oh? What makes you think that, Mr Daniel?” Phillip prompted.

  “Well, sir …” The midshipman hesitated. “Perhaps this may sound an odd thing to say but I think our officers look after their men better than the Army officers do. Most of them don’t seem to trouble when they’re not actually on duty. They go to their tents, and the men are left to their own devices, with only the non-commi
ssioned officers to supervise them—but our bluejackets always have at least one officer to supervise everything they do. Usually three or four, even if they are only mids, sir … they know their duty.”

  “Go on, Mr Daniel, I should like to hear more.” Phillip was impressed and the boy, sensing this, lost all vestige of shyness.

  “Our men parade before going down to the battery, sir, and each man has to drink his cocoa or coffee and take his issue of quinine and lime juice in the presence of an officer. When they return to camp, the cooks—who aren’t sent to the batteries, sir—have hot soup ready for them and an officer on duty to make sure that it is hot and that the men drink it before they’re dismissed. But the soldiers don’t have company cooks, I’ve noticed, sir. Each man is given his ration of meat and expected to cook it for himself and often he’s too tired or there isn’t enough fire-wood for him to cook it properly. Our camp regulations are much stricter than the Army’s, too, sir, and again it’s the officers who make sure they’re obeyed, on Captain Lushington’s orders. I realize these are only small things, but I believe they matter, sir.”

  “I’m quite certain they do,” Phillip agreed. And, indeed, he reflected, such things mattered a great deal where morale was concerned, as well as bodily fitness and resistance to disease. He had heard that Captain Lushington was having wells dug, so that his seamen might have access to pure, uncontaminated drinking water, and that he insisted that every man should have three hours’ sleep and a supply of dry clothing, before being sent down to Balaclava for rations or to bring up ammunition.

  “Another thing I’ve noticed, sir,” Midshipman Daniel told him, “is that very few of the Army officers know their men by name, as we do … although in the Scottish regiments they do, I think. I’m not saying they are bad officers, sir, or that this is their fault, but their training is different from ours, I suppose. Perhaps it has something to do with being at sea for a four-year commission … going foreign, sir, when we’re all members of the same ship’s company. We train with our men, as cadets and mids—we work together all the time, so that we get to know our men as individuals and think of them as … as fellow human beings. Ours is a different relationship, sir, if you see what I mean. In the Army, the officers—some of them, any-way—seem to … well, to …” He broke off, searching for words and eyeing Phillip anxiously, as if fearing that he might already have said too much. “To hold themselves aloof, as it were, and care only for their own comfort, as if—” Again he broke off uncertainly.

  “To hold themselves aloof and take their privileged status for granted?” Phillip finished for him, smiling. “As if they were a different breed from their men and entitled, on this account, to their respect … whether or not they merit respect on the grounds of professional competence. Is that what you mean, Mr Daniel?”

  “Then you’ve observed it too, sir?” The boy looked relieved. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was trying to say. Oh, they aren’t all like that, of course. The artillery and engineer officers are professionally competent and so are those in the infantry regiments who have seen service in India. But some of the others …” Again he was at a loss for words. “I don’t know how to put this, sir, quite … but they’re amateurs, playing at war, taking command without knowing how and without … well, without regarding command as we’re taught to regard it, as responsibility for men who … who trust us, sir.”

  Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, Phillip thought wryly. But the boy was right; he had put his finger on the essential difference between the naval and military attitude towards the men they led. A naval officer shared the hardships and dangers of each voyage with his men and their relationship was based on mutual dependence—on the men’s loyalty and trust and on the officer’s ability to command these. Joining the Service at an early age, he very soon learned that the privileged status of an officer was not granted to him, as to his military counterpart, by right of purchase of a Queen’s commission. As a mere boy, when others of his age were still at school, he was given responsibility for the safety, the well-being, and often the lives of adult seamen and he learned by hard and bitter experience what this responsibility meant. He was put in command of a boat, a gun’s crew, a shore party and, at sea, he went aloft in all weathers with the men of his division, constantly on his mettle and always aware that his command was nominal until, by his men’s measure of his competence, this became actual. And he could not buy promotion, he …

  “Look, sir, who’s coming!” Midshipman Daniel pointed along the track to where a small mounted party was approaching the head of the gorge from the direction of the Cavalry Camp in the South Valley. The riders came at a fast canter, raising a cloud of dust in their wake and a plodding file of infantrymen, laden with sacks of provisions and dragging a handcart, hastily scattered to avoid being ridden down.

  The leader of the cavalcade was a tall officer in the magnificent blue and cherry-red uniform of the 11th Hussars, astride a blood chestnut draped with a crested shabraque. Riding beside him was a curiously incongruous figure in a black civilian frock coat and flat-brimmed “bell topper,” while two aides-de-camp and four troopers, all wearing the uniform of the 11th, clattered at his heels to complete the party.

  “Major-General Lord Cardigan, sir,” Midshipman Daniel explained unnecessarily, for Phillip had already recognized the commander of the Light Cavalry Brigade. Indeed, he thought, there was no mistaking that eye-catching figure in the resplendent uniform for any other as, with typical arrogance and without acknowledgement, the Earl swept past the weary foot soldiers. The sunlight struck bright reflections from the thick rows of gold lace frogging which adorned his brief, perfectly fitting jacket and from the richly braided, fur-trimmed pelisse slung by its cords from one shoulder. He sat his big thorough-bred with the easy grace of an accomplished horseman, long legs encased in cherry-red overalls, a handsome man, his erect and well-proportioned body belying his 57 years. So, too, did the flowing, carefully trimmed moustache and the luxuriant ginger whiskers, neither of which appeared—at first glance—to be touched with grey.

  Having regard for the speed of their approach and not wishing to suffer the fate of the infantry fatigue party, who were now brushing dust from their faces, Phillip kneed his horse to the side of the track so as to permit the Earl his escort free passage and young Daniel, after a momentary hesitation, followed his example. Both saluted and Lord Cardigan, recognizing their naval uniforms, raised a hand in casual response and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, reined in beside them.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his tone peremptory, addressing Phillip. His civilian companion, taken by surprise at his unexpected change of direction, brought his sweating horse, with difficulty, to a standstill some yards away.

  Phillip introduced himself. At the mention of his ship, his questioner grunted with evident satisfaction.

  “Agamemnon, eh? Good … I thought I recognized that bay you’re riding. One of your Admiral’s is it not?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m appointed temporarily to the Rear-Admiral’s staff. If there’s any way in which I can serve your lordship, I—”

  Lord Cardigan did not let him finish. “You can tell me if the Admiral is coming ashore today.”

  Phillip started to explain that this was uncertain but, as before, he was interrupted. “Never mind, the matter is of no great consequence … it can wait until tomorrow. Capital fellow, your Admiral—but like all you sailors, he’s no judge of horseflesh. Tell him from me to get rid of that spavined brute you’re on. It will give him nothing but trouble.” Lord Cardigan nodded, in curt but not unfriendly dismissal and, turning to the black-garbed gentleman who accompanied him, said with a complete change of tone, “All right, Squire—we’ll go on, shall we? Sorry to have delayed you … it was just an idea I had.”

  The cavalcade reformed and continued on its way.

  “Meaning no disrespect, sir,” Midshipman Daniels remarked, when they were safely out of earshot, “But that’s an example of what I
was trying to say concerning the difference between the Army officers and our own.”

  “You’re referring to his lordship, I imagine?” Phillip returned, aware that he ought not to encourage the youngster to criticize his superiors, yet tempted to do so, since his own feelings were similar.

  Daniel nodded, “Yes, sir. Captain Lushington, with my Chief and Captain Moorsom, command the Naval Brigade and, although the Diamond is in harbour and they could … well, be quite justified in living aboard her, sir, they don’t. They’re under canvas with the rest of us. But his lordship is commanding the Light Cavalry Brigade from the harbour sir, isn’t he? And not even from a naval ship—from his own private yacht, the Dryad which, they say, his friend, Mr Hubert de Burgh, brought out here to accommodate him. I don’t know if this is true, sir, but I’ve heard he has a French chef aboard. We …” He grinned mischievously, “we’ve nicknamed him ‘The Featherbed Soldier,’ sir, and the Army call him ‘The Noble Yachtsman,’ I believe.” He added, quite seriously, “How can you command a Brigade of Cavalry from a yacht, sir?”

  Phillip wisely refrained from comment. But, once again, he thought, this boy was right—he had cited the supreme example of the assumption of privileged status. James Thomas Brudenell, Earl of Cardigan, was wealthy and influential; he had an extremely bad reputation as an army officer and had been removed from command of the 15th Hussars some twenty years previously … yet this had not prevented his military advancement. Less than two years after a court martial had censured him severely, he had been permitted to purchase—for a price rumoured to be in the region of forty thousand pounds—command of the 11th, then a light dragoon regiment, serving in India. And now he was a Major-General, commanding the Light Cavalry Brigade and, if the gossip of the camps were to be believed, constantly at logger-heads with his immediate superior, the Earl of Lucan, who was in overall command of the Cavalry Division and his brother-in-law.