by V. A. Stuart
One, at least, of his anxieties was removed when, just as daylight was fading on the evening of the second day, the Governor’s launch brought Mademoiselle Sophie and the Baroness von Mauthner back on board. He had imagined and even begun to fear that, when they had failed to return after their night on shore, they might be leaving the ship to continue their journey overland and his relief at the sight of them surprised even himself. He was unable to see very much of them when they were on board—his duties kept him too occupied and Captain North, very pointedly, invited no one to share the meals he took with his two female passengers—but the knowledge that Mademoiselle Sophie was there was, Phillip found, the source of a certain bitter-sweet pleasure to him.
Trojan weighed anchor at seven bells in the First Watch and, as Friday 25th March dawned, she entered a grey, stormy, Mediterranean, her immediate destination Malta. To Phillip’s surprise—although this decision was, no doubt, the result of instructions he had been given in Gibraltar—the Captain did not order the screw raised on leaving harbour. The wind was still unfavourable and the ship proceeded under her engines throughout the night, with only her topsails set, and it was not until well into the following morning, when the weather improved with a fresh wind from the S.S.E., that North instructed him to dispense with engines and make all possible sail.
The rest of the voyage to Malta—apart from more frequent use of the screw—followed much the same pattern as that from Plymouth to Gibraltar. Keeping in sight of the African coast, the ship made good progress. After the first day, the weather was better but that was the only difference … the training exercises were not. The Captain had stated his intention to concentrate mainly on gun-drills and this he did, until the unfortunate guns’ crews were dropping on their feet, when it again became the turn of the seamen’s divisions to exercise aloft.
North put them through every evolution in the sailing manual, timing them with a stop-watch and roaring his displeasure when the time taken for a particular exercise failed to come up to his expectations. In sheer desperation, in the end, the men improved on their times, realizing that—unless they could manage to do so—they would continue to be put through the same evolutions twice and often three times in the course of each watch. The resentful murmurs increased and many of the seamen became careless, risking life and limb in their efforts to satisfy the exacting demands of their commander.
Carelessness led, inevitably, to accidents. When reefing topsails in a squall the second day out, the Captain of the Maintop, a fine old seaman named Challoner, fell from the main rigging and was lucky to escape with head injuries and a broken arm. Within a few minutes of his being carried below, he was followed by another maintopman—an ex-coastguard— William Davis, who was less fortunate. He struck one of the quarterdeck guns, a few feet from where Phillip was standing with the Captain, and was killed instantly.
Next day while engaged in the exercise of sending up lower yards and topmasts and crossing topgallant yards, two other men missed their footing and both went overboard. A boat was lowered with all possible speed to go to their assistance but one of the men, a non-swimmer, drowned before it could reach him, despite the gallant efforts of his shipmate to keep him afloat. But, as soon as the boat returned, Captain North ordered the whole exercise repeated… .
Head-winds again necessitated the use of engines for eight out of the next twenty-four hours but Trojan made a fast passage, sighting the island of Gozo from the masthead at daybreak on Tuesday morning, 29th March. Just after seven bells had struck in the Forenoon Watch, she steamed into Malta’s Grand Harbour, saluted the flag of the Admiral-Superintendent, and secured to a buoy off the dockyard, having made the passage from Plymouth in a total of eleven and a half days. This was better than Captain North had estimated or even hoped for but, typically, he offered no word of praise or appreciation to his hard-worked ship’s company.
There were a great many ships in the harbour and the dockyard, both French and British, the majority of these trooptransports on their way to Gallipoli or Constantinople, and Valetta was crowded with the soldiers of both nations, waiting for ships to take them on to their destination. But, despite the evident congestion, North made it clear that he intended to brook no delay. Coal, water, and stores had all to be taken on board and Phillip was ordered to begin coaling at once … the Captain, as before, taking both passengers ashore with him to stay at the Governor’s country house in St Antonio—a village four miles from Valetta—until the worst of it should be over.
He sent for his First Lieutenant before leaving the ship.
“I shall make arrangements with the Admiral-Superintendent to ensure that I am given the priority to which my orders entitle me,” he said curtly. “The rest is up to you, Mr Hazard. I expect to be under way again within twenty-four hours or by tomorrow evening at the latest, so you will have to do the best you can. Coal and water must be loaded but if we have to leave without some of our stores, it cannot be helped, you understand? And there will be no shore leave … I don’t want to have to send out patrols to hunt for drunken seamen or have any of my crew picking fights with the army when they’re the worse for liquor. It that clear, Mr Hazard?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Phillip acknowledged. With something in the region of 150 tons of coal to load, compliance with the Captain’s orders would mean working for most of the night but, he supposed wearily, it would have to be done. He came to attention, his fingers to the peak of his cap, as the pipes of the boatswain’s mates twittered in ceremonious farewell and the Captain went over the side to his waiting gig.
Mademoiselle Sophie, already seated there with the Baroness, smiled up at him shyly from the sternsheets but he was only dimly aware of her presence and scarcely noticed the smile, his mind busy with calculations as the gig cast off and he dismissed the side-party.
CHAPTER FOUR
1
By four-thirty the following afternoon the passengers had returned to the ship and, thanks to prodigious efforts on the part of her crew, the coal, water, and stores required for the last stage of her journey had all been taken on board and stowed. Trojan was ready to proceed to sea and, with steam up, Phillip called away the Captain’s gig, dispatching it to pick up North, who was still closeted with the Admiral-Superintendent on shore.
There was a long and unexplained delay and darkness had fallen by the time the gig was reported pulling back to the ship. Anthony Cochrane, who was officer of the watch, prepared to summon the side-party to receive their commander with due ceremony but, as naval custom decreed, he hailed the approaching boat before doing so. The reply from the midshipman in charge was also according to custom.
“Aye, aye … Trojan!” he shouted back, his repetition of the ship’s name indicating that her Captain was on board but his voice, which had recently broken, was oddly strained and high-pitched when he added the request for a boatswain’s chair to be lowered.
“A bo’sun’s chair!” Cochrane exclaimed, turning to Phillip with raised brows. “Why in the world does the youngster want a bo’sun’s chair, do you suppose? The passengers are back. Unless, of course …” He smiled, with more than a hint of malice, “unless the Captain has wined and dined too well on shore, perhaps!”
“That is not one of his vices,” Phillip objected, his tone short.
“If it’s not, then it’s the only vice he doesn’t possess. I’m sorry, sir …” Meeting his senior’s reproving glare, Cochrane’s smile swiftly faded. “But that does happen to be true, you know.”
He knew, only too well, Phillip thought bitterly, but he could not admit it to Anthony Cochrane, could not encourage the younger man openly to criticize their commander.
“Carry on, Mr Cochrane,” he returned repressively. “You’ve been asked to rig a bo’sun’s chair, have you not?”
“Yes, sir,”
“Then rig one. And call the side-party … I’ll see you at the entry port.”
“Aye, aye, sir. But …” young Cochrane’s irrepressible smile w
as again widely in evidence as he added, in a subdued whisper, “Is it too much to hope that he’s been taken ill, do you think?”
Phillip affected not to hear him although, in his heart, he found himself echoing the unlikely hope. North’s health had hitherto been excellent and it seemed too much to expect but … he hurried below to the main deck entry port, peering down into the darkness at the gig. There was a slumped figure, wrapped in a boat-cloak, in the sternsheets, he saw, and his hopes rose as the gig came smartly alongside and secured to the midships chains.
From the deck above, two of the hands carefully lowered the boatswain’s chair and, with the assistance of the coxswain and one of the boat’s crew, the Captain climbed into it and suffered himself to be drawn slowly upwards. Even from that distance, his florid face looked pinched and drawn and he leaned forward, legs dangling, holding his boat-cloak about him, as if in considerable pain. The boatswain’s mates put their calls to their lips and the side-party came to attention but North ignored them, omitting to return his officers’ salutes. Reaching the level of the entry port, he said thickly, “Give me an arm, one of you. Come on, come on … can’t you see I’m hardly able to stand upright, devil take it?”
“He is ill!” Lieutenant Cochrane breathed incredulously, as if doubting the evidence of his own eyes. “Heaven be praised … he really has been taken ill!”
Phillip stepped forward and offered his arm and the Mate of the watch went round to the Captain’s other side. Between them, half supporting, half carrying him, they managed to get North below to his cabin, where he sank groaning into a chair.
“Are you unwell, sir?” Phillip asked. “Shall I call for the Surgeon?”
“What the devil does it look like?” the Captain demanded furiously. “Of course I’m unwell, Mr Hazard … and of course I want you to call for the Surgeon! At once, do you hear? He’ll have to give me something to ease this infernal pain.” He smothered another groan as the Mate, in response to Phillip’s request, went in search of the Surgeon, and added, his voice slurred and indistinct, “You’re to take the ship to sea. There must be no delay, my orders are to … report to … the British Ambassador in Constantinople … as soon as possible before … April the fifth. I … use the engines, if you have to, Mr Hazard, for as long as you have to. There’s a … gregale blowing up you’ll … need the screw to get out of harbour.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
North attempted to enlarge on his orders but was silenced by a sudden spasm of pain. “Where the devil is the Surgeon?” he gasped, when the spasm eased. “Why can’t the damned fellow bestir himself?”
The Surgeon, together with his assistant and the Captain’s steward, entered the cabin at that moment and Phillip thankfully relinquished North’s care to them. “I’ll be on deck, Doctor,” he said, “if you have any news as to the Captain’s condition to give me.”
Angus Fraser eyed his patient gravely. “Get him into his cot,” he instructed his assistant and then, turning to Phillip again, he went on, “According to Midshipman Booth, the Captain was in this condition when he went on board the gig and the Admiral was very concerned about him … wanted him to stay on shore and go into hospital, but he refused. His illness came on him very suddenly, I gather. Has he told you anything, Mr Hazard?”
“Only that I am to take the ship to sea,” Phillip answered. “Which I had better see about at once. You’ll let me know how the Captain is, won’t you, as soon as you can?”
“I shall report my findings to you in person, Mr Hazard,” the Surgeon promised. “When I have examined him thoroughly … that will take some time. So … within about an hour, shall we say? I hope to have made a diagnosis by then.”
He was as good as his word. Trojan was steaming on her new course against a moderately strong headwind from the N.N.E., when, a little under an hour later, he came on deck.
“Captain North has a high fever,” he stated and went into technical details, which Phillip only partially understood. “It appears to be an acute gastric infection, picked up on shore, I can only suppose. He is in considerable pain from stomach cramp and is very nauseated but I do not think that his condition is unduly serious. I have given him opium to ease his discomfort and I believe he will sleep now.”
“For how long,” Phillip enquired cautiously, “do you expect the Captain to remain incapacitated, Doctor?”
Angus Fraser met his gaze, his own curiously blank.
“For at least a week, Mr Hazard,” he answered positively and added, lowering his voice, “He will have to keep to his cot for a week and not leave it, under any circumstances, you understand. Which should give you …” his voice sank still lower, “a chance to restore morale by permitting the men some rest, should it not? Because you’ll be in command … the Captain will be in no state to give you any orders.”
“I see.” Phillip’s heart lifted. “Yes, a week should give me time. Indeed, Doctor, it will give me ample time.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mr Hazard. By the bye, your brother is now fit, I believe, to return to light duties. But I do mean light duties—he isn’t fit to return to the Maintop Division. That cough of his still troubles him a good deal and …” the Surgeon hesitated and Phillip glanced at him enquiringly.
“Your brother is not as strong as he likes to make out, Mr Hazard. But he’s qualified in navigation, he tells me, so that Mr Burnaby might be able to make use of his services. What do you think? It is a possible solution, is it not … and it would keep him away from the lower deck.”
Phillip nodded. Putting Graham to work under the Master would also enable him to be usefully employed in a manner unlikely to attract North’s notice, when he resumed command. Fraser’s suggestion was an excellent one, he decided and Burnaby would almost certainly welcome it, since his other assistants, although competent enough, were young and inexperienced. He smiled. “Thank you, Doctor—I’ll have a word with Mr Burnaby at once. I’m sure he’ll be agreeable, so perhaps you would be so good as to tell my brother to report to him?”
The Surgeon departed and Phillip, having obtained Burnaby’s consent to the arrangement, crossed over to where Martin Fox, the officer of the watch, was standing.
“Well?” Fox asked eagerly. “What news of the Captain?”
Phillip told him and saw the dawn of relief in his eyes. “Then we have a week’s respite … oh, thank God! No night quarters, no clearing for action in the Middle Watch, and no washing decks in pitch darkness! The watch below will be able to get their heads down and you and I, Phillip, will be able to make up for some of our lost sleep. That is, of course …” he turned, his expression suddenly anxious, to look into Phillip’s face, “If you intend to use your week of independent command as I hope you do?”
“You know I do, Martin.”
“Heaven be praised! Will you tell the men?”
“No.” Phillip shook his head. “There is no need, they will know soon enough. The gig’s crew will have spread the news of the Captain’s illness in any case.”
“Yes, I suppose they will. One other question, Phillip …” Fox was smiling. “What of our passengers?”
“What of them?”
“Well, they will no longer be taking their meals with the Captain … should we not invite them to partake of our gunroom hospitality? I don’t know about you but I’ve scarcely set eyes on them since they came on board, much less been given an opportunity to exchange any social pleasantries with them. And I should like to, I don’t mind admitting.” Fox’s smile widened. “The one who calls herself Mademoiselle Sophie made a lasting impression on me when she intervened on your brother’s behalf. It took a great deal of courage to do what she did, Phillip. And in addition, she is very good looking, is she not?”
“Yes, she is good looking,” Phillip agreed flatly.
“Then will you invite her—will you invite them both to dine with us in the gunroom tomorrow afternoon?”
“I don’t know if I should, Martin. You see—”
&n
bsp; “But my dear fellow, it can do no harm, surely?”
The echo of Mademoiselle Sophie’s own words to her guardian on the train returned and Phillip frowned. Had she not said, when the Baroness von Mauthner had reproached her for talking to him too freely, that “it was doing no harm?” Remembering their conversation and the eager interest with which she had questioned him about the ship and his career, his expression relaxed.
“All right, Martin,” he decided. “We will invite them both to take dinner with us in the gunroom tomorrow. As you say, they will be unable to take their meals with the Captain while he is indisposed … but we shall have to offer them something better than the usual gunroom fare. And behaviour, I must warn you, will have to be very circumspect if they accept the invitation.”
“It shall be,” Martin Fox assured him. “But as a matter of interest, though … ” He eyed Phillip searchingly.
“Well? What interests you, in particular?”
“Who are they, Phillip—do you know? I mean, it is obvious, from the way the Captain treats her, that Mademoiselle Sophie is a person of considerable importance, isn’t it? And that ’Mademoiselle Sophie’ is not her real name … could it be Princess Sophie, do you suppose? Or the Archduchess Sophie, perhaps?”
“I honestly cannot tell you,” Phillip answered, with truth. “I know no more about her than you do, Martin.”
“Well, it is an intriguing situation,” Fox said. He smiled. “And rather a romantic one, too. Long may the Captain’s indisposition last! And, before you reprove me for lack of respect, let me point out that I shall be by no means the only member of the ship’s company to express that wish.”
Undoubtedly he would not, Phillip was forced to concede, his own feelings very similar.
The news spread fast. Long before the watch changed, everyone on board was aware that the Captain had been taken ill and was likely to be confined to his cabin for the next seven days. The men’s relief was in their eyes, as it had been in Lieutenant Fox’s, and in their tired faces, now suddenly wreathed in smiles. Every order was instantly obeyed, sail set and taken in with a speed and skill not previously apparent, and, washing decks next morning just before sunrise, the hands sang at their work. Even the gunnery exercises, which Phillip ordered after Divisions, were undertaken smartly and in a spirit of keen but friendly rivalry between the crews. In the final test—three rounds of quick-firing in a series of broadsides—one minute ten seconds was the time recorded for the starboard side main deck guns, with the port side less than five seconds behind them.