A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  He passed above the hamlet, over the top of the group of cottages, and entered the corner of the field, huge in its expanse, no hedges, but a few trees. He passed the first stone markers that spoke the ownership of each strip and there were some of new stone and new carving, the letter B, claiming Broke’s land. He knew where their family’s three strip was, just over the horizon, and for some minutes more he saw nothing, then a tiny figure grew in the distance, tiny in comparison to the two huge horses that hauled the plough through the deep red soil. Even from that distance Argent recognised the Bakewell Blacks, each 20 hands high, which his Father used and bred. Whilst Beryan was a wrestling champion, Edward Argent was a ploughing champion, this given witness by the rosettes, in a variety of states of fade or pristine, that covered their stable wall.

  Argent continued up the track that marked the edge of the field, past the evenly spaced out markers, until he saw the sign for his family, a square with a diagonal, bottom left corner up to right, chiselled into the stone. Three holes were in the surface beneath the square, and each carving showed its age, the once clean edges of the lines now worn into rounded grooves. Argent dismounted, took the hobble from the saddlebag and used it on the mare’s front hooves. She wandered to the drinking trough and then began to crop the grass at the verge. Two bags of fodder lay nearby, clearly for the plough horses. He stood and watched and finally had to acknowledge the apprehension that was growing within him. It had been no surprise that Edward Argent had wanted his only son to follow him onto the farm. Argent becoming a Midshipman had caused a serious rift between them, such that his Father had not come to their gate to wish him farewell and good fortune on his first leaving. Disapproval had clouded each return home ever since, however, or so Argent hoped, the arrival of Beryan, and baby Jacob, secured the succession for the farm. Perhaps his Father’s attitude had changed, hopefully for the better.

  Luckily, his Father was on a return. On arriving, Argent had pondered what to do best, walk up the newly ploughed furrows to meet his Father, or wait for him to plough back to the track he now stood on. Chance had taken the decision for him, he had but to stand and wait, but he chose to sit, on the low stone marker. The horses grew in size, hiding his Father, but details appeared, the chains and the leathers, these not the show harness, but that for the workaday. What impressed Argent most, and always had, were the horses keeping in perfect step, how his Father trained them for such, he never knew. The sounds of the team grew, the jingling harness and the spoken instructions from his Father, the sound of his voice bringing a lump to Argent’s throat.

  There were but yards to go to the end of the furrow and the horses stamped onto the margin. His Father called “Come round” and the two swung left, and for the first time Argent saw his Father and, simultaneously, his Father saw him, as he stood up from the stone. His Father was but an older version of Argent, although slightly shorter, with grey streaks in the thick main of hair. It was Argent who spoke first.

  “Hello, Father, how are you?”

  Argent Senior gave no reply, other than a flat, “Reuben. Good to see you.”

  He continued to tug on the reigns, concentrating on bringing the horses parallel to the track, but Argent felt the need to break the silence.

  “What’s the crop?”

  “You’d know it you’d stayed.”

  Argent sighed, becoming a little angry.

  “Father, that’s well back now, in the past. I made my choice. I didn’t stay, but I’m back now to see how you are, and Emily and Enid, and to see my nephew. He’s a bonny lad.”

  Argent Senior seemed to soften a little at the mention of his grandson and his posture became less tense.

  “Yes. He is that. And the crop’s fodder beet.”

  He stood and looked at Argent and almost smiled.

  “Well, come and make yourself useful. Lead them forward whilst I unhitch the ploughhead.”

  Argent walked forward and took the bridles of both horses in his hands, their heads rising high above him. His Father detached the chains that led from the ploughhead to their collars.

  “These are even bigger than I remember. Are these still Bakewell Blacks?’

  “Yes, but a new strain, “Fens”, not so pretty but better on a long run. Take them on, now.”

  Argent led them onto the track, to leave the plough isolated at the end of the furrows. Argent looked back along these, all stretching away into the far distance, but each ruler straight.

  “Shall I take them to drink?”

  “Yes, but take the bits out first. Time for their feed.”

  Argent obeyed the instructions and soon each horse was wearing a nosebag, filled with good oats, then he opened the satchel Enid had given him to share out the contents.

  “Enid gave me this for your croust.”

  The Cornish word for midday meal seemed alien to him, but he spread the contents onto the warm grass, using the wrapping cloths for protection as best he could. His Father frowned.

  “There’s more here than she puts up for me. She intends that we eat together?”

  Argent felt the old anxiety, but pushed on.

  “Yes, but you are to get first choice. That’s because I arrived with no warning, so I get the leftovers.”

  For the first time Edward Argent genuinely smiled.

  “Well, you can have one of the pasties, but the lion’s share of the fuggan ‘s mine. You can make do with the apples. The bread and cheese is equal.”

  However, what had to be shared was the water bottle, a long cylinder of grey clay. Argent took the top off and offered it first to his Father, who drank from it, several times, before beginning the food. Argent took his drink, but it wasn’t water, it was small beer, that tasted familiar and all the better for that. He said nothing, leaving his Father the space to speak or not, but he soon did.

  “So, you’ve been successful. Making quite a name for yourself.”

  Argent nodded and drank again.

  “Yes, we took their ship, right enough. It even made the broadsheet. We left the result swinging round her anchor in Plymouth Sound.”

  “Swinging round her anchor?”

  “Yes, Father. It means idle; safe and idle.”

  Argent Senior nodded and almost smiled again.

  “Yes. It’s pleasing to see our name in the paper, there for the right reason.”

  “Could it have been there for the wrong reason?”

  “Yes, but that’s a long time past and best left there.”

  Argent felt relieved, and fell silent, judging it best not to pursue what was plainly an old, but unknown to him, family disgrace. They shared the rest of the food in silence, but when it was finished, Argent felt bound to speak of Enid’s worry.

  “Father, Enid’s worried. She’s worried because there is something worrying you. I’d like to know. I may well be in a position to help, taking that French frigate may just have given me enough influence to make a difference.”

  Argent Senior looked at his son and frowned, but he was plainly thinking. He paused some more, then moved his head to look at the ground, but a twist of his mouth showed that he had made up his mind.

  “You know that Broke bought the estate, about twelve years back. That makes him a landowner in our fields, the biggest, and no surprise there. I’ve heard that he wants to enclose; the three fields and the common, and Cinch is backing him. He probably has lawyers drawing up the Bill as we speak. More than likely they’ll get it through Parliament. I’ve not heard of any enclosure that’s been turned down. The Government now wants enclosures, the end of the old Three Fields, they want separate farms, with each having their fields grouped close around. Farming is changing.”

  Argent looked with concern over at his Father.

  “Cinch is your Member?”

  “Yes, Sir Digby Cinch. Our Honoured Member for Cornwall and many other places.”

  Argent noted the irony in his Father’s voice, but kept to the subject.

  “Right, but is that s
o bad. Think of the time it takes for you to walk to all our strips. What do the others think?”

  “Most is for it. They think like you, but there’s one big snag. To claim a farm after all’s gone through, you have to have your Deeds, to prove ownership of land.”

  Argent could foresee what was coming and he grew fearful.

  “But you’ve got ours?”

  “No. I can’t find it. I can find Bills of Sale for the extra land that’s been bought over the years, but the bulk is on the Deeds, and that I can’t find.”

  Argent’s spirits sank, the family farm was now in deep jeopardy! Troubled thoughts came quickly concerning Enid and Emily, Beryan and Jacob, however, his military mind worked subconsciously and created a solution, at least partial.

  “Father, if it does come to eviction, I’ve got the prizemoney from La Mouette to come. It’ll be a fair sum. You may not be able to stay here, but there’ll be another farm to buy. I’ll not see you with no-where. Don’t worry, that’s a way around if the worst does happen.”

  Argent Senior looked at his son and smiled, his son’s anxiety worried him and his concern touched him. He placed a workworn hand on his son’s shoulder and shook him gently.

  “That’s good of you, son, and a comfort. But it may not come to that, this may pass over, in the best way. Meanwhile, leave it for the future, because now, this ploughing needs finishing, that’s my immediate worry. If it’s not ploughed and sown, we’re down on fodder for winter, nearly as big a disaster. I’ll push on, I can’t sit here nattering with you.”

  The lift of his Father’s head told him that his Father was determined to work through this new trouble, in the same way that he had carried the family through the difficult times of the past. His Father stood, so did Argent.

  “I’ll help, with the ploughing, like I used to.”

  His Father nodded.

  “As you choose. So, right, fetch them back.”

  In minutes the shires were back before the plough and Argent Senior’s hands were on the plough handles, but now his son led the horses forward, leaving his Father to concentrate on making good furrows. Thus, the hero Post Captain, the toast of the Navy and probably Royalty also, now walked down the plough line, leading the horses for his ploughman Father, walking between their giant heads, a hand on each bit. He was glad that he’d chosen to wear his sea boots.

  All was done with much daylight left, but the sun was Westering. The plough had to be taken down to the farm and so Argent Senior pulled the ploughshare upwards to lodge secure between the wheels and his son led the horses home, whilst his Father steered the plough. The mare tailed along, tethered to the plough. They reached the farmhouse, their route using the track above it, and Argent called back a question. For what seemed the first time and perhaps because of the possibility of losing it, he looked carefully at the house in which he had been raised. It was squat and broad, with barns built in and a low, wide, chimney. The walls were as thick as some men were tall; the lower half was large pebbles, set into the cob mixture. There were few windows. It looked almost medieval.

  “How old is the farmhouse, Father?”

  “Couldn’t say. It’s come down through generations way before me.”

  On arrival, all was stabled and stored and, as soon as they entered the room, Emily brought out the sword.

  “Look Father, look what Reuben brought home. It’s French, taken from the Captain of La Mouette. Reuben was entitled to it.”

  Argent Senior took the sword in both hands, one hand each end, and gauged the weight. His face showed a smile, but not an open grin. He pulled out the blade, but only six inches, and stopped.

  “There’s something written on it. It must be French. “Pour defence de la Patrie”. What’s it mean?”

  Argent answered.

  “It means “For the protection of our country”. I have a Lieutenant who can speak French. I don’t know how, he had no formal education and he’s never been to France.”

  It was Enid who answered.

  “There; the French think of their country, just in the same way that we do about ours. Which makes this war doubly stupid!”

  Emily broke the heavy mood.

  “We were wondering where to hang it, Father. Beryan thought above the fire, or from a beam.”

  Argent Senior nodded and took the sword to place it in a corner.

  “Plenty of time to think about that. Now; Reuben, let’s get clean.”

  He led the way to the back scullery. They washed together from the same tub, in silence, the only sound the splashing of water.

  The evening meal was jolly and cheerful; Emily especially, joyful and in good spirits. Father maintained a smile at the top end of the table, but with the clearing of the last of the plates, Argent saw the time.

  “Father, you’ve got to tell them. There may be something that can be done, they may be able to think of something, just as well as you.”

  His Father looked up at him, but he wasn’t annoyed, more resigned. He took a deep breath and told the story. Emily and Enid’s faces showed increasing degrees of shock, but when his Father had finished, Argent spoke first, addressing his sisters.

  “But don’t worry, my prizemoney will buy a farm. You’ll still be somewhere, how big remains to be seen. If that’s what it comes to, we’ve still got that money, but we must pray that it may not.”

  Enid had grown both serious and annoyed. She rarely admonished her Father, but this was such a time. Argent had noticed the self assumed authority, now that she was both a wife and a mother.

  “Why didn’t you say? You know how many boxes and chests there are around the house and barns. And you know what your eyesight is like these days; you can’t read anything closer than your elbow! We’re going read every piece of paper in every box and chest. We’ll find it, we will. We’ll be alright.”

  Emily joined in, equally heated.

  “Yes. Yes, we will! It must be somewhere.”

  Argent Senior looked at both his daughters with more than a little pride, in both he saw the feisty spirit of his late wife. He smiled and nodded.

  “Right. Then I’m leaving that with you, you and Enid. I thought that sending you to school would pay, and I was right. Now, I’m for a pipe and a quiet sit. Reuben, Beryan, you’ll join me?”

  Argent hated tobacco, but this was a development of such significance between him and his Father that he could not say no. He determined to puff at the pipe, take in the smoke and blow it out again, no matter the consequences. Beryan first went off to fetch the pair of shotguns that needed cleaning and soon he returned and disassembled the guns, and then the three were sat by the empty fireplace, empty that time of its winter fire, all fussing with pipes and guns, whilst the two women fussed equally with the plates, pots, and child. They talked of nothing of the war, nor enclosures, but instead of social changes, both near and far. The power of the landlord and landowner, the continued power of the House of Lords, the rise in the importance, if not the status, of the working man. Rebellion not being unknown throughout the history of Cornwall, both Beryan and Father had some sympathy with the French Revolution, but Argent couldn’t countenance The Terror, nor the ambitions of Napoleon. The fact that none of the likes of those sat talking was allowed to vote arose, but was quickly dealt with. There was nothing to argue over.

  With the last of the light, the discussion wasn’t worth lighting a candle for and so they retired, to rise early the next day. After breakfast, the three took the horses and both rakes, the course rake and the chain rake, back up to strip three. With three of them they could carry the back edges of the two rakes, one atop the other, the horses supporting from the front, Argent’s horse carried the bags of beet seed. The course rake levelled the field for planting, then the three walked the flattened tilth and spread the seed by hand. Perversely, Argent enjoyed the simple labour of such a task, to walk the field scattering the fine seed in rhythm to his walking feet, helped sooth his mind from the stress and tension of the past f
ew days. Eventually, the seed was on the ground and they ran the chain rake over to cover it so that, as the sun turned down to the West, the job was done. Argent Senior pronounced the epitaph.

  “A good job, with the ground most fit. All we need now is a nice drop of rain.”

  oOo

  Argent hurried into the Port Commodore’s Office to avoid further soaking. On his journey down from the farm the gathering clouds had turned his thoughts away from his emotional farewell from his family, not least the memory of his Father’s warm handshake and the way his Father had gripped the muscle of his right arm. Nor the fierce embrace of both sisters. He approached the desk that supported the variety of tasks of an elderly Marine Sergeant who acted as Secretary for Commodore Sidney Budgeon, he that ran the harbour and both gave orders and passed on more weighty instructions from those placed above him. The Sergeant noticed early Argent’s single epaulette and sprang to attention and saluted.

  “Morning Sir.”

  Argent nodded and smiled.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Please sit down.”

  He waited until the Marine was settled.

  “Please tell me your name.”

  The Sergeant was surprised and non-plussed. Few were this polite.

  “Venables, Sir. Michael Venables.”

  “Well, Sergeant Venables, I was hoping for a word with the Commodore.”

  “Yes, Sir. That should be possible. I don’t think he’s busy; he’s just had his mid-morning coffee and rolls taken in from the coffee house over the square. I’m sure he’ll see you, Sir. But, please Sir, who are you?”

  “Captain Argent, of the Ariadne.”

  The sergeant’s face lit up.

  “The Ariadne! Sir! Captain Argent. Yes, I’ll ask directly, Sir.”