A Question of Duty

by Martin McDowell

  “That’s the third time my crew haven’t let me down.”

  She looked puzzled, but didn’t press it further. She had a topic of her own.

  “So that’s your Mrs. McArdle? And your own qualified Surgeon deferred so readily?

  “Yes. Smallpiece is the best I’ve seen with saws and knives and whatever. However, he’s a Surgeon; his knowledge of medicines is necessarily limited, whilst Mrs. McArdle has a lifetime of “home grown” remedies, as I said before in the coach, when we first met. Almost always they work, and so Smallpiece is happy to defer. With such medical concerns the crew trust her more than him. Pierce’s eye will be cured and that will further confirm, and enhance, her status amongst the men.”

  They had reached the end of the gundeck; behind them was the commotion of the men falling out from their places, before them was the door to the corridor that ended at his greatcabin. At the door stood the Marine Sentry, who came to an immediate “present arms”. He allowed Charlotte through first and they entered the wide space that was both his office and quarters. The Spanish made a beeline for Charlotte and Argent bowed as they parted, he had a concern of his own, Grant’s verdict on Pierce. He gave that priority and went towards Grant, him in heated argument with Broke and Cheveley, both these with faces aflame. At the moment that Argent approached, it was Grant that held the floor.

  “Dammit, Broke, let it fall. If you can’t judge what’s to be seen on this ship, I can. You won’t see better on a Flagship. And as for the man, well, the Surgeon fetched a piece of the ship’s side out of his eye. To end this with a flogging ………ah.”

  He had noticed Argent

  “Captain Argent. Your Surgeon confirms that your man has an infection and that a splinter caused it?”

  “Yes Sir. Yes to both, it was a splinter, almost certainly obtained during our combat with La Mouette.”

  Grant nodded, then he looked impatiently at Broke and Cheveley.

  “A splinter! That fact has not been relayed to me. In action, you say?”

  “Yes. Sir.”

  Grant paused.

  “No matter, it confirms my own thoughts. And this man has no past record of indiscipline?”

  “None Sir, and he’s a volunteer.”

  Grant turned to look directly at Broke and Cheveley. The first two sentences were spoken with great care.

  “This is my verdict. He will not be punished. To flog a man for that, would be the same as punishing a man who had lost half his leg in action, punishing him for cutting capers as he clumped his way down the deck, stump still bandaged! Or failing to make his proper respects whilst holding himself up on crutches.”

  Broke and Cheveley looked as though they would argue more, but Grant held up his hand.

  “No more! This is done, and what’s worse, it could embarrass us before our guests. That I’ll not have. It’s done!”

  The last was spoken with a tone of such weight that any further argument was out of the question. Also Grant was more than worried by the evil mood showing on both Broke and Cheveley’s faces.

  “Now, if you two wish to take your leave before the rest of us, please feel free.”

  He turned to Argent.

  “Would that be possible?”

  “Yes, Sir. I will make it so.”

  Argent now looked at both. If each was capable of speech, they made no use of it, therefore Argent took their silence to mean that they wished to go. He motioned for Johnson (or Jeremiah?) to come to him.

  “Go to the Officer of the Watch. Tell him that two Officers wish to leave immediately. They will be at the entry port directly. Go now.”

  The Lascar saluted and hurried off. Argent looked at Broke and Cheveley, then he spoke, his words, clear, level, and formal.

  “Gentlemen, if you would care to take yourselves to the entry port, your wishes will be fulfilled directly.”

  He formally saluted Broke. Both took themselves out of the cabin without a word. Grant looked at Argent and he sighed and smiled.

  “A good inspection Argent. I’ve seen nothing wrong with this command of yours. Broke spoke earlier of the lack of shine on that which could. No surprise there, but I told him, if you don’t know what you have seen here today, then you should; here is a ship ready to fight. Ready for that, nothing more, in fact, in my opinion, there is nothing more!”

  Grant leaned forward and swung his glass around to place it close to Argent’s chest, his protruding index finger touching the left lapel.

  “In addition, His Excellency gives his compliments. He said, “Buque apretado”. I think it translates into “tight ship”.

  oOo

  Chapter Three

  Affairs Ashore

  The crew of the Captain’s barge were all assembled on or above the foretop, all stood erect on the small platform, but holding tight to any convenient shroud or lift, for they were 40 feet above the deck and they were all giving deep consideration to the mid point of the spar that normally held their foretopsail. The spar had been lowered down on its lifts, down to rest on the small expanse of planking. All there assembled, at various times and from different angles, looked from the spars’ midpoint to the other point of deep concern, another 20 feet above, where the spar usually met the foremast. There above them and clinging to the foremast shrouds were two more of their select crew. They had all been sent aloft by Boson Fraser to check on the robbands, the loops of rope that held the canvas onto the spar’s stout round timber, but the job had taken a turn for the worst. All stood, making close examination, faces screwed in decision, swaying with the movement of the mast that they were all perched upon. Gabriel Whiting drew his gaze away from the point of contention, to look up to the two men above him.

  “Silas. How far through?”

  Silas Beddows, Foretopman and Stroke of the Captain’s barge, swung around to examine the front of the foretopmast.

  “Nearly through, Gab. I can just about make out the woodwork.”

  Whiting clenched his teeth and took a deep intake of breath. This job was turning out not good, certainly worse than he had expected and it worsened yet more, for at that moment a fierce face appeared over the edge of the foretop. His feet were on the futtock shrouds, this being the ladder of ropes beneath the foretop, his hands were on the shrouds extending up to the mast above, his chest against the platform edge, but his face and voice through a square of shroud rope told that he was none too happy.

  “And what the ‘ells ‘appenin’ up yer? You shirkers ‘avin a make and mend? Jobs not done, why?”

  Whiting looked down at George Fraser, Bosun, who had, thankfully, come no further. He was precariously perched, but this state of peril never entered his mind, for to himself he felt as safe as though he were in some armchair in his favourite public house.

  “It’s the frapping, Bosun. Worn through on both, the spar and the mast. We can’t send it back up, we reckon it’s got to be changed.”

  Surprisingly, Fraser’s annoyance did not grow, instead his face became calm and concerned. He completed his journey up and took himself to the front of the foretop where the spar was lashed secure. He peered over to view the coils of thick rope that were wound around the spar to stop it chafing on the wood of its mast. The whole smelt of the galley, it often having being lubricated by fat left over from Mortimor’s efforts with the pots and cauldrons. The rope was almost worn through, barely a few shreds left. He looked up to Beddows.

  “Be you sayin’ that ‘tis nearly worn through up by you, an all?”

  Beddows hung out from the shrouds to the mast and fingered the equally shrivelled coils around it. He could feel where there was very little left.

  “’Sright, Bosun. Wood’s showin’”

  Fraser copied Whitings expression earlier, then he made his decision.

  “Right, ‘t’as got to be changed. King, follow I down. I’ll give you the new. The rest of you, get on with it.”

  All drew their knives. It was a long job. The rope could be not simply be unwound, t
he months, years, of galley slush had hardened like tar. Each coil would have to be cut away, but at least, stood on the foretop the job was easier, far easier than the task that now faced Beddows and Abel Jones, now together attempting this job above. Their only access point was from the swaying rope ladder that was the topmast shrouds and that was too far over for such work. Two bosun’s chairs had to be constructed first, these to enable them to hang down to the required level. However, all involved began; the job was defined and set on; discussion of it ended. After a period of silence the topic arose which had been the cause of discussion in their messes earlier, but not, so far, thoroughly aired. The topic was the £50, donated by Admiral Grant. Sam Fenwick spoke first and all knew what he was talking about.

  “Well, I think it should be spread out, in coin. For us to decide what ‘tis to be spent on. ‘Tis our money, we won it.”

  Whilst yanking off a whole coil, Whiting gave his opinion.

  “If ‘twere spread, what would it be, a few pence in coin? What the Captain’s decided to do makes good sense to I. A fine spread of decent beef an’ greens, along with beer, apples or whatnot, and fresh soft tommy; that suits me just as well; better. You couldn’t buy that with the few pence we’d get. Our Purser will get a good bargain for us with that £50, flinty sod that he is, and that’s something better on top. When was the last decent pint you had? What d’you think, Mose?”

  King had returned with the new rope.

  “Well, I don’t worry too much, but I’ll say that I’m all for a good feed. What’s more, it sends me a signal, bein’ that during repairs we’n stayin’ aboard. When I was in the Afterguard of my first ship, the Sirius, we had a refit and the whole crew was marched off the ship to barracks, guarded by Marines, like we was bloody felons. They was too worried about desertions. This tells me that we’n stayin aboard, even though the repairs is but small. Better than a week in some evil barrackroom.”

  Whiting looked up at the two above, swinging on bosun’s chairs, sawing away at the heavier mast frapping with their own knives.

  “What’s your verdict up there? Feed or coin?”

  The answer came back, in unison.

  “Feed!”

  “There, Sam, you’m outvoted.”

  Far below and at the opposite end of the ship, Argent sat in his greatcabin, a spread of papers around him. The compass repeater in the ceiling above him told of their course, steady now for some hours, West South West, a direct course from Plymouth to Falmouth. His orders rested on the desk just above his right hand, “proceed to Falmouth for re-supply and repairs. Report to Commodore Budgen”, signed Admiral Broke. The day after the inspection, Captain Baker had handed him the heavy paper, closed by thick red wax containing a huge seal. Baker had wasted little time and had caused himself to be rowed out early in the day.

  “Here are your orders, Captain. It seems that our Port Admiral can’t wait to see the back of you. You are to sail to Falmouth, directly.”

  Argent had taken the papers and then offered his hand.

  “Thank you, Captain Baker. I never got the chance to thank you properly for coming out and warning my crew about the inspection. We are very much in your debt.”

  “No thanks required. Fair’s fair, is all I can say, and on top, we can’t have The Service let down before a few visiting Dons. Jobs done well, I’d say. Good luck to you, Sir.”

  “And good luck to you, Captain Baker.”

  Argent had watched the boat row off and he gave a wave, before giving his orders to weigh anchor and leave. Now they were but an hour’s sailing from Falmouth. A good stiff Southerly was now meeting her just off her best point of sailing, two points large, a “beam on” wind. A Westerly out of the harbour had caused them to make one run South out of Plymouth, but the wind then changed perfectly to South to be gratefully picked up for one run across to Falmouth.

  Fentiman sat opposite. He’d come down to finalise their re-supply and minor re-fit. That done, they were sharing a glass of madeira. Argent spoke first.

  “Can’t say I’m sorry, Henry, to be quit of the last few days. High drama don’t describe the half of it. Was it not all somewhat fraught? That’s how I see it, not even a peaceful meal ashore! Still, we’ve emerged the other side, and with some credit. I think that can be spoken.”

  Fentiman took the final drop from his glass.

  “Yes Sir, I would agree, but we’ve gained a few antagonists also, if that’s the correct word, but that’s The Service. Not all of us are the best of shipmates.”

  Argent smiled.

  “No indeed, and more’s the pity, but, deep rivalry between ships has always been with us, and to the good, I feel, in the main.”

  He took a last look at the list of supplies.

  “Oh, good, you’ve included grate blacking. A full supply, and more. Mortimor’s been giving us nothing but quotes about thieves and vagabonds since our guests went over the side. He does require to be mollified in some way.”

  He held up the list for closer examination.

  “I hope this does it, more than he lost, or should I say was relieved of?”

  Both laughed and were still smiling when Midshipman Bright knocked and entered.

  “Beg Pardon, Sir, but the Officer of the Watch, Lieutenant Bentley, asks that you be told, Sir, that Falmouth is up on the starboard bow.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bright. Inform him that I will be there directly.”

  He stood and put on his coat, the one, of the two he possessed, that he called “his undress”, this being faded from several soakings in salt water and patched from wear and rough contact with unforgiving projections. Up on deck, all was in order in the bright afternoon sun. Two Master’s Mates were throwing the log and McArdle was studying the passing coastline. Their ship rose and fell in the easy swell as she coasted along under plain sail; driver, main sail, foresail, maintopsail and outer and flying jibs. All was easy on a ship at ease with itself.

  Argent saw the mainsail go limp, then fill again. He looked first for a change in the wind’s direction and saw none, still steady South East; so the wind must have dropped, but not significantly, it would seem from the streaming pennant, up at mast height. He looked for a Bosun’s Mate and saw Henry Ball.

  “Mr Ball. Set foretopsail.”

  Henry Ball looked back in consternation.

  “Beg pardon, Sir. But we’ve had to change the frapping on the foretopsail spar. ‘Tain’t yet finished, Sir.”

  “Very well, fore and main topgallants, then.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  First Bosun’s Mate Ball hurried off forward. What to do? The foretopmen were still about their work, it was courting disaster to ask them to leave all unsecured whilst they set new sail above the point where they were working. He did what was very rarely done. “Mainmast topmen. Set the foretopgallant.”

  This allowed mainmast sailors into the preserve of the foremast. They swarmed eagerly up the foremast shrouds to set the sail as ordered and to exchange looks of pure hatred from Whiting and his cronies as they climbed up, past and above them. There was some ascerbic conversation between them and it frequently included descriptive words such as “slabsided waisters”, “pikehands”, and “grasscombing”. There was also some comment about the “bloody state of this running rigging.” However, the foretopgallant was soon set and the foretopmen then had their preserve back solely for themselves, their adversaries now ascending their own shrouds to set their own topgallant. The new frapping was soon finished and buckets of slush collected from Bible Mortimor, Moses King’s arrival being accompanied by “Evil pursueth sinners. Proverbs 13, Verse 21”, but King knew enough not to accept such, without some form of retort.

  “What you mouthin’ off at me for? I’m a topman. ‘Tweren’t I as stole your bloody blackin’. Buggery to you!”.

  Soon the lifts took the spar back up to its rightful place and all was shipshape for entering harbour. The foretopgallant was immediately took in, pronounced as “lubbers work” a
nyway, and replaced by the sail below, the foretopsail. Thus, on all lower sails and the maintopgallant, Ariadne glided up to the bar of Falmouth Harbour, but soon Argent ordered a shortening of sail down to just foretopsail, maincourse and driver. Argent took in the whole picture, not just the wind, the sails, and the “lie of the land”, but the tide also. He had divined for himself that it was still “on the make”, not far off high tide, the best of situations, but nevertheless he called again upon the time of Henry Ball.

  “Mr. Ball, we’ll have a leadsman, if you please.”

  Argent wanted the depth beneath the keel checked as they eased their way in. Henry Ball ran to find a foc’s’lman who would be best for such a task and found Eli Reece.

  “Eli, get on the lead, quick as you like”

  Reece nodded and shambled to the locker that contained the lead and line. He pulled out the lead and checked the tallow in the cavity at the bottom. There wasn’t enough and so he added some more. Soon he was by the starboard cathead and casting the line to find the depth, then his monotonous call echoed back through the ship.

  “By the mark, 12, plus half. Coarse sand, some shale.”

  He cleaned the tallow, which had told of the condition of the seabed and re-cast.

  Falmouth was one of the finest natural harbours along the South coast. An easy entrance stretched between Pendennis Castle and St. Anthony’s Head, then, to the West of the entrance, the deep anchorage of Carrick Roads. Coming from the East, Argent had to do little more than sail straight in.

  “Down helm. Steer West Nor’west.”

  The answer came, calm and obedient.

  “Down helm. Steer West Nor’west, aye aye, Sir.”

  “Mr. Sanders, you have the deck.”

  Argent had passed the sail trimming to Sanders as Ariadne made the small adjustment to her course. Sanders grinned a reply and first gave orders for the driver to be let further out to starboard, then he called for the squaresails to be trimmed as Ariadne turned more into the wind, but the latter call was unnecessary, the hands were already at the sheets and braces. All done, Sanders then stood at the taffrail, looking smug and satisfied, checking the canvas for false movement.