A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “Dia duit, Mary. Bhí tú i do chodladh.”

  The child looked blankly at Sinead, but rose off the bed, to stand and then walk around. Sinead looked at the others, these all watching the girl fearfully.

  “I told her she’s been asleep.”

  The girl traversed the sickbay and, after much trial and error, she found the way out of the sickbay and then climbed the first companionway she found up to the lower deck. There she stood, debating which way to go. Ducking under the hammocks, she went to the stern and found her way to the entrance to the galley, followed by the four anxious adults, Eara McArdle, Sinead Malley, Whiting and Jones. She placed both hands on the sides of the entrance and stood regarding the scene within, first seen being Johnson, busy peeling endless potatoes. He immediately noticed her and, by inclining his head, he brought her presence to the attention of Bible Mortimor, who was adjudicating on the quality of the day’s beef stew but then he also stood regarding the wide eyed child, himself, for once, lost for words. The child assessed all within, then entered. She climbed onto the wooden counter besides the stew pot and sat, regarding Mortimor quizzically, a fixed stare, but not unblinking. Mortimor looked at the thin figure and decided that some food was in order. He reached for a wooden bowl and filled it with the stew, which he handed to the child, followed by a spoon. The child dipped in the spoon, tested the heat against her lower lip, entered the spoon to her mouth and began chewing. Then she swallowed and pronounced her judgement.

  “Níl go leor salann ann.”

  “It needs more salt.”

  Sinead had translated and all laughed, loud and long, as much from relief as humour. Bible Mortimor looked daggers at the child, but found the pinch of extra salt requested and spread it over the top of the stew in the bowl. The child ate up with relish, not giving Mortimor or anyone, another glance. She finished the bowl and again sat regarding Mortimor.

  “A mhaith liom níos mó é, le do thoil, a dhuine uasail.”

  Sinead translated, barely able to contain her laughing.

  “She wants some more, please, Sir.”

  Mortimor resumed his look of outrage at such cheek. Nevertheless something akin to emotion had stirred inside him and he refilled the bowl, this time with a combination of peas and stew, plus salt. He then landed a piece of the officer’s bread on top. He saw the approving looks on the faces of Sinead Malley, Eara McArdle and the two topmen, but would not allow their obvious approval to change his outward scowl, whilst inwardly he was quite moved.

  “Let her glean even among the sheaves, and reproach her not. Ruth 2, verse 15.”

  It was Eara McArdle who answered.

  “Amen to that, Brother Mortimor. Amen.”

  She then returned to the sickbay, but the other three remained. The questions stood unspoken amongst them: what would she do now, where would she go, would she go to the weather deck where she would see the ocean, now growing more turbulent from a building wind? The orders to take in sail came down to break in on their concerns, so the two topmen left.

  The girl finished her second helping, put the bowl to one side and sat for a further while, examining all around, not anxiously but as though appraising what she saw there. Her mouth changed to a ghost of a smile and she jumped down to stand besides Mortimor. To his great alarm she took his hand, or more accurately, closed her fingers around two of his and pulled him out of the galley. Mortimor followed, as if bidden by the God he feared. She took him up the nearest companionway onto the gundeck and there, those on Watch stopped all that they were doing and even the Bosun’s Mates did nothing to force a resumption of their work. They all knew about the traumatised girl and all looked upon the incongruous sight, the miserable Bible Mortimor being led by the hand by a child, fully along the whole row of guns. The comments arrived, not complimentary for the less than popular Mortimor.

  “What be this then, Bible, you grown so weak in the ‘ead you needs a child to find yer way about?”

  “Be she towin’ you off to the Captain, Bible? You bin stealin’ sugar again?”

  Mortimor returned the comments with a look that would melt rock, but he would not disengage his hand. Sinead followed anxiously, then the bizarre pair came to the companionway that led to the forecastle and the child ascended, still towing the mortally embarrassed cook. Close to the top, spray from a heavier wave descended on them both, but she still ascended and on the forecastle she climbed onto a carronade, using Mortimor’s shoulder for balance. She looked at the sea for a long minute, silently but calmly. Suddenly, she kissed Mortimor, jumped down and ran off to join a group of children on the larboard gangway who were making mare’s nests out of string, these being taught by Kaled, who had taken on the role of “Keeper of the Children. A hint of a smile twisted Mortimor’s face before embarrassment took over, then he left the forecastle, not to retrace his steps through the gauntlet of the men on the gundeck, but along the empty weather gangway. Although it made him wet, it at least preserved what was left of his dismantled dignity.

  oOo

  Argent heard the clear and respectful knock on his cabin door. He was standing at the cabin windows, gazing over his ship’s wake, looking, but not seeing.

  “Enter.”

  The door opened and in came Sanders.

  “You sent for me, Sir?”

  Argent sat at his desk and motioned Sanders to a chair. His wounds were still wrapped in bandages and he carefully arranged his damaged arm.

  “We have 128 rescuees aboard, Jonathan. 92 are French. I want to return them to their own coast. Women and children are no threat to us, and should not be condemned to years of internment. Also, we could find ourselves in action, with over 100 civilians on board. Not good. You would agree?”

  Sanders face lit up at the notion of his opinion being consulted.

  “Yes Sir. Quite so, Sir.”

  “I want you to find out where they come from and decide on one port where they could all be disembarked, as one group. I want you to work that out. You know what I mean, somewhere in the middle of the cluster of coastal villages from where they were all captured, if that’s possible.”

  Sanders stood, but his wound prevented a salute.

  “Yes Sir. I’ll get onto it right away. Will Mr. McArdle have a chart, Sir?”

  “I’ll be amazed if not, so please ask him.”

  “Yes Sir. Give me a couple of hours, Sir.”

  “No rush, we haven’t cleared Finnisterre yet.”

  As Sanders left, Argent reached across the desk to the Logbook, a permanent feature in that corner of the desk, but he did no writing; the day’s entry was done. Instead he read and re-read, for the countless of times, his entries prior to taking the slaver, imagining how a Court Martial would view the entries, perhaps as justification, or otherwise, for his choice of action. That done, he stared out of the cabin window, listening to the creak of the tiller ropes behind the cabin screen.

  Sanders was as good as his word and returned within two hours, a chart under his wounded arm, which he spread on the desk before Argent.

  “There is no clear choice, Sir. To place them in the centre of their village cluster, best would be Camaret, here, but there are problems.”

  He placed a finger below the word Camaret on the map, on the North coast of a peculiarly shaped headland below the entrance to Brest harbour.

  “You can see, Sir, it’s right in Brest Roads. We could, probably would, find ourselves intercepted.”

  “How many come from there?”

  “28, Sir. The most number.”

  “That slaver lifted 28 French citizens from a village right on Brest Roads? Under the very noses of the French Navy?”

  “That’s it, Sir. There’s no other way of looking at it.”

  Argent shook his head, but carried on.

  “Where else?

  Sanders ran his finger South down the chart.

  “Loctudy, Sir. Much more away from Brest, and almost the most Southerly raid.”

  “How many
from there?”

  Sanders consulted a piece of paper.

  “Nearly as many. 25. Sir.”

  Argent looked at both choices and studied. Camaret would be best for the rescuees to disperse to their homes, but it would risk the ship in the entrance to one of France’s busiest naval bases. However, it would give an easy run North to Quessant, assuming the usual South West wind. Loctudy was safe from Brest traffic, but on a peculiar East facing coast, part of a Southerly headland that could mean tacking South for some miles before resuming their voyage to Quessant.

  “I don’t much like either. Is there no other?”

  Sanders pointed to a coastal village between the two.

  “Douamanez, Sir. But I discounted that one, because it’s inside a deep bay and not so very far from Brest.”

  Argent nodded.

  “You are right. How many from there?”

  Again the piece of paper.

  “12, Sir.”

  Argent adopted one of his thinking poses. Right arm across his waist to support his left elbow, his left index finger touching his chin. He used the pose for two minutes.

  “Loctudy. We can come in from the South East and hove to off this headland, to the South of the harbour. That places her head well enough to sail out Westwards. The coast runs South Sou’West from there. Any decent amount of West in the wind will give us a passage out and back to our course home. Your thoughts?”

  “Idling off this headland waiting for our boats to return, won’t the wind push us Northeast or East, Sir, into that bay?”

  Sanders finger on the map indicated his concern.

  “That’ll be the trick, Jonathan, to hold her where we want her, ready for a quick farewell.”

  Argent smiled and nodded.

  “Please would you inform Mr. McArdle that I would like a course for Loctudy?”

  Sanders rolled up the chart and left, Argent following him out. He felt the need for a breath of air.

  Evening was upon them. Argent climbed the companionway to the quarterdeck as two bells of the second dogwatch sounded, to find the ship a soothing picture, both her decks and sails bathed in rose light by the dying sun. Argent took in the uplifting sight of his good ship, sailing on through the quiet of evening, whilst leaning on the quarterdeck rail, not taking his place on the weatherside, which had been respectfully vacated by both his Watch Officers, Wentworth and Trenchard. Ariadne moved in leisurely mode, her hull rising and falling lazily to the long Atlantic rollers that she overtook on her passage Northwards. He turned to Wentworth.

  “Heading and speed, please, Mr. Wentworth.”

  “N-North by West. Sir. Nine knots.”

  Argent nodded and thanked him. That was the least fractured sentence he had heard from Wentworth since he came aboard. Wentworth had grown in stature, both within himself and with the men, since he had led the boarding party onto the slaver. The men now, almost religiously, paid him their respects, not in any way mockingly, but with genuine warmth, and usually a spoken greeting. His seamanship had never been in question and what he had said to encourage his men prior to going over to board had been circulated and had become common knowledge, it much in his favour.

  He looked along the starboard gangway to see Sinead Malley talking to the little girl he had been so worried about prior to entering Figuiera da Foz. He was amazed and delighted to see her on deck, calm, smiling and talking, now a normal little girl. Before he knew it, he was taking himself along the gangway towards them and Sinead saw him and seeing her recognition, he touched his hat. Her smile was warm, she was clearly pleased to see him, gone, at least for now, was the knowing mock impudence. Argent spoke first.

  “This is the little girl, isn’t it? The one we were so worried about. She seems recovered, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes Captain, I would. Your idea worked. I put it down to you.”

  She said something in Gaelic to the girl, who turned and curtsied, and then spoke a long sentence in Gaelic. Her big brown to green eyes held Argent in their steady gaze as she spoke, then Sinead translated immediately.

  “She says that her name in Mary and she’s feeling much better now. She wishes you a good evening and thanks you for her rescue. She also says that she likes your cook, Mr. Mortimor. He cooks a nice stew.”

  Argent broke up on the spot and could barely choke out a reply, his eyes filling with tears. He took a deep breath and clenched his teeth together to steady his jaw before speaking.

  “Tell her that the Royal Navy will always, always, place itself between her and any harm, and that the whole ship is pleased that she is now well and back amongst us.”

  Sinead did so, whilst taking glances at Argent. The girl spoke something in Gaelic and Sinead nodded, then the girl ran off.

  “She’s off to the galley. She has attached herself to your Cook. She spends a lot of time there.”

  Argent laughed gently whilst wiping his eyes. The idea of Bible Mortimor as a nursemaid could only be viewed with great amusement on top of greater astonishment. Now it was Sinead who looked steadily at him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Almost due North into the Bay of Biscay. I’m going to sail directly across and land the French at a place called Loctudy. Then we’ll sail for Killannan, to land your people. Loctudy’s on the South of the Brest peninsula, if that means anything to you?”

  Sinead immediately bristled.

  “Yes it does, I thank you, Captain. I’m not so ignorant as not to know the geography of what’s immediately over the sea from my own country!”

  Argent withdrew back slightly.

  “I’m sorry, I meant no offence. I was simply trying to find out, to get it clear, sort of thing. If you did not know, I would have shown you. Drawn some kind of map on this rail here.”

  He moved his finger over the polished wood, returned her look and smiled wryly. She modified her stern examination of him to simply look at him silently with her head inclined, her body turned sideways. He broke the moment.

  “Well. I’m pleased for the little girl. I’d best get back to the quarterdeck, I’m on Watch soon.”

  He turned to leave, but Sinead spoke up immediately, halting his turn.

  “We all think, the Mothers that is, that you’re looking really down. We hear that there could be some trouble for you when you get back. That you should not have come after us, not have stopped, even!”

  Argent turned to face her fully. At first he simply nodded, then he spoke.

  “That could be true. I don’t know. It depends on how their Lordships at the Admiralty view the decisions I took to cross, more like go around, The Bay, when coming out to here. I didn’t sail directly across, as we are now. I convinced myself that there was real concern for the weather and it was that decision which brought us up on him. I’m not even sure if I didn’t take that excuse too readily. Even then, it’s arguable that I should have sailed right past you, light or no light.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed his face, but anger crossed hers.

  “Weather worries and sailing right past! Now what kind of a stink would that raise if a ship of His Majesty’s Navy sailed right past a slave ship carrying Georgie’s own citizens? He’d Court Martial you himself if you didn’t, never mind the grief the Navy would get from the newssheets, and then there’s the questions in The House. The whole country would curse your name if you didn’t, and damn anyone who damns you for what you did do. If you don’t think so, nor your Admiralty, it’s the truth, to the rest of Europe you’re a Christian hero. So y’are! What kind of gombeen eejit could Court Martial you for such a thing?”

  Her face was alight with indignation, her feet planted firm on the deck, knuckles on her hips, just as when he had first seen her outside her mill in Killannan. He couldn’t make up his mind as to what to say. There could only be a short agreement or a long counter explanation, but it was she who continued.

  “Right, so that’s that problem sorted out. Now, was there anything else on your mind to keep you s
o far down in the dumps?’

  Argent grinned openly, but inwardly he was in a quandary, should he open himself up to this fearsome female? The ship’s bell solved it for him, ringing four bells to finish the Second Dog Watch. Argent should now take over, so he touched his hat.

  “There’s four bells. I am needed on the quarterdeck to relieve my Officers. On my ship I do my share of Watchkeeping, so I’m afraid the ship pulls me away.”

  She looked up at him angrily, but Argent’s head was swimming. The rose light did nothing to change the green of her eyes but it turned her hair into an amazing colour. He managed to turn himself away, but she wasn’t finished.

  “This hasn’t ended, Captain. We’re going to sort you out, so we are!”

  Argent was sure that something did not hit his back with this parting shot, but on reaching the quarterdeck he concentrated on returning salutes and consulting the compass. However, as he examined the sails in the last of the light, somehow he felt better.

  oOo

  “Up helm. Heave to!”

  Zachary Short repeated the order and swung the spokes leftwards. Ariadne turned cleanly into the South West wind and lost way as it left her sails, which were soon writhing in the cross wind, but the topmen of all masts were rapidly furling them away from harm. Now that he was at his destination and could see what he was faced with, Argent became anxious for his ship. The wind could drift them past Loctudy and onto a lee shore, difficult to sail away from into a headwind. They had to hold their station and, to do that, sail right on the edge of the wind. He walked to the quarterdeck rail to see Bosun Fraser.

  “Mr. Fraser. Larboard tack. Set outer and flying jib. Main and topmast staysails. Driver half to starboard.”

  Fraser hurried off to add to the topmen’s already onerous duties and, satisfied with his ship for the moment, Argent took another look at the French coast. He had toyed with the idea of running up The Colours to let the French know who was returning their citizens, but he dismissed the idea as foolish vainglory. The longer those on shore thought that Ariadne could be French, the less time they had to send a signal across land to Brest, worryingly, a large semaphore signal stood prominent and potent on the headland. A few white houses inching their way up the cliff marked the extremity of Loctudy, about two miles away, which distance gave him all the searoom he needed, but he expected to wear ship away from the coast, then tack back to pick up his boats.