“Put it down to anticipation, Argent. When do you ever come back into port without something wrecked or broken? I warned the Dockyard Commissariat that you would return with some damage and there they were, waiting for you at the Navy mole. Seeing as you came back in with the crack of the dawn, they had time to meet you as you berthed. And your casualties?"
“Five dead, Sir. Fifteen wounded, ten like to fully recover.”
“Are your dead still aboard?”
“Yes Sir. My First Lieutenant is making the arrangements now. My surgeon tells me that the five seriously wounded should be brought ashore and he is making those arrangements.”
Argent pondered why Budgen was showing such parental concern over such shipboard details, but Budgen was leaning back and staring at him, his face grave and in no way triumphant. Argent remained quiet and it was Budgen who broke the silence, his earlier compassion now explained.
“There’s going to be a Court Martial, Argent.”
Argent’s face remained blank.
“Yes, Sir. I expected it.”
Budgen leaned forward, his face almost sympathetic.
“I’ll be candid with you. Grant and myself did not, not expect it, that is. I was angry with you after that slaver, I confess, but what it did for our reputation in these parts, and across all England, when the newssheets got hold of it, did, well, mellow me somewhat. I can’t walk down the damn road without someone wanting to shake my hand or somesuch thing, and the Mayor and his crew can’t do enough for us.”
He was nodding and almost smiling, almost Fatherly.
“Grant was of the opinion, and I shared it, that to convene a Court Martial of the Captain involved in such a rescue would make the Navy a laughing stock, and we felt sure that their Sea Lordships would feel the same, but…….”
He sat back and his face became grave again.
“There’s politics involved. Dirty politics.”
He sat forward again.
“I got this from Admiral Grant. Lord Liverpool’s Tory Government is in trouble with their Industry Bill and they need every vote to defeat a Whig amendment. They need Cinch and he’s struck a bargain. He’s stood up in the House to condemn the, and I quote, if I get it right, “flagrant flouting of Naval discipline, such as to possibly jeopardise the security of the one standing army this country possesses”. Liverpool has to arrange a Court Martial to keep Cinch in the fold. Therefore one will be convened.”
Budgen’s face softened.
“I’m sorry Argent.”
Argent deliberately brightened himself up. He was pleasantly surprised at the ‘sea change” in Budgen’s attitude towards him and felt disposed to respond.
“Not at all, Sir. As I said before, I welcome it. I stand ready to justify the actions I took.”
He paused.
“Do you know when, Sir?”
“I don’t. I can only guess at late next week, or the week after. It has to be set quickly in train to keep Cinch where Liverpool wants him.”
Budgen placed his hands palms down on the top of the desk and looked as though he was about to raise himself up, but he did not. Instead he pushed the Log back towards Argent.
“When I know anything definite, Argent, you’ll be the first to know after me. My advice to you now, is to get your story clear and straight, especially witnesses from your own ship. That sort of thing.”
“Yes, Sir. I understand.”
Argent took the returning of the Log as his cue and stood up, to salute and then leave, but he did not exit immediately, not before exchanging words with Venables along the lines of “up The Marines.” His return to his ship was greeted with the now familiar sounds of sawing and hammering, produced by several workgangs all working assiduously on the gangways and gundeck, using new oak planking or carrying that which was shattered up to the gangways and removing it to the quayside. He went straight to his cabin and sent for Fentiman, who entered, carrying the communications addressed to Argent. Fentiman placed them on the desk, but Argent did not fail to notice that Fentiman’s hand dwelt long on the letter on top and, when it did, his hand slid away, in a kind of caress. Argent took the top letter and noticed what he thought was almost certainly a female hand. He slit away the seal and read. He noticed Fentiman studying him intently but he saw the signature and read to the bottom; the letter was from Charlotte Willoughby.
“It’s from Charlotte. She has heard what I was just about to tell you, that there is to be a Court Martial over my decision to take the slaver.”
He looked up at Fentiman.
“That was why I asked for you to come here. She must have learnt of it from Admiral Grant, who has also told Budgen. She is saying, and this is most magnificent of her, that she has approached the……….”
He looked again at the letter
“Society for the Mitigation and Gradual Abolition of Slavery, and she hopes that they may be able to provide some form of support. She has also written a letter to The Times stating her outrage at the absurdity of convening a Court in the first place.”
Argent looked at Fentiman and noted immediately that his First Lieutenant seemed wholly depressed and cast down, but Argent finished what he wanted to say.
“I think that is most kind and most supportive. You would agree?”
Fentiman nodded, but there was no change in his demeanor. Argent studied him closely.
“Anything wrong, Henry? Not a family bereavement, I hope, nor anything of that nature?”
Fentiman perked himself up, now realising that his low mood was evident and that he needed to meet the requirement of his duties. However, whilst Argent was reading the letter, he had debated within himself whether or not to tell Argent about his own letter, just received and just read, also from Charlotte, but informing him that, “She was greatly flattered and honoured by his proposal of marriage the last time they had met, but that her heart belonged to another”. Now he was further downcast by the notion that Charlotte had written to himself at the same time as writing to Argent, his own now seeming to be merely a routine letter within a routine bout of letter writing.
“No, Sir. Nothing wrong.”
He looked at Argent, who, now reassured, had set Charlotte’s letter aside and was opening the next.
“What are your orders, Sir?”
Argent looked up, dropping the cover and the opener.
“We can do nothing until the repairs are completed. That will take up the greater part of a week. Between times, ready the ship for sea; supplies and such, but we were only away two days; that cannot be too onerous a task.”
“It’s not, Sir, but what about the Court Martial? We should make some preparations. Witnesses on your behalf. You have the right to call whomsoever you choose. We should make our selection and, well, brief them, so as to get our story straight. Any discrepancy, they’ll seize upon.”
Argent smiled inwardly at Fentiman’s use of “our” instead of “your”. He felt much strengthened by the evidently loyal support of his First Lieutenant, who seemed to be taking the whole thing as a slur against the whole ship. Argent sat back and thought.
“Well, it doesn’t take much deduction to say that everything will hang on justifying the decision not to go straight across the Bay, but to instead follow the coast. The first thing they’ll jump on, is that going straight would deliver the letter quicker, following the coast put us on the more likely course of the slaver. Who was involved in that?”
Argent paused, and then answered his own question.
“Reece. McArdle, and yourself.”
He looked up at Fentiman.
“We’d better get them in.”
As Fentiman left, he returned to the half opened cover. He broke the seal and found difficulty in levering open the thick paper. The first thing he noticed as the top fold bent back was the unmistakeable crest of the Admiralty. Beneath, in the body of the letter, there were merely three sentences.
“You are ordered to present yourself and your ship’s books a
t the residence of the Commander in Chief, Plymouth, at 9.00 am of the 24th November 1809, in order to attend a Court Martial of yourself, at 2.00 pm. This has been convened to sit in judgment on your recent conduct pertaining to the conveyance of a despatch from His Majesty’s Government to the Commander of His Majesty’s Forces in Portugal. The Court will be composed of the Judge Advocate, Charles Manners-Sutton; President of the Court, Vice Admiral Holdsworth; Rear Admiral Grant; Rear Admiral Broke; Captain Henry Blackwood and Captain Sir Digby Cinch.”
Argent allowed the heavy vellum to fall to the desk. How many of those could he count on for some sympathy? Grant alone! And what the Hell was Cinch doing there? He must be ex-Navy, not in post but still on the active list, his presence told of the underlying politics. Holdsworth understood nothing but obedience; Cinch and Broke harboured a deep loathing for himself and Blackwood was an unknown quantity to him, save that he had commanded a frigate at the Battle of Trafalgar. He sat back and philosophised; oh, well, what will be, will be!
He opened the other letters and set about the affairs they mentioned, all concerning the ship, all requiring absolute concentration amidst the incessant hammering and sawing. Then again came the knock on the door and those named previously trooped in; Reece wholly apprehensive, McArdle simply obeying his Captain’s bidding and Fentiman, last, closing the door.
oOo
For two days he cudgelled his thoughts away from the impending Court Martial, now but five days away. Most often he worked alone in his cabin, where he couldn’t resist several re-readings of the blunt, cold, accusing words that afforded no comfort, nor the endless examination of the reaction he could expect from the partially unknown Holdsworth and the wholly unknown Blackwood. On the second morning he had received a letter from The Society for the Mitigation and Gradual Abolition of Slavery pledging their full support, but any help financial was beyond them, but they did promise to mount a campaign to “fully inform the authorities of the public disquiet at the persecution of so evidently humane and valuable a Naval Officer”. He had just set the letter down when the Marine Sentry knocked and entered.
“There’s a gen’leman at the foot of the gangway, Sir, wishin’ to see you.”
Argent looked up and pondered, but not for long, for he then gave the only reply possible.
“Ask him to come aboard and please conduct him here, to my cabin.”
The “Aye aye Sir”, came around an already closing door and Argent sat and waited. Soon he heard footsteps in the corridor outside and the same sentry opened the door and flattened himself against the doorjamb to allow the visitor to enter. Argent stood to make his greetings and soon recognised the distinguished gentlemen who had paid Argent and the ship such compliments at the end of the Lord Mayor’s visit. He was dressed in the same identical manner that Argent remembered, his iron grey hair, in light contrast to his dark suit and that itself contrasting to the snow white linen. A folded newspaper, under his arm, stood out in contrast to the dark cloth of his suit. Argent stood waiting as the man crossed the space in the cabin between the door and the desk.
“Thank you for seeing me, Captain. May I introduce myself, which I was so remiss as to fail to do the last time we met? My name is Josiah Meade.”
They shook hands, but Meade politely remained standing.
“Please do sit down, Mr. Meade. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“I hope it will be so, Captain Argent, I sincerely hope so.”
He placed the newspaper on the desk, it was the latest copy of The Times. It was folded to reveal one particular article, which Meade pointed to. It was not a large article, but its headline read, simply, “Captain Nathan Argent, HMS Ariadne, to appear before Court Martial.” Argent looked at Meade.
“May I?”
Meade pushed the newspaper further towards him as an answer. Argent read the few sentences, noticing the absence this time of any hyperbole, merely stating the fact of the Court Martial for the capture of the slaver rather than deliver the letter at all speed. It finished with Argent’s other career events, these being the capture of La Mouette, the raid on St. Malo and the sinking of La Pomone. Meade allowed Argent to finish reading, then he sat forward in his chair.
“Captain. What form do these Court Martials take? Are they similar to a Trial in a Public Court?”
Argent sat back and thought, his brow furrowed as he looked down at his desk.
“Yes, as far as I am aware. Only the Jury is The Bench, if you understand; it is made up of Naval Officers, controlled by a Judge Advocate, him being there to ensure that the affair is conducted properly. He makes no judgement, the others do.”
“Are there Lawyers for the defence and for the prosecution?”
“Yes and no, although a defendant can ask for a civilian Lawyer, but he must meet the expense himself. The defence and prosecution are usually conducted by Officers of the defendant’s rank, the defence is often described as “a friend”, which could be anyone; someone from the defendant’s own ship, for example. They interrogate the witnesses, as can Members of The Bench.”
“Do you have a Lawyer, or “a friend” to represent you?”
“No. There is no Captain that I can call upon in our part of the world, and the person from my ship, here, whom I could ask, I cannot, because he will almost certainly be called upon to testify on my behalf. It could all get a bit incestuous. However, I can, of course, speak for myself, which is what I intend.”
Meade sat back, his decision taken.
“Then it is my wish that I provide a Lawyer for you, Captain.”
Argent stared back at him, in shock and astonishment.
“That is most kind of you, Sir, but I cannot possibly accept. The monetary cost to yourself would be immense, I cannot possibly allow you to make such an outlay on my behalf.”
The reaction was wholly unexpected and equally strange. Meade held up the backs of his hands for Argent to see.
“Do you see these scars? Do you know where they come from?”
Argent shook his head.
“The mine. Coal, copper, tin; all miners get them. You get a cut, in goes the dust and it never comes out.”
He paused to allow that to sink in, but its relevance escaped Argent.
“I’m a rich man. I have mines all over England of all three types, especially tin here in Cornwall, but I started up country with my own hole in the ground as a free miner. I still work alongside my men and they are as important to me as my own family and I saw the impact on them when their relations and friends were taken. You brought them back and to help you, as it now dwells in my power, is what they would want me to do. So, no argument, I’m going to seek out and employ a Lawyer knowledgeable in naval affairs to act on your behalf.”
Argent sat back, quelled and resigned.
“I can only say thank you and that I am most grateful.”
“Forget the thanks! There’s no time.”
Meade sprang to his feet.
“Right. I’m off, off to Plymouth, or even Portsmouth, to seek that which we need.”
He held out his right hand, that being the most scarred. Argent took it with the firm grip he felt given.
“Good day to you, Captain.”
Argent felt buoyed up. The facts were unchanged but at least he now had an experienced legal mind to present his case. He picked up Charlotte’s letter, admiring the neat hand, then he reached for a piece of blank vellum from the pile on his desk and began writing, but in mid sentence came a knock on the door and Fentiman entered. Argent looked up.
“Henry. Good, I was just about to send for you. There’s been a development which should help our cause.”
“That’s pleasing, Sir, but there’s a problem on the gundeck. A dispute between a carpenter and our Mr. Baines. I think you should attend, Sir.”
Argent dropped the quill into the inkwell.
“Oh, very well, I’ll go, but you may as well wait here, then I can tell you my news. We’ve got a Lawyer!”
&nbs
p; Argent grinned as he passed Fentiman, who took a seat to wait. As Argent closed the door on his exit, Fentiman’s eye fell on the letter Argent had started. Even upside down, the addressee, Charlotte Willoughby, was obvious. He stared at it for a minute, leaned forward, sat back, and then sat fully forward to read the brief beginning, merely half the opening sentence.
“My Dearest Charlotte,
I write to further make known to you my deepest and undying …….”
oOo
The coach rumbled over the cobbles past The Tower on its way to the Rear Admiral’s residence, through a morning which had not yet realised that it should have blessed the hour with the daylight of dawn, for the morning was bleak and dark, with alternating waves of rain and fog. The coach held five, comprising the four sailors and their lawyer; one Christopher Sampson, young but old enough to have learnt his trade, clean cut and presentable, but not so much as to impress as fresh and inexperienced. It was he who had held the conversation since leaving Falmouth, carefully and precisely going over the testimony of each, patient with mistakes and encouraging a certain nuance here, an emphasis there. It was clear to Argent that he possessed a clear, logical and uncluttered mind, setting a course for them all through the forthcoming examination as he saw it. Eli Reece had given no trouble at all, performing in such circumstances before his superiors was comprehensively within his experience and he soon learnt and understood what was expected of him. Whatever needed saying he would say it, but McArdle was a different matter, he would “speak nae falsehoods, nor bear any false witness”. However, Sampson, attending to every detail, had spent the whole of the previous day aboard Ariadne and, laboriously, had finally coached even McArdle’s evidence into a form that would best help their cause.
They pulled into the familiar gates and the coach halted. The steps to the portico were almost deserted but for one or two civilian servants and, leaving the other three inside the coach, Argent and Sampson mounted the steps and entered. They were looking for someone who would know something about the forthcoming Court Martial, but no one could be seen. The two exchanged puzzled looks before Argent proceeded on down the entrance hall, to the door to the main hall where the St. Malo enquiry had been held. Sampson followed and when they opened the door, they first saw servants, busy with chairs for the audience, then they saw what they sought, an Officer in full Post Captain’s uniform at a long table, which could only be there for the Judge Advocate. Argent walked up to him and saluted, using “Sir”, although he had no need to.
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