A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “And whilst she’s asleep, is there anything we can do that may help? When asleep she can still hear. Can we speak to her, some words of comfort or familiarity? Will that do any good?”

  Sinead Malley looked at Argent in the candlelight, moved herself at this stiff Captain’s deep and genuine anxiety for the welfare of a mere peasant child. She had a suggestion of her own.

  “We could sing her cradle songs, lullabies, and at the same time, tell her she’s safe and going home, her Mother is waiting, things like that.”

  Both Argent and Eara McArdle nodded and Sinead continued.

  “Other women here would help, singing and talking, taking over when one gets tired.”

  Argent spoke again.

  “And we’ve some good voices amongst the crew. They’ll stand a Watch, of that I’m certain.”

  Sinead spoke again.

  “She much enjoyed the Ceilidh, the dancin’, the fiddle and all.”

  “We can manage that too.”

  Both Argent and Sinead looked at Eara McArdle and her response was positive.

  “I’ll mix the potion.”

  oOo

  The eight filed in, all highly bedraggled and ragged, but at least now clean and their chains removed. Fentiman had arranged them into some form of order and he followed them in, to begin the introductions, from left to right.

  “The first is Edward Cable, Sir, the second is William Beech. Both say they were taken when their Indiaman was captured and then both were sold to the galley.”

  This was accompanied by vigorous nodding from both Cable and Beech.

  “The next five are of various nationalities, Sir, and speak no English, but Cable and Beech have been able to inform us of their names and where they come from. We have….”

  He stepped forward to point.

  “Two Frenchmen, Dubois and Valenciennes. Then two Neapolitans, Descatti and Frioli, last a Greek, Lamma. Last, here, is an American, James Walcott, taken off an American Merchantman and sold, like Cable and Beech.”

  At this point the American stood forward, pointing his finger at Argent.

  “I, Sir, am an American citizen, and I wish to request that…….”

  But Fentiman had placed himself between the American and his Captain’s desk and pushed him back into line.

  “Wait!”

  Both the word and the push silenced the American and he held his place, but remained stern faced and plainly angry. Argent looked at Cable and Beech.

  “Which of you feels best able to translate into Arabic?”

  Beech and Cable looked at each other, but it was Cable who raised his hand. It was he who had gone back aboard the slaver with Fraser to relay Argent’s last instructions.

  “Me Sir.”

  Argent’s attitude to any man found aboard the slaver had significantly mollified with time and he spoke merely to enquire.

  “Do these others understand Arabic?”

  “Oh, yes Sir. Enough to get by.”

  “Right. Tell these other five, and this applies to yourselves and to Mr. Walcott, that the chains we found you all in have earned you the benefit of the doubt. We regard you all as being rescued slaves and are pleased to have freed you.”

  Cable spoke in syllables utterly indistinguishable from each other, but all, bar Walcott, eventually grinned and nodded. Argent paused to allow that to sink in, then he resumed, imparting his decision.

  “Tell the Frenchmen that they will be taken back to England. They will be well cared for, but they will be interned as enemy aliens.”

  As Cable translated, both Frenchman looked at Argent, but their faces registered little. They probably expected as much, they were after all, aboard an enemy warship. When Cable had finished, Argent spoke further.

  “Tell the Neapolitans and the Greek, that we require them to work their passage back to England where they will become free men.”

  The translation brought huge smiles to the three faces. Argent then spoke again directly to Beech and Cable.

  “The same applies to you two. Once back in England, I’m sure you would wish to be reunited with your families, to make them aware that you are both alive.”

  Cable looked at Beech, and then spoke.

  “Bill, here, has family, Sir. But I’ve none, so I’m happy to sign on, Sir. So’s Bill, but he wants to get word to his family. Your lads’ve told us about Ariadne and neither of us fancies another Indiaman.”

  Argent sat back and smiled at both.

  “That’s excellent. In that case you will receive the volunteer’s bounty. For the moment you’ll be in the Afterguard, but I’m sure that will change.”

  Both nodded even more vigorously.

  “Aye aye, Sir. Thankee Sir.”

  Argent turned to the American.

  “Mr. Walcott. What I said to the Neapolitans and the Greek applies to you. I feel it right that I ask you to help us sail the ship back to England, then you can go your own way. Trade is building between our two countries and I’m sure you will soon find a ship to get you home.”

  Walcott drew himself up to his full height, his eyes still angry, his face gathered into a deep frown.

  “I have made it clear to you that I am an American citizen and, as such, I’ll do nothing aboard a British warship!”

  Argent looked at him, his face showing at least mild exasperation.

  “We sailed short handed. We just buried nine men and I have as many again unable to perform their duties because of their wounds. The ship’s company is short by two dozen. I’m asking you to help us sail her back, but you maintain that your nationality entitles you to do nothing whilst you are aboard. If I accept that, it makes you no more than a passenger, so what do you suggest?”

  “That I be taken to the nearest neutral port.”

  Argent’s exasperation grew.

  “You fully appreciate, I take it, that the whole is Europe is at war. The nearest neutral ports are at the far end of the Mediterranean or the other side of the Baltic, apart from those on the North African coast, of course, but I assume you would not wish to disembark there! I do intend to return our French women and children to France, in some way. You can join them if you wish?”

  Walcott’s own anger now fully revealed itself.

  “Then I’ll never get home! There’s no trade between the States and France. Your damn cruisers make sure of that.”

  “Or, of course you could leave us when we get to Portugal.”

  “And there’ll be little enough trade out of there! All the Portuguese Navy is trading with you.”

  Argent lifted his head and looked directly at him. Walcott needed a very clear explanation that would spell out his situation, at least for now.

  “It is up to you to make the choice from the following three that I can see remaining. I can land you in France or you sail with us as a member of the crew, or you remain aboard ship as a passenger. I don’t see a fourth choice. If to England, and you do nothing to help us get you there, then you are a passenger and we expect a fee. If you cannot pay it, the Royal Navy may look upon you as a debtor and you may end up in a debtor’s prison. Of that, I cannot be sure, but it is certainly possible.”

  Walcott made no reply, he was thinking of his options, but Argent was done. He looked at Fentiman.

  “See that these others are signed on. Give Mr. Walcott one day to decide on his own status and what his future is to be.”

  Fentiman saluted and then stood to one side, an obvious signal that all were to leave. As they did so, Argent sighed. Another problem, possibly causing an international incident, but Walcott had annoyed him. He had shown not even the merest gratitude and it rankled greatly to give any of them, including him, an idle passage back to England. The ship had already paid one price, it was not going to pay another, that of an able bodied man lounging idle whilst the rest of them worked to make up for the absence of others no longer capable, and nine now no more, dead in his cause.

  oOo

  Ariadne was regularly loggi
ng 12 knots, sometimes approaching 13 and the coast of Portugal was now a permanent fixture on her larboard side. With the coast of Spain astern Argent could, at last, put some East into her course and, with the West wind just aft of beam on, Ariadne took it on her best point of sailing. The Noon Sight of 18th October gave a position a mere 22 miles from Figueira da Foz and so, reluctantly but submitting to prudence, Argent ordered the shortening of sail, for they needed to arrive at the top of the tide. Ariadne idled through the afternoon, evening, and night and then dawn came to reveal the lumpy headland to the North of Figuiera da Foz. Ariadne idled further forward on topsails and driver to show them the narrow mouth of the harbour itself. Argent was on the quarterdeck with Zachary Short at the wheel. Argent judged his moment with the still strong West wind.

  “Down helm. Course for the harbour, Mr. Short.”

  The wheel was already spinning, Short’s anticipation had been perfect.

  “Down helm. Course for the harbour. Aye, aye Sir.”

  Ariadne edged Eastwards. Figueira da Foz had a very narrow entrance and they entered at the beginning of the ebb, as Argent had timed. Once inside, the area of water where they could anchor widened but little, the harbour having two, somewhat narrow, branches. The main anchorage continued East, directly inland, and a smaller anchorage turned down to the South behind the headland on that side. The hills behind showed burnt brown after the rainless summer and the town itself had two sections, the largest to the North, alongside the main anchorage and the second a mere collection of buildings, much smaller and of less import, sitting precariously on the Southern headland. Ferryboats beetled between, but most noticeable was the wide island of pasture between the two anchorages and on its flat surface roamed wayward cattle, fenced only by the tide and tended desultorily by local peasants. Under their wide brimmed hats they were far more colourful than their drab charges, each curious figure lazily herding the cattle around the grassy surface, to little purpose it would seem, there being neither feature nor building across the whole, wide expanse. What could be seen from any ship’s deck of the main port to the North was but a white line of bleached buildings, a few, presumably those with a civil function, pushing frontages and bell towers above those smaller, lining the quayside. What extra building, if any, added to the overall area of the town could not been seen, remaining hidden behind the frontage, perhaps reaching on inland across the flat interior.

  Figueira was a major supply harbour for the British army of Portugal and consequently both anchorages were crowded. Vessels were against the quays three deep and the South anchorage was crowded with small coasters with rigs of every mechanical contrivance, but the main roads contained large Merchantmen and two Royal Navy warships, the frigate Minerve, and the 50 gun Grampus, both new and both very smart. Ariadne steered for an anchorage that would keep her clear of all, even when she swung at anchor, but this meant steering past both Royal Navy vessels. When she came up to the Minerve, the crew of this gleaming ship lined the rail and began hoots of derision. Ariadne’s Navy colours had been restored, the yellow strake across her gunports bright and new, but she still had some sails white and some dark grey. It looked incongruous to say the least and there was no ship in the Royal Navy that would not take advantage of the discomfiture of another. Shouts such as “game of checkers, anyone?” and “make me a King”, came across quite frequently in various contexts and the crew of the Ariadne stared back with implacable hatred, which they maintained in response to a similar reception from the Grampus.

  McArdle’s reading of the chart indicated a safe anchorage and the anchor was let go, for Ariadne to come to a halt, riding secure in the now fierce tide. Stony faced from their reception, Whiting and the bargecrew awaited their Captain below the entry port on the starboard side and soon he appeared. The despatch satchel was conspicuous and he was accompanied by Purser Merryman Maybank, who had charged himself with the task of procuring some needed supplies; including, but he would never have admitted it, some sweetmeats for the children, if some were obtainable. He descended the ladder, to take his place besides his Captain, a pained and frantic expression on his face, as though the future held something awful. Able Jones released the painter, coiled it neatly at the bows and took his place as bow oar and Whiting took over. The tide had already taken them someway downstream from Ariadne and Whiting looked around and chose a course between the two other warships.

  “Give way all.”

  They were in their best barge uniform and the rowing was immaculate. Something needed to be done to rescue the honour of the ship and the handling of both the tiller and the oars did much towards that, at least in their own eyes, as they rowed on up to the harbour steps. Argent and Maybank exchanged few words other than which of them expected to be back first. They couldn’t agree and so agreed to return at 11.00, then, with the bargecrew faultlessly holding the barge steady, both Officers disembarked. Whiting and Jones gave Argent their smartest salutes and their Captain ascended the steps followed by Maybank. Argent chose to steer a course for the building that had most British uniforms entering, leaving, and guarding and this proved to be a wise move, because, at its door, Argent learnt of the whereabouts of Army Headquarters and Maybank learned of the Royal Navy Chandlers that may be able to help. At that point they parted company.

  Argent obtained a guide at this office, which seemed, surprisingly, more military than naval and his guide, a Corporal of the 27th Foot, led the way to Army Headquarters proper, a tall greystone building, sporting green shutters besides its windows. It looked as though it was once a Counting House, but was now given over to concerns more martial than financial. The Corporal came to the attention at the side of the steps up and peeled off an immaculate salute, which Argent returned, Army style. Inside he found a Captain of Dragoons behind a desk, which Argent approached.

  “Good morning. My name is Captain Argent of HMS Ariadne. We have just anchored. I have here……”

  Argent placed the impressive satchel on the desk.

  “…… an urgent despatch for General Wellesley.”

  The Captain looked up, hoping to be helpful and to get the Captain on his way. He closed his fingers around the strap, but noticed that Argent did not relinquish his own hold.

  “Good morning Sir. Very good. You can leave it with me and I’ll see that it’s included in the day’s documents for transfer. The General is some way away, on the border, Badajoz we believe.”

  Argent retained his grip.

  “I thank you for your help, but this comes from Castlereagh himself. With respect to yourself, I am required to obtain the signature of the highest ranking Officer available.”

  The Captain’s face fell at the rejection of his offer, but, nevertheless, he created a smile, nodded and rose from his chair.

  “Well Sir. General Hill is at present with us. I don’t think he is so busy that he cannot see you, so, if you care to wait?”

  Argent bowed.

  “Thank you.”

  The Captain disappeared behind a heavy door and Argent was left to occupy himself, the satchel over his shoulder. There was no chair and so he waited by the wall of what he now saw was a wide, sparse hallway, no cheer from a fireplace even, as would be present in any English building of such a size. The ceiling was high and of ornate plaster and any look back to the door was guided by wide, redpine, floorboards. Light oak panelling showed where some kind of counter once was, but the area above was now fully boarded over. The doorway could not be examined, the sun struck the white walls on one side, giving an unbearable glare, such that nothing could be seen in the street beyond, but Argent’s mind was seeing nothing beyond his own thoughts, that of what awaited him back in England. The opening of the door behind him broke in upon his dark musings.

  “General Hill will see you now, Sir. If you’d like to follow me?”

  Argent turned away from the glare of the frontdoor and followed the Captain down a corridor that was positively gloomy by comparison with the hall, but the impression w
as dispelled when he was shown into the company of a white haired, avuncular gentlemen, plainly dressed, who seemed genuinely pleased to see him, such was the beaming smile in the bucolic face.

  “Captain Argent! Such a pleasure! Please take a seat.”

  This meant sitting in one of two chairs, both quite close together and separate from the desk that stood, seemingly unused, at the far side of the room. Hill had enough presence of mind to wait until the door had closed before he spoke.

  “Now then, Captain,” he beamed anew, “What do you have?”

  Argent swung the satchel onto his lap and opened it to remove the package which he held loosely in his hands.

  “This is a communication from Lord Castlereagh…..”

  Argent paused as Hill sat back, appearing astonished, probably genuinely, his hands falling onto his sizeable knees.

  “…… I am charged to place it in the hands of the highest ranking Officer available, if not into the hands of General Wellesley himself. Lord Castlereagh thought it of such vital import, that I was ordered to make the fastest possible passage here.”

  Hill leaned forward, conspiratorially.

  “Oh, highly important is it? Do you know what it is?”

  Hill had not yet taken the package and Argent had not offered it.

  “Yes Sir. It says that the Austrians are out of the war and will soon sign a Treaty with Buonaparte. That means he will now have more unoccupied troops at his disposal. I was required to make as fast a passage as possible in case this new knowledge could change General Wellesley’s plans.”

  Hill guffawed.

  “Plans! Not much chance of that. The army hasn’t fired a shot since Talavera in July and Wellesley, he’s now Lord Wellington, by the way, since Talavera; is thoroughly entrammelled with Spanish pride and Spanish politics. Currently there are no plans at all, until something workable is established with the Spanish. Being allied to them during the Talavera campaign was an awful business, you must appreciate, awful.”

  He leaned further forward for yet more conspiracy.