A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “Well, I went out with an Officer once, who tried to do things official and legal, like.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, I’ll say it now, as I remember it.”

  He cleared his throat, stared at his now distraught audience and drew himself up to his full height.

  “Under the Recruiting Act 1703, you are hereby recruited into the Royal Navy to serve his Majesty King George III throughout the duration of the current hostilities. God save the King.”

  His fellow seamen cheered and applauded the solemn words, but irony was plainly uppermost. Fraser was mightily affronted, but Argent laughed himself.

  “Well done, Bosun. An actor on the London stage could not have spoken with greater gravity nor dignity.”

  Fraser wasn’t sure if Argent was serious or not and so he held his peace, but his Captain was moving on.

  “Get these into our cart, gagged, and get them back to the ship. I see no reason why any noise from them should wake the good citizens of Falmouth. Mr. McArdle and Mr. Baines, stay here with me. You that are going, I want the cart back here before daybreak, and Fraser, ask Surgeon Smallpiece to come back with you, to take a look at Ackroyd.”

  It was Fraser who answered.

  “We’ve got the celebration, Sir, tomorrow; today! Landsfolk will be coming onto the ship. Where to stow these pikers?”

  “In the hold. And put them to work, with a Marine guard. Six, with loaded muskets. And gag them again if they decide to shout.”

  All stood around looking at the six and grinned, whilst they stared back, wide eyed in horror.

  “Right, you have your orders.”

  Argent left whilst the six were bodily lifted and tossed into the cart and, with their hands and feet tightly bound, they landed very awkwardly, either on the bare boards or on one of their companions. As they were heaved in, Whiting spoke over the top of the cart, perhaps to ease their feelings.

  “Now don’t take it so ‘ard, boys. We could’ve hauled you off to the Magistrate and got you done for attempted murder! That’d mean the long haul up. Least you’m still alive and likely to stay alive, as much as the rest of us, that is.”

  Argent heard him and the others laugh at his legal nicety, but he paused at the door long enough to see the cart being manually hauled out of the barn followed by a ploughhorse, quickly harnessed between the shafts by Beryan. All, save those being carted, now in very merry mood and they set off, those in the cart still the butt of cruel and pitiless humour.

  Once inside, Argent saw the whole family still in the parlour, waiting news, but Enid was still bathing Ackroyd’s wounds and he was, himself, holding a wet pad to his eye. Argent spoke generally, to all stood around.

  “They told us nothing more.”

  Then he grinned.

  “However. I’ve recruited them into the Royal Navy! They’ll sail with us on our next voyage. They’ll not be around to be hired into anyone’s skullduggery for some time, least not Broke’s nor Cinch’s.”

  He saw the pleasure and relief in the faces of all, but then thought of Ackroyd.

  “Father. Can Ackroyd have my bed? I’ve sent for our Surgeon, who should be here in not much more than an hour.”

  “He can, and I’ll help him there myself. Beryan, you’ll help?”

  The two eased Ackroyd from the chair and, still attended by Enid, Ackroyd was helped to the door that opened onto the stairs. However, Argent was pleased that Ackroyd took most of his weight on his own legs. His smashed in shako, on the table, gave evidence as to how his life had been preserved. Argent picked it up and tried to push it back into shape, but it came apart in his hands. He threw it back onto the table. McArdle and Baines had taken their seats by the fire and both were almost asleep. Argent bolted the door and joined them, immediately at their place and was very soon in their state.

  oOo

  The following morning, Lady Grant herself came up to their farm, in a carriage with four coachmen. The cart had been returned and only Argent and Smallpiece remained, so it was Argent who heard the carriage enter their yard and he came out to greet her. She spoke as soon as the door was opened.

  “Did anything happen?”

  “Yes, Lady Constance, some unpleasant characters did arrive, at dead of night, but my men saw them off, or more like on. I pressganged them, all of them.”

  Lady Grant grinned as she alighted from the coach.

  “Most excellent, a capital idea!”

  She walked further, to the door, but did not enter, she remained on the threshold and knocked on the open door. Argent Senior was visible in the parlour.

  “Edward. May I come in?”

  Argent Senior pulled a chair from under the table as answer and Lady Grant entered to sit on it.

  “I hear you’ve been bothered, Edward. Is there anyway I can help?”

  Argent Senior looked from her to his eldest daughter.

  “Enid here knows the full story, her and Emily.”

  Unbidden both came to the table sat, and told the story. Lady Grant listened intently, but, with the story finished, Emily went further.

  “I’ve been talking to Mr. McArdle, one of Rueben’s Officers. He’s a very intelligent man and he says that we’ve as good as made our case, but one thing remains, to make the whole thing “copperbottomed”, as he put it. To find the Will that William Bennet made to give the farm to Jedediah Argent. Do you think you could help with that?”

  Lady Constance leaned forward.

  “And when did William Bennet die?”

  “1681, ma’am.”

  Lady Constance pursed her lips.

  “It will be with a Solicitor who was practicing back then, obviously. I have dealings with all three in Falmouth and I’ll ask them to search around that year. I suspect that Branch, Branch and Jenkins have been here the longest, and so my greatest hopes rest with them. But if any have it, we’ll find it, be certain.”

  Emily clapped her hands and grinned, but Argent now spoke.

  “Lady Constance. The men came to steal or destroy these Parish Registers.”

  He indicated the five volumes on the writing desk.

  “May we ask that you take them into your home and keep them safe, until they are no longer needed, no longer part of the issue?”

  “Of course. Be very assured of their safety with me and they will not leave my possession until all this enclosure business is thoroughly settled. Pargeter and Guilder will have no objection I feel sure, especially when I tell them the tale of what happened here this night gone and that their precious registers were and perhaps still are, under serious threat of destruction.”

  Argent Senior had sat beside her at the table.

  “That’s very generous, Lady Grant.”

  He paused and looked at her, querulously.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I would. And some of Enid’s fuggan would not come amiss, if I may be so ill mannered as to ask.”

  An hour later Lady Grant’s carriage halted at the portico of her house. She got out and made her farewells, attended by two Register laden footmen, but then the carriage swung around to descend the drive and continue on its required journey, that being to continue on and convey Argent, Smallpiece and the invalid Ackroyd back to their ship. A short time later, the carriage was running along the length of the Navy mole, but only so far, because half the mole’s length was taken with long trestle tables and the carriage was forced to halt at a collection of delivery vans from bakers, Inns, brewers and costermongers. The tables were being laid and the first, early, civilian guests of the Mayor were already arriving, these walking out onto the mole, enjoying the weak, unseasonable sunshine, but wrapped up nevertheless.

  The carriage’s occupants opened the door themselves and Argent strode immediately up the gangplank to call the Marine sentries down to help carry Ackroyd back on board and to the sickbay. He then waited at the foot of the gangplank to watch his Marine Sergeant as he was helped along the mole. Ackroyd’s
eye was very black, but it was half open, at least, and his head was swathed in bandages; however he merely needed the two Marines to steady him on his course and he took himself up the gangplank, but again closely supervised. Every Ariadne present noted his passage from the carriage to the sickbay and all, even though Ackroyd was the ship’s omnipresent Master at Arms, looked and spoke sympathetically. The story had circulated.

  Argent took himself immediately to his cabin and there he noted the state of his best dress uniform. He had worn it in the brawl and it looked so. There was dirt and dust all over, which showed especially on the white breeches, which also had a hole in one of the knees. Bible Mortimor had heard him walk past the galley and followed him in, and Mortimor’s horrified look gave Argent clear indication that his uniform was wholly a sin against all Godliness, never mind a visit by the Mayor and his Corporate assemblage.

  “Don’t fret too much, Mortimor. Give the coat a dusting down and I’ll borrow some breeches from Fentiman.”

  “An’ your shoes an’ hose?”

  Argent re-examined each.

  “I have spare hose and I’ll clean the shoes myself. Now, there’s the coat, do your best. I’ll set about the rest directly.”

  “Johnson can take care of the shoes. You’ve a shirt to worry about, an’ all.”

  His brows knitted in deep disapproval.

  “Gettin’ into fights! Do that which is right and good in the sight of the Lord. Deuteronomy. Six, verse 18.”

  “On your way, Mortimor.”

  Grumbling at everything including the jacket, Mortimor left, to be soon replaced by Johnson who left with the shoes. Argent began rummaging about in his sea chest for the necessary. One bell later Jeremiah arrived to say that the Mayor and his ensemble had arrived and were about to take their places, but Argent was brushing himself down and remarking to himself that, for a running repair, he didn’t look half bad. He then made a hurried exit to oversee the formalities, but he was halted on the larboard gangway by Midshipman Berry, who looked somewhat apprehensive over what he was about to say.

  “Beg pardon, Sir, but at the bottom of the gangway there’s a gentleman who says he is a journalist. I’m not sure what that is, Sir, but he says he wants to talk to you about our taking of the slaver, and he would like to talk to, well, several more else in the crew, Sir, that is, with your permission.”

  Argent resumed walking.

  “Thank you, Mr. Berry. I’ll take care of it.”

  On reaching the entryport, Argent saw the grinning young man stood waiting, eager to come aboard, but held there by a Marine sentry.

  “It’s alright, Matthews, allow him to pass.”

  The musket was pulled back and the young man bounded up the gangplank.

  “Captain Argent. I’m overwhelmed to meet you. My name’s Bishop, William Bishop. I’m from the Cornwall broadsheet, The Crier. You may have heard of it. My word, but you and your ship are news, Captain. Heroes of the whole County. And beyond!”

  Argent nodded and smiled in greeting. The gushing introduction had not appealed, but he knew he had little choice, “Needs must when the Devil drives!”. He had to give them of his time and also allow them access to the crew, but he had no qualms about that, for they, like true sailors, would be only too willing to boast of their exploits.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Bishop. I have an event to attend, as you can see, but I do have a little time and myself and my men will be of service to you in any way that we can.”

  oOo

  The crew of number three starboard and the men of the foretop were on opposite sides of the same table. Some landsmen and their wives were next, further up towards the top table and they saw, rather than heard, the Mayor stand to make a speech, which went on too long, then the same, but much shorter, from their Captain. Broke sat smouldering, contenting himself with a mood of foul temper, but Budgen was in his element and, throughout both, continued to attack his glass with gusto. The Ariadnies listened in obedient silence, but were grateful that some beer had already been served, if not the food, and so, as the odd word came down to them over the cries of the many gulls attracted by the display, they could, at least, take a drink. Then the fare arrived, served by girls from the local inns and hostelries, which cheered them all up no end. The food was such as they rarely dined on, a variety of pies, with plenty of greens, swede, potatoes and gravy. With refilled tankards, all tucked in and there was little talk. What there was, centred on Morris’ and Whiting’s story, as they had relayed it to the “newspaper cove”, who was still hovering around, looking for extra titbits of detail.

  However, the main course was almost devoured when Tom Bearman, Number Two of Number Three, changed the subject, after he’d delivered Smallsize another helping of chicken pie and some more swede.

  “So, Gab, what’s this we’ve heard about some scrapers attackin’ the Captain’s family home, up over yonder? Seein’ Ackroyd come aboard just now, I’d say it all got a mite close to the wind.”

  Whiting swallowed his mouthful.

  “That’s not wrong, it could have been wholly nasty, had we not been there. It was all to do with a claim on the Argent land, all around, and, if we hears true, our dear Admiral Broke has some part in it.”

  Morris had been listening from some places down.

  “I was on Morning Watch and saw six scruffy sorts brought aboard in your company. Was they the result of all that?”

  “They were, and right now they’m down in the hold under Marine guard ‘till we next sails. Our Captain was like to string ‘em up, there and then, ‘till that thought came into his head, about puttin’ the Press on ‘em. Six hefty lumps like them’ll not come amiss.”

  Whiting returned to his food, but Morris had grown curious.

  “Broke behind it! How much truth could there be in that?”

  It was Abel Jones, the topman, who answered.

  “They was talkin’ a lot about Broke and someone called Cinch, before and after the set-to. Ain’t that right Mose?”

  “’Sright! The Captain and his brother in law, I believe, was talkin’ together and they was usin’ just those names.”

  Morris again spoke up.

  “So, ‘tis Broke! Tryin’ to latch onto more land, I shouldn’t wonder. I’ve heard that some folks‘ve been turfed off theirs from this enclosures thing that’s happenin’ all over. Sounds like Broke’s tryin’ to do much the same to the Captain’s people. I’ve always held that Broke and Cheveley is one close moored pair of buzzards, and now we’ve this Cinch added. I don’t like the way such as them is getting’ away with the likes of what’s goin’ on.”

  He pointed his knife down the table for added emphasis.

  “Common folk bein’ thrown out of their homes and sent to go the Lord knows where, just so’s some high society landowner can up his acreage by the odd couple’ve fields or such! ‘Tis all wrong!”

  Whiting looked down the table.

  “Well, don’t take it so very hard, Sam. This one we stopped, so there’s one family, at least, as still has their roof over their heads.”

  “I hear you, Gab, an’ that’s fair, but there’s another side to this, affectin’ us. It leaves Broke with another down on us. He lost a packet after we wiped the eye of Flogger Cheveley, and now he’s been scuppered again, once more by a crew off of Ariadne.”

  King looked up, curious.

  “So Broke’s got a down on Ariadne. What difference could that make?”

  “Our prizemoney! That scrub Broke could put a shackle on it somehow. I don’t know how, but somehow.”

  “You mean take it away?”

  “No, I mean delay it.”

  The table fell silent, until Abel Jones spoke further, in hope of giving consolation.

  “Well, we’ve got this, and such as this I’ve never heard of. Not even after Trafalgar. I’d say this stands up for collarin' that slaver, at least, instead of prizemoney, even delayed.”

  Jacob Pierce of Number Three answered.

&nb
sp; “I says it don’t. ‘Tis better than nothin’, I’ll grant, but I’d go for prizemoney for takin' that slaver, no matter how small”

  Sam Morris answered, forcibly.

  “And what prizemoney could come from that spatchcock, Arab built, eyesore? They’d never have took him into the service nor anyone buy him, neither. What use would such as that be in a storm down Channel?

  Pierce leaned forward aggressively.

  “That may be true about that slaver. The Captain did right to sink him to the gunnels with all them heathens washin’ about all over him, an’ then sail off, but I’m talking about prizemoney in general. Speakin’ of which, Sam’s right, b’ain’t it about time our share from La Mouette arrived. An’ that smuggler.”

  Sam Morris guffawed from the far side of the table.

  “I’ve known prizemoney not arrive for a year nor more. I do swear that they delays it so’s a few of the crew is dead, injured, or lost, so’s to lessen the number as is entitled to it. Which saves ‘em a few pound, and likely makes a bit extra for the likes of Broke.”

  Gabriel Whiting added his thoughts.

  “What difference would a few less of us make? ‘Tis fewer Officers as makes the difference, or less Admirals. They gets their share and all, a good share.”

  Abel Jones came in to query.

  “And which Admirals would that be, in our case? Takin’ a share.”

  “Two. Grant an’ Broke.”

  Jones nodded resignedly.

  “For not firin’ one shot, nor even hearin’ the wind of one.”

  Gabriel Whiting decided that the whole conversation had grown too morbid.

  “Now belay this talkin’ of no prizemoney. There’s some comin’ our way, in time, and, like this spread, however much, ‘tis better than nothin’. And things could be a damn sight worse. We could be crewin’ that busted hulk out in The Roads, yonder.”

  He pointed over his shoulder towards the ship which no one could see, but knew of well enough. Herodotus was awaiting the arrival of new masts from Portsmouth, at which time the mast hoy would come alongside and replace her mizzen, the shattered stump of which still gave evidence of her mauling in the Bay of Biscay.