A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  Broke exploded.

  “Don’t presume to teach me Navy History, Reece!”

  “No, Sir. Beg pardon, Sir. After the Glatton was sent for long refit, I found myself aboard the Ariadne, yer. Sir.”

  “And your opinion?”

  “About what, Sir?”

  Broke’s voice grew even louder.

  “This ship, man?”

  Reece was staggered by so direct a question. Never had he been asked such by a superior Officer about a ship run by other superior Officers. He had to think hard for the correct adjectives and those that came were wholly naval.

  “As I see it, Sir, this is a full worked up ship, Sir, with a good crew of true man o’ war’s men. Men as is contented. Sir.”

  Reece maintained his stare over Broke’s shoulder. Broke looked hard into Reece’s face.

  “Contented?”

  Reece was in a quandary. He thought his answer would satisfy, but now he was required to think further. His face screwed up in thought, then came inspiration.

  “Men as is content with their lot. Sir.”

  Broke continued staring at Reece’s face, as though hoping his eyes would penetrate Reece’s skull. He then looked at his clothing, but he could find no offence with that, either. Meanwhile the rest of the party had almost caught up, however, His Excellency passed the elderly foc’s’lmen, looking, nodding rythmically, but not stopping. Next was the gundeck and Argent led them down the nearest companionway, turning at the bottom to check on the progress of Lady and Charlotte Willoughby, but all was well; Admiral Grant attended the former, Cheveley the latter. Before examining the guns, Argent, on Divisions would normally take himself to the Galley, which was on the same level within the ship and neighbouring his own cabin. Here all meals were prepared for the crew and he thought this a useful addition to the tour.

  The short corridor took them to the domain of “Bible” Mortimor, Ship’s Cook and Captain’s Steward. They all allowed the ladies through first, assuming this to be more to their interest and the stoves were at full production, attended by Mortimor himself and his two assistants. Both were Lascars, named throughout the ship as Johnson and Jeremiah, although few could tell them apart, but one, at least could, this being Mortimor himself. Being Spanish built, the Ariadne had special provision for the Officers, which meant a smaller stove built in, especially for their food. The larger was for the crew, supporting and heating three cauldrons of stew, peas, and potatoes. At the arrival of the guests all came to the attention, but Lady Willoughby, realizing that the food may spoil if left unattended, told them to continue with their work, however, she addressed her questions to Mortimor himself.

  Argent grew anxious. Even beyond McArdle and his wife, Mortimor was of the deepest of religious persuasions, a strict Methodist, and most of what he said to anyone aboard the ship could also be read in the Bible. The unassailable gravity of these Christian quotes inevitably gave him a certain amount of licence, but, because of this feature, conversation with him could become quite tedious. Lady Willoughby assumed him to be in charge.

  “How many men do you have to feed from here?”

  Mortimor looked at her as though she were a woman who had questioned his interpretation of some deeply profound Biblical text.

  “213.”

  The Ma’am was omitted. Argent grew even more worried and gave Mortimor a withering look, but Lady Constance continued.

  “All at once?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  Argent breathed a sigh of relief.

  “In Watches, Starboard first. Honest toil gives appetite to the righteous. Eat, that thou mayest have strength, when thou goest on thy way, First Samuel, 28, verse 22.”

  She smiled, then pointed to the smaller stove.

  “And this is for whom?”

  “The Officers, Ma’am.”

  “Is it different?”

  “No.”

  “No difference at all?”

  “Perhaps a bit better quality, Ma’am.The Lord maketh poor, and maketh rich: He bringeth low, and lifteth up. First Samuel, 2, verse 7.”

  “You seem very fond of the Book of Samuel?”

  “I am fond of the full span of the Bible, Ma’am.Seek ye out of the book of the Lord, and read. Isaiah, 34, verse 16.

  She looked into the cauldron.

  “May I taste some?”

  Mortimor’s expression did not change; he handed her a stirring spoon. Lady Willoughby dipped the spoon delicately into the brow stew and brought the liquid and a small piece of meat to her lips. Finding it not too hot, she swallowed all. Her face became thoughtful and she looked at Mortimor.

  “More salt, I think. Salt is good: but if the salt have lost its saltness, wherewith will ye season it? Mark, 9, verse 50.”

  She handed the spoon back to Mortimor and all passed through, Fentiman bringing up the rear, still chuckling mightily at Her Ladyship’s bright riposte.

  “Better do as the Lady says, Mortimor. After so tasty a quote as that, you can count it as a prayer. Oh, and why aren’t these grates blacked down the sides?”

  Mortimor’s face twisted into further gloom and irritation, a look appropriate for a crime on the same deep level as if someone had dropped a Prayerbook during a sermon.

  “Seems my grate blacking has disappeared, Sir. The full stock. Thou shalt not defraud thy neighbour, neither rob him. Leviticus, 19, verse13.”

  “Just so, Mortimor. Just so.”

  They emerged onto the gundeck. The guncrews had awaited their presence for 30 minutes, each man at his station. Besides each gun stood the four man crew, plus Gun Captain, just forward and to the left, his Second was to the right, the remaining three of the crew spread evenly behind. The guns themselves were bowsed up against the ship’s side, muzzles above their gunports, looking for all the world like begging dogs, gazing up at their caring Masters. The guntackle was draped tidily and uniformly along the side of each gun carriage, and the gun tools, spikes, sponges, rammers, etc., all clean and polished, were up on the deckbeams, arranged on their hooks, inch perfect. Behind each guncrew, stood their Powder Monkey, thoroughly scrubbed and polished. Being in front, the Gun Captains were made prominent by their uniform, this being unofficial, but it added to the impression of order and readiness. Their buckled shoes all stood the same plank seam along the deck. All crews stared straight ahead.

  Argent walked forward, the invitation for the others to follow, but His Excellency was allowed to be second, after Argent. This time there was to be no greeting, this was inspection, to see that all was as it should be, and it was. The deck had been holystoned, and all shavings and sweepings removed. Each gun was burnished down to the dull greyblack sheen of its gunmetal, the flintlocks shone as the polished brass they were, finally any examination of the guncarriages would find them thoroughly scrubbed. All shot garlands were full, each shot as black as the main firedog and grate within any stately home.

  Argent could do no more than conduct the party down the row of guns, each in a thorough state of readiness for inspection or for action. However, when he came to the mainmast, he stood in puzzlement. A look back at the Mizzen and the mast forward confirmed his impression; he turned to find the figure who should be bringing up the rear of the inspection party, Bosun Fraser, there to make note of any of his Captain’s concerns.

  “Mr. Fraser.”

  Fraser hurried forward.

  “Sir?”

  “What’s all this on the masts?”

  “Beeswax, Sir.”

  “Beeswax?’

  “Sir.”

  “To what end?”

  “Well, some of the lads thought it might smarten the place up a bit, Sir.”

  Argent looked from Fraser, to the mast, and back again. He looked again at the mast.

  “Very well. But see that it doesn’t interfere with their duties.”

  “No, Sir. Aye aye, Sir.”

  Broke and Cheveley had heard all and seen all, but nothing of what they wanted. All was clean and ver
y shipshape, and they could be certain that the continued gun inspection would reveal nothing that could be remarked on in criticism. Frustration and resentment grew in both. They came to Number Three, Starboard side, Samuel Morris’ gun. Morris stood to the left of the gun, his second Joseph Dedman, to the right. Behind Morris stood Jacob Pierce, their Volunteer. For Cheveley, all was as he would wish aboard his own vessel, but what he most wanted was not there. There was none of the anxiety he rejoiced to see in the faces of his own crew, instead he saw a stern, hard jawed, confident gaze forward on the face of each man; “There’s nothing here to trouble you, old cock!” He gave the gun little more than a cursory glance, but a movement on Pierce’s face caught his eye. Pierce was winking, at him he felt certain. His pent up frustration erupted.

  “Captain Argent!”

  Argent turned. He knew that it was Cheveley and he turned to him, noting the already reddening face. Something was happening that was not good. Cheveley was rooted to the spot, but Argent could not leave His Excellency. By good fortune, Admiral Grant saw his dilemma and hurried forward to take over, then, with Lady Willoughby, the tour continued. The Spanish moved on and Argent returned to Cheveley, the latter working up further heat.

  “Captain? Is something wrong?”

  “That man there, Argent, winked at me. Damned unbelievable insolence! Is there no respect for a Captain’s uniform on this ship? I want him flogged. Four dozen; do you hear me.”

  Cheveley turned to Admiral Broke, some way behind.

  “Admiral Broke, did you not see? That disrespectful devil there. Winked at me, damn him and all his kind.”

  Broke hurried up to the gun.

  “I did, yes, that I did see. Very indicative of a poorly disciplined crew!”

  Both turned to Argent, who looked at Pierce, now doing his best to control his eyelids.

  “Pierce. Step forward.”

  Pierce did as he was bid and came to attention before his Captain.

  “These Officers say that you have showed them great disrespect. Winking at them. What do you have to say?”

  “Beg pardon, Sir, but there has been something amiss with my left eye for some days. It pains and irritates something cruel, Sir.”

  Argent looked carefully at his left eye, to see that it was, indeed, red and swollen. Pierce was probably telling the truth.

  “Why have you not taken yourself to the Surgeon?”

  “Thought it might clear up, Sir.”

  Argent turned to Cheveley and Broke, both stood at their full height, in a state of high dudgeon and higher irritation.

  “Admiral Broke, Captain Argent, it is my belief that this man does genuinely have a problem with his eye, it is there plain to see. Pierce, here, is a volunteer, diligent in his duties and quick to obey his superiors. A first rate member of my crew, never once a defaulter. I can only apologise on behalf of the ship, and ask that you give this man the benefit of the doubt.”

  Broke looked as though he was about to strike Pierce himself, but if was Cheveley who spoke, his words stark and vicious.

  “Are you telling me that this man cannot control himself for the short time he is in the company of his superiors? I want him flogged!”

  The last spat out, each word carefully emphasised. Argent was in a quandary. Cheveley had a point, but Pierce did not deserve a flogging. However, it was Charlotte Willoughby, who had remained, that spoke up to aid him through his dilemma.

  “Captain Argent, do you not have a Surgeon?”

  “Yes, Miss Willoughby, we do.”

  “Then should we not allow the Surgeon to clear this matter up? This man either has something seriously amiss with his eye, or he has not. I believe that the Surgeon should decide what is essentially a medical question.”

  Argent looked at Broke and Cheveley. It rested with them to deny the request of a Lady, so, of course, they said nothing. Argent seized upon the idea gratefully.

  “I fully concur, Miss Willoughby. I thank you for your presence of mind.”

  He turned to Pierce.

  “Pierce, take yourself off now to the Surgeon. Give him my compliments and ask him to examine your eye. We will be down directly.”

  Pierce hurried off, grateful at the chance of avoiding a flogging. Argent was still worried, his inspection was falling apart, because it was now split into two; the Spaniards, Grant and Lady Willoughby halfway down the larboard battery, the remainder still stuck at Number Three. He motioned Fentiman forward.

  “When they are done, take the Admirals into my cabin, Jonathan, along with Grant and Lady Willoughby. Tell them what’s happened and tell Mortimor to break out the best Madeira, the best, mind. I’ll join you when I can.”

  He turned back to the remaining three, four including the Bosun.

  “If you’d like to follow me. I suspect that by now our Surgeon has already begun his examination.”

  He led them further down into the ship, to the lower deck, the men’s quarters, now deserted. All along the side of the gangways, their messtables stood vertical, lashed up against the ships side planking and between the tables were their chests, containing their few belongings. They went further down, below the waterline, under the low beams and along to the orlop deck, the sickbay. As they entered, they saw Pierce stretched out on the Surgeon’s table, with Harold Smallpiece bent low over his face, holding a large magnifying glass over Pierce’s left eye. In the Surgeon’s right hand were a tiny pair of tweezers which he was using to gently open the recesses of the eye. Eara McArdle stood, tall, black and lugubrious above Pierce’s head, her hands either side of his face, holding it still. No one spoke.

  After a minute Smallpiece stood up, examining the end of the tweezers. He had long been aware that an audience had gathered, but not that it was mixed.

  “There we are, Gentlemen, this, oh, forgive me, Lady, …. this is probably the answer, what was once part of the ship’s side, I suspect. A tiny splinter, and, coming from a place that is none too clean, at least medically, it has set up an infection. Too small for its presence to have been noticed, even as it lodged there, doing its evil work.”

  He showed the miniscule piece of woodwork to Argent, who, as he peered forward with narrowed eyes, could barely discern anything between the jaws of the tweezers. Smallpiece held the instrument up for Broke and Cheveley, but neither made any movement forward, but Charlotte Willoughby did, for a thorough examination. Argent looked at Pierce.

  “Where were you, Pierce, when the first shot hit us from the La Mouette?”

  “Fetching a ball from the garland, Sir. I was showered in dust and other bits.”

  Argent turned to confront both Broke and Cheveley.

  “Sir. Captain Cheveley. Once again I ask for your indulgence. Arguably, this unfortunate occurrence has been caused by a wound obtained in action. It is my strong opinion that any punishment that stems from such would be most unjust.”

  For some seconds the two stood still, staring at Argent, but neither could bring themselves to concede. It was Charlotte Willoughby who broke the silence, speaking quietly.

  “I, too, believe that to be so.”

  Eventually Broke ended their silence.

  “We’ll let Grant decide.”

  With that both spun on their heels and left the sickbay, Cheveley ducking under a beam, Broke walking comfortably beneath it. Smallpiece had heard all.

  “This eye irritation has caused a problem, Captain?”

  “Yes, but I hope it’s finished now, or as near as.”

  “Good, I’ll mix a salve, for Pierce to rub on. That should help”

  At this point the formidable Mrs McArdle spoke up, frank and to the point.

  “An ointment’s nay good for an eye, Doctor. A wash is best for an eye and I think I know the one. At least, we should try a wash first, in my opinion.”

  Smallpiece looked back at her with his eyebrows raised, then up to the deck beams in thought. He did not argue.

  “You think so, Mrs McArdle? Well, can I leave th
at to you, please?”

  “Aye, Doctor. I’ll get straight about it.”

  She turned to a large Welsh Dresser, possessed of many shelves, all full of jars, bottle, vials, and packets, and she set about her business. Charlotte Willoughby followed her and stood quite near. Eara McArdle acknowledged her presence by merely looking up and at her, before continuing her work with mortar and pestle. Charlotte Willoughby was wholly absorbed.

  “You know of these things?”

  Eara McArdle saw no need for deference.

  “Aye. I do.”

  She continued to punish the contents of the mortar.

  “What are you using?”

  “This is fresh garlic, but I will make it into a wash with water from this bottle.”

  She held it up, a small jar. Sitting inside on the base was a large silver coin.”

  “I’ll strain some of this water through this crushed garlic. It’s the silver as does it and that’ll then be the wash. A few drops each day should make the difference; with the blessing of the Good Lord.”

  She continued her work, leaving Charlotte to watch or leave, as she chose. She watched further as the water was mixed in and then the whole strained, but Argent was anxious that he had deserted his guests.

  “Miss Willoughby, we should rejoin the others. I’m afraid my cabin is where we are needed, especially myself.”

  She turned at his request and smiled.

  “Yes, Captain. I believe you are correct, but I’m not sure that I could find my way out.”

  Argent smiled and motioned with his hand for her to lead on, out of the sickbay. She showed the grace to bid farewell to both Smallpiece and Mrs McArdle. Argent guided her towards the necessary companionways and soon they reached the gundeck. The crews were still at their places, but Bosun Fraser hurried over.

  “Sir, beg pardon, Sir, but is the inspection over? Can we send the men to their messes to get their dinner, Sir?”

  Argent smiled and nodded.

  “Yes, Mr. Fraser. You may stand the men down. Well done to you and to your Mates. And the men, of course.”

  Fraser grinned and saluted, before hurrying off, shouting for his fellow Bosuns.

  Argent looked at Charlotte Willoughby and smiled; he felt pleased, although he knew that Grant had yet to pass his judgment on Pierce. Nevertheless, he felt the need to say something, if only to release his own feelings. It came after a deep sigh of relief.