A Question of Duty Read online

  “Aye aye, Sir. Just so, Sir.”

  However all grinned just the same, but Fentiman saw an occasion for further jest.

  “Perhaps not feathers, Sir, but maybe we’ll trim her roaming ways instead and she’ll end the day a polly in a cage! But perhaps not so much of a “pretty polly!”

  Chuckles came from across the deck, including the gun crew on the quarterdeck starboard carronade. The tension brought laughter from even humour this thin.

  “Time will tell, Mr. Fentiman, time will tell.”

  Ariadne was on a larboard tack, taking the wind over her larboard quarter, carrying all plain sail, bar highest Royals, far more than La Mouette. Argent judged that Ariadne had sailed up to the Frenchman’s wake far enough; with no change her bows would soon cut through it.

  “Up helm. Steer East South East.”

  “East Sou’ East Sir. Aye aye, Sir.”

  The Ariadne was now close hauled into the wind and she curved round to larboard and, aloft, the topmen trimmed the sails, aided by the Ariadne’s complement of two dozen Marines and the whole Larboard Watch stationed on the upper deck. Ariadne was coming up to engage. Her speed slackened but slightly, which brought her within range of La Mouette’s two stern chasers. Smoke billowed from the guns and the balls had placed a hole in the foresail and parted some rigging before they heard the report, which defiant sound coincided with the dull hiss and buzz of both balls passing on and over. The distance was down to 300 yards, 250, 150, 100, less. La Mouette came up to East South East, to match Ariadne’s course, anticipating to trade broadsides. Perfect! Argent chose his moment.

  “Up helm. Fire as you bear.”

  The four helmsmen hauled on the spokes and the Ariadne turned fiercely into the wind, sails flapping as they lost its power. Fraser took his cue; he had every spare man grouped around the foremast and mainmast.

  “Cast off fore and main sheets and braces! Haul larboard.”

  Ariadne turned like a Spanish dancer, immediately and fully answering her helm, especially with the big driver hauled back to fully catch the wind and quickly push around her stern. All within Fraser’s command hauled on the larboard sheets and braces to haul the lower sails of the fore and mainmasts around, against and into the wind. The straining seamen stamped their way aft, hauling at their ropes until the sails slapped back against their mast. The forestays and the extra preventer groaned, but vitally held, against the enormous strain of the ship still moving forward into the wind. Ariadne came to a dead stop where Argent wanted, the backed sails working against the mizzen mast’s driver, topsail, and topgallant; a dead stop immediately off La Mouette’s larboard quarter.

  On the gundeck all was quiet, to the crews came only the muffled noise of the stamping feet above and the indignant waves below slapping into Ariadne’s hull as she made her turn into the wind. Each gun was trained as far forward as the gunport would allow, giving them the earliest possible sight of their target. Each man at his place; Officers stood back, Gun Captains crouching down awkwardly to sight along their gunbarrels, hands on the quoin handle should they need to change the elevation, the lanyard to the flintlock hanging slack in their left hands. The No. 2 of each and another guncrewman waited to lift the heavy gun casable with the thick wooden handspikes, this bulbous at the rear, and resting on the quoin. All guncrews had their ears covered, to at least deaden the forthcoming noise. All was silent, tense, and still; as their ship came up into the wind, swinging round, and they waited to see their target through their gunports. The gunners of La Mouette remained viewing nothing but the empty ocean, they had been expecting the Britisher to come up, but she didn’t arrive. The keyed up Ffynes couldn’t cope with the unbearable tension.

  “Remember men, mizzen and foremast first. Main if you have time.”

  Morris, as tense as anyone, anxious that the first shot should tell, mumbled, but still loud enough for most to hear.

  “Why dohn ‘ee shut up!”

  However, by good fortune for Morris, this was drowned by the noise of the first gun being discharged. Morris saw the big driver of La Mouette and made no change, his anticipation of the elevation had been perfect, his gun was moving exactly onto the Frenchman’s mizzentopsail. He allowed for the delay before the barrel came onto the target, then pulled the lanyard. The flintlock sparked and the gun leaped in after a fearsome crash, a plume of smoke issuing upwards from the touchhole. All other guns back down astern began firing as they came onto target. Morris sprang forward to recharge the flintlock, his crew the same to reload the gun. There was not a wasted movement as the gun was made ready and run out again. Morris took his sight, called for his adjustments from his crew, and again the evil roar and the gun springing back on its squealing truck.

  Argent was in the Mizzen top above the smoke, steadying himself on the rigging with one hand, a speaking trumpet in the other and his feet on the edge of the small platform. The rigging of La Mouette seemed alive from an invisible malignant hand. The shrouds, stays, and braces of her Mizzen mast jerked and twitched, her driver soon in rags, this soon made worse as its boom was cut one third down. The furled Mizzen sails above the driver were not spared, shreds of sail soon hanging down besides the limp and severed ropes. There came a pause before the second volley came, ragged, but this caused by each Gun Captain carefully laying his aim. The foremast received the same treatment, but this appeared even worse due to its more complex network of vital rope work. In seconds the foresail exploded into rags, followed by the two jibsails that stretched between the foremast and the bowsprit. The French Captain, was, in less than two minutes, denied the use of all sails on his Mizzen and Foremast.

  Argent brought up his speaking trumpet and pointed it at Bosun Fraser.

  “Out all jibsails. All foresails braced round for the larboard tack.”

  Then to the Quarterdeck.

  “Down helm. Across her stern, Mr. Short.”

  Ariadne’s jibsails, rooted on the bowsprit, appeared in seconds and were drawing in a minute. Facing the wind they quickly pushed her bows over to starboard. The angle was now narrowing for the third discharge, but all guns achieved a shot to inflict similar damage to the mainmast. La Mouette could no longer manoeuvre. Ariadne picked up speed and headed to cross the Frenchman’s stern, at a range of something under 50 yards. On Ariadne’s gundeck, all was shrouded in smoke, but at the third discharge the crews ran across to man the larboard battery. La Mouett’s two stern chasers were the only guns firing as Ariadne closed. A crash came from somewhere forward, followed by screaming, but how many men were down could not be seen in the smoke and gloom. The screams subsided as the wounded were carried down to the Surgeon. Silence again. Bentley took his cue. Excitement hurried his speech, but the crews knew enough, his words were merely a reminder.

  “Rake her down her starboard side, men. Remember, her starboard side. Leave the larboard untouched. Good and careful aim, now.”

  Again the Gun Captains crouched to sight their pieces. They were going to rake the Frenchman from her stern. The predicted gun elevation was obvious; horizontal; the Frenchman’s guns and their crews were on the same level as themselves.

  Argent was shinning down the ratlines to regain his quarterdeck. As he swung under the splinter net rigged over his deck, he heard Fentiman shouting orders for the driver sail to be let out far to starboard to regain the wind. It drew taut quickly and Ariadne picked up speed; the guns would soon bear. Argent looked to the stern of La Mouette, just yards off his larboard bow. The guncrews of the sternchasers were jumping through the windows into the sea, they knew what was coming and they knew that it was a death sentence to remain at their guns. La Mouette’s crew were desperately trying to get some sail onto the Mizzen to swing their stern away from the fearful raking to come. The rudder moved, but not La Mouette.

  As she was, Ariadne was picking up too much speed. Argent wanted to give his crews time for three shots, involving two reloads. He strode to the rail and again raised his speaking trumpet.


  “Mr. Fraser. Start all sheets.”

  Fraser’s men ran to obey what they had all heard. The sheets to the corners of all sails were loosened. The sails hung limp, curling in the wind, but giving no impetus to Ariadne, her own momentum now drifted her past the stern of her helpless opponent. The first gun fired. The double shot crashed through the woodwork below where the greatcabin windows were placed, as ordered, through the two starboard windows. The next gun followed, and the next, their shot entering through the gap. All guns fired, then a short pause before No. 1 repeated their earlier effort, followed by the rest of the battery. They fired once more, the final time, the two larboard great cabin windows were untouched. “Cease fire. Reload,” came up from the now silent gundeck. There was silence everywhere aboard the Ariadne, but they were close enough to hear the result of their gunnery. Screaming came from within La Mouette’s hull. The Ariadnies knew the affect of what had been done; the double shot had raked through the entire length of the ship, overturning guns, smashing men and guncarriages, wreaking havoc down the entire length. Argent broke the spell.

  “Up helm. Bring her onto their broadside.”

  “Up helm. On her broadside. Aye aye Sir.”

  Again through the speaking trumpet.

  “See to your trim, Mr. Fraser. Topsails, fore and main for the larboard tack.”

  Sheets were re-attached and, pushed by the driver and the two biggest sails braced round, Ariadne took herself opposite the wrecked battery of the La Mouette. Those on deck viewed her from over their ship’s gunwale, whilst the guncrews, those that could see, looked through their own gunports. Four of La Mouette’s guns protruded from their gun port, but at odd angles, which told their own story, their carriages obviously wrecked. Argent chose his moment.

  “Back foretopsail, Mr. Fraser. Start topsail.”

  Fraser began the sail handling that would halt the Ariadne, but by a miracle one gun on La Mouette had survived. It discharged with a roar and a cloud of white smoke, its shot smashing the gunwale along the larboard gangway, injuring three men on the foretopsail sheets with splinters. Bentley ran up the companionway from the gundeck.

  “Did anyone see which gun?”

  Sanders answered.

  “Her number three.”

  Bentley disappeared and ran to the bow section.

  “Two, three, four and five. On her number three.”

  The Gun Captains crouched down and motioned left or right to their two crewmates both ready either side of the carriage with their levers. The carriages were crudely levered around and all four Gun Captains raised their arm and called, “Ready.”

  “Fire.”

  The guns discharged and recoiled in. The crews set about an immediate reload as the smoke from the discharge blew back in through the ports.

  Argent looked at the result. The gunport had two wounds, one on either side. The other two must have gone straight in. The gun did not reappear.

  The Tricolour came down. The Captain had a choice; to try to bring guns across from his larboard battery under close enemy fire, or surrender. It would cause a hopeless loss of life. He surrendered. Argent saw the colour come down and turned to his Quarterdeck.

  “Mr. Sanders. As you seem to have some command of French, please to take yourself across and accept their surrender.”

  Sanders grinned from ear to ear.

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  As Sanders hurried off, Argent spoke to the remainder assembled there, traversing his eyes, so that his words would seem directed to all.

  “Well, Gentlemen, I believe tomorrow to be the 1st July and I consider that terminates our patrol.”

  oOo

  Chapter Two.

  By Their Deeds Shalt Thou Know Them.

  “It seems we’ve caused quite a stir. Or are we at the head of some kind of waterborne carnival?”

  Argent sat in the stern of his barge in the company of his First Lieutenant, Jonathan Fentiman. As was his nature, Fentiman reacted easily to any humour, however ironic, and this was no exception, a wide grin spread immediately across his face. Each Officer held their swords stiffly vertical with their left hands, whilst Argent’s right was placed custodially on the two books on the seat beside him, the Ship’s Log and the Ship’s Ledger. Oblivious to the activity within their own boat, each studied the crowd lining the quayside. The noise was growing, sourced from a three deep crowd atop the ancient walls; high enthusiasm highly apparent, clapping and cheering, all accompanied with the energetic waving of hats and handkerchiefs. Argent angled his head around to his helmsman above and behind.

  “Whiting. Steer for the steps below The Tower.”

  “Aye aye, Sir.”

  Gabriel Whiting, Captain of the Foretop, made no change. He didn’t need to be told where Captains landed on the quayside at Plymouth. He ran his hand down the smooth wood of the tiller, and then resumed his grip. The Captain’s Barge remained on the course he’d already set. The four white oars, two each side, continued to dip into the calm water, in perfect rhythm, and perfectly parallel on the recovery as they came back above the surface for the next stroke. It was a faultless exhibition of barge handling.

  Fentiman, unlike his Captain, who stared rigidly ahead, could not resist one look back astern. Just inside and to the West of Drake’s Island, their own ship lay at anchor, with La Mouette one cable off, a White Ensign above the French Tricolour, identifying her as a French prize. He grinned again as the steps approached and Whiting took charge. All the barge crew were under his command back aboard Ariadne, be cause all were fellow foretopmen

  “Easy all. Toss oars.”

  With the oars vertical, the barge glided to the damp and weed strewn platform that began the steps up to the quayside. Abel Jones, in the bows, lay his oar down flat within the barge and stood up from his place, the painter in his left hand. With practiced ease he jumped out from the slowing barge, threaded the rope through a large iron ring on the platform edge and took the strain to slow the boat. His fellow oarsmen had already thrown over the plaited rope fenders to prevent any damage to their precious vessel. He then seized the gunwale to steady the boat at the edge to afford his Captain and First a safe disembarkment. Fentiman rose in his place to step out first, followed by his Captain. As Argent’s foot came onto the old and worn stonework, the cheering intensified. At the top there was a dense crowd. Whiting stepped out of the boat.

  “Give us a second, Sir.”

  Whiting was not going to have his Captain buffeted about by a bunch of over wound landsmen. He motioned to his crew and they all disembarked. Whiting was immaculate in his Topcaptain’s blue jacket with polished silver buttons and white duck trousers; his crew in blue chequered shirts, with the same white ducks. Beneath a black-tarred hat, all sported a pigtail extending down between their shoulder blades, finishing with a red ribbon. A bright scarlet kerchief was tied about their necks and a silver earring shone in each right ear. The uniform was their own concoction; Argent had made no requirements. Leaving Jones to mind the boat, the crew mounted the steps; Whiting had the hefty Moses King at his shoulder, backed up by two more from the foretop, including the mighty Sam Fenwick.

  “Make a way, there mate. Give us some room. Captain has business.”

  The cheering was unabated and drowned Whiting’s speech, except to those who needed to hear, those nearest, and therefore most able to see that he would truck no failure to comply. He and his men leaned into the crowd and a way was made. Argent and Fentiman followed through to the top of the steps, smiling and nodding, trying to hide their embarrassment, trying to withstand the buffeting of their backs and shoulders from those who could reach through his bodyguard. Both Officers were grateful to find a closed carriage across their path, black but with an inviting open door, held open by a Marine Captain. They accelerated into its welcoming safety. The door closed, the Marine thumped the roof and they were moving.

  Whiting, his Officers now safely through and on their way, returned to the top of the steps. They
were required to remain, to await their Captain’s convenience. Why descend to the dank of the lower steps, why not remain above, especially when he found himself staring at a very comely face, framed in a maid’s cap?

  “Now then, lass, wouldn’t you like to know how it all happened?”

  oOo

  The coach eased smoothly through the imposing gates of the Port Admiral’s Official Residence, this incumbent being one Rear Admiral Sir Arthur Broke. Next door, but smaller, for overnight use only, was the place of residence that applied to Rear Admiral Septimus Grant, Commander in Chief, Western Approaches, him being senior to all, including Broke, and in command of all Naval Ports West. This included Plymouth and the area of sea to their South and West known as the Western Channel; the “Chops” to those familiar.

  Argent had never met either before. Rear Admiral Grant had held his command at the beginning of the Ariadne’s commission, three months previously, but Flag Officers of such exalted rank did not come to see mere frigates on their way, whilst Sir Arthur Broke had replaced the Admiral that had given Argent his orders, that three months ago. The Marine Captain preceded them to the imposing front door; burnished brass, shiny black, double width, and immediately on their approach both wings opened in unison, propelled inwards by the hands of the two Marine sentries, both stationed outside. All three proceeded through and the Captain turned left and motioned them towards another set of imposing doors, ceiling high, equally black, brass equally burnished, and these he opened himself.

  “Admirals Grant and Broke will see you immediately.”

  Argent and Fentiman entered a large, high ceilinged room, ornate plaster decorating every corner, and below this confection hung a full collection of Naval disasters, departures and engagements, all painted in the same colours, in the same style, within the same heavy guilt frames. Both Argent and Fentiman halted when they perceived the two Flag Officers awaiting them, one standing, one sitting, this latter merely turning to observe their entrance. The atmosphere in the office was divided in two by the stony deadpan expression of the Officer sitting, and the beaming welcome of the one standing. This was added to by the fact that the one sitting sported his full Admiral’s uniform, whilst him standing was in his shirtsleeves. There was a smell of pomade that seemed to emanate from the colder half of the room. Ariadne’s two Principal Officers came to the attention and saluted, which was returned by the Admiral standing. He spoke first.