Ariadne was coming round sharply, her bow pushed by her full set of jibsails. As soon as she moved across the wind and took the strong breeze fine over her starboard quarter, she kept in there. All plain sail suddenly appeared on her yards and soon all lower starboard stunsails were added. Ariadne immediately picked up speed, faster and faster, but on a heading much more off to starboard than that of the Herodotus. All on The Tower watched, fascinated; none spoke, all were trying to divine Argent’s intentions, but what they noted first was the speed. The loud voiced Officer was the first to speak.
“God, she’s going like a racing yacht! Twelve knots, and plus, I shouldn’t wonder. But he’s heading out, ignoring number one.”
A pause.
“He’s going straight for number six!”
All watching could do no more than agree and speculation grew as all argued the merits of this different course of action. Ariadne crossed the line and, as the gun sounded, several called the time; 12.59.
On the Quarterdeck of the Ariadne, Argent was in conversation with his Gunner. Behind him Henry Ball came to the Binnacle to turn the glass and ring two bells. Argent had handed Tucker his telescope, which he was focusing on the nearest target, showing white against the dark water.
“What do you think they are, Mr. Tucker?”
“I’d say standard targets, Sir. Flats, six foot by six. Made of board, coffin wood, most likely.”
“What should we use?”
“At what range, Sir?”
“100 down to 50.”
“Grape on ball, Sir.”
“Not chainshot, nor bar?”
“No Sir. Both them can swing about. Grape and ball both fires truer. ‘An you gets much the same spread.”
“I agree. Make it so, for the starboard battery.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Tucker beetled off and Argent looked forward to the first target he would take, calculating when he would make his turn. The deck righted itself gently beneath his feet, back from larboard; the wind had slackened, just slightly, she’d slip a little less to leeward when she made the turn.
Back on The Tower, all were in agreement as to Argent’s intentions, but many failed to see how it would work. The loud Officer again voiced the thoughts of many.
“He’s going to wear round onto number six and sail back, taking each target in turn. But that will be evil slow. He’ll have to give his guncrews time to load, he’s got to take each one as he passes so he’ll have to reduce sail. Too fast, they’ll miss a target, they won’t reload in time, but giving time for reloading he’ll be too slow, and the loser. This game’s done!”
On the gundeck of the Ariadne, the grapeshot was arriving from the magazine, carried by labouring Powder Monkeys. Two of the young boys dropped the white bag at the muzzle of number three, the inch balls inside knocking heavily against each other. Morris congratulated their own Powder Monkey, one of the two.
“Well done, Smallsize. And to your mate. Now go get us another.”
The shout came down the gundeck, from First Mate Henry Ball.
“Load starboard battery. Grape on ball. White 6 foot target, first 100 yards off, comin’ down to 50.”
The guncrews sprang to. The tacklemen feeding the muzzle with the bag of gunpowder, rammed down, then a carefully prepared 18lb ball, all then fully rammed down. Morris nodded in their direction, he had felt the pricker pierce the bag down through the touchhole, all was as it should be. He then pushed the quill filled with fine powder down to meet the powder inside the first bag, then he cocked and primed the flintlock. The loaders then fed in the white bag of grape, finishing with a wad of guncotton; all rammed down. With the final exit of the rammer from the barrel, the four crewmen seized the tackles and hauled the muzzle through the gunport, the gun truck hitting the side with a thud. Morris took sight, with Dedman and another adjusting the quoin to elevate the gun for a six-foot target at 100 yards, Morris hoping to anticipate the heel of the ship with the wind on her beam. Then the deck moved beneath their feet, Ariadne was coming round.
Argent had called “up helm, larboard tack” and Ariadne had answered, swinging left, to larboard. With the wind still just astern of beam on and fair over the larboard side, she didn’t drop a knot. Fraser used the unoccupied Larboard Watch for his sail handling and the big stern driver was hauled round to point straight over the taffrail and catch the wind, thus to push her stern around quickly. Likewise the square sails already set on the spars were hauled to the correct angle that would catch the wind, the starboard yardarms braced well back. The stunsails extending these remained in place, they were doing no harm, probably some good. Argent gauged the run of his ship; she was not picking up quick enough.
“Mr. Fraser. Main and mizzen staysails. Foretopmast staysail.”
At his prompting Bosun Fraser had his men set the three lowest staysails. These, running down the centre of the ship, met the wind perfectly and so Ariadne sped on. Argent had the same problem as Cheveley on his run back, so he also chose not to sail fully up to his first target, closing to 50 yards, because then they would have to turn back into the wind to sail parallel to all six. It could mean losing the wind, so he also chose a convergent course that would take them from 100 yards range down to 50 when they finally reached number one. Ariadne settled onto her course and the deck steadied. Sam Morris stared along the gunbarrel, calling for the elevation as Pierce changed the quoin for what Morris judged to be 100 yards distant.
On The Tower all eyes were glued to whatever telescope was available. Their view was fine across Ariadne’s starboard bow as she bore down upon the targets, her 16 guns now visible, black muzzles mute but threatening beyond their gunports. The same conclusion came from several directions.
“She’s too fast, they’ll never reload in time. Impossible.”
Another made his contribution.
“And that’s 100 yards, too far to be certain. He’s taking the same chance as Cheveley.”
Ariadne was nearly up to target six. Sam Morris crouched behind his gun, peering along the grey-black length of its barrel out through the gunport. Looking forward through the gunport, he caught a glimpse of white before number one fired and came back inboard on a squealing truck. He had three seconds before the target was inline with his own weapon, but it was now obscured by smoke. He yelled at Dedman and Pierce, both stood ready to lift the casable, wooden handspikes already between the carriage and the casable.
“Up a half.”
The sturdy handspikes strained under the heavy casable, as number two gun fired. Pierce pulled out the quoin one half of a mark on its upper surface. Morris pulled the lanyard and his gun roared and sprang back to be held by the heavy breeching rope. His crew sprang forward to reload.
The audience on The Tower watched Ariadne open fire, each gun as it bore. At the extreme range on a six-foot target each gun did damage but much remained upright. Then, after six, the guns stopped, but it was just a pause. Guns thirteen and fourteen from the last four on the starboard battery fired in quick succession and finished the work. As the Ariadne sped on, the target was left behind as several pieces of flotsam. She reached target five and guns seven to twelve fired in succession. At closer range the target was practically destroyed, but the final two guns of the starboard battery fired anyway, knocking down the last upright.
The watchers waited, thinking that they knew what was happening, but not sure and almost unbelieving. Just before target four it was confirmed, the first six guns from the bows emerged from their gunports and fired in succession, this time wholly destroying their mark. The bow six were taking targets six, four, and two, the next six to the stern were to hit targets five, three, and one. The last four guns waited loaded and ready, insurance against anything remaining upright.
The loud Officer closed his telescope with a snap and beat it into the palm of his left hand.
“Well, ain’t that the neatest. He’s gambling that six guns will do the job, half a battery at a time, giving ti
me for each half to reload before they reach their target. Trusting his gunners, and I for one applaud. Seeing’s believing. Good seamanship but even better gunnery! Damn fine shooting. I’ve never heard of the like, never mind seen it!”
Grant watched as target three dissolved from the stern battery of six guns. He turned to look for Broke and found him, but the latter looked as if he had swallowed a wasp. From over the battlements came the last two volleys, then the finishing gun sounded, then someone called the time; 01.11 precisely. Ariadne had completed her run in 12 minutes.
Broke walked over to Grant, still looking as though he were chewing on something with a rotten tooth and that he was also in pain somewhere else, but he was pulling out his pocket book. A companion was handing him a pencil. Grant stood still and was pleased to see the Spanish navy walking his way. The English speaking Equerry spoke first.
“His Excellency says that there is little to decide. He thinks that the Captain of the second ship made the better decisions.”
“Please inform His Excellency that we thank him for his …. informed judgment.”
The thanks were passed on, and His Excellency waved his hand, this time containing another cigar. The Equerry continued.
“His Excellency asks that he meet both Captains.”
Broke looked up from writing the note, deep apprehension plain on his face, but Grant made an immediate reply.
“At dinner this evening, if that suits? At the Admiral’s Headquarters.”
Grant looked around at Broke.
“Is that possible, Broke? I can send over some rations, if needs be.”
Broke nodded at Grant, then turned and bowed to His Excellency. The Equerry did not see the need for translation.
“At your 8 o’ clock.”
Grant smiled as the Spaniards headed for the stairs, a smile that broadened as Broke finished the note for 100 guineas and handed it over, with ill grace plain on his face. Grant could not resist striking home further.
“You’ll need to write another. Argent’s First, if you remember. He took you up for 50!”
oOo
Having crossed the finishing line, Ariadne tacked South, to gain some sea room. Argent saw no need to anchor so close to the shore. Using all jibsails, she eased her way around to gain enough wind and then, on the starboard tack, with no more than jibs, lower staysails, and driver, she slid around the now anchored Herodotus. Argent looked over. He could see the Officers of his erstwhile opponent looking across at his own ship. He turned to his Officer of the Watch.
“Lieutenant. Dip the Ensign.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Sanders went to the halyards himself and loosened the rope that held the Ensign aloft. The huge Ensign, white, with its red cross and Union Jack, fell and billowed out to larboard in the continuing stiff breeze. No longer held aloft by a taut rope, a corner touched the water. Sanders counted to ten, then rehoisted, and soon the Ensign was taught from the end of the driver boom. All on the quarterdeck looked over for a response. They saw an Officer on Herodotus go to their halyards and begin, but he soon stopped and spun around, coming to the attention. He didn’t touch the halyards again. Argent looked away and gazed along his own deck to the forecastle, wryly nodding his head, speaking dryly, but more to himself, his voice thick with irony.
“Like that, is it? I see.”
He watched and heard as Fentiman oversaw the anchor being dropped and all sail was taken in and furled. All was secured. With the ship safe at anchor and the crew stood down, up from the gundeck came a volume of laughing, cheering, and shouting, to be taken up by the Larboard Watch ranged along both gangways. Many timepieces throughout the ship had confirmed the victory. He turned to Fentiman.
“I think a tour of the gundeck would not be out of place.”
Fentiman grinned openly.
“I agree.”
They took themselves to the head of the starboard companionway and began down, to be immediately spotted by First Mate Henry Ball, stood at the bottom.
“Man your stations!”
Silence came quickly.
“Attention!”
Argent and Fentiman looked upon a scene, somewhat confused, but wholly still. The guns were being housed, some still stood in the middle of the deck, still being sponged out, some almost fully bowsed up against their closed gunports. Shot garlands had conspicuous empty spaces, and rammers, sponges, and handspikes were lying around, some on the deck, some leaning against the guns. But each man was at his place as though for an inspection, Gun Captains to the right of each gun. Argent considered some kind of speech, but thought his normal walk along the deck would suffice. He started forward but stopped at guns 13 and 14. “Unlucky for Some” was carved neatly on the carriage of 13. He spoke, looking at both Gun Captains.
“Evans and Wood. Well done, good shooting to finish that first target.”
Evans, on 13, saluted, and felt that on this occasion, saying something extra would be counted forgivable.
“Aye, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Wiped the eye of those lubbers up there! Sir.”
He leaned forward to look up to the bows, clearly indicating the identity of the “lubbers” and where they stood.
Argent grinned.
“Perhaps so, Evans. Perhaps so.”
They passed on, picking their way through the confusion, not in any way solemn, this time all grinning openly, behind the salutes and spoken names. They made their way to the last gun, then came quickly back astern so that all could see him, including those on the gangways above. He looked at Henry Ball and spoke, quietly.
“Stand the men easy, Mr. Ball.”
Whilst the order was ringing down the deck, he turned and removed his hat. Fentiman took his cue and copied his Captain, but with an openly wider grin.
“Men. I take my hat off to you. If there’s a finer crew, anywhere, I’d like to see them, and we’d best them anyway.”
Shouts of agreement came back at him. The carnival atmosphere was growing. He looked up at George Fraser stood on the starboard gangway.
“Mr. Fraser. I think that this evening we can double the grog!”
Cheers echoed all round, as Argent waved his hat before replacing it and ascended the companionway to the quarterdeck. At the top he was met by Midshipman Bright.
“Sir. A signal from The Tower, Sir. All Captains, 3 bells, 2nd Dog. Admiral’s residence.”
oOo
“Easy all. Toss oars”
Once more, again in the yellowing light of evening, the Captain’s barge glided smoothly to The Tower steps, speed perfectly judged by Coxswain Whiting. The Captain’s barge of the Herodotus, had departed their ship at the same time, but, being nearer, had arrived just earlier. It had passed them on its return, empty of its Captain, and saying nothing. As they crossed, Argent had looked up onto the quayside that was but minutes away and saw a black carriage drive away. He became annoyed and thought to himself, “That’s damn poor. They must have seen me, and couldn’t wait. Or wouldn’t”. It had dawned on him, that Cheveley had beaten him to the carriage and had required it not to wait.
Abel Jones secured the boat and held the gunwale steady, as his Captain stepped out and onto the same granite steps, now dark in shadow from the Westering sun. Argent turned back to his Coxswain, him remaining at the tiller. He had decided, on the way over, that he would not keep his barge crew waiting at the steps, waiting perhaps until the small hours for all he knew, whilst their crewmates celebrated back aboard.
“Take yourselves back, Whiting. I’ll spend the night ashore. Have a drink for me, won’t you.”
Whiting looked relieved, the same thought had passed through his mind.
“Aye aye, Sir. You can be sure of that, Sir. Thank you, Sir, and enjoy your evenin’.”
Argent had grave doubts, but replied his thanks. Jones was soon back in and the oarsmen shoved off and were soon gone. The thought of what lay back on the ship lending extra energy to their long, regular, strokes. Argent ascended the steps and
looked for some form of transport for hire. He looked at his watch, 7.15. It was little more then a mile to the Port Admiral’s residence but he would be late for 7.30. There was no vehicle to be seen, so he began walking. He had cleared The Tower, when he heard a carriage and horses behind, then it drew level and stopped beside him. The crest on the door he recognised; The Willoughby’s, then a footman descended and opened the door, quickly adding the unfolded footrest to the evident invitation. He entered to find himself facing, not only Lady Willoughby, which he expected, but also Admiral Grant and a young woman. He smiled his greetings, a smile made wider and more genuine by his relief at having been spared a walk and then being embarrassingly late.
“Good evening, Lady Willoughby, Admiral Grant. I’m very grateful for your stopping. It seems I missed the carriage which, I assumed, picked up Captain Cheveley.”
Lady Willoughby spoke, whilst Grant silently beamed his unspoken pleasure at seeing Argent.
“Captain Argent. May I introduce my niece, Charlotte Willoughby?”
She was directly opposite. Argent took the proffered hand and bowed over it, with as much emphasis to the requirement as he could manage, whilst still remaining in his seat. The interior of the carriage was gloomy, but it was clear that Charlotte was a beauty; classic features, especially her hair; fair to golden and pulled back, after the fashion, but enough hanging curls to frame her striking good looks.
“Your Servant, Miss Willoughby. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I trust you are well?”
“Quite well, Captain, I thank you. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”
This spoken in a clear voice, with very precise diction, and containing just an edge of haughtiness. Grant at last spoke up.
“I thought some Ladies would add to the occasion, Argent, don’t you think? Can’t have a whole evening talking shop, something unavoidable with the High Spanish Navy at table, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Yes Sir. Most wise, in my view.
Grant paused and shifted himself forward and across, as if there were others to hear what he didn’t want them to.
A Question of Duty Page 7