The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7)

by Alaric Bond

  The man possessed an ageless quality that placed him anywhere from thirty-five to sixty. As with the other two, he was clad in the standard seaman's attire that would have been freshly issued, but in his case it he wore it with an air of competence and dignity. Either the jacket had been especially tailored to fit, or he carried it well; the white duck trousers were hauled up so they hardly brushed the deck and his neckerchief was neatly tied. But even if he was undoubtedly the smartest, a lubber could tell there was little of the mariner about him.

  The rest of Flint's mess eyed them critically from the security of the group, each sitting comfortably to one side of their table, while the newcomers stood more uncertainly at the head. All three had damp hair and the scent of men recently washed and were loaded down with a filled ditty bag, as well as two brand new hammocks.

  “So make a space there,” Flint said in mock desperation. “These are our mates now and, given time, you might even get to like 'em.”

  Those seated slid a few inches towards the spirketting, leaving just enough room for Billings and Butler to squeeze onto one end of a bench with their dunnage piled before them, while Potterton lowered himself more elegantly opposite, and placed his belongings carefully on the deck. Ben, the third class volunteer and boy of the mess, replaced the keg he had swept aside when Cartwright arrived, and reclaimed his rightful place at the head of the table. It was a position he regarded as one of seniority, even if he was alone in such an opinion.

  “So where've you washed up from?” Jameson asked the two newcomers facing him.

  “I'm from Marldon,” Butler told them in a quiet voice. “Small village not ten mile from here. Got snatched by a pressing tender yes'day even'.”

  “Transport was it?” Flint prompted, remembering Cartwright's words.

  “Aye, homeward bound. We'd been out best part of two year, an' I were expectin' to be snug with my wife and chit b'now.”

  There was a rumble of understanding, mainly from those who had been recruited in a similar manner. If they had been members of the gang seizing him, little mercy could have been expected but, now that Butler was effectively one of them, most were prepared to sympathise.

  “You won't find it such a bad berth,” Flint said gently. He had been pressed in the past himself, and knew all too well the anger and frustration that Butler would be going through. The feelings passed soon enough, but that did not make them any more agreeable while they lasted. “We've a fair bunch of officers,” he added. “And the captain's as level as they come.”

  “I served with your Jimmy Leggs in Vanguard,” Butler told them, using the traditional slang for the master at arms, “He were a bastard then and, from what I gather, ain't changed a jot.”

  “It's a bastard's job,” Flint replied simply. He was eyeing the newcomer with a mixture of compassion and concern. There was no doubting Butler was carrying a fat tail; this might be down to having been pressed, in which case he would probably work up to be a first rate member of the mess. On the other hand he could be a troublemaker, and better ditched at the first opportunity.

  “Aye, I'd chance you're right,” the new man allowed. “We actually rubbed along well enough but...”

  “But you'd prefer to be at home?” Flint asked.

  Butler's mask of thunder seemed to melt, to be replaced by a reluctant smile, and Flint breathed more easily.

  “An' what about you?” he asked the more portly Billings.

  “I'm a man of business,” the second newcomer stated loftily. “And was about to undertake a financial investment in the Three Tuns of Galmpton, to add to my other ventures.”

  “Oh aye? Nanny house, is it?” Cranston, one of the gunners, asked with rude interest.

  “The Three Tuns is a catering establishment of the highest standard,” Billings replied stiffly, his gaze remaining wide of his fellow men. “Probably one of the finest in the county: Potterton here is one of the cooks and the concern has an excellent reputation.” The third new arrival inclined his head slightly at the mention of his name, but made no comment. “My associates will have lodged the appropriate protest and you shall not take it amiss if we are soon gone, I am certain.”

  I remember you from last night,” Harrison's fat face beamed in the half light of the gun deck. “I were in Mr Lewis' party: you was as drunk as David's sow.”

  “My companions and I were interrupted in the middle of a small celebration,” Billings stated loftily. “The invasion was totally without cause, and there will surely be action taken.”

  “Hold hard, there: you said this one was a cook,” Harrison pointed at Potterton. “If that's so, he might 'ave a case and could be set free, but I don't see what chance you got.”

  “Are you the freeholder?” Jameson, the topman, asked.

  “It is a shared enterprise: I was about to join the board of owners so should never have been seized.”

  “But you're not a freeholder?” Jameson repeated and received a sullen shake of the head in reply.

  “I do own business,” Billings admitted. “But not property.”

  “Press rules don't recognise business owners,” Flint said coldly. “But they knows all about seamen,” he added, looking pointedly at the faded tattoos that covered both the man's lower arms.

  “I might have served once,” Billings glanced down, hurriedly attempting to stretch the short sleeves of his jacket and, when he spoke again, much of his assumed importance had disappeared. “But that was a while back. Last ship I were in carried a Dutchman out of Bombay. That was in 'ninety-eight an' the prize money changed me for the better. But I haven't worked a deck in years,” he added defiantly. “An' don't intend starting again now.”

  “Word is we're sailing on the morrow,” Flint's tone remained dispassionate.

  “Not with me aboard,” Billings said, as he examined his fingers. “Nor Mr Potterton, if he knows what's good for 'im.”

  “I understand you have requested legal representation,” Ross this time. He rarely spoke at the mess table, but already the others had learned to listen when he did. “So is it right to assume the officers are aware of your status?”

  “They's aware all right,” Billings replied, finally deeming to look down from the nearby beam, and his glance naturally falling on Ross. “Young fellow named Davison, but he were far too clever and didn't want to pay no notice.”

  “Aye,” Cranston agreed reluctantly. “They're so light of hands no one cares who they takes.”

  “Well their minds may be changed when I bring legal action against the captain,” Billings said, with some of his previous manner returning.

  “Can he do that?” Ben, the boy of the mess, asked.

  “Any man may bring suit against illegal impressment,” Ross replied gently. “And Mr Billings is quite correct, a successful action can indeed result in compensation.”

  “So how come you knows so much about it?” Harrison demanded suspiciously, leaning forward towards Ross to give his question extra weight.

  “Let's just say he does,” Flint said firmly. He also harboured doubts about Ross, but sensed this was not the place or time to voice them.

  “Only it won't do him no good,” Greg, one of the gun room stewards, added importantly from further down the table. “Not unless he can actually get ashore and see a lawyer.”

  “How do you mean?” Jameson asked.

  “You won't get many legal folk being allowed aboard a ship about to sail,” Greg explained. “And I can't see anyone letting Billings off to go meet with his 'six an' eight-pence'.”

  “But would he get compensation? I mean – if he were pressed illegally,” Jameson persisted.

  “That is a possibility,” Ross allowed. “But he would need a cast iron case and, yes, a lawyer would usually be involved.”

  “Money promised for tomorrow is no better than that owed from yesterday,” the steward explained enigmatically. Greg knew both his numbers and letters, as well as several words in French and, until Ross came along, had consider
ed himself the educated one in the mess. “The only time coin's worth a light is when it's been paid out, and sitting in your hat.”

  “Well I ain't interested in government money, past, present nor future.” Billings grumbled, his previous lofty stance crumbling further. “I got right on my side and just wants to get back to me own fire, and leave the Navy far behind.”

  “You'll find a few round here what thinks the same,” Flint told him dryly. “But when the hook comes up tomorrow, they'll be sailing just like the rest of us. And all the right in the world won't make no difference.”

  “And how do you feel about this?” Jameson asked Potterton.

  All eyes fell on the third newcomer, whose expression remained impassive.

  “We have made our objection,” he said with quiet dignity. “And will doubtless be released if an error has occurred.”

  “Well I'm not so sure I wants to go back to sea.” Billings declared, conscious that he had lost the group's attention.

  “You seem to think you have a choice,” Flint told him.

  “They can't keep us aboard this ship forever,” he blustered. “I shall continue my legal objections at the first British port we touch.”

  “Then you'll have your work cut out,” Harrison gave a toothless smirk. “This ship's bound for the Channel Gropers; we could be years on blockade duty, and will be kept aboard if called back to port. The next time any of us touches dry land the war'll probably be over. That's if the capt'n don't try something clever, and we ends up running into France first.”

  “We ain't bound for the Channel Fleet,” Flint said, switching his attention from the newcomers. “Ain't you heard? There's been a change of plan: it's the Med. for us.”

  “Is that right?” Harrison asked, amazed.

  “Aye,” Greg confirmed. “So there's much more chance of shore leave. And when we gets some, Billings can try his luck, if that's his intention. There'll be English lawyers a plenty at Gibraltar, Malta, even the Tagus, if I'm not mistaken.”

  “The Tagus?” Thompson repeated, almost jumping with surprise. He had been dozing gently at the far end of the table, head resting against the spirketting and all thoughts centred on the welcome that awaited him in the forepeak. “That's Lisbon!” he spluttered. “Who said anything about us going to Portugal?”

  “I've sailed with the Med. fleet afore, an' so has Jameson.” Flint assured them. “We spent a tidy time there back in 'ninety-seven – or was it 'ninety-six?”

  “But the Med. Fleet?” Thompson questioned with disgust. “When did that 'appen?”

  “I heard the or-fisers in the gun room talkin' over breakfast,” Greg told him proudly. “Bin switched yet again, we has; joining Admiral Nelson, or so they says.”

  “Those Johnnies bagged a fortune in prize money after Aboukir Bay,” Harrison agreed from the other side of the table. “Would that we'll be half so fortunate.”

  “But I'm not sure I wants to go to Portugal,” Thompson grumbled.

  “Blimey,” Flint raised his eyes to the deckhead in mock despair. “We got another one.”

  * * *

  “As soon as we finish watering I propose to single up to the starboard bower,” Banks said. “Then be ready to sail as soon as the convoy appears; with luck we may even catch the afternoon tide.”

  “When are they expected?” Caulfield asked. The two were sitting comfortably enough at the dining table in the captain's great cabin; the spacious surroundings were far more opulent than either had known in previous ships yet they had already become accepted and ceased to be noticed.

  “Any time after mid-day,” the captain replied. “I understand they were becalmed off Portland yesterday even', though the wind has picked up since.”

  “Are we not to await them in the Channel?” Caulfield asked, but Banks shook his head.

  “Three of their number are coasters, and will be leaving the convoy for Tor Bay. When these are sighted we can up anchor and be sure of meeting the main convoy before they make Start Point. 'Tis a sizeable force, I believe.”

  “And we stay with them as far as Gibraltar?”

  “Thirty-eight degrees north, to be specific. But shall certainly call at the Rock where, I trust, more hands will be available.” He relaxed in his upright chair glancing, only briefly, at the far more comfortable affair that sat in the corner of the cabin. “Tell me, how many are we short?”

  Caulfield spread the sheet of paper out on the warm, mahogany surface. “We can rate eighteen more able or ordinary from what was brought in yesterday,” he pondered, “and ten landsmen – one of whom is a trained cook, which may prove useful. That leaves us approximately forty lacking of our minimum complement. And, of those, twenty-five at least should be trained.”

  “Topmen?” Banks asked.

  “Ideally, yes, though we have sufficient for now. I would prefer some to be better prepared however, and there are few to spare.”

  A man must possess both youth and experience to join the elite band of hands who work aloft, and these seemingly conflicting blessings meant topmen positions were the hardest of all to fill.

  “Well, there is nothing more we can do; certainly in the time,” Banks mused. “But at least our petty and warrant officers are well prepared. Some of the landsmen may prove worthy, and we can make more of them cruising the Med. than on some Godforsaken blockade.”

  “What think you of our chances with my Lord Nelson's fleet?” Caulfield asked. It would have been a bold, even a daring question from most executive officers, but the two had served together for many years and knew each other well enough for such a degree of latitude.

  “I really cannot say,” Banks replied simply. “The Med. is a troublesome place for sure. A few years back we were forced to abandon, and yet not so very recently it became the site of a most famous victory. Now the French have been cleared from Egypt there is perhaps less importance on the station, but still I would chance it to be filled with enough excitement for those that crave such things.” As he spoke he drew his eyes away from the picture of his baby son that had already been fixed on the nearby beam. “And Nelson has fared well in most of the actions he has led. Should he remain true to form, I cannot see any of us becoming bored.”

  * * *

  His meeting with Ross had sobered King in a literal sense. The newcomer, once an officer of at least equal status to him, was now finding his feet on the lower deck. Of course he had still to speak privately with the man, and could have no idea of the enormity of his crime, or why such a disgrace had been laid on the head of a commissioned officer. But the very fact that one could fall so low was a firm enough warning, and King had resolved to improve both himself and his performance.

  He had never been a paragon of virtue; there were plenty of incidents in his past that might have brought him down, had they been given sufficient importance by the captain, or the attentions of a particularly harsh court martial. And with his marital problems apparently blighting the last few years, King's naval career had been allowed to run unchecked for far too long. Ross might be guilty of anything from insubordination to bedding an admiral's daughter, but King was reasonably certain that, whatever the crime, he himself would be capable of the same, and might suffer a similar penalty just as easily.

  And so it was that his evening gin sessions had ceased, while greater attention was being paid to both his duties and general appearance. Collars now sat stiff and clean against a smooth chin, his boots shone and he gave orders from a clear head and without ambiguity. Some of the other officers, especially those who had known him in the past, may have noticed the improvement, and in such a public world it was probably significant that no mention had been made of the change. The only one who voiced an opinion on the subject was Keats, his servant, whose life had been forced to alter just as radically, leading him to grumble and gripe about the extra duties to any fellow marine who would listen.

  But even after a bare few days of the new regime, there was no doubt that King himself felt the
better for it and, when he mounted the quarterdeck after the main meal of the day, and gathered with the other officers in the warm sunshine that had finally replaced the rain, he was not only ready to see the ship to sea, and start the commission proper, but actively looking forward to the prospect.

  “Any sign of the coasters?” he asked the first lieutenant tentatively. Barring the ship's surgeon, Caulfield was probably his closest friend. In the past they had discussed ship's business in a casual manner that was almost on an equal footing. But what could be allowed aboard a frigate was less acceptable in a ship-of-the-line and, with the date of Davison's commission effectively coming between them, making King the third, rather than second, lieutenant he was now less sure of his position.

  But Caulfield replied affably enough. “Nothing as yet,” he said. “Though I have doubled both main and fore lookouts, and doubt the bilges have ever been so dry since she were built.”

  There was the faint scent of cigar smoke in the warm air. Donaldson was puffing purposefully on a black cheroot nearby and, with the majority of Prometheus' wardroom complement sipping sedately at cups of coffee and making polite conversation, the atmosphere on the quarterdeck was more of a social gathering than a warship about to put to sea.

  Davison was holding a china cup, his smallest finger pointing delicately away, as if ashamed of using so crude an implement. “Mr Brehaut still in the bilges, is he?” the second lieutenant asked, with a smirk, of no one in particular, and there was a titter of light laughter. Brehaut, the sailing master, was one of the few not present. He had already revealed himself to be obsessive about the ship's trim, and spent most of each watch adjusting stores to ensure Prometheus was riding to what he gauged to be her best level. The recent introduction of seventy tons of drinking water had inevitably set his calculations awry, and the time since had been spent frantically ordering entire tiers of provisions moved, in the hope of gaining their previous equilibrium.