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

by Alaric Bond

  An Indiaman travelling alone was a far more common sight, and presented quite a juicy prospect for any ambitious predator. Prometheus might be larger than the majority of long distance traders, but not all: of late some truly massive ships had started to appear, many rivalling even three-decker proportions. Most were armed to some extent, and would make a difficult catch but they also regularly carried a fortune in cargo and, if this was the same ship that had taken the Duke of Cambridge, its captain had already shown himself to be no laggard when it came to attempting large prey.

  “We are carrying John Company colours aboard, I assume?” Banks asked, as a plan began to form in his mind.

  Caulfield had no idea and Stevenson, the sailmaker, was duly summoned.

  “Flags of every nation, sir,” the petty officer confirmed. “An' some what 'aven't yet been thought of. We got a Trinity 'ouse as well, 'long with a Royal Standard, if you was interested.”

  “The East India Colours will be sufficient, thank you,” Banks told him crisply. “Be sure they are for the northern hemisphere.”

  Stevenson knuckled his forehead and was about to go when Banks stopped him. “And do we have a spare forecourse?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the man responded instantly. We have two fully made sails, and enough canvas for further if you wishes.”

  “And do they have a man-o'-war's roach?” Banks demanded.

  Stevenson seemed to hesitate, then his face dropped and he gave a slight shrug. “They do, sir.” he finally admitted. “I could make up another of merchant pattern, though it would take a fair spell.”

  “No, we do not have the time. Thank you, that will be all.” Banks turned to Brehaut, newly installed at the binnacle. “Master, you will oblige me by taking in the forecourse.”

  Brehaut's expression was not quite so revealing as the sailmaker's had been, although evidently the request still came as a surprise.

  “I wish to disguise us as an Indiaman,” Banks explained, testily. “And a man-o'-war's roach will reveal our true identity as plain as a full broadside.”

  “I-indeed, sir.” Brehaut stammered, as the large company flag was bent to a halyard and raised above them. There were numerous differences between Prometheus and an Indiaman that might not be quite so easy to hide, but Banks trusted few would be visible from such a distance. And if his measures only enticed the enemy in for a closer look they would have served their purpose.

  “We will not be in clear view for several minutes and have that time to rig other disguises,” Banks continued, speaking to the quarterdeck in general. “If you have any thoughts, gentlemen, they would be welcomed.”

  “Might we not strike the mizzen topmast, sir?” King, who was one of the new arrivals, suggested hesitantly. “It could signify damage taken in the recent storm, and give us cause to be travelling independently.”

  “A worthy idea, Mr King,” Banks replied. “Though, if our friend here is who we suspect, I would prefer to maintain our sailing abilities. “But I should like as many lascars as we carry to be on the upper deck,” he continued. “And any that can go aloft, so much the better; otherwise they should simply make themselves plain. Meanwhile, gentlemen,” he added, once more addressing his officers generally, “You might consider adopting watchcoats and, despite the hour, I think we could extend the courtesy of the quarterdeck to all passengers.”

  “The passengers, sir?” Lewis questioned. One of the few stipulations the captain had made was for the quarterdeck to be out of bounds until the end of the afternoon watch.

  “Indeed, the passengers,” Banks confirmed. “If any have access to those umbrella devices, so much the better.” Then, after a moment's thought, “And tell them they are welcome to bring their children.”

  * * *

  By mid-morning the sighting was in plain view from the deck, and becoming less of a mystery by the second. It had changed course yet again and, after allowing Prometheus to close, was steering to keep pace with the battleship, less than two miles off her starboard bow. Standing on the forecastle, King studied her with interest through his personal glass. She was a warship without a doubt; single decked, probably under four hundred tons, and would probably have been considered a sixth rate if on the British list. He brought the glass down and closed it with a snap. This was slightly more than extreme range though: even if the captain were in a position to fire a full broadside they would be lucky to score a single hit, which would inevitably pitch low. And once that were done – once Prometheus had shown her true identity and power – the enemy would simply bear away and be gone, with never the chance of a stately battle-wagon catching such a lithe craft.

  “French, is she, sir?” King turned to see Ross, the seaman who had volunteered to him at Tor Bay, standing close by. It was good to notice the man appearing more at ease: he held himself with greater confidence, and had lost some of the awkward, bewildered look that, to one who knew his history, marked him as an object of pity. And King could tell his fingers were simply itching to take hold of the glass.

  “Would you care to inspect?” he asked, proffering the telescope. There was an argument against too much information reaching the lower deck, and King knew that, by handing an able seaman his glass, he was breaking with protocol, especially as the ship was likely to see action shortly. But he could hardly ignore his private knowledge of the man, and did not think any officer on the quarterdeck would notice.

  “Yes, a Frenchie, plain as day, sir.” Ross murmured, focussing the small telescope. “Rig gives her away and she ain't sturdy enough for a Spaniard. Ask me, the captain's going to have to play a pretty tidy game if he wants to lure her close.”

  King wriggled uncomfortably and looked about, but no one was in direct earshot and the seaman's words had been quietly spoken. “She is plainly not certain of our identity,” he muttered in reply. “Should they be convinced we are indeed an Indiaman they would have closed with us by now. But then no Frenchman of such a size would allow a British liner to come into range, and we are on the very edge of it.”

  “And all the time are drawing nearer to the Tagus,” Ross seemed to agree, although he continued studying the sighting. “But were we running for port, it would not be raised by nightfall, and that is when most privateers strike.”

  “Privateer?” King questioned, looking hard at the man. “You do not think her a national ship?”

  “I do not, sir,” Ross replied directly, and with surprising confidence. Nothing had been said to the men about the possibility of Carroll's vessel being in the vicinity, or her size and power. The sighting was without doubt of foreign build, but equally had not raised an ensign, so might still be of another navy entirely, yet Ross seemed to have taken it for granted that this was the ship in question.

  King thought on. There were a number of Royal Navy vessels that had started life on other slipways, and a sleek and elegant hull, coupled with tophamper that was mildly over-sparred did not necessarily mean they were regarding an enemy. But mainly it intrigued him as to how Ross could tell if the vessel in question belonged to the state, or a private owner.

  “You would not say she was a fregate-de-eighteen then?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Ross remained adamant. “She is less substantially built – I'd say our friend was armed with nothing heavier than twelves – apart from maybe some heavier short-range pieces.”

  King said nothing. He was relatively familiar with foreign shipping, but still would not wish to judge between two classes of frigate from such a distance.

  “You will have noted the gun deck, sir,” Ross continued, sensing interest. “A national ship would have no more than thirteen a side, along with smashers on the quarterdeck and maybe a couple of fo’c’s’le chasers. But I think you will find the main battery has more,” Ross added, handing the glass back.

  King gave the man a doubtful glance, then set to focussing his telescope on the sighting. The distance did not make accurate counting easy, but eventually he was forced to concede th
at, rather than the thirteen ports he had been expecting, there were indeed fifteen.

  The mere fact that a Frenchman was over-gunned did not come as a great surprise. Such a practice was common to most continental navies, in the same way as lengthened spars aloft, and the main reason why many French captures were down-rated in ordinance when adopted for British use. But that was in the actual weight of the guns, King reminded himself, not their number.

  “There are an extra four cannon in the captain's quarters,” Ross continued. “The French Navy hate cluttering up a commander's private space. But a privateer would have no such inhibitions, and are inclined to mount every ounce of armament they can squeeze aboard.”

  King was impressed, and not just by the man's knowledge. Ross had pulled off a remarkable feat by imparting the information in such a way that his superior officer was not offended. “So, she is a Frenchman, a privateer, and will attack at nightfall,” King summarised blithely, and the seaman nodded seriously in reply.

  “That's about it, sir,” he confirmed.

  “I'm obliged to you, Ross,” King told him after a moment. His mind was racing. All that the man said made perfect sense, yet to have him repeat it to the captain might bring forth a number of questions that neither of them would wish to be asked. But then King was not the type of officer who would steal another's theory and present it as his own.

  “I shall not mind your passing my thoughts on, sir,” Ross must have read his mind and was barely whispering now. “Indeed, I wish you would so do.”

  King continued to think: Ross' frankness and honesty was commendable, especially in one who had not been well treated by the service. “Very well,” he said, almost with regret. “But I shall repeat my promise, and hope to see you off the lower deck as soon as it may be fitting.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Prometheus was a very different ship. Brehaut was to meet with his midshipmen charges and take the customary noon sightings but, as he stepped onto the quarterdeck, he looked about in mild astonishment. Banks had cleared for action when no reply was received to their private signal, but it was not just the absence of bulkheads and smoke from the galley that indicated the change.

  Aloft, lascars had taken many of the topmen's places, and were perched easily at the crosstrees, tops and yards, their robes tied back but still fluttering faintly in the slight wind. From the forecastle came the doubly incongruous screams of children as they were encouraged in a raucous game of tag by a group of indulgent hands, while Prometheus' poop and quarterdeck were filled with the bonnets and gowns of factors' relations. The officers had also undergone a change and now broiled in heavy brown coats more appropriate for cold weather, or appeared unusually casual in plain, shirt-sleeve order. To starboard, and so placed as to be obvious to anyone aboard the privateer, two red trousered lads who were still serving John Company cadets had secured themselves to the shrouds and were ostentatiously studying her through their telescopes.

  “She is still showing no colours then?” Brehaut asked of Davison, who had the watch.

  “Indeed not,” the second lieutenant confirmed. “Though that is scarcely unusual. Mr King seems convinced she is a Frenchman and a privateer to boot, despite her being uncommonly large for the type. None of those from the Indiaman can support him, however, as they were taken during the night. Myself, I would not be surprised if our companion turned out to be on passage to Lisbon, or even Gibraltar and of no danger to us whatsoever. Why the captain might even be playing a jape, and could shortly raise the union flag.”

  Brehaut said nothing. As sailing master, his concern was the managing and navigation of the ship. He had little knowledge of naval protocol, neither did he wish for any. And both King and Davison had been known to him for a similar length of time. But, even though the latter was superior in seniority, he knew which was more experienced, and whose opinion he valued more.

  “Mr Lewis,” Banks called, his voice cutting into a dozen conversations. “You would oblige me by repeating the recognition signal for our previous convoy yet again.”

  Lewis touched his hat, gestured to the midshipman and within a minute three small flags were running up Prometheus' main, followed by a single red ensign at the fore. It was a procedure they had already performed twice and still no answer came from the frigate. Instead the mystery ship continued to hover just beyond the range of any gun Prometheus carried.

  “Very well, Mr Caulfield,” Banks said with either resignation or suppressed excitement. “I think by now a merchant master would assume the sighting to be up to no good. Direct the passengers below, if you please. They may be accommodated in the gun room. The prisoners are well guarded?”

  “I took the liberty of moving them from their quarters on the orlop, sir,” Caulfield said, after whispering a command to Benson. “They are now secured in the for'ard hold, with those of Jenkins' mess standing guard; they won't bear any nonsense.”

  Now every available midshipman was rounding up the civilians in preparation for seeing them below. It would by no means be palatial accommodation, but at least offered safety from splinter and shot.

  “Very good,” Banks replied. “See to it that the passengers are also supervised.” He was remembering an occasion when a civilian had been mortally injured, despite every precaution taken on his behalf. “I don't want to see any private individual off the orlop for as long as the action continues.”

  “Yes, sir.” Caulfield's face appeared wooden, although Banks was sure he also recalled the incident.

  Brehaut, who appeared to have lost his students, raised his sextant and began to make practice sights of the sun, gradually lessening the masking lenses until the glowing orb could be viewed clearly and for some time without damaging his eye.

  “Glass dry,” the duty marine sang out, but eight bells would not strike until the sailing master signalled true noon and there were still several seconds to go. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the sun hovered about the horizon, being forced into such a position by the series of prisms. Then, as soon as he noticed any variation, Brehaut called out.

  “Noon, sir!”

  Banks replied with a curt: “Make it so,” the bell was struck eight times, and Prometheus' new navigational day could begin.

  Usually such an occasion would have coincided with the first issuing of spirits and a change of watch, as well as dinner for seamen and junior warrant officers, the scent of which would have been colouring all their thoughts for some time. But on this occasion there was a strange silence, and one made even more apparent by the absence of noisy children.

  The relative peace was welcomed by the captain: it enabled him to think. What King had said made sense; a French privateer, as he was now totally convinced his opponent to be, would certainly prefer to attack in the dark, when several fast and murderous strikes might be expected to wear down even the boldest of Company ships. Such an action may allow Prometheus' lower deck guns to come into play more readily, but a smaller, more manoeuvrable opponent would find greater benefit in the darkness, and the added confusion must count heavily against them.

  Instead he had to lure this particular foe within range of his lower deck guns during daylight; something that would call for particular cunning and not a little risk. And no small part of the plan would include effectively ignoring his main guns until the time came when a full broadside, one that must ultimately reveal Prometheus' true identity, could settle the matter permanently. Before then he must rely on his secondary armament: the carronades and maybe a few eighteen-pounders that would give him only a limited advantage over what was bound to prove a faster and more agile opponent.

  Even in daylight, Prometheus was liable to take damage and men could be injured. Some might die: the likelihood was strong, in fact. Such a sacrifice would be justified if the Frenchman were eventually taken, but what if he were unsuccessful? What if this turned out to be a long drawn out action, one with an extended butcher's bill to match, but ultimately doomed to end with the privateer
smoking his ruse? He supposed the waste of men's lives might not be taken so very seriously by some, but already knew such a failure would haunt him for the rest of his days. And time was not on his side: he really could not afford to continue the action after darkness – that might spell disaster.

  Chapter Nine

  On the lower gun deck, two hundred or so men and boys stood ready to serve Prometheus' main armament. The ship had beaten to quarters some while back, and now most of Flint's team, which included several from his own mess, were at their starboard piece. But none were comfortable, and neither did they seem particularly happy.

  There was less room than usual. In a ship where no deck was longer than a hundred and seventy feet, all were used to living crowded lives and such an inconvenience was accepted when unavoidable. But that was not currently the case, as every piece in Prometheus' main armament was still, annoyingly, inboard.

  Normally the great guns would have been run out by now, leaving a far larger area for those who were to serve them. That was not the extent of their problems however: the cannon being inboard meant all ports remained closed, so the men crowded within were also denied light and fresh air, as well as news of the action.

  The ship had been manoeuvring for several hours, with no heading held long enough to be considered a change of course. It was clear that intricate games were being played above; games they were not privy to, and their annoyance grew with each heave of the deck. The captain might have grounds for such unconventional behaviour: it might be a ploy – a tactic that would see the British ultimately successful – that, or the lower deck had simply slipped his mind. But whatever the reason, Prometheus' lower ports remained securely shuttered, and the near solid mass of humanity within was left cramped, panting, and very much in the dark.