A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “And here comes dessert, as the uppercrust calls it.”

  He leaned back on his bench to invite the serving maid to place a huge pudding on the table by him. He looked up appreciatively.

  “Why, thankee, fair maid. Now tell us. Yon pudding, just what is contained therein?”

  The fair maid looked once at the tanned, grinning, confident face and lowered her eyes in embarrassment, but she did answer.

  “Apple. ‘Tis apple.”

  “Which make you the apple of my eye! But do tell, which Inn do you hail from?”

  “The Pale Horse, at the back of town.”

  “Do you welcome sailors there?”

  She had recovered some of her composure.

  “We might. If they had some money and behaved themselves.”

  Whiting sat back, his face showing mock astonishment his hands spread and open, wide open, as were his eyes.

  “Well, now lads. Don’t that just sound like our kind of place? Where peaceable people behaves themselves and takes a quiet drink.”

  He gazed up smiling at the pretty face.

  “We was just sayin’, we got prizemoney owin’. And your Pale Horse sounds just the pothouse to come and spend some of it. And, when we comes, who do we say recommended the place to us?”

  She looked down at him, now smiling herself, quite taken with this cheerful and not bad looking sailor, but she showed mock umbrage.

  “It b’ain’t no common pothouse!”

  She paused and looked full at him.

  “And my name’s Molly.”

  “Molly.”

  He nodded.

  “Molly. Right lads.”

  He took off his hat and threw it onto the table.

  “A collection for Molly, what’s served us so well at this table, and told us of a good Inn to spend our future money in.”

  Wry and exasperated grins all round, but nevertheless, each threw some coins in and it was more than a few shillings that Molly tucked into her apron before clearing the remains of the main course, but, as she did, her and Whiting exchanged meaningful glances, more than once. Molly loaded her small serving cart with the dirty plates and placed clean dishes in front of Whiting.

  “You can give these out for me!”

  The others laughed at Gabriel Whiting, the Captain of the Foretop, receiving his orders from a serving maid, but it was a grinning Whiting who did spread the dishes and then himself spooned out large portions of the pudding. Molly disappeared, but not before sending a sidelong glance at Whiting. However, Sam Morris, used to such an occurrences when in the company of Gabriel Whiting, couldn’t resist making some observation.

  “Now, we’ll just see how long that one’ll last, the promise to go over and see Molly whilst spendin’ some money at the Pale Horse.”

  Whiting looked down the quayside at the disappearing Molly.

  “Well, I don’t know. Perhaps that one may have hit home.”

  “Hit home! ‘Bout as much a one passin’ clean through the riggin’.”

  All laughed, but then commotion from further up the mole drew their attention. Fraser was hurrying down one side and Ball down the other and, as they passed, seamen from Ariadne rose and made their way back to the gangplanks, chewing a last mouthful or taking a last drink. Morris was first to speak.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  However, Fraser had reached them and gave Morris the answer, but more than a simple order; such established shipmates were entitled to more.

  “Get back aboard and ready ‘er for sail, lively. La Pomone’s out! A Revenuer out of Plymouth, was chasin’ a smuggler, nigh on Guernsey, and found herself chased off by a frigate, but she saw a hulk with just a foremast, bein’ towed by another frigate. The one as chased ‘er off was the escort. They’m takin’ ‘er down Channel.”

  oOo

  Chapter Eleven

  A Settling of Accounts

  Ariadne surged on, through a world of darkness, black sea and black sky, at no quarter beyond her living hull was there any point showing life or light, even the spray cascading over her bows from her urgent passage, sprayed across the deck as inky black. The only source that threw any light within the darkness that girded the world of those on board was that from her own binnacle; the compass within it regularly studied by Quartermaster Short as he held Ariadne on her chosen course, just East of South. Other lights did burn, but only deep within her hull and one of those burning brightly and steadily could be found in the cabin of Sailing Master McArdle as he assembled the combination of wind, tide, speed, and sea conditions into a plan for Ariadne to intercept La Pomone. His Captain had set him the task; calculate a course and speed that would bring them onto the French ships just as they reached Quessant. Not too late, for obvious reasons, nor too early, because, if they had to sit and wait at that island, the wind, just South of due East could give the French the weather gauge. Argent wanted their interception timed to when the French were almost past, giving him what wind advantage there would be. Thus, McArdle sat, calculating the likely speed of the French, with one frigate towing another, that being towed having some sail, in a steady wind in a choppy sea and a tide still building up Channel, but soon to peak and ebb. He checked his calculations for a second time, then, satisfied, he took himself out of his cabin, but not before kissing his sleeping wife and saying a short prayer with his hand on their Bible.

  On deck he identified his Captain, not by his features, but by him being the only figure stood on the weather side of the dark quarterdeck.

  “Sir, I’ve made the calculations, Sir. If we can hold eleven knots; then on this course, we should meet them as ye wish, Sir.”

  “Mr. Bright. Throw the log, if you please.”

  The log was taken and shown to be 10 knots, plus a half. McArdle spoke first.

  “By my reckonin’, Sir, they’ll be past us and through the Quessant channel.”

  Argent looked aloft, but could see nothing, however, he held in his mind the picture of the sail pattern above them and now he knew he needed an extra half-knot, in a wind just forward of beam on. He shouted over the rail into the gloom.

  “Mr. Fraser.”

  A shape moved away from the mizzenmast and Fraser’s voice answered.

  “Sir?”

  “Set all lower and topmast staysails.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  Shouts and orders came back through the darkness, then the sound of running feet. Argent heard, more than saw, the newly set canvas whip taught and then felt the deck tilt slightly. Ariadne was responding.

  “Mr. Bright. The log once more, if you please.”

  The minutes passed and Bosun’s Mate Ball came back to ring two bells of the Middle Watch, the “Graveyard”.

  “Short one eighth of eleven knots, Sir. Bar one eighth. Sir.”

  Argent walked forward again.

  “Mr. Fraser. Middle staysail. Outer and flying jib.”

  In the stuffy gloom of the Lower Deck, the Starboard Watch were either sleeping or working on small tasks by the light of tallow candles. Sam Morris felt the ship heel for a second time and spoke to the volunteer of his guncrew, Jacob Pierce.

  “He’s crackin’ on.”

  He bit through the thread of some stitching, then continued his theme.

  “How many Captains do you know as would risk springin’ a mast to get into a fight with three Frogs, even though one be crippled?”

  Pierce chuckled, but nervously.

  “Orders! He gets ‘em, same as we. Herodotus is out of it, which just left us with any chance of doin’ somethin’ against ‘em.”

  “Herodotus, aye, and I’ll tell thee one thing, I’d not object to seein’ that over scrubbed piece of fancy work out on our lee right now, able at least to take on one of ‘em. Flogger Cheveley or not, at least he could pull one away and give ‘im a fight.”

  He pulled on a stitch.

  “What we’m sailin’ into I don’t like.”

  Pierce answered, his tone seeking reass
urance, more than advancing an opinion.

  “He’ll not play out his chances too far, our Captain.”

  “Oh ah? He’ll have some plan, don’t thee worry, an’ it’ll involve us goin’ straight through the middle of ‘em.”

  He examined his work by holding it close to the candle.

  “Thur! Done. I’m for some sleep. An’ you, Jake?”

  Pierce nodded.

  “The same. This day could be busy.”

  Ariadne held her speed and held her course. A grumbling Mortimor prepared a main meal, which was eaten before the predicted time of the dawn and, as a feint streak appeared in the South Eastern sky, the ship was cleared for action. Well within ten minutes all was ready and prepared, each man checking what they may come to use at their gun; a rammer, a tackle-block, a flintlock or simply the breech mounting. Morris was checking the cleanliness of the touch-hole when he saw someone arriving with Henry Ball and this good Bosun’s Mate stopped at Number Four, but when he spoke it was to both Morris and Number Four’s Guncaptain, Joe East.

  “You two. “Ere’s an extra man. Use ‘im as you choose.”

  With that he bustled away, leaving the newcomer stood there, looking bemused and looking all around, but finding no answers.

  “What do you reckon, Joe. A pusher?”

  Joe East was from the Home Counties, quiet and well spoken.

  “Has to be. Put him on the tackle and she’ll run out uneven. We’ve both our two each side.”

  Lynch looked at the new man.

  “Now, listen. After the gun is loaded, we have to run it out. You’ll know that’s happening because the tacklemen will be pulling on those ropes to send the gun up to the gunport, that square hole there. When you see that happening, you push, from behind, here.”

  He pointed to the carriage below the gun’s cascabel.

  “That’s for both of us, both guns. When either is being run out, you push that gun. If a tackleman gets killed, that’ll be your job.”

  He looked at him challengingly.

  “Is there anything you don’t understand?”

  Even in the glim of the tallow light they could see real fear cross the man’s face, but East continued.

  “Now, when the gun’s fully up to the side, we will be firing it and it will come back, leap back, faster than you can move. Make sure that you are out of the way.”

  East looked at the man, waiting for a reaction, but none came. He returned to his own checking of the tackle pulleys. Morris was also looking.

  “Your name?”

  “Seth Wyatt.”

  There was nothing confident nor challenging in the voice. The man was plainly very fearful but Morris was not in the mood to dispense sympathy, he had his own line of questioning.

  “B’ain’t you one of them as was brought aboard after that skirmish at the Captain’s house?”

  Wyatt looked up at Morris, then down at the deck.

  “Yes.”

  “Then a word of advice. Say nothin’, do as yer told, and keep out of the way!”

  On the quarterdeck the light of the new day was slowly building. Argent again looked for Fraser.

  “Mr. Fraser. Double the lookouts on each mast. Tell them to keep a weather eye to the South, and over to the South East.”

  Argent returned to his place, subconsciously opened his Dolland glass and then shut it. He turned to McArdle.

  “Sailing Master, where would you judge our position now?”

  McArdle was already at his chart board beside the binnacle. He had been taking readings from log and compass every fifteen minutes for almost the whole of the night.

  “Just under five miles from the French coast, Sir. I’d say Quessant was fine on our starboard bow.”

  Argent absentmindedly repeated his action with Dolland.

  “Mr. Fentiman. You have the deck. I’m going to the foretopmast crosstrees.”

  At the high lookout position Argent found Jones and Fenwick. Both were staring South and Fenwick crossed to the starboard side of the mast to join Jones, leaving the larboard weatherside for Argent alone.

  “Anything?”

  “No Sir.”

  A hazy line that he took to be the French coast was just visible and Argent swept his telescope along its full length. There was, indeed, nothing. They were either too early or too late and, if too early, they must sit and wait, but close no further to the French coast. However, sat away in the North West of any French arrivals from the South East, they were in the gloom of the early dawn and could count on remaining unseen for some time and that placed them some way North of the French ships’ likely course, which would be as close as they dared to their own friendly coast. He shinned quickly down the foremast ratlines and began shouting back to the stern.

  “Mr. Fraser. Get the canvas off her. Mr. Short, up helm.”

  Ariadne swung into the wind and came to a dead stop. The canvas, a minute earlier drum tight and drawing power from the wind, began to writhe and flog, but every spare able man was aloft, including some waisters and afterguards, to soon secure the canvas back against their spars. Ariadne began to rise and fall with the passing waves, her mastheads swaying against the growing pale light of the cloud covered sky. From pounding on at eleven knots, she was now utterly still in the water. Argent returned to his lookout point, Jones and Fenwick having held it vacant for him. He looked again through his glass, this time carefully studying the far South East, from where those they sought would come. Again, nothing. He judged the wind; still a steady South of East, level and strong, but carrying some fine rain. If the French were yet to arrive, they could appear quickly out of this far mist, but they would see them first, of that he was confident, because they would have sails set that could be seen, whilst Ariadne sat beneath bare poles. Argent planned for them to see him at a particular time, then react, and this reaction would then decide his own course of action.

  The time passed in the Morning watch, six bells, then seven, but Argent didn’t move, he remained as a lookout. Motivated by impatience he looked Southwest to Quessant; again nothing, but Fenwick was nudging his companion and Jones was nodding his head.

  “Sir. There’s somethin’ comin’ down the coast. Just about within view and about four mile off.”

  Argent yanked the telescope open and focused on the furthest point Southeast of the coast that was visible before the light rain hid all. Through the glass he saw a collection of sails and two hulls, but it was too far to discern if there was a third. He kept them in view then saw enough to make him certain. One of the frigates was under full sail, the other on very little canvas, yet they were keeping pace with each other. One must be towing, so this was they. Argent locked his arms over the spar to make a full study, particularly to judge their pace. He wanted them due South of their position, just out of the weather gauge, but not too far on towards the safety of the Quessant channel. Their progress was painfully slow, but as he carefully examined each frigate, recognition came to him. He was almost certain that they were the two that had allowed them passage after Loctudy; their hulls were the deep purple that he had found so noticeable. His memory of both also told him that each was gunned the equal of Ariadne, probably more. He pushed that thought aside and made his judgement; Ariadne would have to wait an hour, approximately, before they came to due South of him. Towing the heavy La Pomone must be more laborious than McArdle had calculated and he studied again, his eye growing damp from its long enclosure within the eyepiece. The escort frigate moved out a fraction. Had they been seen? Relief came when she resumed station after a minute or so, but the movement had revealed La Pomone. She had but a foremast and that truncated, it carrying two sails, the forecourse and foretopsail, and there were what looked like a staysail and an inner jib between that foremast stump and the bowsprit. Back in August they must have done more damage to her than they thought.

  “Jones. Fenwick.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “I want to know when she’s due South of us. Clear?” />
  The reply came in unison.

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  At last Argent returned to the quarterdeck and spoke first to his Sailing Master.

  “An excellent piece of reckoning, Mr. McArdle. La Pomone has less sail than we assumed, she’s little more than a hulk, which has held them back. But we are now placed perfectly, my congratulations to you.”

  McArdle did no more than slowly lower his head, as though acknowledging some student’s accurate interpretation of a difficult Bible text. He then stood stock still, his role, as he saw it, accomplished. Argent turned to Fentiman.

  “I’m going to hold here, until they have passed us, or just about to. I’m bargaining that this far out, and with no canvas aloft, we’ll not be seen, but send the men aloft. Get the canvas as tight to the spars as can be, give our friends the Johnnies as little to see as possible.”

  In a minute all masts were covered in topmen tightening the ropes that held the white canvas to the spars and tucking up any odd corners that remained wayward. With that done, there was little to do but wait, with Ariadne facing into the wind. The running waves passed easily under Ariadne’s hull, lifting her elegant bows with its equally elegant image of her Greek namesake, then running on, to lift the neat stern. From time to time, Argent couldn’t resist a climb to the foremast crosstrees to check on progress, but that of the three ships was indeed painfully slow. Below the gangways, on the gundecks, the guncrews waited patiently, some chipping shot, some merely talking, discussing some point of gunnery, or ships, or sailors, or whatever came to mind. Many were plainly ill at ease, this would be their first action, or perhaps they remembered too well the experience of the last one. The three Midshipmen met at the mainmast but said little. Wentworth went to each of his eight guns, which included the sternchasers, not being annoyingly inquisitive, but simply gaining opinions on some point or other. The gundeck was tense. Eight bells sounded to end the Morning Watch, therefore, by the regular ship’s routine, this was now time for breakfast, but the men had already been fed. Mortimor and his two mates were cleaning down the pots and cauldrons, but Argent decided that, nevertheless, the time should be acknowledged. Fraser was on the quarterdeck.