A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “You can look at me with all the bad mood you like, old cock, but it’s the inside of the chokey for you and after that the gallows dance!”

  Ackroyd and the supervising Fraser grinned, but Al Ahbim’s expression didn’t change, not even when a rope was wound around his chest and under his arms. He was manoeuvred to the entrance port and then pushed forward, to become suspended from the yardarm above, then lowered down to the waiting barge. When he arrived the look of pure hatred that he received from Whiting and Beddows matched his own and he squatted down on the bottom boards, to look furtively at the harbour around him, all of which was wholly alien to a North African port. Whiting released the rope, none too gently, including a few cuffs around the head, then Ackroyd came down, still holding the chain, then finally Sanders. With all settled, Sanders gave a nod to Whiting at the tiller.

  “Come forward. Give way, all.”

  The oars were pulled, then bit into the water again. The jerk from the powerful stroke sent Ackroyd and Sanders back into the seat and Al Ahbim toppled forward slightly before regaining his posture. In no time they had cleared Ariadne’s hull and Whiting set a direct course for the same steps the barge had used earlier. Sanders looked at Al Ahbim. His head was working from side to side and his fingers were clenching and unclenching, but what was most noticeable were his eyes darting from side to side. Sanders knew not what to make of it and, anyway, he found the sight of this Arab utterly distasteful. He looked away to their destination, the steps, where a squad of Marines was drawn up waiting. Suddenly, Al Ahbim was on his feet, at his full height.

  “Allah akbar!”

  Al Ahbim was over the side and sinking, the air in his clothes working against the weight of the chain and manacles but the iron won and soon he was out of sight beneath the dark water. The chain ran out and pulled Ackroyd’s wrist down into the water, but he held to the side of the barge and kept his place, aided greatly by Sanders and then Whiting, these both keeping him in the boat, he would be over the side, left to his own efforts. Sanders shouted in alarm.

  “Beddows, tail on. King, back here!”

  Beddows seized the chain and King tumbled back to the stern, but Beddows and Ackroyd quickly won back enough of a length for King also to gain a hold. With both topmen braced across the hull, their feet locked against the gunwhale, the chain was won back, foot by foot, but minutes had passed. It was Ackroyd who was looking down into the water and soon he shouted out what he could see.

  “I can see him. He’s comin up.”

  Beddows and King redoubled their efforts and soon what appeared over the top of the gunwhale was Al Ahbim’s head, but Ackroyd shouted, almost in panic, and they saw him reach over the side.

  “Stop pullin’. Stop pullin’.”

  Sanders leaned over the side using Ackroyd as a support and saw why the Marine had called for them to stop. With one hand Ackroyd had gained a hold on the sodden cloth at Al Ahbim’s shoulder and was unwinding the chain from his neck with the other. Whiting was the first to ask.

  “Is he dead?”

  “We’ve got to get him in, give me a hand, you two.”

  Beddows and King reached over to take a handful of clothing and both helped to haul the limp and sodden figure back into the boat. The last loop of chain came away from the throat, but it was clear that Al Ahbim was dead, his eyes staring out lifeless but still piercing, his mouth in a rictus grin, somehow triumphant. He had wound the chain around his neck as he sank through the water, knowing it would help to end his life as they hauled his body back up, it heavy with the chains and the waterlogged, voluminous clothing. The time this took had killed him, for, even as he came to the surface, his lungs could not gain breath, the chain being tight around his throat. Sanders felt for a pulse but there was none.

  “He’s dead.”

  He drew in a deep breath and sighed. For him this could be a disaster.

  “Back to your places. Let’s get this ashore.”

  They all regained their places in the barge and Whiting took over. They reached the steps and Jones was first out to hold the barge steady. The Marines had seen all and were ready on hand to haul the lifeless figure out by the arms and onto the stone, then four of them, two on each arm, dragged him up the steps, his face bumping over the rough granite edges. Sanders followed and, at the top, found Captain Finch. He looked at Sanders with shock, but Sanders’ expression was one of anger and frustration and it was he who spoke first.

  “Could you detail six men, to lay this across their muskets and take it to the gaol? I’ll follow, they’ll need some details.”

  Finch nodded and named six men. Three muskets were arranged parallel on the ground and the lifeless body rolled onto them. The six each took the end of a musket and the body was lifted to be carried chest upwards along the mole to the quayside, the lifeless eyes staring ahead at all in their path from a head hanging backwards, limp and awkward, but swaying with the rhythmic marching legs of the six Marines. Many onlookers, knowing full well the identity of the body, spat on it as they passed.

  It was Fentiman who brought Argent the news and told the story, having watched all from the quarterdeck and it was Fentiman who registered the greatest surprise, caused by Argent’s lack of reaction.

  “Saves a tedious appearance in Court.”

  A pause.

  “When Sanders returns, send him to me.”

  Over an hour later, it was a very worried and chastened Sanders who once again knocked on the cabin door, but he was rapidly reassured by an unmoved Argent.

  “Don’t blame yourself, Jonathan. The man was determined to end his life. You would have had to chain him down on the bottom boards to remove all of such a risk. Perhaps we should have thought of it, but then he could equally have done the job by jumping off the quayside escorted by the Marines. He was determined and that’s that. Don’t distress yourself.”

  Sanders gave a worried nod, but Argent had moved on and to this end he held up a letter.

  “I’ve just received this, it being a letter from the Clerk to the Town Council saying that they want to lay on some kind of celebration to mark our successful return, for both ourselves and the crew. They must have written it the moment they heard. I’m mulling over in my mind if we should warp ourselves alongside the mole, as we did back in July. I’m inclined, as we speak, to say not, but I’ll hold my judgment until I hear from you. If I’m not here, Mr. Fentiman can decide. I want you to take charge, to liaise with the Town Council and whatever. Can I leave this one with you?”

  Sanders was astonished that the interview had ended on such a note, so he nodded vigorously and saluted.

  “Yes Sir, you can.”

  “Good, now please give Mr. Fentiman my compliments and ask him to join me.”

  Sanders took a rapid exit.

  oOo

  Argent set the good mare at the hill that rose out of Falmouth, but this time on the road for Truro, its museum and the source of his latest hopes. He couldn’t decide what to think, either high hope or guarded optimism and so he thought of neither, regarding his mission as being merely one avenue of possibility, but he deliberately passed no judgement on the likelihood of success. He’d left Fentiman in charge, explaining the issue about closing to the mole and that he would prefer Ariadne to remain out in Carrick Roads, but he would have no great objection if Fentiman differed, for the sake of the occasion.

  Now he felt his legs responding to the movement of the horse, rather than the deck of his ship and, knowing that Truro was but a dozen miles, he let the mare move at her own speed, a leisurely trot, which sometimes reduced to a fast walk. Sometimes Argent dismounted to walk himself, the pleasure coming from being allowed to walk so far in one direction, rather than the 40 odd yards of his frigate. The last hill saw the roofs of Truro come into sight; the height of the church towers and spires somehow aggressive against the domestic and unambitious reach of the surrounding houses and buildings. A distant chime of 9 o’ clock welcomed his arrival. Argent knew Truro
well enough and was able to guide the good mare to a well-appointed stable where he gave instructions for her food, rest and water. The rest of the journey he undertook on foot, which took him to the centre of the pleasant market town with its open spaces and streets that served as an administrative centre for this part of Cornwall. Also as a place of very mixed culture, this including a playhouse, a prizefight ring, a racetrack, a cockpit, two first-class restaurants and his destination, a museum. His quest was down a side street and Argent entered the impressive Norman arch, one of the few pieces of stonework remaining from what had been erected during the time of that conquering race. He had to acknowledge that his pulse rate had increased and not just from a walk made with lungs used to a far shorter stride than he had just made from the stable.

  The museum entrance hall was gloomy with myriad motes of dust hanging in the weak light that came from the clerestory windows high in the ceiling. He tucked his hat under his arm, brushed off his uniform and looked for someone to approach. There was no one. He walked on into the museum proper with its very eclectic mix of stuffed animals, flags, pots, both broken and whole, scrolls and tomes, suits of armour and vicious weapons. Along the back wall was an arrangement of glass cases and he made straight for these, to stand disappointed. They contained a collection of coins and other small metal objects; ornaments, badges, pins and buckles. He looked around to ask himself, what remained, if any, of the exhibits within the museum that he had not examined? Nothing in this gallery, obviously, so he took himself back to the entrance hall, there to see something that he had missed on his entrance because it had been behind him, against the wall containing the door he had entered by. It was a high desk, complete with a curator of some kind and Argent approached, pulse still racing.

  “Excuse me.”

  The Curator looked up, or more accurately over, over some steel rimmed spectacles that were perched precariously on the end of his nose and held only in place by side arms that extended back to disappear into curious tufts of white hair, all that remained of hair on a head of about 35 years of age. The white stood in contrast to the pink of his complexion, it being wholly pallid, unchanged by any significant length of period in open sunshine. The risk of mishap was removed when the Curator took the spectacles off and actually stood to greet Argent. The welcoming smiles completely changed the initial impression created by the bespectacled figure previously sat crouched behind the desk. He was tallish, well proportioned and neatly, but soberly, dressed.

  “How may I help?”

  Argent took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure how to start and he hadn’t yet got anything clear in his head, so he simply started talking.

  “I’m here to enquire if you have any documents relating to a farm called Lanbe Barton. Pronounced “Land bee”, but spelt with only one “e” on the end. I refer particularly to Deeds of Title. I’m under the impression that this Deed may be a historic document, which is why I’m here, talking to you.”

  The Curator’s brows knitted together, more in puzzlement than annoyance.

  “Such things are normally held in the Records Office of the County Court.”

  Argent nodded.

  “I know, but I have already been there and they had nothing, neither Deed nor any reference to it.”

  Argent paused and took a deep breath.

  “May I tell you why I am anxious to find this document?”

  The Curator nodded, his face now growing concerned.

  “I don’t know if you are aware, but the enclosures movement is spreading all over Cornwall.”

  The Curator nodded as Argent continued.

  “Those who cannot show proof of ownership lose their land. My family have lived on that farm for generations, centuries, even, and it will be lost if we cannot produce some Deeds of Title. Because of the time we have lived there, I was hoping that it may have some historic significance, causing it to be lodged with you.”

  The Curator’s face showed genuine unease. He held out his hand.

  “My name is Jeremiah Townmead.”

  Argent took the hand offered.

  “Argent. Captain Reuben Argent.”

  Townmead moved his head from side to side, looking around, as if seeking instruction.

  “Right. Where to start? If we have it, be sure we’ll find it. I’ve just finished cataloguing and cross referencing all the museum’s possessions, so all we have is recorded, somewhere.”

  The last word tailed off and Argent’s confidence, which had grown from Townmead’s words, diminished somewhat, but he had grown to like this gentle academic, who was plainly eager to help. Suddenly, Townmead became decisive.”

  “Right, let’s start with “Land and Property”. Come this way please, Captain.”

  He led Argent to a door in the sidewall, which he opened to reveal a room almost wholly full of chests, cabinets, and partitioned racks of loose scrolls and papers, no gangway could be walked down without turning sideways. The place was surprisingly well lit from the same type of clerestory windows as the exhibition hall and the whole interior smelt of wood, ancient paper, ancient leather and dust. Townmead closed the door to reveal behind it a bookcase above a desk, then he looked along a rank of ledgers, speaking absentmindedly.

  “My favourite place, this, where I organise the catalogues.”

  A ledger arrived on the desk, with a hand written label, “Land and Property.”

  “Now, you say the farm is called Lanbe Barton?”

  Argent leaned forward, hoping to see the pages for himself.

  “Yes. Lanbe Barton.”

  Townmead set the ledger on its spine. Someone, probably him, had cut small indentations into the ends of the pages. He thrust a very clean thumb into the indentation for “L” and allowed the ledger to fall open. The turning of one page brought him to the “La”s. An equally clean forefinger ran down the list, then the finger stopped but his face showed no success.

  “There is no Lanbe Barton mentioned, I’m afraid.”

  However, he leaned forward just to check his use of the alphabet, scanning above and below. His head dropped lower showing he had found something.

  “But there is this. “Land by Barton – a document of gift.”

  He looked at Argent, whose eyebrows were nearly at his hairline, a wide, apprehensive, yet hopeful, smile almost joining them.

  “Can you produce it?”

  Townmead looked again and ran his finger across the line to the last column.

  “This is a cross-reference to another ledger. CWR. Civil War and Restoration.”

  He closed the ledger, carefully replaced it and pulled down another, with that title showing. By now Argent was in a state of high agitation, but Townmead was as calm as though he were dusting a glass cabinet. He also stood this new ledger on its spine, entered his thumb in the “L” index and allowed the pages to fall open. Turning one page the clean finger found the words Townmead sought and Argent grew even more impatient as he saw more detail beside them. Townmead leaned forward and began to read out loud.

  “Land by Barton. Fifty acres of land, given as a gift to William Bennet by Charles II in May 1661 in recognition of his loyal service to King Charles during the Civil War at the siege of Dunster Castle. In addition, his fortitude as a Royal Subject during the Interregnum during which he suffered persecution by the Puritan Government of Oliver Cromwell.”

  Townmead looked at Argent, almost in triumph.

  “That’s my writing, I wrote that. You see, May 1661 was Charles II’s first anniversary on the throne. What do you think?”

  Argent looked at the words, then at Townmead.

  “Could be. The farmhouse is certainly old. One hundred and fifty years would be about it, and there’s a family story about a Royalist soldier.”

  Townmead looked again at the ledger.

  “Case 8. Drawer C.”

  Townmead turned to disappear into the narrow gap between two cabinets. Argent, whilst reading the description again, heard drawers being opened, then t
he rustle of paper, then a drawer being closed. Townmead quickly reappeared bearing a folder of heavy cartridge paper, which he placed on the desk and opened. Inside was a document 12 inches by 24, made of crude, thick paper, but the most impressive items were the huge coloured crest, evidently Royal, at the top and, almost as large, the stamp in the sealing wax at the bottom, containing what looked very much like the crest of some Kingly family. Townmead reached beside the desk to find a magnifying glass, then he began to examine the writing. Argent tried to peer through the glass himself, but, to his great distress, the distortion from the angle was too great. However, Townmead soon began speaking.

  “Yessss. This is in what I call Puritan English. You see, Charles’ civil servants at that time were those that he inherited from Cromwell and so the Puritan language still pertained. Those educated at that time were educated by Puritans and so this is what we still have, even though Cromwell’s long gone, scattered in bits around Tyburn, except his head, of course; that’s spiked in Westminster Hall.

  Throughout this history lesson, Argent was almost beside himself, but he cudgelled himself into patience. Townmead looked again.

  “But that’s what it says all right, and here it is: “unto our good servant William Bennet of Falmouth District….”

  He looked up.

  “Cromwell had the whole country sliced up into Districts ruled by his Major Generals, you see, strict Puritans all.”

  He returned to his reading. Argent ground his teeth.

  “…… Falmouth District, is given, on this 29th Day of May, Year of Our Lord 1661, one hundred acres of good farmland hard by the estate property known as Barton, this now in the possession of Sir Marmaduke Symonds. Know all men by these presents that this document shall count as Deed of Title to this gift and the said gift shall be known as Land by Barton and shall remain so for all purposes both commercial and hereditary. This land shall remain within the family of William Bennet as long as the Good Lord and the King shall see fit.”