by V. A. Stuart
“None, sir?” Quinn put in, brows knit. “Not even in an emergency? I understand what action you wish me to take should the gig, after three attempts, fail to rendezvous with you but I—”
“In, that case,” Phillip interrupted impatiently, “the gig must return to the ship at once. You may arrange a recall signal, if you wish—a single blast on the steam siren, rather than a flare, perhaps, which might attract too much attention.”
“Very well, sir. But”—the First Lieutenant was still frowning—“I should like to mention one possibility you may have overlooked. Suppose, for any reason, that you wanted to warn the gig not to close the shore, to … well, to avoid its being seen or because there was a risk of its being fired on by a Cossack patrol or even taken by the enemy? Would it not be advisable to arrange a signal to cover such an eventuality?”
He was right, Phillip realized. He had overlooked this particular possibility and Quinn’s suggestion was a sensible one. Yet how could he and Graham make any kind of signal from the cove? A flare would be seen, from inland as well as to seaward, even if the fog did not lift, and he was reluctant to carry one on his person or ask his brother to do so. For one thing, it would be a cumbersome burden and, for another, if they were stopped and searched, any signalling apparatus found in their possession would not be easy to explain. The same objections might apply to a lantern although they could, of course, take one ashore with them and conceal it somewhere near their landing-place, for use in the kind of emergency his second-in-command visualized. He turned to Quinn, about to tell him that they would take a lantern but, before he could speak, the First Lieutenant’s frown lifted.
“A fire, sir—quite a small one, of brushwood and flotsam— might serve your purpose, I fancy. If you did not wish the gig to enter the cove or her crew to come ashore, you could warn them by lighting a small fire, couldn’t you?”
“Thank you, Mr Quinn—an excellent suggestion,” Phillip agreed. “That is what we will do.” He took out his pocket watch, uneasily aware that time was slipping by. He must visit Cochrane and he wanted to talk to his brother before he turned in … he glanced at Quinn. “Is there anything else?”
Ambrose Quinn hesitated, looking down at his boots and avoiding his commander’s gaze, as if in momentary indecision but finally he glanced up, his heavily jowled face a deeper shade of red than it normally was. “There is one thing more, sir,” he answered, with unexpected diffidence. “I have a request to make.”
“A request?” Phillip prompted, endeavouring to conceal his impatience. “And what is it, pray?”
The First Lieutenant drew himself up, an odd expression in his dark eyes which somehow defied analysis. “I’d be very much obliged if you would log the orders you’ve just given me, Commander Hazard … in full, if you please.”
Phillip stared at him uncomprehendingly. “You’re asking me to log my orders—why, for heaven’s sake? Surely you understand them?”
“I understand them perfectly, sir, but … your instructions are somewhat unusual, aren’t they? I mean, sir, I have to think of my own position and you are placing a heavy responsibility upon me. Not to put too fine a point on it, I could find myself in a situation when—in strict accordance with your orders—I had to abandon you and the Master of this ship in enemy territory. That is so, isn’t it, sir?”
It was, Phillip was forced to concede and, as he stood facing his second-in-command, he was suddenly conscious of an icy stab of fear. He had never completely trusted Ambrose Quinn, never been certain of his loyalty, and all his instinctive misgivings concerning the man came flooding back into his mind. He recalled what Surgeon Fraser had told him about the court of inquiry into Commander Willoughby’s death and the strangely contradictory evidence Quinn had given and his still unresolved doubts returned to plague him afresh. There was also the accident to little Cadet Lightfoot … Phillip’s mouth compressed. If he acceded to this request and logged his orders, he would be putting a weapon into Quinn’s hands by means of which his First Lieutenant could destroy him with impunity, if he had a mind to … and there was no way of knowing what was in his mind. His expression betrayed nothing save, perhaps, for a flicker of uneasiness in his eyes but … young Lieutenant Risk had also been uneasy, Phillip reminded himself, when he had outlined his plan of action. In the circumstances, Quinn’s request was not an unreasonable one and, rack his brains as he might, he could think of no excuse for refusing it.
If only Anthony Cochrane had not gone sick at this most inopportune of moments! There was Grey, of course, and also O’Hara but both were too young and too junior … for their own sakes, he could not confide his doubts to either of them, he knew, and Graham would be with him on shore. Which left only Cochrane, if he were well enough and …
“Commander Hazard”—Quinn’s deep, grating voice broke unpleasantly into his thoughts—“shall I bring the log to you now, sir?”
“You may leave it here,” Phillip told him curtly. “I’ll attend to the matter after I have paid a visit to Mr Cochrane. And I shall want to see the Assistant-Surgeon also—perhaps you’d be good enough to pass the word for him to report to me. Thank you, Mr Quinn—that’s all. Carry on, please.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The First Lieutenant smiled, apparently satisfied. He went to the door of the cabin and held it open, standing aside to allow Phillip to precede him and then, as if suddenly changing his mind, he added in a conversational tone, “I understand, sir, that you and the Master were both prisoners-of-war in Odessa some months ago. You were taken with the Tiger, weren’t you?”
The question, casually voiced, was so completely unexpected that Phillip halted in his tracks, smothering an exclamation. “Yes,” he confirmed, after a barely perceptible pause. “We were, Mr Quinn. Why do you ask? I scarcely think it’s any concern of yours.” He spoke with brusque impatience, anxious to be on his way but Ambrose Quinn was not to be put off.
“No, perhaps not, Commander Hazard,” he said. “But I was curious, you see.” The sentry on duty outside the cabin came smartly to attention and Quinn went on with studied insolence, making no attempt to lower his voice, “Is it true that your brother—the Master—was offered command of a Russian frigate, if he took service with the enemy? I heard a rumor to that effect and, as I say, I was curious … although I did not imagine there could be any truth in the rumor.”
Phillip could feel the blood draining from his cheeks. In God’s name, he asked himself bitterly, how had Ambrose Quinn got wind of that story? Not, surely not from Graham himself? From Cochrane … no, it could not have been from Anthony Cochrane who, except on duty, hardly exchanged a word with him. And the two midshipmen had known nothing about the affair, so that he could not have learned of it from them. From whom, then? A cold anger filled him but somehow he managed to control himself and reply, with icy dignity, “I fear that you will have to contain your curiosity, Mr Quinn— or at any rate confine it strictly to your own concerns. Carry on, if you please.”
The First Lieutenant seemed about to question his dismissal but the appearance of the Assistant-Surgeon caused him, to Phillip’s relief, to change his mind. With a stiff, “Aye, aye, sir,” he stepped out into the narrow alleyway and the young Assistant-Surgeon, in a state of some agitation, brushed past him.
“Sir,” the young man requested urgently, addressing Phillip, “may I have a word with you?” He was clutching a heavy medical tome to his thin chest, holding it open with a visibly trembling hand and, fearing he might drop it, Phillip took it from him before leading the way into his cabin.
Then, closing the door behind him, he thrust the boy into a chair. “Now, Mr Brown,” he invited quietly. “Tell me what’s the matter.”
Poor young Brown swallowed hard. He said, making a commendable effort to speak calmly, “It’s Lieutenant Cochrane, sir—I … I’ve looked up his symptoms in my medical books, sir, and they’re all here”—he gestured to the heavy book that Phillip was still holding—“I’ve marked the page, sir, and I—I’
m very much afraid that he has the cholera.” He swallowed again, frank terror in his eyes as they met those of his commander. “If you’d read that passage, sir, the one I’ve marked, you—you’ll see I’m right.”
“I don’t need to read it, Mr Brown,” Phillip told him wryly. “I’ve seen a great many cases of cholera. Tell me—how many have you seen?”
“I …” Brown blinked at him. “None, sir. But—”
“I was on my way to visit Mr Cochrane when you reported to me. We’ll go and see him together, I think, when you have calmed yourself. Here … Phillip poured a measure of whisky into a glass and placed it between the young surgeon’s trembling fingers. “Drink that, lad.”
“Thank you, sir.” Brown drained the glass at a gulp and some of the colour started to return to his pale, bespectacled face. “I’m sorry, sir. I lost my head a bit. I thought at first that Mr Cochrane had eaten something that had disagreed with him but then when I started to consult my books, I …” he shuddered. “I wasn’t sure.”
“You will probably find that your first diagnosis was correct,” Phillip told him gently. “We’ll go and make sure, shall we … if you’re ready, Mr Brown?”
“I’m ready, sir.” The boy scrambled to his feet, flushed and shamefaced but again making a brave effort to pull himself together.
Phillip led the way aft without haste, at pains to present the outward appearance of calm.
There were still some cases of cholera among the troops and the Naval Brigade on shore, he was aware, but since the onset of winter the Fleet had been relatively free of the disease. It was, of course, possible that the infection might have been brought on board the Huntress by one or more of her passengers, although no cases had, to his knowledge, been reported of late among the Turkish troops. True, Varna—with its surrounding marshes—had been a notorious source of infection the previous year, when the British and French armies had been quartered there, and they had picked up the last contingent of Turks from Varna but … He stifled a sigh. Please God young Brown had yielded to unnecessary panic, he prayed silently, as he pushed open the door of Cochrane’s cabin and, lowering his head, stepped inside.
Anthony Cochrane, a trifle wan of face but otherwise more or less his normal self, looked up at him from the cot and Phillip saw, to his relief, that O’Leary was in attendance on the invalid, grinning his usual cheerful, gap-toothed grin which was, in itself, reassurance. Catching sight of the Assistant-Surgeon at his commander’s back, the big Irishman, with a murmured “Beggin’ your pardon, sorr,” advanced on the pink-cheeked youth, who sought vainly to efface himself.
“Och, now, but you surely were not troubling the Captain with your crazy notions, were yez? And after me tellin’ ye that Mr Cochrane would be as roight as rain in a day or so? I’d loike to take the back o’ me hand to you, so I would! You—”
“That will do, O’Leary,” Phillip warned. “Mr Brown is doing the best he can.”
“Aye, aye, sorr,” O’Leary acknowledged reluctantly. Then his grin returned. “So help me, I’ll make a doctor of him yet, sorr, but he takes a powerful lot o’ teaching.”
Phillip’s mouth twitched. “I believe you, O’Leary.” He dismissed both Brown and his would-be mentor and turned to Anthony Cochrane. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m a lot better, sir. The brisket I had for dinner … it must have been tainted. But I’ll be fit for duty tomorrow, if you need me, honestly, sir.” The young watchkeeper struggled to sit up but, a restraining hand on his shoulder, Phillip shook his head. “You stay where you are, Mr Cochrane—at least until the more reliable of your medical advisers pronounces you fit! I’ll manage without you tomorrow.”
Indeed, he would have to, he thought regretfully when, after exchanging a few pleasantries, he left Cochrane to sleep and, rather wearily, made for the gun-room in search of his brother. Poor Cochrane’s bout of sickness had left him as weak as a kitten; whatever he said, he was obviously in no state to return to duty and, least of all, to undertake the arduous duty of boat commander within the next 24 hours. It was unfortunate but there seemed little he could do … except trust Ambrose Quinn. In the light of his second-in-command’s parting remark, he felt less inclined to trust the man than ever before, but he had been left with no alternative—or none that his tired brain could think of just then.
Reaching the door of the gun-room, Phillip paused, going over once again in his mind what Quinn had said—and implied—concerning his brother. It might, perhaps, be best if he did not repeat any of it to Graham, at any rate not until tomorrow night … by which time, God willing, they would have accomplished their mission. The First Lieutenant had got his facts right—whoever he had obtained them from—and, even if the implication he had drawn from these was a distortion of the truth, Graham could neither deny nor disprove the underlying accusation, however damaging this might be to himself.
Phillip closed his eyes, conscious that his head was aching and that he had been a long time without sleep, for he had been on deck before dawn. He sighed and put out a hand to support himself against the bulkhead, feeling suddenly as weak as Anthony Cochrane had looked a few minutes ago. How long would it be, he wondered dully, before Quinn contrived to ferret out the story of his own brief association with the Russian Grand Duchess—a niece of the Tsar—to whom, prior to the declaration of war, the Trojan had given passage from England and whom he, in all innocence, had known as Mademoiselle Sophie? And how long would it take his secondin-command to guess that Mademoiselle Sophie was now, in all probability, in Odessa?
He sighed and then, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, pushed open the door into the gun-room. From inside, the sound of voices abruptly ceased and, as Phillip entered, the three occupants of the mess—Ambrose Quinn, Mr Haynes, the corpulent, white-haired Purser, and Luke Williamson, the youthful Third Lieutenant—all rose, with varying degrees of slowness, to their feet. Graham was not with them and Quinn said quickly, anticipating his question, “If you’re looking for the Master, sir, he took over Mr Cochrane’s watch and—”
Phillip cut him short. “Relieve the deck, if you please, Mr Williamson,” he ordered. “And request the Master to report to me in my cabin.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Lieutenant Williamson, his thin, pink face oddly flushed, obeyed him with alacrity, evidently anxious to make his escape. For some reason he looked guilty, as if the unexpected arrival of his commander had surprised him in the commission of some act of which he was ashamed, but Ambrose Quinn appeared, by contrast, smugly pleased with himself. He exchanged a smile with the Purser and offered smoothly, “I have placed the ship’s log in your cabin, Commander Hazard, as you requested. I trust you will find all quite in order, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Quinn,” Phillip returned. “I trust I shall. Pray resume your seats, gentlemen.”
They did so, both smiling, and he left them, again aware of an instinctive uneasiness sounding, like an alarm bell, in his brain. …
CHAPTER FOUR
The fog cleared during the night and at five bells of the Middle Watch, Phillip was informed that the Gladiator had signalled the squadron, ordering them to set course for Odessa and proceed under engines. Well before dawn, all four ships came-to outside the port and dropped anchor, the Huntress almost a mile astern and to starboard of her consorts, her deck-lamps and riding-lights extinguished.
There was no wind and the air was damp and chill. Probably, Phillip thought, the mist would again close in—there was a smell of frost in the air and both moon and stars had been obscured for several hours. But, aware that he could not count on a return of the fog, he decided to go ashore at once. Turning to Graham, he said softly, “We might as well be on our way and get this over with, don’t you think?”
His brother drew his boat-cloak about him and nodded. “Yes, I’m ready, if you are. It’s going to be a long pull, so there’s not much point in delaying.” His face looked white in the dimness and a trifle pinched, as if he were feeling the cold, but he made no othe
r comment and Phillip, peering at him uncertainly, resisted the impulse to inquire whether he was all right. Even if he felt unwell, Graham would, he knew, refuse to admit it.
“Call away my gig, if you please, Mr Quinn,” he instructed the First Lieutenant, who was on watch. “You’ve seen to it that Mr O’Hara is supplied with a compass, I trust?”
“Yes, sir. Everything you asked for is in the gig, including a signal lamp, and the men are armed with cutlasses, as you instructed.”
“Thank you, Mr Quinn,” Phillip acknowledged. They descended to the entry port accompanied, somewhat officiously, by the First Lieutenant, who put on a fine show of efficiency, barking orders at Midshipman O’Hara and his boat’s crew, who received them wooden-faced and in silence. There was, of course, no side-party but, as Phillip stepped into the boat, Quinn stood, cap in hand, his round, red face unexpectedly grave as he wished him God-speed.
“Give way together, lads!” O’Hara ordered, in a hoarse whisper, as the bowman released his boathook and scrambled nimbly back to his place. There was a fairly strong current running against them but the men pulled with a will and the line of darker shadow, which was the enemy shore, came perceptibly nearer. As they rowed, Phillip checked the compass bearing by the light of a shaded lamp and then let its shutter fall. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he was able to make out more of the rocky coast they were approaching and it was he who recognized the entrance to the cove they had chosen for their landing place and called out a low-voiced warning to O’Hara.
