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

by Alaric Bond

  Banks closed his eyes for a moment. The headache had passed, but he was still feeling incredibly weak and hearing the number of killed and injured simply reinforced his contrasting feelings of gratitude and failure. They might have suffered far greater casualties: indeed, he could so easily have lost the ship.

  “I owe you all a good deal,” he said, as his eyes opened once more. “And will say as much in my report, although,” and now a faint smile came to play upon his lips, “I will of course be dependant on each of you to provide the necessary details.”

  There was a low rumble of laughter, then Banks fixed on the second lieutenant.

  “None more than you, Mr Davison,” he said, and noticed that both Caulfield and King grew strangely alert. “You showed great fortitude in boarding Prometheus so promptly: indeed the task was done in the best traditions of the service. Had it not, we might be holding this conversation on the orlop right now.”

  The captain had been expecting his remark to arouse further laughter, but instead the young man grew visibly embarrassed, while King appeared positively angry. His eyes flashed from one to the other and then across to Caulfield, who simply looked resigned. Banks supposed the first lieutenant was still suffering from the humiliation of being captured so easily, whereas the two more junior lieutenants were bound to compete for battle honours. So be it. Caulfield had nothing to berate himself for, and young men would always squabble.

  “Well, if there is no more,” he said. It was much harder to appear formal from an easy chair, but Banks' intention was unmistakeable, and his officers rose to leave. He thought King might have been trying to catch his eye, but purposely did not respond. Caulfield had already informed him how well the third lieutenant performed during the action; King was probably just a little put out that Davison, who had not been mentioned by the first lieutenant, was receiving all the praise. But there could be no argument that the prize's intervention had carried the battle and Banks was determined to see that the young man's efforts were properly acknowledged.

  * * *

  “So how was it you ended in command of the fo'c's'le?” Thompson demanded, when they were back in their temporary berth aboard the prize.

  “Aye, shoutin' instructions to Mr King you was like a proper Admiral of the Fleet,” Harrison agreed, from the other side of the mess table. “An' 'im doin' what you said like 'e were no more than a middie.”

  Ross turned away from his questioners, and found himself looking straight into the eyes of Flint, the head of the mess. In the past he had thought there might be a modicum of understanding in the man, and even wondered if Flint already guessed his secret. But now the seaman was fixing him with a set stare, and appeared as interested in his answer as any of the others.

  “I didn't mean no disrespect,” Ross told them, striving, as usual, to ape the casual way in which they spoke. “Only, from where I was, I could see best how we might lay the ship alongside, and so board in the right place.”

  His reply was greeted with silence and Ross was momentarily relieved. But all were in the midst of eating their first hot meal for some time, and the questioning had only been postponed.

  “There weren't any of us worrying about where the ship was to be set,” Harrison continued, after he had gummed his way through a piece of gristle. “Just wanted to get our 'ands on a Frenchman.”

  “As did I,” Ross replied, with assumed resentment. “And could see the best way of doin' it. Is there anything so very wrong in that?”

  The unexpectedly sharp response surprised most although Harrison, it seemed, was not so easily dissuaded.

  “But it didn't end there though, did it?” he persisted. “Once aboard the barky you went on orderin' us about. Takin' command like you was meant for the task – like you was used to doin' it.”

  “An' then, when it were done, there was all the back slappin' and handshakin' with King and Lewis,” Butler had taken up the thread. “It were as if you'd all been thrown out of the same nanny house.”

  Ross forced himself to think. They had entered Prometheus' wardroom in utter confusion. King and Davison were still to board and, with no junior officers present, the men became confused. Some began cheering, calling out, or tripping over the furniture and there was no apparent understanding of what needed to be done. But Ross had felt far more comfortable, and was the only one with any thought for the carnage they might find beyond the closed doors.

  So yes, he had taken control: had bullied them into a governable body. And when they did burst through to the fight, it was undoubtedly down to him that their force was in some form of order.

  He opened his eyes and looked to Flint, trying to gauge the man's exact position. As head of the mess, Flint was senior to Ross, yet had been one of those so commanded. And, though it might be resented now, the man had performed well: they all did. Every member of the boarding party seemed to welcome the word of authority, as a frightened horse might the reassuring pressure of a rein. But that was then – now they clearly held a very different view.

  “Well if I did, it turned out for the best,” Ross replied lamely, before setting his attention back to the food in front of him. The strain of living a lie was starting to tell and he had already decided to find some way of leaving Prometheus when they reached Gibraltar. He could jump ship, or feign illness; both methods were not without their perils, and neither would be easy to pull off. But Ross felt there was little left to lose, and nothing as far as his self respect was concerned.

  He had known becoming a lower deck hand would never be easy, but the reality had proved even harder than his predictions. The work was arduous, with limited leisure time, and absolutely no privacy, although such things were off-set by benefits he had equally failed to anticipate. He was now well versed in many seamen's skills, and had become foolishly proud of his abilities, although the main gain lay in something far more subtle.

  Ross had always enjoyed studying his fellow men, and what he had learned about the regular foremast Jack was utterly fascinating. In the past few weeks he had come across men who wanted for a formal education, yet possessed a different pattern of intelligence that was equally useful and actually quite formidable. Some, who could neither read or write, proved able to calculate the value of a prize, its cargo and any head money, along with the seaman's share of it. The network of communication also spread further than most in command realised, with discussions in the wardroom, gun room and even the great cabin regularly being dissected and evaluated during the same day's dog watches.

  And the lower deck's corporate knowledge, which verged upon a shared understanding, was truly impressive. It had been exhibited on several occasions; from choosing mess cooks and other honorary positions, to the subtle manipulation of divisional officers. Petty thieves and other minor miscreants were almost instantly identified by the whole, despite being as sharp as any single one of their fellows.

  During his time aboard Prometheus, Ross had become aware of several minor crimes that were hidden from authority to allow them to be privately resolved by the seamen's own, unwritten code. And the judgements that followed, together with penalties imposed, appeared far more apt than those expected from dispassionate and remote commissioned officers.

  With a chill, Ross wondered if his particular case was about to come under such scrutiny; should it do so, there was no doubt they would discover his secret.

  “Ask me, there's a touch more to our Mister Ross than meets the eye,” Butler was saying.

  “Per'aps the lower deck's not good enough for him,” Harrison agreed, while he continued to gum manfully at his chunk of beef. “Maybe he's got ideas above 'is station.”

  “So what did I do that offended you so?” Ross demanded, looking up suddenly. “No one else was willing to take charge: you were all running about like headless chickens. All I did was take you in order – someone had to.”

  “Mr King was due to board,” Cranston murmured. “And Mr Davison followed eventually.”

  “But bot
h came with the second wave,” Butler pointed out.

  “Davison were in command, though” Harrison again. “It were up to him to lead us – we should have waited.”

  “If we'd have waited for Davison, the Frogs would have likely taken the ship,” Thompson grunted, disparagingly. “He's not up to it; the man's a fool.”

  “Aye,” Ross found himself agreeing. “I'd say he were rocked in a stone kitchen.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and the former lieutenant felt a wave of instant and genuine regret. As an officer, it had been drummed into him never to ridicule another man of similar or superior rank. It was almost a cardinal sin and, when done amongst others of a lower status, might even be considered mutiny. The gulf that separated him from Davison's position as second lieutenant was vast indeed, and he felt immediate guilt for having committed such a crime.

  It was not a sentiment shared by the others, though. As he glanced along the two rows of faces there was no sign of censure; they merely appeared surprised and amused in equal measure.

  “Rocked in a stone kitchen,” Harrison repeated, savouring the words as much as any concept. The expression might not have been totally of the lower deck, but it was one they undoubtedly approved of and, for probably the first time since joining Prometheus, Ross felt properly part of the mess.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They raised Gibraltar at first light, four days later, and entered her harbour during the late afternoon. The sun was still bright and the wind remained in their favour as Lewis, in Prometheus, made her number and the private signal, before announcing the prize as their own. Hurle, one of the gunner's mates, supervised the saluting procedures in Abbot's absence: they were ordered to anchor in the lee of the new mole and, within half an hour, Banks was seated in his barge, stiff in his fresh, full dress uniform, journal in hand, and prepared to explain all to whoever received him.

  And there was much to tell, he decided, as the boat skimmed across the flat waters of the harbour. Firm news that the Duke of Cambridge was lost, for instance: there were bound to be those in London and beyond who would probably expect her to be on the way to the East for some time to come. Even the very existence of the Belle Île may come as a surprise. The Indiaman had been her first victim: that Prometheus had already found and dealt with her so efficiently could only be greeted with relief. Shipping owners would be that much more confident of sending their charges along the Portuguese coast and across the Bay of Cádiz, while the Royal Navy had been spared a powerful and probably elusive enemy to hunt down, just when their smaller warships were at a premium. But Banks was less certain how the near loss of one of his Majesty’s third rates would be received.

  Any captain who allowed prisoners to take over his ship would have much to answer for, and the fact that he, and several others, were indisposed at the time, when the cause was also directly attributable to the enemy, would hardly be an excuse. To balance that, he was delivering a fine frigate, and one that was likely to be taken under the British flag. But whether or not one would equal out the other was still to be seen and, as the boat turned for the stone steps of the quay, his doubts increased.

  If the Admiralty did buy her, Belle Île might need to return to England for refit, and some time would pass before she sailed again. The government would pay handsomely though and, when it came, Banks' personal share would be no small sum; certainly enough to see him and his family secure, should he find himself censured in any way. But were he to be sent for court martial, and if the unthinkable happened and he found himself dismissed the service, no amount of wealth could compensate for being denied the right to walk a quarterdeck again. And if his capture were not considered suitable for Navy use, she would be put up in the local prize auction, when he would be lucky to get a quarter of her value at scrap.

  Now they were drawing closer to the quay and the fact that he would shortly be explaining himself hardly lightened his mood. Even if he were spared, and a blind eye turned to the uprising aboard Prometheus, he must still face the unhappy task of seeking further men. The losses they had suffered of late had accounted for a good proportion of what had been an enviable crew. Marines could be sourced on Gibraltar, even replacements for the two officers should present no difficulty, and there were bound to be midshipmen a plenty keen for a sea-going post. But the ordinary and able seamen were more of a problem. Their like were in short supply wherever British ships sailed and Gibraltar, being one of only two local ports serving the Mediterranean Fleet, would be no exception. Then, to top it all, they required another gunner. Abbot had been with the ship since Prometheus first commissioned and, old and cranky though he may have been, he carried out his duties admirably. It would be hard to find another half as good without returning to England.

  “In bows,” Chivers, the midshipman seated next to him, commanded. The two rowers furthest forward completed their stroke, before tossing, then boating, their oars, and standing by with the boat hook. Banks raised himself gingerly and stepped onto dry land; a fresh faced lieutenant was there to meet him and introduced himself as Hoskins.

  “The Commissioner presents his compliments and apologies, sir,” the younger officer informed him. “Currently he is meeting with Sir Thomas, the Lieutenant Governor, and Major Barnett: they cannot be disturbed. There is news of a further breakout of fever,” he added in a softer tone and with an air of confidentiality.

  “Lieutenant Governor?” Banks questioned. He was under the impression that Prince Edward, the king's son, was in command, and had been rather hoping for a chance to meet with royalty.

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said, lowering his head slightly. “The prince was recalled, and Major General Trigge is carrying out his duties. Purely temporarily, of course.”

  “I see,” Banks replied; he had been aware of some problem with the garrison a year or so back, and supposed it to blame. “Is there any news of the Admiral?”

  “My Lord Nelson?” the lieutenant inquired. “None currently sir. Victory called here quite recently, but he was not aboard.”

  Banks looked his confusion, and Hoskins went on to explain.

  “The Admiral visited us in Amphion in early June and brought news that we are once more at war.”

  “A frigate?” Banks remarked in surprise.

  “Aye, sir. He'd shifted his flag to her after leaving Victory behind to search for Admiral Cornwallis, off Ushant.”

  Banks knew Amphion, a relatively new fifth rate. Tom Hardy had her; they'd met several years back and he remembered him as a dour fellow: surely an odd choice for such a lively little ship? And it was equally strange that a Commander-in-Chief should abandon his first rate in favour of her.

  “Apparently Lord Nelson was to offer Victory to Admiral Cornwallis of the Channel Fleet,” the lieutenant explained. “But Billy Blue turned the old girl down and sent her back to her master.” Hoskins grinned amiably.

  “Billy Blue?” Banks repeated the nick-name with a raised eyebrow, and the young lieutenant began to fluster: in his enthusiasm Hoskins had apparently forgotten he was addressing a senior captain.

  “F-forgive me, sir; I meant no disrespect,” he stammered, his face now decidedly red. “Victory called on her way to the Med. but did not linger more than two or three days. We believe she has caught up with Admiral Nelson and he to be off Toulon with Sir Richard Bickerton's fleet. But no official report has come through to that effect, and a neutral sighted a three decker at Malta.”

  Banks considered the situation. The Mediterranean Fleet was hardly blessed with ships, and could not be easily reinforced. They were also sailing in waters where much of the coast was either owned by France or heavily under her influence, yet Nelson was clearly intending to stretch his command over as large an area as possible. It was not to be surprised at; in every station where the man had served, Nelson had played by his own rules, and Banks supposed it was something he must get used to.

  “Commander Stewart would be happy to speak with you in the Commissi
oner’s absence,” Hoskins continued hurriedly, having taken Banks' lack of response as further criticism. “I am sure there is much you will have to relate, and your ships clearly require maintenance...”

  “Very well,” Banks said, unbending slightly.

  “He can speak with the master shipwright as well as arranging for any victuals you may require,” Hoskins carried on eagerly. “I have a carriage awaiting that will take us to The Mount. If you would care to follow me, sir?”

  * * *

  “What will become of you?” King repeated the question with more than a hint of impatience. “Why on earth are you asking me?”

  Her eyes fell, and she looked small and quite pathetic, seated on one of the large upholstered lockers that was about the only space free in what used to be part of the captain's quarters. Banks had decided Judy might continue to earn her keep; the girl seemed filled with genuine remorse for what she had done and incarceration would be inconvenient to all, as well as taking up valuable space aboard Prometheus. And so she had been set to take care of the injured although, considering her performance to date, no British life was placed in her hands. Instead she had spent the rest of the journey to Gibraltar in Prometheus' great cabin tending the French casualties.

  Ironically, it was an area considered ideal for treating wounded prisoners. Being relatively isolated, it could be guarded easily, and even boasted separate heads and washing facilities. Judy had seized the opportunity to redeem herself, and worked hard and well, even if none of the medical team totally trusted her and the permanent marine guard that stood sentinel were under orders to watch the woman as keenly as any of the injured.

  “I am truly sorry for what I did,” she said. “And had no idea it would make any of you so very ill.”

  “But you put poison in the food,” King stated incredulously. “How could anyone think we would not suffer?”

  “Davie said it would cause no harm, the powder was just something to make you sleepy,” she replied. “And I didn't see how that mattered. If you'd all just dozed off, he could have taken the ship over, and no one would have been hurt at all.”