by V. A. Stuart
“I know very little about Commander Willoughby,” Phillip replied. “Except that he died on the voyage out from England and Quinn had to take command. He brought the ship to Balaclava and held acting-command until I was appointed—an appointment which, strictly between ourselves, he did not welcome.”
“Then you did not hear in what circumstances Willoughby met his death?” Angus Fraser was busy with his bandaging, his face hidden as he bent over his task but there was an odd, almost accusing note in his voice as he added, “And you did not inquire?”
“No.” Phillip stared down at his balding grey head, frowning in perplexity. “No, Doctor, it was never mentioned and, now that I come to think about it, I never inquired. With so many deaths from disease out here, I suppose I took it for granted that he contracted some infection or other. …” Indeed, looking back, he could recall no member of his crew, officer or seaman, who had talked of their late commander in his hearing, although possibly they had talked among themselves. None, certainly, had spoken of Willoughby’s death to him, but the Huntress had been at sea continuously since he had assumed command of her. She had been packed with Turkish troops and there had been little time for him to converse with his officers—save occasionally with Quinn—on any subject that did not pertain to the running of the ship or the wellbeing of her miserably overcrowded passengers. Even the Marines they had brought from Eupatoria had been crammed in like cattle and, he remembered, such spare time as he himself had had with his junior officers had been spent in giving them instruction or supervising them on watch. He had entertained none of them to breakfast—the traditional manner in which a captain established social intimacy with his juniors— since his own meals had been snatched hastily, or even dispensed with altogether, due to more pressing demands on his time. He drew in his breath sharply.
“What are you driving at, Doctor?” he asked. “How did Commander Willoughby die?”
“According to the court of inquiry, his death was accidental,” Surgeon Fraser told him. His bandaging completed, he looked up to meet Phillip’s puzzled gaze, his own expression oddly blank. “Apparently he vanished overboard in the Greek Archipelago, when the ship was approaching the Doro passage, off Cape Kafirevs, in darkness. No one saw him go.”
“That area is notorious for sudden squalls and shifting winds,” Phillip reminded him. “We ran into a very nasty example in the Trojan on the voyage out. Surely you haven’t forgotten? I confess, after that experience, I’d think twice before I tried to run the Doro under sail and in darkness. It can be tricky enough in daylight, God knows.”
“There was no squall when Commander Willoughby approached the passage, according to witnesses, and the ship was under her engines. Lieutenant Quinn attempted to suggest to the court that a sudden strong gust of wind did strike the ship but …” The surgeon lumbered heavily to his feet. “No one else remembered it and it wasn’t logged, so Quinn withdrew his suggestion. Pressed by the court, he finally had to admit that Willoughby had been drinking heavily. The court congratulated him on his loyalty to his late Captain and brought in a verdict of accidental death—a face-saving verdict, in view of Commander Willoughby’s exemplary record in the Service.” Again there was a strange note in the older man’s voice and, as he seated himself, Phillip turned to him in frowning question.
“You said that you obtained this information—of which I knew nothing—at second-hand, did you not? May I ask from whom you obtained it?”
Fraser sighed. “From two members of the court of inquiry,” he returned quietly. “One of them was Captain Jonathan Clark of the Rockhampton—it was he who told me about it first. I was interested mainly because you had just been given the vacant command.”
“I see.” There could scarcely have been a more reliable source of information, Phillip thought, or a more considerate verdict, in the circumstances. And Quinn, whose loyalty to himself he had doubted, had not been lacking in loyalty to his former commander. Quinn had, in fact, emerged most creditably from the ordeal of the inquiry, even though his attempt to whitewash Francis Willoughby had failed. His silence on the subject was also to his credit and yet, from Surgeon Fraser’s manner, it seemed that there was more to come.
“You’re not disputing the court’s verdict, are you, Doctor?” he asked incredulously. “In my view it was a generous one, and Mr Quinn appears to have behaved very well.”
“I’d have accepted that verdict and the reason for it, as you have, Commander Hazard. But …” Angus Fraser gave him a wry little smile. “I chanced to be seated next to another member of the court at dinner on board the Queen, prior to her departure for home. The junior member, Henry Lucas, who had only recently gained his promotion. You know him, I think?”
Phillip inclined his head. “Yes, I do. He’s a most likeable fellow.”
“Aye, well, he served under Commander Willoughby on the China station for three years, and he told me, with complete conviction, that he had never known Willoughby to take a drink throughout that time. The poor man suffered from some severe digestive ailment for which alcohol, in any form, was an irritant.” The surgeon paused, eyeing him expectantly.
“But …” Phillip was still skeptical. “If Henry Lucas was actually a member of the court, couldn’t he have convinced the others?”
Fraser shrugged. “He assured me that he did his utmost to convince them, but the fact that he hadn’t seen Willoughby for almost a year weakened his case considerably. And he was, after all, the junior member of the court; he could not persist beyond a certain point. He said he thought it possible that his efforts did, to some extent, influence the verdict but he was most unhappy about the way the inquiry was conducted and the witnesses questioned.”
“Who were the witnesses, did he say?”
“Aye, he did. There were apparently only three—Lieutenant Quinn, the quarter-master of the duty watch, and a young Mate, whose name I cannot recall. Could it be Cotton?”
“Cotterell, I imagine,” Phillip supplied.
The surgeon nodded. “Aye, that was the name. Neither he nor the quarter-master had much to say; Quinn did all the talking and Henry Lucas was certain that, for reasons of his own, Quinn was lying. He was unable to suggest a reason, though, and he could, of course, have been mistaken.”
“But you don’t think he was, Doctor?”
“I am in no position to judge.” Fraser spoke flatly. “But for what reason does anyone lie? Because the truth might be damaging, I suppose, or because a lie might bring the liar some advantage. You know Mr Quinn better than I do. Do you trust his veracity?”
Did he, Phillip asked himself, did anybody aboard the Huntress really know Ambrose Quinn? To the junior officers and seamen under him he was a tyrant, of whom most of them—with the possible exception of Cotterell—went in terror. And as to his veracity … Phillip expelled his breath in a troubled sigh. The man was capable of lying and, he strongly suspected, had lied his head off this evening about poor little Lightfoot but, even so, that was scarcely proof that he had lied about his late Captain. Indeed, most of what Angus Fraser had told him seemed to leave room for doubt, too much doubt, if he were to be fair to Quinn … and he had to be fair, if for no other reason than because he disliked his second-in-command so wholeheartedly.
Henry Lucas of the Queen was, on the other hand, an officer of proven integrity. It would be quite unlike him to blacken any man’s character unless he had good reason to do so. True, he had been a friend of the late Francis Willoughby and it was, perhaps, a trifle strange that he should have chosen to confide in Surgeon Fraser, who was a medical man and not a seaman but … as if he had read his thoughts, Fraser answered his unvoiced question.
“Commander Lucas only told me what he did because he knew I had served with you and because he was anxious to warn you to watch your step with Quinn. Those were his exact words. He would have spoken to you himself, had he remained here, he assured me, and he did try to broach the subject to Captain Crawford without success. Crawford is,
I know, a brother Scot, but he’s an awful dour fellow and he seldom puts himself out for anyone. And, for some reason, he’s not one of your admirers.”
“I can guess the reason,” Phillip admitted wryly.
Angus Fraser smiled. “And so can I! However, to return to Henry Lucas … he was most insistent and he even extracted a promise from me that I’d tell you, word for word, what he’d said. As I mentioned I was in two minds, when I set out to call on you, about whether or not to adhere strictly to my promise. But I came with the intention of putting you in possession of all the facts, in case you were not aware of them, which would enable you to form your own judgment. Having served under your command”—his smile widened—“I was confident that, whatever I said to his detriment, you would judge Mr Quinn on his merits and without prejudice.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Phillip acknowledged. “Believe me, I am deeply grateful to you and …”
The old surgeon waved his thanks aside. “Having said that, I’ll confess that I am prejudiced in view of this evening’s mishap. And, as I told you earlier, I don’t much like the cut of your Mr Quinn. You would be well advised to watch him, Commander Hazard.”
“I’m watching him like a hawk, don’t worry.”
Phillip made to refill his guest’s glass but again Angus Fraser shook his head. “No, thank you very much—I must away back to my patient now. Come with me, if you’d care to, although I expect the laddie will be sleeping.” He rose. “It’s a pity, all things considered, that Captain Crawford refused to let you have Mr Laidlaw. But still, looking on the bright side of the coin, you will have Anthony Cochrane and your brother to back you up from now on … not to mention Mr Grey and Mr O’Hara who, unlike Captain Crawford, can be counted among your most devoted admirers. And, of course, the most partisan of them all—Able-Seaman Patrick O’Leary, for whose return to duty I can take some small credit.”
“A very great deal of credit, my friend,” Phillip amended. “I never imagined that O’Leary would walk again.”
“He’ll not be fit for more than light duty for some while yet,” Angus Fraser warned. “However, being O’Leary and having contrived the posting he wanted, I don’t doubt he’ll make himself useful in any niche you’re able to find for him. Failing all else, he’d make not too bad a Surgeon’s Mate, believe it or not; he’s been virtually acting as one in my sick bay.” He laughed. “But keep an eye on your whisky—it’s O’Leary’s cure-all.”
Phillip joined in his laughter. Together they made their way aft to the cabin which had been turned into a makeshift sick bay for little Lightfoot. The injured boy lay on his cot, swathed in bandages, a leg and an arm encased in splints and the former raised by means of ropes and a pulley fastened to the bulk head. He was, as Surgeon Fraser had said he would be, asleep, the sickly-sweet smell of laudanum on his breath, but he stirred and then, as if sensing Phillip’s presence through the mists of unconsciousness, opened his eyes.
“Sir …” His voice was a croaking whisper but Phillip heard it and bent over the cot. “If you please, sir—”
“Yes, Mr Lightfoot?” he said gently. “Is there something you want to tell me?” It would solve all his problems if Light-foot were to admit that Quinn had mastheaded him, he thought. Even the threat of such a punishment would be sufficient for him to place his First Lieutenant under arrest and sail without him, pending an inquiry and possibly a court martial; but his hopes were dashed and he felt a little ashamed of having cherished them when the boy answered painfully, “Yes, sir, I … I have to admit that I did take the First Lieutenant’s cigars. But it was it was meant as a bit of a lark, sir. I didn’t intend to steal them, sir, truly I didn’t.”
“I believe you, Mr Lightfoot,” Phillip assured him. He wanted to ask about the punishment but the small, pale face was lit by a relieved smile, the bright eyes closed and, an instant later, the boy had lapsed back into his drugged sleep. From the shadows behind the cot a voice said, “He’ll sleep easy now, sorr, don’t worry.” Not entirely to his surprise, he recognized Able-Seaman O’Leary’s cheerful, gap-tooth grin as the man moved into the beam of the hanging lantern above his head.
“Welcome aboard, O’Leary,” he responded and held out his hand. “I’m extremely glad to have you.”
“Aye, aye, sorr.” O’Leary wrung his proffered hand vigorously. “And wasn’t that what I was tellin’ Captain Crawford and him doubting me word? Sure I knew you’d be needin’ me. ’Tis loike old times, is it not, sorr?” He turned, still grinning happily, to Surgeon Fraser. “Beggin’ your pardon, Doctor, but if you’re lookin’ for that young fella-me-lad that calls himself a Surgeon’s Mate, he’s not here. I took the liberty of sending him to his hammock, for to tell yez the God’s truth, sorr, he was useless and only upsettin’ himself, pukin all over the place at the soight o’ a drop of blood. But if you’re wantin’ to get your head down yourself, sorr, you can leave the little fella to me, so you can, for I know well enough what to do for him.”
“Thank you, O’Leary,” the surgeon acknowledged gravely. “I may well take you up on that offer before the night is out. In any case, we need detain the Captain no longer.” There was an amused glint in his eyes as they met Phillip’s. “An apt pupil, O’Leary, isn’t he? Tell me—how does that leg of yours feel, now you’ve walked on it?”
“It feels very comfortable, thanks, Doctor. And thank you for everything. Believe me, I am sincerely grateful. No …” as the old surgeon started to speak, “I mean it and I shan’t forget. Well … I trust that, with O’Leary’s assistance, you will pass a reasonably undisturbed night. If there is anything you need, you only have to ask. Good night, Doctor.”
Phillip left them and made his way to the gun-room* where, as he had expected, he found Anthony Cochrane and his brother Graham. In the presence of the other occupants of the mess, they both greeted him formally but with evident pleasure and accepted his invitation to join him in his cabin for a nightcap.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting for so long,” he apologized. “But I’ve been occupied with Surgeon Fraser since I returned from the flagship. You know of the accident to our cadet, of course … well, I’ve just been to visit him and he seems to have a better than even chance of pulling through, I am thankful to say.”
Both officers expressed restrained relief at this news but, when they reached the privacy of Phillip’s cabin, Graham said gravely, “We witnessed the boy’s fall, Phillip. We had just come aboard when he hit the deck. God knows how he survived it, poor little devil! Have you found out what really happened and what he was doing aloft by himself on such a night? He—”
“No.” Phillip flashed him a warning glance. “Not yet, but you may rest assured that I intend to get to the bottom of it. Sit down, both of you.” He waved a hospitable hand. “A drink, Mr Cochrane?”
“Thank you, sir.” The red-haired young Cochrane was beaming his delight as he went on, “I’m gratified that you should have asked for me, Commander Hazard, and more pleased than I can possibly say to be serving once more under your command.” He raised the glass Phillip gave him. “To your very good health, sir!”
“And to yours, Mr Cochrane. Whisky for you, Graham, or a glass of Jack Lyons’s excellent madeira?”
“Maderia, if you please, Phillip.” Graham Hazard took the chair beside Cochrane’s and he, too, was smiling. “I echo Mr Cochrane’s sentiments—it’s good to be with you again.”
His brother had aged, Phillip thought, studying him covertly as he poured the wine and conscious of a pang as he glimpsed the calloused seaman’s hand into which he placed the glass he had just filled. Had it not been for that one fatal lapse eleven years previously, when the Comet had run aground at the mouth of the River Plate—due, in the opinion of a naval court martial, to Graham’s negligence—he might now have attained post-rank and be in command of a ship of his own. His had been a promising career; he had been commissioned as a Lieutenant at twenty and, with the “interest” upon which an Admiral’s son co
uld always count, Graham might have gone a long way in the Service.
Instead he had wandered the world, serving before the mast in Indiamen and convict ships and finally as second mate of an Australian emigrant ship, cut off by their proud old father, his name never spoken in the Admiral’s presence and his letters—when he wrote—burned unread, on the old Admiral’s stern instructions. It hurt to think of what this elder brother of his must have endured since rejoining the Royal Navy at the first threat of war, as an able-seaman … and it hurt still more to recall the late Captain North’s treatment of him, when chance had sent him to the Trojan, as one of a draft for the Black Sea Fleet nearly a year ago. Phillip gritted his teeth, remembering how North had had him flogged for no better reason than because he suspected Graham’s relationship to his First Lieutenant … a relationship they had both attempted to deny.
Months later when, as one of the survivors of the ill-fated Tiger, Graham had been released by the Governor of Odessa in an exchange of prisoners-of-war and wounded, Captain North’s vindictive persecution had continued. Yet his brother had never weakened in his resolve to salvage what he could of his wrecked career and, above all, Phillip reflected with admiration, he hadn’t allowed himself to become embittered, as many others in his position might have done. Indeed, he had displayed Christian charity of the highest degree when his persecutor had been stricken with the dreaded cholera, although it had been to no avail. Since Henry North’s death— which had occurred on the eve of the attack on Sebastopol’s harbour defenses by the Allied Fleets in October—Graham had been Second-Master of the Trojan and had acquitted himself well.
Now, on his transfer to the Huntress with the acting rank of Master, he had regained—in fact, if not yet in name—the status he had once enjoyed as a Lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Navy. Admittedly a Master had, until quite recently, been a warrant and not a commissioned officer, but he held wardroom rank, was a watchkeeper and responsible for the navigation of the ship and—a curious anomaly, in this case— his rate of pay exceeded that of even a senior Lieutenant. Officially, of course, as First Lieutenant, Ambrose Quinn was his superior but … Phillip smiled, without amusement. If Quinn had even a modicum of sense, he would not try conclusions with the Huntress’s newly appointed Master, unless he were deliberately looking for trouble—and he probably wasn’t. He …