A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  Argent quickly returned to his quarterdeck, the only part of the ship illuminated, this by their own binnacle light, but was it safe from eyes outside? It may be seen from a ship looking back from ahead. Argent was taking no chances. Bright was on Watch.

  “Mr. Bright. Blank out that light, to the smallest beam. Just enough for the compass. Mr. Fentiman, wear ship, come to North East.”

  Bright drew out a kerchief and began his task, whilst the crew responded to Argent’s orders to “wear ship”. She was on a course West South West, but the slaver was on almost the opposite, steering North East. Ariadne turned easily downwind and came around to her new course and the Watch reset the deck. Wearing ship may have taken them too close to the slaver, so they steered further upwind to gain what they hoped was his starboard quarter but now on the opposite heading. Argent ran to the larboard bow hoping to see the light, but it was gone. Had they fallen too far back?”

  “Set all topgallants.”

  The Watch quickly set the extra sails and they picked up speed. Argent waited, barely breathing, then gave vent to a deep sigh as the light re-appeared, evidently it was back in some recess and could only be seen when beam on to the slaver. Argent took himself back quickly to the quarterdeck.

  “Mr. Short. Off to larboard can you see that light?”

  Short looked over and craned his neck.

  “No Sir. Nothin’ there for me, Sir.”

  “So, Mr. Bright, up into the Mizzentop. Any change in the position of that light and you inform Mr. Wentworth. Especially, especially, if you think it is getting closer or further away from us. Also, of course, if it’s falling behind or pulling ahead.”

  “Aye aye, Sir.”

  Bright immediately swung himself up into the mizzen shrouds and was gone. Argent walked to the larboard gunwale where he could see the light with a naked eye, bright, but tiny, perhaps a mile, perhaps less, off their beam. He remained there for some time, watching, then Bright called down to say what Argent had seen for himself.

  “It’s falling astern, Mr. Wentworth.”

  Wentworth reacted and called down to the Bosun’s Mate below, Henry Ball. He did not shout, the light over the water caused all to talk in hushed tones.

  “T-take in fore and m-mizzen toh-topgallants.”

  Argent heard Ball reply his obedience and was pleased himself, the order was exactly his own choice. He went below, found Fentiman and Sanders sat where their cabins normally were and invited them into his. His manner was forthright and urgent.

  “We track him through the night, as we are. With the approach of dawn we get over the horizon as we did yesterday and watch him from there, no upper sails, and the same number of lookouts. We’ll get West of him, then he will have the dawn behind him, us still in the dark and on bare topmasts we can see him whilst he can’t see us. With the dawn he’ll want to see clear ocean, and we’ll give that to him. Then we’ll work East and through the day we track him and make our preparations for an attack just before dawn the next night; we darken our sails and paint out the gunports. Any thoughts?”

  Sanders spoke.

  “Sir. We’ll be trying to do tomorrow night, what we failed to do tonight.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sanders. But tomorrow, we can move up to him that much earlier. He’ll be in the sunset. Any further thoughts?

  Both shook their heads. Argent wrestled in his head with the idea of attacking with the arrival of the night and removing the risk of losing them in the dark, but he reluctantly rejected the thought. As common with Arab tribes, or so he reasoned, they would be entertaining themselves well into the night and be fully awake, wide awake at sunset. To take no chances it would have to be just before dawn.

  “We attack tomorrow night. I want to come out of the dark, and with a darkened ship. Like that we can sit in his wake, follow and wait. The attack is just before the very break of dawn, when it’s still dark, and I’m betting the whole damn scurvy gang of them will still be snoring. So, preparations. Have we paint for the gunports?”

  Fentiman answered.

  “Yes Sir.”

  “Where do we find something to dye our sails black?”

  “I think I know just the place, Sir.”

  oOo

  They held the light off their larboard beam until their pocket-watches told them that dawn was but one hour away. The wind still held from the South East and so Ariadne reduced sail, wore around astern of the galley and headed North West for the horizon to diverge from her quarry. As they slipped silently behind the slaver, ringing no bells, the light moved across their bows, but remained bright, then disappeared; too far back in its recess Argent decided. After an hour’s slow sailing North West, came the first streaks of dawn and, so McArdle calculated, they were just on the slaver’s horizon. They heaved to, used the driver to turn full West and waited, stern on to the galley. With the growing light, the lookouts, again with their telescopes and perched on the bare topmasts and royal spars, found that they could see the slaver far out in the growing dawn light on the horizon. The mizzen lookout reported.

  “He’s heaved to, and turning.”

  Sanders climbed to the mizzentop.

  “What course?”

  “Can’t see yet, Sir. What’s our head, Sir?”

  “West.”

  The lookout took a careful look.

  “He’s moving, Sir. I’d say back on Sou’west, Sir. Or near.”

  “Well done, Digby. Now keep a careful watch. We need to know where he is and what he does.”

  “Aye aye, Sir. We’ll get him now Sir?”

  “Well, I’d put more money on us than I would on him.”

  “Good enough for me, Sir.”

  The day began. Using her driver to turn further, Ariadne gained a perfect larboard quarter wind and, with no sail above topsails, half the mast remaining bare, she tracked the galley, now definitely moving Southwest, from just over the horizon, far off his starboard quarter. Paint arrived from the hold and the task began of painting out the yellow gunports. Dying the sails was much more of a problem, but Fentiman applied his good idea. An hour later, Bible Mortimor went to his grateblacking store and, instead of finding tins of blacking for his domestic requirements, he found a note. “Sequestered, by orders of the Captain.”

  He pointed to the empty locker for the benefit of Johnson and Jeremiah.

  “Thou knowest the people, that they are set on mischief. Exodus 32, verse 22.”

  It was a long job to darken the sails. The largest barrel they had was raised from the hold and filled with water, this stained black, then each sail was unbent and lowered. The first came out too black, they could afford to thin it down and conserve their tins of blacking, many for Mortimor, but too few to colour almost a full set of sails, and so it went on. The biggest problems were the huge driver and the main topsail, but they would be needed if Ariadne was to overtake at maximum speed and cut off the slaver. Whilst Fraser and his mates looked anxiously at the diminishing pile of tins of grate blacking, Argent looked anxiously at the pennant that spoke of the wind. It was strong but seemed to be veering South. Too far and the course to overtake the slaver would be too far beyond any point of sailing, but, as it was, all was still possible.

  The sun was westering, Noon was now three hours gone. He felt exhausted and knew he needed rest, it would be a long night with a fight at the end of it, so he decided to get some of the sleep he craved, but first to the foretop to check on their quarry. He climbed on up to the highest crosstrees where this time he found Silas Beddows, cradling Argent’s own telescope. Beddows paid his respects as Argent joined him.

  “No change Sir. You can see his sails, but not his hull.”

  Beddows handed over the telescope and pointed. He had been given a compass and he took a reading. Argent opened the telescope.

  “Where away?”

  “He’s due South, Sir, near as. Four points off our larboard bow. Standing out plain.”

  Argent ran the lens along the horizon and easily made
out the three dark red lateen sails against the pale blue of the horizon. His ship had been conned perfectly, steered left or right to keep the slaver way out, where he could be seen, but Ariadne could not, with her bare topmasts, invisible to any lookouts the slaver had in place.

  “Has he altered course much?”

  “Not a point, Sir. He’s hellbent for his home port.”

  “Hell perhaps, Beddows, but not his home port.”

  Beddows grinned.

  “I’ll pass that onto the lads, Sir.”

  “Do that Beddows, with my compliments.”

  Back on deck, where he thought he was now finished with the ship, the ship was not finished with him. Fraser stood in his path and made his respects.

  “Beg pardon Sir, but this dyeing. We’ve done everything below topgallants, Sir, but there’s three sets left and only enough black for two. That’s’ topgallants, or royals, or main and fore staysails, Sir.”

  Argent thought. They would almost certainly need fore and aft sails. Royals were the smallest.

  “Topgallants and staysails, then, Mr. Fraser. That should do it.”

  Argent looked up at the sails already coloured, with the mizzentopsail now being bent back onto its spar, albeit damp, but in its place it would dry. Grey water had dripped all over Fraser’s precious deck.

  “A fine job, Mr. Fraser. Once out of The Service I feel that there is a ready trade waiting for you.”

  “Right Sir. If you thinks so, but this b’ain’t summat I feels I wants to get overly used to.”

  He held up his arms. Black to the elbows and then white to his shoulders. Argent grinned.

  “No, Mr. Fraser. I can see that would turn you into something of a high street curiosity.”

  Fraser mumbled something of his own and took himself back to his barrel, shouting his orders for the last sets of sails. Argent made a last visit to the quarterdeck and found Fentiman.

  “Time to get East of him.”

  “Aye aye, Sir.”

  Argent went straight to his cabin, giving the sentry strict orders that he was to be woken at four bells of the Second Dog Watch, at which time the sun would be touching the horizon.

  oOo

  He was woken by Mortimor, carrying a pot of coffee and Johnson with a plate of rolls. On this occasion Mortimor viewed his Captain from a face distinctly kindly and Argent could himself see the change, which almost bordered on sympathy and kinship. He swung his legs off his cot, still wearing his breeches.

  “Where’s the slaver?”

  “Still there, Sir. We’ve held him close. This night we are in the service of The Lord, his instrument upon this earth.”

  “That’s not a quote. Mortimor.”

  “No, Sir. One of may own.”

  “Well, Amen to it, Mortimor, all the same. Let’s hope so.”

  “Aye aye, Sir. Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right? Genesis 18, verse 15.”

  Argent sipped the scalding coffee and bit into a roll, but he could not contain himself there in his cabin. He donned his coat, took the pot, the cup and a pocketful of rolls up to the quarterdeck and, as he passed the guncrews, he ordered his cabin to the taken to the hold. On the quarterdeck he found all his Officers, most of those not required on Watch had also gained some rest, but with their cabins in the hold, they slept amongst the men on the Lower Deck. Argent approached Fentiman.

  “Where is he?”

  Fentiman smiled.

  “Off our starboard bow, Sir. From us bearing West Sou’ west.”

  Argent nodded, satisfied. Fentiman had carried out his duties perfectly. Throughout the remainder of the afternoon and into the evening, Ariadne had eased around, Eastwards, moving behind the slaver, to now place him out on the Western horizon. However, despite their perfect position, still Argent could not eat, not yet. He placed his “breakfast” beside the binnacle and took himself forward to climb to the foremast crosstrees, where he found his Cox’n, Gabriel Whiting, who knew exactly why his Captain was there.

  “He’s out there Sir. Easy to see him now, Sir.”

  Argent took the proferred telescope and tracked the horizon. Whiting was right. Far out, on the horizon, the slaver was silhouetted perfectly in the yellow sky of the setting sun. Whiting felt able to ask of his Captain a question that many of Argent’s rank would have found impudent.

  “What do we do now, Sir?”

  Argent didn’t lower the glass.

  “We track across in the dark and get into his wake. We follow until almost the end of night, by then they’ll be closed down.”

  Argent closed the glass with a snap and Whiting could see the ferocity in the face that looked directly at him.

  “Then he’s ours!”

  Argent returned to the quarterdeck in a more settled state of mind and finished his rolls and coffee. Seeing his Captain in more hospitable mode, Trenchard felt able to approach. He was worried about their role of throwing live shrapnel off the foretop in the pitched dark, which he had learnt from his First was still their role in the coming conflict.

  “Sir, begging your pardon, Sir.”

  Argent looked down on him, chewing the while.

  “Sir. When the attack starts, Sir. Would it be possible for us to have a lantern up in the foretop, to give us some light, Sir, when we have to touch the match to the fuses?”

  Argent looked at Fentiman, who nodded, then back at Trenchard.

  “Yes. But only when we are right up alongside him and your light makes no difference. Am I clear?’

  However, as Trenchard saluted, Wentworth stepped up.

  “S-sir. He may have a g-good p-point, Sir. S-suh-some lanterns from our starboard yar-yardarms, hanging over him would hel-help a lot, Sir.”

  Wentworth gulped more breath to continue.

  “Th-the lanterns could be waiting on our g-gangway, unlit, then, at the ri-right time, lit and hoisted up to gi-give us s-suh-some light for the g-g-gunners and our b-boarding, Sir.”

  All had listened to the tortured suggestion and all smiled at the effort. Argent clapped Wentworth on the shoulder.

  “Your thinking, Mr. Wentworth, is your best feature. I put you in charge.”

  Wentworth managed the next part perfectly.

  “Aye aye, Sir.”

  Sanders spoke next; he had a suggestion of his own.

  “Sir. We don’t notice it day to day, but a sailing ship makes a powerful amount of noise. If we are to follow him close and sail up undetected, doing something to reduce that must be a good thing. To apply more frapping, slush and wadding in the right places would at least reduce some of the sounds our rigging can make.”

  Argent nodded and grinned openly.

  “It does me good to know that, this evening, my Officers are at the top of their profession. See Mr. Fraser and tell him of your suggestion.”

  Sanders descended to the gundeck and found Fraser, who sent for the Captains of the three Tops and soon members of each were on their way with their buckets to Mortimor, demanding a portion of his precious “slush”. This placed him in not the best of moods. Normally this request came once a week, one request, now there were six, each with a bucket and making it clear that they would soon be returning for more.

  “All I’ve got, is what I has, in there.”

  He pointed to the barrel. Moses King lifted the lid and dipped in his bucket. Mortimor’s face grew even more dismal.

  “Exact no more than that which is appointed you. Luke 3, verse 13.”

  “Shuddup, you miserable old bugger. When ‘tis gone, then there’s no more, an’ that’s the end of it”

  Mortimor fixed him with a Gorgonlike stare, but, despite his deepest disapproval, each took themselves away with a full bucket. The topmen knew their task and within an hour the natural noise of the ship was much reduced, but still loud to those who listened, but all was being achieved that could be. Meanwhile Argent was in the foretop, calling down to ease his ship over to starboard in the direction of the slaver that could still be seen
, he was always cautious, but content, that the slaver, when swallowed by the final dark, was always West of them. Soon it was just a question of judgment and a compass bearing and he ordered the forecourse to be reefed when he felt that Ariadne was, perhaps, too close. Now it was a question of picking up his wake, or the sound of him, and that came first. It sounded like an argument and the sound of whips, then the rumble of oars in their ports. It seemed almost abeam to starboard and Argent ordered “Up helm” to swing them to larboard and gain more room, then he ordered the maintopsail to be furled for them to drop back.

  The wind had veered slightly towards the South but, with staysails, Ariadne was drawing well on the larboard tack and had more to give. Argent ordered “Down helm”, and she swung gently over to starboard to resume the search for the wake. A crowd of lookouts on the bowsprit and on the heads strained their eyes through the dark to pick up signs of the passing of a hull propelled by oars and soon they saw the phosphorescence of a ship’s wake and, besides that, a ribbon of foam each side from the passage of oars. Argent remained on the foretop. He could now see the wake himself and, by its intensity, he judged them to be half a cable, probably just over, but not the full 200 yards. Content that his ship sat squarely within the disturbance left either side by the oars, Argent looked ahead. It was a clear night, the moon low in the West, merely a few clouds hid the stars and there was no mist. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could see something. He turned to Whiting, there leaning on the nets full of shrapnel shells, although he could barely see him.

  “Whiting. Look dead ahead. Can you make out five square shapes, something like his stern windows, perhaps?”

  Whiting raised himself and leaned forward using the mast as support. He stared for some seconds, then spoke.

  “I’d say so, Sir. Yes. There’s something there, an’ ‘tis dead ahead, an’ in line with his wake. I’d say his window curtains b’ain’t as thick as they should be. Or he’s got a bonfire in his cabin.”

  Both smiled in the dark and both looked for some time, but the shapes did not move, nor grow any more, nor any less distinct. They were holding their position and, more important, holding their distance.