However, Argent pressed on, with some disregard.
“I disagree, Captain. Take Trafalgar. When the Belleisle, the Temeraire, and the Tonnant came into action and fought alone for so long, what kept them fighting? Why didn’t the men desert their posts and run down to the bilges?”
Cheveley threw back his head and guffawed.”
“Self preservation, I shouldn’t wonder. They’d have been hung!”
Others joined in the mirth, but Argent continued, his own temper now showing. He spoke with some passion.
“They’d have been released when their ship was taken. What kept them going was the fact that defeat was simply not possible. Unthinkable. They were Nelson’s men, manning one of Nelson’s ships, part of the most potent fleet that ever sailed, and invincible. Now that doesn’t come with the lash!”
Broke’s own drink fuelled temper finally snapped.
“And I say your damn namby pamby ways will ruin the Navy. We get the dregs and scum of society. Fear of the lash gets ‘em there quick and keeps them there. Anything loose and lax they’ll take advantage of. They hate us, their Officers, and I for one, hold them in like disregard. They’re dregs and scum that we have to lick into shape.”
Argent rose to his feet, his face reddened. Fentiman and Sanders looked very concerned. Fentiman placed his hand on Argent’s forearm. Was a challenge on its way? Argent ignored him. Bentley merely looked befuddled.
“Sir! My record speaks for me, and for my crew. I ask for nothing other! My dregs and scum and my namby pamby ways ……..”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Grant had gained his own feet. He had noted the increasing heat in the argument with some concern, not least that the host was fuelling the fire. He did not raise his voice but his diction was clear and very precise. The fact that he was on his feet silenced the room.
“Now, gentlemen, calm yourselves. Each Captain runs his own ship in his own way and is answerable to the Admiralty if his ship fails. We all know that. How he brings his ship up to the mark is his own affair.”
He paused, but remained standing.
“I may have a scheme that will lance this boil, at least to heal it somewhat. Two days hence we will receive a visit from a Spanish High Admiral. It has been suggested, by the Admiralty……”
He paused again. All knew that this was tantamount to an order from their Lordships. You ignored such at your peril.
“………that I lay on some kind of demonstration of Britannia’s naval prowess. I would suggest some form of competition. One ship against another in naval skill. We show his Excellency that we achieve our expertise through honest trial, one against another. Captain Argent, may I count on you?”
Argent had re-taken his seat, but he stood again to lend weight to his words. His mood had not improved.
“Ariadne stands ready. Sir.”
Grant turned to Cheveley
“And Captain Cheveley?”
Cheveley began his reply with an airy wave of his hand.
“Of course. Count me in.”
Broke felt no need to quell the heat, but, instead, felt more inclined to add fuel.
“I’d back Herodotus against Ariadne any damn time. Anyway you like. I’ll put 100 guineas on it.”
Grant looked down at his host, but also his inferior in rank. His own patience was wearing thin.
“Thank you, Admiral. But perhaps, before we lay any money, we should decide the contest.”
Broke remained silent; jaw clenched, but silent. Grant sat down, the temperature at the table had, thankfully, fallen somewhat, but it was Cheveley who made the suggestion.
“Standard sailing and gunnery. Five targets all moored close, and we sail up through a start line, then broadsides. Tack and repeat, all to time. The fastest to destroy the targets. How say you, Argent?”
Argent leaned forward so that Cheveley could see him, to then speak with some force.
“Agreed, but make it six.”
Again the dismissive wave of the Cheveley hand.
Broke now pulled himself forward, needing to use the table edge, to then peer down the table at Argent. He was allowing nothing to drop.
“And a wager, Argent? 100 guineas suit you?”
Argent’s shoulders fell and his face saddened.
“I’m afraid that 100 guineas is beyond my purse, at this moment.”
Broke and Cheveley grinned and shared the moment, each nodding in the other’s direction; “Lower deck Captain.”
“50, then.”
Argent looked up, he thought that could be raised, on the strength of the forthcoming prize-money. However, Grant was not pleased, in fact, angry. Both Broke and Cheveley were rich men, using this to bait a Captain who had brought the Navy nothing but credit. He’d seen and heard for himself the crowds thronging the quayside and he spoke his own answer.
“I’ll take you up, Sir Arthur. For the full 100!”
Broke looked shocked as silence fell across the table. Then Fentiman spoke up.
“And I’ll take the 50!”
oOo
The gigantic landau, gleaming black, its wheels resplendent with bright yellow spokes and hubs, but scarlet rims, proceeded self-importantly down the wide road that marked the edge of the wide green called Plymouth Hoe. The black sides reflected, as would a mirror, the neat kerbstones and white garden walls that ran off before them to show their future course, but the reflection became lost across an ornate and extensive heraldic design, mostly red and gold, that showed gaudy on the side of each wide, high, door. Two high stepping and large black horses trotted over the worn cobbles, their tossing red feathers and gold tassels matching the rhythm of their hooves, which added their noise to the rumble of the well sprung wheels over the wide stretch of pale and dusty stones. Inside, almost hidden by the high sides, was a collection of ribbons, cockades and fringes that bobbed and fretted in the strong breeze. At the rear, on their platform, rode two liveried Footmen, statue stiff, unbothered by the sedate progress. The carriage made its leisurely way to gradually close with The Tower at the end of The Hoe and then, journey done, it clattered onto a wide parade ground.
There, patient for over an hour, were paraded the Garrison Company of the Royal Marines. With the arrival of the carriage, the whole came to a noisy and emphatic “present arms” and then waited, their Captain with his own gleaming weapon, his sword, pressed thoroughly against his nose. The landau halted at right angles to the immaculate red ranks and both footmen jumped down and jogged around, one to open the door, the other to lower the footstep. This done, they resumed their statuesque pose. Nothing happened. What could be seen were the ribbons and fringes bobbing forward, until a hand reached across the door opening to seize the gleaming handle fixed on the far side. An amazing uniform was then hauled upright to stand in the doorway and extend forward a tentative foot towards the footrest. All then descended. The eye fell first on gleaming ranks of decorations, then upon sashes, lace and brocade, backed by a royal blue coat above a scarlet waist sash, all above scarlet pantaloons. The vision was furthered by an enormous sword, which touched the ground before any foot of its owner, whilst at its top existed a huge polished brass hand-guard holding a collection of golden tassels. Most incongruously, one could then not do other than focus on legs sheathed in high cavalry boots, each sporting a silver spur. The uniform was completed by an enormous bicorn hat, this worn athwart ships; it being also blue and scarlet, not that much of this colour could be seen through the crowded cockades and decorations all clamouring for attention. In between the hat and the coat was an ancient face that resembled a burnt walnut, in a yellow box, formed by the front edges of the impossibly high collar. The Admiral took four paces forward and stopped, the movement accompanied by an orchestral amount of jingling, which included the spurs. Two, almost equally gorgeous, Officers, the Admiral’s Equerries, descended after him, then came Admiral Grant, very plain by comparison, which included the footmen.
Grant hurried forward and gesture
d towards the Marine Captain, who would provide a guard for the forthcoming inspection. The Captain lowered his sword and then brought it back to the salute. The introductions were made and the Admiral plodded forward, Grant at his side, the Marine Captain just behind and the Admiral’s attending Officers just behind again. Each Marine bested the Admiral’s height by at least a head, this accentuated by their gleaming black shakoes. Each Marine remained expressionless; who this mobile pile of cloth and bullion was, they had not a clue. The inspection done, the party, with no increase in pace, set a course for The Tower, and entered. Whilst the Marines marched away, the gaze of any onlookers was drawn to the top of the imposing stonework, where, at their ease, with their lenses blindly scanning the sky, stood a rank of telescopes, all secure on their tripods. At length, the hats and cockades appeared through the crenellations and the telescopes were quickly seized upon to examine the harbour. Soon all were focused on two frigates, stern on, one larger than the other, both under minimal sail in the South West wind, both on the starboard tack to hold themselves against the incoming tide.
Once in place at the battlements, and after a period of studying both frigates, one of the Equerries approached Grant.
“His Excellency would be grateful to know what form this competition will take place.”
“Ah, yes. Permit me.”
Grant walked to place himself beside the Admiral and began to explain, slow enough to allow a translation.
“Tell his Excellency to train his glass on the six rafts moored before us across the gap between the mainland and the island. Moored to give them a beam on wind, or close.”
This was translated but His Excellency turned around, looking pained.
“¿Emita en?”
“His Excellency asks, what is beam on?
“Your pardon. The wind hitting the side of the ship at right angles.”
Grant added further explanation by butting his own fingers directly into the palm of his left hand. The translation was made and His Excellency nodded, releasing an “ahhhh” like a hiss of steam.
“On the raft are targets, panels of wood”
This was passed on. His Excellency returned to his telescope.
“Each ship sails up, shoots at the targets, and sails back, if needed, to finish the job. The winner is the quicker, timed from their going through the start line, then sailing back across it.”
The translation took place and this time His Excellency took his eye from the telescope and grinned, brown stained teeth showing between the purple lips.
“¿Cómo hace esto su Marina mejor?”
“His Excellency asks, how does this make your Navy better?”
“Honest competition between two ships, friendly rivalry, that is. We consider that it encourages both vessels to perform better. The crews have to handle both their guns and their sails. It’s a good test.”
Post translation, His Excellency nodded.
“Ah, si. ¿Y dónde está la línea de meta?”
“His Excellency asks where is the start and finish line?”
Grant pointed to a small vessel moored far out in the Sound, showing a long pennant from its short mast.”
“From us to that longboat.”
A short burst of Spanish and His Excellency peered through the crenellation to re-direct his telescope and then peer through it. Grant continued, patiently
“Please inform His Excellency that we would like him to decide the winner. It is a balance between speed and gunnery. A ship may be quicker, but not destroy all the targets. We would like him to make a judgment as to who is the winner.”
The translation was made and again came the despoiled grin. His Excellency showed approval with a nod and a wave of his hand, in which, somehow, had arrived a huge cigar, possibly from the second Equerry.
The first Equerry turned to Grant.
“His Excellency will be pleased to make his judgment.”
Grant bowed to the Admiral and then turned to Captain Baker.
“Time to start proceedings. Does Cheveley know he’s up first?”
“Yes Sir. Yes to both.”
Baker walked to the furthest cannon, surrounded by a waiting crew, it’s Gun Captain stood back, lanyard in hand. Baker nodded and the lanyard was jerked back. The gun roared and all was shrouded in smoke blown across by the wind. When it cleared, all eyes were placed against the rear of a telescope, trained on the larger frigate. The Herodotus set her jibsails and turned into the wind. The details on the side of her hull grew for the watchers as she swung around to begin her run in; she would run directly across their line of sight to the longboat. Cheveley set all plain sail and his ship gathered speed, her 21 gunports each with the black dot of its waiting gun-muzzle, run out and ready. The minutes passed, whilst many consulted their watches, then she crossed the startline. A gun along the battlements spoke again. Many spoke the time; 11.42.
Admiral Broke, who had stood aside whilst the Spanish Admiral was being spoken to by Grant, now approached Grant, him being now stood, without telescope, looking out over The Sound.
“Care to change the betting, Grant?”
“As is, Arthur, 100’s rich enough for me!”
Broke grinned and rejoined his small party of Officers.
Herodotus was approaching the line of targets directly, taking the wind fine over the larboard quarter, so at some stage she would have to change course to run along the line to the furthest target. Speculative conversations grew amongst the Officers. One spoke somewhat above the level of the others.
“Ah, I see what he’s doing. He’ll turn right, to wear onto the starboard tack, for target two, sail down to take four and six, and then come back to take five, three, and finally one. He hasn’t the sea room to take number one first, which gives him only one crack at it. What will he do for the turn back, though, that’s the issue?”
The Officer had divined truly. Cheveley wore ship someway off the first target and Herodotus’ did turn right to swing her stern round through the wind. The sails came round and, with the wind now perfectly from starboard, Herodotus presented her full broadside at 50 yards range. All her guns exploded at once and the target disappeared. She sailed silently past the next target whilst the guns were reloaded and dealt out the same to target four, on then to ignore five but to destroy six. She now had to sail back, to destroy targets five, three, and then one and cross the finishing line. With the wind large on his starboard quarter, Cheveley elected to tack, to turn South and get some sea room, the better to pick up the wind for the run back to the finish.
With the wind strong on his starboard beam Cheveley felt his ship had enough speed to turn down seaward and cross the wind and then come back up on a North West course. The helm was turned into the wind and all sheets were released to prevent the sails backing against the masts as she came around to point straight into the wind. Cheveley had the big stern driver hauled out hard to starboard and the wind hit it to push the stern round. The jibsails were hauled over, but the Herodotus had slowed appreciably, the only discernable movement from The Tower was her stern swinging around across the water, pushed by the driver.
All on The Tower held their breath, would she get round? However, soon the jibsails drew the South West breeze and she began to make headway. The mainsail, foresail and all topsails were hauled round, sheeted home and began to draw. Herodotus began to make headway and pick up speed, the wind perfect, just astern of directly onto her hull. It had been a risky turn, but Cheveley had pulled it off. Many on The Tower applauded, Broke with extra vigour. Her starboard gunports stood ready. Herodotus sailed down onto each target, but, for the return leg, the wind would not allow a parallel course, only a convergent one, 100 yards range onto target five, 75 yards onto three, then 50 onto one. But, even at long range, her full broadside turned them all into flying splinters. She raced on to cross the finishing line, to prompt another gun, achieving a time of 16 minutes 5 seconds. Broke was ecstatic.
“Damn me, if that wasn’t ship handl
ing of the first order. I’ll take that 100 now, if you choose, Grant. Argent won’t better that. That’s as clean a piece of sail handling and gunnery as I’ve ever seen.”
“We’ll see, Arthur. We’ll see.”
However, Grant was indeed apprehensive for his 100 guineas, but at least pleased to see the party of Spaniards all nodding in approval.
Argent had watched all from the foretop, accompanied by Fentiman. They conversed but little, content to watch, but learning little, certainly not enough to change their chosen course. The ship idled on the incoming tide, fore and main topsails just holding her against the incoming sea. They had to wait for the gun, which showed that the targets had been rebuilt and it took three longboats, each taking two targets, almost an hour to rebuild the wooden targets. Within the interim, the party on The Tower took a little refreshment, no beer, in deference to their guests, instead some white Spanish wine and canapés. Grant did duty, through translation; politely acceding to the fact that the Spanish armies would very soon clear the French out of Spain.
Down on the Ariadne’s gundeck, the crews from the Starboard Watch were deep in conversation, the guns ignored for now, everything having been checked and re-checked numerous times. Joe East, Gun Captain of No. 4, the next to Sam Morris, called over. Morris was habitually staring at his flintlock, should he check for the 10th time that it sparked?
“Sam. I heard tell that the Captain’s got 200 guineas ridin’ on this.”
“Heard tell from who?”
“Eli Reece.”
“That sprung waister! And where’d he get it from?”
“Skipper of a bumboat, what got it off a Steward.”
Joe Dedman was sat on the shot garland, checking the spherical quality of the first ball they would fire.
“Eli Reece was born deaf in one ear, and lost the hearin’ of the other at Copenhagen. 200 guineas! Bloody ten, more like.”
Their volunteer, Jacob Pierce just polished the gun.
“Deaf’s right. An’ ‘ee can’t take in no more than five words at a time.”
All within hearing gave a deep chuckle, but at that point a dull report came to them through the open gunports and the deck tilted heavily to larboard.
A Question of Duty Page 6