The Brave Captains

by V. A. Stuart

  “But it isn’t over!” Fox protested vehemently. “Phillip, we’ve been friends for a long time, you and I … I beg you to tell me what the Admiral said to you, if it concerns North. You can trust to my discretion, you must know that … unless, for some reason, I have forfeited your confidence. If I have then, for the sake of our friendship, you owe it to me to say so. At least tell me why.”

  “Don’t be idiotic, my dear Martin … of course you haven’t forfeited my confidence. Nevertheless I …” Phillip hesitated but finally, observing the injured look in Fox’s dark eyes, he reluctantly abandoned his attempt at evasion. “Very well, since you wish it, I will tell you what there is to tell—provided I have your word that you will take no action in the matter. No action whatsoever, without consulting me first.”

  “That’s a condition?”

  “Yes, it is. I want your promise, Martin.”

  “Then you have it, naturally. But I—”

  “Thank you.” Phillip embarked on his explanation, choosing his words with care and hoping that Fox would not press him for too many details. “A few hours before he was stricken down by the cholera, Captain North paid a visit to Britannia. He requested an interview with Admiral Dundas, the purpose of which was, I have been given to understand, to accuse me of misconduct and to apply for my trial by court martial. The nature of the charges he made against me was such that, as Commander-in-Chief, Admiral Dundas has deemed it advisable to transfer me to another ship. I accept his decision of course,” he added hastily, as Martin Fox endeavoured to interrupt him, “I’ve no right to question it, Martin. All things considered I have been fortunate … Admiral Lyons most generously spoke up for me and, furthermore, expressed his willingness to have me appointed to his own flagship. So you see, it’s not a matter concerning which you need lose any sleep. I go to Agamemnon very gratefully, even if it has to be without my promotion. Things might have been a great deal worse and I intend, in any case, to volunteer for the Naval Brigade, subject to Admiral Lyons’s approval and there I—”

  “One moment, Phillip,” Fox pleaded. “That isn’t the whole story, is it? You are trying to pull the wool over my eyes but please … tell me the truth. I must know.”

  “What else do you want to know?” Phillip asked. “I’ve told you the essentials.” It was almost eight bells, he thought, and Fox’s relief would present himself in a few minutes. Although, being Sunday, when it was customary to allow an extra quarter of an hour for breakfast—to enable the men to prepare for inspection—the watch would not change until 8:30, or one bell of the Forenoon Watch. And this, unfortunately, would give his companion ample time in which to ask the questions he had been hoping to avoid … he again forced a smile and sought to change the subject but, as before, Martin Fox refused to be put off.

  “You mentioned charges, Phillip,” he pointed out. “But what possible charges could North have brought against you that he could not have brought against the rest of us? We were all more deeply involved than you were—you had only just rejoined the ship, after serving on the Admiral’s staff.”

  Phillip shrugged. “Very well, if you must know—I was to be charged under Article Nineteen of the Articles of War.” His voice was controlled and devoid of feeling. “North informed the Admiral that it was also his intention to bring charges against my brother. He did not specify what these were but he assured Admiral Dundas that evidence to support his charges, against both Graham and myself, would be furnished within a matter of hours. Since, however, he died within a matter of hours, no evidence was forthcoming, so …” He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Officially, that is to be the end of the matter. North was ill. The Commander-in-Chief is prepared to accept that he may have been delirious.”

  “The petition!” Martin Fox exclaimed. “That letter we all signed, Phillip, requesting you to take whatever action was necessary to bring about North’s removal from this command—that was his evidence, I suppose? He was depending on Smithson and his Marines to obtain possession of it, was he not, while he talked to Admiral Dundas?”

  “Yes, I imagine so,” Phillip said shortly. His mouth tightened in distaste as he recalled the events which had preceded his late commander’s unpleasant and utterly unexpected demise.

  Captain North, it was now evident, must have known of the petition to have him removed from command of Trojan—known or, at any rate, suspected that his officers were contemplating such a move. He had gone to the Britannia in a great hurry, determined that his version of the unhappy affair should be the first to reach the ears of the Commander-in-Chief. He had promised to supply proof of the allegations he had made to the Admiral, having left Smithson, the young Lieutenant of Marines, with orders to seize the letter and to place under arrest any officer who attempted to resist him. He had been on his way back to the ship, triumphantly aware that victory was his for the taking, when the cholera had struck him down … and he had died, unlamented by a single officer or seaman of Trojan’s crew, in the hideous, writhing agony of an acute attack of the disease.

  Phillip shivered, as he remembered the scene which, with Surgeon Frazer and his brother Graham, he had been compelled to witness. It was a memory he had tried in vain to erase from his mind ever since, but it was imprinted there still, horrifying in its vivid clarity, to be conjured up at moments when he least wanted to be reminded of it. The tyrant denuded of his power, his final, vindictive triumph snatched from his grasp, had cut a pitiful and undignified figure in his last hours. The sweat broke out on Phillip’s brow as he saw again, in memory, that white, twitching face and heard the frightened, sobbing cries, the abject pleas for aid which was no longer of the smallest use to him in his extremity.

  No matter how bitterly he had hated Thomas North or how much he had suffered under the sadistic tyranny of his late commander, such an end—however providential it had proved—was not one to wish on a dog, still less on a human being. Yet at the time … he stiffened, aware that Martin Fox had asked him a question he had not heard, and thrust the ugly vision from him. Guessing what the question had been and steeling himself to display no sign of emotion, he said with flat lack of emphasis, “Without proof North’s charges cannot, of course, be substantiated. And the proof, as you know, has been destroyed, on Admiral Lyons’s instructions. He is, apart from ourselves, the only one who saw that petition—therefore, as I told you, Martin, that is the end of the matter. No official action is to be taken against either Graham or myself.”

  “Apart from your removal from this ship,” Martin Fox reminded him indignantly. “And the Commander-in-Chief’s refusal to recommend your promotion. Graham, no doubt, will remain rated an A.B.—or is he also to be transferred to an other ship?”

  “No, he is to stay—subject to Captain Crawford’s approval—as acting Second Master.”

  “Then you will be the only one to suffer, that’s what it amounts to, Phillip. You, who are the least culpable of any! In justice to yourself, you cannot leave matters as they stand or expect us to. Surely you know that we, that all of us—”

  “There’s nothing to be done, Martin,” Phillip interrupted, an edge to his voice. “As Admiral Dundas was at pains to make clear to me, officially I am being given the benefit of the doubt. But allegations of misconduct were made against me by my late commander and these have not been disproved. Nor can they be, unless I am brought to trial and there’s no question of that. My accuser is dead and there were no witnesses to his interview with the Commander-in-Chief. I grant you, it’s something of a vicious circle but you’ll only make matters worse if you attempt to intervene on my behalf.” He sighed in frustration, losing a little of the rigid control he had imposed on himself. “Don’t you see, Martin, the fear that you would want to intervene was what made me reluctant to confide in you? And, I confess, why I had to extract a promise from you that you would do nothing without first consulting me—a promise to which I intend to hold you! Now, let’s talk of something else, shall we? Something calculated to leave a p
leasanter taste in the mouth than this has done.”

  “But for heaven’s sake …” Martin Fox began, very white of face. Eight bells struck and, with commendable punctuality, Lieutenant Cochrane, who was his relief, mounted the after-companion way, saluted the quarterdeck, and stood waiting for a pause in the conversation, his smile innocently cheerful as he glanced from one to the other of his two seniors. Despite the fact that he was a conscientious and efficient officer, Anthony Cochrane had been one of the late Captain North’s most frequent victims, Phillip recalled, and he had narrowly escaped a court martial for alleged insubordination, as the result of an attempt to save the men of his division from their commander’s wrath. He acknowledged the red-headed young watchkeeper’s salute but Fox, seemingly unaware of his presence, went on talking.

  “This is monstrous, Phillip!” he said explosively. “If you are guilty of misconduct, then we all are … if, that’s to say, the action to which North had driven us constitutes misconduct. Consider the fact, I beg you. We had agreed to draw up a petition, signed by every officer aboard this ship—with the exception of Smithson, who was only on temporary duty—and addressed to the Commander-in-Chief, to request the removal from command of a sadistic madman, who was quite unfitted to hold any command! Our request was justified, God knows. The letter was simply a means of putting our agreement in writing, so as to enable you, as First Lieutenant, to draw up the petition and present it to the Admiral, with our statements to back it up. Does that make it a breach of Article Nineteen or the petition itself an act of mutiny?”

  “Both could have been so construed by a naval court martial,” Phillip returned. “Ask Mr Burnaby, he’s an expert on naval law. Besides, we’re at war, don’t forget and—”

  “Is that supposed to be justice?” Martin Fox challenged, with bitterness. “When there’s not an officer or seaman in the entire ship’s company who would not have been willing to testify, on oath, to the truth of every word contained in those statements? For that matter, there isn’t one who would not go to the Admiral now, if North’s allegations against you require to be disproved. Believe me”—he halted, his eyes pleading as they met Phillip’s—“they all think the world of you. They know what you did, what you were prepared to do … Laidlow, Cochrane, Surgeon Frazer, even old Burnaby, and, it goes without saying, myself. Any or all of us would gladly bear you out, Phillip—so why will you not permit us to do so?”

  “Because, my dear fellow,” Phillip told him, losing patience at last, “we should all be ruined if you did. And I most certainly should, I assure you. Study Article Nineteen, notably the references to ‘mutinous assembly’ if you’ve any doubt as to the inferences which could—and would—be drawn from them by a court martial board, however just and unbiased.” He controlled himself and gestured to the patiently waiting Cochrane who, already attired in frock coat and cocked hat, served as a mute reminder that time was passing and he and Martin Fox had yet to change into full dress to receive their new commander. “Mr Cochrane is here to relieve you of the deck. I am sure, when you have broken your fast, that you’ll feel more optimistic regarding this situation—as, indeed, I do myself, now I’ve had time to think about it.”

  “Do you truly, Phillip?”

  “I do. So … let us drop the subject, shall we, and break-fast together? All things considered, my dear Martin, we have had a narrow and extremely lucky escape from disaster and we can, at least, start anew with a clean slate, can we not?”

  “I suppose we can,” Martin Fox admitted, but without conviction. “Nevertheless it’s a gross injustice and you—with less reason to reproach yourself than any of us—are the loser. That sticks in my throat, Phillip.”

  “Forget it,” Phillip advised. “Thanks to Admiral Lyons, I’m losing much less than I might have done and I’ve every reason to be grateful to him … every reason in the world. He is giving me the opportunity to vindicate myself and I ask no more than that.” He laid a hand briefly on Fox’s shoulder and added, with an abrupt change of tone, “Have the watch called, if you please. And leave instructions with Mr Cochrane to keep a sharp look out for Captain Crawford’s gig. I wish to be called as soon as it is sighted.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Martin Fox acknowledged automatically. He passed on the order and, as the pipe sounded and the duty watch came scrambling up on deck in response to the call, he prepared to hand over to his relief.

  Phillip crossed to the starboard rail to wait for him, listening without impatience to the thud of bare feet on the deck planking and the familiar shouted orders. A midshipman’s high-pitched, boyish voice called out names from the muster book, reeling one off after the other with scarcely a pause, and the men answered gruffly, smart in their clean white frocks, their faces freshly shaven, ready for inspection. On board other ships at the Fleet anchorage, similar scenes were taking place and, from where he stood, Phillip could glimpse the fine steam-screw two-decker Agamemnon—soon to be his destination—lying at anchor a quarter of a mile to the east and closer inshore than the rest of the line-of-battle ships. He expelled his breath in a longdrawn sigh, conscious once again of regret. It was going to be a wrench leaving this ship, he knew … an appalling wrench.

  He had put Trojan in commission, standing for the first time on her quarterdeck when she had been lying in dry dock at Devonport, with her masts out … a lifeless and unlovely hulk, to whose taffrail he had secured a small staff with a narrow pennant flying from it, as a symbol of her future in the Queen’s service.

  Her future? He repeated his sigh, remembering the dreams he had had, the hopes, and the pride he had felt that day. Trojan had been the first ship for whose fitting-out and manning he had been solely responsible, since Thomas North had not been appointed to command her until, under his supervision, she had been put into full seagoing trim and her crew entered.

  During the weeks of dockyard preparation, when she had been masted, rigged, stored, provisioned, and armed, this ship had occupied a special place in his heart. As indeed, Phillip thought sadly, she always would. He had seen her lofty masts and yards swayed into place from the dockyard sheers, had seen her rigging set up, dead-eyes and ratlines squared, the worn copper on her bottom stripped off and replaced by newly rolled sheets, and her over-hauled engines tested and tuned. Under his critical eye, painters had applied the finishing touches to the black and white checker of her gundeck, with its hinged portlids—their number increased by two on each side, to allow for the extra armament she was to carry—and to deck fittings, upperworks, and funnel. He had inspected her two suits of sails and seen one bent to the yards, the other—completely fitted, ready for use—stowed in the sailroom.

  Trojan had been his ship then, his ship and his responsibility. As he had watched her grow into a thing of grace and beauty, he had come to love her with the single-minded devotion and the passionate, heartfelt pride that only a seaman can feel for his ship. Even the ill-fated advent of Captain North had not changed his feelings for the ship herself or for the officers and men who made up her crew. If anything, Phillip realized now, it had enhanced them, involving him more deeply in Trojan’s destiny and causing him to assume a greater measure of personal responsibility for her people.

  As First Lieutenant he had endeavoured to stand between the ship’s company and their new Captain’s ruthless attempts to enforce a system of discipline which daily became more harsh and unreasonable. He had, as a result, borne the brunt of North’s outbursts of savage rage, his frequent accusations of disloyalty … Phillip’s hands gripped the rail, tightening convulsively as he looked back, remembering.

  Thomas North had been the Trojan’s evil genius as well as his own and he found himself wondering whether, as Martin Fox had suggested a short while before, their late commander had, in fact, been a madman. Certainly no sane and responsible captain could have behaved as North had behaved to those unfortunate enough to have had to serve under him, regardless alike of the consequences and of the hatred he had invited. No normal man, with a
n ounce of human feeling in him, could have gone on day after day, driving other men to the limit of their endurance, without justification or excuse and completely without pity. Yet the late Captain North—if the rumours which persisted concerning his previous command, the brig Guillemot, were true—had done so twice in his lifetime… .

  Phillip relaxed his grip on the rail in front of him. The nightmare was over, he reminded himself. North was dead and the rest must be forgotten and it was best that it should be forgotten. Trojan was to have a new commander; Martin Fox was, most deservedly, to become her First Lieutenant. He himself, although the dead hand of Thomas North had reached out to touch him with brief malice, had nothing on his conscience to trouble him, nothing he need seriously regret. The morale, discipline, and efficiency of the ship’s company had been fully restored. Trojan had gone into action against the stone forts of Sebastopol under his command and had acquitted herself well. She had earned Admiral Lyons’s commendation and the cheers of other ships in the fleet when, with Spitfire and Lynx, she had emerged from the smoke of the Russian guns, escorting the stricken Rodney out of their range.

  Therefore if he were honest, Phillip reflected, he could not—except for purely sentimental reasons—regret his forth-coming transfer to Agamemnon. In the circumstances, as he had told Martin Fox, he could consider himself extremely fortunate to have been given an opportunity to serve aboard the flagship or, as one of her officers, to join the Naval Brigade ashore. His appointment, the Commander-in-Chief had told him, had been made at Admiral Lyons’s behest and this, in itself, was an indication of the Rear-Admiral’s continued confidence in him. It also meant that he was being granted a second chance to secure his promotion, for which he had every reason to be grateful … and, indeed, more than grateful.

  Like all who had ever served under his command, he had the highest admiration and respect for Rear-Admiral Sir Edmund Lyons, as well as a warm personal regard which had grown up over the years. He had been a very junior midshipman when he had first made Sir Edmund’s acquaintance and, with his shipmates, had sampled the generous Lyons’s hospitality at the British Embassy in Athens… . Phillip smiled reminiscently. It had been there that he had met the other members of the family, including Jack—the younger of the Admiral’s two sons and also in the Navy—with whom, despite Jack’s eight years’ seniority, he had formed a close and lasting friendship.