by V. A. Stuart
A happy, hardworking ship’s company had become, after a few weeks under North’s command, sullen and discontented, hating him and the ship. The men muttered among themselves and grumbled ceaselessly and, of late, there had been an alarming increase in the number of desertions … particularly during their short stay in Irish waters. Worse still, Phillip reminded himself, the discontent was not confined to the lower deck. Three officers had recently requested transfers and several others were, he knew, considering the advisability of doing so although, as yet, no transfers had been granted. He himself had been tempted more than once to follow their example but … he glanced, a trifle impatiently, at his watch and was surprised to see that only fifteen minutes had elapsed since he had taken up his position by the booking office.
He drew a long, unhappy breath. This had been the problem he had hoped he would be able to talk over with his father, only to find when he attempted to broach the subject that the words had stuck in his throat. He knew, he supposed wearily, what his father would have said, what advice he would have given, had he been asked … Trojan was his ship, the men his men and he had a duty towards them. He could not leave them, no matter how great the temptation. Yet, as he paced up and down in front of the station entrance and attempted to see the events of the past week in their proper perspective, Phillip—for all his long training and love of the Service—would have given everything he possessed to be able to walk away. At that moment he would gladly have left North and the Trojan and her two tardy passengers to whatever fate destiny had in store for them.
Like the seamen who had deserted, he thought, he had lost pride in his ship and faith in his commander. Like his brother Graham, perhaps, he had lost faith in himself.
2
“Excuse me, sir, but are you the officer from ’er Majesty’s ship Trojan … Lieutenant Hazard?”
Phillip turned, startled out of his abstraction, to find a stocky young footman, dressed in buff livery standing in his path. “Yes,” he acknowledged, “I am Lieutenant Hazard. And you, I take it, have brought—er—” he had to search his memory for the name. “The Baroness von Mauthner here, with her ward?”
The footman touched his cockaded hat. “Yessir, that’s right.” He gestured to where a large private carriage stood beneath the station portico, with a little knot of porters starting to gather round it in response to the coachman’s imperious signal. The carriage was dusty, the horses mud-spattered and steaming, and the footman added, in answer to Phillip’s unvoiced question, “Come a fair lick we did, sir, fearing as we might be late for the train. The ladies is both there, sir, with his lordship. I’ve bin sent to get their tickets.” He hesitated. “Have you got yours, sir, or will I get it for you? His lordship has given me money and he said as I was to ask you.”
“No, it’s all right, thanks … I have mine.” Phillip took out his watch. There was still plenty of time, he thought, as he dismissed the footman and walked across to the carriage, from which the porters were now unloading luggage under the supervision of a tall, good-looking, grey-haired gentleman of about fifty, whose face seemed vaguely familiar, although he could not recollect where he had seen it before. He was about to introduce himself when the grey-haired man turned and, taking him by the arm, led him out of earshot of the porters.
“Ah . . Lieutenant Hazard, is it not, of H.M.S. Trojan? I am sorry that we are so late … we had to drive up from the country, you understand. But I will take you to meet your charges as soon as these porters move the baggage out of our way. Er … they gave you full instructions at the Admiralty, I suppose? You know what you have to do?”
“Yes, sir. I was given full instructions.”
“Excellent … always very efficient, the Navy. I’m Melgund, by the way, George Melgund of the Foreign Office—I used to know your father, I believe. Some years ago, when he was commanding the Hogue, it was. No time for social chitchat now though, is there? You have a train to catch.”
“The train isn’t due to leave for about twenty minutes, sir—” Phillip began, only to be interrupted by his new acquaintance, who pointed to a luggage-dray which had just drawn up behind the carriage and said grimly, “We shall need twenty minutes to get all this baggage loaded on to the train, believe me, Mr Hazard. There’s a deuced mountain of it, trunks, portmanteaux, hat boxes, jewel-cases, hampers …” He shrugged. “I don’t know what your Captain’s going to say when he sees it all but I’ll warrant he won’t be too pleased, eh?”
Captain North would not be pleased, Phillip thought, with cynical satisfaction, as a large trunk was lifted from the dray, two hefty porters staggering under its weight. He had placed his companion now … Lord George Melgund was a very distinguished member of the diplomatic service, who had been at Rio when the Maeander had called there, on passage to the East Indies. With the Minister, Lord Howden, he had entertained the officers royally on their brief visits ashore, in particular those from the midshipmen’s berth … he smiled, remembering.
Lord George stared at him for a moment with furrowed brows and then echoed his smile. “We’ve met before, have we not, Mr Hazard? Where was it, d’you know?”
“In Rio de Janeiro, I believe, sir.”
“Ah, yes, indeed! In ’48 … you were one of the youngsters Captain Keppel brought ashore with him. Wonderful place, Rio, I’ve never forgotten it. They sent me to St Petersburg after that, quite a contrast, as you may imagine. Pity we’ve no time for a chat, Hazard, but”—Lord George waved a hand in the direction of the carriage—“duty calls and you must not miss that train, whatever happens. Ah, John …” he broke off as the young footman returned. “Got the tickets? Good, let me have them. Then see to loading the luggage in the guard’s van, will you? And while you’re about it, get hold of the stationmaster and make sure he’s reserved a compartment … look sharp, man! We haven’t all day, you know.”
“Very good, m’lord.” The footman departed on his errand, followed by the laden porters and Lord George started to move towards the carriage, his hand still on Phillip’s arm.
“Regarding your passengers, Mr Hazard … you have not been told anything about them, have you, or who they are?”
Phillip shook his head. “No, sir, I have not.”
“But your Captain—what’s his name? Captain North has orders from the Admiralty concerning them, has he not?”
“I was given sealed orders to deliver to Captain North, sir, when I called at the Admiralty yesterday afternoon. I have them here.” Phillip tapped his breast pocket. “My instructions are to escort the Baroness von Mauthner and her ward to the ship, sir, and to do so as discreetly as possible.”
“H’m, yes, I see. Well, I’ll tell you all that you require to know about them. The Baroness von Mauthner is Austrian and she is travelling in her own name. But her companion …” Lord George lowered his voice. “Her companion is travelling incognito, for reasons I am not at liberty to explain. You will address her as Mademoiselle Sophie, Hazard, and this is the name by which she will be known whilst she is on board your ship … Mademoiselle Sophie.”
“She is French then, sir?” Phillip suggested, conscious of relief.
“She speaks French,” Lord George evaded. “English, too, quite fluently. And there is a maid as well but she need not trouble you … she’s a sensible Bavarian woman called Anna Hofner. Not the kind who’s likely to cause any stir among your bluejackets.” He smiled. “Well, come along, my boy, and I’ll present you.”
Phillip followed him to the carriage. A thin, elderly woman, with a lined, rather sallow face and bright bird-like dark eyes was the first to emerge. Lord George offered her his arm. He said in German, “This is Lieutenant Hazard of the Royal Navy, Baroness. He will escort you to your ship and see you both safely aboard. The Baroness von Mauthner, Hazard.”
Phillip bowed. The Baroness subjected him to a careful scrutiny before she acknowledged the introduction with a stiff little inclination of the head. “Ach, yes, ze naval officer.” Her English was guttural and hea
vily accented. “Sank you, Lieutenant Hazard, we shall be grateful for your escort.” She turned away from him and, relinquishing Lord George’s arm, leaned into the dark interior of the carriage, to say something which Phillip could not catch to its remaining occupants. There was a momentary delay and then a girl stepped out, so heavily veiled that little could be seen of her face, save that it was small and pale. She was elegantly and fashionably dressed in a fur-trimmed travelling coat, dark haired and slender, and her voice, as she responded politely to Lord George’s introduction, was pleasant and without accent. The maid followed her from the carriage, a plump woman in sober black, who curtsied awkwardly and then moved away, clutching a small jewel case and looking about her apprehensively, as if fearing that it might be wrested from her by one of the passers-by. Taking pity on her, Phillip offered to relieve her of her burden but she flushed scarlet and shook her head.
“No, I sank you, Herr Lieutenant. I must keep ze case myself, if you please.”
“We had better take you to the train, Mademoiselle,” Lord George said firmly. He had addressed the girl, Phillip noticed and, as the little party started to make their way to the platform, he walked at her side, hat in hand, treating her with marked deference. Mademoiselle Sophie talked to him easily and naturally and, when they reached the train, thanked him with great charm for his kindness to her. The top-hatted stationmaster materialised from nowhere to bow them into a reserved compartment and Phillip glanced inquiringly at Lord George.
“Shall I travel in the next compartment, sir?” he suggested. “I left my bag further down the train but it will not take me a moment to fetch it.”
The Foreign Office representative hesitated. “I think that would be best, Mr Hazard,” he began. “If the ladies wish—” Baroness von Mauthner nodded in emphatic approval but, to Phillip’s surprise, Mademoiselle Sophie gestured invitingly to the reserved carriage.
“We have caused Lieutenant Hazard the inconvenience of a journey to London on our account,” she pointed out. “And, since we are to be travelling companions on a much longer journey, it is only right, is it not, that he should sit with us? Please, Mr Hazard … we should enjoy your company. Send for your bag, won’t you, and join us? There is plenty of room.”
Lord George looked as if he were about to demur and then changed his mind. A porter was dispatched for his bag and Phillip handed both ladies into their seats. The guard was waiting, whistle to his lips, eyeing the stationmaster expectantly, and Lord George Melgund took courteous leave of the two ladies and returned to the platform, motioning to Phillip to follow him.
“You’ll be off in a moment, Hazard,” he said. “So it only remains for me to wish you bon voyage. Remember, my boy … discretion! This is no ordinary young woman, as no doubt you have realized. As I said, I am not at liberty to disclose her identity to you but—treat her with circumspection, that’s my advice to you.” He wrung Phillip’s hand. “Good-bye and good luck.”
“Good-bye, sir. You may rely on me to heed your advice … and thank you, sir.”
Phillip climbed back on to the train and the stationmaster, with a murmured apology, slammed the carriage door and waved to the waiting guard. Lord George stood back, the whistle shrilled and the train started to move slowly away from the platform. Phillip seated himself opposite the Trojan’s two passengers a trifle uneasily, wondering again who they were and why so much secrecy should be attached to their journey and to Mademoiselle Sophie’s real identity. She had removed her veil, he saw, and was much younger than, at first sight, he had judged her to be … seventeen, perhaps, eighteen at most. His curiosity aroused, he studied her covertly.
She was not beautiful in the accepted sense, he decided, but her face was possessed of unusual character and charm. Her eyes were lovely, dark and wide-set, with very long black lashes, and she had a small, sensitive mouth, now curving into a shy smile as she looked up to meet his gaze. He reddened and she asked, a faint note of challenge in her huskily attractive voice, “I puzzle you, Mr Hazard?”
“A little,” Phillip confessed and she laughed aloud, the laugh a delightful sound, musical and genuinely amused.
“Believe me,” she assured him, “all this mystery is not of my choosing, Mr Hazard, and I am not responsible for any of it. The truth is that I have been forgotten—or perhaps overlooked—and …” Baroness von Mauthner flashed her a warning glance and Mademoiselle Sophie broke off, biting her lower lip. “I talk too much,” she apologised. “I … how do you say this in idiomatic English? I am letting my tongue run away with me.”
“You speak English beautifully, Mademoiselle,” Phillip told her, with sincerity. “And your accent is perfect.”
The girl looked pleased. “You think so, Mr Hazard … you really think so?”
“I do indeed, Mademoiselle.”
“You are very kind. But”—she shrugged her slim shoulders—“I have been in this country for nearly a year, for no other purpose than to learn to speak your language. My mother believes that …” again the Baroness glanced at her pointedly and she left the sentence unfinished, making a wry little face at her mentor and saying, in rapid French, “You are a dragon, Madame. Not just a watch-dog but a veritable dragon!”
Phillip’s French was of the schoolboy variety, rusty from lack of practice, but he understood the words and observed, with some astonishment that, although the tone in which Mademoiselle Sophie addressed her guardian was the reverse of respectful, it called forth no reproof.
The Baroness answered mildly, also in French, “That is what I am here for, is it not? I know what I must do, my little one, for your protection …” Phillip could not follow the rest, for her accent was by no means as good as her ward’s and she spoke very fast, scarcely pausing to draw breath. He guessed, however, that it concerned himself, when Mademoiselle Sophie protested indignantly, “But he is an English naval officer, Madame! And all English officers are completely trustworthy.”
“Perhaps,” Baroness von Mauthner conceded, without obvious conviction. “But he has not been told anything, has he? Lord Melgund said that he had not, he warned me before we boarded the train …” She turned to Phillip, her bright dark eyes searching his face suspiciously. “Do you speak French, Lieutenant Hazard?”
Phillip drew himself up. “A little, Baroness,” he admitted stiffly.
“You have understood what we were saying?”
“A word here and there, that was all. But I can assure you that nothing you say in my presence will go any further … I have had my instructions. And, of course, if you wish to converse in private, I can leave this compartment at the next stop and—”
“Do not be offended, Mr Hazard,” Mademoiselle Sophie leaned towards him and laid a small, gloved hand on his arm. “I told you that all this secrecy was not of my choosing, did I not? In any case, it was impolite of us to converse in a foreign language in your presence, and I ask your forgiveness most humbly. Please … are we forgiven? Tell me that we are!”
“Of course you are, Mademoiselle.” Phillip’s momentary indignation faded instantly. “There is nothing to forgive, I promise you. Speak in any language you wish in my presence.”
“I prefer to speak in English.”
“I am glad. I find it easier to understand than French.”
They both laughed and the girl said eagerly, “Tell me about your ship, will you not? I have never set foot on board a British naval vessel in my life and I should like to know what to expect. The Trojan is a steam-ship, is it not?”
“Yes, she is a steam-screw frigate, Mademoiselle.”
“She … a ship, then, is feminine?”
“To a sailor, yes, Mademoiselle.”
Her dark eyes sparkled. “And she—this Trojan of yours— she is large? How many guns does she carry and how many sailors?”
Phillip smiled, gratified by her eager interest. “Trojan is a fourth-rate of 1,570 tons, Mademoiselle. She mounts 31 guns on her main and upper decks and carries a crew, at full strength, of three
hundred. But we shall be taking out drafts of seamen and Marines for distribution among the Fleet, so there will be nearer four hundred men on board when we sail.”
“So many men!” Mademoiselle Sophie exclaimed, in a tone of wonder. “The sailors sleep in hammocks, do they not, below decks? Are they not very overcrowded?”
“They sling their hammocks on the lower deck,” Phillip explained, “where there are no guns. And, although fourteen inches is the regulation distance between one hammock and the next, the overcrowding is not so bad as it seems, because the men are not all there at the same time. The hands are divided into watches and, when the watch below turns in, the duty watch is on deck …” He started to go into details but the Baroness interrupted tartly, “The officers have cabins, have they not? Cabins with bunks in them?”
“Some of the officers do, Madame,” Phillip spoke dryly. “The junior officers—that is to say the mates and midshipmen and cadets—mess and sling their hammocks in the cockpit, which is on the starboard side of the steerage, on the lower deck. They are overcrowded, I am afraid. There are fourteen of them and the gunroom, which would be their mess in a ship-of-the-line, is used by officers of wardroom rank in a frigate.”
