A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  He leaned forward and over in the half light.

  “Those you haven’t yet met, I mean. I’m biased, of course, but I’m sure, sure, you’ll get along fine. Both my sisters are excellent cooks, and I’m still hungry!”

  But from Fentiman there came only a silence, which Argent couldn’t comprehend, but he made no effort to fill it himself. However, eventually it was Fentiman who spoke.

  “Sir, there is something that I have to tell you. It concerns your Court Martial, and I tried to make a start some days ago, back on board, but we were interrupted by the arrival of Admiral Grant.”

  Argent looked at him through the growing gloom, but said nothing, allowing Fentiman the space to continue.

  “The evening after the first day of your Court Martial, I was visited in my room, by Admiral Broke, Cheveley, and that toad like man Cinch. They made me an offer.”

  Argent let the silence hang and Fentiman continued.

  “The offer was command of a big Revenue cutter, with myself being made up to Commander. In return I was to say, when cross examined by Cheveley, that I had strongly protested at us not going straight across The Bay, and that we should obey the strict letter of our orders, to make as fast a passage as possible and head directly for Finisterre.”

  Again a silence.

  “I was to tell of your reply.”

  Another pause.

  “Which concoction was, that you had decided to give absolute precedence to finding that slaver. You would do that first, and deliver the dispatch second.”

  Argent stopped walking and placed his hand on Fentiman’s sleeve to halt him. He held out his hand and Fentiman took it.

  “I must count myself fortunate, very fortunate, in my First Lieutenant. I have to thank you. There are plenty who would have accepted such an offer.”

  They shook hands and walked on, in silence. After a minute Fentiman spoke further.

  “There’s more. I’m saying this now, because I have done you an injustice, in my own mind. I was convinced that it was you to whom Charlotte’s affections belonged. “My affections belong to another”. Those were the words that she used in her reply to my own proposal and it clouded my own thoughts towards you. I was convinced that you were the object of her affections and you were aware of that, when I told you of my thoughts towards making a proposal to her, but you said nothing. I know now that I was very wrong and for that I apologise.”

  Argent’s reply was physical, two light pats on Fentiman’s right shoulder blade.

  “Love and war, Henry! That’s the game we’re in. Think no more on it, all is now resolved.”

  But Fentiman was intent on yet more unburdening.

  “The more I think on what they attempted, the angrier I become. That they should view my own integrity as being so shallow! Is there any way that we could take it further. It’s corruption!”

  “It is, but they’d deny it. I saw them at the end of the corridor of our rooms, presumably after they left you, but they could say anything. They were lost! Anything! Let it go, the matter’s closed.”

  He paused.

  “But, frankly, I’m not surprised. But, as I say, it’s done and gone. Leave it there.”

  He smiled and laughed, his teeth white in the near dark.

  “That’s an order!”

  They both laughed.

  “And we’re here, this is home.”

  Argent led the way through the yard and, feeling that the presence of a guest required some formality, he knocked on the door, which was opened by Emily.

  “Reuben! Why is your coming always a surprise? And this time at night.”

  Argent ignored the chiding.

  “Hello Emily. I’ve brought a guest. My First Lieutenant Henry Fentiman.”

  He paused.

  “Henry Fentiman, I’d like to re-introduce you to my sister, Emily.”

  He stood aside and proffered his hand for Fentiman to enter and he stepped forward from the gloom. Emily saw him and something came into her face like happy surprise, then embarrassment. Fentiman was now in the light from the room, but Emily was looking at the floor. Argent, even from the side, could see that something had come over Fentiman’s own face, but by now he was making his greetings to Emily, offering to shake hands with her, and she took the hand offered and curtsied.

  “How do you do, Miss Argent? It is a pleasure to meet you again, I trust I find you well?”

  “How do you do, Sir? You find me very well, I thank you.”

  There was a pause. Each was definitely looking at the other, a moment of warmth, created by each for the other, but Fentiman was blocking the door. Argent took charge, after wondering what was going on and where it had come from.

  “Perhaps we should go fully in. All the heat is escaping.”

  Fentiman gave a nervous laugh and stepped fully in, still looking at Emily. Argent took charge again.

  “Permit me to introduce the other members of my family. This is my Father.”

  Argent Senior was already advancing around the table, hand extended.

  “How do you do, Lieutenant Fentiman? You are very welcome here.”

  Argent Senior then took over. He gestured first towards Beryan.

  “This is my son-in-law, Beryan Trethewey.”

  The two shook hands, each smiling broadly in greeting.

  “And this is my elder daughter, Beryan’s wife, Enid. She’s holding my grandson Jacob.”

  Fentiman bowed and Enid curtsied, despite holding Jacob. Argent Senior continued.

  “Now, pleased to sit. Would you like something to eat? We always keep spare, what with Reuben, your Captain and my son, likely to pop in through the door at anytime, like some kind of annoying jack-in-the-box.”

  Fentiman gave a short laugh as they both removed their jackets and sat. Emily had swung the stewpot back over the fire and stood, where she could best see Fentiman and he lost no time in looking back at her. Argent was not blind to what was happening and sat laughing inwardly, smiling outwardly. Emily spoke first, naming no one, but obviously talking to Fentiman.

  “Were you with Reuben when he captured La Mouette?”

  But Argent answered first.

  “He was, but you know that! His name was in the newssheet that you read out!”

  “Be quiet! Quiet! I’m being polite, unlike you, who’s just being tedious!”

  Argent grinned, nodded, surrendered himself deeper down into his chair, and did keep quiet. His sisters had great licence with him, even if they did not often use it, but Fentiman did politely answer.”

  “Yes, I was there. And at St. Malo and against La Pomone. Was that in a newssheet, La Pomone, that being?”

  Emily answered.

  “It was. We’ll try to find it. But……”

  She walked back to the door, pulling a stool, which she stood on to take down the sword lodged over it.

  “…… this was the Captain’s sword from La Mouette. Do you recognise it?”

  She placed it on the table before Fentiman. He looked up at her for a long moment before answering.

  “Yes I do. It was my first prize also. We were all very proud. And overjoyed, that almost all of us came through that unscathed.”

  Argent broke in.

  “ Did you get my letter about the prizemoney?”

  Emily replied, not Enid. Her sister could see what was happening and decided to keep right out of it.

  “Yes, we did. And we found the Will. It was with Branch, Branch, and whatnot, like Lady Constance said.”

  She folded her arms and took a deep breath that raised her shoulders.

  “So, everything is now “squared away”. Is that not how you say it, Lieutenant?”

  Fentiman treated himself to a long look before replying.

  “Yes, Miss Argent, that’s exactly how we say it. “Squared away”; everything as it should be. And my name’s Henry.”

  Emily blushed deeply, then grinned, only a little less awkwardly than before.

  “Yes, no
w, your food must be ready. Here.”

  She took some plates from the mantle above the cooking fire and placed them before the two, then she spooned out the food. Argent was amazed how any landed accurately onto the plate, Emily spending so much of the time looking at Fentiman. The two Officers fell to eating, spooning the good stew and drinking the small beer. Emily sat opposite and soon the conversation was flowing between herself and Fentiman, she enquiring about his family and him answering in great detail, which held Emily in no small level of fascination and so she felt encouraged to ask more. This continued for ten minutes until she realized that she had been wholly monopolising the evening in her eagerness and suddenly looked around embarrassed at the others in the room, but Argent saw and immediately stepped in.

  “What’s planted, Father?”

  “Winter wheat, in the ground that I know will stay as mine. Enclosures are going through and it’s a Court come down from Exeter that are doing the apportioning.”

  “Not Broke, nor Cinch!”

  “No. Local Judges.”

  Argent nodded.

  “Then all should be well!”

  “Yes. God willing.”

  Smiling openly, Argent looked at Enid, then Emily.

  “We’ve just come from Charlotte Willoughby’s wedding. Did you know? Did you come down?”

  Emily felt it better to remain silent, so it was Enid who answered.

  “Yes we knew, and we did go down, but got nowhere near, it was too crowded.”

  She paused.

  “What was it like?”

  “Well, as far as I’m any judge of weddings, I’d say it was wonderful, magical! You’d agree Henry?”

  Fentiman was looking as cheerful and in good spirits as Argent had seen him in a long time.

  “I would, and those are the two exact words I’d choose.”

  He looked at Enid.

  “And this is wonderful stew. My compliments to the cook. I wish you’d come and teach ours a thing or two.”

  “Emily made it!”

  Enid lied, but it was a subterfuge and conspiracy between sisters, well understood by each, but it gave the excuse for a long exchange between the eyes of Emily and Fentiman, but him now familiarly known as Henry.

  “It’s very good!”

  “Thank you, Henry.”

  With food taken and plates cleared, all sat around the fire, the two Officers bringing dining chairs up close. The talk between them was quiet, leisurely and wide ranging, the newssheet was found and the sinking of La Pomone described and re-enacted using four table knives and a big kitchen knife to show the wind direction. Fentiman did most of the talking and any questions that came from Emily, Argent allowed Fentiman to answer. At the finish Argent decided that they should return to their ship, darkness had long descended. Beryan offered to harness the gig, but Argent would not have him take the trouble, it was but an hour’s walk back to the ship, a walk that would do them good.

  Argent managed to draw his Father aside for a brief moment and told him of the words spoken by Cheveley. Argent Senior’s reply was to place his hand on his son’s shoulder and grin up into face.

  “Son. You worry too much!”

  He let the words sink in. Argent was somewhat taken aback.

  “Me and the likes of me have been dealing with the likes of Broke, Cinch and your Cheveley since times now forgotten. They try everything, fire, loose stock, broken fences, buried stones in your fallow, rubbish in your well, everything! Up here, we’re a community and we all know what our neighbour Broke is capable of. We look out for each other, and, if it makes you sleep easier, we’ll keep buckets of water by the windows. Now you worry about your ship, I’ll worry about the farm.”

  Fond leave was taken and not only of Argent by his family. As the two set out on the easy walk back down the hill and their eyes grew used to the dark, Fentiman soon spoke.

  “I think I like your family! Very much.”

  “Yes. I think I noticed! Anyone in particular?”

  “The answer’s got to be yes.”

  oOo

  “And what, Mr. Bright, would our Admiral Beaufort make of this?”

  Midshipman Bright winced as lumps of spray slammed against his cheek, to leave water to run down his neck inside his tarpaulin cloak. He opened his eyes gingerly and took a long look at the waves over the weatherside, ducking his head as the spray from another shattered wave skimmed across the quarterdeck.

  “Force five, Sir. Pushing into six.”

  Argent grinned as his Senior Midshipman screwed his weather eye against the wind and the possibility of further spray.

  “And our sail pattern?”

  “I’d be thinking about losing topsails, Sir. But not for the moment.”

  “And replacing them with staysails?”

  “Perhaps, sir, yes. They can spill wind and be adjusted easier, if needs be.”

  “A good piece of thinking, Mr. Bright. My thoughts entirely, but not just yet.”

  Then a blanket of spray hit them both, as Ariadne lurched into a trough and then climbed out of it, with such a lift that all on the quarterdeck felt their knees give slightly with the upward pressure.

  Ariadne was speeding onto station. As soon as Argent and Fentiman had returned back on board from the farm a messenger was chasing them up the gangplank with orders, even in the dark. They were to join a squadron under the command of Admiral Leadbitter in HMS Foudroyant of 80 guns, along with HMS Scipion, a 74, and the Curacoa, a brand new 36 gun frigate. They had sailed with the tide, at very first light, followed out by Herodotus, whose Captain, Argent assumed, had received the same orders. Those orders spoke of a possible French invasion of Ireland, so Intelligence believed, which would be yet another attempt to stir up trouble in Great Britain’s backyard, another attempt to follow the farcical effort of 1796 and the disastrous and brutal affair of 1798.

  Herodotus had kept pace with Ariadne through the morning of the first day, each propelled along by a growing South Southwest wind and Argent had studied her quarterdeck through his Dolland glass, but could see nothing of Cheveley, only a succession of Lieutenants, one of which he thought to be the very Honourable Lord Charles Langley, no less than the First of the Herodotus. Argent could only suppose that Cheveley had carried on drinking throughout the post wedding reception and was recovering below decks. The orders gave no mention of proceeding in consort and so Argent set all the prudent sail that would give maximum speed. Herodotus also set sails to match, but fell away and with the first dawn, Ariadne had the ocean to herself, a ragged ocean in a bullying day. That day and another night, brought them to their present position, with the wind now strengthened further, stirring up the sea under a sky bright, but half hidden by ragged, hurrying cloud. The Noon Sight gave their position as almost due South of the Fastnet Rock, Latitude 51-18, Longtitude 9-18, and the class had all agreed with McArdle, although he retained his disapproving expression until all members had dispersed and then there came a single and slow nod of satisfaction in the direction of his Captain as he left the quarterdeck.

  Lieutenant Wentworth was on watch, a curious, even comical figure, his jaw bound up both laterally and vertically by leather straps, and a woolly hat overall. He could speak, but only by moving his lips, his teeth were clenched by his bindings. A splinter from La Pomone’s bowchasers had broken his jaw and so, understandably, he said little, and what he did say was terse and very much to the point, and he could not shout. Instead he relied on a messenger, today, this being Seaman Wheeler, lately Smallsize, who had remained on the quarterdeck after attending McArdle’s class. Argent turned to Wentworth.

  “Our squadron should be topsails up very soon, Mr. Wentworth. Please to double the lookouts.”

  Wentworth looked at Wheeler and nodded, thus the boy ran off to find Bosun Fraser. This worthy’s exhortations sent Abel Jones up to join Moses King. The first King knew of this was Jones’ weather-beaten face appearing over the edge of the foretop, one spar below. King watched as Jones c
limbed to his final perch on the topgallant yardarm. King spoke first.

  “Doubling of lookouts?”

  “Aye. But ‘tis better up yer than on that deck, ‘part from the wind.”

  As if to make the point a wave surged up the larboard bow, flooding through the scuppers, and then reaching up to tumble over the railing, where these broken waters were picked up by the wind to skim across the forecastle and soak further the men working there. At the sight, subconsciously, both men pulled closer the collars of their woollen jackets, then the newcomer asked his question.

  “What be we lookin’ for? An’ where away?”

  “Anythin’ forrard’s what the Captain’s expectin’, but don’t expect that gashgilt tub what we left behind yesterday. Wiped his eye; floggin’ sod!”

  Jones grinned at the happy thought of Ariadne easing away, effortlessly, even under common sail from the labouring Herodotus. He looked forward, just to the left of the bowsprit, the tip of which was almost at their height, his head instinctively jutting forward.

  “Well, I reckon my arrival’s done the job. Is that two, far out, fine on the larboard bow?”

  King shielded his eyes, as much from the wind as to shield out the light from the winterlit sky. He studied to form his own opinion, then concluded.

  “Two, maybe I’d say, but certainly somethin’. Better call, before one of they grasscombing buggers on the Main sees and shouts.”

  Jones slid quickly down the outside of the shrouds to the foretop. To shout from their high lookout position would be lost in the wind.

  “Deck there. Two sail. Fine on the larboard bow.”

  Wentworth was the nearest Officer of any rank and he looked up and waved a hand in salute to both acknowledge and reply. Jones grinned at the sight of the leatherbound face, but not derisively, merely a humorous chuckle to himself. Wentworth reached the quarterdeck and spoke through his clenched teeth.

  “Forward lookouts, Sir, report two sail, fine on the weather bow.”

  Argent noted inwardly the lack of any stutter, but decided to make no mention.

  “Very good, Mr. Wentworth. Up and join them, if you please, take a glass. The sighting should prove to be two third rates.”

  Wentworth saluted and soon joined King and Jones, who moved to the lee side of the mast, giving the Officer the weather, larboard, side, where the sightings were. Wentworth lengthy arms locked him tight to the spar and he studied both through the glass, then he handed the glass to King. Again he spoke through clenched teeth, but King could see the extensive and unsightly discolouring of Wentworth’s face from the bruising, only now beginning to fade into peculiar colours. His feelings were only of sympathy, despite Wentworth’s comical speech, which he listened to carefully.