A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “This was made in Killannen. Malley’s mill. It’s amongst the finest you’ll find, anywhere.”

  With that she held out one of her maimed hands to O’Dowd.

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  He extracted a silver coin from his waistcoat and placed it into the etched palm. Mrs. McDaid said no more, but turned and took her leave through the open door, this held open for her passage by the same Militiaman. Harper looked at O’Dowd.

  “We’ve got to pursue this, we’ve no choice. Linen from the Killannen mill is ending up aboard French smugglers. You’ll send a company around to investigate?”

  “I will, but it’ll take a day, and more, to get around the mountain. If they are up to something, they’ll know soon enough that we’re on our way and hide everything away, and that’s assuming that there is anything; anything that would give evidence, which is very unlikely. In that case, we can do no more than get around there and make our presence felt, at least show them that we know. It would be more effective, if the Captain here, took his ship around there, landed quickly and held all as found, until we got there. It’s only half a day’s sailing.”

  O’Dowd looked at Argent, his look posing the question. Argent looked from one to the other of his superior Officers.

  “My orders are to run the triangle, Sir, and then report back to Falmouth for my next commission. My Port Admiral will be curious regarding any delay, Sir. Bringing in the smuggler has already cost me time from this commission.”

  It was Harper who replied.

  “I’m changing your orders, Captain. This is now an order from me. You will take your ship and hold Killannen until Colonel O’Dowd’s men arrive. Is that clear?”

  “Yes Sir. As you order, but I would appreciate it in writing, Sir. And you’ll question the French Captain? Sir?”

  “That you can safely assume.”

  oOo

  The Officers were all gathered in the great cabin, save those keeping Watch, these being Lieutenant Fentiman and Midshipman Berry. This was the evening meal and Argent was in his place at the head of the table, Captain Ramsey on his right in Fentiman’s absence. The repeaters attached up through the ceiling to the binnacle on the quarterdeck relayed both the wind and course into the greatcabin. Just above Argent’s head, both showed no change, both good for Killannen, which they should reach sometime well before dawn. The mood was good, created by gaining another prize and, somehow, a whole saddle of French mutton had appeared for their main course and it now sat demolished in the middle of the table. Good French wine had been the liquid accompaniment and, while Jeremy and Jerimiah cleared all away for the next course, which promised to be a large figgy duff, Argent saw the chance to ask a question that he had been burning to ask for sometime.

  “Lieutenant Sanders. Please explain to us all why you are able to speak French so fluently.”

  Sanders looked up the table at him and Argent became a little disturbed, even conscience stricken, by the anxious look that Sanders gave both to him and then to Bentley and Ffynes sat opposite him. Nevertheless, Sanders recovered himself, sat up with his forearms resting on the table and his expression soon changed to cheeriness, as though he were about to impart a humorous story. He launched straight in, hiding no detail.

  “When I was taken aboard the Defiance from the orphanage to be a ship’s boy, I was immediately made a Powder Monkey to a guncrew, and, of course, they became my messmates. They were all French! Fishermen that once were.”

  Bentley and Ffynes exclaimed together, eyes wide, even horrified, although it was initially hard to tell from what cause, for there were two possibilities, until they both exclaimed the same word.

  “French?”

  “That’s right. They were refugees from Brittany. In ’90 there was a rebellion there against the Revolution and the army stormed in. In those days, anyone could accuse you of being an “aristo sympathetique” and they didn’t have to prove you guilty, you had to prove that you were innocent. Over the years the fishermen had prospered, which immediately made them suspect, or the target of jealousy, so they loaded their families into their boats, three of them, and sailed for Cornwall, with all the family valuables. They hoped to be able to carry on fishing, but the locals burnt their boats; they didn’t want the competition. However, the valuables were sold and they bought a warehouse just off the quay, where their families could live. But, no boats, no fishing, no money; so all the men joined The Service and sent home their pay. They were very good to me. I’m not sure of my age, I believe that I was about five then, perhaps more. They were the only family that I had, and I still go there to see them, when I can. The Defiance fought at Copenhagen and Trafalgar, as I’m sure you know, and it was Captain Durham who sponsored me as a Midshipman. By the time of Trafalgar, I was a topman.”

  Captain Ramsey looked kindly at Sanders, who looked anxiously around the table, not sure how the story had been received, but Ramsey was touched that Sanders, whom he regarded as a good Officer, with an impeccable record, was not able to even state his own age.

  “So, you were at Trafalgar? And Copenhagen? On the Defiance?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Ramsey nodded, long and steady, with a “that’ll do for me”, look on his face. However, the exact opposite was displayed on the tipsy faces of Bentley and Ffynes, each looking as though they’d just drank some very sour wine. It was Bentley who spoke.

  “You were taken out of an orphanage?”

  Sanders recognised the tone of the question and challengingly returned the look to both.

  “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  Argent saw the direction in which that question would be going and intervened, helped by the arrival of a huge figgy duff, steaming, speckled and translucent from the boiler, carried aloft by both Johnson and Jeremiah.

  “Right, that gives the answer. Now we know. Messed with a French guncrew; it could only happen in the Navy.”

  The figgy duff suffered the same fate as the saddle of mutton and, after the port and the Loyal Toast, the gathering broke up. Argent saw his fellow Officers out of the cabin and followed the last into the corridor, this being Sanders. Argent clapped him twice on the shoulder, not speaking, but at least demonstrating his very good opinion.

  Argent reached the quarterdeck, in time to see McArdle supervising the “taking of the log” in the light of a lantern. “Taking the log” stilled all conversation, the silence at last broken by the Master’s Mate.

  “Eight knots and a half, Sir.”

  McArdle answered.

  “A half? You’re certain? No a quarter, nor three quarters, but a half?”

  Before the fearsome gaze of McArdle, seen even in the half-light, the Master’s Mate’s confidence dissolved like a sculpture in smoke. He looked at the point where his fingers had nipped the line and checked either way.

  “Well, Sir. Perhaps just over a half, Sir.”

  McArdle made a noise somewhere back in his throat and turned away, taking the lantern with him and the Master’s Mate made himself scarce. Using a board, which he rested on the glass and mahogany structure that formed the greatcabin windowlight, McArdle busied himself with calculations of distance involving both speed and time. This he transferred to the chart, which was the next occupant of the board. He looked several times from the chart to the coastline, a mountain silhouetted against the starry sky. After more work with ruler and dividers, he turned to Argent.

  “Ye’ll be well advised to anchor at five bells of the Middle Watch, Captain.”

  Words of advice such as this from the likes of Leviticus McArdle came to those such as Argent like words of fire on tablets of stone.

  “Five bells of the “graveyard”. That’s my Watch. I’ll make it so. Thank you Mr. McArdle.

  With a growled, “Sir”, McArdle departed to his cabin, there to join his wife for their final reading of The Bible, before retiring. A Bosun’s Mate rang the eight bells for midnight and the Middle Watch began, and Argent now had the deck. However
, all was well, nothing to command his attention, as his ship slipped easily across the sea and through the night. His thoughts dwelt solely on what he should do when he reached Killanen, what was the correct procedure that would persuade O’Dowd that he had acted correctly? What could be found to prove involvement in smuggling? A French Revolutionary cap? Should they search anyway? The Captain had revealed that the linen was transferred ship to ship in one of Kilarney’s long bays, which meant nothing. He had said that the other vessel was a fishing boat, it smelt!

  At four bells he called for George Fraser to make his preparations and at five bells the sails were taken in and the anchor let go. In the steady breeze Ariadne swung around her anchor and they all settled to see what the dawn would reveal. As the sky lightened, details grew on the shore and they could see that McArdle was almost perfect in his calculations, perhaps only 300 or 400 yards further would have been an improvement. The longboat, the Captain’s barge, and even the jollyboat were soon readied to carry all Marines and as many seamen as possible to the shoreline.

  Killannen grew out of the dawn and all that were able see what was exposed on the shore by the growing light, wished that the dark had lingered further. If it was a harbour then that defining word was being stretched almost to breaking point. There was no more than a grey stone, weed covered wall at the head of the beech, halfway up it being black from weed and scum. They were coming in on a rising tide, half in, and Argent calculated that high tide would take the sea about two foot up its height. Two buildings stood prominent; one above the quay and this Argent decided must be the mill, not just for the fact of its prominence but also that a mill leat discharged its water tumbling down beside the quay’s stonework. The second, more in silhouette in the half light, was set far back. However, even at the distance its size could be easily judged, appearing more like a castle, with solid walls and a dark, squat, and somehow sinister, shape emerging from the top of the outline. Most that could turn their eyes upon it from examining the abject poverty of the village, took this to be the tower of the keep, but this was not yet clear in the half revealed dawn. However, what most depressed the spirits of those approaching was, indeed, the sight of the village itself, that being the dwellings, if that word could also be stretched to describe each as such. Each looked like a pile of earth slumped on the hillside, topped by filthy thatch reaching almost to the ground, dark, probably from moss. Small windows and a low door showed themselves apologetically beneath the unkempt, overhanging straw. The most impressive points about the village were the four solid and well maintained fishing smacks drawn up on the beach.

  Few people were showing themselves and they did no more than look curiously, and briefly, at the approaching flotilla, one of the boats full of redcoats. All continued with their daybreak chores and Argent thought to himself, “Either they’re playing a canny game, or they’ve nothing to fear, because nothing’s happened to be fearful of.” The boats crunched onto the shingle and the Marines poured ashore, led by Ramsey. Argent heard Ramsey shout his orders.

  “Hold them all indoors. Anyone who comes out for their morning business, get them soon back in. No-one leaves their house.”

  The Marines ran up the single street, followed by armed seamen, Sanders, Bentley, Ffynes and Berry were their Officers. Soon there were the sounds of arguments as the occupants were forced back through their own front doors, but soon this settled to little more than the odd swearword as the street was cleared. Argent walked up the street between his men, still with questions churning over in his head. “What now? How long before O’Dowd arrives? Do I search, and for what?” The sun rose above the mountain and the strong yellow light gave some minimal cheer. Argent called Berry to him.

  “Get yourself taken back to the ship. Tell Mortimor I want some food coming across to here by eight bells. Go now.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  As Berry ran off, back to the jollyboat, Argent took a good look around. The dwellings were little more than hovels, but the mill was well built and well maintained, a sound slate roof and good timberwork. The castle was as imposing in the sunlight as it was in the gloom of the dawn, its outside walls more formidable than the crenellated mansion encircled within and the gate, now revealed, was of impressive, studded timber. Suddenly, the door in the side of the mill opened and out came a female figure, full skirt finishing just below her knees and matching the maroon of her hair. The skirt finished taut around a narrow waist and from there her figure expanded upwards in a white blouse that covered shoulders that were just short of masculine. She stopped outside the door, arms aggressively akimbo on her hips, spotted Argent and then strode forward. At that moment Argent knew that he would soon be in a fierce engagement. Should he walk forward and be the first to speak a greeting, or should he hang back and wait? He decided on the former, to appear uncaring and aloof would not serve. He walked forward to meet the striding figure, thinking of a greeting that may mollify even this evidently angry harridan, because it would need to. He remembered what he thought to be the cheeriest Irish greeting and spoke it.

  “The very top of the morning to you.”

  “And the very bottom of it to you! What do you mean by holding these people in their homes? They need to come and earn a day’s pay, and I need them for a day’s work. What’s all this about?”

  She had halted less than a yard before him, assuming the same stance as she had adopted at the mill door, but this time aggressively leaning forward. Argent noticed immediately her bright green eyes, which he was certain were throwing sparks, but what was equally as striking was her deep auburn hair that tumbled down beyond her shoulders. Argent felt it best to fall back onto formality.

  “I am Captain Reuben Argent, of His Majesty’s Ship Ariadne. We’re …..”

  She interrupted, loudly.

  “And I’m Miss Sinaid Malley, of Killannen Mill. Now answer my question!”

  Argent continued.

  “We’re here because 200 bolts of your linen have been found aboard a French smuggler, which we captured yesterday. We’re here to investigate.”

  If anything, her temper grew.

  “And what, in the name of all the Saints, am I supposed to know about that? I’ve 10 looms in there; we make 20 bolts in a week. A week! Ten weeks and that’s what I’ve made. Sure, how am I supposed to keep a knowledge on where they go after they’ve been sold? Anyone who buys my linen could ship it on to the North Pole, for all I know, and I don’t, because it’s none of my business.”

  Argent had been fearful of this answer, because he had none to counter it, but he made the best reply he could.

  “I understand what you say, but, from our point of view, the linen was made here, and so this must be the place where we make a start.”

  “Start what? Let me tell you that no smugglers have landed here nor taken off, and that’s what you’ll hear from everyone else, and, on top, you’ll not find any evidence of any kind to prove French feet in this village because they’ve never been here!”

  The last delivered at the top of her voice with her chin jutting further forward with every word. Argent stepped back, but held onto his own self-control.

  “Then tell me, please, where your linen does go?”

  The constructive line of questioning seemed to calm her, somewhat.

  “At least half goes to himself, up there.”

  She jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the castle.

  “For what he buys, I don’t get charged to use his damn road. He charges enough to bring in the flax. Where he sells it on to, I can’t be certain. I think a lot goes to a merchant called Vanyard in Kilarney.”

  “Right, thank you for that, and who is he, up there?”

  “Mr. James Fallows. Landlord and owner of everything you can see, bar those boats and my mill.”

  Argent saw that she was calmer.

  “I will go and talk to him. Now, your workers. I will allow them over to your mill, if you go around these cottages and name, from those inside, th
ose whom you wish to work today, and then allow my Marines to stand guard on your mill, both inside and out, to oversee affairs, as it were.”

  She looked up at him quizzically, turning her right shoulder slightly away and inclining her head slightly towards that shoulder, but a frown still furrowed the light brown skin of her forehead. Clearly, she resented needing his sayso and goodwill, but eventually she saw that he was offering a good compromise.

  “Very well. How many Marines?”

  “I will leave that to my Captain of Marines, Captain Ramsey there. With your permission, I’ll call him over, and you can begin.”

  Her expression turned sullen, but she nodded. Argent turned to find Ramsey.

  “Captain Ramsey, your attendance here, please.”

  Ramsey took his sword in his left hand and jogged over, his face widening with delight the more he could see of Sinaid Malley. He arrived, slightly breathless.

  “Good morning, madam. A pleasure to meet you. Captain Arnold Ramsey, Royal Marines, at you service.”

  However, the reply he received was a look of stone. Argent continued the dialogue.

  “This is Miss Sinaid Malley. She owns the mill, there. I’ve agreed that she can call out the workers she needs from the cottages, and that we will put sentries in place to watch over all that happens. Can I leave that with you?”

  Ramsey saluted Argent, who then saluted Sinaid Malley, who maintained the same stoney look. Ramsey and Sinaid Malley began their walk to the nearest cottage and Argent started up the hill, gathering two Marines as he went. After a steady, but not too arduous climb, they reached the gate. As they approached, its impression of medieval solidity grew. It was clearly designed for defence and, examining its imposing timbers, Argent felt it futile to knock with his hand; instead he required one of the marines to strike it with the butt of his musket. The sound echoed back into what must be a gatehouse behind and soon the left door swung open, but only enough for an unshaven, early middle aged, unkempt head to peer around, but under the homespun jacket his shoulders appeared broad and substantial. His mouth had a downward slant, from a curved scar, as though he had been kicked by a horse.