A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  Argent looked up at Budgen.

  “And this slaver? Sir. If I see him? I’ll be taking the same course, if he’s returning to the North of Africa.”

  Budgen stared back at him hard and slammed his hand onto the desk.

  “You are to do nothing that jeopardises the rapid delivery of that package! Nothing, Argent, nothing. That must be totally clear. That package is the affairs of nations, whilst the work of that damned slaver; well, no more than a bad shipwreck. We get over it. Am I clear?”

  Argent stood and saluted.

  “Yes Sir. Perfectly clear.”

  He picked up both the package and his orders and placed them in the satchel, which he slung over his shoulder, his left thumb hitched comfortably where the strap joined the cover. On passing Venables, the old Sergeant stood at his passing.

  “Good luck, Sir.”

  Argent looked back, as reassuringly as he could.

  Back on board, he issued orders right and left. The ebb was but an hour away, he wanted to be on it, out and away. First he ordered the longboat over the side to be ready to tow Ariadne’s bows clear of the harbour wall, then he gave orders to remove all the gangplanks and mooring ropes that connected her to the wall via the stout bollards. Next a look at the pennant told him that the wind could ease her out into Carrick roads to pick up the ebb tide, when she was worked clear of the mole. Fraser was informed to make ready the foresail and foretopsail, but, for the moment, Argent thrust both of his problems to the back of his mind. He took himself to his cabin and dropped the satchel into his own sea chest and then took himself back to the quarterdeck.

  By now the longboat was over the side and was being made ready to receive a towline that was being fashioned up on the forecastle. He turned to the Midshipman on Watch, the new Thomas Trenchard.

  “Mr. Trenchard. My compliments to Mr. Fentiman. I would appreciate his presence on the quarterdeck.”

  “He’s only just gone off Watch, Sir.”

  The withering look that Trenchard received both defined and finished the argument.

  “Aye aye, Sir.”

  As he waited, leaning on the rail, his dilemma reasserted itself. It was in his power, if he found the slaver, to put it right, for family, for friends, and for all the poor souls now overcome with grief. He thrust the thought back as Fentiman arrived, he had hurried, evidenced by the fact that he was still buttoning his coat. Quarterdeck etiquette would be strictly observed.

  “You sent for me, Sir.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fentiman. We are to put to sea immediately and I want to catch this ebb.”

  “Aye aye, Sir. Is this the mission we’ve been held for, may I ask?”

  Argent turned to him, his face stern. He had too many worries to be concerned with the niceties of politeness.

  “We will discuss that when we are at sea, Mr. Fentiman. Meanwhile, let us get the ship out and onto it.”

  “Aye aye, Sir. Your orders?”

  “I’ve given orders to tow her head away from the quayside, then please to ease us upstream on foresails. Mr Fraser has that in hand.”

  “Aye aye, Sir.”

  Fentiman took himself over to the starboard side to check that all was now gone. It was. The gangplank was square against the quayside edge and all mooring ropes coiled, bar one at the stern. He took himself to the forecastle and found prepared under the supervision of Bosun Fraser, there was no more reason for delay. The stern mooring was cast off and the bows towed away from the quayside, next the sails were dropped and sheeted home and Ariadne began to ease upwards from the quayside and into the open water. The longshoremen on the quayside gave their shouts of encouragement and farewell; their assumption of Ariadne’s mission was clear. The replies from the crew showed that they, too, shared that same assumption.

  The breeze on the foresails made the task of the towing crew very much easier, until, with clear water all around, Fentiman ordered the longboat recovered. Now, Ariadne, under foresails alone, was no more than drifting up against the ebb. A crowd had gathered to watch her departure and all gathered there also assumed that she was being despatched to intercept the slaver. There were many calls and shouts to confirm their belief, which added to Argent’s despondency and torment, but once in enough open water he re-ordered his thoughts and turned to Zachary Short, at the wheel.

  “Take us into the Roads, Mr. Short.”

  “Course for the Roads. Aye aye, Sir.”

  The next orders to increase sail he gave himself.

  “Mr. Ball.”

  Henry Ball, on the starboard gangway, immediately turned round and came to the attention at the sound of his Captain’s voice.

  “Main and mizzen topsails and driver. Main topgallant.”

  Ariadne would be carrying a lot of sail for manoeuvring in harbour, but Argent saw no cause for prudence at the top of the tide, he wanted his ship out and on her voyage. The tide was now on full ebb and, as Ariadne‘s bows eased into the fast flowing water, she began to swing downstream to point to the harbour entrance. Argent waited his moment to turn to gain it, for the wind West Southwest meant a close run to the Eastern arm of the harbour entrance.

  “Up helm.”

  The repeat came, then Argent called out to Henry Ball.

  “Close hauled, starboard tack.”

  Next to Short.

  “Course out, Mr. Short.”

  The repeat came and Argent detected the eagerness in Short’s voice. His Quartermaster was pleased to be at sea and, in the seaman’s mind that was Short’s, the reason was well formed.

  Full in the tide and with all sails drawing Ariadne sped from the harbour and as she passed Pendennis Castle, her crew could hear cheering to speed her on her way. Argent could not help but wonder; in what manner had they sent Herodotus out onto the ocean? A large crowd was waving and cheering; in their minds, if there was any ship that could find and take the slaver, it was Ariadne.

  “Mr. McArdle. A course for Quessant. Mr. Ball. All plain sail.”

  oOo

  Quessant was due South of Falmouth, and with the wind steady on North West to North, close to her best point of sailing, Ariadne leapt and sped over an unquiet sea. Those of her crew on Watch, having decided on her mission, looked to their duties as though every care must be taken with sail trim and they made themselves ready for any change required, indeed even pointing out to the Bosun’s Mates anything less than perfect. Argent sat at his desk in his cabin, his head resting in one hand, deep in thought, his mind oblivious as his ship rose and sank in the fretful rollers. If his mind wasn’t mired in thinking of the family farm in peril, he was thinking of the slaver and his strict orders. No amount of thought eased the situation of either. He was grateful when Fentiman knocked and entered.

  “Sir. We have the question of the thief, Seaman Main. He is still in irons.”

  Argent sat back. This also was no subject that could give him any comfort.

  “Let’s have him in.”

  Argent sat waiting until Main was brought in, hands and ankles still in irons, himself puny between two burly Marines, with Fentiman stood to the side. Argent looked at him, his own problems adding to his anger with this thief.

  “Main. Step forward.”

  The convict recruit shuffled forward and stopped, hands manacled before him.

  “Main. Do you dispute your guilt regarding these thefts?”

  Landy Main returned a blank stare and Argent’s temper broke.

  “That requires an answer, Main, or I’ll have you flogged for insubordination, then come back once more to these thefts and start again.”

  Main shuffled in his sets of irons.

  “Yes. It were I.”

  Argent sat back, his voice suddenly weary.

  “I don’t know if you recall, Main, but my words to you, when first you came aboard this ship, were, that it matters not what you were before, what matters now is what you become, from now, from this moment. Become a seaman and become a valued member of this crew.”

&nbs
p; He paused to gauge Main’s understanding. He failed against the blank look.

  “Did you understand those words?”

  Again, the blank look.

  “Insubordination, Main.”

  “Yes.”

  Argent fixed him with a fierce look and Main recognised the requirement.

  “Sir.”

  “But they had no impact upon you. You decided not to change. You decided that you were a thief and a thief you would stay and, at the earliest opportunity you would begin thieving. And you did.”

  Argent waited for a reaction, but none came, and so he continued.

  “As far as I can tell, all of those that came aboard with you; convicts, pressed men, and volunteers, have settled in well. Bar you.”

  Argent paused to give gravity to his next words.

  “I waited until we were at sea to hear your case, Main. In harbour you were under English Law, and, as a convicted felon, offending again, you would have been hung.

  Another pause.

  “Hung”

  Main’s eyes shifted slightly, but no other reaction.

  “Out here, you are subject to Navy Law, and that states that I determine your sentence.”

  He paused.

  “Two dozen lashes.”

  Main showed no reaction at all, this sentence was nothing new, he’d been whipped before, in town squares. Argent turned to Fentiman; he wanted this finished and dealt with.

  “What bell?”

  “Five, Sir.”

  “Punishment to be carried out at six bells. Inform the Carpenter to rig the gratings and the Master at Arms. And Bosun’s Mate Ball, of course.”

  Fentiman left immediately to inform all, including the Officers, because a flogging was a very formal affair. Main was shuffled away, whilst the Marines marched, taking him back to his open gaol at the forward end of the lower deck. His punishment was rapidly transmitted to those whom the Marines passed; “Two Dozen.”

  When the glass had but an inch to go the Bosun’s calls sounded, “All hands to witness punishment”. The whole crew came on deck and assembled along the gangways and forward of the mizzenmast. All with deadly serious faces; most had witnessed a flogging before but it was unknown on the Ariadne. All Officers were to oversee from their regulation place on the starboard gangway just along from its meeting with the quarterdeck. The punishment was to be carried out on the gun deck, immediately below the quarterdeck rail. Only the Marines would not see all, they were paraded at the stern end of the quarterdeck, taking their line forwards from the taffrail. At six bells Main was led up from the lower deck, on his right side was the Master at Arms with drawn sword, this being one fierce Yorkshireman, Joseph Ackroyd, the Sergeant of Marines. Fraser and Ball came on Main’s left, Ball carrying a red bag. Landy Main’s irons had been removed and he walked freely up to face the grating, his course being guided by those beside him. Fentiman came up besides the Master at Arms and saluted.

  “All ready. Sir.”

  Argent stepped forward to the quarterdeck rail.

  “Article of War 29. All robbery committed by any person in the fleet, shall be punished with death, or otherwise, as a court martial, upon consideration of the circumstances, shall find meet.”

  He paused.

  “Ordinary Seaman Main. You have admitted to a great number of thefts aboard this ship. Your sentence is two dozen lashes. Strip him!”

  Two Bosun’s Mates stepped forward and removed Main’s shirt, then they pulled him onto the two gratings, one grating lying on the deck to which his feet were lashed, one vertical to which his wrists were lashed, as far above his head as possible. Landy Main was spread out, helpless. The last act of one of the Bosun’s Mates was to place a wooden gag in Main’s mouth, between his teeth, and tie its cords around the back of his head, so that it would not fall out when his mouth opened, as they knew it would. He was given good advice.

  “Bite on it, now.”

  Meanwhile, Ball had taken the cat of nine tails out of the bag and was combing out the strands. He knew that such would soon be needed and had therefore fashioned one from a piece of thick hawser, incorporating the knots at the end of each of the nine strands, which were required for thieving. Ball took his place with the lash curled loose and malevolent on the deck beneath his right hand. Argent spoke.

  “Bosun’s Mate. Do your duty.”

  All Officers removed their hats and Ball threw back the tails of the cat behind him. The first stroke sounded like a wet sheet being smacked against a wall. It slammed all of Main’s breath out of his body and his mouth flew open, but the wood stopped him biting his tongue. Ackroyd shouted.

  “One.”

  Then he turned the quarter minute glass. Ball waited for the nod, Main for the next stroke. He was fighting for breath; he had never been hit so hard. Ball got the nod and the next stroke broke across his back, slamming him into the grating. At five strokes the blood began to flow, at eight quite copiously. The Midshipmen; Bright, Berry and Trenchard looked on with different degrees of nausea. Berry and Bright had seen such before, but not Trenchard and Bright could sense Trenchard swaying besides him. He turned his head as far as he dared and then spoke from the side of his mouth.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Trenchard did and had only to put up with the sound of the cat, different now as it slapped against the flowing blood. Main was pulling himself up the grating as far as his tethered ankles would allow, the muscles of his scrawny arms standing out like taught ropes. At one dozen, Surgeon Smallpiece walked forward to examine him. Smallpiece looked first at his back, but it showed nothing unusual for a flogging, but a look at Main’s face from the side showed him gasping for breath and his eyes bulging from their sockets. He wasn’t sure, but he was certainly concerned. He turned to Ball, who had taken the time to comb out the bloody lengths, and nodded. Four more were placed on the riven back, but then Smallpiece held up his hand and walked forward again; early, it should be on the half dozen count. Main had sagged down entirely and was held upright solely by his tethered wrists. He looked at Main’s face, he had fainted; his jaw was slack and hanging open, the wooden bit slack. Smallpiece knew that Main could be faking, he had experience of such, so he nodded to Ball and one more was laid on, but Main’s face showed no change. He was utterly unconscious and, to someone of so sparse a frame, any further could be fatal. What decided Smallpiece was that Main didn’t seem to be breathing, so he walked out to look up at the Captain and he shook his head. Smallpiece was saying that the prisoner could take no more; any more could be a death sentence. Argent nodded.

  “Cut him down.”

  Bright told Trenchard to keep his eyes closed as a bucket of water was thrown over Main’s back and then he was cut down to collapse in a jumbled pile of limbs, bleeding back and lolling head, all coloured by scarlet water. Four seamen carried him, by his wrists and ankles, along the gun deck to be taken down to the orlop deck, Smallpiece’s sickbay. The gratings were removed and the last act, as all trooped away, was for two swabbers of the Watch to swill away the blood from the deck. All knew that the affair was finally terminated when Argent issued an order.

  “Set main staysail.”

  Those on Watch looked to the sail, those not, continued down to the lower deck, many commenting on the fact that he couldn’t even take his “two dozen”; this being unheard of. Also, all knew and some said, that most Captains would have carried on.

  The three Midshipmen returned, grateful, to their tiny berth. Berry and Bright unburdened themselves of the accessories to their dress uniform, these being the hat and belt with their dirk. Both were pale, but Trenchard was green. Bright took down the bottle containing their small stock of brandy and poured a measure for him. He had no qualms over using their precious supply in such a way, for Trenchard was close to keeling over and, anyway, the brandy had been brought aboard by him. The spirit revived him and he perked up, but only to look thoroughly shocked and shaken. He looked up at Bright, then at Berry.

&nbs
p; “You know, if any of us ever make Captain, it’ll be us that will have to order such as that, to our own men.”

  Berry and Bright nodded, and Bright poured him a drop more.

  oOo

  In the Captain’s cabin, Argent and Fentiman had confined the affair to the past; Argent had more pressing and insoluble concerns, much beyond the simple decision to halt a flogging. Both were sat on the bench beneath the stern windows that extended between the two stern chaser guns, both bowsed and secure, but, nevertheless, with their cascables sticking incongruously out into the room from under their canvas covers. Argent placed his right foot on the rear wheel of one of the guns.

  “Our orders, Henry, are to deliver a package to General Wellesley, down in Portugal, putting in at Figuiera da Foz. It’s a package from Castlereagh himself, telling Wellesley that the Austrians are out of the war, meaning that his is the only army fighting the French, to any degree. That could affect his plans, I don’t need to tell you.”

  Argent paused to let that sink in.

  “We are charged to deliver the package at the earliest, which is probably why Ariadne was chosen.”

  Fentiman saw the change come over his Captain, anguish, or close, came over his face. He continued listening anxiously as Argent spoke further.

  “But the slaver? What do we do? I’ll not countenance doing nothing, if anything is in our power. He’s off home, of that I’m now certain. He’s been around here for months, as we learned from the cannoniere. He’s got what he came for and will want to be across the Bay of Biscay before the weather turns foul. He’s in front of us. What do we do? What are your thoughts?”

  “Hasn’t Herodotus been sent after her?”

  “Yes, but you know what Cheveley will do. Set a course for Cape Finnistere and sit there. He’ll reason that the slaver has to round the Cape to run down the coast of Portugal. Cheveley will sit there and wait for a day or so and then, feeling uncomfortable or bored or short of fancy food, he’ll give up and come home. He hasn’t been that far down in years.”