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

by Alaric Bond

  As if to emphasise their situation, the deep rumble of long guns being run out on the deck above had been heard some time ago. Since then, all below had been imagining men of the upper battery stretched out in more spacious surroundings as they relaxed in the cooling afternoon breeze and casually regarded the enemy. Meanwhile the more important weapons, and a thirty-two pounder must surely be regarded so, sat loaded, primed and otherwise prepared for use, with their servers apparently forgotten.

  A call came from above, and was soon repeated by Davison, the second lieutenant, who stood by the main companionway further aft and was in overall charge of Prometheus' lower deck armament.

  “Target will be for'ard and high!” Chivers, one of the midshipmen, took up the order, his voice high with youth and excitement.

  Forward and high – at least that spoke of action, although even then the men were not placated. Every long gun in a Royal Navy warship was kept loaded whilst at sea, but the servers on the lower deck had already been instructed to draw the standard single round shot from the weapons under their care. It had been a lengthy and awkward business, made no easier by having the ports closed, and one that enhanced their feelings of injustice as the chance of a deadly spark was very real. But both batteries were now reloaded with bar shot: and the order, however much it might have been expected, did not go down well, and lowered morale still further.

  It meant they would be aiming at top-hamper – a Frenchman's trick which did not find favour with British gunners. Besides any irrational prejudice against aiming anywhere other than their opponent's hull – their usual practice, and something they considered more manly – no fine degree of accuracy would be possible. Each gun captain was suitably proud of his craft, but there could be little skill when using such ill-shaped projectiles as bar shot. They would simply have to train their pieces in the general direction of the enemy’s masts and trust the murderous linked balls to do their mischief. Bar shot was undoubtedly effective, but the result somehow lacked the satisfaction of a well aimed broadside of round.

  “So we knows roughly where,” Flint grumbled as the ship gave yet another heave in response to a savage turn. “And at what... Any danger of finding out when we're to fire, Mr Chivers?”

  “All in good time,” the midshipman replied, recalling a phrase used against him a dozen times since joining the ship. “Until then, keep them ports shut. Captain wants the Frogs to think we're an Indiaman, and you wouldn't get no Company ship sailing with a lower deck stuffed full of thirty-twos.”

  “If he wants them to think we're an Indiaman, why don't he just pay us John Company wages?” an anonymous voice enquired, to a rumble of appreciative laughter.

  “The last Indiaman I was in carried guns a plenty,” Thompson, who was a designated loader on Flint's team, mused. “Only they called them cannonades. Ruddy great blown out things they was; something like a cross between a smasher and a proper gun, with all the disfavours of both.”

  “Aye, no good for nothing, they're not,” another ultimately agreed. “All wind and noise but no result – bit like Thombo after too much burgoo.”

  “Most were stowed in the hold,” Thompson continued, riding the laughter. “Took us a couple of hours to rig 'em if we thought pirates was about, and then it were anyone's guess where the shot would go.”

  “Well these are Navy guns,” Chivers replied with more confidence than he currently felt. “And are going to come as quite a surprise if what we've raised turns out to be a Frenchman.”

  “Frenchman or Irishman?” It was Cranston's turn to grizzle. “All them prize crew seem to be Paddies.”

  “Makes no difference to me – or Sweet Sue here,” Thompson said, patting the cascabel of his weapon affectionately. “If they turn out enemies of the king, she'll deal with either, sure as a gun.” The man's sour expression suddenly cleared. “Sure as a gun!” he repeated with obvious glee having never heard the joke before, while those about him rolled their eyes or grimaced indulgently.

  Another call was heard, this time more tense and urgent, and all conversation immediately ceased.

  “Stand by there,” Lieutenant Benson, who was second in command of the main battery, ordered. “The enemy's on the move.”

  Once more there was silence, then a low creak told how Prometheus was also altering course.

  “Steady, lads,” Flint spoke softly to his team. The waiting had already gone on for several hours, which was far too long. He was starting to feel the well remembered tension of action and knew some of his men were not as seasoned as him. And even he had been tested beyond his limit in the past; it was several years back, and there were circumstances that had grown more mitigating with time, but still he remembered the raw terror, and knew how easily it might return.

  They were only facing what amounted to a frigate, but a well placed twelve or eighteen pound ball might still punch through a third rate's bulwarks, and shot or splinters from an inferior enemy could be every bit as deadly as that fired by a three-decker. “We'll be in action soon enough,” Flint continued, more to himself than anyone else. “An', when it starts, all will feel a darn sight easier.”

  Some of the men picked up on his words, and there was the flash of grins as the mood began to change. A few even began to joke amongst themselves when the tension lessened further. Then the singing began.

  It came, slowly at first, and apparently from the very depths of the ship herself, making every officer present, from lieutenant down to quarter gunner, look to each other in concern. None on the lower gun deck were responsible, and the ship's medical team, who had laid out their wares and would be waiting for their first customer on the orlop below, were not known for hosting mess nights. The passengers, and any other supercargo, were gathered aft, but the sound came from further forward. And it was men's voices, singing a song that some on the lower deck might have heard before, but few had ever sung.

  “It's the bloody croppies,” Thompson called out both in revelation and anger. “Them what we saved from the wrecked Indiaman, an' turned out to be traitors.”

  The song continued, muffled slightly by the four inches of gun deck planking, but still loud enough for all to hear. They may be captured and secure, but it was the sound of their enemies, defiant even in defeat, and the very presence of it was disquieting to men about to go into battle.

  * * *

  “I've a request from Jemmy Ducks, sir.” Caulfield told Banks with a hint of awkwardness.

  “Indeed?” Banks was mildly surprised. Jemmy Ducks was the traditional name given to anyone who looked after a ship's poultry and, to his mind, Prometheus' particular holder of the title was not the brightest of sparks. He did possess an instinctive talent for the creatures under his care however and, considering the very real concession Banks had already made on his behalf, it was surprising that he should have been bothering the first lieutenant.

  “I gather the livestock hands are looking to him as a spokesman,” Caulfield continued, aware, as was his captain, of how close to mutiny this sounded. “They appreciate their charges have been spared, but wonder why the animals might not be fed or watered. Ducks says none can survive for long and will start to complain shortly.”

  Banks sighed. In saving the livestock he was contravening the normal practice of despatching live animals when a ship prepared for battle. So soon into the voyage, Prometheus was filled with beasts of every description; too many to be easily butchered and simply jettisoning them over the side would have upset both passengers and the sentimental element on the lower decks. To compromise, Banks had reasoned they might even be of use, hence his depriving them of provisions. The mystery ship was still some distance off but, if anything would convince an enemy they were an Indiaman, it must surely be the sound of mooing cattle, clucking hens and grunting pigs.

  “Tell him it is better for them to starve for a day than the alternative,” Banks said harshly, before dismissing the subject and concentrating instead on the vessel off their starboard bow.
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br />   * * *

  “Why can't you keep your people quiet?” Judy asked impatiently.

  “They do no harm,” Carroll replied. “No man is trying to escape, nor physically interfering with the action in any way. And there are enough of your soldier boys on hand to see they do not, if any have a change of mind.”

  “They don't need to make such a row, though,” the girl maintained, adding a sniff for good measure.

  “Ah, yes,” Carroll smiled beguilingly. “But then we come from a musical nation; singing is natural to my countrymen, as well as being a basic human right. Sure, I could not stop them from doing so no more than I could their breathing.”

  “It's upsetting the children,” Judy sulked. Indeed, of the ten she was attempting to care for, all but three were in tears, although it was doubtful if a group of men singing rebel songs at the other end of the ship was actually the cause.

  “If that is the case, then I am truly sorry,” Carroll flashed his dark eyes dangerously. “Shall I help you keep them amused? I might show them a trick or two. Would they care to see me break my arm?”

  “Break your arm?” The girl was less certain now; it was an extraordinary thing to say, yet the man's presence was powerful and oddly hypnotic. “Why should anyone wish to see that?” she added weakly.

  “It usually attracts attention,” the Irishman responded modestly, before bending forward, and seeming to draw the youngsters towards him. “It's a very weak arm I have,” he told them confidentially. “And takes nothing at all to make it... Snap!”

  Now all in the crowded space were captivated; even the two uniformed marines who stood guard rested back on their muskets to watch.

  “Just a simple tap in the right place,” Carroll continued softly, chopping at his upper right arm with a flattened palm. “And it crumbles...”

  He then grasped the hand with his left, and appeared to tug the limb free. The arm slid several inches out of the loose sleeve to gasps from the children. It was a simple enough trick, but done well, and certainly caught the youngsters' imaginations, all of whom were now quiet in fascination. Some of the adults laughed, and even Judy unbent enough to smile.

  “Aye, but I have plenty more fobs if you're interested,” Carroll beamed good naturedly as he waved the restored limb to reassure any that might have been in doubt. “Would you care to see me make myself disappear?”

  Now the children were firmly entranced. The looks of wonder and anticipation were soon replaced with confusion though, as all the funny man did was count to three, then place his hands in front of his face.

  “I'm gone, and none of you can see me,” his words were muffled and both eyes remained firmly covered. “And now I'm back,” he continued, revealing that fetching look once more. “And you'll all be wondering how I did it.”

  There were calls of complaint, then some of the youngsters laughed out loud, and even a few of the adults grew cross before finally seeing the joke. But Carroll had won them over: no one could hear the singing any more and neither was there any crying.

  * * *

  Ross ran his fingers through the raw fibres of lambswool that were fixed to one end of his flexible rammer. To the other, a wooden block would see the charge was finally pressed home but what was colloquially known as the sponge performed a far more vital function. When soaked in water and used correctly, the lambswool mop ensured a barrel was wiped free of all burning embers before the next cartridge of powder was inserted. Both tasks were entirely down to him and, although a long way from the responsibilities he had carried when a lieutenant, Ross was conscious of an obligation to the men about him that actually felt more real.

  Were he remiss in his work, it would be Thompson's arm that was blown off. Ross had only known the man a brief time, but they had been messmates for all of it, and both felt a natural affinity for the other. It was the same with every member of his mess, as well as those of the gun crew; a spirit of true camaraderie that had been definitely missing during his time in a wardroom.

  This came as a surprise, but was only one of several – the intense fear he was feeling at that particular moment being another. It had been present throughout all the hours of waiting, and was something else Ross supposed he would have to get used to as an ordinary hand. In the past he would have been on deck, or at least remained informed of the circumstances; down here in the darkened depths of the lower battery, it was a very different proposition.

  Ross had seen action on several occasions and only once, as a young midshipman, had he been truly frightened. But now, in the confines of the cramped gun deck, with Irishmen's songs and the cries of starving animals ringing about his ears, he was going through the same emotions as when a boy. Prometheus had yet to receive a shot or fire one in return; the action could barely be thought of as begun – which probably accounted for much of his feelings. The monotonous, inharmonious drone from below was growing louder if anything, and all about seemed affected. He guessed there was little anyone could do to stop it, although the distraction was such that he would have had no hesitation in ordering the prisoners gagged, or worse, were the responsibility with him.

  “Bloody load of Micks,” Thompson grumbled. “Someone aught to learn them to keep quiet, so they should.”

  Soon all the gun crew were venting similar opinions, and Ross found their words comforting. He even went to voice his own thoughts on the subject, but found his mouth to be unusually dry.

  “All right, that'll do,” Flint said, quietening them gently. “Let them sing their lungs out if that's what gives them the jollies. It's not going to make no difference, we're still gonna take their ship.” He looked about at his men, and Ross thought his eyes might have settled on him. “And don't any of you start to get the shivers,” Flint added as an afterthought. “I told you, it won't be long.”

  * * *

  On the quarterdeck, Banks was of the same opinion. He had done all he could to close with the enemy, but the wind was steadily failing: a rare occurrence for those latitudes and one that was proving more than a little annoying. With her size and weight, Prometheus was at a distinct disadvantage in light airs, and found herself severely out-sailed by the smaller, but decidedly potent, privateer.

  By now, no one had any doubt she was indeed Carroll's former ship. Large for the type she may be, but there must be a hundred like her laid up in countless French ports, while seasoned hands eager to serve at sea rather than rot ashore would be ten a penny. A vessel of such size and strength would also be more effective in tackling the larger Indiamen, as well as handier when dodging a blockading inshore squadron. Then Banks remembered they had probably been making Cádiz their base, and with Spain still ostensibly neutral, there were no sanctions on any of her ports. The privateers might ply their wicked trade all about the Portuguese coast, snapping up merchants separated from convoy, or chancing a solo run. They could also see off any unrated Navy ship, while proving a tough opponent for much that was larger. And all the time with the convenience of a free and friendly harbour close at hand, one that no blockading force was able to starve of supplies.

  Almost any merchant they encountered could be seized, carried and offered up for auction within a week, the latter under the very eyes of the British. And with so many potential victims at sea, the owners would become rich, encouraging others to speculate in similar enterprises, at a cost to Britain's economy that would be devastating. His government could object to the use of a Spanish port, although all the protestations in the world would have little effect. But should Banks be able to lure them close enough to his guns, the whole escapade would end now, and without further loss. It was something he must attempt, even though it meant risking his own precious ship.

  And risk there was; he could not deny that. However much larger she may be, and whatever fire-power Prometheus possessed, the Belle Île had a distinct advantage over her in both speed and manoeuvrability. And they were fighting at sea, a medium with a habit of correcting inequalities with bad luck or misfortune.
It was not unknown for a powerful frigate to take a line-of-battleship; little more than five years ago Pellew had accounted for the Droits de l'Homme off Plozévet and there were examples a plenty of larger ships being subdued and carried by cunning and lucky captains of smaller vessels. As a former frigate man himself, Banks knew all that would be needed was to let the enemy too close to a vulnerable section, then the loss of rudder, or an important spar could redress the odds considerably in the Frenchman's favour. But he also had to allow them near enough to use his great guns to their maximum effect. It was a difficult balance, and one he found harder to judge as the time wore on. And all the while he was painfully aware that, should the unthinkable happen and his precious Prometheus end up the prize of a private ship, he would never walk a Royal Navy quarterdeck again.

  But whether it was right or wrong to encourage close action, the privateer was proving less than compliant in his efforts, and the lack of a decent wind was certainly no help. Banks had attempted all manner of manoeuvres to tempt the Frenchman in, but all had proved fruitless, with his quarry remaining in contact, but tantalisingly at the very extreme of his main guns' range. Currently she was lying prow on and apparently in irons, with Prometheus creeping slowly towards her. Were they allowed to travel much further, Banks would have the advantage, and may even be able to yaw, before landing a sizeable amount of shot on the Frenchman's fragile bows. But he was not so much the fool as to think them easily beaten, and was soon proved right. As he watched, the Belle Île's jib was brought back to the wind. Then, when still more canvas was released, the frigate tacked to starboard, before surging forward in the gentle breeze as if to show her clumsy opponent just how easy such a manoeuvre could be.

  Banks resigned himself to the prospect of continuing to conn his new command in a failing wind for a while longer. He had yet to get to know Prometheus properly, but already could tell the enemy had her measure in agility: any move he attempted was inevitably signalled well in advance, while the privateer seemed able to skip from one tack to the other almost on impulse. However, he still had that tremendous fire power hidden away and it would only take one mistake to allow him to deal a significant blow which must surely see the privateer at his mercy. They were no longer sailing under the Company flag; that had been struck some while back, to be replaced with the newest Navy ensign they possessed. He had hoped the enemy would consider the exchange a double bluff, and so it had proved.