A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  Argent knew his ship couldn’t take too much more, 32lb balls, never mind 42lb could knock a frigate to pieces, but so far Carpenter Baines had not come to talk of the height of the well. He took stock, his mind working rapidly, under three cables was just within Tucker’s range. The smoke would shroud them, but the topmasts would show above, fixing him as a target, but one was already gone, courtesy of a French gunner.

  “Mr. Tucker. Give them some of your shrapnel.”

  “Already in hand, Sir.”

  “Mr. Fraser. Lower fore and main topmasts.”

  It was a complex affair, to lower the top part of a mast, but a good crew could do it in less than three minutes. Fraser was already sending them aloft and when the task was done they would be better hid by their own gun smoke. All four of Tucker’s carronades roared out, but the affect was hidden to Argent on the quarterdeck, however, one of Tucker’s Mates was in the rigging.

  “All short, but just.”

  Argent looked at Tucker.

  “Maximum range?”

  “Just about, Sir.”

  “Keep firing anyway. It’ll give ‘em a headache if nothing else.”

  Tucker grinned, as did Short on the wheel. McArdle stood his place, as if made of granite.

  Ariadne was making about 9 knots waterspeed, but, with the tide, about 15 landspeed. Only minutes more and they would be at the point of maximum danger, well within accurate gunnery range from the bastion. It occurred to Argent that the Battery Commander was holding his fire for just that moment. He looked aloft, the foretopmast was down, the larger, maintopmast on its way. His larboard guns were firing at battle speed and above, hitting back, but the bastion had a lower tier, men and guns safe inside a gallery. Argent heard the deeper roar of the bastion’s heavier cannon and he felt the hull jerk as the shot crashed into her. Argent saw the forecastle bulwark explode inwards, the splinters killing all the guncrew on the carronade there, which crashed backwards across the deck, crushing another man’s leg. The other hits were to the gundeck or below.

  “Mr. Fentiman. Go below and find out what damage. I have the deck.”

  Fentiman ran down the companionway to reach the gundeck. What he saw made him clench his jaw. Three guns were back inboard, the cannon of each off its carriage. Another was slewed back in; it had lost its breeching on one side, but the crew were working frantically to get it back into action. At least two dozen, probably more, dead and wounded were stretched on the deck, some ominously still, some writhing in agony, some trying to raise themselves, some examining minor wounds. Blood was running across the deck to mingle with the sand, then he saw two blue coats amongst the fallen. Meanwhile, the rest of the guncrews grimly served their guns, battering the stonework of their tormentor. They might get one through an embrasure.

  Fentiman descended further into the ship, to the lower deck. There he found Frederick Baines and his Mates. Four shot had hit there, two above the waterline, two just below. The latter were spurting jets of water right across the deck as Baines and a Mate hammered home large shot plugs. The jets stopped, it continued leaking, but that was minor. The two higher was admitting water at odd times with the odd wave, but shot plugs cured that. Fentiman returned to the quarterdeck.

  “Three guns wholly out of action, Sir. Four shot on the waterline that we’ve found, and plugged. Mr. Baines is checking for more, and he’s certain there are.”

  “Casualties.”

  “I’d say two dozen from that, Sir. About five dozen so far.”

  Argent felt surprised to feel relieved at such a level of damage and injury. The two minutes, and more, that it would take for a French battery to reload, should see them out of effective range, they would only then remain within range of a lucky shot. Then a Signalman touched his sleeve to gain his attention.

  “Sir. Look at the lugger, Sir.”

  Argent and Fentiman turned to look. The lugger was well down at the stern, she was badly holed. A 32lb ball, hitting a small merchantman such as this, would pass from one side to exit at the other, they were built light, to better their speed. Argent guessed that this is what had happened, that she now had two gaping holes below the waterline, she wouldn’t float much longer, and she had nearly 100 Marines aboard, plus her crew. As she took in water she was growing ever more sluggish, dragging Ariadne back and both were still under the guns of the bastion. Argent decided immediately.

  “Start sheets.”

  At this order, then from Fraser’s prompts, the topmen loosened all the sheets to the sails, that soon hung curling in the wind.

  “Down helm.”

  Ariadne swung slightly to starboard, then stopped in the water, the lugger dragging her back, but this vessel still had some seaway with all her sails set. Her bowsprit came thrusting over Ariadne’s taffrail.

  “Lash this secure.”

  The Afterguard hurried forward to do his bidding. Argent used his good leg to climb further up the taffrail to look at the lugger, but Sanders had divined for himself what to do. The bowsprit was their way off and all aboard were hurrying forward, carrying the wounded, but the water was already onto the planking of her quarterdeck. The Marines got the wounded off first and then began their own evacuation. Marines and seaman were swarming along the ropes and woodwork to come aboard, some coming up netting thrown over to them and then secured. Then the guns on the bastion fired again.

  Argent’s slight change of course, down wind had placed her stern on to the bastion. Dangerous at short range, but thankfully creating a smaller target at long range. In addition, the carronades were firing just to make smoke, adding any ordnance was now pure waste. If any shot hit a hull, it would be the lugger’s, now half sunk with her bows only held up by her bowsprit lashed over Ariadne’s stern, also her sinking stern had raised her bows right up, providing further shield. Two shot hit the lugger, one ploughed into the sternward sloping deck, sending up a shower of splinters that killed two Marines and injured two more. Their mates ran back to get them. The second killed Captain Ramsey, stood with Lieutenant Sanders, both ensuring that all were off, before they, themselves, followed. The ball took off his right arm and most of his shoulder, before passing on and over. Sanders knelt down to him, but saw that he was beyond help. He left his body for the waves and helped one of the wounded along the bowsprit, securing a line around the injured man’s waist himself, to prevent him being lost, down into the water below.

  With all off Fraser took his axe to the lashings of the bowsprit simultaneous to Fentiman ordering the sails to be re-sheeted home. With both coinciding, Ariadne jumped forward and the bowsprit slid back with a groan, as if acknowledging the coming fate of its ship. The island fort was now coming up to starboard, it still being held by the Marines under their Colonel and Argent trusted them to hold their position until Ariadne could get safely past before the French re-occupied the fort. They were holding off a cloud of skirmishers attacking across the narrow causeway that joined the island to the mainland. Fentiman saw them first and called down to Midshipman Berry, now in command of the gundeck. Bentley was dead.

  “Starboard battery, load grape.”

  Argent spun on his good leg and balanced himself on Reece’s shoulder to focus his telescope on La Pomone. Through the glass, he could see the extensive damage to her hull from their shot, but her fires seemed to be out, she now being shrouded in thick blue smoke. She was far from a wreck, but she was out of action and it seemed a poor return for the carnage aboard his own command. Then there was an explosion and her mizzenmast lurched, he heard his own crew cheer and Argent felt better, then his leg began to really hurt.

  The French skirmishers saw Ariadne emerging with her guns run out and ready. The veterans amongst them knew what was coming and ducked down behind the rocks, calling their comrades to follow. Soon, all musketry ceased and the Marines began to evacuate, jumping down from the walls onto the higher rocks, or using the ladders. There were no wounded, these were already back aboard their own luggers and soon, but a few Marine
s were still running to their vessels, both of which were shoving off from the quayside to ease their bows out into the running tide. Some French skirmishers, braver than most, emerged to obtain a sight of the luggers, so Fentiman called down to the gundeck.

  “Fire, if you see a target.”

  Two together, then a third, gun, fired to send grapeshot sweeping across the rocks and the causeway. Two skirmishers were caught and flung backwards like discarded ragdolls, but no more showed themselves. The two luggers got their bows out into the current and soon swung around to point themselves for home, and to follow Ariadne, now raising her topmasts and setting what sail she could. McArdle was the last to speak within the harbour, confirming with Fentiman.

  “Ah’m enterin, “Left St. Malo at 5.41”, Sir.”

  “Make it so.”

  Herodotus was a white shape, almost on the horizon.

  oOo

  Argent was at his place at the quarterdeck rail, not standing, but sat on a chair brought up from his cabin. His injured leg was resting on a bucket. He watched his crew busy everywhere, knotting, splicing and replacing rigging. The whole mizzen topmast, a jumble of wreckage, was being cleared and sent over the side, piece by piece. Masts and spars could be replaced, but Ariadne had suffered severe damage to her hull. He could see her bulwarks, smashed in at several places, then there was the gap in the stern taffrail behind him, then there was the shattered planking. Fraser was supervising some kind of repair to the davits of the starboard mainmast shrouds. There was a long row of canvas covered shapes along the larboard gangway, many showing large patches of red. Fentiman came to stand beside him.

  “You should go below, Sir, to Mr. Smallpiece. Let him take a look at you.”

  “I’ll not. Not just yet. It’s not broken, look, it would bend in the middle if it were.”

  He indicated with his hand that his leg, horizontal on its support, remained straight. But Fentiman was not giving in.

  “Perhaps, Sir, but it may be fractured. All is in hand up here, Sir. You do no extra good here, but you may be doing yourself harm.”

  Argent looked up into his concerned First Lieutenant’s face and frowned, he knew that Fentiman was right. He waved forward the ever attendant Eli Reece and his mate, whom Argent now knew was called Ben Raisey.

  “I should see the Surgeon, so I am told.”

  Fentiman smiled, as Reece supported Argent on the side of his injured leg, his left. With Raisey hovering below, he was lowered, step-by-step down the companionway to the gundeck, to be helped along its length through the scene of the guns being housed, and what could be repaired, being repaired, and what secured, secured. The last included three dismounted guns that were being lashed to any fixed point, the mainmast and nearby breeching rings. Splinters were being swept up and blood swabbed away, some were chopping at the jagged shot holes, at least making the edges cleaner. Many saw their Captain being helped along the deck, limping badly, and these took the time to examine him carefully, genuine concern on their faces, but reassured at seeing no sign of blood, at least. Argent rested at the mainmast, leaning his hand against it, then looking at it, now pockmarked by splinters.

  “This beeswax needs touching up!”

  His men laughed, relieved to hear the attempt at humour, despite the tired voice, and their concern fell away.

  “We’ll get that done, Sir. Never fear.”

  He held out his left arm for Reece who immediately placed his shoulder under it, giving support. His men watched as he continued to the end of the deck, to reach the companionway that led further down and, as he passed, all stopped work and nodded to their Captain, carefully paying their respects. On the lower deck they found Frederick Baines, hurrying in the opposite direction. They could hear the pumps clanking, worked by their Marine passengers.

  “How much in the well, Mr. Baines.”

  “Nine inches, but holding, Sir. I’m sure there’s another hole somewhere. We’re going to the aft magazine.”

  “Very good, Mr. Baines. In you I have the fullest confidence.”

  Argent shook his head. Where did he get these phrases from? But Baines was gone. They continued down further to reach the orlop deck and here they found a scene from Hell. Blood seemed to be everywhere, spread by men writhing on the bare planking. In the gloom of the battle lanterns, Surgeon’s Mates ran hither and thither with water and wadding, and lengths of lanyard, for tourniquets to circle shattered limbs. In addition to what he could see, was what he could hear. It was impossible to distinguish the scream of one man from another, even the screams of the man on Smallpiece’s table, loosing his right leg, below the knee. Through it all moved Mrs. McArdle, moving like a Saint in Perfect Light. Wherever she was, came calm, even if she were merely wiping a face from sweat and grime. Her hands touched others to achieve peace and ease their worry, the wounded knew that they were being cared for, that succour had arrived. Argent leaned against the bulkhead and turned to Reece and Raisey.

  “My thanks to you both. Now leave me here and return to your duties.”

  Without thinking he patted both on the arm, which simple gesture brought surprise to both faces, such was unknown to them from a superior Officer. Both came to the attention and saluted, then left. Suddenly, Argent felt very weary and close to fainting, his head slumped down and his arms went limp. Eara McArdle, who seemed to notice everything, saw him and hurried to his side, to take his left arm over her own shoulders, but Argent recovered himself.

  “I’m alright, Mrs. McArdle. I can just stay here, whilst you attend to those in real need of your help. I can wait.”

  Eara McArdle looked at the Captain of her ship and her husbands superior Officer.

  “You’ll not, is what I’m telling you. Get yourself over to this bench and sit.”

  Argent obeyed immediately and sat on the bench.

  “Now, Captain. I can see no wound.”

  Stated as a fact, but an obvious question, Argent gave his answer.

  “I was hit by a splinter, the back of my left leg, my thigh. Some think it may be fractured.”

  “Then stand and let’s see!”

  Argent look at her in astonishment, then obeyed, whilst she gave physical support.

  “Now, full weight on it.”

  Argent gingerly transferred his weight and the pain intensified, terribly.

  “Now, Captain. Where does it hurt? If it’s the bone, ye’ll feel it, right in the centre. If just bruising, the pain’s on the outside. So, where?”

  She looked challengingly at him, “Make your mind up”.

  Argent looked querulously back, then searched for an answer, then felt relief. The pain, although appalling, was, indeed, at the back of the muscle.

  “At the back, Mrs. McArdle. It feels on fire, but below the surface and not too far in.”

  “That’s good. Ye’ve bad bruising and nae more. It hit the meat of your leg and that took the shock. Ye’re lucky.”

  “Yes, Mrs. McArdle.”

  “Now, drop your breeches and sit ye back down. I’ll put a bandage around for support and make ye a potion and a rub when I’ve more time.”

  Argent began to undo his breeches buttons, wondering about the state of his linen underneath. Eara McArdle had disappeared but soon returned with a thick bandage.

  “Turn round and lean over the bench, Captain. I need to see the bruising.”

  Argent stood, with his breeches around his ankles, then draped himself over the bench, his stomach taking his weight. Mrs. McArdle sounded satisfied.

  “Ah, I can see the bruise coming out now. This’ll no take long, and it’ll help.”

  Argent felt the bandage being expertly applied, neither too tight nor too loose, but from his position, Argent could see Smallpiece’s operating table, and on it Midshipman Ffynes was losing his right arm.

  oOo

  Ariadne entered Plymouth with the next dawn. Progress had been slow for all three craft despite the favourable wind, the luggers were naturally slow, but Ariadne could set
little sail, her rigging had suffered more damage than Fraser had thought and so, as she crept over the sea, she left a trail of jettisoned wreckage. This had brought her to Plymouth in the dead of night and so she anchored to await the new day. She was creeping up to Drake’s Island, mostly on fore and aft sails, so few of her common sails could be set, such was the damage to the required spars and running rigging. Argent was in his cabin, writing the Ship’s Log. On the desk, in front of him was a crutch, crudely fashioned, but sturdy, the forcastlemen had made it and it had been delivered whilst he slept. Argent had given himself the luxury of a good sleep, allowing the same to Sanders, knowing that they would both be summoned on their return. Argent was halfway through describing the events of the previous day and, on top, he needed to make some entry concerning what damage had been done to La Pomone. He called in the sentry.

  “My compliments to Mr. Sanders. Could he please come to my cabin?”

  The Marine delivered a sharp salute and disappeared. Argent noted that the Marine’s white leggings and coat were very dirty and torn, he had been on La Pomone. Sanders arrived with his own bandage, on his left hand.

  “Morning, Jonathan. How’s the hand?”

  Sanders looked at the bandage, as if that would give the answer.

  “Not too bad, Sir. Top of a finger missing, the little one. How’s your leg?”

  “Better. Perhaps I should thank this.”

  He indicated a jar of pale brown ointment and small bottle that seemed to contain liquid mud.

  “A paste and a potion from Mrs. McArdle. One smells foul, the other tastes disgusting. “It’ll ease ye’re bruisin’, Captain.”

  Sanders laughed at Argent’s mimicry.

  “Well, Sir, as my “French Mother” used to say, “the worst the taste, the more it does you good”.