Argent and Fentiman, standing together, saw the battlements of the Castle slide past and noted the Union Flag raised high on its tower. On past the end of the castle wall came a large, but not ostentatious, house, pale pink, with gardens that dropped down to their own seawall. Gardeners continued about their business, the common event of a ship entering harbour of no great concern. Argent pointed over.
“Lady Willoughby’s townhouse. Very fine, in my opinion, and having the best position in town, I’d say.”
Fentiman turned for a good look, whilst Argent returned to the business at hand.
“Mr. Sanders. Hands to stand by the larboard anchor.”
Sanders passed on the order to the nearest Bosun’s Mate and soon there was a gathering of the labourers of the crew, foc’s’lmen, waisters and afterguard. Bosun Fraser placed himself in charge, his presence very necessary, as he saw it, to oversee the dropping of an anchor. Ariadne had to be brought to the harbour mole that jutted North from the castle point, up into the harbour. Thus her bows had to be turned right around to face South and then she could be warped forward to lie alongside the mole using a strong towing cable. To tack around would need the whole harbour and that would risk running aground, therefore, Argent, with a gentle tide running, had elected to pivot his ship on her anchor. Drop the anchor and drift past, then allow the ship to turn on this fixed point, however, the closer to the end of the mole the better, the less then, that the ship would have to be warped up by muscle and sweat to her final berth.
“Up helm. Steer West by North.”
Argent heard the helmsman repeat and then continued.
“Mr. Sanders. You have the deck.”
Sanders sent the driver back to starboard, and called out to Henry Ball for the foretopsail to be set for the larboard tack, However, as previously, the order was superfluous, Ball had set all in train as soon as the bowsprit began to move left across the backdrop of green hills. Argent waited his moment and allowed his ship to settle onto her new course towards his chosen point off the mole. He took himself along the larboard gangway, to ensure that he would be heard.
“Now, Mr. Fraser.”
“Let go!”
The anchor fell with a huge splash and Ariadne drifted past, then Fraser watched the anchor cable carefully as it grew taut in the water as the anchor gripped the bottom.
“Cable up and down, Sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fraser. Furl the foretopsail.”
Ariadne was turning on the anchor cable and soon the foretopsail would be backed in the Southerly wind if they took no action. However, it was “started” loose and then furled, almost in the time it took Argent to regain his quarterdeck and turn to regard events. The driver would push her around, that to the good. Ariadne ceased her swing around her anchor and soon she was still, sat motionless in the gentle current of the final incoming tide. Argent looked for a Midshipman.
“Mr. Berry. Get a line up to the dockside.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Berry hurried off to see Bosun Fraser, as much for advice and instructions, as to give orders. However, soon the jolly boat was over the side, with four of the most competent seamen in the ship on the oars and on hand, also with a Bosun’s Mate on the tiller. Fraser was not going to have the ship disgraced by any false moves at this point. The line was eventually secured on the quayside to a large bollard, watched by Berry, but quality controlled by Henry Ball.
The rest was a question of muscle. The first job was to recover the anchor, then winch in the final distance by the cable now stretching from the mole. The anchor messenger went onto the capstan then onto the anchor cable, this too thick to be wound around the capstan and so the whole crew stood by for their turn on the capstan bars, which began to turn with the efforts of sixty men. Ariadne moved forward, the slack cable to the bollard on the quay being gathered up as the anchor cable shortened and came aboard. She was coming in easily and there was a growing crowd who watched the proceedings, which, Bosun Fraser decided, were a mite too sombre and did the ship no credit, especially with a growing audience.
“Elliott. Go get your fiddle. Start with “Liverpool Judies”
He turned to glower at the assembled crew.
“An’ when he gets back, I wants all you tripehounds singin’”.
Ben Elliott, ship’s fiddler and member of the Afterguard, disappeared and returned post haste with his instrument. He was hoisted atop the capstan, stamped his feet for a rhythm and began. Soon, the entire dire choir were joining in with the familiar song, as were those on the bars and the capstan, who continued to stamp around to the rhythm. All the hands took a turn and the first task, the anchor cable was soon recovered, then the cable onto the mole was bent onto the capstan for the final effort. The ship closed to the mole, fenders ready over the larboard bow. 30 minutes later the frigate was bowsed up and secure against the stonework, with a gangplank across, guarded at both ends by an immaculate Marine. One of the first across was the Purser, Merryman Maybank, although how he got a name like that was a ship’s mystery, in dour sobriety he surpassed even McArdle and Bible Mortimor. However, he was well wished on his way with the £50, as the crew finished the job of finally securing the anchor and mooring the ship. Also in his deep pocket was the supplies requisition to be taken to the Naval Ordnance Depot.
Those nearest, for the benefit of the landsmen watching, pointed to the damaged bulwark, just in case these secure on terra firma hadn’t worked it out for themselves, for it conveyed the desired and important self aggrandising message, “This is shot damage. We’ve been yardarm to yardarm with the Frogs.”
Argent leaned on the larboard bulwark rail of his quarterdeck, accompanied by Fentiman, the deck beneath their feet as dead as though they were stood on the lifeless stone of the quayside spread beneath them. The ship was moored and secure.
“Henry, I’m going to ask you to oversee things for the next day or two. The repairs and the re-storing need no decisions that you are unable to give. I’ve a mind to see my family, they are very close to here. You can see the farm almost from where we are now, come, I’ll show you.”
They walked to the other side of the quarterdeck, Argent taking his Dolland from the binnacle drawer. He pointed to a far hillside.
“There, atop that furthest hill, but just down a mite. That’s our farm, the white building.”
Fentiman focused the Dolland.
“Yes, I think I’ve got it. Is there a large tree behind?”
“Yes, a colossal horse chestnut.”
Fentiman continued with the glass.
“There’s cattle moving. Looks like a female driving them.”
“Yes, that’ll be one of my sisters, probably Emily, my younger sister. Enid will be caring for their baby, being married, you know.”
He paused.
“Now move the glass up the hill, to the next building.”
Fentiman moved the glass a fraction.
“Have you got it?”
“Yes, a grey pile, large, bleak and square.”
“Most graphic and most exact. That’s Broke’s place, called Higher Barton. Ours is called Lanbe Barton. Don’t ask me how it got a name like that.”
oOo
The dawn had moved into early morning as Argent cleared the last of the buildings that could claim to be attached to the good town of Falmouth. He rode a hired mare that he allowed to take the journey in her own time, he was in no hurry. This was a route familiar from his childhood and he had tipped his hat to the school gate that once held behind it at least half of his world. The horse walked on and then, for some reason, she broke into a trot, perhaps impatient to get done the business of the day. Upon his way, he had seen in the route no change from years ago that could cause him any disquiet; trees, bushes and gates were all still there, as were the buildings, some now improved, some now run down, but all in their remembered place. The hill steepened and it was at this point that he passed the gate to the main Willoughby estate, it showed not a speck of rus
t within the green paint, but it was closed and barred to him and the world. On the opposite side of the road, in counterpoint, rose the dark and weathered wood of the impressive lych gate of the church, a solid and authoritative symbol of the Anglican Faith. The church itself, all built by the Willoughby’s, sat hidden behind a collection of yew trees, its tower just rising above the highest. Argent smiled at the memories both good and bad; he had seen his sister married there and seen her place her bouquet on the grave of her Mother. He had sat through many a service, the last the Christening of his nephew.
The hill came proper and the mare ceased her trot and resolutely set about the climb. Argent looked forward and all appeared before him in the same order as it had years before; first the chestnut tree, then the barn roof, then the thick chimney, then the thatch of the cottage roof. Last in view came the namesign, newly painted, Lanbe Barton. Soon came the yard gate and he turned the mare into the gap and dismounted. He tied up the reigns and shouted.
“Anybody here? I’ve caught a rustler and a poacher!”
A curious sound came from within the barn, but undoubtedly female, and his younger sister Emily came hurtling out of the barn, whisps of straw on her coat and dress. She flew straight at him and seized him around his waist with both arms.
“Reuben! You’re wicked, you’ve given us no warning.”
She stepped back and whacked him on the chest as punishment.
“And you’ve grown thin. Don’t you order them to feed you on that ship of yours?
She pushed him again, then pulled him forward by his captured arm, held in both her hands.
“Come on, Enid’s inside and Beryan, and baby Jake, too.
She linked her arm through his and, at the door, used her grip to pull him through. Inside all was as he remembered, bar the large cradle in the middle of the room, over which his elder sister Enid was administering to her baby son, Jacob. Her face lit as though it were a ship’s nightlantern, but Jacob’s needs were necessarily completed before she, too, flung herself at him to begin a fierce embrace. That done, she also fired off her admonishments.
“Turning up with no warning! You’re very sinful!”
“I’ve already told him that. I said he was very wicked.”
However, by now Argent was holding them both tight against his side and he kissed them both, but it was Emily who broke away first.
“And you’re a hero! We’ve got the paper. It’s days old now, but we’re going to keep it, always!”
She bounced over to a huge, plain, and somewhat crude desk with a tall back section of several compartments and protruding from one was a broadsheet. Emily pulled it out and held up the front for Argent to see.
“There!”
She looked at him, then looked around at the paper, this still being held at an angle for Argent’s benefit. She read the title.
“Frenchmen fall before Britannia’s Naval Sons.”
She turned the paper to enable her to read on.
“On 30th June, HMS Ariadne, a 32 gun frigate, engaged and captured the French frigate, La Mouette of 42 guns. The Ariadne was under the command of Captain Reuben Argent. That’s you!”
Argent laughed, but Emily continued.
“Second in Command was First Lieutenant Henry Fentiman, and these two fine sons of Albion, supported by their good crew of stout British Tars, made a prize of the French ship, displaying just the same spirit and pluck as shown by our lamented hero, Admiral Lord Nelson.”
She looked at Argent, glee and joy spread all over her pretty face, which not even a morning’s work with the cows could disguise.
“There’s more!”
But Enid broke in, but cheerfully.
“He can read it for himself, Emily.”
Emily lowered the paper to gleam at Argent, whilst Enid went to the cradle and lifted out baby Jacob, or perhaps more accurate to say that what emerged were the brightest pair of blue eyes that Argent had ever seen, then he noticed the round healthy face in the white bonnet that matched the rest of the swaddling. Inevitably, she talked to the baby, rather than to Argent.
“This is your Uncle Reuben. He’s a famous Navy Captain. You’ve not seen him for a long time.”
The contented baby was passed to Argent who cradled the substantial bundle awkwardly in his left arm. Nephew Jacob looked up at him in puzzlement and Argent was immediately certain that the child was about to burst into tears, so he looked down with growing anxiety, a study that was broken by the arrival in the room of Beryan Trethewey, his brother in law. Enid took the baby and both men shook hands, or rather Beryan took the hand of Reuben in a grip of appalling ferocity. He was a hand shorter than Reuben, but built like a wrestler, which is exactly what he was; at many village fairs around, and usually successful. Argent had always warned him to stay out of Plymouth, Falmouth too; any pressgang would pursue him to the Devon border in order to add such as him to their crew. Both shook each other by the shoulders, even though Beryan was two years older, through their childhood and early teens they had been good friends. He spoke first.
“You look older!”
“You look younger. Married life must be doing you good. Would you recommend it?”
“With a good woman, Reuben. With a good woman.”
And he held up his right arm for his wife to run in underneath and wrap one arm around him, while the other held the baby. He kissed her hair. Both Reuben and Emily smiled at the depth of tenderness shown by each to the other, then Argent turned to Emily.
“Where’s Father?”
“He’s ploughing the three strip in the North field. Are you going to go up there?”
“Yes.”
Enid broke in again and detached herself from Beryan.
“Then you can take his croust.”
She seized a satchel from the back of a chair, it hanging by it’s strap, then she turned her attention to some portable food that was arranged on a shelf besides the cooking range. She wrapped each in separate cloths and put them in the satchel, then she cut a loaf in two, carved a cheese quarter in two, and added that. However, as she worked, Argent’s memory jogged.
“I’ve brought something. It could become a family heirloom, over time. Give me a moment.”
He hurriedly exited the door, but soon returned, carrying a long object in a piece of blanket. They all looked expectantly as Argent unwrapped a sword, still in its scabbard, all black leather and brass. Their faces showed surprise and no little wonder as it was revealed.
“This belonged to the Captain of the La Mouette. As I was entitled, so I claimed it, it coming from my first prize. I’d like it to remain here.”
He gave the sword first to Enid who weighed it in her hands, as did Emily, but it was Beryan who drew the blade, almost to its full extent. The fine steel shone clean and bright. Beryan looked up and spoke, but to no one in particular.
“I think it should go on hooks above the mantle, or on one of the beams.”
Enid pronounced her verdict, and then drew them back to the issue that mattered more to her.
“We’ll let Father decide. Now; your croust. There’s two pasties and a fuggan, with bread and cheese. There’s some for Father, and some for you. I know how you like fuggan, so you and Father will have to share. That’s your fault. Had you given warning, I’d have made two.”
“I’m fine, I ate aboard.”
“Now we know why you’re thin! Missing meals, that’s why. There’s some in here for you, and no argument!”
She threw in four apples for good measure and then hung the satchel strap around his neck. He passed his right arm up through, so that it hung down his right side, but she still had a question.
“How long are you staying for?”
“Two nights, I must return the day after tomorrow.”
“Right, I’ll set another place for this evening. Now, out, I’ll see you on your way.”
Beryan grinned.
“You’re under orders, Reuben. You’ve got your quarterdeck, Enid’s
got hers.”
Argent smiled.
“And this is one I’d never try to board, not even with a company of Marines!”
They grinned together, then Enid pushed him to the door.
“Enough from you. Out. Father’ll be waiting.”
But outside her mood changed. She turned him to face her, her face anxious.
“You’ll find Father none too happy, Reuben. Something’s working at him. We don’t know what it is. Please try to find out; he’s so silly about these things, when we may be able to help.”
Argent’s face fell and matched her’s for seriousness. He unhitched his horse and mounted, then looked down to further examine his sister’s concerned look.
“I’ll try, but you know what he’s like. He takes all upon himself and keeps all of most of it to himself.”
Argent loved his sisters dearly and loved each for their differences, for, to him, they were as different as chalk and cheese. In many ways he defined each in relation to his own life. Enid was a solid merchant ship that steadily sailed her set course, reacting calmly and sensibly to whatever came her way, whilst Emily was a gleeful racing yacht, at full sail when the wind, any wind, was favourable, yet subdued and worried in times of storm. Enid rarely showed any emotion, bar impatience with members of her own family, especially Argent himself, yet Emily was all emotion; joy and optimism, or sadness and anxious worry.
He pulled the mare’s head around and set her to the gate, giving Enid a wave as he took the track up. It took him past the drive that led from the track to the main gate of Higher Barton and 20 yards down stood the gate itself, between two high pillars in the recently re-built wall. The gate being high, black, ornate, and forbidding. Following his route, the high wall curved around to mark the track that led over to Long Barton. This hamlet was a small collection of cottages, though each was a substantial building and here dwelt the eight families named amongst those that farmed the three giant fields to their North, West, and South. East was the High Barton estate. The fields were strip fields, a system that had pertained from Medieval times, for there were 40 or more strips in each and every family held, in ownership, several strips in each of the three fields.
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