A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “Right. That’s our guide. Expect Lieutenant Fentiman. If there’s any change between now and when he arrives, tell him. I want that held, fixed right on our head.”

  “Aye aye, Sir.”

  Subconciously, in the dark, Whiting paid his respects and soon Fentiman arrived and Whiting reported no change. Ariadne was set and locked on, biding her time.

  oOo

  From his place on the quarterdeck Argent spoke to Sanders and Wentworth.

  “Go forward. Quietly pass the word, “To quarters” and then you both remain at your posts.”

  Each moved off and soon Argent saw the result, topmen mustering on the starboard gangways and the carronade crews manning their guns. He looked East, was the sky less dark, now grey and growing lighter? Was that a faint line showing the first light on the Eastern horizon? He could not see the pennant to gauge the wind, he could but move to the weather side and feel it on his face. Still a good breeze and still on the beam, a little more astern would be her best point of sailing, but this was well good enough. His pocket watch showed near sunrise, it must soon be time, delaying any longer would gain them nothing, perhaps they would be waking up. He walked forward and climbed to the foretop, there he found Fentiman and Whiting, still in position.

  “Any change.”

  Fentiman answered, in a whisper.

  “No, Sir. There’s his cabin lights, still up ahead, Sir.”

  Argent leaned out on the shrouds and saw for himself the five dull rectangles just showing through the gloom. He descended to the forecastle for his final check and found Henry Ball.

  “Are we still in her wake?”

  “Yes Sir. It’s going right under our forefoot.”

  “Where’s Bosun Fraser?”

  A voice came from the dark behind him.

  “Here Sir.”

  “Right. Get your topmen onto the yards and your waisters ready. They understand the signal?”

  “Yes Sir, they do.”

  Meanwhile Sanders and Wentworth were discussing their coming role. It was Sanders who had broached the subject.

  “Have you ever boarded a ship on the end of a rope before?”

  “N-no. C-can’t say as I h-have.”

  “I was a topman, once. I know all about swinging around on ropes, but to board a ship? What’s the best way, do you think?”

  “Well, I’ve only seen il-lil-lustrations, but as I recall, the best way is t-to h-hang on with your le-left arm and have a pistol in your ri-right. Then you c-can sh-shoot the first to come at you, and throw the p-pistol at the next. Then you land.”

  “That’s why you brought up a rack of pistols.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “The Captain was quite right about your thinking. But would it not be a good idea to have another in your waist band?”

  “It wou-would, but I’m of the v-v-view that they shou-should be shared out, and we all take our ch-chances.”

  In the dark Sanders nodded.

  “Well, I’ve got a brace. I took them off a prize, they’re French. I’d be proud to offer you one.”

  “Thank you. Th-that’s very k-kind.”

  Wentworth took the handle, checked that the hammer was down and stuck it into his waistband. Their men had stood silent, listening to all that had been said. Then the pistols were shared out and each checked theirs, after that each checked that their cutlass came easily out of the sling around their waist. Each stood still and silent, each with their own thoughts. Then came the order, not shouted, merely spoken.

  “Let fall.”

  They heard the canvas fall on the foremast, then its writhing and snapping until the waisters ran past them to sheet home. This was the signal for all other canvas back from the foremast to the mizzen to be dropped and secured. Inside two minutes Ariadne was under a full press of canvas from topgallants down, lower staysails included. The waisters and forecastlemen worked furiously to trim the yards to fully catch the wind. Ariadne heeled and accelerated under their feet, immediately about her business.

  Yusef Bin Yusef was dozing on the quarterdeck, leaning over the side, facing larboard, across the black sea, but seeing little, his head lolling as he drifted in and out of a shallow sleep. A shout from the oar deck brought him back to wakefulness and he looked down at the barely discernable straining arms and chests of the oarsmen at their turn, but there he saw nothing untoward. Now awake, he looked out over the sea; he was, after all, on Watch, but all on board felt confident that they had lost the warship of two days ago, sacrificing that child had been worth the loss. He began chewing some khat leaves and his thoughts drifted, but then he looked again. There was an odd shaped wave off their larboard quarter, gaining on them, and standing out white in the starlight. It wasn’t part of their wake and it had come up past that point anyway, but then, the unmistakable shape of a bowsprit rose into the grey of the horizon and then a ship’s bows came clear and then a tower of canvas above that. He paused before shouting a warning, it didn’t look like the warship, the hull was all black and all sails dark. He paused to look again. She was moving at twice their speed, rapidly up their larboard side, her bows already almost level with their stern, what he had first seen was her bowave. His eyes widened in terror and his mouth dropped open, the khat leaves falling to the dark ocean, for even in the dark he could see the unmistakable shape of a muzzle protruding through her entryport. He began to run forward, taking a breath to shout, but the words died in his throat as a grapeshot from “The Preacher” on the quarterdeck took off the top of his head.

  All four carronades had fired, as ordered, as soon as a target presented itself. At the horrifying sound the galley oarsmen dropped their oars and rose with their weapons in their hands and scrambled up the ladders to the upper deck. The alarm passed on through the galley and, soon after, the sleeping watch was emerging from their quarters below, these too fully armed. The galley’s crew had responded quickly to the need to defend their ship, now slowing with the oars now unmanned, but time had been lost and more time still would be needed to organize a solid defence.

  Argent and Fentiman stood on the forecastle, their men behind them, waiting for Short to judge his turn and send the ship against the bows of the slaver, the smoke from the carronades running away downwind into the gloom. Astern from them at the mid-point of the gangway, Sanders and Wentworth stood with their men, holding the ropes that they would soon use to pull themselves up onto the rail of the gunwale before swinging over. Wentworth looked at the shining black of the slaver’s hull, defined more by the foam passing her side, that any other form of light. A tangle of emotions competed within him; fear, anxiety about his own ability and a righteous sense of duty for what they needed to do. These emotions emerged from him as a sentence as clear as that of any Commander in history’s pre-battle speech to his men. He turned to his own, gathered behind him.

  “Men. Aboard that slaver are Christian women and children being shipped off to who knows what kind of Hell. I, am going to get them out of there, or die choking on her deck!”

  Silence, for a long pause, a silence somehow heavy with astonishment, but then replies emerged from the dark.

  “Right with you, Sir.”

  “Same from me, Sir.”

  “At your shoulder, Sir.”

  In the dark Wentworth nodded and took a better grip on the rope. So did Sanders and those with him.

  On the forecastle Bill Marshall, Gun Captain, starboard carronade, was sighting along the short barrel, for the second shot it had been trained right round to point aft, as much as possible, along the anticipated line of the slaver’s deck. Easau Grimes was doing the same just over to his right, as his piece was heaved forward to fire again. Either side of him were Ariadne’s Marines, their muskets already trained over the side. Marshall felt the deck heel to larboard as Zachary Short turned the wheel hard over, but they had both allowed for that. To their right, back along the ship, pairs of lanterns were being hoisted to shed their helpful, but paltry, light onto the deck of th
eir enemy and, sighting along their gunbarrels, they found that they required only small, quick adjustments to make the elevation perfect. From above a spluttering shrapnel shell arced down onto the slaver’s deck, Berry, the strongest, had thrown far and true to begin their assault. Ariadne’s hull hit the larboard bow of the slaver with a huge crash, to be replaced by the sound of the two ships grinding together and that of splintering wood as the foremost oars were crushed between the two hulls and then came the explosion of the shrapnel shell, this to be replaced by the sound of screaming. Grapnel hooks sailed over into the slaver’s rigging and the two hulls were joined.

  Marshall could see down onto the slaver’s deck, he knew he had to wait, but he was not required to do so for long, for the carronade at the entryport, traversed fully towards the bows, and that on the quarterdeck, fired. Marshall saw the discharge of musket balls and grapeshot cut a swathe through the slaver’s now crowded deck, bodies being flung down like discarded dolls. He checked the alignment of his own weapon, called for one final adjustment then jerked the lanyard. The smoke from the discharge hid the effect and then Easau Grimes fired his second, Ariadner’s fourth and last, into the slaver. Burning shrapnel shells were now raining down from the foretop above, almost all reaching the deck of the slaver, but one hissing into the sea below.

  Argent and Fentiman seized the gunwale for balance as the impact nearly threw them off their feet. Both Officers climbed onto the gunwale and looked down and across, the jump was five feet over, but a drop of three. They heard Breakspeare shout “Fire” and then the volley from the Marines crashed out. The slaver’s deck was shrouded in smoke, but the gap was still visible, Argent measured it out, and gripped his sword.

  “Onto him, boys. Ariadne’s the shout!”

  He jumped and landed with a jar to both legs, then he slipped on what can only have been blood. His men followed, yelling their ship’s name, and he saw that Fentiman had landed better and remained upright. The smoke was clearing and, as he regained his feet Argent could see only the smashed bodies of dead and wounded men, writhing in agony or moving slowly as death claimed them. The carronades had cleared a space, but figures were moving further across the slaver. He felt, rather than saw, his men arriving behind and to his side.

  “At them, boys. Straight at them!”

  He sprang forward to be confronted by an Arab with a short boarding pike. He dodged the stab forward and smashed the metal guard into the man’s face. The man fell back, but then Argent was overtaken by a tide of his own men, now supported by the Marines. Argent’s own opponent was quickly bayoneted and, after a brief but brutal fight they had control of their portion of the deck, no more opponents could be seen beyond the gloom and smoke. Argent looked around and saw immediately front a companionway leading down to a lower deck. Fentiman was at his side with Breakspeare just behind.

  “Captain Breakspeare. Take your Marines to the right and fight your way aft. Support Sanders and Wentworth, but when you can, get down below, find the prisoners.”

  As the Marines made off , Argent spoke to his fellow sailors.

  “Follow me, lads. Down here. Find the prisoners.”

  For their attack, Wentworth and Sanders had climbed onto the gunwale, stretched their arm up the rope as far as they could and launched themselves out. Their time in the air was fixed in their minds as a long and desperate moment and beneath they had a brief glimpse of the foam of the waves writhing between the two hulls and the tangled oars trapped at all angles. Wentworth made it to the side of the slaver and used the side rail as extra leverage to finally land squarely on the deck, after discharging his pistol at the nearest Arab and then landing in the space created by his victim falling back into the oar deck. He threw his pistol at the nearest turbaned head but failed to draw his cutlass in time to ward off the next assault, however, the maddened, raging face acquired another hole as one of the topmen following Wentworth shot the slaver in the head. Wentworth got out his cutlass just in time to block a savage swipe as they all found themselves fighting for their lives with their backs to the remains of the side rail, now with much missing from the grape shot. A slaver besides Wentworth stabbed over the rail to send an Ariadne down into the water before he arrived at the deck, but more topmen were coming and Wentworth cut the slaver across the back of his neck, almost severing the head. He saw Sanders, head now bloodied, defend himself from the assault of two, but their own numbers had grown and they were holding their gains. Suddenly, their opponents to their left melted away to be replaced by the redcoats of Ariadne’s Marines, led by Breakspeare, his sword dark even in the poor light. Sanders gave the order.

  “Clear this deck of the bastards. Leave none alive.”

  They moved rapidly aft, a vengeful tide of sailors and redcoated Marines. Soon they had the gangway cleared on both sides and they looked down into the oar deck to see near pitched dark, but there came up to them the sounds of fighting in the bows. Sanders decided to take the chance.

  “Marines! Reload.”

  The Marines reloaded their muskets in seconds and Breakspeare took over after Sanders had explained what he wanted. Breakspeare issued his orders calmly.

  “Form at the rail.”

  The Marines lined up along the gangway rail to look down into the darkness of the oar deck below.

  “Make ready”

  A pause.

  “Present. Into her waist, aft of her foremast.”

  The Marines adjusted their aim.

  “Fire.”

  The volley went off with a deafening crash and the space was filled with smoke. As screams emerged from below, Sanders looked around and saw two companionways either side of him. He pointed left.

  “On my left, get down there, with Mr. Wentworth. On my right, with me.”

  Blood was running into his eyes but he led his men down. Going right, they would arrive near the bows, at whatever fighting was going on. At the bottom of the companionway lay the results of the Marines volley and any wounded were trampled down as Sanders and his men leapt from the stairs of the companionway. The fighting that ensued was of the worst kind. In the dark and the smoke they fought their way forward, the Marines forming a line of bristling bayonets to fight their way up to the bows, battling their way across the benches and discarded oars, whilst the seamen fought off assailants from behind. Wentworth had gone left and found his task easier, there was less smoke, but it was Hellish enough, fighting in the dark over the oars and benches there. However, they were drawing off enemies from the backs of Sanders men, but assailed on all sides themselves.

  The slaver crew were making their do or die stand amongst the tangle of the oar deck. Argent and Fentiman had led their men down their companionway, but got no further than the last steps. In the almost negligible light of the lanterns above, what they saw was a sea of desperate faces and raised scimitars, but they nevertheless began the fight by slashing down and kicking forward. Some of his men jumped sideways off the companionway to land deliberately onto the chests and faces of their opponents and, inevitably, some of these Ariadnies perished in such close quarter fighting, but others followed to continue the appalling conflict. It was the experience of a nightmare, a matter of chance, with nothing to stand on but the dead, dying, and the wounded, all lying over benches, or the deck underneath, with a treacherous oar handle waiting to trip those trying to fight between them.

  Gradually they fought their way off the steps and away, to secure some space on the walkway between the oarsmen’s benches. In the smoke and gloom, as desperate as the slaver crew, Argent and his men battered their way aft. A turbaned figure emerged before him, swinging his scimitar at Argent’s left arm, but Jacob Pierce was at his side and he blocked the swing with his own cutlass. Argent punched forward with the bellguard and the man fell back to roll unconscious under a bench. Argent raised his sword for the next blow that may come from the gloom and smoke before him, but he stopped. What did come next was a bayonet on the end of a musket, followed by a Marine. Argent pus
hed the bayonet to one side, just in case, but, fantastically, the Marine saw that he was faced by his Captain and presented arms! Argent saluted him back.

  The sounds of the fighting were dying down, but the oardeck was thick with bodies. It was impossible to walk on planking and, in the dark, all stood on whatever seemed firm. The walkway was theirs, but screams and shouts still came out of the darkness, because off to the sides of the wide hull, the last of the crew were being either captured or their lives ended. Finding himself in the middle of the vessel, Argent thought of their next move from where he was stood.

  “Sanders! Wentworth!”

  Replies came through the gloom.

  “Take your men aft. Search this level, then get deeper down and search there. Find the prisoners.”

  “Aye aye, Sir”, came back through the dark.

  “Mr. Fentiman. The same, take some men and go forward.”

  Then, mercifully lanterns were lowered down to them. The topmen, remaining on Ariadne, had seen the need and lowered them to the slaver’s deck and now they were being passed further on down to the oardeck. In the yellow light a Marine shouted to Argent.

  “There’s a way down here, Sir.”

  The Marine held his lantern up to show a low set of railings, surrounding a companionway down.

  “Let me through.”

  Argent made a way to the railings, as best he could, and he led the way down, his sword first, the seaman’s hand holding up the lantern second. They descended to what was clearly the hold, barrels and crates were to either side. Argent looked forward to see lanterns bobbing through the gloom at the bows, which he took to be Fentiman. He looked aft and saw nothing, when he should be seeing the lights of Sanders and Wentworth if there was a clear run back to the stern. He directed the seaman to follow him as he edged astern and soon they heard a terrified, unintelligible gibbering from just ahead. Taking the lantern forward revealed a cowering Arab, on his knees, supplicating with both hands raised towards the advancing foreigners. He was kneeling on a walkway, before a solid bulkhead of timber, the walkway leading to a door in the same. The jibbering increased in volume and rose to a wail as the point of Argent’s sword approached his chest. Argent seized the cloth of his tunic and shouted.