“Sail ho!”
It was Sanders who had the deck.
“Where away?”
“Three points off the larboard bow”
She was outside of them, further into The Channel. Sanders sent Berry to tell the Captain and then he climbed to the mizzentop with his own glass to join the lookout, who was draped in the crosstrees 20 feet above him. The lookout pointed and Sanders trained his glass. What came into focus was a strange craft, small, with three masts that carried three square sails, one jibsail and a small driver. The mizzen carried the driver, the main carried two sails, and the foremast supported one square sail and the jib. She was moving South West, on the starboard tack, a course to cross theirs, but, as he watched, she must have seen Ariadne, for she came about and headed almost North. She was trying to run, she must have concluded Ariadne to be British. Sanders slid down a backstay to the quarterdeck and ordered the change of course, due North, hauling their wind to bring it beam on. He shouted to Fraser to make the sail change for the larboard tack, just as Argent and Fentiman arrived, the former disturbed from his sleep. Both went straight to Sanders who spoke to both, as the ship was settling on her new course.
“Now off the starboard bow, Sir. An odd looking thing. Small, some kind of coaster, I should say. I don’t think she’s a warship, Sir.”
Argent climbed into the starboard mizzen shrouds and focused his own glass, but only to confirm his quarry’s heading. They were both on practically parallel courses, with the wind abeam, directly over the larboard side. Ariadne would inevitably catch her sooner or later, but Argent preferred sooner. He turned to Fentiman.
“Double the lookouts. We don’t want some heavy two decker sneaking up whilst we’re about our business.”
Whilst Fentiman gave his orders, Argent shouted at Henry Ball. Ariadne carried no more than all topsails and driver.
“Mr. Ball. All lower staysails. All topmast staysails. Inner and outer jibs.”
The fore and aft staysails and jibs flashed out and were sheeted home. Ariadne jumped forward to the added leverage of sails that were perfectly positioned to make full use of the beam on wind, but Argent wasn’t satisfied.
“Mr. Ball. Main and foresails.”
The two sails fell and were secured, then the yards were braced around for the larboard tack and the big sails drew. Ariadne claimed another knot. Argent took himself along the starboard gangway to the forecastle to take a look unencumbered by his own rigging. There he found Bosun Fraser making his own examination and he focused the glass then passed it across.
“What do you make of her, Mr. Fraser?”
Fraser gave himself a long look before he answered.
“Well, unless I’m mistaken Sir, that’s a French rig. I think they call them “bah toe cannon ee air” if I’m sayin’ it right, but probably not. They’m shallow draught and designed for coastal work. Definitely not weather boats, Sir.”
“Shallow draught, you say?”
“Yes Sir. Which means she won’t be holdin’ too much. They haven’t got much of what you’d call a hold, for cargo. An’ they gives up to lee somethin’ shockin’. Sir.”
Argent took another look for himself. In the short time of adding more sail Ariadne had cut the distance by more than a quarter; she was catching the Frenchman rapidly, eating up the distance between them. Within minutes Argent could focus on her taffrail and see the Captain focusing on him, either him or his ship. He then saw the Captain turn away and almost immediately a white flag was hoisted and the sails were started and furled. The Frenchman was giving up his escape.
Argent retained his own canvas until they were within a cable, then he took in all common sail to ease up to the Frenchman on the staysails alone. All the crew came up to view their latest capture, the Officers too, standing on the quarterdeck, Quartermaster Short had the wheel.
“Take us upwind of him, Mr. Short. Close as she’ll lie.”
“Upwind, aye aye, Sir. Close as she’ll lie.”
“Mr. Ball. Start all sheets. Furl driver.”
Ariadne lost all her canvas and, on momentum alone, eased up to the Frenchman, her starboard side against their larboard. They all noticed that she was pierced for two cannon, so she must be a warship of some kind. Short took Ariade to within feet of the Frenchman’s hull and the beam wind pushed them closer, to the extent that she could be boarded simply by swinging over on a rope and, as they closed, the full run of the Frenchman’s deck was covered by the intimidating muskets of Ariadne’s Marines. Argent turned to Sanders.
“Lieutenant Sanders. Make ready, if you please. Swing yourself over and obtain her surrender.”
A rope was attached to the very end of the main yardarm and Sanders swung over the nine or ten feet, across to the deck that was some six feet below theirs. All on Ariadne looked down to see that she was indeed a warship and her cannon were 24 pounders, no less. The ships were so close that Fraser ordered fenders over the side to protect both hulls, and then grapnels were thrown over to hold both vessels together. They all watched Sanders approach the Captain, when formal salutes were exchanged, begun by Sanders, and finally the Captain handed over his sword. They then had a short conversation, but it was too long for a mere formal surrender. Soon Sanders was standing the Frenchman’s deck below them, but opposite the quarterdeck. All were listening intently; there was not a sound to be heard beyond the slap of the imprisoned waves complaining between the hulls. Sanders started speaking.
“Sir. This is Captain Dagonnel.”
At the sound of his name, the said Captain lifted his hat and bowed. Argent touched the peak of his own.
“He says that this part of the coast and around Brest has been raided several times by a slaver, an oared galley. They are raiding small villages, capturing young women and children and sometimes firing the villages. There has been another raid and they are trying to find the slaver. An oared galley. Sir.”
Fentiman was stood near and spoke as soon as Sanders had finished.
“Sir, do you remember what we saw, much about in this place, back in early August, after we left Ireland? An oared galley and a big fire on shore. I’d say he’s not trying to pull the wool over our eyes, Sir. We saw what we saw.”
Argent looked at him, then looked at Sanders, his face becoming grim and angry. The signs had been there, obvious, and with a modicum of thought they could have worked it out, but they did nothing and now this slaver, probably up from the North African coast, is still at large, practicing its Devil’s work.
“Mr. Sanders. What does he know?”
Sanders spoke to the Captain, then turned back to Argent.
“He says that they raided a village close to Roscoff three days ago. They suspect that they have headed back down Channel.”
“Why is this type ship doing the chasing?”
Soon Sanders was translating the reply.
“Because they are shallow draught, Sir, and can go where a galley can. And their 24’s could reach them if they are beyond her draught. She’s what they call a “bateau cannoniere.”
Argent looked along the gangway at his crew. Most had heard and were talking amongst themselves in serious tones with serious faces. He turned to Fentiman; he had made his decision.
“I’m letting her go. She’s on a humanitarian mission. I’m letting her go.”
He leaned forward over the bulwark.
“Mr. Sanders!”
“Sir.”
“I'm releasing him. Give him back his sword. Tell him to try the South West bay of Quessant. We saw him back that way in early August. He was around there then, and he’s still here now, so he must have a base, and that’s as good a place as any to try. Tell him that, and tell him good luck.”
Sanders turned to the Captain and spoke, as he handed back the sword to the astonished Captain and soon the he was nodding furiously both in the direction of Sanders and Argent on the quarterdeck above him. He insisted on shaking Sanders’ hand and raising his hat to Argent, then to the whole
of Ariadne’s watching crew. The response was a whole forest of raised arms and fists, then clapping and waving and many encouraging words, but shouted in English. The crew of the cannoniere responded in kind, a strong common affinity had been thoroughly established over the subject of a slaver, then they tossed back the grappling hooks holding the ships together, as gently as possible, as throwing such a thing could be achieved. Soon Ariadne had hoisted her staysails and drew ahead of the cannoniere, which wore right around to become close hauled and resume her course down Channel.
Argent, Fentiman and Sanders watched her go until she was but a speck in the distance. Argent knew what he had done, released a French warship, which was a serious decision. He spoke to both.
“I want to make it plain that this was my own decision. We all need to agree what goes into the logbook, but when it’s there, it’s me that will sign.”
Fentiman looked at Argent, then at Sanders, who looked back at him.
“I don’t agree Sir.”
Sanders spoke.
“Nor I Sir. It was humanitarian. I’ll put my signature to that. We saw corroborating evidence back in August. We had no reason to disbelieve him. I’ll sign to it.”
Argent looked at Fentiman who nodded in response.
“And I. Yes. Absolutely!”
Argent was moved.
“I thank you both, sincerely.”
He paused, then looked at both.
“So, we’d better be about it, using up the pen and ink, that is.”
oOo
Their return to Falmouth was nothing like as spectacular as their last visit. For one it was in the gloom of evening and for another, the Willoughby house was dark, closed up and deserted. Ariadne came in on a heavy, flooding tide, and dropped anchor. They transferred to a mooring buoy, recovered their anchor and closed down for the night, with no more than an anchor watch. Argent invited all his Officers, including the Midshipmen to his cabin for Dinner, but the atmosphere was subdued. The sole high point of their voyage had been achieving fourteen and a half knots; the rest had been routine and mundane. On top, it had provided evidence that they should have done more when they first saw the galley back in early August by Quessant Island. The talk was of the history of slave raids from North Africa, a practice that had gone on for centuries but had died away over the past century, some surmised because of stronger navies operating from Spain, France and Britain. Now that they were back and operating again, some reasoned because all three were now preoccupied with war. An oared galley could voyage up, unseen over the horizon and run for shelter at the coast if a storm hit and that was plainly what was taking place. However, what was unspoken was that they had had their chance to make an end, even if it meant a serious operation to get into her lair and sink or capture her. Most concluded in their thoughts that a carronade could have been mounted on a longboat and sent in. The meal continued gloomily, momentarily cheered up by them teaching Trenchard how to make the Loyal Toast. No one stayed for port and nuts and Argent was left with his own company. He re-read the log and closed it, noting, once again, with some emotion, the two added signatures. Tomorrow he would have to present it to Budgen. He hoped, perhaps, also for time to visit his family, but he doubted it.
On the lower deck there was also a portion of spreading gloom. With the ship stood down in harbour, many took the opportunity to see to their own affairs, making, mending, organising and trading from their personal sea chests, this regulation box encompassing their whole world of possessions. Few had any kind of padlock, most were held shut by a simple spike through the hasp. Gabriel Whiting was not happy.
“Silas. Did I lend you that clasp knife what I won off that lobster back awhile. B’ain’t yer. Did you borrow it?”
Silas looked at his Captain of the Foretop.
“No, an’ I was about to ask you if you ‘ad them silver earrings of mine. Did you borrow them for goin’ ashore with the Captain?
“No, Silas. I didn’t.”
Both looked at each other, but it was Whiting who spoke further.
“I’d say we got a thief.”
The next day Argent timed his departure from the ship to enable him to arrive at 10.00 o’clock at Budgen’s office and, so, to give himself half an hour, he left at three bells of the forenoon. As his bargecrew propelled him towards the shore, he couldn’t help but notice that all were sour faced and out of sorts. This was confirmed when he overheard the first line of their conversation as he departed for the Commodore, King asking of Jones.
“So what have you lost? Anything?”
Argent entered the outer office and was cheered up by indulging in the parade ground formality of greeting Marine Sergeant Venables, both coming to the attention when salutes were most properly exchanged. However, within Budgen’s office the atmosphere was nothing like as convivial. There was nothing on his desk for him to eat nor drink, perhaps because all was delayed for some reason, but Budgen’s greeting was formal and perfunctory, his mood was plainly not of the best. He wasted no time in finding the pages of the log for the past voyage and quickly skipped over the sections that spoke only of course and speed, but his head did lower itself to enable a better look at the page that spoke of a speed of 14 and a half knots. It lowered itself even further, when he came to the incident with the cannoniere. Budgen read it twice, then looked up. His face showed his discontent, for, as Commodore he was entitled to a share of any prizemoney.
“This…”
He looked again.
“….. cannon ee air, you let her go?’
“Yes Sir.”
“She was a warship?”
Argent made no reply.
“And you let her go.”
Another pause whilst his face changed to show both puzzlement and annoyance.
“Why?”
“As it says in the log, Sir, amongst other details, I and my Senior Officers concluded that she was on a humanitarian mission. It would seem that slave raiders are back, at least on the French side of The Channel.”
“I suspect they were spinning you a yarn, Captain.”
“Possibly Sir, we did consider that, but, if you refer to the entry for August 3rd, Sir, you will see that we almost certainly saw that slaver. The description of the type of vessel that the cannoniere gave, agrees, and we also saw smoke from what must have been large fires on shore, this being mentioned by the cannoniere’s Captain.
Argent waited for Budgen to speak, but, nothing forthcoming, he continued.
“I, and my Officers are in no doubt that there is a slaver operating over there, and I classed her attempted apprehension of said slaver as humanitarian. On top, two things. I concluded that a cannoniere is of no use to the Navy, they have no keel and can capsize in even a moderate sea.
Budgen sat up, incensed, and interrupted, almost shouting.
“That’s not for you to decide, Captain.”
“Perhaps not, Sir, but I was the Senior Office in place, I had to decide and there were other considerations. As I was saying, secondly, if a slaver has come this far, he’ll think nothing of going farther, to raid our shores. A cannoniere has a good chance of taking him, if he finds him. They’re better designed for the job, Sir. I thought it best to give them that chance, to secure our own safety, using a vessel that we could make no use of. Sir.”
Budgen looked how he felt, bad tempered and minus some prizemoney, but Argent had a case. However, he wasn’t going to concede that quickly.
“I’m still not satisfied. Because of your decision, a French warship remains French. I’m copying your log and sending it to my superior, Admiral Grant.”
Argent’s face became, if that were possible, even calmer.
“I stand ready to answer for my decisions, Sir.”
Budgen scowled. He knew that Argent stood well in Grant’s favour and little would come of it, but “face” had been saved. The log was closed and pushed to one side; that subject now closed. Argent turned to his own affairs, he knew it was hopeless, but he felt the n
eed to ask anyway.
“Sir, I was hoping for half a day away from my ship, to visit my family up Barton way.”
Budgen looked at Argent down a gaze as unequivocal as a run out battery, his sentences delivered as would be a rolling broadside
“No. Out of the question. Besides, I’ve your latest orders. Yourself, your Officers who were there, and your Senior Warrant Officers, Master, Bosun, and Quartermaster, are to take yourselves immediately to Plymouth. An Enquiry has been convened to look into the St. Malo affair, chaired by Vice Admiral Lord Holdsworth. You leave at first light tomorrow. You go overland, by coach; your ship remains here. And there’s another thing. Get your ship up to the quayside, bows out, I’m hearing that a frigate may be needed for a voyage. Get her supplied and up to the mark. Is your First up to the job?”
“Completely, Sir. You may have every confidence, as I have.”
Budgen’s head jerked back, but if he thought that to be the end of the interview, then he was wrong.
“If I’m to appear before an Enquiry, Sir, I think my Logbook may prove useful.
Budgen placed a pudgy hand on the logbook and slid it across.
A Question of Duty Page 31