A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  She held it up in line with his face from hers, so that he had no choice but to look at her if he looked at it. Her eyes carried the same knowing look. He reached up a hand to take it from her, but she held it just for a second so that he looked straight at her to see that insolent half smile that showed she knew everything that he was thinking. Argent cleared his throat.

  “I thank you, Miss Malley. Please convey my thanks to the General.”

  Her head went to one side. The knowing look still in place.

  “Oh no, that’s for you to do. Later. What you’ve got to do now, is to come and dance. With me.”

  She saw the look of consternation, almost dismay, come over his face.

  “And if you say no, then I’ll get the General to order you to!”

  Argent’s eyebrows rose and his mouth twisted sideways. It seemed he had no choice. Fentiman confirmed it.

  “Strikes me you’re caught on a lee shore, Sir.”

  Sinead pressed home her advantage.

  “Yes, so y’are, caught on one of those; whatever they may be.”

  Argent secured the letter inside his coat and looked at the dancing. She had timed it perfectly, one dance had finished and partners were assembling for the next. Resignedly he held out his arm and Sinead looped both hers through it to guide him to the correct place. The ancient was yelling something, then he clapped his hands to a beat; all joined in the clapping, eventually including Argent, and off they went. Sinead seemed to know instinctively what to do and what came next, whilst Argent in marked contrast was pulled, pushed, guided and shunted around the lines, groups, and circles that the dancers formed. However, after a few dire mishaps, he did begin to learn the moves, which were not that complicated and he actually began to enjoy himself, even adopting, to the appreciative glee of his watching crew, the strutting pose that was required at certain times by certain of the men. The dance finished, but Sinead would not let him leave the dance space but, surprising himself, he was not unhappy to remain out on the square. He blundered his way through the next in similar fashion, but he felt that he had finished in fine style, just as he had for the first. His men clapped and cheered him off the dance square, something that did not go unnoticed by Sinead, but this was the last of the country reels. She insisted on something to drink and so he escorted her to the wine barrels and obtained for them both a pot of white wine that proved to be very refreshing.

  The next event was traditional dancing by local troupes. They stood in silence, watching the intricate display, but in between he asked what he wanted to know.

  “How’s the little girl?”

  She looked up at him, nothing coquettish in her face now.

  “No change, but she’s still asleep. Your men have joined in, the singing to her, I mean, and your fiddler took several turns. It’s happening now, as we speak, some of your men are singing to her, and some Mothers.”

  Argent nodded.

  “I hope it works. Sleep and time, what else can we use?”

  Sinead said nothing, but looped her arm back through his. Argent continued to face the dancing, but seemed not to notice what was happening on the square.

  The entertainment had changed. The professionals had finished, if such was their status and the locals had taken the stage, amidst much encouragement. Argent felt her arm remove from his and he looked down at her, to see that her face was bright with some idea. She looked up at him.

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later. Don’t move.”

  Then she was gone, the colours of her clothing soon lost in the welter of colour that was splashed in all quarters throughout the crowd. Now alone, Argent stood with his wine, generally examining all around. His men were on the far side, with most of the men from the Minerve and the Grampus, and many groups of soldiers were spaced throughout the crowd. The local “team” was performing what he could only describe as an intricate march, keeping to the beat of the inexhaustible band. Fentiman joined him with his own beaker of wine and both watched in silence and then they saw the result of Sinead’s idea. With the end of the Portuguese performance, she marched out, with several other Mothers and older girls and both Ariadne’s fiddlers and a drummer. Their emergence onto the dance square set all the Ariadnies cheering which set off everyone else who was English. The dancers all lined up, the drum beat, the fiddles played and all the women performed an excellent display of Irish step dancing. The Portuguese were stunned by the dancing, so different to their own, but were soon as impressed as anyone and joined in the clapping and cheering that came both during and after. Such was the reception that they danced another. At the finish Sinead came back to Argent, somewhat out of breath, but aglow with their triumph.

  “There, honour is satisfied. I’ll have another drink now.”

  Argent and Fentiman looked at each other, both with knowing smiles, but it was Argent who obtained the necessary. Sinead resumed her possession of his arm and all watched, or more like listened, to what came next, a singer, then a choir, of Portuguese folk songs. This was far more passive than what had gone before, but the evening was drawing to a close and this was a fitting finale and all listened attentively. A lone female sang and finished and then came the interval before the next. Argent and Sinead were talking and so Fentiman had to interrupt.

  “Sir. Look it’s Angelie. Sanders’ Angelie.”

  Sander’s Angelie was stood on the stage and began singing, accompanied by the accordions. It was a lovely, lilting song, and Angelie’s voice was perfect and true, but it didn’t take long for either Fentiman nor Argent to detect the change in the atmosphere across the square, confirmed by the sour looks exchanged by the Portuguese around them.

  “Sir, she’s singing in French!”

  “I know.”

  What stopped them from throwing things or rushing the stage, Argent never knew. Perhaps it was simply because she was a lovely, harmless, slip of a girl, singing a simple song, one from her own home.

  “Get around to our men, tell them to cheer their heads off when she finishes. Sinead, could you do the same for your women and children?”

  Both nodded and went off in different directions. Argent found some soldiers, the Bosun from Grampus and some topmen and ordered them to follow him to the stage. If any protection were needed, they would give it. Angelie sang on, faultlessly, and meanwhile Fentiman had reached the sailors from Ariadne. He found the Captain of the Maintop.

  “She singing in French and you know what that could mean, here in a Portuguese village. When she’s finished I want us all cheering like madmen, which I’m hoping will set off the rest of us English and keep the locals quiet. It should, if they see us giving her a good reception.”

  “You can count on that from us, Sir. We’ll give a cheer right enough for Sander’s girl. Them women and children is of our own, that’s how we sees it.”

  Fentiman nodded, somewhat moved.

  “Right, pass it around.”

  Angelie finished perfectly and Argent felt his men at his shoulder. There was silence for but a second, but it seemed like eternity, then the Ariadnies exploded into cheering and clapping added to by Sinead’s women and children. This set off the other sailors from Minerve and Grampus, who by now knew perfectly who she was, then the soldiers. The Portuguese, who had just listened silently to the hated language, clapped politely. Angelie descended the stage to be greeted by Sanders and a group from Ariadne assembled by Wentworth in case they were needed. Argent thanked his guard and the moment had passed, soon to be forgotten as the band struck up a rousing tune that everyone joined in with and the crowd surged forward to be nearer the band. The song was evidently some patriotic anthem for all ended up singing, waving and swaying for its duration to finally dissolve into deafening cheering at the end.

  Argent sought out General Hill as the crowds dispersed and he caught up with him on the road to Army Headquarters. Argent placed himself in his way and saluted.

  “Sir. Miss Malley has given me your letter. I have it here and I c
annot leave without thanking you for your support. We will be leaving on the morning tide.

  Hill did no more than offer his hand.

  “I wish you Godspeed and a safe passage home, Captain. Good luck to yourself and to that good crew of yours.”

  oOo

  Ariadne was laboriously edging up to her anchor, the whole crew either at the capstan bars or awaiting their turn. A few more minutes of effort brought the cable to an angle so steep that the anchor was just holding the harbour bottom enough to hold the frigate’s bows against the ebbing tide, this newly turned and not yet strong. Fraser ran up to Argent.

  “Cable up and down, Sir.”

  Argent looked over the larboard side. A cable was running almost alongside the ship, from Ariadne’s stern, the larboard quarter, then off to a fixed point further up the harbour. This would turn her in the tide, to allow her bows to swing around to face the harbour entrance then the cable would be released at the required time. Argent saw no hindrance to prevent them making their exit; it was time to start.

  “Weigh anchor.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  The anchor was pulled from its ground and the cable now took the strain as Ariadne slid back sternwards, but soon she swung around in the tide until her bowsprit pointed to the harbour entrance and the cable running back to shore drew taut. Argent nodded and an axe fell, to allow Ariadne, now released, to follow the tide out to sea. The wind was the common South Westerly and jib sails, main staysail and driver gave her some steerageway in the ebbing tide. All had been perfectly executed and, as she passed, her farewell from the Minerve and the Grampus was very different from the reception of her arrival. There was no cheering and little waving, the Officers raised their hats and the crews lifted but a cursory hand to wave but they now knew the story of Ariadne’s outward passage and what they now carried, hopefully home to family and safety. Waving women and children set the seal.

  Zachary Short safely conned the ship through the narrow entrance and the tide and the good wind on the staysails did the rest, to take her out to the open sea, beyond the islands and deceitful shoals waiting off the coast. Argent ordered down helm and, with all plain sail set, Ariadne began her journey Northward. He felt no need to push his ship for the return journey in the manner that he had for the outward and so contented himself with studying the set of the sails and examining the clouds coming their way from the weather side. He saw nothing to give him any concern and so he fell to musing about their course and, after that, his other more personal concerns. He was interrupted by Fentiman.

  “Sir, I’ve been speaking to Walcott. He says that he is prepared to help in the sickbay. He accepts that the wounded became wounded to help him and so he thinks it right that he helps them.”

  This rankled with Argent and he spoke with sarcasm.

  “That’s highly magnanimous of him!”

  Then he let out a long sigh.

  “Agree to it. That is the problem solved, albeit less than satisfactorily.”

  He turned to Fentiman, a glint in his eye.

  “Sign him on but rate him the lowest. He has no skill for care that he has revealed to us, so put him on the lowest rate of pay.”

  He was satisfied. Walcott would be doing something; true, as dictated by him, but he’d get little or nothing for it when deductions were made for food and clothing. The point concerning his refusal to do what he was skilled to do, would be made, on behalf of the ship. He turned away to re-examine the weather.

  Elsewhere on the ship other conversations were taking place, longer and with conclusions less well defined. One such was in the Midshipman’s Berth. Trenchard, Bright and Berry were busy with their Journals. Bright had sketched the entrance to Figueira da Foz, Berry was writing about how they turned and got out and Trenchard was drawing a plan of how the anchor was raised. He had labelled all, including the personnel, but he was stuck on the title of the small boys who fastened the thick anchor cable to the thinner cable that was able to be wound around the capstan.

  “What are they called, the boys that tie the cables together?”

  Bright did not look up from his careful use of a brush and watercolour.

  “Nippers. They’re called nippers. That’s the job of the ship’s boys when we weigh anchor.”

  Berry was painfully penning the process of turning the ship in the harbour, thinking hard about the sequence of orders. Trenchard added the final word to his plan and looked up.

  “Talking of ship’s boys. One hour from now we have their lesson, or at least I have. Which of you two is on Watch?”

  Berry raised a hand.

  “What about Wentworth?”

  Bright replied.

  “No idea. It could just be me and thee.”

  Trenchard continued.

  “How are you finding it? My feelings are that it’s deuced awkward. They cannot even recognise their letters. We’re barely off the alphabet. And most can’t tell a word from a number!”

  Berry spoke, at last.

  “True, but it’s Captain’s orders. And I’ll hand them all this, that they do want to learn. So, that’s what we do, and I, for one, don’t find it too bad.”

  Trenchard looked at Berry.

  “Where did you finish, last time?”

  It was Bright who answered.

  “Simple sentences; subject, object, verb. That sort of thing.”

  “And how went it.”

  “There’s progress.”

  Trenchard closed his Journal.

  “Talking of progress. We took the slaver, but there’s rumour that our Captain could be in no small amount of trouble for doing so. That our mission was not the slaver but the delivery of something to Figueira, back there. I mean, that must be right, why else would we go there in the first place, arrive, and then depart, the very next day?”

  Bright gave answer.

  “I was on Watch and saw him immediately go ashore with a huge and imposing satchel. One can only conclude that was our mission, as ordered.”

  Berry halted his pen.

  “I’ve heard the same, about him being in hot water, but how can you be in trouble for rescuing Christian women and children from a life of slavery?”

  Bright looked at him, indulgently.

  “Orders! Simple as that. If you disobey them, or do not fully carry them out, it can fetch you up before a Court Martial. That’s our life, we all know that, the same for our Captain, so, if he did disobey or some such, well, only time will tell.”

  Bright went back to his painting, Trenchard to thinking up simple sentences, Berry to his next task, listing the sails that were set to take them North. He left the berth to take a look.

  Above their heads, at number three, starboard battery, other words were being exchanged, in a much less convivial atmosphere. Bosun’s Mate Henry Ball had just turned away, leaving a grinning Edward Cable, him displaying a wide and anxious smile and hoping for a warm welcome, but it was not forthcoming, at least not yet. Sam Morris, Guncaptain, looked at his new recruit. He looked “right seaman” enough and well muscled, probably from his time at an oar on the slaver, but that was the problem, he’d served, although as a slave, aboard that reviled galley. Morris didn’t trouble himself with introductions; he simply asked what they all wanted to know.

  “So, how long was you aboard that Arab barky?”

  Cable’s anxiety over his reception released a torrent of information, the facts tumbling over each other.

  “Six years, just over, early in ‘03. Pirates took our ship, the William Johns, an Indiaman, when we was becalmed off Morocco. She was an Indiaman, was the William Johns, an’ they took us all off, an’ we all was sold, four of us bought by that black hearted bastard you got chained up below. Two died in his galley, leaving me an’ Bill Beech. One of ‘em was chucked overboard still alive, ill, but couldn’t row no more. So over ‘e went. Nice fellah, off the William Johns too, but that were that, t’other …….”

  Sam Morris held up his hand to halt the tor
rent. His suspicion matched the others of the guncrew.

  “So you says you was off an Indiaman. How long was you a sailor? An’ where’s your home port?”

  “I bin a sailor since I was 12. Master’s Mate I was, on the William Johns, till them heathen bastards took us. An’ I hails from Bristol.”

  Morris looked at Jacob Pierce.

  “This is Jacob Pierce. He’s Bristol born, like you says you are.”

  Morris examined Cable’s face and eyes minutely for any sign of anxiety or concern. But Cable turned to Pierce like a long lost brother.

  “Which part. I’m out of The Marsh, St. Phillips.”

  Pierce folded his arms. He knew what Morris wanted.

  “I’m from The Dings, next door, up the hill.”

  Cable looked puzzled.

  “What hill? The Dings is lower, in the bend of the river. Couldn’t get much lower.”

  “Well, we was close to Lawrence Hill.”

  Cable became even more puzzled, but Pierce continued.

  “Where’d you go drinkin’ when you got back? The Hatchet on Welsh Back?”

  “The Hatchet b’ain’t on Welsh Back. That pub is t’other side of the harbour. The Llandogger’s on Welsh Back. Are you sure you hails from Bristol? You ain’t ‘ad no knock on the ‘ead since?”

  Pierce looked at Morris and nodded. Morris looked at Cable.

  “You served a gun afore? I’ve got you placed on the sponge.

  He thrust the worn implement into Cable’s hands and he hefted it as though it were a passport to Salvation.

  Elsewhere, however, as Ariadne settled to her Northward passage, her hull holding firm in the steady breeze and the even sea, greater drama was unfolding. The little girl was waking up from her long sleep. Eara McArdle had been expecting it for some time and Sinead Malley was close by, as were two Mothers and their children. By some telepathy, so was Gabriel Whiting and Able Jones.

  The girl opened her eyes, blinked and sat up. She looked around and then swung her legs off the bed, to rub her eyes and scratch her neck. Then she noticed the smiling face of Sinead Malley, who gave the child her warmest smile, kissed her and spoke a welcome.