The entryport had no handropes, but at least it was open. There were no faces to be seen. Coxswain Whiting brought the launch around parallel to the side of the schooner that rose up sheer, black and glossy, above them. Argent stood up, amidst the erect oars and erect bayonets all around him and he looked at Abel Jones in the bows.
“Jones. Hand me that grapnel.”
The grapnel with its rope was passed back and Argent lobbed it gently to stick on the rail to the right of the ladder that led up. He pulled it taut and placed his right foot on the first rung.
“Marines first after me, then the rest of you follow up. Jones you remain, keep the boat secure against her side.”
He climbed, using the single rope of his grapnel, hand over hand. Soon he was looking along the deck at eye level, it looked dishevelled, then he was stood in the entryport. Facing him were the crew, about two dozen men, three in some type of uniform, but not military, more merchant marine. He looked at the rail under his right hand, noting it to be pock marked and torn, presumably from the shrapnel and so, as a gesture of possession, which was how he felt, he brushed away some lose splinters.
“Who’s in command here?”
A tallish and angular man, early middle-aged, stepped forward, plainly very angry, but at that moment Brakespeare’s Marines came up and over the rail behind. The crew looked around at the bayonets, muskets, black shakoes and angry faces, these followed by the hated red uniform. More Marines were also arriving from Argent’s route and the Americans’ apprehension grew, whilst the commander resumed his angry look at Argent.
“This is piracy!”
“Hardly! We’ve not taken your ship from you and locked you below, nor taken any of your property. Not yet, that is. You, on the other hand, have killed two of my men and injured a third. That was an unprovoked attack on an unarmed longboat that was despatched to simply ask your business in British Territorial Waters. If there is any piracy, it lies with you. Perhaps you had designs to capture our longboat?”
The Commander ignored the question.
“We were not in Territorial Waters. We were on the High Seas!”
“You can’t be sure, neither could we, either way. We haven’t taken a Sight for days, neither could you.”
He paused. There was no answer.
“We are going to search your ship.”
The Commander drew himself up to his full height.
“My Government will hear of this!”
“After this, you can do as you choose, but I repeat, you fired on an unarmed boat’s crew. Because of that, I now have dead to bury!”
Argent took a deep breath, his mood suddenly becoming very belligerent and it showed.
“I’d like you to be aware, that from my point of view, I’d like nothing better than to quit your deck, now, go back to my ship and then blow you out of the water! Then, whom of you would be alive to tell the story to any Government?”
He saw the Commander’s face change with apprehension, as did those of the crew, lined up behind him. Was this Captain cold hearted enough to carry out such a threat?
“My best advice to you, now, is to shut up and allow the search; then it’s possible that you may sail on your way. I acknowledge that, at first sight, you are a foreign ship, under a foreign flag, but that remains to be proven. ”
The Commander exploded in anger. Argent’s threat had not done enough to fully subdue him. He delivered his speech.
“This is an American vessel, on the High Seas, going about legitimate business of trade. I demand that you quit this deck!”
“You surprise me. Legitimate business of trade? On a course for France, with whom my country is at war? If you are legitimate, as you say, you will have a Ship’s Manifest, and a Bill of Lading. If you would be so good as to show those, our search will be much shortened.”
Silence, but the American’s face grew in concern.
“Did you load in Ireland?”
A nod.
“At which port? If your trade is legitimate, I should say that you would be able to name the safe harbour that you loaded at and sailed from.”
Silence. Argent now delivered his speech.
“It is my strong suspicion that you are a smuggler taking goods from Ireland for sale in France. My men will now search your ship. And you. And your men.”
He nodded to his sailors and Marines, who both spread themselves all over the ship to disappear through doors and down companionways. Some sailors began to loosen the covers on the main hatchway. The Commander started shouting.
“This is an American ship. We are American sailors. You have no right!”
“The events of the past few hours give me the right.”
He turned to King, Beddows and Whiting, waiting just behind.
“Search them.”
The three sailors, two very large, walked menacingly forward, their movements covered by six Marines with levelled muskets and threatening bayonets. Whiting went to the Commander, King and Beddows began with the rest, starting from opposite ends. Whiting looked at the Commander as though he would dearly like to hit him.
“Turn out your pockets. Onto the deck.”
The same was repeated by King and Beddows. One sailor protested loudly, to then receive a precise punch on the jaw from King.
“Bare your arse to me, would thee? I d’reckon you’m lucky to not end up sunk an’ down to the “old place” You an’ this mongrel barky!”
Whiting was satisfied with the response he had received and pointed to the Commander’s possessions, after he had fully spread them around with his foot.
“Pick them up!”
The Commander went red in the face, but Whiting glared right back, equally challenging. It was Beddows who broke the moment.
“I d’reckon this one here to be very familiar!”
He turned to Argent
“Sir? Didn’t we see this one back in Killannan?”
Argent walked forward to confront the stocky figure indicated by Beddows. All he could see was the top of his head, his face being lowered fully down to stare at the deck.
“Who are you?”
No response and the head was not raised. Argent lost patience and reached forward himself to seize the head under the chin. His first thoughts were the feel of the coarse stubble; the next was one of recognition.
“Michael!”
The face was unmistakable, confirmed by the horseshoe scar.
“Michael, what are you doing here, on board?”
No reply, bar a look growing increasingly terrified.
“Michael. You are onboard a ship that has just fired on British sailors, killing two. You are very liable to hang!”
The look of terror increased. Argent turned to the nearest two Marines.
“Take him to the Captain’s cabin. Hold him there, until I arrive.”
At that point Brakespeare looked up from leaning over the now uncovered hold.
“Irish linen, Sir. Bales of it. Way upwards of one hundred, pushing two, perhaps.”
Argent turned to the Commander.
“Now, Captain. Let me tell you what I see here. I am dealing with a ship that was very confident that she could escape on a course to France, which she takes. I have two dead crew, killed by you. You can provide no Bill of Lading nor Manifest. You cannot name the port you sailed from. I am of the strong opinion that your flag, up there, is a mere ruse. You may be Americans, but I think that you are Americans in an American built ship, but a ship no longer American. She was bought by someone French or Irish, for her speed, and crewed by you, to engage in the very lucrative smuggling trade between Ireland and France.”
Argent paused to gauge the reaction in the Commander. What he saw was apprehension behind the front of anger.
“Tell me I’m wrong. But if you do, you’ll have to prove it.”
The reply was simple, but now weaker.
“This is an American ship. We are American sailors. We defended ourselves against being boarded.”
“I’d like to see your document showing your Port of Registration. This applies to all British shipping, perhaps also to yours?”
“We are from the United States. That does not apply.”
Argent clasped his hands behind his back and rose up onto his toes.
“Oh dear!”
He turned to Sergeant Ackroyd.
“We’ll have these sat on the deck, Sergeant, whilst I talk to Michael.”
Argent then turned his back on the scene of the whole crew and their Officers being forced to the deck, but it was neither a quiet nor a dignified process, much being accomplished by musket butts.
“Lieutenant Sanders. Please accompany me.”
In the Captain’s cabin, Argent found Michael, sat on the deck in a corner of a small, but well furnished and tidy cabin, him with two bayonet points not one foot from his chest.
“You two, on sentry, outside the door.”
As the two Marines left, Argent turned to Sanders.
“Jonathan, search the cabin. Any papers that may help us find out what’s going on. The Logbook first.”
Argent found a chair for Michael and motioned him to sit in it, whilst Argent brought around the Commander’s chair from behind the desk to give Sanders space for his searching. Soon, one was sat opposite the other and Argent looked at Michael for several seconds and Michael’s mouth began to twitch and his eyes to swivel violently.
“Michael. You are going to hang. You have been found on a smuggler that has killed two British seaman. But…...”
He left the word poised. There was no change in the level of terror in Michael’s face, but Argent certainly had his full attention.
“You have one route of escape. As yet you have not been found guilty and you are a British citizen. I can press you out of this ship and you will be signed on as a seaman of my crew. I can classify you as a British citizen serving aboard a foreign ship found in British national waters, which means I can press you into mine”
The response was a vigorous nodding of Michael’s head, but Argent was shaking his.
“It’s not that simple, Michael. You must tell me all that you know about this crew, this vessel, her cargo, and who owns the linen. Miss out anything and you’ll hang, it’ll be the gallows dance for sure, and it’s a God awful way to die, Michael, hauled up to jerk and choke before a gleeful crowd!”
Terror crossed his face but then Michael took a deep breath, released it, swivelled his eyes, and then took another.
“’Tis Fallows!”
Argent jumped straight in, Michael’s reply had not surprised him.
“Now understand this Michael, very clearly. Either he hangs, or you!”
The result was another deep breath and Michael’s hands twisting agonisingly together.
“This is his cargo. Loaded at a bay up from Killannan, on his ground still.”
More finger twisting.
“Heading for France.”
“And this ship?”
“Hired in France. She works up and down the French coast, she’s a Yankee alright, but not been home in years.”
“So, Fallows hires an American schooner to do his smuggling of linen from Ireland to France. Is that the story?”
The finger mangling had lessened.
“It is.”
“And where’s Fallows now? Remember, it’s your neck or his.”
“On board.”
“On board?”
“Yes.”
Argent made no reply, silently requiring Michael to say more.
“There’s a hidey hole, in the bows, under the deck up front. He went there as soon as it was obvious that we was going to be caught.”
Argent sprang up out of his chair.
“Jonathan!”
Sanders ceased his search of the ship’s papers.
“Nothing here, Sir, and I’d say the Logbook was false.”
“Belay that. Get written down all that Michael has said and get him to sign it. Teach him to write his own name if you have to.”
Before the sentence had finished Argent was heading for the door. Outside he gathered the two Marines and went out onto the weather deck. There he gained four more, and he hurried, with the six in tow, down below the forecastle to what were the crew’s quarters. He found a lamp and stooped low to find his way forward and there he ordered three Marines to search for any kind of door, the remaining three to find a way further down below, then to search there. He joined the upper search himself, pulling away stores of canvas, ropes and unidentified boxes. Nothing was found. They obtained another lamp and searched the seams of the planking minutely, still nothing that would show a door. Suddenly, they heard shouts and foul words from beneath their feet. Using the lamps, they went back astern to find their way down into what was the ship’s bilges, the whole keel covered in ballast stones, all showing a sickly grey-green in the yellow light of the lanterns. Ahead, in the gloom, Argent’s three Marines were dragging a struggling figure across the uneven surface of the ballast and Argent recognised the voice before he recognised the figure. Fallows was bellowing to be released, between streams of evil language.
“Shut him up.”
A Marine took this literally, so, very simply and not even considering finding cloth for a gag, he punched Fallows in the mouth. The result was a marked reduction in the volume of words, but cries and moans replaced the protests and oaths.
“Get him above, tied up and into a boat.”
The still struggling Fallows, half walking, half being dragged, was hauled up to the crew’s deck, then to the weather deck above. Immediately he was pushed roughly to fall into the longboat where his hands and feet were tied. Argent walked past the seated Commander and his crew, but none met his gaze. They had well realised that the discovery of Fallows, the smuggler in chief, had made their position even less secure. Back in the cabin he found Sanders teaching Michael how to hold a pen.
“Has he signed?”
“Just about to, Sir.”
Sanders looked at Michael, who, with intense concentration and hard labour, signed his name to a short document.
“Now Michael. There is one last thing before your become an Ariadne, rather than a dead man on a rope! I still haven’t signed you on, and remember, you were part of a crew that killed our shipmates. If you join our crew to save your neck, and after that carry on waking up in your hammock still alive, you must now point out those who fired the muskets. How many were there, Lieutenant?”
“Six, Sir, and I can recognise two.”
“Very well. The others are for you, Michael.”
As Sanders rolled up Michael’s statement, Argent pushed Michael out onto the weather deck. Sanders soon followed and immediately pointed to two of the crew.
“Those two.”
Argent turned to Ackroyd.
“Sergeant. Those two fired on our longboat and killed our men. Get them over the side with the other prisoner.”
As the pair were roughly dragged out and thrown down to land alongside Fallows, four others could see what was coming and it showed in their faces, which twisted with pure hatred as Michael pointed them out. Then they, which included an Officer, were roughly seized, punched silent, hauled to their feet and sent over the side. Argent then approached the Commander, who rose to his feet.
“Your cargo is contraband and you and your ship have been hired to engage in the smuggling trade out of Ireland.”
He took a deep breath.
“However, I am convinced that you are American and that this is an American ship. I am going to release you, but I am taking the men who killed mine. I am also taking your cargo. Your men will be handed over to the authorities, who will decide what is to be done, with them.”
Argent let that sink in.
“You now have two choices. After we have relieved you of the linen, you can sail away. Or you can sail back with me, to find my commanding Admiral
. With him you can plead your case to have your men released. He may do that, or he may impound your whole ship, and you!”
The answer was almost instant.
“I’ll sail, what kind of choice is that?”
His brow furrowed.
“I’ll be short handed!”
The reply was curt and contemptuous.
“Then shorten sail!”
Leaving Sanders and the Marines on the schooner, the latter with loaded and lowered muskets and fixed bayonets, both boats rowed back to Ariadne. Soon, by spreading both headsails and driver, Ariadne drifted down onto the schooner. As the sun Westered, the linen was swung aboard the frigate, the task finishing by lantern light. With the arrival of the last cargo net, Argent ordered topsails and courses on the larboard tack and he spoke no more to anyone on the schooner’s deck. He did not even look, as the vessel’s elegant masts slid past, the depleted crew bending on another mainsail by lantern light.
oOo
James Fallows looked a much diminished man; clothes filthy, smelling of the bilges, bald and blotchy head now shorn of the elegance provided by the usual wig and his mouth split, bloody and swollen. All that remained of his previous stature was the ingrained attitude of superiority, built up over years of total hegemony over his wide estates.
“I’m saying nothing!”
Argent looked at him from the other side of the desk, head to one side, hands folded above forearms supported on the desk, his face contemptuous. He sighed.
“Nothing! You’ve nothing to say? And you think that will make any difference? That’ll help you? You’ve commissioned an American ship to smuggle Irish linen to our country’s enemy, and the ship you hire kills two British seamen and wounds a third. And we find you on board! It’s my opinion that there’s no point in you saying anything, nor do we need to hear anything. It’s an open and shut case, with you off to the gallows.”
Argent paused to watch Fallows’ eyes shift from side to side and his mouth open and shut.
“They’re going to hang you, Fallows. No mercy. They’ll brand you a thief, a smuggler, and a murderer. And a coward, after your non performance when the slaver came to call. They’re going to hang you, and I may just well come to watch!”
This seemed to be Fallows moment of realisation. His shoulders sagged, his hands came together and he looked at the deck. After some seconds, his head came back up, his face fearful, but still yet showing anger.
A Question of Duty Page 74