Kibley’s men, overhearing every word, shuffled and murmured their concern, which was growing with the slow encroachment of sailors up along either side, their faces seen behind the Marines, each with intent of dire retribution written large and clear. The sobs of women and children could still be heard and did full enough to maintain the seamen’s anger. Argent now saw the time to make an end.
“I would sincerely suggest that you now about turn and march away. You have my information, and I’m telling you that your mission is accomplished.”
Kibley looked once more at Argent, then he turned and mounted his horse. With no word to anyone, he mounted, turned his horse, then rode back up the road. Ramsey looked at the Militia Sergeant and did no more that incline his head in the same direction as Kibley was taking. The Sergeant shouted his orders and the Militia marched off, at Light Infantry pace, although it wasn’t ordered, for some reason it happened naturally. Argent watched them go, as did his men. He turned to find Bentley.
“Lieutenant Bentley. Get back to the ship, please, and request the attendance of Surgeon Smallpiece, and Mr. Baines and his mates.”
He looked at the bloodied heads and the smashed furniture, before looking down to move a small, jagged piece with his foot
“I think that there is work here for them both. Ask if Mr. Baines has any spare timber. I think it can be put to good use. And, Mr. Bentley.”
“Sir?”
“Request Mr. Fentiman to ready the ship for sailing at eight bells of the afternoon watch.”
Argent had one more order.
“Jones and Beddows. Get atop that mountain and watch them all the way, watch that they keep going.”
oOo
Argent watched Baines and his Mates climb into the longboat and noted that he was now the last remaining on shore. A gang of sailors, spread either side, pushed at the longboat until it floated and then they hauled themselves up into it. His own barge remained at the shoreline, washed by the gentle waves, so benign that Jones and King had little need to hold it steady.
“Wait here, Whiting. I’ll not be long.”
He began the climb up the shingle, back into the village, but when his footsteps inclined towards the mill, knowing looks were shared amongst his barge crew. Perhaps she saw him walking up, for she appeared at the door, the same door as she had appeared through in the early morning of the previous day. Argent began speaking as soon as the distance allowed it.
“I’ve come to say goodbye.”
He continued to walk closer. She stood the same spot, using both hands to wring a fold in her dress, but saying nothing. Argent continued.
“My crew and myself can only apologise for what happened earlier. I wish there was more we could do.”
She examined his face before she spoke.”
“You did all you could and more. You stopped it, and put right what you could. You’ll be welcome here, so you will, you and your men.”
Back at the barge, the crew, all experienced men with women and the ways of the world, saw Argent nod and saw Sinaid Malley continue to wring the fold of her dress and gaze up at him. Whiting sighed with exasperation.
“Bloody kiss her, fer Christ’s sake.”
Then more exasperation as he saw her shake her hand.
“Our Captain. He can capture a French 42 with no more than a strained gut in the Afterguard, but when it comes to women!”
Moses King finished it for him.
“All aback, topmasts over the side!”
Argent was walking back, face both sad and serious. Whiting stood up above the shingle.
“Well, I be goin’ to give her a wave. Do that, at least.”
Which he did, and her face was lit by a smile as she waved back. Argent saw what Whiting was doing and, finally, the same thought, in some measure, crossed his mind. He turned and formally saluted. Her arms fell to hang at her sides, but her smile was warm and genuine.
oOo
Killannen Bay had fallen below the horizon, all that remained as evidence of their past stay was the high mountain, now far astern, but still in view. Supervised by McArdle, Midshipman Ffynes had the deck, and was now setting a course, pushed on by a good West wind, for 48:8. Argent and Fentiman stood together, looking over the taffrail at the disappearing peak.
“Do you think the Militia will return, Sir?"
“I think not. Jones saw them well on their way, and they don’t know if we are still there. They’ll not be eager to return and find us still there.”
“What about the smuggling?”
“Who, you mean.”
“Well, yes.”
“Either Miss Malley or Fallows. Who else could put such a cargo together? Those other poor Devils haven’t got two coins to rub together. There’s no profit going in their direction. If I point a finger at anyone, it’s Miss Malley. She can’t get her linen out without Fallows charging passage. If anyone has a motive to load linen into a smuggler and send it to France, she has.”
“Smugglers don’t buy at top price, Sir, they sell at a high price; they’ve taken the risk.”
“Yes, there’s that. I don’t know; but it’s no longer our worry and, for that reason, I’m glad to be out of it. A deep and dirty business. Anyway, one good thing, we had three volunteers from Killannen, they saw us as a way out of the place, I’m guessing, but three good recruits.”
Below on the gundeck, one of the volunteers was being introduced to Samuel Morris by George Fraser.
“Right, Morris. Here’s your replacement for Wilmot. We think he’s called Tooley. We don’t know it that’s his first name or last, because he only speaks Gaelic.”
Fraser looked at Morris and grinned.
“I’m sure you’ll get along just fine!”
Morris did anything but grin as he looked at Fraser’s disappearing back, then to Tooley, then to Dedman, then back to Tooley. Morris pointed to himself.
“Morris. Gun Captain. Gun Captain! Who are you?”
Tooley grinned and offered his hand. Morris sighed in exasperation and took it; Tooley was young and well muscled. He then pointed to each of the rest of the guncrew, giving their names. Dedman pushed him to his place and thrust the rammer in his hand. This morning’s gun practice was going to be interesting.
The noon of the following day found Ariadne, sails hanging limp, riding above her own reflection, the gentlest of breezes ruffling the surface into the smallest of waves. The noon bells were rang, and the noon sight was being taken, McArdle customarily glowering at all assembled under his baleful gaze. His own board was held in his crablike hands behind his back, whilst his pupils read their instruments and Almanacs, then transferring their reading onto their boards. Finally, the last was displayed. McArdle made a growl in his throat, which could mean either pleasure or anything opposite. All the boards agreed with his own reading, or, at least close enough for accurate navigation, 47 40/ 8 10. Argent stood with arms folded, regarding the class and, smiling, remembered his own experiences with the Noon Sight. McArdle dismissed the class with one word.
“Awa!”
“Your tutelage is bearing fruit, Mr. McArdle.”
“Aye, Sir, perhaps. But a more scurvy crew of festie beasties has yet to be assembled.”
Argent gave a chuckle, as did all those within hearing and he looked up to the pennant at the masthead. It was showing more life than it had in the past hour and from the North West.
“Down helm. Steer East North East. Mr. Fentiman, jibs and all plain sail.”
The helmsman repeated the order, as did Fentiman repeat his portion to the Bosun’s Mates below. Ariadne swung her bows over to head for the furthest point West of the French coast, the island of Quessant, off the coast of Brittany. Fentiman came up to Argent, him standing on his privileged weather side.
“East North East seems a little far South, Sir?”
“It is, but I see no harm in taking a look at the French coast, then taking ourselves close hauled back to Falmouth. You never know what we may find.�
�
The next day dawned warm and clear with bright sunshine. The wind had moved dead South West and strong, which would give easy sailing back to Falmouth. At five bells of the forenoon watch the cry came from the masthead.
“Land ho!”
Bentley had the deck.
“Where away?”
“Four points on the starboard bow.”
Bentley turned to Ffynes, on Watch with him.
“Inform the Captain.”
Ffynes disappeared down the companionway to the gundeck, but Bentley noticed McArdle striding forward, extending his own glass as he went. On the forecastle, McArdle climbed onto the starboard carronade and focused. He held the pose for two minutes before closing the glass and returning to the quarterdeck, his return coinciding with the arrival of his Captain. Argent looked at him, his expression posing the question.
“Yon’s Quessant, Sir. Nay doot.”
“Thank you, Mr. McArdle. Helmsman, steady as you go.”
“Steady as we go, aye aye, Sir.”
Ariadne’s course would take her parallel to the North coast of Brittany. However, with Ariadne just off Quessant, the main French port of Brest was just around the corner, on the South side of the Brest Peninsula. Perhaps a potential prize would show itself, but Argent was resolved to avoid a major engagement, reinforcements were too likely in such a place busy with much French shipping, both maritime and martial.
“Mr. Bentley, double the lookouts.”
As Bentley shouted down to the nearest Bosun’s Mate, Argent walked to the forecastle himself and took up the same position as had McArdle, minutes earlier. Quessant was not unknown to himself, a flat, featureless island, burnt brown in the extending summer. It’s main feature, he knew was a deep inlet to the South West, an excellent shape for a harbour, apart from the fact that it was on an isolated island and totally open to South West gales. He returned to his quarterdeck and awaited events, but the day wore on. He shortened sail and Ariadne idled past the French coast at four knots. The ship’s bells were rung and the hands took their meals and the Watches changed. Quessant was falling away astern behind the Brittany headland when there came a cry from the mizzen masthead.
“Sail Ho.”
Argent answered himself.
“Where away?”
“Three points off the starboard quarter, just off the island.”
Argent gathered up his glass and climbed to the mizzen top, then continued beyond and above, to the mizzentopmast crosstrees. There he found the lookout, who pointed the direction.
“Just off the island, Sir. She’s crossing the island, coming East.”
Argent sat on the spar and wrapped his arms around the topmast. Thus secured he focused his glass. What grew in the lens was a craft outside his experience, a long hull with three stubby masts and no sail set, but with white water beside her hull, evidently a wake, only very white; it appeared, then went, in rhythm. He studied her for some time, but remained puzzled and finally, he handed the glass to the lookout, a seaman but a few years older than himself.
“What do you make of her, Cooper?”
Cooper took the glass and focused it for himself. He gave himself a minute with his Captain’s personal telescope.
“She’s a galley, Sir, flying the French flag.”
He studied some more.
“Best word is a Xebec, Sir. Lateen sails on short masts, but with a bank of oars each side, ‘though with this wind I can’t figure why she’s nothing set. But that’s it, Sir, best call her a galley.”
“Perhaps nothing is set because she’s in the lee of the island. Happy to do it on oars alone?”
“You could be right, Sir.”
Argent nodded.
“Well done, Cooper. Draw a measure of rum from Mortimor, eight bells of the forenoon.”
The lookout’s face lit up as he carefully returned the telescope to his Captain.
“Much obliged, Sir.”
Argent took a last look. The Xebec had cleared Quessant and was on a heading direct for the coast. Back on deck Argent called on Fentiman and McArdle.
“It’s a galley heading for the coast, three masts rigged for lateen and she’s oars each side. Cooper called her a Xebec and she’s flying the French flag. I’m for a try at her, what do you think?”
McArdle’s face knitted into a deep frown.
“I’d advise strongly against it, Sir, we’d have tae tack back. She’ll see us and use her oars t’get up wind, and if she gets into the bay in Quessant or anywhere that puts us on a lee shore, we’re in a reek of a situation. If she’s in Quessant bay, with this wind, we’ll never get out if we go in t’get her. She can sit in there and laugh at us.”
Argent turned to Fentiman, who shook his head.
“Mr. McArdle’s right, Sir. I’m sure you know, Sir, but fighting oared galleys on their terms is the Devil. They can go where we can’t, being so much more manoeuvrable. They can spin; go backwards, even, if needs be. She can put us on a lee shore that’ll put the ship at grave risk, Sir.”
They both saw Argent’s jaw clench and his mouth stretch, but then he nodded, his face resigned.
“As you say. Perhaps not this time, but what are they, these French galleys?”
McArdle answered.
“Punishment ships, Sir. They put their convicts in them and they’re handy enough for their close coastal trade; especially if you’re under blockade, as they are, but they’re nae use for deep ocean water, Sir. Too shallow draught.”
Argent nodded.
“Right. My thanks. So, Mr. McArdle, lay a course for Falmouth, if you please.”
He turned to the helmsman.
“Up helm. Steer due North.”
“Up helm, Sir. Due North.”
Whilst his crew made the changes and amidst his own topmen, Argent took himself back up to the Mizzen crosstrees and Cooper took himself out onto the yardarm to make room. Argent looked back at the Xebec, but soon she was lost as she finally closed with the coast. A last look at her, then he took some minutes to study all around for himself, but saw nothing. He was about to leave, when Cooper began to speak.
“Look back, Sir, where that Xebec was. There’s smoke coming up from the where she closed the coast.”
Argent focused the glass. There was, indeed, a thick column of smoke rising from that point and moving his way on the wind. Judging by the amount and its distance, the fire beneath was extensive and about 10 minutes old.
oOo
Kalil Al’Ahbim was not pleased. He looked at the meagre group of prisoners coming back up the gangplanks either side of the bows of his galley. They were of the right type, but too few for the cost. He had come in on oars alone; sails would have been seen when they were still far out, giving warning, and then his galley, after its stealthy approach, had thrust itself into the beach of the small harbour town and his men had poured down those same gangplanks to assault the houses above. However, the small number of soldiers on guard, old, but veteran, and the fishermen on the quayside, had put up a very stout resistance and sold their lives dearly. Knowing there was no point in surrendering to slavers, they had made a fight of it to the last, which had allowed the civilians, amongst whom were those that Al’Ahbin most desired, to escape. This brave defence had cost him many slaves, he felt sure, and many of his own men now lay amongst the bodies of the defenders. Also, were many more wounded, now being helped back aboard. The casualties were not too great a concern, he had allowed for this and had set out with the galley much overmanned, but, nevertheless, it was a poor return for the cost. He saw some of his own, too badly wounded to recover, being despatched rather than be left behind alive or clutter his ship. This had added to his anger and he had ordered the town to be fired.
oOo
Chapter Five
La Pomone
On this occasion, Argent’s timing caused him to follow the coffee and rolls into the Commodore’s building, arriving just as the door shut close. His appearance then placed Marine Sergeant V
enables in a state of quandary, his hands being full of his Commodore’s comestibles, just as a Post Captain entered the door. However, this he dealt with by returning the whole delivery to the delivery boy, with the instruction to take it down to the bottom office. He then sprung to the attention and saluted, although he was mortified that he was hatless, that being minus his burnished Marine shako. However, Argent returned the salute with parade ground formality, then waited as Venables regained his seat.
“Good morning, Sergeant.”
“Good morning, Sir. Good voyage, Sir?”
“As far as a jaunt to Ireland can be, Sergeant. But I take it, from the delivery, that the Commodore is present? In his office?”
“Yes Sir. I’ll just go down and announce you, Sir.”
Argent lifted his hand, waving the old Marine back into his seat.
“No. No need. I’ll go down and announce myself. If he cannot see me, no matter, I’ll come back.”
Argent started down the corridor. He had to acknowledge to himself that he did have a more than significant soft-spot for the old, fiercely partisan, Marine. He looked back over his shoulder.
“Good to see you looking well, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, Sir. You too, Sir.”
Argent wrapped on the door, to receive an instant response.
“Come in, Argent. I thought it was you, recognised your voice, you see. Take a seat.”
Argent sat down, to look at Budgen, who took time to busy himself with his coffee and rolls, organising the various pots, plates and cups, finally a large napkin appeared in the same place as Argent’s last visit, lodged under the Commodore’s well-upholstered chin. Again, came the same offer.
“Coffee, Argent? And a roll?”
The reply was the same as previously and the result the same, Venables came “tout suite” with another cup. Having now fully organised his mid morning second breakfast, Budgen spoke.
“Rumour has it, Argent, that you’ve taken another prize. A rich smuggler, by all accounts.”
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