by V. A. Stuart
“Sir!” The youngster was pink-cheeked with indignation and obviously shocked by the implications of the message he had been charged to deliver. “He—that is Captain Durbanville, sir—told the First Lieutenant that he could not interrupt the—the performance of his military duty in order to comply with your request, sir, but that he would be pleased to do so, after he has dismissed the parade. He said he craved your indulgence, sir. But …” O’Hara swallowed hard and lapsed into his own, more normal vocabulary as he went on breathlessly, “that’s just eyewash, I think, sir. He has the gratings rigged at the gangway and a man standing by with the cat and, when we got there, sir, he was reading from the—the Articles of War. I don’t believe he has any intention of reporting to you until the floggings have been carried out, sir, and I heard one of the soldiers say that he—”
Phillip silenced him with a crisp, “Thank you, Mr O’Hara. You may carry on.” But the youngster did not move, continuing to regard him with stunned astonishment. In the whole of his brief naval career Midshipman O’Hara had never heard an order questioned, in this ship or any other, least of all an order issued by his Captain, however it was phrased, so that his astonishment was, perhaps, understandable. And under Captain North’s command … Phillip’s mouth hardened. In a situation like this, would North have worried about regulations or doubted either his right or his power to flout them?
“Sir,” O’Hara ventured apprehensively, with a swift glance over his shoulder, “surely this—this is mutiny, isn’t it, sir?”
“No, Mr O’Hara,” Phillip said curtly. Technically it was not, he reminded himself, if his interpretation of the manual of military law lent him by Major Leach was correct. It seemed reasonable to suppose that Durbanville knew it was not, since no doubt he had also studied his manual and would therefore be aware that, when on board one of Her Majesty’s ships—even in time of war—the officer commanding troops on passage was responsible for the good order and discipline of his men. The regulations did not provide for the ship’s Captain to overrule an order given by the military commander to his own men, unless its execution were likely to endanger or interfere with the efficient working of his ship which, in effect, meant that … Phillip’s hands clenched at his sides, as he saw Martin Fox walking aft to rejoin him. His First Lieutenant’s step was slow and measured, his tall body ramrod stiff—unmistakable signs of a sorely tried temper.
“Commander Hazard …” Major Leach’s voice in his ear was low and urgent. “You have, in my view, done all you officially can in this unfortunate affair. I fancy it is now up to me, so with your permission, sir, I—”
“What do you propose to do, Major?” Phillip demanded bluntly. “You are officially still under arrest, as I need hardly remind you.”
“No, you need not,” Leach returned with feeling. “But—” he gestured to where one of his fusiliers, stripped to the waist, was being secured by his wrists to a grating, which stood on one end and had been lashed in position at an angle to the gangway. “That infernal young sadist is quite determined to have his own way, as you can see. I cannot, in all conscience, stand by and watch him flog a good soldier to within an inch of his life … and a man of my own regiment at that. I cannot, Hazard, and to hell with the consequences! I propose to ignore the fact of my arrest—or ask you, as Captain of this ship, to release me. Damn it, I don’t care how we get round the difficulty! I am going to take over that parade and order those men released … and I shall be obeyed, never fear. The Seventh form the bulk of the contingent. They’ll accept my authority and gladly.”
“I don’t doubt that, Major,” Phillip conceded. Leach started to move but Phillip laid a detaining hand on the older man’s arm, as Martin Fox approached them. “The consequences to you could be disastrous, sir. However little we may like it, Durbanville is within his rights, you know.”
“And he’s only too well aware of it, Major,” Fox put in, his voice shaking with controlled fury. “I’ve had every damned regulation he can think of quoted at me and even the Articles of War have been flung in my face! He’s either mad or … God knows what he is! But as Commander Hazard says, sir, according to the letter of the law, he is within his rights, as senior ranking military officer. And he has an Army surgeon present, who will stop the punishment if necessary. I managed to obtain his assurance on that point, at least.” He lowered his voice. “Believe me, sir, I could cheerfully murder the damned young swine and I hold no brief for what he’s doing but—if you attempt to intervene, he’d have a strong enough case against you to have you broken. He as good as told me so just now and I honestly think it’s what he wants you to do—or any one of us, come to that—so I beg you to have a care, sir.”
From the gratings came a high-pitched agonized cry and they could hear, quite clearly, the hiss of the cat being expertly laid on. Leach, almost beside himself, turned a white, tormented face to the two naval officers. “If I don’t intervene, Mr Fox, who is going to? A divine providence, perhaps? I’m sorry but I no longer believe in miracles, I—” Phillip cut him short.
“Wait, Major, please.” His brain was suddenly clear and ice cold, as an idea came to him and he spoke with elation, his gaze on the sky to windward, from whence the idea had come. “Providence is about to intervene, if we can offer some assistance and I fancy we can. Martin, do you see what I see?”
Martin Fox followed the direction of his gaze, his expression blank at first and then a smile of understanding spread slowly across his face as he, too, glimpsed the ominous, scudding clouds. “A miracle indeed!” he agreed, with heartfelt relief. “And not before time … shall I warn Laidlaw?”
Lieutenant Laidlaw, however, on the lee side of the quarterdeck, had also seen the approaching squall. In obedience to standing orders and because this was the usual procedure in squally weather, he prepared to shorten sail and pay the ship’s head off, allowing himself plenty of time in order to have the topmen safely back on deck and the rest of the men ready to go below, out of the rain, before the squall struck. It looked a heavy squall but he decided that he would have between five and ten minutes to make the ship ready to meet it and, aware that his commander and the First Lieutenant were crossing the deck towards him, he called out an order to the man at the helm before turning to the senior boatswain’s mate.
“Pipe hands to stations for shortening sail, Bo’sun’s Mate. In spanker and upper sails, down jib. And I’ll have the lower yards braced. Man lee sheets and braces and—”
“Belay that, Mr Laidlaw,” Phillip told him and, to the helmsman, “Steady, Quartermaster! Very well thus.”
“Sir?” Laidlaw exclaimed, scarcely able to believe the evidence of his own ears. He gestured in the direction of the racing clouds, pregnant with the dark threat of rain. “Sir, there’s—”
“I want two men on the helm, if you please, Mr Laidlaw—two good men,” Phillip returned crisply. “I’m going to luff her into that squall.”
“Luff her, sir? But—” Young Duncan Laidlaw stared at him, his jaw dropping in ludicrous bewilderment. According to his training and experience, to luff a square-rigged vessel in these conditions could only result in the sails being taken aback and the ship becoming unmanageable. He seemed about to offer a diffident warning but hurriedly changed his mind when Martin Fox put in curtly, “You heard what the Captain said, Mr Laidlaw.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Laidlaw acknowledged. His face was a study as he glanced from one to the other of his two seniors, as if fearing that both had taken sudden and inexplicable leave of their senses. He had, of course, witnessed the punishment parade but, occupied with his watchkeeping duties and—since serving under Captain North—averse to the barbarity of the spectacle, had deliberately paid less attention than they had to what was going on. In consequence, he failed to see any connection between the orders he had just been given and the fact that, as he had expected, when he had first reported the nature of the parade, a soldier was receiving a brutal flogging. But he was too well trained to ask for an ex
planation and Phillip, at that moment, was too busy to supply him with one as, his glass on the sky to windward, he sought to assess the strength and speed of the squall and con his ship to meet it.
Duncan Laidlaw, accepting his authority without another word, waited at his elbow and, whilst the two boatswain’s mates stood by expectantly, he relayed his commander’s orders and, when required, acted upon them with faultless efficiency. Once or twice, when the watch had still not been piped to stations for shortening sail, he glanced up at the looming storm clouds and frowned, apprehensively aware of the press of sail the ship was carrying and of the increasing strength of the wind in his face. But his faith in Phillip Hazard’s seamanship had stood the test of time; so, too, had his loyalty and, he reminded himself, the responsibility was no longer his. When the Captain had assumed command, his duty as Officer of the Watch was simply to do as he was told and it was, in any case, becoming evident to him that—far from taking leave of their senses—his two seniors knew exactly what they were about and were acting in concert.
He saw the First Lieutenant go forward, heard him shout something which sounded like a warning to the red-jacketed square of soldiers but not a man moved and Fox returned, moments later, gravely shaking his head.
“No use, sir,” Laidlaw heard him say. “He’s affecting deafness.”
“Well, he’s been given a chance,” Phillip answered, his voice clipped. “It’s going to be a close-run thing, Martin, and I don’t want to take any more risks than I have to … I think we’ll turn up both watches. She’s likely to ship quite a lot of water when the time comes and the topmen will have to work fast, because our margin of error may well be too small for comfort. Those soldiers have got to go below—we can’t have them cluttering up the deck for very much longer.”
“They’re not too happy now, sir,” Fox told him, “I don’t give them much longer once this sea gets up.”
In the center of his closely packed square, Henry Durbanville did not, at first, sense the growing uneasiness of the men grouped about him and, intent only on the completion of the task he had set himself, he had taken in very little of what the First Lieutenant had endeavoured to tell him. The fellow had bawled at him through some sort of speaking trumpet that distorted his voice, he thought indignantly. In any case, Fox had already demanded his presence on the quarterdeck once before which—quite rightly—he had answered with a firm refusal. He knew from whom the demand had really come … Major Leach, of course, had prompted it in his wholly unjustifiable anxiety to spare his indolent, slovenly fusiliers from the punishment which their filthy turn-out had earned them. They needed to be disciplined, the whole unruly horde of so-called heroes of the Alma, and not pampered, as Leach appeared to believe.
He despised Leach, both for his softness with the men he was supposed to command and for the fact that he was so palpably not a gentleman. True he held a Queen’s commission but it was well known that professional officers, in regiments of the line, were not gentlemen in the accepted sense, since they were dependent on their pay and could not afford to purchase promotion. A gentleman, with proper pride in his regiment, would never have permitted his men to parade for inspection in the state in which Leach’s fusiliers had appeared—he would have paid for new uniforms for them, out of his own pocket if need be. He …
“Captain Durbanville …” the surgeon was beside him looking agitated. “In my opinion as medical officer, the prisoner cannot stand further punishment. I should be obliged if you would order his release at once.”
Henry Durbanville, not liking his peremptory tone, was tempted to reject his request but a glance at the semiconscious figure, hanging limply by the ropes which secured his wrists to the top of the grating, brought a swift change of mind. The man’s back was reduced to a bleeding pulp, he saw, and was astonished for, after his first scream of pain when the lash had bitten into his flesh, he had borne his punishment in stoical silence.
“How many lashes has he had?” he enquired, having lost count when Lieutenant Fox had been yelling at him.
“A dozen and a half. But he—”
“I ordered him two dozen. Oh, all right, cut him down if you think he’s had enough. Surgery’s your trade, not mine.” There were still two more of Leach’s fusiliers to be disciplined, Henry Durbanville reminded himself. He hoped they would be made of sterner stuff than the first fellow and also that Leach was still skulking about on deck, where he could see them, even if it did mean that he had broken his arrest … he sighed, as he watched the body slither down from the grating. Even the sagging bucket of salt water with which it was doused failed to bring any reaction. Durbanville passed his tongue over his lips, feeling them oddly dry.
He had never witnessed a flogging before, and, although he had, of course, read every detail of the procedure and heard the scene described by various brother officers, until now he had not realized what a dramatic spectacle it all made. The solemn roll of a single drum, the reading of the requisite extract from the Articles of War and of the sentence, the glum expressions of the men and, in particular, the sick terror in the eyes of the prisoner as he was led to the gratings … he sighed again.
It had been quite a novel experience and had had a much greater emotional effect on him than the illicit cockfighting he had watched, as a boy, in one of his father’s barns. And to be in command, wielding almost the power of life and death, with every man’s eyes on him—a few rebellious but most of them awed and all of them, standing there silent and motionless, because he had ordered them to do so. They would not move now until he dismissed them. He had even—quite correctly, in the circumstances—defied the ship’s acting Captain and, Durbanville told himself, he would continue to defy him, as well as ignore the messengers he sent, until his duty was done. He would teach them to respect him, from the Captain to the deck-hands, from Leach to the youngest drummer boy … he felt the ship lurch and became uneasily conscious that the deck beneath his feet was no longer as steady as it had been. There had been a certain amount of motion but he had believed that his stomach had overcome its earlier queasiness. Now, as a wave of nausea swept over him, he was not so sure.
God, if it was rough again, as damnably, miserably rough as it had been during the past few days! He had always been a poor sailor, hating the sea but he could not, he must not disgrace himself in front of these men, just when he had got their measure and taught them the sharp lesson they had all needed … dear God, he must not do that! Impatiently he brushed aside the objections the surgeon was attempting to make in regard to the second prisoner, having scarcely bothered to listen to them. The wretched fellow was a soldier, was he not? Well, then … the ship seemed to have steadied a little and he read out the sentence, conscious of a sense of extraordinary elation, which banished his nausea, as the prisoner looked up with mutely pleading eyes to meet his own stern gaze.
He was an elderly man, with a pale, thin face and greying hair and, as be was stripped of his shirt, an imperfectly healed scar could be seen, running in a livid line from one side of his bony chest to the other.
“What the devil’s wrong with him?” Durbanville asked the surgeon, shocked in spite of himself by the sight of the hideous wound.
“This man was sabered by the Russians and left for dead, Captain Durbanville, as I’ve tried to explain to you. He was also commended for gallantry by his commanding officer.” The surgeon was young and he was rapidly losing patience with the arrogant Guards officer who, although even younger than himself, was—for the time being, at least—his military superior. Unlike Durbanville, he had heard the First Officer’s warning of an approaching squall and was worried lest, by delaying for too long on deck in order to complete these infamous punishments, any of the men should suffer injury. In bad weather, their place—as passengers—was below and, encouraged by Durbanville’s silence, he pointed this out in no uncertain terms, the ship’s renewed pitching and a flurry of rain adding emphasis to his words. He had expected to provoke an outburst but, somewh
at to his surprise, Durbanville nodded.
“Damn the weather,” he said, quite mildly. “I’m not concerned with that and these infernal sailors make rules to suit themselves. However, if this man is not fit to take two dozen lashes, you may release him. What about the other fellow?”
The ship was now pitching violently and the wind, like a devil released, drove the rain savagely into his face. His treacherous stomach started to heave and he had to swallow the bile that flooded into his mouth but he managed somehow to remain on his feet, although the men about him were experiencing difficulty in keeping to their ranks.
“Well?” Durbanville glared at the surgeon, willing him to suggest some face-saving reason which would enable him to pardon the third of Leach’s fusiliers but, to his chagrin, the surgeon simply shrugged.
“Fusilier Denton is fit to receive punishment, sir,” he stated flatly and added, making no attempt to hide his distaste for the whole proceedings, “if you insist on carrying out your sentence, which I consider both unjust and undeserved … and at the present time also dangerous.”
In other circumstances, Henry Durbanville would have known how to deal with his insubordination but now, he realized with sick dismay, he was caught in a trap of his own making. He would have to order the sentence carried out or yield to the surgeon’s insolent defiance of his authority, with Leach and Hazard and his officers no doubt looking on … but, dear heaven, he hoped that, once he had given the order, they would hurry and get the thing over. He gave it, in a strained, high-pitched voice and, having done so, instantly regretted his decision. The fools were taking as long as they could, staggering this way and that as the ship rolled, stumbling into each other and breaking ranks. Even the hefty drummer holding the cat joined in the absurd pantomime, Durbanville saw with impotent fury, as the man first cannoned into his relief and then let the whip fall from his grasp and roll into the scuppers.