Suddenly a sail flapped overhead, showering them with moisture. Argent looked immediately at the pennant, now writhing hopefully out from the masthead and extending back astern. The weather was changing, quickly it would seem, for a North West wind had arrived, strengthening rapidly. Argent hurried back to the quarterdeck and there he saw a very downcast Midshipman Bright, but Argent had no time for commiserations.
“Mr. Bright. Get up the mast. If you can see Curacoa, fire a gun, then signal to Flag. “Smuggler. Large Schooner. Permission to pursue”.
Fentiman spoke up.
“That in the Log, Sir?”
“Yes, make it so.”
Argent looked at his sail pattern and walked to where he could see Bosun’s Mate Ball, stood waiting for orders. Waves, tide and the idleness of no breeze had placed Ariadne pointing directly into the wind, whilst the schooner was perfectly placed to use it immediately. He extended his Dolland and looked at the schooner. What was to be her reaction? Even as he focused he could see sails being trimmed and the square topsails on the high two yards of each mast being set. She was making a move, South, a course giving her best point of sailing, this being on the starboard tack with a wind perfect over her starboard quarter, but as he looked his jaw clenched further. While the schooner rapidly picked up speed, he could see a whole rank of bare backsides displayed over her lee rail, towards them; the crew were delivering their last insult before they made off. Argent spoke aloud.
“We’ll see! We’ll bloody well see!”
His crew were yelling insults back over the water, but far too far away to be heard by the American. Argent let the wind play on the sails to judge which way to turn to gain the wind, then Ariadne moved astern but her bows swung slightly to starboard.
“Mr. Fraser! Jibsails to larboard!”
All jibsails extending down from the foremast to the bowsprit were pulled across and immediately caught the wind. Ariadne’s bows began to rapidly move around and soon she had turned past 90 degrees then further and, at that angle, the headsails lost their leverage.
“Driver to larboard!”
Still boiling angry, Argent seized onto the driver’s sheets himself to help haul the huge sail over to catch the wind and push Ariadne’s stern further to complete the job begun by the headsails.
“Mr. Fraser! Starboard tack, six points large! Everything she’ll carry, stunsails, main and mizzen staysails.”
Fraser called “all hands” and the guncrews ran from their positions to attend to the huge increase in sail. The courses and topsails on each mast were already set, but the acreage of her sail was about to almost treble. Argent went to the starboard quarterdeck carronade and climbed, to stop with one foot on the barrel, the other on the rail, then extended his glass. Their quarry had accelerated rapidly, faster then themselves and was a good half-mile, probably more, fine off their starboard bow.
“Mr. McArdle, a loan of a sextant, if you please!”
McArdle went to the quarterdeck locker and produced the instrument permanently stored there. Argent took a sight on the schooner to measure the angle formed between the schooner’s waterline and the top of her mast. Measured from Ariadne, the height distance between the schooner’s mast and waterline gave an angle of two degrees. If they were gaining that would increase and his rival, ahead on the schooner, was doing the same for Ariadne he was certain, only him hoping for the angle to decrease. He looked aloft, his men were moving around in the rigging like frantic apes, setting the topgallants, the royals, and the most difficult, the stunsails. The Afterguard had already set the two lowest staysails, these being the only staysails that would draw the wind; a squaresail sail set above, before and after, would block the wind from them. However, Ariadne was responding and picking up speed rapidly. Argent returned the sextant.
“My thanks, Sailing Master. Throw the log, when you judge all to be in place and ready above, if you please.”
Argent’s face was fixed and stern as he walked forward along the starboard companionway to the forecastle. The second gun was being swung into place, the breeching ropes and hauling tackles already in place on the first gun, these extending to improvised fixings over the forecastle rail. Gunner Tucker was taking glances ahead at the schooner, whilst supervising the readying of both guns. He did not see his Captain approach as he continued to stare ahead and he spoke aloud.
“Come on, girl, time to take offence! Just get us up to her.”
He looked around and was embarrassed to see his Captain, who almost certainly had overheard. He spoke to break the moment.
“Never fear, Sir. We’ll get her.”
The reply was a curt nod and a look from a face still set and angry. Wheeler came running up, and waited for his Captain’s attention before saluting.
“From Mr. McArdle, Sir. Eleven knots and a half. And the wind’s strengthening, Sir, now Force Four, gusting to Five.”
Argent’s face softened slightly.
“Thank you, Seaman Wheeler. Now return to the quarterdeck.”
Wheeler gave his best salute and left. Argent looked aloft at the huge spread of canvas. Everything was in place and his topmen were still there checking the holdings of each sail, that being every rope that held the sail to its spar and every sheet and brace that placed the sail to where it would best catch the wind. He returned to his quarterdeck, thinking, “Eleven knots and a half.” She was catching all the wind there was, so, for now, no more could be done. He checked again with the sextant; still two degrees. Neither himself nor his opponent would be happy, Argent hoping to gain, the schooner’s Captain expecting to move away. He consoled himself that his opponent would be the least content, him surely expecting to show a British frigate a very clean pair of heels. There were still many hours of daylight left, but during one of the shortest days, the gloom of evening would come early. He looked again through his telescope, the schooner was moving from right to left, coming across onto a course more South East.
“What’s our course?”
Short gave an immediate reply.
“Sou’ sou’ east, Sir.”
The schooner was heading for France, not the deep Atlantic. If smuggler she was, plainly her Commander remained confident of his escape. McArdle spoke behind him.
“Wind on five, now Sir. Steady.”
With this spread of sail, Ariadne could take six, but above that, then her highest sails, the Royals, with their extra leverage from above, would drive her bows too deep into the sea. Also the strain on her masts would be huge and on the borders of good sense. Meanwhile, should he react to the schooner’s change, the wind coming six points free was Ariadne’s best point of sailing. No sense in that, he concluded. Give his ship the best chance to use the small change.
“Steady as she goes.”
“As she goes, Sir, aye aye.”
The wind had risen, all his sails were in place and trimmed, so what was Ariadne’s speed now?
“The log, please, Mr. McArdle.”
Five minutes of tense waiting.
“Twelve, Sir. And a half.”
He reached for the sextant, then stopped, allowing it to fall slowly to the binnacle cabinet next to the motionless compass. Give the ship some time, he thought, and took himself over to the weather quarterdeck rail, where he clasped his hands behind his back and told himself to be patient. All over the companionways, the men were attending to the sails, watching for the slightest shiver that spoke of a bad alignment, whilst beneath their feet they could feel their ship rise and fall smoothly, responding eagerly to the needs of the chase, surging on over each long wave. Thus were the crew occupied for the next hour, all making tiny adjustments to better harness the wind, but Argent barely took his eyes of the American ahead. He reached for the sextant and sighted it, his pulse rate increasing. Two degrees and 20 minutes, they were gaining. He hurried forward to the two guns.
“Mr. Tucker. What do you think?”
“We’ve made on her, Sir, but too far as yet.”
“What
’s your judgment? The range you need, I mean?”
“On him, what we need, Sir, with our long eighteens, is 300 yards. As we look at it, we’re now on the quarter mile. It won’t be too much longer.”
As if in reply, the schooner moved further East. Was she trying to rob Ariadne of her best point of sailing? With their fore and aft rig, they could harness the wind with no slackening of speed from a wider range of angles, but Ariadne was plainly faster than the schooner’s Captain had bargained for, seriously faster. Argent placed himself in the mind of the schooner’s Captain. To him, Ariadne was gaining; she must look like a mountain of canvas, very determined, and the threat from her was growing with every hour passing. As things were, he would be caught, what to do? His only option was to turn and sail close to the wind, as Ariadne had done with La Mouette and, with a fore and aft rig, she would be able to sail closer than the square rigged Ariadne, and faster. If he did choose to turn, which way? Impossible to tell, as yet, so Argent stood, opening and closing his hands. What would I do?
He thought further. The wind is North West, over the starboard quarter of us both. For the American, fore and aft rigged, turning fully East meant making a tack, losing speed, but with France still possible. Turning West was an easy haul of his wind, but a course away from France. He could do either. Argent left the problem alone, consoling himself with the thought that the schooner’s commander must be easily the more worried of them both. His schooner, which he evidently thought so highly of, so much so that they felt safe enough to send deep insults in Ariadne’s direction, had now been run down. Argent finally answered Tucker’s comment.
“I’ll leave it to you, Mr. Tucker. Whenever you think it worth the powder.”
Argent returned to the quarterdeck.
“Mr. Bright. Did you get a signal off to Curacao?”
Bright took a deep breath.
“No Sir. We never saw her through the mist.”
Argent nodded and picked up the sextant again. Two degrees 30 minutes. His ship was winning the race, therefore the schooner would have to make a move soon, if she was to escape and it would have to be done outside the effective range of Ariadne’s guns. Any damage to her sails would be fatal and her Captain would well know the range of a British frigate’s long eighteen!
The last of the sand in the glass fell aimlessly, issuing through the neck and making odd patterns on the pile beneath. Argent watched, equally aimlessly, until a Master’s Mate turned the glass and rang six bells of the Forenoon Watch. Two more until the Noon Sight, if there was enough sun. Prudently, he took a look at the weather and saw solid grey cloud lowered over all, therefore nothing new over any horizon. Argent turned to his First Lieutenant.
“Try to get the men some food. If only some biscuit and a mug of coffee.”
Fentimen descended the companionway and Argent studied the sails and watched the falling sand some more.
“Wind strength, please, Mr. McArdle?”
A pause before the Highland tones replied.
“Just touching six, Sir.”
Argent looked up at the sails, then took himself over to the mizzen mast backstay, the new one on the larboard side. He placed his hand on it and whatever was transferred, between his ship and her Captain, his ship was telling him that all was yet well.
“Just a wee under thirteen knots, Sir.”
McArdle had decided himself that another throw of the log was called for and, at that moment, came the double report of both cannon firing ahead. Argent had his telescope instantly to his eye, just in time to see the fall of shot, at what looked like 20 to 30 yards astern of the schooner. Argent hurried forward.
“Extra half charge, Mr. Tucker?”
“Already using that, Sir.”
As they spoke Argent could see the schooner’s profile change. Her Captain had decided that the time had come and was tacking his ship, turning fully East, to make France still possible. A bad choice, Argent thought, he’s probably rattled, even panicked, his trusted schooner now having been thoroughly bested. The schooner’s speed fell before the two huge drivers could cross his deck and then be sheeted home, whilst his pursuer, Ariadne, had only to follow around and wear ship, holding the wind favourable for much of the turn. She being square rigged the reduction in speed would be negligible. From behind he heard the voice he needed and fully recognised.
“Orders? Sir.”
“Mr. Fraser, wear ship, larboard tack, wind six points free, full on our quarter. I leave you to inform Mr. Short.”
As Fraser ran off, Argent turned back to Tucker.
“As he turns, we’ll see more of him, and I don’t think he’s judged it too well.”
As if to confirm, the two guns fired again. A long second, then came the waterspouts, both just short and one each side. Argent gave himself some seconds of thought.
“Mr. Tucker. How many of those shrapnel shells have we left?”
The light of inspiration came into Tucker’s face.
“Quite a few, Sir.”
“Then I think this to be just the occasion when we use them up! You’d agree?”
Tucker was already hurrying off the forecastle and Argent went to the starboard gun, commonly number three of the starboard side. Sam Morris came to the attention as his crew sponged out for the next reload.
“Belay the reload, Morris. You are going to fire a six-pound ball at our friend yonder. How much powder?”
Morris thought, then answered.
“Normal charge, Sir, but well packed with guncotton. A six-pound ball leaves a great deal of windage, Sir. Wastes the push, Sir.”
“You mean the gap between the ball and the inside of the barrel?”
“Aye Sir. Yes.”
“Right, I understand. Mr. Tucker is on his way, load as you say.”
Morris nodded to his crew and the other gun followed the same. Tucker appeared with four seamen carrying the box marked “shrapnel shell” and he had had the same thoughts as Morris, two more seamen were carrying bales of guncotton. As they loaded, Argent looked at the schooner. She was full in line with their bowsprit, as Short curved Ariadne around East to follow the schooner’s turn and Fraser organised the sails as they wore ship. Tucker looked up and made his judgement.
“One second fuse.”
He poured powder into his measure and then tipped all into the fuse hole of the shell held by Morris. The powder was poured in and tamped down, then a repeat for a second shell. Both guns were loaded and Morris and the other Guncaptain, Jem Bates, crouched down over their barrels, giving instructions. Morris fired first, immediately followed by Bates. The smoke cleared quickly in the wind and they saw the shells explode, in line, but short and slightly low. The guns were rapidly reloaded and Morris primed his flintlock.
“Let’s see you stick yer backsides over the rail now!”
Tucker retained one second; the range was falling as they closed, the schooner trying to turn into the wind to lose Ariadne; the frigate holding her turn. Bates called to his crew.
“Up a half.”
As Bate’s crew responded, Morris’ crew looked at him and he nodded. Both quoins were withdrawn a half mark, then, once more, both Morris and Bates crouched behind their guns. Both fired together, as did the shells explode, almost in the same place, that being alongside the schooner’s mainsail. In an instant, the canvas, under massive strain, was in rags and shreds, streaming away in the wind. Argent saw her hull slump into the water, as the forward drive that had been lifting her up and out, fell by a half.
“Good shooting, Morris, Bates. Give her more, until she heaves to.”
Two more exploded on the schooner, this time one above and one just short, but sufficiently over her hull for the shrapnel to reach. Immediately they saw that her Captain had had enough, he turned into the wind and the way fell off his ship. Ariadne’s crew began cheering, loud enough to carry over on the wind, but Fraser soon put a stop to all.
“Belay that! Get the canvas away, or we’ll be on past her!.�
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In an instant the ratlines were full of topmen, also any waister and afterguard who could make the main spars. As the sheets were loosened Ariadne’s speed slackened, and through the busy scene Argent walked aft, carefully avoiding the two bodies.
“Mr. Short. Bring her into the wind, with yon Yankee under our starboard broadside.”
“Into the wind, starboard broadside to bear. Aye aye, Sir.”
As if they had an audience, as indeed they did, for the schooner’s crew were all lining their rail, Ariadne’s topmen furled sails and struck down their stunsails and all else, bar the main and fore courses. It must have been close to a naval record time. Silas Beddows looked across at the schooner, as he clamped down the last reef line to secure the foretopgallantsail neatly to its yard. His mates grinned as he vented his spleen towards the crew over the water.
“That’s how it’s done, you pieces of shite! Who did you think you was dealin’ with? An Essex coalbarge?”
Argent was issuing his orders.
“Captain Breakspeare. I’m sending both the launch and the longboat. I will be in the launch, I’d like you in the longboat. Your Marines spread over both. Lieutenant Sanders will be in your boat.”
Breakspeare saluted and ran off to pass on the orders to Sergeant Ackroyd. Argent then heard Fentiman below on the gundeck.
“Run out!”
The port lids thumped back against the sides and then he heard the squeal of the gun trucks as they emerged through their gunports. He gave a satisfied nod to himself, then looked to the boats about to be sent over the side, his own barge crew helping, for they would be amongst those manning the launch. Argent looked again at the motionless schooner. She had not struck her colours.
oOo
A Question of Duty Page 73