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

by Alaric Bond

  Soon the entire deck was vibrating with the rumble of trucks and erratic, but almost constant, discharges from cannon that Ross was starting to consider his own. He checked through the nearest port: they were hardly moving; apparently the captain had hauled in their wind, so now it was all down to the speed of his gunners.

  Another broadside was received from the French, again simultaneous, and again the lower deck did not suffer greatly, although Ross heard the extended crash and clatter from above that might be falling tophamper. But the mere fact that the enemy was not trusting their gunners to fire independently was a strong indication of their lack of practice, and Ross was growing increasingly confident as he prowled behind his straining teams.

  “You there, Carter,” he bellowed, just as the nearest cannon erupted, adding, “make up as shot-and-wad man on number seven,” when the deafening noise had subsided. The curly, red-haired Londoner who was part of a full team obediently presented himself to Hill, now down to five servers, and soon became integrated within his unit.

  Once more there was a lack of fire from further forward; a larboard gun had been hit muzzle on, and was lying diagonally across the deck, with the remains of some who had attended it sprawled ungainly about. Hurle, one of the gunner's mates, was bellowing at a group of powder monkeys. Debris was scattered across the deck and the boys were finding it hard to pass. As Ross watched, the petty officer organised an improvised human chain that covered the explosives' final journey; the boys would be able to remain relatively stationary, and throw the charges from one to the other, rather than running with them. It was a method that had worked on previous occasions and he was glad to see Hurle resorting to it without reference to him. As soon as the charges were reaching their rightful place, Ross gave a wave of thanks to the gunner's mate. The gesture was returned by Hurle with a nod, followed by the briefest touch of his forehead that owed nothing to irony.

  * * *

  But none of this mattered to those on the quarterdeck; as far as the officers, now gathered about the larboard bulwark were concerned, Prometheus was simply fighting well. Long guns from both upper and lower batteries were keeping up an incessant pounding that was supplemented in no small way by the forecastle and quarterdeck carronades. Even her marines, rigid lined yet firing independently, seemed to be sniping effectively at any hint of movement on their opponent's deck. The flickering flares from British cannon fire cast the scene in an unearthly, ever changing, light and it was obvious to all that the French broadsides, still simultaneous even this deep into the action, were becoming slower, and less blinding. Prometheus was missing her jib boom, and the lower mainmast had been struck by a heavy round shot that remained partially embedded in its mass. But Banks had long since discounted any further movement; they could be kept on station easily enough with what sail-power remained and he had no wish or need to board while they could continue to hand out such a drubbing.

  “Frenchie's taking damage,” Caulfield bellowed, inches from his captain's ear and Banks could only agree. Discounting the hull shots, that would have caused far more injury to those within than could be seen, the two-decker was slowly being stripped of her fittings. Both anchors had been knocked clear, while the channels and dead-eyes were a tangle of wood and line to the extent that it appeared the mizzen mast at least was not fully supported. And to make matters worse, some variance in the current was steadily turning her bows away. This was forcing the French gunners to train their pieces further and further aft in order to continue firing on their tormentor, while slowly, but inevitably, their own vulnerable stern was being presented for attack.

  After half an hour the French ship was apparently little more than a wreck. Banks waited until several minutes had passed beyond the time when another enemy broadside could be expected, then turned to the first lieutenant. ““Cease fire,” he said, and Caulfield duly fumbled for his silver whistle before sounding three long blasts. It still took considerable time for relative peace to arrive; some of the gun crews being so immersed in their work that they had to be physically alerted to the order, and even then the ear-ringing echoes of such recent cacophony were almost deafening in themselves.

  “Hail them, if you please, Mr Brehaut.”

  “Vous rendez-vous?” The sailing master's voice rolled over the short distance to no immediate response. Together with silence, the lack of cannon fire meant that darkness had also returned and nothing of substance could be made out on the enemy's deck. From far off came the distant sound of battle – presumably Canopus was engaging the second Frenchman – but little more. Then there was a muffled shout that certainly came from their enemy, followed by the continuous ringing of the ship's bell. There was no sign of further fire from the battered battleship and gradually those aboard Prometheus began to draw breath.

  “Do we have any boats that will swim?” Banks asked, and the first lieutenant looked suddenly awkward.

  “That I could not say, sir. But I'd chance we might risk a light to find out.”

  “Send a party across when you have,” Banks agreed. “Both cutters if they survive, otherwise the launch. Marine complement, carpenter's mates and enough seamen to see them straight. I'd like at least sixty men,” he added then, remembering his recent experience: “And as many French speakers as we possess; Mr Brehaut, would you oblige us?”

  “I should be happy to, sir,” the sailing master replied formally. There would be little called from him until morning and, although he was not a military man as such, Brehaut could not ignore the opportunity to extend his stock of charts: French cartographers being amongst the best in the world. “But I should prefer it if a regular officer accompanies me also.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Banks agreed. Then, as a thought occurred, he gave a tired smile. “Be so good as to send for Mr King,” he said to a nearby midshipman. “He has received so many of our captures in the past, it would surely tempt fate not to allow him the honour on this occasion.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dawn found them victorious but exhausted. Canopus continued an erratic bombardment of the second battleship for less than fifteen minutes after Prometheus' opponent struck then, as if sensing defeat, the final Frenchman followed suit. The remaining dark hours were spent making good; carpenters, boatswains, sailmakers and their teams did what they could to secure the vessels while medical parties from all ships shared men and resources in a combined effort to save lives. Aries used the time clearing all from the burning French liner; a dangerous task that constantly exposed rescuers and rescued alike to the danger of explosion, and it was almost with relief that the stricken ship finally slipped beneath the waves with the first light of day. Prize crews were arranged for the two remaining captures; one was taken under tow and, by noon, the battered squadron had already set course for Gibraltar.

  In Prometheus, much still needed to be done. The boatswain and his team had performed wonders with her tophamper; she now boasted a fresh jib boom while a series of stout splints set tight about her damaged main were judged adequate enough to see her back to the British port. And there was the usual detritus of battle to contend with: lads were sent to sluice the dales and scuppers, first with raw sea water then ever increasing ratios of vinegar. Guns were remounted, and shot holes stoppered until, by the time the bell had rung for the first dog watch, Prometheus was fit to fight another extended action at a moment's notice. But there was little of the usual good humour and celebration common at the end of battle.

  The British were cheerful enough, and none would have swapped places with their French prisoners, but all were equally aware that victory had been won at the cost of many lives. And in addition, a good few hours' sailing would be needed to see them safely back to harbour. Once there, once they were truly safe, the celebrations could begin in earnest. Stories told, songs sung and fallen colleagues solemnly honoured, but, while a fresh enemy could be sighted at any time, this was just an interlude: the fight was not truly finished.

  And for some, i
t had only just begun. Harrison, the toothless server from Flint's team waited several hours to meet with Mr Manning. And when he did his examination was brief, with the subsequent operation taking hardly any longer. Within ten minutes of being passed into the surgeon's care, both legs had been removed above the knee and the best Harrison could hope for was a life that could no longer include his chosen profession. Lewis too was wounded although the musket ball in his shoulder proved relatively easy to remove and, with an arm swathed in bandages and set tight against his chest, the lieutenant quickly returned to duty. But with King there was no such possibility and, as the surgeon pored over his wound under the doubtful light of the sick berth's lantern, he was not encouraged.

  “He is weak and has lost blood,” Manning told Judy. The woman had been working tirelessly for all the wounded throughout the night and naturally gravitated to the sick berth when the more serious patients were moved there. “I would have him wake and take proper fluid, but fear he will be in pain, which might upset the sutures,” he added sadly.

  “But he cannot last for long on that,” she said, indicating, with disdain, the dark glass bottle Manning carried.

  “I would concur: there is small enough curative power in laudanum,” the surgeon agreed. “But, at this stage, oblivion is the best I can provide for him.”

  She nodded, although it was clear the answer had not sufficed.

  “He will be well in time,” Manning continued, feeling only mildly guilty about breaking his rule for honest prognosis. King's condition was not without hope, but no good would be served by being too accurate.

  “And you yourself must take rest,” he told her, switching his professional attention to the girl. “All are as stable as we could wish. Take a few hours, and come back refreshed; I shall authorise soup for later this morning; it will give them strength and your help would be appreciated then.”

  “Very well,” she said, rising up from her place next to King's bunk. “But I will not feed them that portable stuff. The Dear knows what goes in to make such a vile concoction: there is likely to be more goodness in the pan that boils it.”

  * * *

  “And you placed yourself in charge of the entire lower gun deck?” Caulfield asked flatly. They were in the chart room, which was one of the more orderly areas of Prometheus and, although small, proved ideal for such an interview. Ross stood to one side of the table and the first lieutenant sat back in his chair as he regarded him.

  “I did, sir,” the seaman replied, his eyes staring straight ahead at the spirketting above Caulfield's head.

  “Rather an unusual move for an able seaman, was it not?” the officer questioned.

  “Perhaps, sir,” Ross acknowledged, but said no more.

  “Especially one that has only recently joined the ship, and professed no prior knowledge of guns, nor their care or organisation.”

  This time Ross remained silent although the first lieutenant, it appeared, was not requiring an answer but seemed content to conduct the interview from his perspective alone.

  “However, you are to be commended,” he continued, relaxing slightly. “Indeed, from what I hears, you handled the men with all the skill of an old hand.” Caulfield’s attention was still upon him but Ross' gaze did not alter, and neither did the eyes flicker for an instant.

  “Or is 'old hand' the wrong term?” the first lieutenant enquired. “Perhaps you may think of another?”

  “I have asked for nothing,” Ross said quietly. “I did what I had to because the situation demanded it; no more.”

  “But you do deserve recognition; a promotion at least,” Caulfield allowed, and then drew a deep sigh. “Indeed, Ross, it appears we are very much in your debt,” he continued. “Look, sit down man, do; this is a foolish situation.”

  The seaman's eyes finally fell, and met those of the first lieutenant; then he settled himself somewhat stiffly on the only other chair in the tiny room.

  “That is better,” Caulfield told him, softening further. “Now, what say you tell me your story, and we shall see what can be done about it?”

  * * *

  “There's a Mr Markham to see the second lieutenant,” the boy said uncertainly as he stood at the door to the great cabin. “I have said Mr King is not to be disturbed, and he asked to speak with you, sir. I take him to be some kind of lawyer.”

  “How many forms does such a thing take?” Banks asked Caulfield then, turning back to the midshipman, “Very good, Mr Adams; you may show him in.”

  Prometheus had been at anchor in Gibraltar's crowded harbour for two extremely busy days. In that time her hull had been surveyed and judged reasonably sound, with only minor damage below the waterline. But there was considerable work needed above, to say nothing of the fresh lower mainmast and larboard fore channel and chains. Nothing was beyond the considerable capabilities of Gibraltar's dockyard, but knowing that the ship would not be returning to open water for at least six weeks had instilled a holiday attitude in at least two of her officers.

  And the caller actually turned out to be one of the better examples of his breed, causing Banks and Caulfield to be cautiously impressed. Markham was an older man, certainly sixty yet with a full head of white, unpowdered hair that emphasised his deep Mediterranean tan. Well and soberly dressed, there was the air of polite efficiency about him, and both officers recognised more than a casual interest in his surroundings.

  “I am certain you have better things to do with your time, gentlemen,” Markham assured them, when they were all three seated at the large table. The room, only recently returned to use as the captain's dining cabin, was splendidly lit by an afternoon sun shining through the magically unbroken stern windows, and few could have guessed that Prometheus had been fighting for her life only a matter of days before. The lawyer opened the thin leather case in front of him and removed a sheaf of papers. “And, after such a valiant action – I must confess to feeling slightly abashed at disturbing the heroes of the hour.”

  “Your business was with Thomas King, I believe,” Banks commented, and Markham looked up sharply.

  “So it is, Sir Richard. But I understand Mr King is indisposed and, as the subject also concerns yourself, I had hoped to speak with you in his absence.”

  “Very well,” Banks replied guardedly. If King was involved, this could only be a naval matter and presumably Sarah, or his immediate family, were not concerned. But still he disliked dealing with lawyers and, pleasant though Markham might appear, instinctively wished him gone.

  “Indeed it should be addressed immediately, sir.” The lawyer paused in sorting his documents to regard Banks with a more serious expression. “And would be in your personal interest if so.”

  “Very well,” Banks replied. “Perhaps you would care to elaborate?”

  “It is the case of one of your men; a Michael, Ian, Potterton; you are aware of the fellow?”

  Banks looked to his first lieutenant who shrugged. “He is of the wardroom catering staff,” Caulfield replied. “A cook, and a very good one; of late he has been given charge of all senior officer victualling and I was to apply for him to be warranted. But as to his personal affairs, I know nothing.”

  “In a ship that must hold many hundreds of men, that is no surprise, I am sure,” Markham allowed. “Perhaps I should enlighten you further?”

  * * *

  The original mess tables had been replaced, as well as both benches, and the racks that held their eclectic selection of tableware were once more filled. Some of the latter had been confused with those of Sanderson's mess which was adjoining, but the surviving members of Flint's team soon reclaimed their own, and the rest no longer mattered.

  They were actually five men down in all: or six, if Ross were counted. Thompson and Billings were killed in that first, devastating, broadside which had also wounded Harrison. He had since been transferred to the shore hospital; a place known more for receiving contributions than returning them. Potterton and Greg were missing for less dismal reas
ons. The former had been transferred out some while back, and now messed with the wardroom stewards, whereas Greg, only a gun room man and so not entitled to any privileges, had been called for extra duty. And Ross, though present, was also somehow absent.

  Following the action, he had returned to duty as an ordinary hand, resisting all requests for explanation and even ignoring the several personal approaches from members of his own mess. Instead, he carried out his work with quiet efficiency, but kept himself at a distance, refusing to discuss any issue beyond the immediate task and blocking all attempts at conversation or discourse. Even when addressed by petty officers, enquiries were deflected by blank looks and a mumbled denial that he had done anything out of the ordinary, while deeper questioning was met with a stark refusal to explain further: something that, at other times, might have placed him on a charge for insolence. Only in his recent interview with the first lieutenant had he consented to speak further, as well as revealing more of his personal history than he wished. And when he had, there was no feeling of relief from sharing the sorry tale; rather the opposite. That someone else was now aware of his plight had not softened it at all, but only confirmed his inner fear that, inevitably, it would become common knowledge.

  However, for the past few days there had been far too many calls on everyone's time to bother about a single man's behaviour. With damage both aloft and alow, Prometheus needed extensive work before she could set sail for home. And when that had been achieved, the not inconsiderable responsibility of two captures and the remains of three enemy crews to supervise served to make the journey back to Gibraltar exhausting for everybody. But now they were safely under the care of her dockyard and protected by mighty shore-based batteries there was slightly more time, and Ross guessed his actions would not remain ignored for very much longer.