“So, you tried a runner along the quayside?”
Landy’s eyes swivelled up, then shifted down.
“Just how bright was that?”
No answer.
“’An for it they spread your nose over your face.”
Neither reply, nor movement.
“You hungry?”
Landy nodded.
“Well, dinner’s soon and there is one benefit, at least we’n shot of that scrapsbox Tooley.”
He pulled a piece of rag from a box beside the gunport.
“Here, wipe your face. There’s a bucket of water over there.”
Landy took the rag and walked to the bucket. So far he had spoken not one word to anyone.
oOo
The dock sluices opened and the water began to reclaim the space with a roar, spurting yards into the dock from the huge pressure beyond the gates. In what seemed no time the water was covering the copper and the crew felt the deck lift. Although there was no movement, something under their feet told them that they were again on a living ship. The spars to the dockside wall fell away to be recovered by their handling rope and Ariadne was towed out towards the dying sun and then warped up to the quayside for her final supplies and the finishing touches to her repairs. Not least the touching up of the figurehead, to which they could now give some attention; something had taken her nose off. The workmen left at the daydone hour and Ariadne returned to seagoing routine.
With the dusk Captain Baker rode onto the wharf and came aboard. Argent had been told of his arrival and took himself to the quarterdeck to meet him and they met as good friends, this shared by Henry Fentiman, who brought himself back down the ship to greet the Marine Captain at the entry port. Baker handed over the sealed package of heavy paper. Argent looked at him and grinned.
“Thank you, Captain. You’ll take a glass with us before you go?”
“Well, just the one, Sir. There’s a young lady in great need of my attention, although she doesn’t know it yet.”
Argent and Fentiman laughed, and Fentiman spoke.
“Oh yes, and in just what manner, exactly, do you expect to correct that?”
“A local choir, very cultured and very profound.”
“And you sing, where?”
“In the bass section. Bass baritone.”
“And she sings, where?”
“Soprano section. The higher orders.”
“And, confronted with this, how do you expect to meet and make her acquaintance.”
“Ah, well, I’ve been working on that, and I think I’ve found just the duet!”
The laughter was genuine. Argent eased him towards the companionway.
“Then we’d better give you a glass, vital lubrication of your vocal chords.”
In the cabin, Fentiman poured, whilst Argent slid off the wax seal. For all the bulk, the orders were simple, to sail the triangle and return to Falmouth, where he would again be under the orders of Commodore Budgen. It was signed by Broke. Argent dropped the papers and picked up his glass.
“Here’s to your singing, Captain, and your duet. When the time comes may you never sing a bad note. And always maintain the required impression.”
All raised their glasses and sat back, but it was Baker who broke the silence.
“I feel the need to warn you, both of you, that the St. Malo affair may well be taken further. Both Bentley and Ffynes, were, are, well connected, and so there are strong rumours that pressure is being placed upon the Admiralty, not only by Parliament, but also from Court, no less. I’ll not be in the least surprised if there’s a Board of Enquiry.”
Argent raised his eyebrows and extended his mouth into a thin line, then looked at Fentiman, before returning speak to Baker.
“Any resistance to this? I have no idea of the connections of Broke and Cheveley, but I would assume that if they have any, they would use them to put a block on the whole idea.”
Baker leaned forward.
“What I’ve heard, and there’s been a lot of talk about St. Malo, is that Cheveley would actually welcome it. What he’s been saying is that your plan was poorly conceived and not feasible. It did not take account of the strength of the tide in the middle of the roads, nor the strength of the bastions, nor the holding ground for the anchor, which was why he ended up half a cable down. Also, that you failed to respond to his signal, which he flew the instant he saw where La Pomone was. Had you responded, you would have left together. Utter stuff, in my opinion, but that’s the drift and that’s the rumour.”
Argent clenched his jaw and slowly nodded, whilst pursing his lips. He looked at Fentiman and saw an expression that matched his own thoughts, namely that Cheveley was going to lay as much of the blame onto Ariadne, over as many aspects of the affair, as he could, using as many falsehoods as necessary. Argent sighed deeply, anger growing at Cheveley’s dishonourable calumny and downright distortion. He looked at Baker.
“We’re grateful, Captain. Truly.”
All glasses were now empty.
“Another?”
“Thank you, no, or I’ll miss the opening bars.”
“Well, at least you’ll make a grand entrance.”
“More like a flogging. The choirmaster’s a retired Admiral.”
With Baker’s leaving, Argent and Fentiman were left to ponder. Argent poured each another madeira, then, as he handed over the glass, asked the question that each was wishing to ask of the other.
“So, what do you think?”
Fentiman gave no immediate answer. Plainly he was still thinking. Eventually he found that he could do no more than state the obvious.
“We can do no more than hold to what we’ve already said, that being what’s in the Logbook. It’s all detailed there and so there can be no point in deviating from it, that would not look good, to Log one thing and give evidence of another. We can do no more than hold to the facts, that being that we did carry out the agreed plan and we did do our best to obey orders and damage La Pomone. It’s Cheveley who’s under pressure from what actually came about, not us. The enquiry will be looking most at his conduct, not ours.”
Fentiman took a drink and looked at Argent, who nodded and replied.
“Yes and no. At the back of it is why Bentley was killed and Ffynes lost his arm. They were both on our ship, not Cheveley’s, but, you’re right on one count; it is him that’s under pressure. If an Enquiry is raised than we must both re-read the Log. If we both hold to what’s in there, then we should both get through. But Enquiries; brrrh, the idea makes me shiver. They can go in all kinds of directions.”
He finished his glass and showed cheerful.
“That’s for the future. Tomorrow we sign off our repairs and sail, with new, clean, copper under our hull. Let’s see if that produces an extra knot or a half.”
oOo
Argent watched his men order the deck as Ariadne settled on the larboard tack in a wind just East of South. The spirits of the crew rose with the lift in their ship as she once more sought the open sea. He saw many that smiled and there was much joking and horseplay, but this was soon ended by Bosun Fraser and his Mates, but even these sea hardened Warrant Officers seemed to have some measure of good humour behind the scowl. It had taken much of the morning for them to tow themselves out into a Southerly wind and gain enough open water to set enough sail to take them East across Drake’s Island and then tack around to pick up their heading for The Lizard. They had passed the moored Herodotus but nothing had been exchanged between them, neither formal nor informal. Their course now took them along the coast and to their starboard were spread the green fields, farms and villages of South Cornwall, in plain view in the bright September sunshine.
Argent stood on the weather side of his quarterdeck and almost subconsciously looked up at the towering sails and flexed his leg, both at the same time. His leg still hurt some mornings, but with the passing of the day, it eased. It was his Watch and he spent the morning deep in thought, content to leave the deck to Sand
ers, who stood as the proudest of Commanders at the quarterdeck rail. Argent’s thoughts oscillated from Enquiries to Deeds, then to the lift and send of his own ship. He was pulled out of his reverie by the Noon Sight and the casting of the log, this beginning with McArdle invading his side of the quarterdeck, for on this side shone the sun.
“Beg your pardon, Captain, but it’s now approaching eight bells.”
“Of course, Mr. McArdle. The weatherside’s all yours.”
McArdle made no reply, but awaited the gathering of his class; at the same time watching two of his Mates cast the log. Soon the class arrived, the three Midshipmen, a Master’s Mate and Lieutenant Benjamin Wentworth. All five carried their sextants in their right hand, Trenchard’s conspicuously new. It was the new Midshipman who looked the most nervous, even though both Bright and Berry had given him hours of tuition whilst they were still in harbour. The bell was rung and each lifted their sextant, for the sun to be brought down on the stroke of the eighth bell. McArdle consulted his instrument, consulted the Almanac, chalked the latitude and waited. Lieutenant Wentworth had arrived at his answer before even McArdle, but the other four took their time and examined their instruments very carefully before moving on to use the chalk. Trenchard tried to compare his instrument with Bright’s but McArdle’s sharp eye above the aquiline nose spotted the illegal collusion.
“Nay talking! None! Your own answer, Mr. Trenchard, if ye please.”
Finally, all chalked their answer to then display their board. All said 50 degrees and a quarter, as did McArdle’s, save Berry’s. His said 48 and a half. Trenchard was overjoyed, but Berry utterly despondent. McArdle fixed upon him with a look that nailed him to the deck, his anger adding to the depth of his Scottish accent.
“Mr. Berry, tak’ ye’r ignorant self forward and practice, till ye obtain what’s right.”
Berry was about to take himself to where he was bid, when Wentworth intervened.
“L-let me t-try with your s-sextant, M-Mr Berry.”
The sextant was handed over and Wentworth quickly and assuredly brought the sun down to the horizon. He then read the instrument and spoke the reading to McArdle.
“It r-reads, 48 and a half, S-Sailing Master. The r-reading was c-correct by this instrument, wh-which we c-c-can only s-say is inac-c-curate.”
McArdle fixed an even more penetrating look onto Berry.
“Mr. Berry. Have ye damaged ye’r instrument in any way? Such as dropped it, now?”
His gaze remained as fierce as ever upon Berry who looked as though he were about to faint.
“I, er, did drop it a while back, but it seemed to be unharmed, Sailing Master.”
“Dropped it. Dropped it, ye say! The one thing that can keep ye from running onto a reef! Dropped it. What use are ye now tae me, or this ship? What use?”
From his extra height Wentworth looked down at the dissolving Berry.
“We’ll go forward and see what can be done.”
No stutter, then he looked at Argent.
“Wi-with your p-p-permission, Sir.”
Argent nodded.
“Carry on, Mr. Wentworth. I hope your efforts prove effective. Take the other two with you.”
All three Midshipmen followed Wentworth along the larboard gangway, himself examining the instrument closely, Berry looking hopeful and Trenchard looked as though he wished to perform cartwheels. Argent and McArdle shared a knowing look before Argent gave the deck to Fentiman for the Afternoon Watch, but Argent had been pleased with what he had seen. He left the quarterdeck and turned at the bottom of the companionway to then step aside as the messcooks returned to their messes carrying the Noon meal for their messmates. All quickly disappeared down the companionways to the lower deck. At two bells came the turn of the Starboard Watch to eat and it was Jacob Pierce who performed the errand for Number Three gun and returned to the table carrying the cooked rations. The six guncrew sat a bench three each side, including their “ship’s boy” Smallsize, as known by all. The table had been lowered from the deck beams and hung suspended between the two benches. Morris sat as the head of the table on the end, on the right, and the food was placed before him and the six square wooden plates. The food was quickly divided, including the beer, and all immediately set to. During previous days, the guncrew had occupied their meal times with topics of their own, but now their attention turned to their new messmate, him sat between Morris and the young Smallsize. It was Morris who opened the questioning.
“So how did you get a name like Landy?”
Landy Main had spoken not above 50 words since coming aboard but two days before. He made no pause to his devouring of the food, but shrugged his shoulders between rapid spoonfuls. Dedman looked up at Morris.
“What was you sayin’ about losin’ that grazer Tooley. No one puts food away like this ‘un, not such as I’ve seen.”
Morris nodded and paused over his own food. He looked at Main.
“So where’re you from? You must know that.”
Landy Main swallowed his mouthful.
“Plymouth.”
“Plymouth? No other place, you’ve always lived there?”
Landy Main nodded and spooned up the last portion on his plate, way before the others. His plate was clear so he stood up and looked into the skillets, which he also found to be empty, but the hunted look on his face showed that he evidently wanted more. He fixed upon the plate of the ship’s boy beside him and seized it away from the astonished youngster to tip the food onto his own plate. He again began to make use of his spoon when a pointed knife came plunging down into the middle of his plate, held in the huge fist of Sam Morris. Main looked at the fist and the knife and then into the livid face of the owner.
“Main! We ‘as none of that yer. Not in this mess. What’s shared is your portion and that’s all, now tip that back for Smallsize, or you’ll find yourself on the end of a few shipboard punishments such as you’ve not ‘eard of yet.”
Despite the anger all around him, Main’s face showed no fear, it remained matter of fact, resigned even. He’d been stopped, well, no matter, and he gave it no thought, it was instinct that had told him to obtain more food. He did as he was bid by Morris and sat still. Around him there was no more conversation, simply a succession of angry looks in his direction, which seemed to concern him not at all. Morris tossed him a ship’s biscuit.
Above and at the stern the off-watch Officers were taking their midday meal, in the Captain’s cabin. Argent looked at Sanders and his new Captain of Marines.
“Today’s the 17th, if I’m not mistaken.”
It was Brakespeare who answered.
“The 17th, Sir. Yes Sir. All day.”
He smiled at his own joke, as did Sanders, but Argent showed thoughtful. He looked at the compass and wind repeater above him in the cabin ceiling. The wind remained steady, South by West giving them little choice but to hug the coastline on a course West South West. That was the most Southing they could achieve, for, even to manage that, Ariadne was showing more fore and aft staysails than common square canvas on her spars.
“Jonathan, please hand me that book of tide tables.”
Sanders reached back and got his hand onto the thick, well used, book. He passed it to Argent who quickly thumbed through to the place he required, then to find what he needed and look up.
“So tomorrows the 18th, and…..”
He again regarded the tide table.
“Yes, I think it can be done.”
He looked at Brakespeare.
“Alloysius. I want your men ready for an Admiral’s inspection at noon tomorrow. That’s possible?”
Brakespeare looked up surprised.
“Why, yes Sir. Eight bells this evening if you choose.”
“No. Consider it to be a parade. Ready yourselves for that, at Noon tomorrow.”
He turned to Sanders.
“Jonathan. Your Watch all turned out in full fig, at the same time?”
Sanders looked equally incr
edulous.
“Yes Sir. Of course, Sir.”
“Right, I’m off to see Fentiman.”
oOo
The fine September weather held for the next day and at 3 bells of the Afternoon Watch Ariadne was idling towards the entrance of Falmouth Harbour, on no more than two jibsails, the main and mizzen staysails, and driver. The wind had moved to South Southwest, just at breeze strength; the tide was full and just on the turn to run out. Reece was at the bows taking soundings and his flat, monotonous call, the regulation cadence for the delivering of such, toned back along the ship. Argent and his full complement of Officers, including Midshipmen, were on the quarterdeck, all in full dress uniform, but their attention was, for the moment, wholly fixed on the conning of their ship. Argent had the deck and he called down to Bosun Fraser, him equally decked out in his full finery, the nameplate on his hat gleaming fiercely.
“Loose all topsails. Larboard tack. Fine on the quarter.”
Whilst Fraser ran shouting along the deck, Argent turned to his Quartermaster, Zachary Short, one of four helmsmen on the two wheels, but Short was at the rear, on the weatherside.
“Steer due North.”
It was Short who replied.
“Steer due North. Aye aye, Sir.”
As the topsails fell and were sheeted home, Ariadne came around perfectly to enter in the main channel. The details of Pendennis Castle, with its Union Flag flying confidently from the highest battlement, revealed themselves on the larboard side. Argent took himself over and looked along the shoreline. Ariadne was coasting in on the breeze, but the ebbing tide was proving too strong, so he made his response.
“Mr. Fraser. Foresail and topgallants.”
Again Fraser bid the topmen up into the rigging and Ariadne quickly gained speed to push strongly against the tide and so, soon, Argent could see the house he was looking for, Lady Grant’s, ex-Willoughby, town house. He lifted his Dolland glass and, sure enough, the lawn was covered in guests enjoying a post-wedding gathering. He studied further and picked out Admiral and Lady Grant. There was Charlotte and Major Blake and Broke and Cheveley, which surprised him, but he permitted himself a small grin of satisfaction and contemplated a small departure from strict Naval etiquette. He decided yes, and signalled for Bosun’s Mate Ball.
A Question of Duty Page 29