A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “If it isn’t, Sir, I just made it so.”

  Argent smiled at Charlotte and his sisters, turning carefully to each, and they disappeared off behind him. He turned in his seat to see what remained of the audience in the hall, but few were there. Fentiman was not, but Reece and McArdle both were, still sitting, solid and stern, a few rows behind their Captain. Argent looked at both, simply to exchange looks, then he nodded and turned away. Enid and Charlotte soon returned, Enid with sandwiches, Charlotte with a bottle of small beer, a pint bottle. She had also obtained a china mug.

  “That’s good work. Thank you both. Where did it come from?

  Charlotte answered.

  “That nice Marine Captain. He found what was needed and told us where to go to get what he couldn’t.”

  Argent grinned inwardly. At the sight of Charlotte, Marine Captain Baker would have been moved to move mountains. He opened the beer.

  “Where’s Emily?”

  Enid looked beyond him.

  “At the back there, talking to Lieutenant Fentiman.”

  Argent nodded.

  “Thank you both again, but I’m afraid that I must be left in solitude. At the moment I’m a lowly prisoner.”

  He turned again to the Marine Sergeant.

  “Is that not right, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Sir, I’m afraid it is. Strictly, no one should be speaking to you, bar your lawyer, Sir.”

  Argent raised his eyebrows and gave a wry grin. He looked finally at Enid and nodded vigorously.

  “It’s going to be fine. You are not to worry.”

  Enid immediately became tearful, but she followed Charlotte away. Argent filled the china pot and offered it first to the Sergeant.

  “We’re alright, Sir, thank you.”

  Argent relaxed back into his chair, eating and drinking. He felt at ease. All that could be, had been said and done, and so he contented himself that it was all now in the lap of the Gods. He couldn’t even bring himself to weigh up the likely verdict of each member of the Court. The minutes passed and then an hour. His sentries remained stock-still and from time to time Argent turned in his seat to view developments in the hall. As time passed, so the hall refilled, first with the placard carrying agitators. After almost another hour all seats were filled and the audience had spilled around to the spaces at the side. He was clearing his table of plate, mug and bottle, when suddenly the hall fell silent.

  “All rise!”

  Makeworthy had reappeared at the door in the corner, carrying Argent’s sword. He walked to the waiting table, followed by the members of the Court. Argent noted that Cinch had lost yet another button. Makeworthy stood with his back to the audience, waiting at the place where Holdsworth would be sat, still holding the sword. The six filed through to their places and all sat, all bar Holdsworth. As the audience sat in response, many poised undecided as to whether they should, Makeworthy handed the sword to Holdsworth and then stood aside. Argent remained standing, his eyes on nothing but the sword, would it be placed on the table, pointing at him, indicating guilt, to whatever extent, or across the table indicating, no guilt? Holdsworth placed the sword on the table, along its length. Argent exhaled a long breath. At least he wasn’t going to be shot! Holdsworth sat down and looked at Argent, his face stern, so much so that Argent lost his own ghost of a smile.

  “Captain Argent. This Court Martial has found you not guilty.”

  Loud cheering and clapping broke out all around the room and Holdsworth immediately seized his gavel and pounded the block until silence eventually fell.

  “This Court must remain silent!”

  His fierce eyes traversed the room to quell any possible repeat. Satisfied that his own superiority had been established, he continued.

  “By a majority, three to two, the Court finds you not guilty of disobeying orders, for the major reason that your most primary order was eventually carried out, the letter was delivered into the right hands at the correct place. However, it is plain that the secondary order was not, that being, “with all possible speed.” That said, the Court is content that a satisfactory passage was made and the letter delivered after a time that could not be considered as so slow as to cause any disadvantage. However, regarding the taking of the slaver-pirate, that was a significant diversion and it was contrary to your strict orders. That will be placed on your record.”

  He paused; his expression becoming almost sympathetic.

  “However, as Captain Blackwood put it, “often there is little that any Officer can do, other than to deal with what is immediately in front of him.”

  He paused again.

  “This Court Martial is at an end.”

  The room exploded with clapping and cheering, this time unconstrained. Argent stood to shake Sampson’s hand. He turned around to see a whole cavalcade coming towards him, Josiah Meade, grinning like a child, Charlotte, Enid, Lady Grant, and Emily, now looking her cheerful best, side by side with Henry Fentiman, each sharing the joy of the moment with the other.

  oOo

  Chapter Twelve

  A Life More Sedate

  “Welcome hame, tae as dreich a morn as any ye’d nae wish ta see!”

  Argent’s open smile was wholly in opposition to the gravely, Calvinist pulpit tones of the dispiriting observation passed by his Sailing Master. However, he smiled contentedly, secure on his own quarterdeck and secure within his own mind by what he could see before him. All was well! Ariadne was allowing the tide to gently and exactly carry her into Falmouth Harbour, even though the North wind, which had made them work so hard on the last leg of her “Triangle Patrol”, still remained and prevailed, fully set against providing any aid to their entry of their homeport. Argent was allowing the tide to achieve his entry, and his ship slowly drifted in, with no sails, but still slowed by the wind, the only aid to her safe arrival being the launch that was out ahead carrying a cable to attach her to a mooring buoy. So prime a task as bringing her to a safe standstill on the last of the tide was under the intense supervision of Bosun Fraser and his blandishments and deprecations to the launch crew could be heard over the still water of the dank December dawn of their homecoming. Ariadne drifted on, the mist that clung to the surface of the sea blurring the distinction between the grey water and her black waterline. Her masts, also showing black with moisture from the clinging mist, pointed up into a grey, overcast sky that frequently took it upon itself to send down thick layers of fine rain to add to the bleak picture that only Ariadne brought life to.

  Argent took himself over to the starboard side. Fraser had closed with the buoy and the double cable was being passed through the mooring ring, the loose end to be quickly tossed up to Bosun’s Mate Ball. Him, up on the forecastle, had seen all for himself and he checked the run of the slack back to the capstan. All was secure and, as the cable tightened to halt Ariadne’s progress, ejected water sprayed both up and down all along its length; thus the ship’s slow drift was halted and her bows began to turn as the dying tide worked on her free stern. Soon she came to a halt, her bows facing the harbour entrance, her figurehead fixing her sightless eyes back to follow the winter mist that rolled past, out on the carrying wind, towards the unseen Channel. Ball took command of the Starboard Watch manning the capstan and very few turns brought Ariadne close up to her mooring. Argent leaned on the rail and watched the recovery of the launch and then was not surprised that the first action of Fraser, when he came back over the side, was to check the fastenings of their moorings upon the forecastle. Fraser’s turn towards the quarterdeck and his salute, told Argent that all was well.

  All was also well within himself. During their patrol, they had seen nothing eventful bar three Indiamen beating close hauled up The Channel, as close to the safety of the Cornish Coast as they could, but the Indiamen were fairly safe, the steady North wind was holding any French cruisers within their home ports. However, Ariadne had, nevertheless, seen it as her duty to escort them over the most dangerous miles.

  Arg
ent had been grateful to have been sent out on the patrol immediately after the Court Martial. He felt it to be of much benefit to himself, that the removal of his two deep troubles, notwithstanding the question of finding the Will, was allowed to slowly establish itself at the back of his mind, subconsciously, hidden beneath the day to day concerns of conning his ship to the Fastnet Rock, then onto the final two legs of his patrol. Gradually it came that all was healed within Argent’s world, the solidity of this slow process finally completing its work after they had left the Fastnet behind. Leaving this barren marker astern had been a salient moment, as though the threat of the rock tangibly represented the threat to his family land and his own career. All aboard had been grateful, the wicked tooth being hid unseen by a moving fog coming from the land, this swirling around them, beneath a bafflingly clear sky. Their Noon Sight and the cacophony of squabbling seagulls told them that they were near enough to The Rock to count the first leg completed and Argent was happy enough to take the North wind fine over the larboard quarter and sail South, all aboard grateful to hear the diminishing sounds of the surf and the birds.

  After this salient event, his unburdened mind had taken it upon itself to wander to many places and the proximity of Ireland had re-awakened memories of Sinead Malley, not that they had ever been particularly dormant. Therefore, with the Fastnet now unseen in their wake, he had begun to pen a letter, it quickly becoming an odd and rambling affair, borne from the fact that, really, he knew not what to say and was equally confused over how to say what did present itself at random to his mind. What did come, appeared behind his pen as gauche and disjointed, but the letter, nine days worth of odd anecdotes, news, questions, hopes and fears, now dwelt folded within his pocket.

  Now, with his ship safe and doing no more than rocking gently in the ebbing tide, he looked idly at the quayside adjacent to the town and saw that, at least that part of Falmouth was awake, just, with commercial carts and carriages traversing the length of the wet and worn stones, all showing their age, grey and mishaped. He called for his barge and idled on the larboard side of the quarterdeck to await its being readied, his back against the rail, allowing his mind to wander at will. Where it did alight was on the memory of a French bowsprit stuck through his mizzen shrouds; this thought aroused by the new ropework above and around, including a smart new mizzen backstay. As his bargecrew descended he walked along the gangway to the entryport, wrapping his boatcloak tight around himself and his Ship’s Books especially, as much to prevent the cloak catching on any projection during his descent, as to keep out the cold.

  Whiting called for a slow, leisurely stroke from his crew; there were no girls as yet on the quayside and so it was a relaxed journey for them all. Once on the firm stones of the quayside, Argent regathered up the Ship’s Log and Ledger and took himself directly to the Commodore’s Office. There he found Sergeant Venables manning his place, but no Budgen.

  “The Commodore’s not in yet, Sir, but if you leave your books, I’ll keep them safe and the Commodore’ll take them onto his desk when he arrives, Sir, I’m sure.”

  Argent did as he was bid and, as the books were carefully placed, Venables reached down and produced a canvas mailbag, this with Ariadne stencilled on the outside.

  “Your mail, Sir. Not too much, it being not much more’n two weeks, but there’s some there. One dropped off by a Lady, too. Very striking she was; a real head turner! She even brought the Commodore up out of his office, even though his rolls and coffee had just gone down.”

  Argent laughed and nodded.

  “Yes, Sergeant, I think you’ve painted a vivid enough picture and that one I’ll read with interest.”

  Argent took the mailbag and weighed the contents on his hand.

  “No, not much here, but then it depends on who’s doing the writing, if you take my meaning.”

  He reached inside his coat and dropped the letter to Sinead onto the desk, then he reached inside his breeches pocket to extract a shilling piece.

  “Could you see that this gets posted, Sergeant? I’d be grateful.”

  “A pleasure, Sir. Leave it with me.”

  Customary salutes were exchanged, then Argent left, but once out of the door he met Commodore Budgen, or rather towered over him, but Budgen was in genial enough mood.

  “Welcome home, Captain. Anything of note to report?”

  “No, Sir. All’s quiet out in The Channel, even the weather, but I’ve left my Logbook with your Sergeant.”

  Budgen hunched himself against the cold and made for the door.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll take a look, but for now I’ll let you get back to your ship. I bid you good-day.”

  Argent saluted Budgen’s disappearing back, his hand being lowered to a closed door and, with that, he took himself back to the quay steps and his waiting barge. His appearance caused all to empty their pipes against the damp stonework, but, within seconds, they were in their places and waiting for Argent to step into the launch. The light rain had become heavier and Argent turned up his collar to marry with his hat and it was but a few drops that managed to enter and trickle down inside to wet his collar. During the journey back he used a length of line to make a loop through the handle of the mailbag and so, with it slung secure over his shoulder and safe from a fall into the water, he climbed through the entryport and made for his cabin. There he unceremoniously dumped the contents of the bag onto his desk. A dozen or so letters fell to the surface, but two stood out. One, a quality cover of a delicate pastel shade that Argent recognised immediately and, the other, the plain white, but thick paper, of an Admiralty communication. He looked at both, undecided as to which to deal with first. He chose the latter. He used his paperknife to ease off the seal, but it did not part from the paper, rather it cracked open. The first item that fell out from the cover was a highly impressive document, which, having read the top line, Argent saw was a Banker’s Draft, the imposing heading taking his eye immediately to the amount, which read as “£168,462 10s 9d. Argent’s jaw dropped as involuntarily as did the Draft from his stunned fingers. He held his head in his hands as he looked down at the further impressive array of copperplate printing and cultured handwriting, then he collected himself, enough to prise open the accompanying letter and saw immediately that it was from the Admiralty Prize Court. The wording was brief and to the point, stating simply that La Mouette had been condemned at a value of £168,462 10s 9d and was to be purchased into the Royal Navy. The distribution of the prizemoney was left to Argent, but that he was to follow the “1808 Regulations pertaining to the Distribution of Prizemonies”. He sat back, still stunned. This was his first prizemoney and he knew little of how to proceed from there. He looked at his closed door.

  “Sentry!”

  The door opened in a second and one second later the Marine was stood inside, at attention with ordered arms.

  “Sir?”

  “Send for Mr. Maybank. Please.”

  “Sir.”

  The acknowledgement coincided with the salute and then the sentry was gone. Argent looked again at the Banker’s Draft and then, with difficulty and a trembling hand, set it aside. He forced his attention towards the other letter, the seal of which broke in much more genteel fashion, but from this also there fell an inclusion, in fact two, both smaller yet heavier. He recognised them as pasteboard invitations. Argent picked one up, turned it the right way and, with it’s reading, found himself almost as dumbfounded as he had been with the Banker’s Draft. The pasteboard was of the highest quality and held gold embossed writing, apart from one line, which was handwritten, this in a hand that he instantly recognised as the hand of Charlotte Willoughby. He began to read from the top, he felt obliged to.

  Invitation

  Sir Matthew and Lady Maude Willoughby request the presence of

  Lieutenant Henry Fentiman

  at the wedding of their daughter, Charlotte, to Major Algernon St. John Blake, at All Saint’s Church, Falmouth, at 11.00am on the 14th December 1809.


  Matthew and Maude Willoughby

  R.S.V.P.

  Henry Fentiman’s name was handwritten in. He looked at the second card and it contained his name. His first question was whether they would be at sea, but today was 4th December. A ten day stay in port was long, but not overlong, and perhaps Grant would use his influence to prolong their stay. He was musing along those lines when came a knock on the door.

  “Enter.”

  In came the sentry to hold the door open for Purser Merryman Maybank, who edged his way in, then stood nervously, fiddling alternately with his waistcoat buttons and his thin whispy hair, which hung, as wind or gravity dictated, over a head and face of pale complexion, containing wide, watery eyes, this the result of him spending days below decks in candlelight, attending to his ledgers. Nevertheless, his blue Purser’s uniform was clean, pressed and up to the mark, as was the white linen at the vee of his waistcoat. Argent stood to greet him; Maybank’s evident nervousness motivated Argent to be as welcoming as he could.

  “Mr. Maybank. I trust I find you well. Please come forward and take a seat.”

  Maybank nodded and managed a nervous smile but he did bring himself forward and he did take a seat. Argent did no more than slide the Banker’s Draft in front of Maybank. The reaction was a considerable widening of the watery eyes, these below now very elevated, pale lashes and brows.

  “That’s our prizemoney, Mr. Maybank. From La Mouette!”

  Maybank looked up, this time wearing a definite smile that broke into a wide grin.

  “Now, Mr. Maybank. This letter, from the Prize Court…...”

  Argent slid over the thick vellum to place it next to the Draft.

  “…….states that it must be distributed according to the 1808 Regulations. On this I need your help.”

  Maybank pulled his eyes away from the sum shown and began to speak, clearly and authoritatively. Argent was re-assured; his Purser knew his trade.