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

by Alaric Bond

  King felt the tension well up inside. Of the two, he was the junior man and by rights should be the one to go. But he had served with both Banks and Caulfield for several years and in two previous ships: to leave them now would be hard indeed. And there would be no certainty of finding an alternative posting; sea-going berths for middling lieutenants being not so very common, while the captain's report that must surely follow him would hardly help in finding a new position. And he would be leaving Manning behind, and Lewis, as well as others amongst the crew that he had come to count upon as friends. The very notion of striking out on his own appalled and dismayed him in equal measure.

  “I have not spoken with the naval commissioner, or indeed anyone ashore, and do not intend to do so in connection with the earlier incident,” Banks continued. “As far as I am concerned, it did not take place; something you would both do well to remember. But I am aware that the Belle Île will be made ready to take into the service. She is my prize, so it is reasonable to assume that a recommendation from me will be properly regarded. As a new ship, it will be a fresh start for whoever I propose.”

  King felt his mouth go dry. A frigate of such a size would probably require three lieutenants; were he to transfer, at least it would not be a reduction in position. And a sixth rate was surely so much more the thing for the young and ambitious officer he supposed himself to be. But still the spectre of serving without his shipmates returned to haunt him and, however hard Banks might be trying to organise an alternative berth, he did so wish he might be allowed to remain aboard Prometheus.

  Mr Davison, I shall be recommending you for Belle Île,” Banks said the words, uncommonly quickly, and King gave an involuntary gasp. “You will have the advantage of being on hand to supervise her repair and fitting out, and your current rank must enable a posting of second lieutenant to be retained.”

  Davison was silent and, from his viewpoint, King had no idea how the man was reacting to the news. But it could not be bettered, as far as he was concerned. And for the second time that morning, King felt a welcome rush of relief.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Duty Midshipman,” the marine sentry bellowed as the boy rapped on the outer door of the captain's quarters. Banks, in the coach, called out impatiently for him to enter: Prometheus was due to sail that afternoon, they still had the last ten tons of Gibraltar's scant and meanly allocated drinking water to take aboard, and there was a day and a half's worth of returns and manifests to sort, so he needed no distraction.

  “Urgent message from Mr Carlton, sir,” Steven said, his face flushed. Carlton was the new fourth officer; a youngster barely older than the midshipman who stood before him, although his commission still beat Lewis' by several months. Banks wondered quite what terrible new discovery the lad might have made to cause such a panic.

  “Canopus in sight and entering the bay,” the midshipman gushed. “Captain Conn, sir.”

  That would be John Conn, Banks soberly decided. Something of a rising star, although junior to him on the captains' list, and lucky to have a third rate with his seniority. Stewart had mentioned he was due to join them. Conn was a favourite of Nelson, and had taken part in at least two actions under the Admiral, whereas Canopus had been captured at Abukir Bay, so the presence of both was logical, and hardly worthy of such fuss. She was an eighty, though; still a two-decker but even more powerful than Prometheus and he supposed her muscle would be a welcome addition to the Mediterranean Fleet.

  “Very well, I'll come,” Banks told the boy as he went to replace the ledger on the shelf from where it had only just been collected.

  “There's something else, sir,” the lad insisted. “She's let fly her sheets.”

  The captain paused in his task. “Are you certain?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the child replied earnestly. “Least that's what Mr Brehaut said, though she just looked all ahoo to me.”

  The ledger dropped to the deck and Steven very nearly followed it as, with sudden urgency, Banks pushed past him and out through the half opened door.

  * * *

  “What's about, Mr Brehaut?” the captain demanded on gaining the quarterdeck. Lieutenant Carlton was also present but Banks wanted a detailed report and from someone he could trust.

  “Masthead sighted HMS Canopus in the bay less than half an hour ago, sir,” the sailing master told him calmly. “Mr Carlton wanted to call you but I said you were probably busy, and simply expected her to enter harbour. Then, just as she was in sight of the deck, she let fly her sheets. She's recovered now, and has hauled in her wind. No wait,” he added suddenly. “There is a signal.”

  “Where's Lewis?” Banks shouted impatiently as the duty signal midshipman levelled his glass on the bunting that had just been released. But the age old warning had actually been enough: a fleet was in sight and, for Conn to announce it so dramatically, this must be far more than just a stray East India bound contingent.

  Seemingly drawn by the sudden excitement, Lewis bounded on to the quarterdeck and over to where Chivers was fussing with the code book.

  “Enemy in sight, sir,” the lieutenant said positively, after no more than a second's glance through the glass and without reference to his junior or any book.

  “Hands to stations for leaving harbour,” Banks cried instantly, adding, “Who is ashore?” to a bewildered Carlton.

  “I – I could not be certain, sir,” the young man began and Banks was turning away in frustration when the reassuring face of the first lieutenant appeared at the companionway.

  “Mr Dawson and Mr Stone are at the victualling office,” Caulfield told him crisply, naming the purser and cook. “And Mr King can be expected at any time.”

  “King?” Banks, snapped.

  “Yes, sir. He had personal business and took one of the hands with him. Oh, and I understand Mr Swift and Sergeant Jarvis are with a party of marines sent to collect the men who went adrift last night,” he continued in a lower voice.

  “Canopus is signalling once more,” Chivers broke in, having spotted a second hoist. “Three ships, sou'-west by south and steering to pass,” he looked back at his captain anxiously. “I cannot read the last, sir.”

  “Signal from The Mount,” Lewis interrupted. “Our number and Aries; permission to leave harbour.” The crack of cannon fire emphasised the importance of the last message, and Banks felt his frustration grow.

  “Hoist the peter and single up to our stern cable,” he snapped. Three ships could mean anything or nothing; Stewart had spoken of ten expected from San Domingo, in which case they might be battleships, and possibly just the head of a larger fleet. Otherwise it was more likely a collection that had escaped blockade, and would probably prove smaller. If frigates, they would run before the lumbering old Prometheus could even cast off, although liners might be a different prospect entirely. As an eighty, Canopus mounted much the same ordinance as Prometheus but in greater quantity, whereas Aries was little more than a sloop, and potentially even a liability. But still, handled correctly, the two British two-deckers could probably account for an enemy up to half as big again. It all depended on the final number.

  “There's the marines,” someone shouted from the forecastle and, sure enough, two bands of red and white could be seen marching stiffly towards the ship. A far less orderly group of seamen ambled between them wearing looks of defiant shame. Banks glared at them then turned away. The added manpower would be useful; marines were determined fighters and every hand was needed, but he was far more interested in knowing his recently appointed second lieutenant’s whereabouts.

  “What the devil was King thinking about?” he demanded of Caulfield. “The ship's about to sail and he's squandering time ashore.”

  “He has hardly taken any leave so far, sir.” Caulfield pointed out. “And would undoubtedly have returned well before our intended departure time.”

  Banks muttered something under his breath, then shifted his gaze to where Canopus awaited them in the Strait. Aries was
already preparing to set sail and, even though a line-of-battleship was probably allowed to take longer than a sixth rate, it would be at least five minutes before they would be able to follow her example. If King was not back by then, they would just have to leave without him. And it would be his loss, Banks assured himself.

  * * *

  But, as luck would have it, Prometheus sailed with all hands. Even Stone and Dawson, alerted amid the confusion of a busy market day by a dozen differing rumours, were in time to board. By three bells in the forenoon watch the ship had cleared Bleak Beach and caught the fresh east-north-easterly that had only recently risen. Aries was already ahead, and steadily drawing more so although Banks felt quite content to let the little frigate scud over the waves in a splendour of spray and sail. She might have all the dash and impudence of her type but, if there were to be a battle, it would be won by the brute force and solidity of warhorses such as his own Prometheus.

  And she was being cleared for action at that very moment. The men, many of whom were still digesting the briefest of breakfasts, obviously anticipated getting to grips with the enemy almost immediately, and threw themselves into their work with gusto. Furniture was being stashed in the hold, bulkheads broken down, and every one of the many tasks necessary to turn their home into an efficient fighting machine was being undertaken with almost frantic haste.

  For this had all the makings of a regular ruck, no attempt to humbug by disguising the barky as an Indiaman; no hand-to-hand combat in the cramped nether regions of the lower decks. It might hardly be a major fleet action; the British numbered three, and that was counting a jackass, but what Canopus had spotted bore all the hallmarks of a regular foe. A chance for Prometheus' big guns to speak properly and in earnest: to put their skills to the test against a conventional enemy with no attempt to deceive or delude. And, for most, the opportunity could not come fast enough.

  * * *

  But Banks was not so keen for action and had no intention of sending anyone to quarters for some time. He was even happy for his senior officers to remain on the quarterdeck. Canopus was likely to signal again at any moment and it would be better for all to be fully appraised of the situation before being confined to their stations.

  King, as newly appointed second lieutenant, would command the lower gun deck; two batteries, both containing fourteen of Prometheus' heaviest artillery. And they were big; the largest long guns regularly used by the Royal Navy: each consisted of over fifty-five hundredweight of cast iron and he would be responsible for dispatching broadsides with a combined weight of close to a quarter of a ton. There had been little time to exercise the crews, but King knew the men were more than familiar with their weapons, and only hoped he might prove worthy of such a force.

  Lieutenant Benson was equally unsure. Davison had not been easy to work with but, now the young fool had gone – flounced almost – to take up what he had insisted to be a superior position aboard the prize, his absence was being felt in a most unexpected way.

  Davison's replacement, the even less experienced but far more likeable Carlton, had only been commissioned a few weeks before Lewis. This meant that Benson was now third lieutenant, and had the entire upper gun deck under his control. To date his responsibilities only extended as far as second in command of the lower batteries: now he would have the ship's secondary armament of eighteen pounders to play with, and the prospect was daunting.

  This was also his first taste of being in overall charge of such a large body of men. And it would be such a public duty: were the topmen a little tardy taking in a sail, or the afterguard not quite up to scratch when it came to attending the braces, few would notice. But an ill-timed or incomplete broadside was not to be missed, and he could expect comments, derision and even censure from the captain downwards.

  For Brehaut too, this would be the largest action in which he had conned a ship, although in his case there were no doubts, just a mild but genuine desire to use his expertise. The Strait was a challenging region; should the action be extended, they might encounter hazards in almost every direction. And even if they confined their manoeuvres to a small area, there was a fast running rip that would have to be allowed for, as well as the famed Levanter: that very wind that currently filled their canvas so admirably. It was potentially a devastating force and could easily run to forty knots while raising a hazardous sea. The waves at present, white capped and rolling, were of no particular danger, although Brehaut had heard tell of gale force gusts building without notice and often carrying fog and rain in their wake. But, should such a situation occur, he would be prepared for it. His chart was laid out in readiness less than ten feet from where he stood, while the previous weeks aboard Prometheus had been enough to instil sufficient respect for him and his abilities from every station. And Brehaut would be doing what he enjoyed most; practising a talent honed through a lifetime's usage, while testing his powers to the utmost. If he were spared and blessed with the chance, he might one day end up as sailing master aboard a three-decker, and responsible for leading a battle fleet to victory. But at that moment to have charge of Prometheus was sufficient; in fact Brehaut wondered if he had ever been quite so happy.

  “Canopus is signalling...” Lewis began solidly but a younger voice interrupted him.

  “Deck there, I have them!” It was Midshipman Steven, who had been placed way above at the main masthead for just such a purpose.

  “Enemy is three line ships,” Lewis continued. “Steering west.”

  “Sighting off the larboard bow; looks to be a thumper, and steering west,” the lad unwittingly confirmed from his lofty perch.

  “That sounds like the last in line,” Caulfield commented. “And would be roughly twenty miles off, if our masthead is in sight.”

  “They may have been intending to try for the Med., sir,” Brehaut agreed. “This wind has only risen in the last couple of hours. It were more southerly afore, and had blown so for a while. Such a breeze would have seen them past Gib. easily.”

  Banks remained non-committal. What Brehaut said was probably true and, if the French really had come from San Domingo, they would naturally have tried to head for Toulon first. But Stewart had mentioned a larger number, and no more were in sight. It was not inconceivable that a few might have become separated after such a voyage, or this could be a completely different force.

  The contrary wind, combined with sighting a British line-of-battleship on the horizon, was likely to have encouraged their change of plan. And, now that it had arisen, the Levanter was likely to linger, while Canopus could be the head of a veritable fleet, rather than fronting what was really only a derisory force of two liners and a jackass frigate. Yes, he decided, in their position he would abandon all thoughts of a home port, and make for Cádiz: the Spanish base was considerably closer and a far more favourable option.

  “I think she might take the royals, sir.” Brehaut spoke gently, as was his habit when proffering a suggestion to the captain, but Banks was immediately attentive. The wind had steadied to a fine eighteen to twenty knots and Prometheus was making good progress, running before it under forecourse, topsails and topgallants. The addition of royals would increase their speed still further, as long as there was no strain to the top hamper.

  “Do you think she can carry them?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Brehaut replied with certainty. “At least for a spell; if it freshens I shall be sure to alert you.”

  “Very well,” Banks murmured and the air became alive with the squeal of pipes and a bellowing of orders.

  Ahead, Aries had caught Canopus and both ships sat a mile or so off Prometheus' jib boom. But, as the extra canvas was released and began to fill, Banks felt the deck positively buck under his feet and knew they would make up the distance soon enough.

  “Canopus is signalling.” Lewis again. “It's Aries' number; she's being told to close with the enemy; I think they may be speaking.”

  Banks watched; the two were abreast and barely half a cab
le apart. Canopus was possibly slightly slower than Prometheus; but a sixth rate would have the heels of them both, and it made perfect sense for her to stalk the French. If more were hidden, she would be able to report the fact, while there was always the possibility of sighting other British vessels and drawing them in to join the party.

  The bell rang seven times; the forenoon watch was drawing on. Soon Banks would have to order Up Spirits, and arrange for the people to be fed. It would be a scratch meal of cheese and hard tack when, being a Tuesday, they would have woken to the prospect of two pounds of salt beef at midday. Since then the ship had sailed and was already in chase although, with such a lead, it would be late evening at the earliest before the French were brought to battle. He was well aware how tiring an all day pursuit could be, and having an empty belly would not make matters easier. They had yet to beat to quarters, so officially those of the starboard watch were below, but the ship was also cleared for action, and scant comfort would be found anywhere. Banks considered the problem for a moment: he had no wish to take unnecessary chances, but tired and hungry men did not fight well. And if he was to compromise the safety of the ship, it would be better done now than when the enemy was actually within striking distance.

  “Mr Caulfield, ask Mr Stone to relight the galley fire, if you please. And he may call away his mates to assist.” Caulfield looked up, but was experienced enough to cover his surprise. “We may have a Frenchman's breakfast for our dinner,” Banks continued. “But supper shall be beef, and with a double shotted duff to follow, if it can be managed.”

  “Very good, sir,” the first lieutenant replied, before flashing a look at Adams, the duty midshipman, who made off in search of the cook.