A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “Sir, Herodotus is due back soon and I assume that we will be sent to replace her?”

  Budgen sat back and poised his fingers together, his elbows comfortably on the comfortable arms of his chair. He nodded slowly.

  “Well, Sir, I’d like to request to go out early. We are refitted, but my complement is significantly down, twenty-two in fact. I’d like to call in at some Southern Irish ports, perhaps to gain some volunteers and press a few more besides. I have several Irish in my crew and they have proven to be the right sort of recruit. Some more of their ilk will not come amiss, so if we leave early, I will have time to perhaps make up my complement and yet not be late on station. Sir.”

  Budgen looked at him head on one side, he was suspicious, but also puzzled.

  “And your last draft from the Courts was insufficient?”

  “Just five, Sir, and one was medically unfit.”

  “No volunteers?”

  “Five, Sir, but injuries, disease, and old age have taken us to where we are. Twenty-two is the number, Sir, and I was hoping to gain a few more, as I say, from Ireland, which gained us three recruits when we were first there without us even trying.”

  Budgen parted his fingers three times, then held them together, his pudgy face impassive. He gave the impression that he would like to say no, but could think of no reason to be negative. Finally, he sat forward, nodding his head.

  “Very well. What you say makes sense, therefore I can raise no objection.”

  He shifted his bulk sideways; his arms were too short to reach the paper as he sat upright. Argent helped him with the inkwell.

  “I’ll draft the order now, and Venables will make it formal.”

  He began writing.

  “Come back in an hour.”

  Argent stood and saluted the bald spot on the top of Budgen’s head. On his way out he saluted Venables’ beaming face, but outside waited a world of impatience. He walked the quayside, looked into some shops, drank two cups of coffee and looked at his watch every five minutes. After fifty-five minutes he was back outside the office door, just in time to cross over with Whiting who was hurrying back down to the quayside. Argent was grateful for the coincidence.

  “Ready the boat. I’ll be five minutes.”

  Inside he found Venables just folding the thick paper.

  “No need for a seal, Sergeant. I’ll take it as it is.”

  Venables stood, to hand over the orders, which Argent immediately tucked down into an inside pocket. Venables saluted.

  “Good luck, Sir.”

  “Some will not come amiss on this mission, so thank you Sergeant.”

  Once at the steps, Argent descended immediately, to step into his barge, now ready and waiting. Whiting sensed his Captain’s urgency and upped the rate. Back on board, Argent found Fraser and issued his orders.

  “Is all now finished, Mr. Fraser?”

  “Sir.”

  “We sail as soon as we can head the tide. Make preparations.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir, but it’s just a question of droppin’ the sails, Sir. As you order.”

  Argent looked carefully at his Bosun, impressed despite his own impatience.

  “Very good, Mr. Fraser. Have the Watch stand by.”

  However, the next hour was one of intense frustration. The tide poured in, strong and constant, pieces of flotsam coming in at ten knots, even eleven. The Northerly wind was fresh but not strong enough to even hold Ariadne constant in such a flow, even with all sail set. Argent could only stand, impatient and ill-tempered, watching the tide run around a straining buoy, the strength of the tide such as to send it under, to quickly bob back up, then to be sent down again, by the push of the incoming water. He turned away to find Fraser and Fentiman stood awaiting orders.

  “Is all ready?”

  The ‘Yes Sir’ and the “Aye aye Sir” tangled with each other. Argent took a turn round the deck, forcing himself to pay attention to the new rigging, which, even in his heightened state, he had to admire, Fraser had supervised a very good job. Then back to the rail to study the buoy and, eventually, at last, it showed mere turbulence around its bulbous shape, flotsam now merely drifting by. Argent looked at the pennant and found it out to larboard with strength; that was enough.

  “Mr. Fraser. Starboard tack. All courses and topsails. Driver and jibsails. All upper staysails. We’ll sail out over our mooring.”

  Fraser hurried away, calling for his Mates. Fentiman looked just short of amazed, Ariadne would be sailing out with canvas enough for her to get urgently to get into an engagement. Argent looked back, with raised eyebrows, suddenly in better mood.

  “No time to lose, Mr. Fentiman!”

  Fentiman smiled back, still somewhat bemused.

  “No, Sir.”

  Argent walked back to lean against the taffrail and watched the squaresails falling and the staysails rising, as their lifts hauled them up to their top pulleys. As the sails were sheeted home and began to draw, Ariadne began to free herself from the grip of the still incoming tide. She began to move in relation to the land, then her mooring rope, once iron hard, now slackened to become limp and Fraser and Ball themselves judged when to cast free and haul in. Ariadne picked up momentum, defying the slackening tide to begin her exit, slowly at first, then with gathering speed. She sailed powerfully into the harbour channel, then, within half an hour, she had all the sea room she needed and at this point Argent could be found in his cabin with Mr. McArdle, plotting their course into a North-westerly wind, calculating the angles and the point where she would make her first tack.

  oOo

  Argent finished writing the Log.

  “7th January. Noon position North 51 – 58, West 6 – 56. Wind unfavourable, due West and Force Two. Sighted Southern coast of Ireland, believed to be coast of Waterford, then onto starboard tack, now heading South West by South.”

  Argent allowed the ink to dry and then closed the Log. He took himself along the corridor to the gundeck, finding his way automatically, thinking of the two sailing days left to make Kinsale. Would he have the morning of the 10th? As things stood, he would need it. He mounted the steps to the quarterdeck to see the end of an unseasonably bright January day, the sun dying in an explosion of red and orange, all changing very slowly with the dying sun as he looked into the execrable West wind, useless for his passage, yet too weak to move any cloud to deaden the glory of a sunset at the point of the compass it claimed its name from. McArdle was on the quarterdeck, himself feeling his Captain’s need and anxious, therefore, to meet his requirement of as fast a passage as possible.

  “Sir. As things stand, come the Morning Watch, I’d say we can come to North West.”

  “What log?’

  “Three knots, Sir, the last time, one bell ago.”

  The unusual lilting cheerfulness in McArdle’s voice did little to raise his spirits. In the Force Two wind, Ariadne was barely making enough headway to combat the wallow from the endless troughs and peaks that rolled against her out of the sunset. Ariadne was on all fore and aft sail, plus all topsails. Argent considered setting the courses, which would just draw, but they would only rob wind from the staysails and the sailor in him told him that this was the Irish Sea and an evil squall could arrive from no-where. He had no choice but to sit it out, batten down his impatience and trust the ship and his crew.

  With the dark, the wind died further, giving Ariadne almost no momentum to achieve her chosen tack point. Argent asked himself, was the weather changing? It certainly felt colder.

  “The weather, Mr. McArdle, do you have an opinion?”

  There was a silence as McArdle formed his answer.

  “It’s the North wind as brings a chill, Sir, but it’s strength, well, nae man can tell.”

  Argent formed his own thoughts, but they brought no answer, only a question.

  “Kinsale is due West of us, yes?”

  “Some South of West, Sir.”

  Argent nodded in the dark, a North wind would be almo
st perfect, he could but hope, but for now some sleep. In his cabin he slept better than he had hoped, but the dawn saw the lantern above his desk swaying and swinging this way and then the other. The wind direction repeater from the quarterdeck told of a North wind, but he could feel Ariadne’s hull moving solely with the motion of the waves. She was becalmed. He dressed and took himself on deck and there a study of the sails confirmed his fears, they slapped and banged against the masts, this not being caused by the wind, but by Ariadne’s rocking motion as a regular sea passed obliquely under her hull, starboard bow to larboard quarter. He had come on deck at six bells of the morning watch, the time of “up all hammocks” and so he idly watched as the crew brought their rolled hammocks to the Bosun’s Mates to test if they were tight enough to pass through his measuring hoop, then to be stowed carefully in the hammock nettings. Seth Wyatt’s did not and so, using a starter, Henry Ball sent him back below to try again.

  Argent had no need of anyone to tell him that this day was the eighth. With everything as he would wish, tomorrow they should be sailing into Kinsale, but with the growing of the day the skies cleared and the temperature dropped to give frosty, wintry, weather, chill and still, no kind of weather for any kind of sailing. Through the day Ariadne’s hull turned with the tide; at five bells of the Forenoon Watch, the North point on the compass pointed straight along her deck, directed on her bowsprit, at five bells of the Afternoon, it pointed directly out to starboard. Argent occupied the crew with extra gundrill by rowing targets 100 yards out, these being empty barrels with a pennant and allowing the crews to achieve three shots at their best speed. Number five starboard just recoiled into its breeching ropes before all the others. On the larboard it was number ten. The topmen were allowed a turn, being given nine guns, three for each mast. Bragging rights went to Gabriel Whiting’s crew, who were just the fastest, although slower than the regular crews, but the most accurate of the topmen. Whiting had been a Number Two on a 24 lb gun before he became a topman and they had the advantage of the giants King and Fenwick as tacklemen for a fast hauling out.

  None of this helped Argent at all. The men went down to their supper in good spirits, as were his Officers at theirs and, at this meal, Argent presided, but contributed little. Most of the entertainment came from Brakespeare, from his endless fund of stories, and when he thought he had spoke enough, Sanders took over, from his experience before the mast on the Defiance. With the subdued disposition of their Captain, the diners broke up early and went about their business, that of securing the ship for the night, securing all sail and hoisting the riding lights, although where another ship could find enough wind to cause a collision, was a question left both unasked and unanswered.

  Argent slept fitfully that night and his mood was not improved when, as he climbed the companionway in the morning to the quarterdeck, he heard McArdle exchanging opinions with Short.

  “Aye, ‘tis weather that can lock itself in, if ye tak’ ma meanin’. Hold itself over ye for days!”

  When Argent mounted the last step, Short was nodding and polishing the brass circumference of the wheel, both sides, there was no speed on the ship such that would require any handling of the spokes. Argent looked at the sky to see high, wispy cloud strung itself out in long tendrils, an unchanging pattern that reminded Argent of a ploughed field. He walked to the taffrail to disappointingly observe, as he nevertheless expected, no wake showing; then to the quarterdeck rail, to see all neatly stowed and clean, bright clean, enhanced by the weak sunlight. Even the sails were symmetrically stowed on their yards either side of the mast. Argent took a deep breath, sighed, and went below. What to do? What could he do? Nothing was the answer. It was fate, his luck had run out. He returned to his Cabin and Mortimor brought in some coffee, unbidden, but he had recognised the depth of his Captain’s mood.

  “The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth. John 3, verse 8.”

  Argent looked at Mortimor as though he could cheerfully have heaved him out of the cabin window. Mortimor recognised the black look.

  “But, perhaps not, Sir. Eli Reece is sure of a wind, come Noon. He saw the signs in the sky, so he says. We are saved by hope, Romans 8, 24. Reece is right, Sir, more often as he is wrong.”

  Hope grew but little in Argent’s mind.

  “Then we place our faith in Reece’s divination of the sky!”

  The words on where Faith should be placed gave Mortimor his turn to take umbrage and it brought a look of thunder onto his face, which Argent quickly reacted to.

  “I know, I know, the home of our Faith remains constant with the Lord! I know.”

  Slightly appeased, Mortimor gave his parting shot.

  “Is any thing too hard for the Lord? Genesis 18, verse 14.”

  He then left, leaving Argent stretched on his cot, hoping for some rest to compensate for his poor night of worry. If he slept, he knew not; subconsciously the Watch bells from above broke in, especially the long chimes of eight bells for the Noon Sight. He opened his eyes and thought to himself.

  “Noon on the day before. Little chance now, still 100 miles off Kinsale.”

  He rose and stamped his foot on the deck, then slapped his hand against the huge hull rib beside his cot.

  “You didn’t let me down, old girl. ‘Twas just the weather and a run of luck, mostly bad. Not your fault.

  He looked at the deck between his shoes.

  “Reece and his damn skies. Did they get me into trouble, or out of it?”

  He dismissed the question and sat more upright on his cot, rubbing his face then chasing an irritation in his ear. A movement above caught his eye; the wind repeater had swung decisively South East. Was it caused by a lurch of the hull? He studied it further, waiting for it to move; it didn’t. Then the lantern above his desk took on an angle that it held. In a minute he was on deck, but Fentiman had set all in train, and McArdle was plotting a course, or more like checking the one he had already calculated. Ariadne’s bows lay West and so Short had little to do bar wait for the ship to gain way across the gentle sea. Canvas was appearing on the yards as if by a magician’s wand, but the seaman in Argent felt the need to check Fentiman’s decision.

  “What have you ordered, Lieutenant?”

  “Courses and topsails, Sir. Driver and all staysails.”

  Argent nodded.

  “Plus outer and flying jib.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  “This wind may strengthen. We must stay the right side of caution.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  So you add more sail! Fentiman thought.

  oOo

  But the wind didn’t strengthen. From force three it fell to a poor force two, but Ariadne used the wind well and held a speed of six knots and, with the throwing of the log, Argent did the maths, Noon to Noon Ariadne would cover over 100 miles. Adding the topgallants helped and extra lookouts were sent aloft to keep watch on the weather. A Southerly wind was warmer, but it carried squalls, an extra worry with so much spread across the masts.

  As the day died behind thick but broken cloud, McArdle calculated their position.

  “51- 40. 7 - 45, Sir. Fifty miles tae go, would be my answer.”

  The question had not been asked, but McArdle answered it anyway. Argent nodded.

  “I’ll take this Watch.”

  “As ye wish, Sir. Aye, aye.”

  Argent peered through the gloom at his lugubrious Sailing Master, his clifflike face impassive as he returned his Captain’s gaze.

  “I’ve never thanked you properly, Mr. McArdle for the good work you do aboard this ship.”

  McArdle’s head shifted backwards slightly, almost dismissive.

  “Nae need, Sir. We all do our job. Yon’s a good crew, and that’s what being what we like tae call a good crew is all aboot!”

  Argent managed to disentangle the sentence, but left it at that and then he studied the sails in the last of the light. Al
l were drawing, but few were tight, and this state changed from sail to sail, each changing from tight to slack and back, with an angry slap. The wind was becoming unsteady, so Argent called for the log to be thrown and five knots was the answer. He stood his quarterdeck until dawn, keeping the Watch busy with small adjustments, but the dawn still found them on an open sea. Hammocks and breakfast came and went, but the wind strengthened and their speed went back to six knots.

  Argent was studying his watch as much as the draw of the sails. It said 9.30, this confirmed by three bells of the Forenoon. 9.30 on the 10th.

  “Land ho! Full ahead.”

  Several telescopes were raised on the quarterdeck to view what resembled no more than discoloured mist, but, if land it was, it did stretch far on either side so, surely, this was the coast of Ireland. Argent gauged the wind on his left cheek, deciding there was no change from that of the night. He concluded that he was being too cautious.

  “Set Royals.”

  With the extra sail, their speed increased by half a knot and slowly the features grew. Argent was at the foremast topgallant crosstrees, looking through the winter haze for the telltale hillock island that they had seen back in the fair weather of late July, which heralded the entrance to Kinsale harbour. The coast could now be seen through the naked eye, but what of the island? This required a telescope and Argent trained his own back and forth, praying that he would see the telltale lump downwind and not up, which would require a tack back out to sea. He sighed with relief, it was there, off their starboard beam, McArdle had plotted true and their landfall was better had been back then. He slid down a backstay, staining his breeches, but not noticing, instead shouting back to the quarterdeck.

  “Mr. Short. Steer Nor’nor’east.”

  As Ariadne turned onto her new course and his crew placed themselves where best to wait for orders, Argent again consulted his watch, 10.30. He looked for Fraser and found him, but it was more that Fraser had come to him, appreciating the new course meant changes that would soon be his to oversee.