Hazard of Huntress

by V. A. Stuart

  Ambrose Quinn was careful and he did not lack experience; he has chosen his time and his victims well. The two cadets, mere children of twelve and thirteen, were scared and submissive; they had borne the harsh treatment meted out to them without complaint and—Phillip frowned—on all too many occasions the youngsters’ silence, and their stoical acceptance of punishment for alleged breaches of discipline, had made it impossible for him to intervene on their behalf, much as he had wanted to, for he detested bullying.

  But at least Patrick O’Hara and the intelligent Robin Grey were lads of a different caliber, toughened by war and professionally equal to the adult seamen they commanded. They would know exactly how to deal with Ambrose Quinn. To make sure of this, he would make Grey up to Acting-Mate —he was old enough—and put him in charge of the midshipmen’s berth, Phillip decided, and his expression relaxed a little. Then, as a sudden, uneasy thought occurred to him, he turned again to Midshipman O’Hara.

  “Tell me, Mr O’Hara, how did you contrive so quickly to have yourself reinstated as my gig’s midshipman? I left no instructions, since I was not aware until I reported to the Admiral, that my request had been granted and you would be joining my ship’s company. Hitherto Mr Lightfoot has been in command of the gig and I did not relieve him of his duties.”

  “Yes, sir,” O’Hara agreed. Like the efficient boat commander he was, he kept his eyes alertly on the ship he was approaching and, judging his distance exactly, sang out a sharp, “Way enough! Ship oars!” His crew thankfully obeyed him; he put the tiller up and nodded to the bowman to stand by. Then, his tone cautiously noncommittal, he replied to Phillip’s question. “Mr Lightfoot had displeased the First Lieutenant. I don’t know in what way, sir, I wasn’t told. All I can tell you, sir, is that I was ordered to take his place.”

  “By the First Lieutenant?” Phillip asked coldly. It had not escaped his notice—nor, he was sure, O’Hara’s—that there had been no hail from the Huntress’s deck and that, as the bowman deftly secured his boathook to the midships chains, there was no sign of a side-party assembling to receive him. Quinn had the watch and … His mouth tightened.

  “Yes, sir,” O’Hara confirmed flatly. “By the First Lieutenant, sir.” He flashed a puzzled glance towards the entry port above his head. “Shall I hail the deck, sir?”

  The thud of bare feet on the deck planking heralded the belated appearance of the side-party and Phillip shook his head. With the ease of long practice, he swung himself on to the ice-encrusted accommodation ladder and up this to the entry port, as a red-faced boatswain’s mate raised his call to his lips. There was no sign of Quinn on the quarter-deck when he reached it and—harbour watch or no, Phillip thought angrily—his Captain’s return on board should have ensured his presence there. Instead, one of the cadets, of whom he had spoken to O’Hara a short while ago, came scuttling nervously to meet him.

  “Sir, I’m sorry,” the boy stammered miserably. “I didn’t see or hear your boat until you’d secured, sir. I do beg your pardon but I—”

  Phillip cut him short. “Are you in charge of the deck, Mr Finch?” he asked, not unkindly. “Where is the First Lieutenant?”

  “He—he went below, sir.” A pair of frightened brown eyes looked pleadingly up into Phillip’s face and he saw that they were filled with tears. “He went to attend to Johnny—that is, to Mr Lightfoot, sir. But I’m afraid it’s all up with him, sir. He— he was smashed to … to pulp when he hit the deck. And he couldn’t speak, sir. I ran to him but he couldn’t speak, not even to me. He didn’t know me and—”

  “Steady, lad,” Phillip bade him, hardly able to believe the evidence of his own ears. The boy was sobbing openly now and he put an arm round the bowed shoulders, holding the small, shaking body firmly against his own. “Try to pull yourself together and tell me exactly what happened. How did young Lightfoot come to hit the deck? Surely he hadn’t gone aloft, had he?”

  “He … yes, he had, sir. And he fell, he … oh, it was horrible. I heard him cry out and …” Finch’s sobs were redoubled.

  Phillip glanced upwards into the steadily falling snow, unable even to see the mainmast cross-trees from where he stood. Yards, rigging, and shrouds were thickly encrusted with ice. For this reason, he recalled, on Admiral Dundas’s own orders, the Fleet had dispensed with the ceremony of manning yards on his departure. Yet Lightfoot had, apparently, gone aloft … not, surely not, of his own volition? For a half-trained, frightened thirteen-year-old, a climb to the masthead would be fraught with peril, even in daylight. In darkness and during a snowstorm … he drew in his breath sharply, sickened by the picture his imagination conjured up. Had Quinn—was it conceivable that Quinn had seen fit to punish the unfortunate boy thus? O’Hara had said that Lightfoot had earned his displeasure but … he was jumping to conclusions, Phillip reproached himself, and he could be wrong. At all costs he must not allow his dislike and mistrust of his First Lieutenant to cloud his judgment.

  The mastheading of midshipmen had been officially prohibited in the Royal Navy for more than twenty years, although it was still carried out by a few die-hard captains of the old school, as he knew from bitter experience. The Trojan’s first commander, Captain North, had resorted to the practice on more than one occasion but not in conditions like these.

  “Mr Finch,” he said crisply, “calm yourself, if you please, and tell me why Mr Lightfoot went aloft. Was he ordered aloft for some reason? You understand, I—”

  “Mr Lightfoot was skylarking, sir.” The harsh, grating voice of Ambrose Quinn came from behind him and Phillip spun round to face him, smothering an exclamation of mingled anger and disbelief. The First Lieutenant stood, cap in hand, in an attitude of simulated respect, the expression on his round, red face anything but respectful. He was a big man, with thinning dark hair, a good ten years Phillip’s senior, whose strong, muscular body was starting to go a little to seed. Quinn had volunteered from the merchant marine, having previously served as Chief Mate of an East Indiaman, the aged and ailing Captain of which had left the day-to-day running of his ship in the capable hands of his second-in-command. And he was capable, Phillip had to admit; he had served with few better seamen than Ambrose Quinn but, on the other hand, with few on whom he had felt less able to rely.

  From the moment he had taken command of the Huntress, he had been aware of his First Lieutenant’s hostility and, guessing that this stemmed from the fact that Quinn had himself expected to be given the vacant command, he’d endeavoured to make allowances for his understandable disappointment. Indeed, Phillip reflected, as he met the older man’s challenging stare, he had tolerated much, for this reason, that he would not otherwise have done … too much, perhaps, for Quinn had lost no opportunity to humiliate him and, where possible, to undermine his authority. His insolence was not open; he was very careful to pay lip service to his new commander, taking orders with alacrity but frequently failing to carry them out or, worse, putting his own interpretation on them. And, of course, he was a bully.

  Phillip drew himself up to his own full and not unimpressive height and asked coldly, “How is the boy, Mr Quinn?”

  The First Lieutenant shrugged. “Dying, in my opinion, Commander Hazard. The young lunatic brought it on himself but”—he repeated his shrug, his indifference to poor little Lightfoot’s suffering evident in both voice and gesture—“but there,” he added, “boys will be boys—or perhaps I should say young gentlemen will be young gentlemen.”

  Phillip kept a tight rein on his temper. The sneering reference to “young gentlemen” was, he knew, intended to be offensive but he refused to be provoked. Ambrose Quinn was of comparatively humble birth and he had gone to sea, initially, as a boy in the Royal Navy, serving for ten years on the lower deck. He made no secret of this fact and at times, in speech and manner, deliberately drew attention to it, professing to despise the Service which, he claimed, chose its officers exclusively from the privileged upper classes and, when promoting them, set greater store by their social
connections than on their merits. Which might be true, Phillip reflected cynically but, if it was, then Quinn himself offered no inducement for a change in the system. He turned, remembering that young Finch was still within earshot, and sent him below.

  “Turn in, youngster,” he advised and, meeting Quinn’s gaze, added pointedly, “Mr Quinn has the watch and he can manage without you. You’re excused duty until tomorrow morning.”

  Quinn seemed about to offer an objection and then changed his mind. “As you remind me, sir, I have the watch. Will that be all? Shall I carry on?”

  “That will not be all, Mr Quinn.” Phillip’s voice cut like a whiplash. “I have a few questions to ask you concerning this unhappy affair. But first—you’ve sent for a surgeon, of course?”

  “It wasn’t necessary …” the First Lieutenant began, with his usual thinly disguised attempt at provocation, but a glance at Phillip’s ominously set face caused him once again to change his mind. He launched into an explanation, his tone placatory, “As luck would have it, you see, sir, we had a surgeon on board when the accident happened. The surgeon from your old ship, the Trojan, in fact—Surgeon Fraser. He had called to pay his respects to you and—”

  “And he’s with the boy now?” Phillip put in, relieved. Young Lightfoot could not be in better hands than Angus Fraser’s, he knew.

  “Yes, sir,” Quinn confirmed. “Although I doubt whether there will be much he can do, except ease the poor lad’s passing. We took him below, of course, but he wasn’t conscious. All the same, I imagine you’ll wish to see him as soon as you can.”

  Fraser would send for him if he was needed, Phillip thought. He moved towards the charthouse, motioning his second-in-command to accompany him and ignoring the suggestion that he should go below. There was nothing he could do for Lightfoot and the question of how the boy had met with his accident had to be cleared up, now, at once, while Quinn was still shaken by it and before he had had time to think up a plausible excuse for what had occurred.

  “Step inside, if you please, Mr Quinn,” he invited, opening the door into the chartroom, his voice level and controlled. The chartroom was small and cramped but it offered privacy and shelter from the driving snow, as well as a chance to study Quinn’s face by the light of the lantern hanging there.

  “There is very little more that I can tell you, Commander Hazard,” the First Lieutenant objected, when Phillip closed the door behind them and seated himself at the chartroom table. “It was an accident. The boy was skylarking and he fell—it was the irresponsible act of a lunatic and, unhappily for himself, Mr Lightfoot paid the inevitable penalty for such folly.”

  “Do you seriously expect me to believe that?” Phillip challenged icily. There was only one stool in the chartroom and Quinn was compelled to stand beneath the lantern, since his commanding officer was occupying the stool, and his expression betrayed his resentful discomfiture.

  “I have told you the truth, whether or not you choose to believe it,” he asserted, with a fine show of indignation. For all his vehemence, his words carried no conviction and Phillip watched him in deliberate and calculated silence, before continuing quite mildly, “I understand that you relieved Mr Lightfoot of his duties as my gig’s midshipman this evening. Is that so, Mr Quinn?”

  “I did, sir, yes,” Ambrose Quinn admitted without hesitation, his tone still resentful, but his eyes wary. On firmer ground now, he proceeded to list Lightfoot’s recent misdeeds, his recital—although lengthy—little more than a catalogue of the pranks of any high-spirited thirteen-year-old, as yet a stranger to the harsh discipline of a ship-of-war. “I’ve always known he was an insolent, slack little devil,” the First Lieutenant qualified. “Spoiled and headstrong … I know his type only too well. But I had not imagined him a thief.”

  “A thief, Mr Quinn?” Phillip stared at him frowning. “Have you proof of that?”

  Quinn inclined his head. “Indeed yes—I caught him smoking, with a couple of the other young gentlemen, shortly after you left the ship. They had a cigar, which they were passing from one to the other … I’d missed some cigars from my cabin and, when I questioned him, Lightfoot admitted taking them. He—”

  “And so you punished him?” Phillip’s tone was still even.

  “Certainly I did. I could hardly suppose that you would wish me to condone petty thieving on board this ship. But,” Lieutenant Quinn added quickly, the wary look again in his eyes as they met Phillip’s cold gaze, “I considered that it would be sufficient punishment to put Mr O’Hara in charge of your gig. Young Lightfoot took great pride in acting as your gig’s midshipman, as no doubt you were aware.”

  Yes, Phillip thought wryly, he had been keenly aware of the boy’s pride in his first command. Poor lad, he had had much to learn but he had tried hard and the gig’s crew, because they had seen the real effort he was making, had covered up his mistakes and good humoredly tolerated his inadequacies. To replace him with O’Hara had been, as Ambrose Quinn said, more than sufficient punishment for any minor crimes he might have committed. But had that been the only punishment inflicted on him or had there been a threat of worse to come, some promise of retribution so unendurable that, in order to escape from it, poor little Lightfoot had fled in terror to the one sanctuary available to him? A precarious sanctuary in conditions like these, even for an experienced, fully trained topman, heaven knew, and for the unfortunate cadet, blindly seeking refuge, it had been dangerous indeed. But Lightfoot must, surely, have known the risk. Why, then, had he taken it? Because, as Quinn had suggested, he had suddenly taken leave of his senses? Phillip’s frown deepened, in renewed disbelief. Or … because he had been ordered aloft? No, no. that was unthinkable, even for Ambrose Quinn who, for all the sadistic pleasure he derived from bullying the “young gentleman” had always, in the past, been careful to keep within the letter of the law.

  But he had to know, had to be certain. The questions, little as he relished them, had to be asked, but he must be careful not to phrase them as accusations which Quinn—aware that he could have no proof—would simply deny. Phillip sighed. As he sought for the right words the First Lieutenant, noticing his hesitation, took this as a measure of his own unassailable position and observed, with more than a hint of complacency, “I have nothing with which to reproach myself in this matter, I assure you, Commander Hazard—nothing whatsoever.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” Phillip’s eyes never left the older man’s face and, under his relentless scrutiny, Quinn reddened. “I can take it, then, that relieving Mr Lightfoot of command of my gig was the only punishment you ordered?”

  “It was,” the First Lieutenant answered promptly. “As I told you, I considered that this would suffice in Lightfoot’s case. I warned him, of course, of what he might expect if he didn’t mend his ways and—”

  “And his reaction was to go skylarking in the rigging at the height of a snowstorm, with visibility cut to a few yards?” Phillip put in, an edge to his voice. “How do you account for that, pray?”

  “I cannot account for it. But nor can I be held responsible if the boy chooses to behave like a lunatic. He gave no indication of what he intended to do—I should have stopped him, naturally, if he had.” Quinn shrugged indifferently but his earlier complacency was no longer quite so evident and Phillip decided to seize his opportunity.

  “I presume, therefore, that you did not masthead him, Mr Quinn? Or even threaten that you might do so?”

  “Masthead him, Commander Hazard!” Ambrose Quinn exclaimed, now white with pent up fury, the colour visibly draining from his normally ruddy cheeks as he, in turn, sought for words. “You have no right—no right whatsoever, even if you do happen to be in command of this ship—to make such an accusation against me! I demand that you withdraw it, I—”

  “I have made no accusation. I have asked you a question … one I am bound to ask, before I log this accident. And I should like an answer, if you please, so that I may record it.” Phillip met his angry gaze calmly. “
It is for your sake, Mr Quinn, as much as for mine and the boy’s. If he dies there is a possibility that we may have to face a court of inquiry, as you very well know … and the court would have no hesitation in asking you this question, so you would be well advised to answer it now.”

  He had spoken quietly and reasonably and Lieutenant Quinn, belatedly seeing reason, made an effort to control himself. “The answer, of course, is no, Commander Hazard— categorically no, and I should be obliged if you would log that.”

  “I shall do so,” Phillip assured him. He was almost convinced; Quinn’s outraged denial had seemed genuine and, conscious of a sick feeling of relief, he added formally, “Thank you, Mr Quinn. That, I think, will be all. Carry on, if you please.”

  Taken momentarily off his guard by the unexpected suddenness of his dismissal, the First Lieutenant hesitated, the colour returning slowly to his heavily-jowled face. Then he began blusteringly, “I’d have you know, sir, that I do my duty at all times, conscientiously and to the best of my ability. And I’ve been at sea for considerably longer than you have. You are new to command and, with all due respect, sir, you …” He broke off, warned by Phillip’s expression not to go too far, and, after a brief pause, he tried another tack. “Perhaps we don’t quite see eye to eye where discipline and the best means to enforce it are concerned, I’m ready to grant that. But I’m given a crew of plowboys and counter-hoppers and a few coast-guards and fishermen, officered by pampered mother’s darlings like Lightfoot, who are still damp behind the ears and can’t be trusted out of my sight. As First Lieutenant it’s my duty to turn them into seamen … which is what I’m endeavouring to do, Commander Hazard, and what I presume you’re expecting me to do, as quickly and as efficiently as I can. As I said, I’ve a good deal of experience of licking a raw crew into shape and I can give you a smart ship—if you’ll permit me a free hand.”