These two were now being readied. Even the longboat could not hold 92, plus a crew. The longboat had its mast and sails aboard to make the journey and this would provide adequate power to still tow the second, the launch, which also had its own mast and a sail to give some help. Both had been fitted with a canvas shelter from the bows back to the mast, for there was a working cross sea and anyone inside either boat would soon be soaked from the waves hitting the bows of the small vessels as they faced the oncoming waves. The longboat was already over the side and the launch was being attached to the davits that had returned up from the bobbing longboat.
The French rescuees were emerging up from the gundeck, using the forecastle companionway. They had made their tearful farewells below of their Irish and Cornish friends of shared and dreadful experience and now they were passing through the assembled crew, all of whom were in their Divisions finery and, as the women and children passed through, hats were removed. Argent and his Officers were stood just along the starboard gangway from the quarterdeck, all present and all hatless. The women and children began to leave through the entry port, each carefully shepherded down the sideladder by the men of the Foretop. Perhaps unsurprisingly, none were taking any of the booty lifted out of the slaver. Gabriel Whiting and the Captain’s bargecrew would be making the journey, Lieutenant Sanders in command. He, after all, Argent reasoned, spoke French, and his bandaged appearance made the point to the French that there had been a cost to the British ship of re-capturing their own French citizens. That was one small item of vainglory that Argent could not resist. He turned to Sanders.
“Remember Jonathan. In and out, at your best speed. That’s the enemy’s coast. I don’t need to tell you how much I want it down over our horizon.”
Sanders nodded, twice. It was the only response he politely could make.
“Aye aye, Sir. As fast as possible, Sir. Fully understood.”
He walked forward to the entry port, but he crossed with a little girl who had just left her Mother at the entryport. She went up to Argent and held something up for him to take. He took what she offered from her tiny hand, it was a flower, made from coloured cloth, but she waved him lower. He lowered his face and she kissed him. Once again, from the simple actions of a child, Argent couldn’t speak. Nor could any of the crew.
oOo
Anton Gronard was now Militia, but a veteran nevertheless. Now too old to march with the Grande Armee’, he now consoled himself with his memories of marching with Napoleon in Northern Italy, the battle of Marengo, the bridge at Lodi. Now he was a sentry at his home village, paid to be such and content with his pension and the fact that he had left nothing of himself behind on any battlefield, but he had gained a small piece of iron, from something he knew not what, but this remained lodged in his left leg. However, a cut from a scimitar during the fight with the slavers still itched and irritated on his left arm. From time to time the picture invaded his thoughts and polluted his dreams, of himself and others being forced back through the village by overwhelming numbers, whilst women and children, many that he knew, were dragged screaming in terror, down to the waters edge.
Now he dozed on his musket at the end of the jetty, lulled by the lapping waves. There had been some noise about a frigate off the coast, but that was no concern of his, as long as nothing came off the ocean onto his jetty. However, his sojourn was abruptly terminated. A shout from the cliff drew his attention upwards and he saw a fisherman gesturing out to sea, to a point beyond the cliff, but it was behind the rocks and out of his view. He studied what remained for a moment as empty water, but then he saw the bows of a longboat, curious with its canvas cover, dwarfed by billowing sails, and behind was coming a smaller boat, linked by a tow rope and helped forward by its own sails. Immediately he noted the flag of truce at the stern of each; these were enemy, this confirmed by his long sighted eyes fixing on the Royal Navy uniform worn by the Officer at the longboat’s stern; the single row of buttons distinguishing it from the double row of the Republican.
Despite the flag of truce, his musket came forward from his shoulder and he checked the priming in the pan but did not cock the flintlock. With his musket still facing the approaching English, he turned his head to look back along the jetty to the quay. There were some fishermen arranging nets and tackle and he yelled at them to inform the Mayor and the Constable. As they ran off, he returned to his own watch on the approaching boats, but what he saw nearly caused him to drop his musket, but, what did drop was his jaw and his old heart missed a beat. A child’s head had appeared around the canvas screen, laughing and waving, then a woman’s face over the top of the screen. Both he recognised and he needed no more time to realise what was happening. Still gripping his musket he ran back along the jetty yelling as loud as his ancient lungs, labouring enough from the run, would allow.
“C’est les enfants! C’est les enfants! Et leurs Meres!”
His running reduced the volume each time, but it was loud enough for two equally aged matrons to notice him and abandon their task to give him a shocked look. Gronard stopped and reached for the jetty wall for support, but the wall proved insufficient, his musket was also required, but he had enough wind to reply to the deep puzzlement on both their faces.
“Oui. Ce’st les enfants et leurs Meres. Capturé par les Arabes. Retourne’ par l'Anglais. Leurs bateaux sont à la jetée.”
He stopped, his breath now robbed from him, but now it was the turn of both matrons to scream and bundle themselves back into the village, yelling a repeat of Anton’s message. He took three deep breaths but then lost them again when he turned to look along the jetty to see it now full of running children, their Mothers doing their best to keep up. The good Gronard did this time drop his musket and fall to his knees to embrace one child and then another. The screams of the children did not quite drown out those from back in the village as the news spread and all abandoned their houses to run to the quayside. The noise redoubled as children, Mothers, Fathers, relations and Grandparents were reunited on the quayside before the houses that they had been dragged from weeks before, only this time there was shouts of laughter, faces lit with limitless happiness, and running feet to both dance and close with loved ones in a fierce embrace.
As the final running Mother passed him, shouting a greeting, Gronard looked back to the end of the jetty to see an English Officer at the top of the steps, with two sailors silently holding the mooring ropes. The veteran recovered his musket, stood, came to the attention and presented arms. He was pleased to see his saluted answered, albeit oddly, by a bandaged arm, and the Officer turned to descend the steps and depart. Gronard hurried forward, he knew that thanks of some kind were required, but then he heard shouting from behind, which he recognised to be from the Mayor.
“Les arrêter. Les garder là.”
Gronard raised his arms.
“Arrete! Arrete la, s’il vous plait.”
Sanders stopped and waited. He looked beyond the sentry and saw the Mayor lumbering forward, his sash being arranged at the run. He was stocky, a fisherman’s build, windblown hair and weatherbeaten face, reddening further from the running. The Mayor nodded to Gronard and passed him, the Mayor being followed by a thinner, middle-aged man in a dark blue uniform, with a striking number of buttons down to his knee. Whilst the Mayor was arranging his sash, this, the Constable, was holding onto his tri-corne hat, it in some danger of being shook off and falling to the waste covered water below.
The Mayor had reached Sanders and wished dearly to shake his hand, but it was too thick with bandage. All he could do was look into the one uncovered eye with both his own, now wet with tears, and embrace Sanders with all his strength, then kiss him on both cheeks. Much merriment sounded up from the boats below. The Constable did the same, then the Mayor took Sanders lapel between two fingers and pulled him, via it, towards the town, at the same time motioning with the other hand to accompany him along the quay. He spoke in French for Argent to follow him, but did not expect to be und
erstood. However, Sanders replied.
“Monsieur, je parle Francais. Et oui, je vous serai fourni avec, mais nous devons partir bientôt.”
The Mayor nodded his understanding at the need for a quick departure, then stopped in thought.
“Deux, non, trois, de votre hommes, nous être fourni avec, s’il vous plait.”
Sanders turned to his men.
“Jones, King, Fenwick. He wants you to come as well. Follow us, and stay close.”
He looked down into the longboat for Gabriel Whiting.
“Whiting, I leave you in charge. I don’t expect to be more than five minutes.”
The six walked quickly along the jetty, past the rigid Gronard, the Mayor clearly anxious to take these sailors back to his people still gathered on the quayside, his people themselves seemingly also anxious to view the “visiting” Anglais. The faces of the women changed from joy to sympathy as they saw Sanders, but this did not stop much backslapping and pats on any part of him that came within reach. The three topmen received the same treatment. For some minutes all that each said were several “merci”s, for the Mayor had disappeared, but now Angelie Picard came to stand before Sanders. She was crying and all he could do was smile. As they looked at each other, he spoke.
“Je reviendrai.”
She smiled through the tears at his promise to return, but he thought of a better idea, at least more likely to happen in the near future that he could see before them.
“J'écrirai! Les lettres traversent toujours La Chaîne.”
The idea of letters did cheer her, but only slightly. She placed her hand on the sleeve of his wounded arm and leaned her forehead on his chest, then she resumed gazing back up at him. The poignancy of the clear affection between the two had done much to quell the noise from the crowd, but it was Fenwick who spoke, responding to what was evidently a scene of deep sadness amidst such complete joy.
“Don’t despair, Sir. Who knows what’s possible?”
Jones added his thoughts.
“That’s right, Sir. No-one knows what’s ‘round the corner, now. Do they?”
Sanders turned and smiled at them, then kissed her hand and shared a private, fond look with Angelie, for what became the last time, at least on that day and for the immediate future. The Mayor had returned with three worthies carrying substantial barrels, labelled “cognac”. Holding hard to Sanders sleeve, the Mayor began a speech.
Meanwhile, Whiting and Gronard were alone at the end of the jetty, Gronard holding his musket in the crook of his arm, Whiting with his foot on a bollard. Each regarded the other for a good while, until Whiting nodded, then reached into his pocket for his pipe and tobacco pouch. He pulled open the strings and offered it to Gronard, who took it, peered inside, took a sniff and grinned. Good tobacco was scarce in France beyond price. Still grinning, Gronard produced his own pipe and filled it, before passing the pouch back to Whiting. Whilst Whiting filled his, Gronard found his tinderbox and made a few glowing embers in the tray. He waited until Whiting had finished charging his own pipe, then he tipped an ember onto Whiting’s tobacco, before doing the same for his. Soon both were producing clouds of smoke and both leaning back against the warm stonework. The musket lay unattended, propped against the same stones. Both men folded their left arms across their waists, their right hands making final adjustments to the smouldering tobacco. Neither spoke a word; any would have been wholly unintelligible to the other, but there was nothing to stop two such as they, sharing a quiet smoke. They exchanged a look of supreme conspiratorial contentment, then Gronard passed across his flask of brandy. The moment was complete.
The length of the smoke given by the fill of tobacco matched perfectly the time it took for the Mayor to finish his speech and then for Sanders, with the laden Jones, King and Fenwick, to return to their boats, still accompanied by the Mayor, the Constable, and the population, these crowding up in the rear. Sophie was allowed between the two Officials. The crews of both boats perked up considerably when they saw what was coming down the steps, not so much the return of their dear Officer, but the three large kegs. At the top Sanders touched Sophie’s hand once more, smiled and descended to the longboat. The crew ignored him, blithely assumed his safe embarkation, showing far more care and concern over the three barrels which were passed down as though vulnerable children. The painter ropes were thrown down by experienced French hands, oars were shipped to push off and the crew rowed themselves out to gain the wind. Whiting noticed Sanders, at the tiller, looking back much more than he was looking forward.
“I’ll take the tiller, Sir. If you’ve a mind?”
Sanders slid over on the now vacant bench to make room for Whiting and he spent the next minutes looking back to the jetty, now crowded to its maximum, but he only had eyes for the slim figure in the white dress, until the rocks of the headland hid her from view just before he gave a last wave. He took a very deep breath, turned and regarded his command. His face remained downcast, but; first things first, for now he was thinking as the ex-topman he was. He looked over the side to the other vessel, the launch, with Able Jones at the tiller. Neither vessel had yet set any sails.
“Jones. Bring yours alongside.”
Jones brought his launch close to, until hands from each could reach across to hold both boats together. Sanders issued his orders.
“Fenwick. Break out the beakers in the store.”
Fenwick opened the emergency store that would be used if ever the longboat had to be used as a lifeboat and found several beakers. Sanders himself prised open the bung in one of the barrels and, now thoroughly in guise, spoke in the language of the lower deck, this time forcing some kind of smile.
“Well, lads, I think a drop of this good stuff is in order before we gets ourselves back to the barky.”
He didn’t have to reach very far to tip some of the fine spirit into each beaker.
oOo
Argent was pacing the quarterdeck. This was taking longer than he had bargained for, but he reasoned to himself that his hoped for, “get ‘em onshore and immediately get away”, was more than he could reasonably expect. Ariadne was idling perfectly towards the shore, her bows pointing at the headland, on which was the semaphore that was the subject of regular study from Argent, but the arms remained slack and idle. He turned again to the taffrail, to march back to give himself room to march forward again, when a shout came from the foremasthead.
“Longboat and launch, Sir.”
Argent didn’t reach the taffrail but sprang immediately into the mizzen shrouds and climbed to the mizzentop. His glass provided a reassuring picture of the longboat coming on in fine style, its press of canvas hiding that of its consort the launch, whose hull could just be seen astern of the longboat. Argent considered increasing sail to reach them sooner, but time would be lost after their retrieval. They would be much closer to the land and, with the steady breeze South Southwest, even on staysails alone, Ariadne could not sail directly into such a wind to take her leave. They would have to tack back, away from the cliff if they approached the land much further. As she lay, Ariadne was sufficiently out of the wind’s eye so that she could sail directly out, albeit close hauled. Therefore, they would have to wait for the longboat and launch to reach them, both fully using the favourable wind for their course, so Argent kept his ship idling in the tide, gaining steerage way, turning into the wind, gaining some ground, then allowing the wind to push them back. The Watch was kept busy with the sail trimming and Zachary Short busy at the wheel. Three, four, then five bells sounded of the forenoon Watch before the longboat and launch bumped alongside and were secured. Argent yelled his orders.
“Mr. Fraser. All topsails and topgallants. Close hauled, larboard tack.”
The topmen sprang into the rigging before Fraser said a word, as anxious as Argent to lose the French coast so clear on their starboard bow. With the large spread of canvas Ariadne sprang forward and Argent waited. The boats were being recovered, but he was gauging the wind, from both
the pennant above and what he could feel on his face. He wasn’t satisfied.
“Mr. Fraser. Mizzen, main and foretopsail staysails.”
As these sails were spread and sheeted home, Argent noticed the three kegs being handed down from the longboat, now in its cradle.
“Mr. Sanders!”
Sanders noted the tone in his Captain’s voice and the stern expression on his face. He hurried back to the quarterdeck.
“Are those the cause of your delay?”
Argent pointed to the barrels.
“Er, no Sir. The Mayor insisted on making a speech. I should have pleaded ignorance as to my French, Sir, and he would probably have allowed us to go, however, both were but minutes, Sir, and the brandy came immediately. It seemed churlish not to allow them to give some thanks, Sir. The place was overjoyed, ecstatic. Unsurprisingly.”
Argent’s mood from the impatient wait had barely abated.
“Let’s hope your minutes don’t put us on a lee shore with our French foes nicely holding the weather gauge. Unsurprisingly.”
The chastened Sanders lowered his head, shifted his feet and then looked up.
“Where shall I send the brandy, Sir?”
“Send it to Mr. Maybank. If we get away from here, we can all have a tot.”
By way of lightening the mood, Sanders gave reply.
“It’s good brandy, Sir.”
Argent’s face told that he had immediately worked out how Sanders knew that it was “good brandy”, and at that instant Sanders also divined what the look told him, that Argent had worked it out. He saluted with his bandaged hand, turned, and rapidly made off, his hand throbbing.
A Question of Duty Page 50