by V. A. Stuart
Ambrose Quinn had not previously spoken his mind so frankly and, hoping that it might be possible to meet him at least half-way, Phillip let him have his say without interruption. But the faint hope had faded as Quinn, emboldened by his silence and once again mistaking this for weakness, talked on with growing arrogance. There could be no possibility of accepting the olive branch—if such it was—that he now appeared to be offering, on his terms.
Phillip continued to listen attentively to a stream of grievances but his patience began to wear thin. He could not compromise with a man like Quinn, he knew, or indeed with any man in whose integrity he had so little confidence. And he could not allow his second-in-command the free hand for which he had asked, in the present circumstances, while poor young Lightfoot’s life still hung in the balance and the cause of the boy’s accident remained in doubt. In addition, he thought glumly, Quinn’s methods of instilling discipline were of the kind that he had always deplored—they smacked too much of the late Henry North’s methods and he would not countenance them, least of all in a ship under his own command. Discipline might at present leave something to be desired but the Huntress’s crew did—as Quinn had said—consist largely of men who were unaccustomed to service at sea, and they had barely had time, as yet, to shake down properly. Troopship conditions hadn’t helped; nor had his youthful, inadequately trained officers, but now …
“Well, Commander Hazard?” Quinn’s voice broke into his thoughts. The First Lieutenant’s eyes, narrowed and speculative, were fixed on his face, as if in an effort to assess the effect of his words. Evidently deciding that he had achieved his object, he continued, his tone confident, “I can handle men, if I’m allowed to … but ever since you took command of this ship, you’ve seen to it that I couldn’t do my duty as it ought to be done. A good officer can’t handle his crew with kid gloves; they don’t respect him if he does. They’re scum, sir, most of them, and they have to be taught who’s master. I know—I’ve served on the lower deck, don’t forget. And I—”
Phillip cut him short. Slowly and with deliberate purposefulness, he rose to his feet. “I, too, have had experience of licking a raw crew into shape, Mr Quinn,” he pointed out pleasantly. “And in the case of this ship’s company, I prefer to do what is necessary to smarten them up without too much coercion.”
“Coercion, sir? I don’t think I follow you.”
“Then let me put it quite plainly, Mr Quinn. I do not believe in unduly harsh punishment for minor misdemeanours, particularly those which are the result of youthful high spirits. Discipline must be enforced, we both know that, but I do not believe in punishing what are often honest mistakes or errors born of inexperience.”
“I had observed that you don’t believe in flogging either, sir.” There was a faint but unmistakable sneer in the First Lieutenant’s voice. “But that, no doubt, is because you are new to command. You—”
Phillip eyed him coldly. “I flog only for serious crimes, Mr Quinn, or when I consider the offender incorrigible by any other means and I should be obliged if you would remember it. As to my being new to command, as you have twice remarked, it has evidently escaped your notice that I held the acting command of a 31-gun frigate, in this theater of war, for over three months before being appointed to this ship.”
“You mean you commanded the Trojan?” Quinn was no longer sneering and his astonishment appeared genuine.
“I mean that I commanded the Trojan,” Phillip confirmed. He did not enlarge on this but went on, “I have not been blind to the fact that this ship lacked experienced officers, I assure you, but that is now to be rectified. The Commander-in-Chief has granted my request for four Trojan officers to replace four of our present youngsters, who will be transferred to the Agamemnon first thing tomorrow morning. Two of our new officers are midshipmen, Mr Grey—whom I shall promote to Acting-Mate, in place of Mr Cotterell—and Mr O’Hara. Both, I understand, have already reported aboard and the other two are to follow.”
The First Lieutenant nodded, stony-faced and clearly taken aback. “Two Trojan officers did accompany the surgeon,” he said. “But I did not realize that they were to be appointed to this ship. There was no opportunity for me to talk to them; they had just come aboard when young Lightfoot fell from the mainmast and I … well, I suppose I took it for granted that, like the surgeon, they had merely called to pay their respects to you. I …” he hesitated and then, in a belated attempt to reassert his authority, added, “I’ll see that they report to you at once, sir.”
“No, don’t trouble,” Phillip bade him. “I am going below and I’ll pass the word for them myself, after I’ve seen Mr Light-foot. But you may instruct Mr Cotterell, Mr Jones, Mr Finch, and the Assistant-Master to make ready for transfer to the flagship and invite them to take breakfast with me tomorrow morning, if you would, please. Thank you, Mr Quinn—carry on, if you please.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Quinn acknowledged reluctantly. He stood aside to permit Phillip to precede him from the chartroom, his mouth a hard, bitter line. “If I may say so, sir, I think it’s a pity that you’ve decided to let Mr Cotterell go—he has the makings of a good officer.”
An officer of his own stamp, Phillip thought, who, as Mate, had acted as his informant and an all too willing instrument of justice, when the high spirits of the occupants of the midshipmen’s berth had led them into childish breaches of discipline or—as in Lightfoot’s case—thoughtless acts of defiance. However, once removed from Ambrose Quinn’s influence, young Cotterell probably would make a good officer, given time and the right example. He was intelligent and not by nature a petty tyrant, any more than Lightfoot was a thief.
Phillip nodded curtly but did not reply to Quinn’s parting remark. As he slowly crossed the snow-covered deck and started to descend by the after hatchway, he reviewed what had passed between them, brows knit in a pensive frown. He had, he supposed wearily, made it clear to his First Lieutenant that, having been appointed Captain of the Huntress, he intended to command her and to delegate none of his authority, until he was certain that it would not be abused.
Quinn, on the other hand, taking the opportunity he had been given to express his feelings and air his smouldering grievances, had made it equally clear that his loyalty was nonexistent and his support unreliable. He was evidently yearning for the conditions he had enjoyed aboard his East Indiaman, at sea for long months at a time under a figurehead captain, who had been too ill or too indifferent to question anything he did and who had been satisfied simply to complete each voyage in good time and without trouble. Yet surely even Ambrose Quinn could hardly have expected to find such a situation—and such a Captain—in the Royal Navy in time of war? He had never talked of the Huntress’s first captain, the Honorable Francis Willoughby, who had brought the ship out from England and died just before reaching Constantinople, but, from all accounts, Willoughby had been several years older than Quinn and something of a taut hand. He would have got no change out of Willoughby, of course, but he might well have over-estimated his own chances of being given the vacant command. He might indeed still be hoping for this and … Phillip gave vent to an exasperated sigh.
If he were, then obviously a showdown between Quinn and himself had been inevitable—although whether this had improved matters remained to be seen. It had cleared the air, perhaps, and given each of them the measure of the other, but he doubted if it had done much more and even this, to his infinite regret, had only been achieved as a result of Lightfoot’s tragic fall. He had failed poor little Lightfoot, Phillip told himself bitterly, by allowing Quinn too much rope and because, until now, he had tried to handle him with consideration and—how had the man himself put it?—with kid gloves. He drew himself up, conscious suddenly of a cold, hard anger. There would be no more kid gloves, where his second-in-command was concerned, he decided. Ambrose Quinn, whether he realized it or not, had come to the end of his rope.
CHAPTER TWO
“Ah, there you are, Commander Hazard! I was just
on my way to report my patient’s progress to you.”
Phillip recognized the familiar portly figure of Angus Fraser coming towards him and, thankfully thrusting the problem of Quinn to the back of this mind, he greeted the elderly Scottish surgeon warmly. “It was a most fortunate chance that you were on board, Doctor. Needless to tell you, I am immensely grateful for your presence and for your timely aid to my poor little cadet. Step into my cabin, won’t you, and tell me how he is faring? Better, perhaps, than I’d feared if your expression is anything to go by.”
“Well, I think maybe we shall pull the wee lad through.” Surgeon Fraser looked about him approvingly as he followed Phillip into his day cabin, accepting a chair and a generous tot of neat whisky with murmured thanks. “This is a grand snug ship,” he observed, raising his glass in smiling salute. “And I confess I should not have minded being transferred to her myself, for the Trojan has become a mite too taut for my liking. But …” He shrugged his ample shoulders, still smiling. “As to your lad, he has a truly amazing constitution and more spunk than many a man of twice his age. I’d be rash if I promised you that he’ll recover completely but he has a better than even chance. His injuries are fairly extensive, as might be expected—a fractured leg and arm, two or three broken or badly bruised ribs, and an almighty lump on the back of his head. I’ve set his fractures and trussed him up but he’s still badly shocked, so I’d not advise moving him tonight.”
“We’re under orders to sail tomorrow morning,” Phillip told him. “And we carry only an assistant-surgeon, who is young and not very well up in his duties.”
“Aye, well then, I’ll bide with him for tonight,” Angus Fraser offered. “If that’s agreeable to you? Then tomorrow we can shift him to the Trojan, where I’ll be able to keep him under my eye until he can be transferred to Therapia … if that is necessary. It might not be—young bones mend quickly and, as I told you, this wee fellow of yours has a most enviable constitution and plenty of spunk. He may heal as well as young Durbanville and, it’s to be hoped, with both his legs. Anyway, Commander, he has regained his senses and has been asking for you.” The surgeon drained his glass, eyeing Phillip quizzically over its rim. “I rather fancy the laddie has something on his conscience, for which he is anxious to apologize to you.”
“Apologize to me?” Phillip echoed. “Then he shall, if that’s what he wants, poor little chap … although, between ourselves, Doctor, the boot is on the other foot, I’m afraid. For various reasons, I—” He made to rise but Angus Fraser shook his grizzled head.
“It can wait a while, Commander Hazard. The boy is sleeping now. And I’ve been wanting a word with you.”
“Of course.” Phillip resumed his seat. “Is there something else you wish to tell me concerning the boy?”
“To ask you, rather,” the surgeon amended. “If you will indulge my curiosity. Ah, thanks.” He permitted his host to refill his glass. “I needed this, it’s a miserably cold night. Much worse, though, for the poor fellows in the siege batteries and trenches on shore than it is for us … or so I remind myself, when I’m tempted to complain of my lot. But damn it, Hazard, I’m not a young man and this infernal cold penetrates my very bones! You maybe wouldn’t think so, with all the flesh I have on me, but it does, I give you my word. The devil take this ill-omened war! If it did not feel so like desertion, I’d apply to be sent home.” He sipped moodily at his whisky and Phillip watched him, without impatience, knowing both his courage and his worth. Angus Fraser might grumble—he frequently did—but he never spared himself no matter what the conditions he had to endure.
“And how is that leg of yours?” he demanded, after a short, contemplative silence. “Eh, Commander Hazard? The truth now, if you please.”
“It scarcely troubles me at all, thanks to you, Doctor,” Phillip assured him, not entirely truthfully.
“Small thanks to yourself, anyway, if it does not,” Fraser returned dryly. “You neglect that old wound shamefully and I observe that you still limp.” He set down his glass, shaking his head to the offer of another tot. “No, that will suffice … I still have work to do, and I should like to take a look at your leg before I go.” Sensing that Phillip was about to object, he changed the subject. “About that boy Lightfoot … do you know what possessed him to attempt to climb to the main topmast, on a night like this? The laddie’s not soft in the head, is he?”
“No, not by any means. He …” Phillip hesitated.
“Your First Lieutenant—Quinn’s his name, I understand— insisted that he was skylarking,” the old surgeon put in, frowning. “But I’ve my doubts on that score, since one of his messmates told me he had a bad head for heights and had never previously gone aloft by himself. As luck would have it, he’d barely got half-way up the mainmast when he fell, but the whole business seems a mite odd, don’t you agree?”
With so old and trusted a friend as Surgeon Fraser, there was no need to hide his own misgivings and Phillip nodded, tight-lipped. “Yes, I agree,” he admitted. “And I questioned Mr Quinn as soon as I came aboard. But he swears he didn’t order the boy aloft—nor, he says, did he punish or threaten to punish him, apart from taking him out of my gig’s crew.” He repeated the gist of his interview with his second-in-command and then asked uneasily, “I suppose Lightfoot has said nothing to you?”
“No, not a word. He’s not the kind to blab, I would imagine, and if he’d been caught smoking, maybe he. …” The surgeon’s shrewd grey eyes met Phillip’s with a question in them. Then he shrugged and went on, “I do not much care for the cut of your First Lieutenant, if I may be frank. This, coupled with the fact that Captain Crawford mentioned your having asked for Lieutenant Laidlaw to be transferred to this ship—in addition to your brother and young Anthony Cochrane—well, it gave me food for thought, shall we say?”
“I’m not to have Laidlaw,” Phillip informed him regretfully.
“Aye, so I heard. A pity, for it would have meant a well-deserved step-up for him … he’s still only the Trojan’s senior watchkeeper. I take it that, since Their Lordships have not yet seen fit to restore your brother’s commission, you were hoping that Duncan Laidlaw might replace your present First Lieutenant?”
“Yes,” Phillip confessed. “I was. I’m very short of experienced officers, you see, and I cannot make young Cochrane up, he’s too junior. But I’ll be glad to have him, all the same. Needless to tell you, though, the one person I’d give anything to have with me now is Martin Fox.” He sighed, thinking, as he often did, of the man who had been his First Lieutenant when the Trojan had been under his command and who, since their midshipmen days, had been his closest friend. But Fox was dead, his valuable life thrown away in defense of Eupatoria, the Tartar town which was now to be handed over to the Turks. Poor Martin! His, it seemed, like so many others in this war, had been a wasted sacrifice.
Surgeon Fraser grunted sympathetically, as if guessing his thoughts and, rising with unexpected speed for one of his bulk, he gestured to Phillip to pull up his trouser leg. “I’ll just take a wee peek at that tibia of yours,” he said. “Since I’m here. I don’t much like to see you limping, Commander Hazard, and if you’re leaving this anchorage in the morning, it would be as well, don’t you think?”
Phillip shrugged resignedly and submitted, with a good grace, to his examination, which was swift but thorough.
“You keep a dressing on it, I see,” the surgeon remarked, blunt fingers gently probing.
“Well, yes, there’s still the occasional splinter coming through. But—”
“So I observe. But it is not in bad shape, for all that. You’re fortunate to have kept this leg, Commander—yon Russian surgeon made a grand job of it, believe me.” Fraser sat back on his heels, nodding his approval. “Do you have some fresh bandages or shall I send for my medical bag? I’d like to strap this up for you properly.”
“I have some in my night cabin, Doctor,” Phillip answered reluctantly. “But there’s no need for you to trouble. I can dr
ess the leg myself; I’m used to doing it. Besides I ought to go and see young Lightfoot. Didn’t you say he was asking for me?”
“Aye, I did,” the surgeon agreed placidly. “But I also told you he would be sleeping. It will be best for him if he does, poor laddie. His apology can wait till morning, can’t it?”
“Of course, if you say so. Only I was hoping—”
“That our young friend may tell you what he has failed to tell me?” Fraser suggested. “Aye, well, he may though I take leave to doubt it. He did not utter a sound when I was putting his broken bones back into place, so …” He smiled. “Be so good as to fetch me those bandages, will you please, Commander Hazard? In any case I’ve something more to say to you—something relevant, I believe, to the problem which is exercising your mind just now. When I left the Trojan with Mr Cochrane and your brother, I hadn’t quite decided whether I might be doing more harm than good, if I brought the matter to your attention—although I was asked to do so. My meeting with your First Lieutenant and this unhappy accident finally made the decision for me.” He sighed. “I think it’s something you should know, if you aren’t already aware of it.” His tone was unusually grave and Phillip, after studying him thoughtfully for a moment, brought him the bandages he had asked for and resumed his seat.
“Well?” he invited curiously. “What is this matter of which you think I may be in ignorance? I presume, from your preamble, that it concerns Mr Quinn, either directly or indirectly. Am I correct?”
Angus Fraser picked up one of the bandages and started to apply it. “Aye,” he confirmed. “It concerns Mr Quinn and your predecessor, Commander Francis Willoughby. But what I’m about to tell you is second-hand, though I’ve no reason to doubt the truth of it and, as I said, you may know all there is to know better than I do.”
