He set down the magnifying glass and looked at Argent.
“There. I’d say this was your land.”
Argent was both grinning and nodding, before seizing Townmead’s right hand to shake it.
“Yes, that’s it. It is. My undying thanks to you. The current owner, Admiral Broke, purchased Barton from the Symonds family, not so far back. What else could it be? That’s it.”
Townmead had more. He placed a now dusty finger on the signature at the bottom.
“And that, my dear Sir, is the signature of our restored Charles II himself, and that his seal.”
The finger had moved to the huge disc of wax, its volume being at least a whole stick of sealing wax. Argent looked over the document trying to read for himself, but the formation of the letters was almost unintelligible, too many “s” looking like an “f”. However, Townmead was moving the affair on.
“What you have to do now is to prove that this William Bennet is one of your ancestors. Your Parish Records should accomplish that for you. That done, no Court in the land would dare dispute a Royal command such as this, attested by that Royal himself, Charles the tooth! That is why it’s here, with us. I only have four more with any Royal signature, from any age. It was donated to us by one ……”
He again ran his finger fully across the ledger and onto the opposite page.
“…….. Septimus Argent in 1754. That’s a link immediately.”
Argent’s own mind began working.
“Can I ask you something, rather to do something? Can you produce a letter that summarises what the document says and also that this document is lodged with you as the motive for your letter? Can you do that, in order that I will have something to take away with me, back to my family?”
Townmead lifted his head and smiled in the affirmative.
“I most certainly can. And I will sign it and I’ll do more. I’ll get my good friend Thomas Fenby from next door to sign as a witness. He’s an Attorney at Law, you see. We were at Cambridge together. He read Law. Myself, Ancient History.”
Argent laughed openly.
“Well bless all the Saints for that! And bless you both for the most laudable and intellectual studies that you both completed there.”
Townmead laughed as well and closed the folder of cartridge paper.
“This document strictly belongs to you. You could take it with you, but I hope you will not.”
Argent placed his right hand over his left breast. He was almost light headed.
“I will indeed not. I thus bequeath this document unto the safe keeping of Truro Museum. And, if you wish to display it in a case, I’ll have no objection to that, either.”
Townmead laughed again.
“That I may well do, but for now, I assume that you would wish to return home, as soon as possible. So, I will complete the letter immediately, take it next door to Fenby and get him to come here. He’ll want to see this, pernickity cove that he is, then he’ll witness what he’s seen and sign it. Come back in an hour and we’ll have you on your way. And it’ll be in the King’s English of George III, nothing Puritan in there contained! ”
Argent grinned like a child, took Townmead’s right hand once again in both his and shook it vigorously. Argent left the storeroom first, followed by Townmead, him with the folder under his arm. Townmead went straight to his Curator’s desk, which curiously was now in the charge of a prim, but pleasant looking woman who seemed to require the same style of spectacles as Townmead. Argent bowed in her direction, replaced his hat, wished them both a very good day and left.
He absentmindedly turned one way, his mind elsewhere, then realised this was the way out of town and so he retraced his steps, on further to a coffee shop in the town square. He had no realisation, but his uniform stood out amongst the drab civilians and so Argent was served by the owner, who approached Argent’s table whilst lacing up a clean apron. Argent drank one cup, which was very good coffee, then ordered another. Half an hour passed and the euphoria that had possessed him was beginning to subside. He realised that nothing was finalised, not by some way, they still had to prove that they were descended from this Royalist hero, William Bennet. It being donated by Septimus Argent proved nothing, he could have bought it in an antiquarian shop, but Enid and Emily would undertake the search; both would fall on the Parish Registers like ravening wolves, but what if there were gaps in the Registers, caused by fire and theft? He thought his Father had a family tree, but what did that prove? Nothing at all, anyone could draw up some fictional construction. What was needed was the “tree” to be referenced back to pages in Registers, over nearly 150 years. He ordered another cup of coffee, now much more subdued, but he picked himself up when he itemised what he had achieved. A Deed to their land existed, he had found it and there was additional proof of its existence being compiled as he sat there, as further insurance. He finished his coffee, paid the owner and left. He walked the town for some minutes then returned to the Museum, in his right hand a bottle of the finest, ready to be placed, in thanks, on the Museum counter.
oOo
The good mare never fell below a fast trot all the way back, often urging herself into a canter. Argent had merely to hold himself comfortable in the saddle and her pace didn’t drop even when he turned her off the direct road to Falmouth, to take the landward road to the farm. Argent felt the letter in his pocket from time to time and did so again for one last time as they reached the farm gate.
“Here you are, girl. I’d say you look on our stable as your second home from home. And we’ll see you looked after.”
The horse worked her head up and down as if in agreement as Argent dismounted and walked the horse into the barn. He took the time to remove the saddle and bridle and then lead her into a vacant stable and gave her some feed and water. However, his arrival on horse had been detected and in came Emily, looking apprehensive, but this soon disappeared when Argent produced a beaming smile and took her in his arms, to pick her up and whirl her once around the stable. She began to beat her fists upon his shoulders and shout in protest. He lowered her gently and smiled again, bending his knees to bring his face level with hers, his eyes wide, his voice coming from deep within his chest.
“I’ve found our Deed! In Truro Museum. I’ve seen it, and I’ve proof.”
Her face exploded into a huge smile.
“A Deed. Then we’re alright, the farm is saved!”
Argent immediately felt guilty that he had created in her mind so potent a thought that all was now solved, but he remained very upbeat.
“Bar just one thing. The name on it isn’t our surname, but all we have to do is show that the name it shows, a William Bennet, is one of our ancestors. It was given to him and this proves it!”
He flourished out a cover and Emily pulled out the letter and read, then re-read.
“And this document in the Museum definitely applies to us?”
“Yes. I’ve seen it and what is written there, is copied directly from it. Now it’s down to what’s in the Parish Registers. We’re one step away!”
She looked up at him and smiled, although not so ecstatic as before. She took his hand and led him out of the stable to enter the kitchen and inside were all the family, just rising from their midday meal. Emily commanded their immediate attention by waving the letter.
“It’s Reuben. He’s got something very important.”
She held the letter vertically towards them.
“This is proof of our Deed. Reuben found it in Truro Museum.”
Enid was the first to move forward. One hand went to the letter, the other onto Reuben’s arm in greeting. She read quickly then turned to her Father, who was distracted enough to cease from pulling on his boots, Beryan also.
“Father. William Bennet? Was he one of our forebears? Our farm was given to him, way back in 1660 odd, by Charles II”
Argent Senior shook his head.
“It’s beyond me, daughter. All I can say is what I’ve said before, there�
��s some family legend about a King’s man from the Civil War, but, let’s see, feed Reuben and I’ll find the family tree, but I doubt it goes back that far.”
He disappeared through the door that led to the upper rooms, leaving Enid to swing the stew pot back over the fire, burning bright against the recent Autumn chill that came first to their high pasture. Argent came to sit in his Father’s vacated chair and to warm his hands. Beryan was sat opposite and Beryan looked at his old friend and slapped him twice on his knee.
“We’ve heard! We’ve heard that you brought our people back; my sister and her children. Well done doesn’t come close, joy beyond measure more like!”
Beryan clenched his jaw and smiled, both with his eyes and his mouth, then thumped Argent again on the knee. Argent nodded in acknowledgement. What silently passed between them carried more than mere words ever could.
Argent Senior returned, carrying a scroll from which he had already removed the tie ribbon. Emily had already cleared much of the table and the old man spread the parchment, which crackled with age. The Family Tree was outlined from top to bottom, the additions in many different hands and types of ink. Argent Senior spoke what he already knew, but couldn’t be certain of.
“It begins with the first Argent to own our farm here, Jedediah Argent, born 1671. There’s no mention of his ancestors.”
Enid closed up to her Father and ran her own finger down the list, counting. She had already assessed her task.
“That’s six from him to you, Father. We have to look these up in the Registers to prove they existed, then trace back from Jedediah. There can’t be more than one back to 1661 and this William Bennet.”
She looked at her sister.
“We’ll start tomorrow.”
Emily looked back at her.
“Why not this afternoon? We’ll go to the Verger’s house, old Pargeter, down the hill, and get him to show us the registers and then start. They’ll be in the church, I suppose. He’s always liked us, and the Vicar does too, Reverend Guilder. I’m sure they’ll be happy to help.”
Enid looked blank at her sister, then nodded. She then turned to her Father and placed her hand on the scroll, it now having re-curled itself on the table.
“Can we take this with us, Father? It’ll serve as an excuse. We can say we’re trying to extend it, which is just about the truth, really.”
Argent Senior nodded, but his experience of the hard ways of the world had surfaced within him.
“You can, but tell no one, not the Verger, nor the Vicar, of your purpose. Money can deflect the good ways of even such as they.”
Both his daughters showed shock at his serious expression and sombre words, but it was the old man who broke the silence.
“Now, feed Reuben, he’s had a long ride and worked to good purpose.”
Then Argent Senior looked affectionately at his son, a light in his face for him that Argent had not seen for many years.
oOo
In Argent’s absence Fentiman had decided to warp Ariadne up to the mole and so it was an easy embarkation for Argent as he regained the almost white, newly holystoned decking of his ship. He acknowledged both Marine sentries at the “present” and stood waiting for the pipes of Fraser and Ball to finish, then he saluted them. All the while he had been searching for Fentiman, but his eyes couldn’t fail to take in the activity to clean, polish and generally make magnificent, every part of the ship, as though a Royal inspection were imminent. He finally saw Fentiman overseeing the coiling of all the foresheets, the spare rope being arranged into wide, perfectly formed discs on the gangway, just under the bulwark. Fentiman was nodding contentedly at all within his immediate view and was about to follow the work-gang onto the forecastle when Argent caught up with him. They exchanged salutes.
“Morning Sir. Welcome back. I trust you found your family all well?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
Argent looked around.
“I see that the ship is being beautified!”
“Yes Sir. The celebration, if I can call it that, is set for the day after tomorrow. It will be on the quayside immediate to us, and so I thought it would do little harm to allow parties of civilians aboard to look around the ship, well, not all the ship; gangways, galley and gundecks, I thought.”
Argent smiled and nodded his agreement.
“A good idea, but conducted by whom?”
“I’ve given that some thought, but to no conclusion. Initially, I thought our Midshipmen, as I understand it, their people will be present.”
“Also a good idea. Now, any news or orders in my absence?”
“Just one, a supreme order. Ourselves, that being all Officers, including Middies; are required to attend an “evening of entertainment and dinner”, given by Lady Grant. Tomorrow evening, 7.30 for 8.00.”
Argent’s immediate thoughts were on who would be there. As a general rule he did not like formal dinners, but this was an invitation not to be refused and, remembering the last one, he found himself almost looking forward to it, but Fentiman had more to say.
“It includes “a delegation from the crew”. No number specified.”
“An “evening of entertainment”, including some seamen? Have our youngsters been informed? And Sanders and Wentworth? Brakespeare? Smallpiece?”
“Yes, they are below decks now getting spruced up.”
“So early?”
“Yes. In response to another visitation, that being this afternoon; the Mayor and his good Lady, and the whole Corporation. Some sort of pre-visit for their celebration, one can only guess.
Argent groaned inwardly and silently condemned Fentiman for warping the ship up to the mole to ease the passage aboard of such notaries. He felt sure a trip over the choppy water on a damp November day to a distant anchorage would have tilted the noble Mayor’s decision and his equally noble Council the other way, especially if the Mayoress were involved and she then exercised her undoubted influence over his Munificence. Nevertheless, duty was duty.
“What time?”
“Three bells of the afternoon.”
“Right. But I want no interference in the work of the ship. We’ve just completed a sea voyage. I want her readied for the next one, when it comes.”
Fentiman nodded.
“Aye aye, Sir, but we could lay on a demonstration of how to serve a gun, Sir. That would show willing.”
Argent nodded his reply.
“Agreed. Tell off Wood, 14 starboard, to be ready.”
“And this delegation for Lady Grant?”
“Let me give that some thought. I’m thinking ten. The Warrant Officers, that’s five, plus five, from somewhere else. First thoughts, my bargecrew.”
He changed the subject.
“They’re sending a carriage?”
“Yes Sir. That was on the invitation.”
“And for the men?”
“A charabanc.”
“A charabanc! Lord. Enough for twenty!”
He paused and chewed his lip in thought, but returned to the immediate issue, the Mayor and Corporation.
“Right. With all other Officers invited and all now getting shipshape, that just leaves us to come up to scratch. Has Mortimor been warned to give the once over to my dress uniform?”
Fentiman’s eyes fell.
“No, I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, that one got past me.”
Argent screwed up his face and shook his head in dismissal of Fentiman’s contrition.
“No matter. I’ll do that now. As far as tasks go, that’s a short one; it’s been so infrequently worn. So, three bells. Prepare for boarders!”
“Correct, Sir. I expect a large party. We’re very popular.”
Argent nodded.
“Popular don’t serve! Corporation today, dinner tomorrow, bun fight the day after. Right. Let’s go and bother the good Mortimor.”
The search found the good Mortimor not in his galley, but in Argent’s cabin, with the dress uniform out and spread on the table
, it being carefully examined for stains, frays, and anything not satisfactorily battened down. Mortimor’s expression on Argent’s entry was as though Argent had made an interruption in church, his brows closing together, but he nodded a greeting anyway. Argent, in good mood, allowed the desultory acknowledgement to go by.
“Good afternoon, Mortimor. I see I have to thank you for your anticipation in readying that uniform for me.”
Mortimor emitted a sound somewhere between a grunt and a guffaw.
“And how much workin’ out did it take, with the squeakers runnin’ back an’ forth for hot water to spruce up their togs.”
He looked up to renew his usual scowl.
“Judge not according to the appearance, but judge righteous judgment. John 7, verse 24.”
“Amen to that, Ship’s Cook Mortimor. I like to feel I do my best.”
To Argent’s amazement, Mortimor’s head moved in a tremor of agreement, then he addressed himself to his task.
“This ‘ere swab looks a bit tarnished. I’ll take it out for a bit of a polish.”
He was looking in condemnatory fashion at Argent’s one epaulette, examining it at close range with a look such as he normally reserved for the sinners amongst the crew.
It was not until three bells that the conglomeration of local officialdom finally appeared at the end of the mole and they filed aboard by way of the gangplank, many, even most, looking anxiously down at the water below, some even clinging, two-handed in their concern, to the single hand-rope on the right. The tedious tour, led by dutiful Argent and an irritated Fraser, perambulated around the gangways, the forecastle, and the lower deck. Soon, it blurred into a memory of well fed faces whose self-importance had returned, unsurprisingly, with them gaining the security of the enclosed deck beyond the gangplank.
The first questions were mildly irritating, but tolerable and not unexpected, concerning orders, obedience, and punishments. However, when the tour began, the Councilors expressions slowly changed as they saw all that conveyed life and danger aboard a sixth rate man-of-war, especially when they looked up to see the topmen at work in the rigging, some walking along the spars as though they were on the pavement of a familiar high street. The realisation was reinforced by the answer given when one of the Council made supercilious observation on the cleanliness of one section of timber compared to its surroundings. He was informed that the “clean” was new timber, the repair to a shothole, that being combat damage! The gloomy and cramped spectacle of the lower deck carried its own message.
A Question of Duty Page 56