A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Not partaking of the celebrations?”

  It was George Fraser who spoke up.

  “No Sir. For the moment we can’t quite find the mood, Sir.”

  “In poor humour? Why so? Surely after our victory, a good mood is not so hard to come by?”

  “Normally you would be right, Sir, but we knows the cost, Sir.”

  “Cost, to whom?”

  Fraser jerked his thumb in the direction of the Herodotus, anchored but a cable length away.

  “The lads over there, Sir, on Herodotus. There’ll be some bloody backs over there this evening, I can tell you that for sure, Sir. Which fact puts a bit of a dampener on our own carousing, Sir.”

  Smallpiece looked beyond Fraser to where he was indicating. Herodotus sat black on the black water, identified only by her riding lights, with her masts and spars standing out from the few lights of Plymouth behind her. There was no light even from her stern cabin. Smallpiece knew well the ways of the Navy, and thought it best to make no comment, but to pass on. He nodded and went his way, disappearing down the companionway into the forecastle. All three turned to lean on the rail, each took a drink from their tankards, and each said nothing for some minutes. It was Henry Ball, who broke the silence.

  “What’s this comin’ our way? Someone ordered up a few “town ladies”?

  “Ladies of the Town” it was not. What it was, was a jolly boat, with four Marines at the oars and what looked like an Officer, unbelievably, at the tiller. Ball reacted; Marines they may appear to be, but a challenge was required, nevertheless.

  “Ahoy, the boat. State your business.”

  The Marines ceased plying their oars and tossed them vertical. The boat glided on and the figure at the tiller stood up, now unmistakably an Officer.

  “Fetch me your Officer of the Watch. Tell him that Captain Baker, Royal Marines, wishes to speak to him.”

  Henry Ball, surprised and confused, replied their obedience.

  “Aye, aye, Sir. Directly, Sir.”

  Ball hurried to the quarterdeck to find Lieutenant Bentley standing his watch, none too happy at missing the fun emanating from the glazed open hatch in the quarterdeck, as he stood aft of the binnacle.

  “Beg pardon, Sir, but there’s a lobster, I mean, Marine, Captain, in a jolly boat just over the side, Sir. Says he wants the Officer of the Watch.”

  Bentley took himself to the centre of the gangway and heard what the Captain had to say. All was overheard also by the three Warrant Officers. Were it possible to see it, Bentley’s face registered deep shock and it was still there when he thanked Baker for his trouble. He then took himself down to the Great Cabin, where charades were in progress, Lieutenant Sanders in mid execution of some contorted pose. However, Fentiman noticed the look of grave concern on Bentley’s face as he entered and stared, almost helplessly, at his First Officer. Fentiman realised that something was amiss and waved his hands, calling for quiet, but still speaking cheerfully.

  “Gentlemen, pray silence. I do believe that Lieutenant Bentley has some news of great import.”

  Bentley looked even more concerned and his eyes rolled around the room, meeting the gaze of the eyes fixed on him. Finally, he returned to the inviting and concerned look of Lieutenant Fentiman.

  “We’ve just received a message from a Captain Baker, Sir, Captain Adjutant to the Port Admiral. He says that we are to expect an inspection at four bells of the forenoon, Sir. A Spanish Admiral, and two English. Two Spanish Captains, and the Captain of the Herodotus. Oh, and two Ladies; in addition. Sir.”

  oOo

  The longboat was full, deep laden, of both oarsmen and passengers. The two ladies sat on the longseat in the stern, their parasols out and spread against the playful wind that was picking up the droplets from the strokeside oars and carrying them over the side, but their voluminous cloaks gave further protection. The Admirals, both British and Spanish, sat together, deep in their double conversation at it passed back and forth in both English and Spanish, these translations provided by the Equerries. Cheveley looked as though he couldn’t wait for the purpose of their journey to begin, him being a picture of eager anticipation, his mouth working into various angles of amusement. Argent sat almost apart, unaware of events within the boat, deep in both thought and worry. Strictly speaking, he was the host and the others his guests, therefore hospitality fell to him, but all seemed content enough and so he felt no need for any effort on his part. Baker sat beside him and, recognising his anxiety, left him to himself. Argent had thanked him fully for his efforts the previous night to forewarn his crew.

  After the dinner had broken up, he had paid his respects to the Ladies and then accompanied the Spanish Officers back along The Hoe in their landau, both himself and Cheveley. He was grateful that Cheveley was only too keen to answer the Admiral’s questions on the Royal Navy in general and, therefore, but little requirement came Argent’s way, even though he disagreed with much of Cheveley proclamations. As they made their slow progress to The George, for as much of the journey as he could politely manage, he had studied what could be seen of Ariadne from the distance. Also, after politely taking his leave, for much of the night, he stared some more, sitting in his room that overlooked The Sound. His only consolation was that she showed many more lights than were considered common practice for a ship riding at night at anchor; she could even be described as “lit for the King’s Birthday”.

  Breakfast had proven to be leisurely, but for himself with a far higher level of involvement. His Excellency was curious as to the origin of the Ariadne, he saw much that was familiar in her. Argent saw no choice but to come straight out with the answer; to be honest and frank. He told them that she had been captured in 1802 and immediately taken into service, but his Excellency, surprisingly, was pleased, as were his Equerries. A Spanish design had proven to be superior, which gave rise to a discussion on the comparative design features of British, French, and Spanish warships. Argent was heavily involved, ship design and the set-up of their masts and rigging, were both a particular interest of his. Cheveley contributed little, but His Excellency proved to be very knowledgeable and a good discussion ensued, albeit slow and somewhat stilted, due to the requirements of translation.

  The longboat now approached Ariadne and the oars were tossed to allow it to glide to the ladder up the larboard side from the waterline to the entry port admidships. The helmsman gave the required call of “Flag”, meaning that the boat held Ariadne’s Admiral and, obviously a bevy of guests. As Captain, Argent was required to be the first out of the boat to enable him to greet his visitors as they came on board. He stood up in the boat and, with great apprehension concerning the events of the coming hour, he grasped the hand ropes that hung beside the ladder, this being composed of mere wooden protrusions from the side. It was at that moment that he noticed that the steps were newly varnished and the hand ropes were pale, made from brand new rope. He began his climb to find himself passed by two seamen going down ropes into the boat, a bosun’s chair being lowered between them, behind him as he climbed, so he paused to quickly turn around and look. It was not just any bosun’s chair, normally a plank with four ropes secured at the corners, this was a whole chair seat, including the back, but minus legs. There was ropework all over it, including a thick plait across the front to prevent the passenger slipping out and even small ring hitches around the supporting ropes to the seat, to show where they should be held by the delicate hands to come, these there to enable the passenger to feel fully secure. The Ariadnies involved were immaculate in the uniform of the Captain’s bargemen; Gabriel Whiting and Abel Jones both taking charge. Argent continued up the ladder and when his eyes came level with the deck, he couldn’t fail to notice that the decking at the port was covered with a neat Carrick mat. He continued up and placed his foot upon it. Two more of his bargemen, the mighties Moses King and Sam Fenwick, stood rigidly to attention either side of the port, holding the ropes that would pull the bosun’s chair
inboard over the deck before it was lowered down to release its passenger. Both were decked out in their “barge” uniform. The Bosun and his Mates stood close, shining bright and immaculate, ready with their gleaming silver calls to pipe the Admirals aboard.

  What he then saw were the men paraded in groups mostly based on their role in action, at “Quarters”. Not surprisingly the first to catch his eye were the bright scarlet uniforms of Ariadne’s complement of two dozen Marines paraded on the opposite starboard gangway. His Officers paraded on the quarterdeck, lined along the starboard rail. The great majority of the men were at their guns, both larboard and starboard batteries. The forecastlemen that were not part of any guncrew, were on the gangway opposite the Marines. Finally, he noticed the topmen, paraded from gangway to gangway over the width of the forecastle, but Argent had no time to take in any more detail. He quickly turned to face the opening of the entry port and Fentiman came to stand by his side. Moments later the first of the guests began to arrive, hoisted by the bosun’s chair, using the muscle of a dozen of the foc’s’lmen, all pulling to a clean and steady rhythm, as called by a Bosun’s Mate.

  The first was Lady Willoughby, it was to be “ladies first”. She was disengaged by King and Fenwick, then she came smiling out of the bosun’s chair to be formally welcomed by both Argent and Fentiman. The chair disappeared back over the side and so, she now being safely on deck, Lady Willoughby decided to take herself off to the Officers on the quarterdeck and begin a conversation, not with the Lieutenants, but first with Midshipman Bright. Next came not the second Lady, but Cheveley, up the ladder, to be piped onto the deck, him then standing to await the rapid arrival of Charlotte in the chair. He gave her his full attention to conduct the removal of herself from the hoist, Jones and Whiting having ensured that she began the journey as safely secured within as possible. Cheveley escorted her to the quarterdeck and they both stood beside the binnacle, Cheveley pointing out various features, the best or perhaps the worst of the Ariadne, no-one could tell, bar himself and Charlotte. However, there could be no criticism of what they stood near. The mahogany of the binnacle gleamed and the brass of the ship’s bell and other fittings shone like gold.

  Next through the entry port came both Admirals, again to the sound of the bosun’s calls. Grant looked for Lady Willoughby, found her, and took himself to her side as escort. Broke strode slowly to the quarterdeck, face as grim as wet granite, eyebrows practically meeting above his sharp nose, hands clasped behind his back, carefully examining all the detail within his view.

  For a while nothing happened, bar the chair arriving to the deck, but empty. His Excellency was coming aboard using the ladder. Argent felt a pang of apprehension, this important Spaniard was not a young man, he should have used the chair, but Spanish pride would not allow. Argent stared through the port and the first evidence that he saw of what was afoot was the brown and scarred hands of Whiting and Jones grasping the hand ropes for their own support, because for security they were placing themselves halfway up the ladder to render any assistance necessary. Not so close as to make themselves appear vital for the ascent of a Naval Eminence, but close enough to provide immediate aid should the need arise. High Admiral Joaquim Don Alaves D’Sentillo arrived breathless on the deck, but beaming with pleasure. From what, could not be discerned, possibly from his success at ascending the ladder as an active Officer, or simply to be on the deck of a good frigate, Spanish built. Whichever, he stood looking around and up, deep in thought, evident pleasure spread wide across his face. The two Equerries quickly followed and Argent introduced Fentiman, which ended at least one worry, that of Argent accurately remembering the Admiral’s full name. He then took His Excellency to be introduced to the remaining Officers and he seemed both surprised and pleased at the presence of both Bright and Ffynes, mere teenagers beginning their career in the Royal Navy, both in the plain, but honest, uniform of a Midshipman.

  The party assembled and Argent took this as the time to begin the inspection. He looked at Broke.

  “Sir. Where would you like this to begin?”

  Broke was in ill temper and his impatience added venom to his tone.

  “This is your affair, Argent. Take us where you will.”

  “I thought first, the Marines.”

  Broke did no more than lift his hand and extend his fingers, these carrying many rings, Argent noticed for the first time, as they flashed in the sun. He led the party forward to the starboard gangway. Strictly speaking, this was Argent’s inspection and so it was he that had to lead the way to inspect for himself, but His Excellency was close by his shoulder. Ramsey immediately discerned their approach to his own command. He called his men, already at attention, to present arms. The Naval pattern “Brown Besses” came off all shoulders to ‘the present” as one, followed by the left foot forward, with the same precision. The attached bayonets, all remaining erect and parallel, reflected the high sun and the brass trigger guards shone bright, as did the ramrod guides. Ramsey’s sword came to the present and all was immediately statue still. Argent walked down the parade, but taking his pace only from His Excellency, who looked up into each blank face before examining the weapon, then the uniform. He was impressed, but he had seen Marines on the day of the contest. They progressed up to the forecastle, where were lined up the topmen, the elite sailors of the ship. They were in divisions by mast: foremast, main, and mizzen, Captains of the “Tops” in front, which placed Whiting in advance of his men. The four involved in the “coming aboard” had run quickly to their places with all guests now safely on deck.

  The topmen were the cockscombs of the crew, both athletic and capable, and they took pains to show it; their uniform was a variety of nautical finery. Apart from the standard tarred hats, black shoes with brass buckles and white duck trousers, there were a variety of shirts, shoulder cloths, and neckties, in addition to the multiplicity of earrings and pigtail ribbons. All were spotless and with neither a crease nor a wrinkle; each man stock still, staring ahead. Behind them were the guncrews of the two forecastle carronades, not outdone in finery, at attention besides their stubby black weapons. Whilst His Excellency looked admiringly at the topmen, Admiral Broke, with Cheveley, left the party and took themselves behind the ranks of sailors, to examine the deck, the carronades, and all nooks and corners. They returned with set faces, Broke’s countenance even blacker.

  However, His Excellency had now noticed the guns on the forecastle, these with their unique stubby barrels, on wheeless slides, and with their large 24lb cannonballs, shiny black, in the garlands nearby. He also, followed by his Equerries, took himself behind the paraded topmen and began to examine the guns. Fentiman quickly took himself to the Admiral’s side to answer the inevitable questions and meanwhile the rest of the party waited his convenience, save Broke and Cheveley, the latter escorting Charlotte. These three progressed on to the foc’s’lmen, paraded on the larboard gangway, these being the oldest men amongst the crew, mostly around their fiftieth year or more and now too elderly to work aloft, so they worked the deck, wherever and whatever. 30 stood paraded, and if their time aboard ships were totaled, between them would be almost 1000 years of seagoing experience. Almost all were once topmen and had lost none of their ability to show themselves as once such, but now, at least, they counted themselves as good able seamen. They, too, stood flawless, awaiting the inspection party. Broke halted before one of them, seemingly the eldest, and Broke looked aggressively up into his face. Charlotte looked concerned, but Cheveley stood waiting, as though something was coming that he had long been anticipating. The chosen sailor stared over the Admiral’s left shoulder.

  “Name?”

  “Eli Reece, Sir”

  “Service?”

  Reece looked blank, there came a silence that would soon become offensive to any Admiral, least of all Broke. However, the next to Reece saved his back by speaking from the side of his mouth.

  “Your ships.”

  “Oh, beg pardon, Sir. I joined in ’65,
a ship’s boy, the Merchant Marine. I was in the slave trade for nigh on twenty years, until I was pressed out and put aboard the Antigone and then the Euryalus, Sir. Then on the Glatton at Copenhagen, Sir, Captain Bligh, the one off the ……..”