A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  The Ariadnies looked at each other, distaste and disgust written on the face of each. “Toadies!”. A ship could be no worse than one with Captain’s spies amongst the crew. Fraser spoke up, but not with words of condemnation, such did not need voicing, the sad pall that had settled on the table told all. Instead, came the only consolation he could give.

  “Let us buy you another.”

  oOo

  The four stepped out of the same carriage as used earlier, into the evening yellow sunlight and approached the same double door, as had Argent and Fentiman, some hours earlier. Argent led, with Fentiman just behind his right shoulder, Bentley and Sanders together, perfectly in step. The Marines open the doors and they stepped in. Candles were already burning, there being no windows in the hall and it contained no guests, merely the same Marine Captain Baker from their previous meeting. Argent thought that they may be too early, he had misheard the time, perhaps, but the anxiety disappeared as Baker hurried over.

  “Captain Argent and Lieutenant Fentiman. Good evening. May I be informed of the names of your other two guests?”

  Fentiman gave the reply.

  “Lieutenants Bentley,”

  Bentley bowed.

  “And Sanders.”

  Sanders did the same.

  Captain Baker made a note.

  “You are the last to arrive. But still on time,” he added hastily. “The others are in the drawing room. So, if you’d like to follow me?”

  He led them down the hall and turned right at the last door, entered and held open the door for the four to pass through. His role nearly played out, finally he attracted the attention of Admiral Broke, him being the host, this being his residence. Broke began his approach, as his role as host required, and the Captain left. Sanders spoke their thanks.

  Broke’s mood had not improved or perhaps it changed for the worse at the sight of Argent and three of his Officers, for his face showed no welcome. However, proper society manners were paramount, but, subsequently as it proved, not those that applied to the Royal Navy. He started with Bentley.

  “Lucius! Please to see you again. Have you heard from your people? I trust they are well?”

  Bentley was somewhat taken aback by this snub to his Captain, but could do nothing other than make his reply.

  “I believe so, Sir, we have only been ashore but hours, and I hope to see them tomorrow. That’s about the earliest they could arrive, now they’ve been informed that we’re safe in harbour.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course, but word travels fast.”

  The meaning of the last was lost on them all, but Broke did then turn to his other guests.

  “Ah, Argent and Lieutenant Fentiman. I bid you both good evening. And your other Officer?”

  Argent gave the reply, but his voice had a hard edge.

  “Sir Arthur. Permit me to introduce Lieutenant Sanders. This has been his first voyage with us, and his first posting.”

  Broke took a hard look at Sanders, but then his face softened. He was as tall as Argent, perhaps better proportioned, certainly more muscled. Classic good looks, with a queue of shining dark hair. The upper echelons of society certainly; perhaps even aristocracy, he concluded.

  “Pleased to meet you, young man. And what of your family?”

  Sanders flushed and struggled for words.

  “I, er, I’m afraid I, er, I have no family, Sir. I was taken out of an orphanage as a Ship’s Boy. Then made a topman and then my Captain sponsored me as a Midshipman. I passed through and thus am I here. Sir.”

  Broke went pink then puce. He didn’t know who to be angry with, Sanders for being what he was, or Argent for bringing such as this to such an occasion. His jaw clenched, but eventually he spoke, whilst extending an arm with a pointed finger.

  “Sherry’s over there.”

  He made no excuses, but turned and left. Argent looked at Fentiman and raised his eyebrows.

  “Sherry would be welcome.”

  Fentiman nodded and Argent allowed his men to lead the way, then waited for Sanders to give him a re-assuring pat, twice, on his shoulder. They obtained their drinks, took a sip, and looked around. The company was almost wholly Naval, gold epaulettes on all, indicating that all were at least a Post Captain of more than three years. Argent alone wore but one, his promotion being less than three years old, whilst all his Lieutenants stood with empty shoulders. One Post Captain stood out, he was large and loud and the cut of this uniform was of the finest and up to the limits of possible ostentation, edged cuffs and lapels, and long tails with their own set of gold buttons. It plainly came from the best military tailor that could be found. There were five Ladies, all of late middle age, all dressed modestly but the quality of what they wore was very evident. One was being led his way, by Admiral Grant and both were smiling, their eyes fixed on Argent, who now hoped for a marked improvement in the evening so far. Grant made the introductions.

  “Captain Argent. Permit me to introduce Lady Constance Willoughby. Lady Willoughby, this is Captain Reuben Argent, of His Majesty’s Frigate Ariadne.”

  Argent took the proffered hand and bowed deeply over it.

  “An honour, Lady Constance.”

  He straightened up.

  “Lady Constance, permit me to introduce three of my Officers. Lieutenants, Fentiman, Bentley, and Sanders.”

  Each bowed in turn, to be acknowledged by a gracious nod of the Lady’s head. This done, she turned Argent.

  “I wanted to meet you, because your Father is one of my neighbours. My land is between his and the coast.”

  Argent smiled genuinely, with no hint of indulgence.

  “I know, Lady Constance, I grew up there. I doubt you’ll remember me, a small boy who walked the lanes and drove the cows. I went to school in Falmouth, I had to walk there each day. Perhaps you can remember that; I passed your gate daily, but there is no reason why you should.”

  The Lady looked openly at Argent. It was plain that she was not going to make any statement that was untrue.

  “No, Captain, I confess that I do not, but plainly it did you no harm. Here you are now a successful frigate Captain, dwelling in everyone’s good opinion.”

  An image of Broke came immediately to Argent’s mind, but a modest response was now required.

  “If I am, Lady Constance, I have my crew to thank and my good Officers here. I am but a part of it, an important part, but merely a fraction.”

  Lady Constance smiled and looked directly at Argent, examining his face, but she gave no reply. If one was forthcoming it was cut short by the dinner gong, being rung at the end of the room by an immaculate Steward. Grant leaned towards Lady Willoughby, offering his arm.

  “Lady Constance, allow me.”

  Before she took Grant’s arm, she bade her farewell to Argent.

  “Perhaps later, Captain, if not sometime in the future.”

  She looked at the three Officers, stood dutifully beside Argent.

  “Gentlemen.”

  All bowed. They disposed of their glasses and followed Grant and Lady Willoughby out of the room and through the inevitable double doors to a glittering table, enough for perhaps 15 each side. The table centrepiece was a silver warship, in the style of the Dutch Wars, even the tablecloth shone, enough to rival the silver, and the crystal glass reflected the light from the massed ranks of candles on the table into small pools around their sculptured stands. The room was high; matching the one they had just left, with light oak panelling covering all wall surfaces. This was uninterrupted by any paintings of any description, all that did punctuate their long expanse were several polished brass candle holders, whose charges shone their light up to a magnificent ceiling where dwelt the ornamentation of the room; shipwrecked sailors coming ashore amidst a howling gale.

  There was no board displaying place names and so the four grouped themselves at a far corner. Each place had several ranks of knives, forks and spoons and Sanders looked horrified, but Fentiman did the reassuring.

  “Don�
��t think it complex, Jonathan, it isn’t. Start from the outside with your cutlery and work inwards.”

  The food arrived as a succession of small, but tasty dishes, well prepared and well presented. A different wine accompanied each course and the glasses were whisked away with each course, along with the plates. The chinaware and glass departed and was replaced with the precision of Marines on manoeuvres. It was all very sumptuous and plainly very expensive. Argent remarked to Fentiman.

  “Our Port Admiral must have serious sources of funds.”

  Fentiman raised his eyebrows and nodded. They and Sanders drank little, but Bentley imbibed mightily and asked for more, he was the furthest up the table of the four, and conversed almost solely with the person next up, him being unknown to Argent. The last course came and went, and so arrived the port and nuts. Time for the Loyal Toast, before the Ladies departed, but time went on. Broke, as host, should have taken the initiative, but after copious quantities of wine throughout the meal he had rather lost track of where they were within the accepted timetable; the wine had worked its effect upon his now befuddled thoughts. Grant, seeing the Ladies remaining, when they should have departed soon after the arrival of the port, took over.

  “The Loyal Toast, Gentlemen. Who is the Junior Officer here?”

  Broke heard all and immediately answered, drunkenly.

  “Who else, but our ex-topman? Down there.”

  Broke leaned forward to look at Sanders, who, to his credit, looked straight back. Broke, detecting neither embarrassment nor awkwardness, felt the need for further jibes.

  “Does he know, that we don’t stand, in the Navy?”

  Argent angered immediately and glared back up the table. Sanders was one of his Officers and he knew of nothing of Sanders that could justify such comments.

  “I think it right, Sir, that we allow Lieutenant Sanders to conduct the toast and then, afterwards, judge for ourselves. Sir!”

  Sanders seized his own glass and spoke up, clear and steady, whilst raising his glass for all to see. Argent and Fentiman followed his example, lending strong support.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, if you could please ensure that your glasses are charged.”

  Some were not and, in obedience; for the words had rolled down the table like a quarterdeck order, so they held up their glass to the Stewards for some wine, or used the port already on the table. The gravity in Sanders’s words and gesture caused several to act with some urgency and eventually all had some alcoholic liquid of some kind. Sanders spoke, clear and steady.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you The King.”

  The response was loud; after so forceful a proposal, it could be nothing else. Some tapped their hands on the table edge, in appreciation. The Loyal Toast had been well done. Argent patted Sander’s sleeve, twice.

  “Well done, Jonathan. Well done.”

  However, he could see that Sanders was angry.

  “Don’t let it disturb you, Jonathan, you are going to meet them. I’ve met them, and all you can do is your duty, in the best way you know, which you have done. Let that be your answer, and tonight we can look to what we’ve accomplished; and you were a part. There’s a French 42 under the guns of The Tower. None can gainsay that, and there’s no better answer. Have a drop of port.”

  Sanders looked at his Captain and smiled. His face changed upon hearing his Captain’s good opinion. The Ladies left and the port circulated. The three, for sometime now minus Bentley, talked of their ship and what they hoped to improve, her good features and her bad and what this could mean for future frigate design. It was friendly, professional and convivial. When this was done, Fentiman amused them both with an anecdote of how he was once called upon to stand in for an indisposed Vicar in a masked pageant. Suddenly, came a call, a shout even, from higher up the table.

  “Captain Argent!”

  Argent looked along the table in the direction of the call. It was the heavily built Post Captain, now leaning forward, him distinguished by his immaculate uniform. If his body length counted for anything whilst sat down, he was indeed tall; even sat, he rose above his neighbours. His complexion was pale over a flattish face, which held two large eyes that seemed to be permanently startled, above a smallish nose, but a wide broad mouth. Fair hair hung down past his ears in irregular waves. Argent and he were separated by four places and on opposite sides of the table. Argent addressed his inquisitor, expression open and cordial.

  “I am he. How can I help?”

  “We have been discussing what makes a good ship. Tight, as we say in the Navy. An expression you’re familiar with, I’m sure. As you’ve had some success of late, perhaps you could add to our discussion?”

  All had gone quiet. Was it because of who had just spoken, or were all interested in what Argent had to say? However, first, Argent had one question.

  “I’m afraid you are not known to me, Sir. If I may know your name?”

  “Cheveley. Herodotus.”

  The Christian name was omitted and the brevity of the reply carried a chill. This was not lost on Argent, he sensed the challenge, the note of superiority; a sense heightened by the fact that, at the table, Cheveley was the neighbour of Broke. He began his answer slowly, carefully choosing and weighing each word. There was no other sound.

  “What makes a tight ship? I take it, by that you mean what makes an effective ship; able to do its duty, whatever that may come to be. Well, plainly, in my opinion a tight ship comes about when every man is well able to carry out his own duty, and knows well what that is. As a frigate Captain, you are sometimes faced with 240 men, all different, but all must be blended to become part of an effective crew. That done, you have a tight ship.”

  Broke hiccupped, but Cheveley continued. His tone and expression made it clear that he hoped to tighten the screw, bring about some error.

  “And what brings that about?”

  Argent replied immediately, doing his best to convey bonhomie.

  “Why, practice and instruction, Captain Cheveley. You rehearse and practice every situation that a ship can find itself in. You practice until your men get it right. And when they know for themselves that they are getting it right, just as skilled seamen should, and they feel that there’s nothing they can’t face up to, nor complete, then they call themselves the best crew in the fleet. Then they’ll do whatever you ask. That’s your tight ship.”

  He smiled, hoping for agreement. But cold silence. The reply rested with Cheveley.

  “So where does following orders come in? You give your orders and expect them carried out. If not, then you give them The Devil.”

  “Were the task simple, you would have a point. But a man o’ war is the most complex machine that man has yet developed.”

  Nods of agreement occurred around the table.

  “Running such an instrument takes years of skill and no small amount of knowledge. That’s why you cannot buy promotion in the Navy as you can in the Army. The effective handling of a man o’ war only comes with instruction and practice. The threat of punishment doesn’t put the skill in their hands, nor the knowledge in their heads. Correctly trimming a sail or laying a gun doesn’t happen simply because you say it must; it only comes through rehearsal and practice. Again, as I say, when everyone in the crew counts themselves as right “man o’ war’s man”, then you have your tight ship.”

  Heads were nodding, even at Cheveley’s end of the table. The argument was slipping away. However, Broke, although befuddled by drink, had rehearsed this argument over times innumerable and it all came lurching into his mind. In addition, his anger had fully surfaced, released by the alcohol. Here was a “one swab” Johnny Newcome Captain, not even one year, the son of a common farmer whom he hated, who had taken a French 42 with a smaller ship and no more damage than a few knocked out splinters. It would rank in Naval annals second only to Cochrane taking the El Gamo with a two masted sloop in the Year One. Cochrane at least was a Lord, but on top, this damn jumped up would now be placed at le
ast on a par, and, worst, he had now shown himself to be a soft damned liberal; in his lexicon, the worst kind of Captain!

  “No-one disputes the need for practice, Argent, but I tell you one thing that I know and it’s true. The threat of the lash don’t half concentrate their minds and stir their stumps. Appealing to some “higher spirit” counts for nothing; it doesn’t dwell there. If they know what comes across their backs from laziness or not heeding their orders, they’ll learn what they need to know in half the time. Drive ‘em. I tell ‘ee. Drive ‘em.”

  Several closed to him sounded “hear, hear” and rapped the table. Argent had heard the argument before, from Officers above, including Captains. However, he, too, had rehearsed the arguments before, in his own mind.

  “Permit me, Sir, but I beg to disagree. I put it to you that even the most average of seamen can work out for themselves the importance of being able to fulfil their duty, and if they don’t their own messmates soon apply the necessary correction. The possible disasters are obvious. I invested the time in practice and tuition, and success breeds success, I find. When my men counted themselves as “right seamen”, then they conducted themselves as such. We arrived there without the lash, and it didn’t take too long. Within a month I had a worked up crew. Within two, a first rate crew, who continue to improve.”

  Argent felt the argument true, but it sounded lame, boasting of his own achievements. Cheveley re-entered the fray.

  “I stand with Sir Arthur. They have to be more damned afraid of you, than they are of the enemy. Then they fight. What?”

  He looked around for support, and got it. More heads nodding and fingers beating the table edge. Argent continued, his own emotions rising. Fentiman saw the change and grew apprehensive. He leaned over to whisper.

  “Careful, Sir. They’ve made you the bull in the ring.”