It was Argent’s next words that convinced Fentiman of the torment inside his Captain.
“What the Hell does Cheveley care about the likes of a few peasants captured off some beach?”
Fentiman assembled his own thoughts and they lighted first on their orders.
“Orders are orders, Sir. We get the dispatch to Wellesley. You set a course to expedite that. If….”
He paused.
“……..if we meet the slaver, then we’ve got to take her. There’d be a shocking row if we did not, despite our orders.”
He paused.
“But the point is, Sir, do we go looking for her? If we do we are acting against our orders. Whatever we do, we must be able to justify as part of making as fast a passage as possible to Figuiera, and the Log must make that clear; clear and accurate.”
Argent looked at him. He knew Fentiman was making sense and it was Fentiman that continued.
“If we go roaming around Biscay, searching, or looking into every cove and backwater on the coast, instead of cracking on to Finnistere, then, well, it’s a Court Martial, Sir. And we won’t have much of an argument. The Log will show it.”
Argent nodded.
“Very well. But if we encounter the slaver, we take her. No one would argue against that. If I understand you rightly, we set the best course possible for Figuiera hoping that that will bring us up on him. Hoping he’s made the same choice as us.”
It was Fentiman’s turn to nod.
“That’s about it, Sir.”
“We agree then. Whatever we do has to be justified as part of executing our orders.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Right, but we must do something about the impression existing amongst the men. They think we’re out after the slaver, nothing else.”
Argent sat silent, as did Fentiman, waiting for his Captain’s decision. They heard seven bells ring above them.
“At eight bells I’ll address the crew.”
Eight bells came and, as this was a Watch change, both Watches were on deck. McArdle took the Noon Sight alone, as the Bosun’s calls sounded for assembly and all the crew made their way back aft and found a place where they could both see and hear their Captain. Argent stood in the centre of the quarterdeck rail waiting for all to arrive and fall silent.
Fraser took charge.
“Attention.”
All obeyed and Argent began.
“Men. I feel I must put right what may be in your minds regarding why we are at sea. I have to tell you now that we have not been sent after the slaver.”
No one spoke but many exchanged looks and shifted their position.
“We have been ordered to take a vital dispatch down to Portugal to give to the Commander of our army there. It is vital that it arrives at the earliest and that is our charge. Lives could be spared because of our speedy arrival.”
He paused.
“However, we are in the same waters and heading in the same direction as that slaver, and if we see him, we will take him.”
Faces changed and fists were clenched amongst the crew, albeit by their sides at attention.
“So. If he’s on our piece of ocean, we must make sure we see him. We’ll double the lookouts and change halfway through each lookout duty. If you’re up there keep your eyes skinned, we don’t want Ariadne speeding past him for want of an open pair of riding lights!”
Some smiles as he turned to Fentiman.
“Dismiss the men.”
As Argent descended the companionway to go to his own cabin, Fentiman dismissed the crew and Argent heard them speak about still “Gettin’ that Hellsent Devil”. As Argent entered his cabin, he began a reasoning of his own. The slaver was not built for the open ocean and possible Atlantic storms. He was broad beamed, as Argent knew, with too little freeboard between the oar ports and the waterline. He had managed to cross The Channel, but he would need to run down the coast, on this he had no choice; he had to steer just over the horizon from the land, yet keeping close enough to get shelter if a storm hit. However, Argent had to justify Ariadne following the coast that would give the best chance of taking him, but he knew that the fastest passage to Finnistere and on to Figuiera meant a straight line, full across the Bay of Biscay.
All around the ship there was but one topic of conversation. In the Foretop mess and that of Number Three starboard, confidence grew that “the Captain will find him” and many vowed to volunteer for extra lookout, but in the Midshipman’s berth they shared Argent’s own thoughts. It was Berry who spoke first.
“We have to go straight across with the dispatch, but the slaver could carry on raiding down the coast.”
Bright replied, for Trenchard knew too little to contribute, as yet.
“Don’t forget the wind. I’ve never gone straight across the Bay yet. Nine days out of ten, there’s a South West wind right in your teeth. It hits you the moment you leave The Channel. You either tack out or tack in.”
Trenchard needed more information for his contribution.
“This slaver’s a galley. Right?”
Both nodded.
“With oars?”
More nods.
“Then how do we take him? We won’t be able to get close enough to board him, the oars’ll keep us away, and we can’t sink him because of the prisoners. What do we do?”
Neither had an answer and looked at each other puzzled, but Bright sidestepped the subject.
“Well, first we’ve got to find him. Then, that’s a puzzle we’ll be happy to have.”
By dead reckoning, come the dark of night, McArdle placed them just off Quessant and, sure enough, with the light of dawn came the cry from the masthead that land was sighted. The wind had veered to West Northwest and so Argent took Ariadne to the West of the island, but close, unnecessarily close, so as to cause more than a few eyebrows knitting together in puzzlement on the quarterdeck. However, McArdle, Wentworth, Sanders, and Fentiman could read Argent’s mind; he wanted to look into Quessant Bay. Fentiman approached Argent, stood alone on the weather side, then he spoke softly, more than a little concerned.
“Sir. Can this be justified?”
Argent turned to look at him.
“I believe so. To take a look will lose us nothing, yet he may be there. We are merely sailing past on our legitimate course”
“And if he is there, Sir?”
“Then we have to take him, as we agreed.”
They sailed so close to the Western tip of the island that sheep and startled shepherds could be seen on the featureless, dull green pasture. The sheep keepers stood thoroughly surprised at the sight of this British man-o-war with the minimum of sail, drifting past wraithlike, with no sound of her own but accompanied eerily by the mournful mewing of hundreds of gulls. Wentworth raised his own telescope to examine the life they could see on the flat pasture beyond the surf and low cliffs. He was not well regarded amongst the men, referred to as “Old Splutter Pump.” They respected his seaman’s skills well enough, but how could you respect an Officer who could barely utter five words together? The men of his battery had grave doubts, whilst Trenchard, him knowing practically nothing, was well liked. Wentworth reported to his Captain.
“S-Sir. Th-those are shepherds, Sir. And sh-sheep. A large flock. Sh-surely the slaver, were he there, would have slaughtered m-many and killed the men? Sir.”
Argent lowered his own glass.
“You may be right, Mr. Wentworth, but it’s worth a look, nevertheless.”
Argent turned to the Quartermaster Short..
“Down helm. Come to South East.”
The order was repeated and Ariadne answered and, with the wind almost dead astern, Fraser supervised the adjustment of the sails. The western arm of the bay eased past and the large expanse opened. At least a dozen telescopes were levelled over the larboard quarter, but Argent took himself right up a mast to sit on the mizzen topgallant spar, accompanied by four lookouts. He examined the far end of the bay until his eye ached. He co
uld see right down to the furthest beach and also clearly along the sides of the bay, but there was nothing. Merely what he thought were a few barrels and boxes; perhaps evidence that the bay was, indeed, once the slaver’s base, but more likely just washed up flotsam, trapped in the inlet. He descended, his disappointment plain to see, but there was worse. The decision was now upon him; in front of them was the Bay, which course to set? In should be direct to Finisterre and the Northern wind was set fair for such a passage straight across. The Officers of the Watch on the quarterdeck stood waiting and Argent took himself to the weather side. He looked and felt very much alone.
On his side, working on the mizzenmast shrouds, were his only companions, foc’s’lmen Eli Reece and his constant companion Ben Raisey. Reece was voicing his great concern.
“Look ‘ee at that sky, Ben. That herringbone. ‘T only means one thing in the Bay, and that’s a bad blow. There’s a bad one comin’ up from mid Ocean, you mark my words.”
Raisey answered without ceasing his splicing of a broken shroud.
“You ain’t wrong there, Eli, I noticed it too, an’ not for the first time. I seen that sky afore, tellin’ I Summer’s well gone. ‘Tis get yer wet gear out yer chest, right enough.”
Argent, wishing not to think, had instead listened to all being said.
“Reece.”
On hearing their Captain’s voice addressing one of them, both came to the attention and made their respects.
“Reece. What’s this you’re saying about a herringbone sky?”
Reece spoke all he knew.
“Why, yes Sir. I’ve heard it many a time and gone through it. If you sees the clouds comin’ across in that pattern, herringbone some calls it, in these waters, then you can be sure there’s a blow comin’. There’s many as says that, Sir.”
Argent turned to McArdle.
“Sailing Master. Is this something you have experience of?”
McArdle drew himself up to his full height and clasped his hands behind his back, one wrist in one hand. His chin rose as though he were about to pronounce a subdued and intimidated couple to now be man and wife.
“Aye Sir. Aye. That’s somethin’ ah’ve heard. In these waters, it shows a storm could be comin’. An’ it’ll be a bad one, right enough.”
McArdle knew what his Captain was seeking; he also knew the choices facing an oared galley.
“Out in the Bay could well be no too good a place to be, over the next couple or so days. Not for any kind of ship.”
“And the wind after?”
“Generally East. Sir.”
Argent looked at Reece, who nodded agreement, then Argent looked at Fentiman. The look that passed between them conveyed all, they now had reason enough to follow the coast. Argent had decided.
“Mr. Short. Come to South South East.”
Then to Fentiman.
“All plain sail. Break out the larboard studding sails.”
Then, finally to McArdle.
“Mr. McArdle. A course for 20 miles off La Rochelle, if you please.”
He descended to his cabin, opened the Log and entered the date, 10th October 1809. Then he logged his course and the reason for doing so.
oOo
Ariadne had sailed through days of murk. In the evening of her clearing Quessant Island, the wind had backed to South West, feeble strength, carrying grey clouds and curtains of fine rain. The full spread of sail had flapped and twisted fitfully. For the lookouts the weather drove them to despair, the fine rain draped and hung on the meager wind, clearing out to show miles of good visibility, then closing to mere yards. A wind now coming from the South West, as Ariadne gradually turned South, soon left her common sails useless and so she progressed to her point off La Rochelle on staysails alone, but slowly. The weather was clearer on the coastal side so there, at least, they could seek out their quarry, but there also was nothing to be seen of note, bar the odd fishing vessels. They had seen a barrel and failed to bring it aboard, but it gave hope, yet that was now two days past. The lookouts were changed regularly and often, all as eager as ever to be the first one to see the galley, but Argent and his Officers grew less hopeful. They were as likely to have sailed past the slaver in the fog and rain as to have see him.
The bells rang, the Watches changed, the ship’s routine ran on with the same inevitability as her progress through the grey and sullen sea, but nothing was seen, not even French shipping. Perhaps the herringbone sky presaging a storm was known as thoroughly to the French on shore as on their own ship and Ariadne continued to ease her way down the coast entirely alone. On the fourth day, the Noon Sight pronounced their position as 46;32 North, 2;32 West, half a days sailing from their point off La Rochelle. Argent knew that they could follow the coast no further than that, for at that point they would have to tack out into the Bay to make an offing for Cape Finisterre. He spent as much time up on the highest crosstrees of the mainmast as he did on the quarterdeck, up there he felt that he was at least doing something, because there, at least, or so he told himself, he could better use his good telescope. McArdle had calculated that, at their present speed, they would be off La Rochelle at sunset, which depressed him further and, with the sinking of the sun, so sank their hopes. With the evening all changed, the skies cleared and the wind backed fully to South East, and strong; now a perfect wind for Finisterre. He had no choice. They had kept a detailed Log of wind and weather to justify keeping to the coast, but this new wind now forced them to leave the land and track across the emptiness of the Bay to round the Spanish coast. His order sounded like a death sentence.
“Down helm. Come to West Sou’west.”
Short’s acknowledgement came back swift and cheerful, but Argent’s own spirits had sunk. He had no choice now but to make a fast passage, so he turned to the Officer of the Watch, Lieutenant Wentworth.
“In all staysails, Mr. Wentworth. Set all plain sail, and larboard stunsails.”
Wentworth’s stutter disappeared when he shouted and so after the “Aye aye aye, S-sir,” he bawled the order clearly to Bosun Fraser. The Second Dog Watch was the Starboard’s and so the men ran to the shrouds to set the massive increase in sail. The crew remained eager, they had grown nothing like as despondent as their Captain, they thought the change to increase her speed was done to bring them up sooner on the slaver, but at dinner in the Captain’s cabin that evening the conversation dwelt on their pursuit but briefly. All Officers there were sure, as much as they could be, that hope was all but gone and the topic was covered in but a few sentences. Breakspeare asked the question.
“What are our chances now?”
An answer did not come, so Sanders looked at Argent who was morosely arranging his cutlery. He decided to answer himself, as optimistically as he felt made sense.
“He may still be ahead of us. We came down very slowly and he may have cut the corner and be further out. He may still be out there.”
Argent looked at Sanders and smiled, but added nothing. Mortimor, with Jeremiah, had brought in the fish soup. All fell to eating, trying to think of another topic, bar Argent. He knew it was likely that he had failed, he had tried, but that was little consolation. They may yet see the slaver and Herodotus may catch him, but the chances of both were slim.
oOo
Dawn found Ariadne held tight in the wind and bursting through the waves that she overtook rolling swiftly on towards the deep Atlantic, her course still West South West. The sky had cleared to the far horizon and all lookouts were in their place. Noon came and with it the ceremony of the sight and the throwing of the log, and now the afternoon was wearing on. Argent was on Watch; over the past days he had rarely left the quarterdeck, but he was on the weatherside, his hand on the backstay, gauging whether to take off sail. There was no more space on any of the masts, even lower staysails and bowsprit sails were set, in addition to the larboard stunsails, for Argent was determined to now make a fast passage. The last log had shown close on twelve and a half knots and he was thinking tha
t the Royals may be driving her head too deep into the water, preventing the thirteen he wanted, when a cry came down from the foremast topgallant yard. It was Able Jones.
“Ship. Off the larboard bow.”
The cry hit Argent like a gunshot and, seizing his telescope and breaking his own rule, he ran to the foremast shrouds and climbed, rapidly, like the most athletic of topmen. He reached Jones much out of breath, but not enough to be unable to ask Jones to point. He followed the direction of Jones’ arm and scanned left and right and then he saw, four miles ahead, the shape they had seen back in late July. The slaver, if it was he, was crossing their course very obliquely, right to left, almost parallel. On their present course Ariadne would go through his wake about one mile astern of him. Argent looked again for the colours he sought. The galley had its three big lateens fully set, they were definitely dark red and the hull seemed black. He handed the telescope to Jones.
“What colour is their hull?”
Jones took the telescope and adjusted the length to focus for his own perfect eyesight. It didn’t take long.
“Black Sir. Black as the ace of spades.”
He handed back the telescope and Argent snapped it shut.
“We’ve found him! Caught them. Damn their eyes!”
Argent clapped Jones on the shoulder and each looked at the other, grinning like schoolboys.
“Keep an eye on him, Jones, report what he does.”
Argent took another look. The slaver had made no change, not even to her course, nor the set of her sails. Argent descended only to stand on the foretop and then called down to the deck.
“Ask Mr. Fentiman to accompany me, up here.”
Argent was anchoring himself on the shrouds as Fentiman reached him. He handed him the glass and, whilst he took a look, Argent spoke.
“That’s the slaver. Just as she was described to me. Would you say she was broad; broad as us and nearly as long?”
Fentiman did not take long to answer.
“I would. So that’s him. He looks nasty, alien even.”
Argent took the telescope and studied their quarry, speaking as he looked.
A Question of Duty Page 40