A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “I’d say, Sir, that’s a frigate, like us, with nae small amount of damage. From what, it’s too far to say.”

  McArdle looked blankly at Wentworth and then spoke again.

  “Ye’d best inform the Captain, Sir.”

  Wentworth nodded.

  “Mr. Trenchard. T-take yourself to the C-Captain and inform him tha-that a d-d-damaged frigate is blocking the har-harbour.”

  Wentworth raised own glass, at the same time imparting his thoughts to the still present McArdle.

  “I’d say she was str-struggling, Sailing M-Master. The t-tide’s away, is it n-not?”

  “Awa’s the word, Sir. This hour gone.”

  McArdle raised his own glass.

  “She’s little to spread and nae driver. That gives nae balance to her hull, ye see, makin’ her a beastie tae steer. There she goes, yawing aboot, an’ we’ll be up on her afore she’s clear, at this speed.”

  The hint was heavy and clear, Ariadne was carrying a heavy press of canvas to get to harbour. Wentworth looked along the weather gangway to see Bosun Fraser.

  “G-get the canvas off her, Bosun. Leave only f-fore and main courses, and d-d-driver.”

  Fraser looked shocked at the massive reduction in sail, but he had received an order. Such was the magnitude of the task he yelled for “all hands on deck.” As the Starboard Watch sprang into the rigging, and the off duty Larboard Watch climbed the companionways, Argent arrived, with Midshipman Trenchard.

  “Mr. Wentworth. What’s the problem?”

  “S-Sir, there’s a cr-crippled ship in the h-harbour entrance, Sir. I’ve ordered a r-r-reduction in s-sail. Sir.”

  Argent looked at the spars and rigging now crowded with men, all busy furling the sails. Ariadne’s speed was dropping off substantially and Argent needed convincing regarding so extreme a change in their spread of canvas but he raised his own glass and was immediately re-assured. He brought the frigate into his glass and immediately saw her bows swing badly to larboard as she ineffectually battled the outgoing tide. Full starboard rudder swung over her stern to compensate, but she was now out of line for a clean entrance. She swung back to starboard, losing way in the tide. Argent lowered his glass.

  “A good decision, Mr. Wentworth. I think we’ll let her get fully in and clear, whoever she is, before we make our attempt. Or perhaps she gives up on her own.”

  Wentworth beamed at his Captain’s praise, but meanwhile, in the foretopgallant crosstrees, Jones and Beddows were moving the conversation on, Jones particularly.

  “Get Gabe up yer with his telescope.”

  To many such a descent for such an errand would be tedious in the extreme but Beddows was on deck in seconds having slid down the fore preventer stay onto the bowsprit. In little more than two minutes beyond that, both himself and Gabriel Whiting had climbed over the futtock shrouds to gain the foretop. Jones did no more than point.

  “That barky yawing about in the harbour. ‘Er stern looks familiar, and I think I’ve got her placed, but what do you think?”

  Whiting looked at Jones quizzically, extended his glass, then braced himself against the foremast. He focused the instrument, studied for a minute, then pronounced.

  “There’s only one frigate I know with all that gash gilt all over her stern. It’s only that floggin’ sod as would spend such money on all that extra.”

  He paused to focus the glass again.

  “Yes, I’d say I can just about make out Herodotus on her backside. She’s lost over half her masts and riggin’, I’d say. There’ll ‘ave been some bloody backs over that!”

  Beddows looked from Jones to Whiting.

  “Should we tell the Captain?”

  Whiting thought, then answered.

  “Nah! Officers’ business, which ship comes, which ship goes, an’ to where. Their business. We’ve told him, that’s us done.”

  Then his face split into a wide grin.

  “But I think I’ll stay up yer, just to get a good look at ‘er.”

  On the quarterdeck the situation was demanding a greater depth of attention. Argent was convinced that Ariadne, with much reduced sail, was slipping back against the tide. He used Bright again.

  “Mr. Bright. Find two points in conjunction on the shore. Tell me if we’re losing way relative to the land.”

  Bright found a hut and a tree close but not in line and within a minute they had merged, showing that the tide was pushing Ariadne back.

  “Yes Sir, we are. Significantly, I’d say.”

  “You’d say, Mr. Bright, and your solution would be?”

  “All topsails, Sir.”

  “A good solution, Mr. Bright. I leave it to you.”

  Bright’s face split from ear to ear as he hurried off to find Bosun Fraser. Argent stood by the wheel, noting Quartermaster Short working the spokes of the wheel to keep their heading as the tide worked on Ariadne more than the breeze. However, soon the topsails began to draw and the coast slipped past in the right direction. Two bells came, and then three. Argent was grateful that the frigate in the entrance had, with great difficulty, succeeded in battling her way in and Ariadne was able to enter the harbour, whilst the excitement mounted to new heights on the larboard gangway. The women and children had placed themselves there for almost two hours and Fentiman saw fit to send some seamen to clear them away, but with the gentle excuse that they should get their possessions, little as they were, prior to being ferried ashore. However, their obedience was not exactly in the Naval tradition, many lingering to drink in the sight of home, until they were good-naturedly shunted away.

  Sanders was studying the ship that had delayed their entrance and, almost on their entry, he walked excitedly over the Argent.

  “Sir, that’s the Herodotus. Wasn’t she sent down into The Bay, to chase the slaver?”

  Argent looked over, but he too, had recognised the heavy decoration embellishing her stern. Her name now being visible confirmed his judgment.

  “Yes, Mr. Sanders, it is and she was. We can only assume that she was caught in the storm that we suspected and we set a course to avoid. And by the looks of it, she suffered, explaining her exceedingly slow voyage home.”

  Sanders looked again, this time examining the damage more carefully. Herodotus had lost her mizzenmast entirely, her maintopmast and her foretopgallant mast. Thus, she showed but a strange triangle of masts and rigging, descending from the foretopmast to the shattered stump at her quarterdeck. As they spoke she was coming to anchor, the first available in Carrick Roads, meaning Ariadne would have to sail quite close to her in order to reach their own, further up.

  “Should we do something or say something, Sir? They’ve had a nightmare time of it.”

  Argent looked at him.

  “I’d say etiquette requires that we raise our hats. Beyond that, I see no point. Take your cue from me.”

  Ariadne passed at hailing distance. Those on her quarterdeck lifted their hats on passing, but from the Officers on Herodotus there was no response. Some of the Ruanporth’s waved and shouted, but received the merest of desultory responses, the briefest lifting of a hand from the men on deck, the crew were too exhausted. What was also missing was the usual bandinage between crews, almost obligatory, when one had lost any amount of her rigging, plainly such as Herodotus. However, this vessel and the life of those aboard her, were only too well known to the men of Ariadne and their sympathy was too strong for men whose fate, but for fortune, could easily have been their own.

  oOo

  The Ruanporth women and children were running along the navy mole to the main quayside to disappear into the waiting crowd, by the time Argent came to land himself. The noise of shouts and cheering was incessant. Their longboat had vacated the mole steps for Argent’s barge to tie up and, with Jones again locking the painter fast through a ringbolt, Argent stepped ashore, but the din from the throng at the end of the mole gave Whiting some concern and he climbed the steps immediately after his Captain.

  “I’
d say you’ll ‘ave some need of us, Sir, to find your way through that bunged up collection yonder.”

  Being Navy stonework, the landward end was guarded by Royal Marines, but beyond that was civilian territory and it seemed that half of Falmouth was gathered there to greet both the rescued and the rescuer. Argent gave the matter some brief thought.

  “You may be right. Leave Jones here, you other four come with me, although there does seem to be enough Marines up there to accomplish what you speak of.”

  “Ah yes, but beyond that, Sir. To the Commodore’s Office, like.”

  Argent grinned, but continued to look along to the quayside. He had more than a sneaking suspicion that Whiting had another motive besides his Captain’s safety and dignity, that of being close to the point where some girls may be going about their daily business or taking of their leisure.

  “Very well. I’ll leave it to you.”

  The four immediately placed themselves before Argent, the massive King and Fenwick leading at the centre. As they progressed along the medieval stonework, Argent noted that each man of his bargecrew ensured that the “Ariadne” on their hats was exactly centre, clean and most conspicuous. The Marines made a way and, using their muskets, held back the crowd. Argent walked through unscathed, apart from the clamour in his ears from the deep and excited crowd. Once through, the Sergeant in charge ordered half his command to continue as escort and so, guarded by both Marines and his bargecrew Argent arrived untouched at the door of Commodore Budgen’s Office. He removed his hat and entered, leaving his guardians at the door. Inside he found Marine Sergeant Venables, already at attention, shako in place. At three yards distance he fizzed a salute up to the peak of the same gleaming headgear. Argent acknowledged and ordered Venables to stand easy.

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant. I trust I find you well?”

  “The very best of good afternoon’s to you Sir, if I may make so bold, and I’d like to add that I’ve not seen this town so happy since they heard of Trafalgar. Nor I ‘aven’t. Sir.”

  Argent grinned, in some contrast to his humour prior to his entry, for, on approaching the door of Budgen’s domain Argent’s own spirits had become more subdued, but he did his best to appear cheerful for the old Marine.

  “Well, it seems we had a slice of luck and took advantage of it. Our people are back where they belong and that’s what matters.”

  “That’s the right of it, Sir, and that Devil’s sunk. Yes. Sir?”

  At that moment Budgen’s voice could be heard loud and clear from his office down the corridor.

  “Venables! If that’s Captain Argent, send him down, this instant, do you hear?”

  Venables shouted back in the affirmative, then whispered conspiratorially.

  “When can I get the details, Sir?”

  Argent replied in an equal whisper.

  “I don’t doubt it’ll all be in the news-sheets.”

  The jubilant Marine nodded and Argent left him to enter the corridor to Budgen’s own office, but the thought had lifted his mood; the Press would be on his side. Feeling more cheerful, Argent entered the office to find Budgen sat bolt upright in his chair, to the fullest height that his stature could manage, but with a face as black as thunder. Argent thought it best to stand to attention and he did.

  “You’ve no need to describe to me, Captain, just what has occurred, accomplished by you. That circus out there is witness enough!”

  “Yes Sir.”

  The silence hung between them, but it was Budgen who took the initiative.

  “You have your Logbook? It tells the full story?”

  Argent took both Log and Ship’s Ledger from under his arm and placed them on the desk.

  “Yes Sir. The full story and in detail.”

  “And where is the slaver?”

  “Sunk, Sir, and I have her Captain on board, a prisoner.”

  Budgen was taken aback. Argent’s triumph was building; captives returned and the slaver himself available to be paraded in chains, but Argent had disobeyed orders, those of both himself and Broke. He felt slighted, and not for the first time, by this too self-assured “one swab” Captain. The matter must run its course.

  “And the communication?”

  Budgen pronounced the word as though he were spelling it, each syllable carefully spoken.

  “Delivered to General Hill, Sir, whom I’m sure you know is General Wellington’s Second in Command.”

  “Wellington?”

  “Yes Sir. General Wellesley is now Lord Wellington, since the battle of Talavera, last July.”

  Now Argent paused.

  “Delivered after ten days, Sir.”

  Budgen was brought even more erect, but made no comment. He contented himself with opening the Log to the relevant pages and then scanning down the entries, giving him the reason he needed to leave Argent standing there. He closed the Log with a thump for extra emphasis.

  “I’m sending this to Admiral Grant, Argent. It’s my opinion, and there’s strong evidence in support, that you went hunting for that slaver having been ordered expressly not to do so. I’m recommending a Court Martial and I’d be surprised if Grant did not accede to one. I’d say he had little choice.”

  Argent was surprised at his own lack of reaction to the weighty and threatening words. Perhaps because he had been expecting it, perhaps because he had been buoyed up by their reception and the idea of the newssheets being on his side. He met the challenge, speaking calmly.

  “I stand ready to answer for my actions. Sir.”

  Budgen’s face showed his anger at the lack of impact his words had placed on Argent, but this time it was Argent who spoke further, his voice remaining calm and level.

  “If there is nothing else, Sir, I wish to get back to my ship. She has to be re-supplied and I must arrange for the transfer of the prisoner.”

  Budgen nodded, his face and posture remaining churlish and angry. Argent saluted and left the Office, but paused, as was now customary, to exchange blistering salutes with the still elated Marine Sergeant Venables. Outside, a collection of girls had gathered around his bargecrew, but the welcoming crowd had largely disappeared. His bargecrew sprang to attention and saluted, mostly to impress the girls that they were thorough man o’ war’s men who knew what’s what. Argent replaced his hat, returned their salutes and walked on. His crew caressed, whispered, and kissed their goodbyes and fell in around him, soon being required to hold off those closing in who wished to shake Argent’s hand or do whatever they felt would best convey their sincerest congratulations. At the guardhouse at the beginning of the mole, Argent asked the sentry to fetch the Officer of the Guard and a young Captain emerged, rapidly buttoning his tunic, then coming to the attention before saluting.

  “Captain Nathan Finch, Sir. At your service.”

  Argent nodded.

  “Captain Finch. I am about to land a prisoner, him being the Captain of the slaver, which I’m sure, you’ve heard about. I will need a strong escort or we’ll never get him to the town gaol. Can I rely on you to obtain reinforcements?”

  Finch, who looked no more than sixteen, saluted again.

  “Yes Sir. Aye aye, Sir. When will you be bringing him ashore, Sir?’

  “Directly. Say half an hour.”

  “Yes Sir. We’ll be ready. Sir.”

  Argent walked along the mole, acknowledging the greetings of those working there and he descended the steps to the already waiting barge. During the short journey his mind dwelled on the vehemence of Budgen’s ill feeling, but soon they were against Ariadne’s tumblehome and as he climbed through the entryport he gave further orders, his first being to order his barge to stand ready.

  “Mr. Fraser. Find the Sergeant at Arms. He is to release the prisoner, but chain him hands and feet before bringing him on deck. Then find Mr. Sanders and send him to my cabin.”

  Argent went immediately to his cabin, threw his hat onto his cot and then sat on his chair behind his desk, leaning back, thoughtful. Now he had c
onfronted at least one of his demons he found it more uplifting than depressing, but his thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. A shout of “Enter” brought in Sanders who closed the door behind him as he spoke.

  “You sent for me Sir?”

  “Yes Jonathan. I’ve given orders that our Master at Arms, Sergeant Ackroyd, bring our prisoner, Al Ahbim, up on deck. He will be in chains, I need not add, but I want you to get him off our hands and into the town gaol. There will be a strong Marine escort waiting for you at the end of the mole and my barge is waiting at the ladder. At the gaol, I suspect, you will be required to give some details regarding evidence that will lead to a charge; English captives aboard his vessel is all that we ourselves can allude to. The rest will arrive from elsewhere, I shouldn’t wonder. Can I leave that with you?”

  “Will your barge be big enough, Sir? Perhaps the launch instead. I can take some of our own Marines.”

  Argent thought. Exchanging launch for barge meant a lot of work, and for what? Ackroyd could sit besides Sanders and the prisoner sit down on the boards between them and Silas Beddows sat at stroke.

  “I’d judge not. There’ll be seven men, including yourself.”

  Sanders saluted from where he stood.

  “Aye, aye Sir. Will you be coming up, to oversee his leaving, as it were?”

  Argent’s face twisted into a grimace. He hadn’t looked at Al Ahbim since he’d been chained to the deck; the memories he engendered were too painful.

  “No. I leave it to you.”

  Sanders left the cabin and climbed to the entryport where Ackroyd had the prisoner waiting. He still looked of high Arab status, his clothes clean and well fitting, although voluminous in the Arab style. His beard and hair were trimmed and clean, but his eyes glowered with ill will to all around him. There were heavy manacles around his ankles and also around his wrists. A long length of chain ran from the centre of his wrist manacles to the gnarled hands of Sergeant Ackroyd, then to a manacle on Ackroyd’s own wrist. Al Ahbim looked up as Sanders approached and fixed him with a look of such malevolence that Sanders own expression showed his own anger and then the “before the mast” topman in him took over.