A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “Welcome. Welcome to you both. You don’t know me, I’m Septimus Grant. This is Vice-Admiral Sir Arthur Broke, Port Admiral Plymouth.”

  Broke didn’t change his position; he merely nodded, then thought of an addition.

  “It looks like “Broke” where you see it on your orders, but pronounced, “Brook”. “Brook.”

  He paused to look directly at Argent.

  “Although I suspect that one of you already knows that!”

  Argent felt his heart sink as he recognised Broke, a face distant in his past, but wholly familiar nonetheless. However, both Argent and Fentiman spoke their greetings and walked to the chairs that stood before a giant desk. Grant took his place behind the acres of green leather as both newcomers sat down.

  “First, well done. Heartiest congratulations. You’ll both take a glass of madeira?”

  Grant stood up again and leaned well forward to fill the two glasses waiting on the far side of the desk, holding the bottle at the base to cover the last foot.

  “A French 42, new built, if I’m any judge. There’ll be a few Johnnies on the other side grinding their teeth at this one. Well done. Well done, indeed. You’d concur, Sir Arthur?”

  “I would, but I’ll hear the whole story first, before I swoon overboard.”

  The smile on Grant’s face fell away, but he recovered, regained his previous good cheer and continued on.

  “Yes, as you say. Now, Argent, you have your books?”

  Argent placed the two imposing ledgers on the desk and slid them towards Grant. That done he took one of the, now filled, fine cut glass goblets and handed one to Fentiman. He then took his own.

  “Your engagement is detailed here?”

  “Yes, Sir. Myself and Lieutenant Fentiman here worked together to provide as detailed an account as we were able.”

  “Excellent. Can’t wait to read it. And your losses?

  “Five, Sir. Four wounded and one amputee. They’re coming ashore now.”

  Grant’s beaming face expanded even wider.

  “Five! Did you hear that, Broke, five. They took a French 42 with no more casualties than you’d get in a Force Eight gale. What do you say now?”

  Broke looked up, expression unchanged, just short of disapproving.

  “As I say, when I’ve heard the story. Your own damage you repaired on the way home, I take it, Captain?”

  “After a fashion, Sir. One shot hole and a shattered bulwark. My carpenter made temporary repairs, but a full repair remains to be undertaken. Sir.”

  “And this is your first command. How long?”

  “Yes, Sir. Almost twelve months, Sir.”

  “And how did you find this 42? She’d lost her rudder or somesuch.”

  Broke’s hostility was plain and Argent could see no justification. His own temperament stiffened, yet he held it within the necessary bounds.

  “Why no, Sir. More to say, she found us. But we out sailed her, to use our guns when she couldn’t.”

  He turned to Grant.

  “May I recommend to you, Sir, my Bosun, George Fraser. And his Mates and also my Quartermaster. Their sail handling whilst we manoeuvred was of the highest order, Sir. It decided the whole action.”

  Grant grinned, but Broke spoke, now scowling.

  “I’d like to see any damned Bosun that didn’t jump to my orders!”

  Grant ignored him, but now realised that their meeting was going to be neither friendly nor convivial.

  “Just so, Argent, well spoken. Allow those men ashore and they’d do well to take themselves to The Benbow. There they’ll be well looked after; at my expense.”

  Broke’s head and shoulders jerked back. He plainly disapproved and Grant saw fit to cut short the interview.

  “Make a list of your requirements for your next Commission and submit them to my Secretary, that being Captain Baker, who just showed you in. Now, give me a chance to study this, and then please return. I invite you both to dinner this evening, with myself, Broke here, and a few other guests, mostly Navy; no surprise there. Bring two other Officers from your ship. They’d be most welcome.”

  He stood up and Argent and Fentiman placed their half finished glasses on the desk, then they also stood. Argent replied.

  “Thank you, Sir. We will both attend with pleasure. It’s been a long time since we had anything other than ship’s cooking.”

  Grant grinned and came around the desk, it was too far to reach over and he extended his hand to both.

  “7.30 for 8.00. Until then.”

  Both saluted and left. Broke said nothing.

  In the carriage, Argent sank back deep into the upholstery, then he gave vent to a deep sigh.

  “It seems, Henry, that our fortunes may take, what could be, a turn for the worse.”

  “How so, Sir?”

  Argent saw no reason to hold back from the truth.

  “Our good Admiral Broke owns land above my Father’s, and we’ve had two disputes with him. Since he bought that estate, he has not proven to be a good neighbour. Firstly, he cut off our water to create an ornamental lake, and secondly, he tried to deny us access to a drove. We were forced to take him to Court and he lost, both times; and expensively.”

  He paused, took an intake of breath, and looked at his First Officer.

  “I hope that this has no adverse impact on your own career.”

  Fentiman stuck out his jaw and pursed his lips.

  “So, nothing so serious as you scrumping his apples? Or having unwelcome designs upon his daughter?”

  Argent gave a short laugh.

  “No, to both.”

  “Well, that’s all right then. And throughout it all, I was thinking that his adversity to us was because, perhaps at school, he was required to translate the story of Ariadne and Theseus from the Greek and made poor fist of it; and the memory still rankles. Whatever, it seems then, that we are not to be listed amongst our Port Admiral favourites. No-matter, at least not for now. Whom should we bring tonight?

  “I thought Bentley and Sanders.”

  “Yes. Yes, I agree, Sir.”

  The carriage had reached the quayside and both stepped out. Whiting and his crew sprang to attention, which interrupted the climax of Whiting’s story to the serving girl of where he had swung aboard the Frenchman to disable her helmsman, fight off a French Marine and cut down her colours.

  oOo

  George Fraser and his Mates climbed out of the jollyboat that they had rowed over themselves, with Quartermaster Zachary Short at the tiller. Henry Ball was doing the necessary with the painter through the mooring ring and, when all were out, the boat was pulled along to clear the steps and sit idle on the dropping tide. All five climbed to the top and adjusted their finery, not least Fraser wearing his Bosun’s hat with the large display plate above the brim showing the word “Ariadne” beneath the image of a fair maid very sparsely clothed. All others had their black-tarred hat circled by the ribbon with the single word. Each then set a fine pace to the only Inn on that quay, but the exact one they required. The sign showed the identifying image of Benbow, minus legs, sat upon the quarterdeck of his embattled flagship. The five piled through the door.

  As each was fully aware, for all had frequented before, this was a haunt of sailors; civilians were but few, this was a drinking den of man o’ war’s men. Blue jackets, tarred hats, and tarred pigtails marked almost all there as such, at least all those standing. As they edged their way to the bar, the five received examining, curious looks from those who noticed their passing; not challenging, nor unfriendly but certainly inquisitive, “So let’s have a good look at these Ariadnies, those what brought in that Frencher”. Fraser reached the bar. The Landlord was familiar.

  “Donaghue, you Irish pirate! We do hear tell that a special mess has been set up here, just for the likes of us. Compliments of the Admiral. Tell me that we ain’t got it wrong.”

  Donaghue did not pause from polishing a glass.

  “No, you have the right of i
t. Some rum and some vittles, beer included, the messenger said. So, find yourself a table and we’ll see to you directly.”

  Fraser grinned and slapped his distorted hand on the bar.

  “There, ‘tis true. So, you Feinian wrecker, we’ll have a drop of rum now, right now, afore we takes our seats.”

  Donaghue quickly obliged and soon each had a glass.

  “Right lads; time to set up our mess.”

  No tables were wholly free, so they spread themselves over the ends of two, but nevertheless they were close enough. Fraser took charge.

  “Now then, all of you. Fair’s fair. The first is to our Captain, ‘tis him that put us here. A fine sailor an’ a fightin’ sailor.”

  All lifted their glasses and drank. Soon their food arrived, deep trenchers full of some kind of stew, and a bucket of fresh bread. Fraser seized the potboys arm and examined the fare.

  “Right, all looks sound enough. So lad, five quarts, at your best speed.”

  For the next ten minutes there was little conversation. Navy habits were too far ingrained, that of getting the food inside you, before you were called on deck to attend some “all hands” emergency. The beer arrived quickly and soon all were pushing an empty plate away and concentrating on their drinking. Zachary Short felt the need for conversation, talking across the gap between the two tables, him and Henry Ball together at one, Fraser and the other two Bosun’s Mates at the other.

  “So, George. What’re your thoughts?”

  “My first thoughts, now we’n safe back here, is the prize money. That 42 ’ll fetch a tidy sum, ‘specially with so little hull damage. ‘Tweren’t not much damage done even to the knees on her gundeck, after the rakin’ we gave her. The price of a 42 spread over a crew our size, I think we got summat to look forward to there. They’ll have her renamed, crewed, and in service before no time.”

  Henry Ball saw his turn to speak up.

  “I think he’s talkin’ about our berth, George, the ship we’ve fetched up in. We bin twelve months, nearly, with Argent on the Ariadne. What’s to say about that, now we’n off her for the first time, for an hour or more.”

  The Salt that was Fraser, leaned back against the rear of his chair, whilst retaining hold on his quart mug.

  “Well. I’ll tell ‘ee. Tell ‘ee straight. When he first came aboard I thought we had a total pain in the arse. He warn’t no flogger, not like that tripehound afore, I saw that early, but he did run I ragged, forever alterin’ the rake of the masts, riggin’ the yards further up or down and when I saw him being rowed out to take a look at her beam on, I knew what we’d be in for, shiftin’ ballast down below, an’ waitin’ for his verdict, more up or less down.”

  He took a drink. All listened.

  “But now he’s got her straight, or how he likes, there’s no complaint on that score. She’s not new, we know that, but she’s always been a good sailer, stiff on the wind and holds to windward, on any tack, and he seems to have got an extra knot or two out of her.”

  Short now spoke up.

  “Ah, but it didn’t end there. When he had it all fixed to his likin’, then there came the sail handlin’. Does thee remember, first time out, we warn’t no more than a mile off Rame Head than he had us takin’ in, settin’, trimmin’ and all sorts?

  He took a pull from his quart, but the others remained silent, knowing there was more to come.

  “And I remember that day when we sailed past The Lizard doin’ circles, circles! Like some daft girl on a dance floor, tackin’ and runnin' free, then haulin’ our wind to tack back. I haven’t served with the like, nor heard of anyone like ‘im, neither.”

  He warmed to his theme. He sat forward, his face poised over his now empty tankard.

  “And then there was that other time, when he had the starboard watch strike down and reset the whole of the fore topgallant mast and had the larboard do the same with the mizzen. Set up in competition, like.”

  Then he sat back, reflectively.

  “But, there is one thing that we here ‘ve bin’ spared an’ that’s all the gun practice. Both Watches, not only up an’ down the masts, but in and out with the guns. Every damn day, sometimes twice. Throwin’ the ship around or practicing gunnery. We must’ve busted up more barrels than a finicky cooper.”

  All grinned. Fraser stood up and yelled at Donaghue, now spied behind the bar. He had run out of Irish insults.

  “Michael! Five more. And rums to chase it down.”

  The request was made clear by his waving his empty quart above his head, and pointing to each of his companions. Ball spoke up, as the pot boy removed the empties.

  “Well, ‘twere arduous, I grant you, but we’n all sat yer on the strength of what it put into us, prizemoney to come, that bein’. So, I can’t bring myself to complain too much. And he’s Cornish, like I be. I hear he has family down Falmouth way, so we b’ain’t stuck with no London Toff, nor Lord summat nor other. He was brought up near the sea, and knows seamen, so no complaint from me. ‘Specially when that prize-money starts to jingle in my pocket.”

  All yelled tipsy agreement as the next set of quarts arrived, then a tray of five glasses of rum. All was quiet as the rum disappeared, then came long pulls from the quart glasses. There were two sailors sat at the same table as Short and Ball and they looked across. The one sat beside Short spoke first.

  “So you’m all off the Ariadne?”

  The quart pots came down as one and then Ball and Fraser spoke in unison. Assume a challenge or an insult, until you know better.

  “What of it?”

  “Well, I’ve heard what you’ve been sayin’; complainin’ some, and I can’t hold my peace no more, but do tell ‘ee that there wouldn’t be a man on my ship as wouldn’t swap places with any one off yourn.”

  The five listened, intent to hear more. This was gossip concerning another ship, probably in detail aplenty; too much there could not be, so the sailor had their full attention. Fraser leaned forward to see, Short sat back to give him view.

  “Now what gives you cause to say that?”

  The sailor looked past Short at Fraser. His face was scarred and his cuffs ragged.

  “First, I wouldn’t say no to a share of your good fortune.”

  Fraser knew exactly what he meant.

  He stood and used his ‘gale at sea” voice again.

  “Michael, two more here. Rum. And quarts.”

  He lowered himself into his seat and the five looked to the scarred sailor to finish what he had started.

  “Our Captain’s a Toff from up country, or somesuch. One Henry Cheveley. And I d’tell ‘ee, all that matters to ‘im is the shine on whatever can take a polish. We hardly ever fires the guns with shot, on account that the “true recoil”, as ‘ee calls it, rips up the deck; what we has to holystone twice a day.

  He paused to drink, within the silence. He had their full attention.

  ‘Tis rare we’m sent out on the King’s business, other than our duty patrol to the Irish coast, which means The Fastnet Rock, then back, all completed at the best speed ‘e can get out of her, to give most of our time in port. He uses any excuse for delay, an’ all. Other than that, as ‘ee sees it, there b’ain’t much need of extra sailin’, ‘cos of the likes of you sittin’ down in The Chops, and the lads out of The Nore keepin’ the Frogs out and away from up there. ‘Specially after Trafalgar.”

  The sacred subject had arisen and the sailor raised his glass, just arrived. They used the rum.

  “Nelson.”

  All responded to the toast, which was spoke and drank to, but none of the five broke the ensuing silence. All were intent to hear more of the unsatisfactory doings aboard this rival ship.

  “So, we spends most of our time, in harbour, preparin’ for the next inspection, often as not from his good oppo, the Port Admiral.”

  Fraser’s face set in deep puzzlement.

  “But, from what you say, you’n the Plymouth picket, what does the coast, as far over as Ireland, an
d you stays out, re-supply and re-fit allowin’. That’s her job. I served on one, as a topman. Up and down, weeks and months of it.”

  The seaman answered.

  “Like I said, he’s out, only when he ‘as to, an’ back, with all the rush he can muster, like a jack in the box. I can’t answer for what the Lords of the Admiralty thinks we’re doin’, but we’n more like the Captain’s yacht. He prefers us layin’ at anchor. ‘Tis rare that he sleeps aboard when we’n in harbour. If we takes her out between patrols, often as not ‘tis to entertain some local ladies needin’ some sea air. A trip out to look at the ocean, then a nice meal and a steady berth ashore.”

  Ball’s face became pained. He tugged at his whiskers.

  “What ship?”

  “Herodotus.”

  “And how come you’n ashore?”

  “We’n both Master’s Mates. Come ashore to exam for our Master’s Ticket.”

  “Well, mate, all I can say is that doing a bit of polishin’, an’ takin' ladies out for a jaunt, caught between a bit of there an’ back sailin’ don’t strike me as too bad a berth. I’d swap that for battlin’ back at gales and Frog 42’s. That’s a fact I would.”

  “Ah, mate, but I ‘aven’t told you half of it. Cheveley’s a flogger. Four, five times a week, the cat’s out. Any reason, no matter how small. A speck of dust here, a smear of summat there, gets a man two dozen. B’ain’t hardly a man of the whole crew has hasn’t felt the lash across his back. And here’s the worst of it. I’ve served with floggers, and, as a crew, you cope, but the worst of the Herodotus is the Captain’s toadies. You don’t know who they are, but they goes off tellin’ tales. That gets ‘em off punishment; mostly, but even them gets the odd dozen, so I’ve heard, if they don’t bring enough stories to his Mightiness. The lads can’t speak out, like, even in their own mess, at least to share their thoughts about what’s goin’ on, a good moan together, like.”