A Question of Duty Read online

  All looked puzzled, but this was the Captain.

  The starboard Gun Captain spoke his thoughts.

  “Bar shot when the range falls, Sir?”

  “She won’t come within range of bar before we turn. Keep on with solid, and do what damage you can.”

  The puzzlement remained, but all raised a knuckle to their forehead to make their respects. Both Gun Captains, in unison, gave the answer for them all.

  “Aye aye Sir.”

  Argent had one more order.

  “And when it comes to broadsides, you’re of no use here. I want you at the main battery, tailing on and helping where you can. Clear?”

  Again from both Gun Captains.

  “Aye aye, Sir.”

  Argent turned to view the long sweep of the now cleared gundeck. The 16 guns down each side, all 18 pounders of long Navy pattern, gave the Ariadne her class, a 32 gun frigate, 6th rate. The two sternchasers, plus two 24-pound stubby carronades on the Forecastle, and two of the same on the Quarterdeck completed her armament. Within his sight, through the subdued light from the battle lanterns, the last preparations were being made. The decks had been wetted and sanded, arms chests in place, drinking water alongside. The great guns had long since been cast loose and run back, their muzzles now awaiting their charges. Gun Captains stood behind each gun, checking their flints, quills and powder horns, whilst their Seconds checked the two cartridges in the saltbox by each gun. The crews examined shot for spherical, hammering off any flakes of rust.

  Argent felt the need to tour the gundeck, to go up one side and back down the other; this would be their first action. He exchanged no words, other than to acknowledge the respect of each gun crew, them knuckling their forehead and speaking the single word “Captain”.

  Argent met the gaze of each Gun Captain, then simply spoke his name and nodded his head in greeting. Thus it went, a grave exchange down the line of black malignant shapes, with their now patient crews; East, Morrel, Simmonds, Baker, Fletcher, and so on. Samuel Morris, Gun Captain of No. 3, Starboard Battery, paid his respects as his Captain passed by and spoke his name. With Argent now passed on, two of his crew spoke almost in unison, fear plain in both their voices and faces. These being Matthew Wilmott and Thomas Bearman, both press-ganged, but the latter taken out of a merchantman.

  “What’ll it be like, Sam?”

  “Not no different from gundrill; much. All noise and smoke, with things leapin’ about, till some of theirs comes inboard and then things gets a mite shameful. All you has to do is look lively and get this gun reloaded. The more we sends their way, the less they sends back to us. So, you follows orders and does what’s needed, quick as lightnin’. Quicker would be better.”

  He resumed checking the flint on the gun’s firelock. Bearman and Wilmott exchanged glances, not reassured. The two sternchasers began to answer the enemy closing astern, and at their sound, Wilmott placed his hands on the gun to steady himself, a yellow pool growing around his left foot.

  Captain Argent took himself back to his quarterdeck and took his Dolland glass from the Marine Sergeant stood by the wheel. Again he studied his opponent. It was impossible to tell for certain but now he guessed that he was faced with a large frigate, probably a 42, but there could be no confirmation whilst she remained bows on. Two more puffs of smoke, a double report, and then the double fall of shot, one of them level with the stern taffrail but off to windward.

  “All hands to wear ship! Starboard tack. Stunsails in. Helmsmen, when we draw, come up to due West.”

  The nearest gave the answer.

  “Due West. Aye aye Sir.”

  However, one of them mumbled under his breath.

  “When we draw! As if I didn’t bloody know.”

  The orders were repeated along the deck and, once again, the hands climbed the ratlines to alter the sails, Argent was taking the ship across the wind. From taking the wind fine on the larboard quarter, she would move her stern around, to then take it over the starboard quarter, which required a major change in the angle of the sails. Whilst Fentiman hurried to the Quarterdeck rail to oversee the order being carried out, Argent hurried forward himself along the Larboard gangway to find the unmistakable figure of Ship’s Bosun, George Fraser.

  “Mr. Fraser!”

  Fraser stopped and looked up amidst all the hurly burly of men running up from the gundeck and the already squealing blocks on the spars. His “Sir”, was lost in the noise, but he had the sense to run back to meet his Captain.

  “Sir.”

  “Cut loose our sea anchors Mr Fraser. Their business is done. Our Frenchman now has a full enough appreciation of us being a poor sailer.”

  Fraser’s teeth showed in a broad grin within the leathern face as he knuckled his forehead and sped off, gaining an axe on the way. With great relish he chopped through the thick rope holding both clusters of barrels to watch them disappear in an instant. Fraser was certain that he felt the ship jump forward.

  The sails had to be turned to meet the wind coming from the opposite side, a complex task involving all the important ropes, the running rigging: braces to the yardarms, and sheets to the sail corners. When the stunsails came in and the starboard braces were slackened to allow their yardarms to angle forward to the bows, the helmsmen made their turn. The hands were waiting on the larboard braces and began to haul back the yards on that side. The big mizzen driver swung over the quarterdeck and the ship heeled to larboard as the wind hit the canvas that was being swung around to meet it. The topmen came down alongside the lowered stunsails and all the crew took into their hands their allotted sheets and braces to now trim the sails to properly gather the wind from the new direction. Soon all ropes were coiled and neat. The whole had taken mere minutes.

  Argent had ignored all that went on, he continued to study the Frenchman. She had pressed on South South West, perhaps taken by surprise. He could now see her side, she was indeed a 42. A broadside erupted from her, but to no effect, the shot fell short, someway off the starboard quarter. For some two minutes she made no response to the Ariadne’s change of course, then her ratlines turned black with men as they raced to take in her own stunsails and trim their sails to make a course to follow that of Ariadne, whose smooth turn still showed on the intervening sea. Argent smiled as the minutes ticked by before the Frenchman achieved the required new course, Ariadne had gained almost a quarter of a mile. His crew were better.

  oOo

  Argent turned to the Duty Midshipman, in this case the only one remaining, The Honourable Jonathan Ffynes.

  “Mr Ffynes.”

  “Sir.”

  “My compliments to Mr Fraser. Ask for his presence with me, here on the Quarterdeck. And when you’ve done that, my same to Mr Short. I’d be obliged if he’d take the wheel.”

  Ffynes began a run along to the starboard gangway to the Forecastle, but was immediately stopped by his Captain’s arresting hand.

  “Don’t run, Mr Ffynes, it gives the men a poor impression. A purposeful walk will perfectly suffice.”

  “Yes, Sir. Aye Sir.”

  Bosun Fraser duly appeared.

  “Sir?”

  “Mr Fraser, we will progressively up helm. I’m going to take her as close to the wind as she’ll lie. Let’s see how far Mr Frenchmen can sail into the wind, because I think we can best him. Constant trimming is the answer. I count on you and your Mates to do a better job than that crew of Johnnies lubbering about over there.”

  Bosun Fraser rose to his full height, which brought him to Argent’s chin. His expression deadly serious, he gave a full salute.

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  “And Mr Fraser.”

  “Sir?”

  “Have the remaining jibs and the lower staysails standing by, they may be needed. Check all forestays and add another preventer stay to the foremast.”

  The last caused the good Fraser some puzzlement.

  “Extra preventer stay. Aye aye, Sir.”

  Argent gave Fraser time
to gather his Mates and allocate men to the many stations that held the anchor points of the sheets and braces. Then he began the contest.

  “Up helm. Come to Nor’west by West.”

  Quartermaster Short, now at his place, repeated the new course.

  “Nor’west by West. Aye aye, Sir.”

  The bowsprit swung across the horizon as the ship answered the changing helm, moving her further into the wind, but just astern of beam on. Fraser saw the movement and called his orders. The wind was now hitting the ship almost directly onto her side, but the sheets and braces that controlled the angle of the yards and sails had been already loosened to make the adjustments needed. All was quickly done. The speed of the ship remained unaltered.

  “Mr. McArdle. Throw the log.”

  Argent studied their opponent. She came up onto the new course competently enough, but the sail handling was neither quick nor smooth. Her mainmast set were slow to adjust, the sail edges shivering as the wind met the wrong side.

  “Steady on that course, Mr Short.”

  “Nor’west by West. Aye aye, Sir.”

  Argent waited the few remaining seconds whilst the log was recorded. McArdle delivered the result.

  “12 knots and a half. Sir.”

  Argent walked to the taffrail, without his glass. The Frenchman had held the distance, or perhaps she had surrendered a little more, but nothing of note. He allowed some time for the deck to become ordered from the recent changes.

  “Up helm. Come to Nor’nor’west.”

  The helmsmen eased over the spokes.

  “Nor’nor’west. Aye aye, Sir.”

  Again the bowsprit swung Northward, and Fraser set the men to their tasks. Ariadne was now “close hauled”; sailing as much against the wind as mariners considered a standard, and possible, course. Argent looked back to the Frenchman. No change of distance, this time she showed good sail handling. It was now down to the qualities of the two vessels. He looked along the deck to his own crew. Adjustments were constant; the men, not just the Bosun and his Mates, were looking up to make their own judgment, pointing out their concerns and anticipating orders, then gathering around the required sheet or brace.

  Argent waited a quarter of a glass. The sand ran through.

  “Mr. McArdle. The log again, if you please.”

  He then went to the taffrail.

  “Mr. Fraser. Ready all staysails.”

  Fraser saluted and made off, yelling in all directions.

  McArdle had been waiting patiently until his Captain chose to give him his attention. He was reserving final judgment of his new Captain, but so far he was pleased with what he saw. Argent turned towards him to hear his report.

  “11 knots, Sir. Plus a half.”

  Argent nodded.

  “Thank you, Mr. McArdle.”

  Argent placed both hands on the Quarterdeck rail, watching preparations. He saw that all was ready. He spied Fraser and bellowed in his direction.

  “Set staysails. Take in mizzentopsail, maincourse and topsail. Forecourse and foretopsail. All below topgallants!”

  Again he observed a highly animated Bosun, eager about his duties. He turned to the helmsmen.

  “Mr Short. Come up another point.”

  “North by West. Aye aye Sir.”

  Ariadne’s canvas was quickly changed and the larger, lower squaresails, rapidly disappeared. They would steal wind from the fore and aft staysails that were now needed and, quickly set, these began to draw strongly. The staysails ran down the line of the ship, not across it, as did the square sails on the spars of the masts and the wind hit the taut staysails full on. Fraser had the crew strain the yards of the remaining square topgallants and royals around their full extent and they continued to draw the wind. Argent put his glass to his eye, as did all other Officers possessed of the same. The Frenchman had copied the Ariadne, not as fast, but the fore and aft staysails that matched Ariadne’s were now set and she was coming onto their course. One minute passed, then two, then her remaining square sails began to shiver, then the wind caught the wrong side of the maintopgllant, putting it aback and working against the other sails. The Frenchman’s bow swung back over, to regain the wind or risk losing sails or even masts. She lost some distance whilst the sails were reset, then she tried again but with the same result.

  She could not follow the Ariadne’s course so far into the wind, she had to turn off to regain it. Why was impossible to say; hull design, the rake of the masts, how stiff each ship was with the wind pressing full from the side, sail trim; all could contribute. She could try on staysails alone, but, without the squaresails that Ariadne continued to carry, she would fall behind. The race was lost; not only was the Frenchman slower, but the distance between them was growing because of their divergent courses. Ariadne pulled away and Argent watched and waited for what he knew would come. They were drawing the Frenchman North to the English coast, on a chase she was unlikely to win, and soon it came. The Frenchman put her helm down and wore around to run South East towards her own waters. Argent closed his glass with a satisfactory snap.

  “Congratulations, Gentlemen. We’ve won the weather gauge. Stand by to tack ship. We’re going after her. Midshipman!”

  Berry jumped to attention.

  “My compliments to Mr Fraser. I would appreciate his attendance here. ”

  As Berry ran off, Argent turned to Lieutenant Bentley.

  “Mr. Bentley. Please to send the ship’s boats out astern.”

  oOo

  The French ship was practically hove to, moving slowly South East, on topsails alone, all lower sails being furled up for the impending action. Her Captain was offering combat, this British frigate may be handy off the wind, and sharp with her sail handling, but five extra guns either side would count for something. To continue to run before this lesser vessel was out of the question. She was ready, guns run out.

  Argent studied his opponent. French built, the classic high taffrail at the stern, slightly higher out of the water. She was a 42, but she had more lighter guns along her quarterdeck than he. Comparing their numbers of 18 pound guns, they were not so different, unless hers were 24’s! He issued his orders to his Master Gunner, Joshua Tucker and Lieutenant Bentley, his Gunnery Officer

  “Mr. Tucker, I want six chainshot issued to the starboard battery, each gun double shotted for three rounds. Larboard battery ready loaded, double solid shot. Mr. Bentley, when the guns are loaded, Larboard Watch on deck for sail handling. Starboard Watch remain at the guns. Make it so.”

  From both in unison, “Aye aye, Sir.”

  Bentley remained, but Tucker rumbled off, each side of his square frame moving forward to extend further his stubby legs. Each step of the companionway down to the gundeck was a significant descent. He was amongst the smallest in the crew.

  Argent took a last look through his glass.

  “Mr. Fentiman. Beat to Quarters.”

  Fentiman strode to the rail and leaned over to the waiting Marine Drummer. He yelled the repeat at the top of his voice. Most heard and responded before the drummer had lifted his sticks. The crew ran to their posts; guncrews, Officers, and topmen; these latter, the elite seamen, would be needed to alter the sails as the action may require. The three Midshipmen ran to their positions, each to command their section of guns; on the starboard side Fynes 1 to 8; Berry, 9 to 16. On the larboard side. Bright commanded 1 to 8, Bentley, the Gunnery Officer, 9 to 16. Ffynes and Berry arrived at their posts, but their anxiety grew with the lack of activity, they were merely required to watch the guns being loaded, a practice that the gun crews probably knew more about than they did. Ffynes, doing his best to sound warriorlike and inspirational, felt the need to encourage his men.

  “Gun Captains. You know your orders.”

  One replied.

  “Yes, Sir. Very clear, Sir.”

  “Now men, we’re going to pay them out. Show them what it means to tangle with a ship of His Majesty’s Navy.”

  Sam Morris, him th
at had replied, looked up from priming the flintlock. He made no effort to keep the indulgent tone from his voice.

  “Yes Sir. Make ‘em sorry they saw the sun rise this mornin’. Sir.”

  Ffynes took this as an encouraging response, his nervousness causing him to miss the ironic edge to Morris’ voice, which most would recognise as showing anything but heightened battle fervour.

  “Yes, yes, Morris. That’s right. That’s the spirit.”

  Morris himself grinned down the barrel of his gun and caught the eye of Joe Dedman, his Second. A veteran like himself, Dedman was sending the last ball of the last chainshot into the muzzle of the gun. This was nothing new to either, Dedman had been serving guns since he came onto his first ship as a Ship’s Boy and was then required to be a Powder Monkey when the guns were in action.

  The distance was closing rapidly, Ariadne was holding due South, moving at twice the speed of her opponent and coming up far astern of her, almost at right angles to the Frenchman’s course. The Frenchman was content to let her come on, anticipating that Ariadne would turn sharp to larboard, then sail up from astern to trade broadsides. Argent stood his Quarterdeck, as was his place. All was calm, the ship’s routine uninterrupted, a Master’s Mate came forward at the urging of the emptying hourglass to ring the bell. The last grains fell through and he turned the glass and rang the six bells of the afternoon watch. McArdle was at the wheel, on the opposite side to Zachary Short. Lieutenants Fentiman and Sanders attended their Captain; Lieutenant Bentley was now on the gundeck, as was his place. Argent was choosing a long, in fact overlong, wide curve, to sweep up astern of their opponent. He was very far out, an experienced Commander may well have viewed it with suspicion, and judged it as being much further behind his ship than necessary. Sanders had been studying the French stern through this telescope.

  “She’s called “La Mouette”, Sir.”

  “Hmmm. Anyone translate?”

  “It means seagull, Sir.”

  “Thank you Mr. Sanders. Your command of French does you credit, but I trust you’ll desist from any attempt at diverting us with thin humour about trimming feathers.”