“I suspect her to be a smuggler, and I suspect her to be French. Mr. McArdle, you have an opinion?”
“I do, Sir, aye. Half lugger, half schooner looks French enough to me!”
Were it intended as a joke, from McArdle probably not, but, nevertheless, all laughed just the same. With this success and with the mood pertaining on the quarterdeck, the thinnest of jests would have been taken as the highest of humour.
“Send for Mr. Sanders, and ready the longboat.”
An idle signalman was sent to instruct both the Lieutenant and the Bosun and, whilst the latter busied himself busying others, the former arrived on the quarterdeck, having hurried up from the gundeck. He approached and saluted.
“Sir?”
“Mr. Sanders, with six Marines and the same of topmen, row over and take possession. Include my bargecrew; tell Whiting what you need.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Soon the longboat was over the side and filling with its Marines and seamen. The mast was stepped and braced, then its single, but extensive, sail was set to use the good wind to carry them across. It took but five minutes from them leaving the side of the Ariadne until they were all climbing the side of the lugger to disappear onto her deck. Argent felt the need to be nearer, and saw Fraser, just along the starboard gangway.
“Mr. Fraser, back the foresail, I want some leeway down onto her.”
Fraser knuckled his forehead and ran off, gathering seamen. Soon the foresail was backed to work against the driver. Ariadne could go neither forward nor back, so she drifted sideways, down onto the lugger. The time passed, during which Argent thought of his next move.
“Mr. McArdle. What’s the nearest port of any size?"
The reply was instant.
“Kinsale, Sir. Close on North West of here.”
“Thank you, Mr. McArdle.”
The Ariadne drifted down onto the lugger until a mere 50 yards of distance. Argent joined Fentiman, who was using his telescope.
“I think our boarding crew are sharing a bottle!”
Argent fetched his own glass and focused it. True enough, the Marines and seamen were passing around a bottle.
“That’s either Irish or brandy. My money’s on the latter. The French have no taste at all for whiskey.”
“Should we have a word, Sir, on his return?”
“I think not, Henry. I think we can turn a blind eye to that, but you’ll have a point if they start a second!”
Argent fetched his speaking trumpet from the locker and climbed into the mizzen rigging.
“Ahoy the lugger.”
Sanders appeared in the rigging.
“Mr. Sanders. What have you discovered?”
“She’s French, Sir, and full of contraband. Tobacco and Irish linen.”
“Very good, Mr. Sanders. Get underway to steer North West. You can follow us to Kinsale. And Mr. Sanders?”
“Yes Sir?”
“If you find a second bottle aboard, we’d all appreciate it coming back for the Officer’s table.”
oOo
Ariadne, with her new consort and the longboat in its tow, turned to anticipate bearing as calculated by McArdle, which he gravely delivered to his Captain.
“Steer North West by West. Sir.”
Many, if duties allowed, came up to the starboard gangways and examined their new prize. There was much speculation.
“I’d say she’ll be bought into The Service. As handy a supply ship as ever I saw.”
“More like for the coastal trade. She’ll soon be snapped up.”
The mood was high throughout the ship, bar the inevitable “Bible” Mortimor”.
“The potatoes has turned to soup, and the greens is not far behind. The land shall be utterly emptied, and utterly spoiled. Isaiah, 24, verse 3.”
Nevetheless, the food was issued for the much delayed meal. It was all good cheer on the lowerdeck; the quality of the fare, poor or otherwise, being ignored for the more current topic. Both vessels pushed on with the good breeze steady from the South and by sunset they had raised the Irish Coast, but darkness had set in, their landfall was impossible to accurately recognise. Nautical prudence took over, which dictated that, with a depth of ten fathoms beneath them, both vessels anchored to ride out the night and soon the sounds of singing came across from their prize, she being called the Erienne. Fentiman and Argent were at the bulwark rail of the quarterdeck, looking at the shadow of their prize and gauging her length from her riding lights. It was Fentiman who first voiced their thoughts.
“I suspect another bottle.”
“So do I, or perhaps finishing the first one, but were you to enquire I know the answer you’d get.”
“What?”
“We’n just havin’ a singsong to keep ourselves amused and our spirits up. Sir. Keep out the chill, Sir.”
Both laughed. Fentiman continued.
“Shouldn’t Sanders be taking things in hand?”
“Think back to your time as a new Lieutenant. What chance would you have had of finding a bottle amongst a dozen old salts all on the deck of a strange ship? And what kind of Officer would stop the men singing, especially after taking a prize.”
Fentiman nodded in the glom, then changed the subject.
“What would you say? 40 foot?”
“45. And she’s handy. She’s a good prize, and then there’s the value of her cargo, she being a smuggler. Nothing aboard there of low value.”
“But Irish linen as contraband?”
“It doesn’t surprise me. A shortage of fine cloth within Johnnyland doesn’t surprise me at all. They can’t even get cotton yarn, not from Egypt, nor from the other side of the Atlantic, that’s for certain. The Americans would sell them all they could, but there’s our cruisers ranging up and down the Bay. The Channel and the Med are even more impossible. No, a bale of fine Irish linen will fetch a worthy price.”
The next day saw a clear dawn, but McArdle judged them to be off the narrow bays of Kilarney; they had come too far West. However, the Southerly breeze still held allowing them to cruise the coast, heading East Northeast, and McArdle, continuously consulting the chart, grew ever more confident of their position. Meanwhile, Argent took the chance to organize his squadron and its duties, so he had the longboat return and take himself over to the prize. On her deck he found Sanders stood foursquare overlooking his command, Whiting at the helm and all the crew either cleaning the deck, checking the standing rigging, or replacing some of the running rigging. Sanders found the need to explain.
“The men felt the need to tidy her up a bit, Sir. They thought that getting her a bit more shipshape may add a few more pounds to her value, Sir.”
Argent studied the scene around the deck, as both seamen and Marines brought the vessel up to Navy standards, or at least as close as possible.
“Very good, Mr. Sanders. Who could fail to approve? Now, Kinsale has a long throat to its harbour. Ariadne will anchor outside and we’ll take this in and hand her over to the Port Authorities. Is she full laden?”
“Yes Sir. Full all round. There’s not a space that hasn’t a bale of something, Sir. Either linen or tobacco.”
“And the crew?”
“Under the main hatch, Sir, with two Marines guarding.”
“And there’s no other way out of the hold?”
“No Sir. I had your bargecrew check, Sir. They found nothing from any other point in the ship and if there is one, it’s deep under the cargo, Sir.”
“How many in the crew?”
“Six. All very disgruntled, Sir. Her Captain thought he’d played a fine trick, but he complained bitterly, Sir, repeating several times, “Votre Capitaine est un Deveil”.
“I’m a Devil?”
“Yes Sir. That’s what it means.”
Argent chuckled.
“The luck of The Devil, perhaps. I took a gamble and it paid off. Another time, who knows?”
“Yes Sir.”
Argent paused to further appraise
the craft.
“She’s handy, holding onto Ariadne well enough. And stable, and, from what you say, “capacious.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Argent took his Dolland out from under his arm.
“Did the Captain have a spy-glass?”
“Yes, Sir, I have it here.”
He pulled a medium sized, but quality telescope, closed down, from his pocket.
“It’s yours! Now, accompany me forward with it.”
Argent and the grinning Sanders went to the bowsprit then both trained their glasses forward.
“Mr. McArdle said to watch for a hilly island, on the end of a narrow causeway, and I do believe this is it. Beyond its head is the entrance to Kinsale. We’re nearly there.”
He turned to his Coxswain.
“Whiting, lay me closer to Ariadne.”
“Ease to starboard. Aye, aye, Sir.”
Whiting gently turned the newly polished spokes and Erienne eased closer to Ariadne, the longboat bobbing and snubbing at its towline. It took but 15 more minutes to clear the island and the entrance to Kinsale opened before them. Argent called across his orders and Ariadne took in sail and dropped anchor with enough sea room for an easy departure, but Erienne stood on to enter the harbour. Kinsale revealed itself to be as good a natural harbour as Falmouth, only with the quays at the furthest side of a kidney shaped bay, rather than just inside the entrance. They gained the attention of a few local craft, all going about their business of coastal trade, or hauling up lobster pots, but there was no greeting; the red uniforms of the Marines identified them as being about the business of King George, this rarely to the good of themselves. The quayside grew closer and Argent was cautious with his approach, not only from an unfamiliar fore and aft rig, but the unfamiliarity of the harbour. The tide was falling, so he had Able Jones in the bows sounding the lead which they had found aboard, this being an item all sailing craft had full need of. In the same way as they had for the craft they had passed in the bay, the Marines’ uniforms identified them as Royal Navy and, therefore, a reception party had assembled on the quayside, their uniforms showing Officers in both red and blue. The quayside moorings were almost fully occupied, but there was one space of enough size and Argent had the sails dropped and Erienne drifted to a stop, but yet close enough for Moses King to throw a line a staggering distance and then Erienne to be slowly hauled up to the quayside and finally secured at both bows and stern.
As this was being done a gangplank was swung out and lowered from the quayside and two Senior Officers, one from each of His Majesty’s Forces marched down. Argent greeted them as they came over the side and saluted.
“Good Afternoon, Sirs. My name is Captain Argent, HMS Ariadne, she now being outside, anchored at the entrance to the bay.”
The wearer being Navy, he in the blue coat spoke first. He was a short, thin man, with a face curious, yet not unkindly, but deep, almost feverish blue eyes above a sharp nose. His uniform fitted where it touched.
“Port Commodore Harper, Captain, and this is Colonel Michael O’Dowd, 2nd Cork Militia.”
It was the Colonel who extended his hand, then Harper did the same.
“How do you do Colonel? Sir, if I may report?”
Both nodded.
“This is a French smuggler that we took yesterday, about 30 miles South East. The crew are French and are prisoners below. She is full to the gunnels with tobacco and Irish linen. I was hoping to leave her here, Sir, in the hands of the Government Agent, and then continue my patrol, as are my orders, Sir.”
Harper spoke first.
“Whose orders?”
“Commodore Sidney Budgen, Sir. Port Commodore of Falmouth.”
“Hmm, that sounds familiar, one from my own past.”
He paused, eyebrows together in thought, however he soon abandoned his trawl through the files of his memory.
“Come ashore and we’ll make the arrangements and get you on your way.”
At this moment Colonel O’Dowd spoke his curiosity.
“Irish linen, you say?”
“Yes Sir. I’d say there are about 200 bolts of it aboard, perhaps more, plus about 50 barrels of tobacco.”
“So; French smugglers are taking Irish linen?”
“That’s the conclusion, Sir.”
“Bring a bolt ashore with you, Captain.”
Argent gestured to Sam Fenwick.
“Fetch a bolt and follow us, please Fenwick.”
Fenwick, not being prepared to pass up the chance to demonstrate “proper Navy” to these two and anyone else looking on, came to full attention and saluted.
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
However, he was soon “at ease” and holding a canvas covered bolt of linen that had been immediately thrown up to him by Moses King. Argent stepped onto the quayside and was immediately struck by how busy the harbour was, this reflecting the amount of shipping crowding the quayside. There were carts and donkeys aplenty, all busily being unloaded or laden, with a full collection of people, either working, supervising, or simply idling. Tall, solid, newbuilt warehouses stretched out as a backdrop, but Harper and O’Dowd led the way off to the right towards two buildings, these separate from all others. Both were painted the same royal blue, of medium height and equally well made, and they both overlooked the harbour, the one the furthest, indeed, having a lookout window. Argent walked respectfully just behind the two superior Officers and, thus, he was in a good position to both see and hear O’Dowd call over a member of his Militia.
“Fetch Mother McDaid. Bring her to the Harbour Office.”
The Militiaman saluted and made off, running. The four entered the first building which quickly revealed itself to be the administrative centre of the harbour, at least eight clerks sat at high desks, all attending to their ledgers, quill pens either writing furiously or being dipped purposefully into inkwells to facilitate yet more ledgering. The four were separated from this eager effort by a high counter. Commodore Harper addressed the nearest.
“Tell Mr. Brideswell that we’re here.”
The clerk disappeared out through a door in the back of the office and after a minute or two he reappeared with a tall middle-aged man, dressed entirely in pale brown, bar a high white collar. Thin, wispy hair hung down over an almost cadaverous face, itself stretched over with sallow skin, almost the same colour as his coat. The set, over both his eyes and mouth, was one of his surprise and concern. He was greeted by Harper, unceremoniously.
“Ah, Brideswell. The Captain here,” indicating Argent, “has brought in a French smuggler as a prize. You have the capacity to act as Government Agent, yes?”
Brideswell nodded, still looking concerned.
“Please to draw up the papers that show your receipt of her from Captain Argent, then we can get him on his way, off and about the King’s business.”
Brideswell nodded again and swung like a crane around to the nearest desk, from there to gather paper, quill, and ink. He looked at Argent and placed the materials on the counter. When he spoke, Argent was taken aback to hear the sounds of the Yorkshire Dales, and Brideswell spoke with surprising confidence and authority.
“Please to give me details, Captain. Dates, places, names and the like. Details about your ship, the prize and her cargo. The more details you can give, the less confusion, you’ll find.”
Argent picked up the pen and began writing, whilst all stood by patiently, including Brideswell. Argent carefully listed the details, then stopped and turned to Fenwick, still cradling his bolt of linen.
“Fenwick, when did we first sight her?”
“Must have been about seven bells of the forenoon, Sir. Dinner was spoiled.”
“Ah, yes, quite right.”
At that point a bundle of black cloth entered the door, this held open by the Militiaman dispatched previously by Colonel O’Dowd. The bundle was a little over five feet high, which included a black bonnet. Argent took this to be Mother McDaid, although Mother or Father, it would be impo
ssible to tell, the figure was so bound about by black cotton clothing. A hatchet nose jutted forward from under the bonnet, flanked by the triangulation points of two red cheeks and a like coloured chin, from all of which protruded a collection of thin white hairs. Above these were two watery eyes, both blue, but one startlingly more ferocious than the other. O’Dowd gave the greetings.
“Ah, Mrs. McDaid, so very good of you to come, and so very good of you to give us your services.”
He indicated the bolt of linen, now placed, in accordance with his gestures, on the counter, and he began to remove the cloth wrapping.
“We’d like you to tell us its origin, where it was made.”
Argent, with few details of his own left to list, looked up astonished. There were no markings anywhere, neither on the linen nor on the wrapping. Mrs. McDaid walked forward and two surprisingly muscular hands emerged from the black folds, each with a single finger top missing. With the practiced ease of a professional she picked up the bolt and spun it to immediately unravel about two yards of the cloth. Upon this, then fell the close examination of the ferocious eye, the linen being both held away in the light, then minutely examined at close range. She turned to O’Dowd.
“Oi whant to examine it in the dayloight, houtside.”
O’Dowd motioned to Fenwick, who lifted the bolt, whilst Mrs. McDaid herself carried the end of unravelled cloth. O’Dowd opened the door and the two exited out into the sunlight. Argent looked at O’Dowd.
“Forgive me, Sir, but am I to understand that this lady can tell us where the linen was made?”
“That is exactly the right of it, Captain. Certainly linen from these parts and someway beyond. Mother McDaid can tell you the loom it was made on, never mind the manufactury.”
Argent held his peace, but looked necessarily amazed. He finished with the details and pushed the paper across to Brideswell and both said thank you to the other in unison. A minute passed, then two and the pair returned, Mrs. McDaid dwarflike besides Fenwick, him bringing up the rear with the bolt, but all eyes were upon the black clad woman. All was returned to the countertop and a final close examination was made. She looked at O’Dowd and pronounced.
A Question of Duty Page 17