“Bring him. Take him back aboard and put him in irons.”
Fenwick hauled the man out of the group and both were just passing Argent, when Argent held up his hand. Fenwick knew exactly what his Captain wanted and he held Kalil Al’Ahbim in front of him. Argent looked into the face before him with all the hatred and contempt he could muster and he recognised the man on the slaver’s quarterdeck who had ordered the children to be brought back to the rail. The Tunisian slaver looked straight back and upwards, with all of the same depth of hatred, staring back from a face lean and cruel, somehow all the more so for the carefully trimmed beard and moustache, and the fierce black eyes. Argent inclined his head and Fenwick dragged the Arab off. Mrs. Mather was now in tears and being comforted by the muscular arm of Moses King, but she freed herself, quickly returned to her children and each comforted the other. Argent looked over the prisoners and thought, “Was it one of you that pushed that child off this very deck?”, but the thought was interrupted by the two manacled “Englishmen”.
“Your Honour. What about us, and these other six? We was galley slaves. Chained to an oar. What about us?”
The fact that they showed concern for their fellows, also in chains, moved Argent just enough. He turned to the Marine Sergeant Ackroyd.
“Get those eight out and back aboard and remove their chains. There’s just enough about them to justify at least hearing their story.”
As the eight were extracted, Argent heard the same wailing that he had heard at the door of the prison and he looked to see the same man squatting on the decking, but he did nothing and turned away. However, Sinaid Malley was waiting and stopped him.
“That man, the one making all the fuss. He’s called Kaled, and he’s the only one that showed us any sort of kindness. Doing his best to keep us fed and clean. He doesn’t deserve to be killed or sunk or executed, or whatever you have in mind.”
Argent looked at her and her expression fell when she saw the anger in his face.
“He’s still a slaver. He still signed on. He’d take his share of the profit from this Devil’s venture.”
Her face softened.
“I don’t think you’re right. We’re pretty much sure that he’s the Captain’s slave. He often came in with a bleeding face, all the crew knocked him about. What’s more he did take some pity on us, so please show some pity for him.”
“He took pity on you took keep you spruce for the auction block!”
She took a deep breath.
“Perhaps, but, please, show some mercy, for my sake. It’s what I want, so would the others.”
“He’ll most likely hang, back in England!”
“Yes, perhaps, but it was him as told us you were close, when they took the children. It was then that I saw the need for the light. So, for now, please.”
Argent turned away, but not before nodding to the nearest Marine. Kaled was motioned forward and shoved towards the gangplank, which he needed no further bidding to quickly scamper cross.
Argent returned aboard Ariadne and found Bosun Fraser.
“Get our boats out, and then make ready to tow him off. Then find me one of the so-called Englishmen that was just brought aboard.”
“One of those in chains, Sir?”
“The same.”
Fraser made his reply and hurried off. Fentiman and Wentworth came up and Fentiman spoke.
“May we ask your intentions, Sir? With their vessel, I mean.”
Argent looked at both, still angry, but his position as Captain took over.
“As I said, he’s no use as a prize and we cannot spare a prize crew. However, I am not prepared to indulge in mass murder, however much they deserve it, but these are not getting back home to the Med, of that I’m determined, that’s why I took their sails. Next, he’s all wood, with no ballast. I’m going to sink him, but he’ll still float and drift. He’ll end up ashore somewhere, France or Spain, and they can take their chances there.”
Fentiman and Wentworth looked at each other, both faces alternating between puzzlement and horror. Fentiman spoke first.
“They could drift out to sea and that would be a lingering death. Sir.”
Wentworth added his thoughts.
“W-we could leave them one s-s-ail, Sir, the foresail, th-then they can set it to b-b-blow themselves to the shore whe-when the wind is fa-favourable, Sir.”
Argent gave no reaction, but turned to McArdle.
“Mr. McArdle. What would you estimate as our distance from the French coast?”
“Something over 40 miles, Sir, but nae much more. I’ll know for certain come the Noon Sight.”
Argent nodded. Meanwhile Fraser had arrived back with one of the English galley slaves and Argent looked at him, but none too kindly.
“Do you speak their language?”
A pointing arm indicated whom Argent was referring to.
“Yes Sir. I do.”
“You are to tell them to bring some food stores up from their hold to the upper deck. Tell them that they have but little time.”
As the man nodded, Argent now spoke to Fraser.
“Take him over. When he has spoken, then bring him back aboard and all the Marines on guard. Then our gangplank. Oh, and give them back their foresail.”
Wentworth spoke.
“Their oars, Sir. W-with those under the wa-water, dragging, it will make the s-sail useless.”
Argent nodded.
“Tell them to bring their oars inboard, also.”
As Fraser and the man hurried off, Argent turned to Fentiman.
“Starboard battery cleared for action, with crews at stations. Load single roundshot, supply for six rounds.”
Fentiman still looked concerned as did Wentworth, but the former hurried off. Argent watched Fraser and the man, by now over on the slaver’s quarterdeck. He saw him speak to the slave crew, then he hurried back, followed by the Marines. All came over the gangplank and then Fraser ordered Ariadne to detach herself. The gangplank quickly came aboard and the mooring ropes between the two were cast off. It took some 15 minutes for the boats to tow the slaver 40 odd yards downwind of Ariadne, then they also were recovered aboard.
The prisoners on the slaver’s quarterdeck sat bemused as they were released and then abandoned. One stood up, then others. Soon all were running to their companionways and all disappeared, then the oars were pulled in and boxes and barrels appeared on the top gangways, to be followed by many others. Then all activity ceased as they looked to Ariadne. Her gunports were being raised and the black muzzles appeared to the rumble and screech of their guncarriage wheels, each gun making its own naked threat. Many on the slaver fell to their knees and began their prayers, others ran to the opposite ends of the ship. From all over came cries of anguish and distress.
Around number three, starboard battery, Sam Morris’ guncrew hauled their weapon up to the gunport, completing the job one man short, Morris himself on a gun tackle.
“Where’s that piece of shite, Main? I know for a fact he wasn’t part of any gang of boarders.”
It was Tom Bearman who answered.
“Time will tell, Sam. Meanwhile, there’s this.”
Fentiman was walking the whole length of the gundeck, speaking the same words.
“Twixt wind and water, men. Sink her, but no casualties.”
Sam Morris heard it for the fifth time and called for the quoin to be eased in a fraction to lower his aim. He was perfectly on target and raised his arm. Fentiman looked along the line of guns, to see all arms raised.
“Fire!”
Sixteen lanyards were jerked and the guns roared out practically simultaneously, to then speed back inboard and slam against their breeching ropes.
“Reload. Await the next order to fire.”
Argent had watched as the perfectly aimed roundshot hammered into the slaver’s hull just below the oar ports, and just on the water line. As the smoke cleared the shot holes could clearly be seen, already allowing water into the hull. Arg
ent looked along the gangway, where his topmen and the ex-prisoners were watching, none making a sound. With the smoke cleared and the guns re-laid Fentiman gave the second order to fire. The result was the same and, with the clearing of the smoke, they could see that the planking at the waterline was badly shattered and the galley had taken on a list to larboard. Those aboard the slaver had run to the far side and off to the bows and stern.
Gabriel Whiting had not watched the second discharge; instead he had descended to the gundeck and stood behind number three. He tapped Sam Morris on the shoulder as the gun was run out. Sam Morris needed only to see Whiting’s face to know what he wanted and he handed him the lanyard, but he did say one thing.
“Captain’s orders, Gab. Only at his waterline.”
Whiting nodded and squinted along the barrel. He ordered one change to the quoin and raised his hand, then Fentiman called “Fire.” His teeth were clenched as he pulled the lanyard and the gun roared and flew back in towards him.
The impact of shot for this third volley did much to restore some calm and quiet within Argent. It was the same as the previous two broadsides and the galley’s deck was tilting markedly, many of the slavers were crying and waving to the Heavens; many were on their knees praying. Argent ordered cease fire after a fourth discharge; the water was above the oar ports and these were now allowing huge quantities of water into the hull. The slaver slowly settled into the water. Argent ordered the guns to be housed, then looked at the pennant above him. The wind had veered further to the South. Ariadne could come onto the larboard tack to take this as a good beam on wind and sail just South of West, it was a more Northerly course than he would have liked to make Cape Finnisterre, but the wind felt strong and his ship would not be slow. As the galley settled to show just a foot of freeboard above the water, he gave his orders for setting sail. Soon Ariadne was speeding away from the stricken galley and Argent watched the single lateen being raised to catch the wind, then he looked no more.
oOo
One and a half days later they were turning onto a Southerly course, for they had emerged from the Bay of Biscay. Ariadne rode the waves rock steady, using the stiff breeze coming over her starboard quarter, as if the ship knew the serious requirement of a firm and steady deck for what was about to unfold. Nine dead were all sewn neatly into their hammocks with three eighteen-pound balls evident as shapes at their feet; nine, for one had succumbed to his wounds. All were gathered around, not on vantage points but to form a solid and united congregation, the sailors all Divisions dressed and presented and their passengers smart enough. Their clothes had been found, bound in chests, ready for sale in Tunis.
Argent read the ceremony, slowly, sadly, and sonorously, beginning with the 23rd Psalm, followed by the whole crew singing the burial hymn. Those that they had just rescued added their voices, all accompanied incongruously but poignantly, with the ship’s fiddles and squeezebox. The many French amongst those rescued stood in silent respect. After the careful telling of each name, as though this made their final mark upon this earth, each was lifted onto the bier to be covered by the Union Jack and the Marines fired a volley for each as they were slipped over the side, the boards being tilted by their tight faced messmates. Argent read the traditional Protestant Prayer for each one, the repetition adding potency rather than reducing it from over familiarity. The passage of Ariadne through the waves hid the sound of each entering the sea.
Afterwards, down in his cabin, Argent sat with his head in his hands and his thoughts in turmoil. One part of him told him unequivocally that what they had just accomplished was utterly right; on the other hand another part told him that his career was probably at an end. However, he wrote up the Log and signed it, just as Fentiman entered. He came to the desk and placed a list on Argent’s desk.
“Final losses, Sir.”
“What of the wounded?”
“All like to recover, given time, and Mrs. McArdle’s attention.”
Argent ran his eyes down the list. Alongside the top nine names was the “dd” that would be entered alongside their names in the muster: “discharged dead.” However, the last name had an “r”, standing for “run”. It was alongside the name of Landy Main. Argent looked up at Fentiman.
“What’s this “r” concerning Main?”
“We can’t find him, Sir. We’ve searched from the bilges to the tops and he’s nowhere aboard.”
Argent looked up at him to hear the reply.
“He must had got himself aboard the slaver and stayed there.”
oOo
Chapter Nine
Delivery
Many would say that October gave the Peninsula its best weather, but Argent cared little for the clean, swept blue, that stretched from horizon to horizon, broken but sparsely by pure white clouds that scurried on, anxious to remove their presence that they should not spoil so perfect a day. The sea also gave a benign addition to the picture; playful waves chased and fell upon each other, but none so steep as to give Ariadne any pause in her headlong passage Southwards. Argent spent hour after hour, staring at the sea, the pennant, the heel of his ship and the set of his sails. Ariadne, on the starboard tack, sped on under a vast spread of canvas, regularly logging twelve knots in the good breeze coming just aft of amidships, its steady pressure causing each sail to draw cleanly and push Ariadne quickly on, obeying her Captain’s bidding. For once Argent was stood merely gazing, no more possible sail adjustments were suggesting themselves as being of any benefit and the full spars, including stunsails, even on the mizzen lee side, gave no cause for impatience over canvas not spread but, perhaps, possibly could be. Fentiman came to stand by his side. He had something to impart to his Captain, otherwise he would not have dared to join him in the sanctuary of the weather side for mere social reasons.
“Mr. McArdle estimates we will make Figueira the day after tomorrow, Sir. That’ll give us a ten-day passage from Falmouth. No one can complain of that.”
Argent responded in kind, he knew that Fentiman was trying to cheer him, but he remained in a slough of despond. However, he did manage a small smile at the kind efforts of his First Officer.
“Ten days is a good passage, no doubt, Henry, but without the slaver it would have been eight. There’s no escaping that.”
He looked fully at his First Lieutenant, grateful for his understanding, but changed the subject.
“How are our passengers?”
“Oh, well enough, Sir, very much so. Indeed, as one would expect, all now in better spirits to some degree or other, but some know they’ve lost their men folk, and that, well, obviously…..”
Fentiman let the sentence tail off as Argent nodded.
“And what of the little girl?”
“She’s the worry, Sir. We cannot bring her on deck without her falling into hysteria, and she has spoken not one word. She remains permanently in the sickbay. With her, there seems to be no recovery, I fear that her mind has gone.”
To add emphasis came screams of laughter from other children playing pat-a-cake games on the starboard gangway with Kaled. Argent looked at them and smiled, then at Fentiman.
“I think I’ll go down and take a look.”
Fentiman saluted and Argent turned for the companionway. Once down in the sickbay he found Surgeon Smallpiece and Eara McArdle tending the aftermath of the combat aboard the slaver. These included Lieutenant Sanders, because the wound on his head was not healing as well as it should, but his nursing was provided by a French girl, one of the rescued, she of much the same age as himself, perhaps a little younger. Argent passed amongst his men first, carefully asking after their wellbeing, trying to make some gesture himself, usually to give a drink of water or adjust a dressing. He found Eara McArdle preparing a potion and felt the need to cough to announce his presence. She turned and immediately fixed him with a frowning look.
“Captain! Are ye ill, in any way?”
“No, Mrs. McArdle. I have come to enquire over the little girl. I hear that there is
no improvement.”
Her frown deepened, she understood immediately to whom he referred.
“Nay. Nay improvement. She’s over this way.”
She took a candle and led the way to a small cot in the corner. The child lay there, attended by Sinead Malley, she wetting the child’s lips and speaking soothing words, talking as though her Mother, smoothing the child’s lank hair. She looked up at the approach of the two, but resumed speaking to the child.
“Look who’s come to visit. It’s the Captain.”
There was no response, the catatonic stare remained, her eyes boring upwards but seeing nothing, her body rigid on the narrow bed. Sinead looked up again and shook her head. Argent knelt beside the bed and took the child’s hand, kneeling close to Sinead. He saw for himself the expression of terror and the fear in the child’s eyes, then he stood again to look at Eara McArdle.
“What’s to be done? If you want my opinion, she still feels herself stood on that rail, bound and helpless. What’s to be done? Does she sleep?”
“Nay Captain, neither sleep nor eat, at least not much, hardly enough tae keep her alive! The Surgeon’s in a dilemma, so am I.”
Argent looked down at the child, showing deep concern.
“I’m no medical man, but we have to get her out of the place where she’s put herself. Can you put her to sleep? For a long time. My Father always calls sleep a great healer. Is it worth a try?”
Eara McArdle looked back at him, responsive to his evident concern, but sceptical of his opinions on such a matter.
“I can, aye, for all the good it’ll do, but for little more than three days, I’d say. Beyond that spells danger, if you want my opinion. She eats and drinks so little, y’see. I doubt the use, but ye’re right, Captain, we have to try something.”
A Question of Duty Page 45