“The first, I’d say was a two decker. What about the second?”
King studied through the glass, then passed it onto Jones, who answered.
“First is a two decker alright. For the second, can’t tell. She’s too far behind, and the seas be reaching too far up her side, to be certain. Makin’ too much spray.”
Wentworth nodded, and took the glass.
“Thanks to you both. But one is definitely a two decker, so that’s our squadron.”
He reached for the shrouds, but King felt a question to this Officer would not be out of place.
“When does your frapping come off, Sir?”
“One month.”
He paused.
“Then I’m going to have the biggest feed in history. Nothing but soup since La Pomone.”
Both foretopmen laughed openly, Jones adding his contribution.
“Plus a drop of spirits, Sir!”
“That too. My single comfort, but both through a reed!”
Both laughed again as Wentworth grew smaller as he quickly descended the shrouds. Each looked at each other, still laughing and shaking their heads, then they resumed their lookout. Wentworth reached the quarterdeck, speaking very briefly.
“One is a two decker, Sir, the other may well be.”
“Very good, Mr. Wentworth. What’s our speed?”
The two Master’s Mates on Watch spared Wentworth the torture of having to speak and immediately broke out the log board. Five minutes work brought the answer; 11 knots. Argent heard and thought of extra sail, a bit of a show would not come amiss, she was Ariadne after all, but prudence won. The pennant above was ruler straight and for a topgallant to carry away would be disaster, however, perhaps there was potential in what they already carried. He leaned over the rail, to save Wentworth the struggle.
“Mr. Fraser. Check your trimming, if you please. I’d like an extra half knot.”
Fraser beetled off, taking two trusted Able Seamen with him. Soon all three were looking aloft and altering the set of sheets and braces. The response from Ariadne was to crash even harder into the cross-seas, but Argent was content.
Not so in the Midshipman’s Berth, where Midshipman Trenchard just managed to rescue his sliding beaker of extra watered grog.
“My life, but the ship’s jumping about, like some kind of nervous filly, just let out.”
He carefully replaced the beaker, but did not release it, expecting yet another buck and lurch. Berry reached for a pile of books and strategically placed them to provide support. That done, both felt the beaker secure.
“Why, thank you, Daniel! Most kind.”
In the absence of the cheerful Bright, conversation between these two could become somewhat stilted, but Trenchard respected Berry as a good shipmate. Although plainly wanting of the academic level required to achieve an Officer’s capabilities, especially in navigation, his instinct for ship handling was the equal of them all and he had shown no shirk when the ship had been in action.
“Any thoughts on what you’ll do with your prizemoney?”
Berry’s face screwed up in thought, he had only lit upon one possibility and this moment’s thinking did not produce another.
“Just one, to get my family out of their rented home, and into a property of their own. More security, you see, and no one able to increase the rent. Nor evict them!”
“You could invest it. The income would pay the rent!”
Berry’s face screwed up again, but he made no answer, so Trenchard made his own.
“It’s a thought!”
At that point, Bright arrived off Watch, his tarpaulin shedding water everywhere in the cramped berth. Most went on Trenchard, him being seated. By now relations had thoroughly gelled in the Midshipman’s Berth.
“I say, William, what do you think you are? Some kind of ornamental fountain? Spray somewhere else, will you, there’s a considerate chap?”
“You hope that it’s settled down when your Watch comes, that’s all I can say. It’s pretty brutal out there.”
He looked on the table.
“Is that grog? Can I have a swallow?”
Without waiting for an answer, he seized the beaker and took a drink.
“Heavens above, William, you really are the most annoying sort of fellow! Spraying sea water all over a body and then filching his grog!”
But Trenchard had moved over to make room on the bench and allow Bright to get nearest to their small coal heater. Bright warmed his hands.
“Our squadron’s topsails up.”
“What happens now?”
“Well, if we’re all going somewhere, we form line astern and go on our way, wherever that may be. If a picket line, we’ll be ordered away to some far out station and spend days just mooching up and down.”
He reached again for the grog, but Trenchard beat him to it and clasped the precious beaker to his chest, holding it on the far side from Bright, then looking aghast at the further attempt at thievery. Berry stood quiet and smiling.
On the quarterdeck, Argent knew very well which of the two possibilities lay in the future, but was debating what it would mean. With Ariadne so fast and handy, almost certainly it would mean holding the station furthest out. Wentworth had his glass to his eye, whilst stood on the weatherside carronade. He was studying the two third rates, both on opposite and converging courses in the Southerly wind and closing rapidly.
“There’s another some way behind them, Sir.”
“That’ll be Curacoa.”
“The nearest is making her number, Sir.”
“Make ours.”
The signalmen reacted to Argent’s order and soon, with identification achieved, orders were being received. Again Wentworth relayed the information.
“Signal from flagship, Sir. “Take far West station. Maintain contact with Curacoa.”
Argent’s suspicions were confirmed.
“Steady as she goes, Quartermaster.”
The acknowledgement came, just ahead of more mangled words from Wentworth.
“Another signal, Sir, for us. “Have you seen Herodotus?”
Argent grinned, which was shared all round the quarterdeck, even by Wentworth, although his face looked more like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
“Make reply, “Following astern.”
Still laughing, the Signalmen bent on the required flags.
Ariadne sped on, past the flagship, Foudroyant, and then the Scipion, a two decker, as she now plainly was. The lee side rails of both warships were crowded with faces, as Ariadne sailed past, her bowave often above her gunports, her hull dipping and rising easily through the irregular waves, sails perfectly trimmed and drawing fully, white ensign proudly out to leeward. Spray from waves, shouldered arrogantly aside, reached up to her main yards and her figurehead, now mysteriously newly painted, stared challengingly at the seas before her. Most amongst those looking on, did so approvingly, especially the more timeserved. She surged on past both, the famed Ariadne, a crack frigate!
“Another signal, Sir, but not our number. To Curacoa “Follow Ariadne onto station. Maintain contact with Scipion and Ariadne.”
Argent looked ahead. The new frigate was well within view and, having seen the signal, was hauling her wind to come smartly about and match Ariadne’s heading.
“Can you look up Curacoa’s Captain, Lieutenant?”
Wentworth disappeared down the companionway to reach the Purser’s Room, where such books and their updates were lodged. He came back after five minutes.
“Captain Galsworthy, Sir. Jeremy Galsworthy.”
Argent smiled.
“I’ve got a feeling that there will be no following, if this Captain’s the Galsworthy I used to know.”
“Sir?”
“When I was Fifth on the Ganges, he was Fourth. If they are the same, of course, but I suspect it will be so.”
Curacoa was swooping round in the following wind, a perfect example of the shipwright’s art. Clean, white sails, above a slee
k hull, this newly painted black, with the hull strakes of the gunports picked out in yellow. Bursts of sunlight played upon the clean black tar of her shrouds, not yet too salt stained. Ariadne held her course constant and Curacoa took station off her larboard bow, but less than 200 yards, under a cable’s length ahead. After a short time, her Captain ordered a reduction in sail, down to that which perfectly matched that of Ariadne; this was to be a trial between the two ships and their crews. It would be decided by the individual ships and the sail handling, so the Ariadnies all checked and re-checked their own settings. Nothing happened for some minutes, then a gust hit Ariadne, just as she topped a wave. The thrust of the wind combined with the force of gravity down the backside of the wave accelerated Ariadne up to within 100 yards, but the gain stopped. Curacoa was now taking Ariadne’s wind, her sails falling slack in the broken air, then filling, then slackening. The new frigate took in her topsails for Ariadne to close and soon she did, with but 30 yards between their hulls. Argent took a speaking trumpet and climbed onto the larboard quarterdeck carronade.
“Ahoy! Do I have the pleasure of addressing one Captain Galsworthy?”
A corresponding Captain’s figure appeared on the quarterdeck rail, holding the mizzen shrouds.
“You do! Captain Argent, I presume.”
“The same, and you are stealing my wind, as you stole my fruit when we were aboard the Ganges.”
“And very tasty it was too. As is your ship! My congratulations.”
Argent laughed.
“And mine to you, she’s a lovely vessel!”
“Let’s hope we both stay that way on this picket line.”
“My thoughts as well. Good luck to us both.”
The reply was a wave of the loud hailer and the figure disappeared. She sheared off upwind to give Ariadne a fair wind and Ariadne moved further up, but once back on the same course both kept pace with each other, until Curacoa reached her station, cut her sail and fell behind, Scipion was now on the horizon. There was a wave from Curacoa’s quarterdeck as she turned into the wind to halt at her allotted place, whilst Ariadne continued on. From the pressure on his left cheek, Argent thought the wind may have abated slightly, but he called for no increase in sail. After less than an hour Curacoa was “sails only” and, just as she was about to disappear, Argent called for his crew to wear ship and then sail back the way they had come, on much reduced sail. Bosun Fraser, on the forecastle, looked at Bosun’s Mate Ball.
“Sentry go! If ever there’s a job to wear down a man, this is it.”
oOo
The days seemed endless, as monotonous as the drip, drip, of moisture from the sails, all vainly attempting to gather the fickle wind above. The weather turned to murk rather than increased storm and it was clear to all aboard that a fleet could sail past and not be detected if they silenced their bells and were further away than one cable. Argent stepped up the gun practice to twice a day, with exercises that included depleted crews and disabled guns. The topmen did not escape, being required to raise and lower topmasts and set top gallants, all to the pitiless secondhand of Argent’s half hunter. All three masts were within ten seconds of each other, not enough to give any mast the bragging rights, but the mizzenmast had been quicker, only because their topmast was shorter; at least this was the verdict according to the other two. The Officer’s thoughts dwelled mostly on home and how they would bring Christmas on board, for there was little else to concern them, as each day the ship was at inspection standard in all respects. Every Noon Sight brought a calculation that differed but in minutes around Latitude 51-20, Longtitude 9-53, until the clouds closed over and none were possible. A signal gun was loaded and readied, but each day the charge had to be drawn and replaced, ruined by the damp.
On day ten, the day dawned with the same damp fog that had for days made them feel isolated in their own world on their own ocean. The ship was largely becalmed, bar curious shapes of fog that rose up eerily over the sides and drifted on, unworldly and wraithlike, disturbing to those harbouring the occult, the pale spectres seeming to take their own time to investigate some fitting on the deck, before quitting the ship for the banks of grey beyond, returning to merge with their own kind. The sails hung limp and idle, gathering their own portion of moisture, which quickly coagulated to descend slyly down to the deck and land on the heads of those on Watch, shivering in their warmest jackets with the damp-cold of the winter Atlantic. The Officers frequently checked the ship’s many headings against the compass, or looked all around for any sort of wind, or looked over the taffrail to see if Ariadne had any kind of wake. It was hard to detect any in the all enveloping fog.
Suddenly came the kind of change that most frequently occurs in Northern latitudes; post dawn a breeze arrived, more like a breath, not enough to move the ship, but enough to move the fog. This thinned and dispersed and the horizon sprang outwards.
“Sail ho! Fine on the starboard bow.”
Silas Beddows had come down to the foretop. Sanders was on Watch and he hurried along the gangway to the foremast shrouds, carrying his glass. Mist still lingered at the surface, albeit far out, and so, from the deck, he could see nothing.
“What ship?”
“Topsail schooner. Two masts.”
“What’s her heading?”
“Becalmed, like us.”
Sanders decided that he must look for himself, so he rapidly climbed the shrouds to the topgallant crosstrees. He locked himself against the mast and locked a leg over the spar to focus on the newcomer, to be immediately surprised at how close she was, a significantly under one cable, he judged. She was at an angle to them, mostly stern on, and the first thing he noticed was, hanging limp but still detectable, the red and white stripes of the flag of the new United States of America. The mist, now no longer achieving the status of fog, cleared further and Sanders could see the detail of the whole vessel and he concluded that she looked built for speed, a sleek hull supporting two tall masts of almost equal height, a “fore and aft” rig, bar two square sails atop each mast. Nothing was moving, both ships were becalmed. Sanders slid down a backstay and hurried back to report.
“Sir. She’s an American schooner. Very neat. Two masted, fore and aft rig and topsails. She looks fast, that’s all I can say, Sir.”
Argent turned to his Sailing Master.
“Mr. McArdle. What would you give as our distance from the Irish coast?”
McArdle pursed his lips, his common reaction before answering to whatever he was not sure of.
“Four miles, Captain. Could be three, could be five. I’ll know this Noon.”
Argent nodded.
“Which in the fog, could be construed as three; placing us within territorial waters.”
He turned back to Sanders
“I want to know what she’s about. Ready the longboat. Take yourself, Mr. Berry, and a full crew. Ask her business and what she’s carrying.”
Sanders moved to the companionway ladder, but Argent said more.
“Go in peace, Mr. Sanders. I’d rather not start an international incident! However, clear the ship for action.”
The drums rolled out and Ariadne was readied for combat, but despite the bustle and shortage of idle men, the longboat was soon swung out and the crew embarked. As they pulled away for their journey, Argent studied the schooner from the foretop. His Dolland produced enough detail to enable him to read the name, “James Makepeace”, and he could see her Captain, or at least an Officer, studying them through a spyglass. His longboat was covering the distance, but few men could be seen on either the schooner’s deck or the quarterdeck. The longboat came to 50 yards when Argent’s breath froze within him, a rank of muskets appeared over the schooner’s taffrail and opened fire. Argent saw the smoke before he heard the report and whoever was on the longboat’s tiller turned the longboat away and called for an increase in the stroke rate, which Argent could see immediately doubled. The crew were pulling for their lives and two oars were already hanging idle. The lo
ngboat’s bows swung further to point back to Ariadne and then came the second volley. In his telescope, Argent saw one of the blue-coated figures in the stern slump forward to be seized by the other. A third volley came, but the longboat was out of effective range. Argent angered immediately and descended to reach the forecastle, then turned to see him that he wanted.
“Mr. Fraser! I want two guns, mounted up here and able to fire forward. Get Mr. Tucker and Mr. Baines involved. I want that inside an hour, one hour!”
Fraser had seen the incident himself and was as angry as Argent. Within five minutes timber was arriving from the hold to make two platforms that would enable the guns to fire over the forecastle rail. Meanwhile, Argent was waiting anxiously at the entry port as the longboat limped back, a wounded sailor at the tiller and the surviving Officer at an oar. Argent could only see his back and anxious moments passed as the longboat closed. The Officer at the oar looked up, it was Sanders, who wasted no time.
“Two dead, one wounded, Sir. Midshipman Berry, I think he’s gone.”
A bosun’s chair was already being lowered over the side for the wounded. Berry came up first, held in place by a sailor, but when he was lowered to the deck, Argent could see that the wound had been fatal. Surgeon Smallpiece, newly arrived, knelt and shook his head; Berry was dead.
The bosun’s chair was employed for the wounded sailor and the other dead man was taken aboard in the same way. The longboat was quickly swung aboard and lodged on its cradle whilst the two bodies were laid out and wrapped in sailcloth. Argent was incensed, a feeling which ran through the whole crew. He spent his time on the forecastle, saying little, but his presence added urgency to the work undertaken there, but within 30 minutes Baines and his mates had constructed two platforms, wide enough for a gun carriage to be trained around for 20 degrees either side. Two loosened cannon, both number three’s, waited below on the gundeck, already with lashings that would enable them to be hoisted up and one already connected to the capstan.
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