by V. A. Stuart
“Yes, sir.” Phillip’s voice did not betray his feelings but the Captain glanced at him sharply. “I intend to make Gibraltar by Wednesday morning, if I can,” he went on. “So I shall want the ship under all the sail she can carry, day and night. But the engines will only be used when I deem it necessary, Mr Hazard … we have to conserve our coal. Under no circumstances will steam be raised unless I order it and the officer of the watch is to obtain my permission before shortening sail, except in an emergency. Is that clear?”
“Quite clear, sir.” Was it, Phillip wondered, on the passengers’ account that Captain North was so anxious to reach Gibraltar by Wednesday morning … would they, perhaps, be leaving the ship there? He waited but North volunteered no further information. Instead, his tone curt, he said, “I take it that you have not forgotten the seaman I put under arrest … the seaman who calls himself Hazard? Because I shall require a report from you when you have seen and”—the Captain paused significantly—“identified him, Mr Hazard.”
“I have not forgotten, sir. I’ll see him as soon as I am able to leave the deck, sir.”
“Then that will be all. I trust that it will not be necessary to remind you to put the best men you have on look-out and at the wheel during the hours of darkness? Good … then set topsails immediately and I shall want her under every stitch of canvas she can carry when the screw is raised.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Phillip stiffened to attention, thankfully accepting his dismissal. To young Lieutenant Laidlaw, patiently awaiting his return to the quarterdeck, he said crisply, “Hands to cat the bower anchors, Mr Laidlaw. And handsomely, if you please. We are to be in Gibraltar by Wednesday morning—without the assistance of our engines—and the screw is to be raised when we drop the pilot.” He glanced at the elderly Master, standing within earshot, the pilot beside him. “By Wednesday morning, Mr Burnaby … those are the Captain’s orders. Perhaps you’d be so good as to step into the chartroom. I should like to check our course with you.”
Both officers stared at him incredulously but, wise now in the ways of their commander, neither offered any comment. Burnaby exchanged a wry smile with the pilot and followed Phillip to the chartroom… .
2
Trojan slipped from her moorings and ran quietly down Plymouth Sound under her screw. She was a graceful ghost in the light of the newly risen moon, her tall masts and the black and white chequered paintwork, which marked the line of lidded gun-ports along her main deck, reflected briefly in the ruffled surface of the water as the breeze freshened.
Phillip glimpsed the reflection as he left the chartroom with the Master and felt the strengthening breeze on his cheek. He walked over to where the officer of the watch was standing, the pilot at his side.
“Hands aloft to set tops’ls and jibs, Mr Laidlaw,” he ordered. The boatswain’s mates put their calls to their lips and the pipe echoed throughout the ship as Laidlaw passed on the order and the topmen of the watch went surging up the rigging in instant response. Few were in need of the Boatswain’s stentorian shouts or the urging of the ropes’ end “starters” carried by the petty officers … they swarmed hand over hand up the shrouds with scarcely a check, each man setting to his task with a will.
Indeed, all hands were working with a new zest and spirit, Phillip observed, as if—although as yet they had not been told—they had guessed their destination and its purpose. Mast was competing against mast and, as the afterguard was piped to the braces to trim the newly set canvas, there was a roar from the maintopmen, who had sheeted home a few seconds before those on the fore- and mizzentops.
Phillip frowned, as he watched them make their agile descent to the deck, hoping that, when the time came for the Captain to make his official announcement regarding their destination, he would confine himself to the few words that were necessary.
If only North would appeal to the men’s patriotism and loyalty, he thought, instead of making impossible demands on them and issuing threats, then this new spirit and keenness might be fostered and kept alive, and pride in their ship reborn.
Beside him and evidently sensing his unspoken thoughts, the white-haired Master said reflectively, “These are good men, Mr Hazard—and there’ll be none better by the time we reach the Black Sea if they are handled the right way. But if they are driven too hard …” he broke off, his shrug expressive. “I’ve seen it happen before. A taut ship isn’t always the best fighting ship, in my experience.” He tucked his rolled charts under his arm. “Well, I’d best take these to the Captain now. If he gives me half a chance, Mr Hazard, I’ll try to warn him. But I doubt if he’ll give me the chance.”
Phillip doubted it also but he nodded, smiling.
“Thank you, Mr Burnaby. You’ll do your best, I am quite sure.”
“My best may not be good enough, Mr Hazard, either for this or …” Burnaby tapped his charts. “Or to get us to Gibraltar in under five days. Wednesday forenoon, the Captain said, I believe … well, the Banshee made Spithead to Lisbon in three and a half days, under sail and steam, did she not? If we could use our screw we might do it and I shall tell Captain North so. Perhaps he’ll listen, if he’s all that anxious to get there.”
“Yes, perhaps,” Phillip agreed noncommittally but again he doubted it … North seldom took advice from anyone.
The ship’s bell had just struck three times when Captain North came on deck. The news that they were on their way to join the Black Sea Fleet was received by the assembled ship’s company with prolonged and enthusiastic cheering. The cheers were, however, swiftly subdued when the Captain subjected them to a lengthy harangue on the vexed question of slackness and lack of discipline. The men listened attentively but apprehensive murmurs followed his announcement that dawn to dusk training exercises were to be the daily prelude to the ship’s arrival in Constantinople. Deaf to the murmurs, North addressed Phillip, his voice flat.
“You will turn out hands at seven bells in the Middle Watch to wash decks, Mr Hazard, and the ship’s company will go to breakfast one hour earlier than usual. Colours will be hoisted at six bells in the Morning Watch and training exercises are to commence immediately after Divisions …” he paused, looking about him, but not a man moved in the packed ranks facing him, although there was a concerted gasp of dismay as the fact that they were to be turned out of their hammocks at three-thirty in the morning gradually sank in. “This will continue,” the Captain told them sternly, “until I am satisfied, not only with the standard of proficiency attained in sail and gun drill but also with the general standard of discipline of the entire ship’s company.”
There was a stunned silence then, the silence of shock and the men’s faces were glum with foreboding, Phillip saw when, at last, he received permission to dismiss them.
Apparently quite indifferent to the effect his words had had on officers and men alike, North went below to take supper with his passengers but Phillip—lacking all desire for food since hearing them—remained on deck. Normally, as First Lieutenant, he was not required to stand a regular watch but he had plenty to occupy him when Trojan cleared the Sound and headed into the crowded shipping lanes of the Channel, her screw raised and all possible sail set before a blustering north-easterly wind. Even when the ship had settled on her course and most of the coastal traffic had been left astern, he continued to put off his visit to the seaman called Hazard. For a time his conscience troubled him but he quietened it with the thought that—if the man were, indeed, his brother Graham—their reunion in such circumstances was likely to be, for them both, the source of more pain than pleasure.
The watch changed; Martin Fox relieved his immediate junior, Anthony Cochrane, who had kept the six-to-eight, and Phillip walked the deck with him, exchanging news and replying, as informatively as he could, to Fox’s questions concerning their passengers and his own brief trip to London. As if by mutual consent, they avoided all mention of the Captain’s recent announcement although, Phillip knew, the subject was uppermost in both their minds.
Martin Fox was a tall, powerfully built young man, and a fine athlete, possessed of more than ordinary good looks and an exceptionally even temper. Although a year or so younger than Phillip himself, their friendship was of long standing, dating back to the old Maeander days, and it had stood the test both of close association and subsequent lengthy separation. Usually they talked to each other freely and without constraint when opportunity offered and they were alone together. This evening, however, each had imposed a guard on his tongue as if fearing that, were it removed, he might be tempted to say too much.
When the subject of the passengers and speculation as to their identity had been exhausted, they talked in general terms of the coming war and of their personal hopes and ambitions, their conversation occasionally interrupted by a shouted warning from the masthead look-out and the necessity to alter course in order to pass clear of other craft. At four bells, Sean O’Hara, the midshipman of the watch, brought them two mugs of steaming cocoa and, when he had finished his, Phillip’s conscience began once more to trouble him and he announced his intention of going below.
“There is a prisoner I must see, Martin—I have to make a report on him to the Captain before I can turn in. But … you know about that, I imagine?”
“No.” Martin Fox sounded puzzled. “I was not aware that we had any prisoners, Phillip. My optimism was clearly misplaced … who put him under arrest? Did you?”
“The Captain. I thought you would know—in fact, I was a trifle surprised that you did not mention it to me earlier but then”—Phillip’s smile was wry—“I decided that you must be trying to spare me.”
“To spare you? I don’t understand.”
“Frankly, nor do I. You were acting First Lieutenant in my absence … the arrest should have been reported to you.”
Fox shrugged. “It was not reported to me, Phillip. But you know North … everyone else must go by the book but he is a law unto himself. Besides …” he broke off, frowning. “I must be careful what I say or this prisoner of yours will not be the only one in irons! What was his crime?”
“Drunkenness. The man joined with the draft from Impregnable this morning and was found with liquor in his possession, it seems. The Captain has ordered him six dozen lashes and—”
“Wait a minute, Phillip … I inspected the draft from Impregnable and they were all sober when they came aboard.” Martin Fox frowned. “Oh, well, I suppose the Captain caught him when he made Rounds. Why are you worried about it, in any case? Heaven knows”—his tone was cynical—“this will not be the first time Captain North has ordered six dozen lashes for a trivial offence. It should not surprise you.”
“It doesn’t,” Phillip answered grimly. “But on this occasion they will flog a man whose name is the same as my own.”
“A relative, you mean? But—”
“Possibly my brother. I do not know, I haven’t seen him yet. I should have, of course, I should gave gone to see him hours ago. But”—Phillip spread his hands in a despairing gesture—“I have been putting it off. I … well, I suppose I am afraid of the truth, Martin.”
“I should not blame you if you were.”
“Nevertheless I must go to him. It is no use procrastinating, is it? If this man is my brother, there is very little I can do for him … you remember his story, don’t you? He was court martialled and dismissed from the service when he was a lieutenant in the Comet.”
“Yes, I remember, Phillip.” Fox was frowning again. “I’m trying to remember the faces of the Impregnable men but there were so many of them …” he sighed. “I honestly cannot recall anyone who looked at all like you. I’m sorry.”
“We do not resemble one another very closely. Graham is seven years older than I am.”
“He joined under his own name?”
Phillip shook his head. “Under the name of George Arthur Hazard, according to Captain North.”
“Does the Captain know?” Martin Fox asked, “That he may be your brother, I mean?”
“Oh, yes, he knows.”
“And he’s using it against you, I suppose?” Phillip was silent and Fox said explosively, “He can’t go on like this, Phillip—he can’t! Did you see the men’s faces when he told them they were to be turned out at seven bells to wash decks?”
“I saw them,” Phillip admitted. He glanced up at the tautly stretched canvas above their heads. The wind had shifted again and it was rising, causing the ship, under the press of sail she was carrying, to shudder as the gusts caught her. “You had better obtain the Captain’s permission to shorten sail, Mr Fox,” he suggested formally. “Or we shall be in for a very uncomfortable night which our passengers might find distressing. That wind has shifted aft a point whilst we’ve been talking and it seems to be rising. If I were you, I should man the braces but I shouldn’t trim her until you’ve sent word to the Captain … and received his reply.”
Lieutenant Fox met his gaze in swift comprehension, as he braced himself to meet the sudden roll of the ship. “Aye, aye, sir,” he answered, with matching formality. “Goodnight, sir.” He added softly, “And good luck! I hope to heaven that man is not your brother.”
Phillip thanked him and went below.
The prisoner was confined in the midships part of the hold, in a small, dark space between the chain-cable locker and the engine room. He was in irons, apparently asleep despite the extreme discomfort of his position, under the guard of a Marine sentry, who stiffened to attention at Phillip’s approach. By the dim light of a single lantern hanging from the bulkhead above him, it was impossible to make out more than the shadowy outline of his face but this was enough. Stifling a sigh, Phillip motioned the sentry to withdraw out of earshot and took down the lantern, setting it on the deck beside the prisoner’s huddled shape. He dropped on one knee, shaking his brother urgently.
“Graham … Graham, wake up, old man. It’s me, Phillip.”
“So you’ve come! Phillip, you fool … I was hoping against hope that you would have the sense to stay away.” Graham roused himself and struggled, swearing under his breath, into a sitting position. He was dishevelled and unshaven, his eyes bloodshot, blinking in the glare of the flickering lantern as he went on harshly, “For God’s sake, I denied even knowing you when the Captain questioned me! And you have got to deny it, too, it’s the only thing to do. Why in the world did you come down here? You must realize that it can help neither of us.”
“Yes, I realize that but …” Phillip eyed him unhappily. “The captain ordered me to see you. I am to report to him when I have done so.”
“I was afraid of it! He suspected, of course, the moment he heard my name—but he can prove nothing, unless you admit I’m your brother. You must not do that, Phillip … your life will not be worth living if you do. And as for mine …” Graham Hazard’s swollen lips twisted into a mirthless smile. “I call myself George these days. It’s a name my shipmates can get their tongues round more easily than the one our dear father chose for me. How is he, by the way? You saw him, did you not, when you were in London?”
“Oh, yes, I saw them both, Mother and Father. And the girls. I spent last night at home …” Phillip enlarged on this and his brother’s expression softened a little as he listened.
“I am glad you saw them. I wish that I could but …” he shrugged and his voice became harsh again. “My name is never mentioned within the family portals, I suppose? I still do not exist, so far as my father is concerned … the only Hazard who ever disgraced the name! All right, lad”—he laid a hand on Phillip’s arm—“I will spare you the embarrassment of replying to that question. I know the answer, in any case.”
“Do you, Graham?” Phillip hesitated, studying him intently. “Is that why you decided to rejoin Her Majesty’s Navy?”
“Perhaps—I honestly don’t know. There is to be a war and there was talk of it in the taverns I used to frequent. Seamen from the Fleet came in and they talked, too … there was an old warrant officer who bought me drinks.” Grah
am sighed. “I joined on impulse, really … funds were running low and I had nothing better in prospect at the time. Needless to tell you, I now regret it!” He lifted his manacled wrists, holding them out in front of him to emphasise his words. “I had gone back to the sea before this, Phillip, as it happened. It’s the only trade I know and there is something in breeding, I imagine.”
“Yes, I imagine there is.” Phillip was conscious of an intense and almost overwhelming pity for this strange, ill-fated brother of his. As a boy, he remembered, he had worshipped Graham, had envied him, too, when he had come home on his first leave, a tough, experienced seaman after three years on the China Station, and with a midshipman’s white patch on his collar. He had seemed to be happy in the service, had been making a fine career, earning glowing reports, gaining promotion to lieutenant before he was quite twenty … so much so that their father, Phillip recalled painfully, had held him up as an example to be followed, when he himself left school. But now … he looked down at his brother’s rough, calloused hands and bit back an exclamation of shocked surprise. They were seaman’s hands, and the callouses were not of recent origin.
“Were you in the merchant service, Graham?” he asked flatly. Graham nodded.
“Yes, for the last four and a half years, on and off. I made two voyages to Australia in the Wanota—a lovely frigate-built Indiaman, Phillip, of 1,140 tons, commanded by Captain James Quilhampton. I did not do so badly, either …” He smiled reminiscently. “Believe it or not, I was Third Mate of the Wanota eighteen months ago. Then I transferred to the Lady Peel as Second and ran into trouble …” His smile faded but he did not offer an explanation of the trouble and Phillip, seeing his mouth tighten, wisely did not pursue the point or question him as to its nature. “I shipped home before the mast in the Tudor and I’d taken my discharge when … well, when that mad impulse seized me. I was mad to join the Navy again … raving mad. For heaven’s sweet sake, look at me!” Angrily Graham beat his manacled fists against the bulkhead and the sentry, alarmed by the sound, came running to ascertain its cause.
