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

by Alaric Bond

  About them, men in other messes were deep into the evening stingo; beer that had been provided by a captain suitably appreciative of their support. Soon there would be singing and probably hornpipes to celebrate the recent victory and, more importantly, each man's survival of it. But in Flint's mess the atmosphere was far more reserved. They had no less to celebrate; all present appeared sound in wind and limb and each was down to receive a goodly sum in both prize and head money, while their recent experiences would have reassured them, yet again, of their apparent immortality. But even while calculations might have been done in private, in public there was a single concern, and that was for one of their messmates.

  “Any left in the pin, Ben?” Flint enquired, and the boy sprang up before collecting the small cask, and proceeding to fill each man's tankard in turn. But when he reached Ross, the seaman placed a hand over his pot.

  “None for you?” Flint asked, and Ross shook his head in a silence that was becoming far too common at their particular table.

  “There's a sight more space on the forms,” Cranston said eventually, more in an effort to promote conversation than anything else. But he was right; even allowing for Greg's absence, and with Ben unilaterally voting himself the right to join the men at the side of the table, there was no doubting they were fewer in number.

  “More will be allotted,” Flint sighed, with the air of one who had seen it all before. “In a month from now there'll be new faces that we'll already be sick of, and them what has died will probably be forgotten.”

  “That's assuming we haven't been sent to join 'em,” Jameson added brightly. There was a moment's stunned silence, then a ripple of laughter ran about the group.

  But one man's' participation was noticeable by its absence, and all eyes naturally turned to him.

  “You not joining us then, Ross?” Flint said, finally addressing the problem they had all been skirting. “Been as quiet as a cut-purse since the action, you has – them Frenchmen offend you?”

  “T'ain't the French, nor no one present,” Ross said slowly whilst staring into his mug as if it held some special secret. “And I apologise if I have offended.”

  “Man has a right to be quiet if he's wanting,” Flint told him gently. “But if there's trouble, and he can't share it with his mess, then it's a problem indeed.”

  “You've nothing to rebuke yourself for, if that's what's botherin',” Jameson added softly. “We all knows what you did on the gun deck and are grateful.”

  “Aye, pulled us all together like a proper officer,” Cranston agreed. “Like you was born to it.”

  “I was,” Ross said, his voice equally low and the words were greeted in hushed silence. For this was the moment when everything ended.

  Caulfield had been surprisingly reassuring, saying that court martial decisions could be challenged and, even if not, there was no reason why he should have to spend the rest of his life on the lower deck. Provisions could be made and rules bent. Volunteers, who wore similar uniforms to midshipmen and carried almost identical authority, were actually rated as able seamen on the ship's books; a man of his experience might be considered as such, until a more permanent solution were found.

  And indeed, Ross had no desire to remain an ordinary hand; in theory at least there was nothing he would have liked better than return to his previous position: go aft and resume being an officer in a fighting ship. But his time spent as a lower deck man aboard Prometheus had taught him more than he would have learned in a lifetime of walking quarterdecks, and he was strangely reluctant to leave.

  There was nothing unusual in any of the men; the same could be found in almost any vessel afloat and currently serving the king, yet it remained as hard to betray them as it would his own mother. And that is what he would be doing – that was what he had already done. Simply associating with officers was contrary to the ways of the lower deck; how they would react to the news they had been sharing their lives with one could hardly be imagined.

  “Spent six years as a mid., and five a lieutenant,” he continued, still staring fixedly at his beer. The noise was growing about them and his words were barely whispered, yet every man at the table heard and all then knew for certain exactly what they had been living alongside.

  “Now why doesn’t that amaze me?” Flint asked at last, and there was even a smattering of light laughter as Ross finally raised his head.

  All of his mess mates were staring in his direction, but as he met each man's gaze in turn, he realised there was a total lack of revelation on any of their faces. And neither was there animosity; over the time Ross had been part of the mess, his mates had become stupidly important to him and to be ostracised or excluded would have been one of the worst fates he could have imagined. But no, they were looking upon him kindly, as those who had a shared knowledge and it was clear that, however dreadful the crime he had imagined, none seemed particularly bothered. And neither were they in the least surprised.

  * * *

  “I understand that Mr Potterton was one of several recruited by your Lieutenant Lewis on the night of the seventeenth of June.”

  “The smugglers!” Caulfield said in sudden realisation, and Markham nodded.

  “Indeed so, there was a meeting at the Three Tuns, a local hostelry, and most of those present were known to be of such a calling,” he replied, his eyes twinkling. “But not so my client. Mr Potterton is actually joint freeholder of the establishment and, as such, it would seem he was seized in error.”

  “If that is the case, I am sure it was not intended,” Banks replied quickly. “You have proof, I have no doubt?”

  “None whatsoever,” Markham admitted blithely. “I have been informed of the fact merely by word alone, although it does bear the ring of truth. After over thirty years in legal practice one develops an ear for such things; a sixth sense, if you wish, and I would assess Mr Potterton to be of a trustworthy nature. The actual fact can certainly be tested although that would probably take some months, and my client hopes the effort will not be necessary.”

  “I cannot speak for his ethical status, but the man is an excellent cook,” Caulfield commented quietly. “And appears totally reliable: I would not think him capable of a blatant lie.”

  “You will no doubt be aware that illegal impressment is a felony?” Markham continued, more delicately. “If found guilty, an offender may face a fine, or possibly imprisonment.” He paused for no longer than a second but, even in that time, tension in the great cabin became almost tangible.

  “My client appears capable of proving his claim, yet to do so will actually aggravate the offence, as he would need to remain in the king's service for a longer period.” The lawyer relaxed in his chair and both officers sensed he was coming to a significant point. “Were you to authorise his release without putting him to such trouble, he would equally be happy to relinquish any claim for compensation; providing my office's modest fees are also met,” he added, more softly.

  “Well, it should be a pity to lose his services in the wardroom...” Caulfield began.

  “But I am sure we do not wish to make too much of the issue,” Banks interrupted. “Prometheus was ordered to sea almost immediately, otherwise a more detailed investigation would undoubtedly have taken place. But the service has no use for men taken illegally, and we shall be pleased to grant him his freedom without delay.”

  “He will also be due a tidy sum in prize money,” Caulfield added. “Certainly enough to set him up for life, should he so wish.”

  “I am confident my client will be happy to hear of it,” Markham lowered his head slightly. “But would judge Mr Potterton more than content to return to his former occupation, as he has one further request.”

  Once more the two officers exchanged glances, but said nothing.

  “There is a young lady aboard, I believe?” he continued. “A Miss Kinnison? Mr Potterton wondered if she might be permitted to accompany him.”

  “The old dog,” Caulfield said without thinking
, then hurriedly tried to take back the remark by clearing his throat.

  “Oh, I think the arrangement is purely professional,” the lawyer beamed. “Mr Potterton has enjoyed working with her, and feels she would be of benefit to his business. And Miss Kinnison has expressed an interest in joining him; it is as simple as that.”

  Banks looked over at Caulfield. “I would say that any harm the girl may have done has been more than outweighed by her efforts with the wounded,” he said.

  “To say nothing of her alerting me to that foolish duel,” the first lieutenant agreed. “I had already received word from the surgeon, but she was not to know that. She spoke out, when many would have held back, and may well have saved two lives.”

  “Then there is little left to be said.” Markham began to collect his papers. “The matter may be swiftly forgotten. I can thank you gentlemen for your time, and wish you well.” He stopped and regarded them both with a slight smile. “I was to have pursued a naval career myself but, alas, my father had other thoughts and it is the source of constant regret to me.”

  “There is one point you may be able to clear for us,” Caulfield said, as the man was preparing to rise. “We were about to discuss the matter before your arrival. Are you acquainted with every aspect of Naval law?”

  Markham looked suddenly alert. “I confess a working knowledge; one can hardly practice in Gibraltar without it. How may I assist?”

  “It is with regard to the findings of court martial; principally the sentence,” Banks explained.

  “Would this concern a certain William Ross?” Markham enquired, his eyes once more alight. And the hearing that took place in English Harbour, Antigua?”

  “You are familiar with the case?”

  “Mr Ross was to be my next call,” Markham confirmed. “He is also a client although, unusually, we have yet to meet: Lieutenant King was pleased to engage my services on his behalf. I understand the gentleman is also currently serving as a seaman aboard this ship?”

  “He is,” Caulfield admitted, while manfully avoiding Bank's stare.

  “Well, I am not at liberty to discuss the personal circumstances, but we are fortunate that court proceedings have been reported in some detail. The Naval Chronicle carried a significant piece in the last issue and there were also references in several London newspapers. Reading between the lines, I would say Mr Ross has attracted a deal of interest in England – as he would doubtlessly have discovered, had he delayed before accepting a berth in this ship.”

  “Interest, you say?” the captain grunted. He was aware that Ross had done well in the recent action, and held every sympathy for any man treated unjustly. But he was also instinctively suspicious of public attention, and certainly not sure if it were welcome on this occasion.

  “Indeed, and so he might,” Markham replied. “From what I read, there are a number of points regarding that particular tribunal that would benefit from professional consideration. Between ourselves, the president appears to have been wide of the mark on at least two points of law and decidedly so with regard to his summing up and sentence.”

  “Would you say it was a miscarriage of justice?” Caulfield asked.

  “Nothing of the sort,” Markham stated firmly. “Even when voiced as a casual opinion, such an assertion would be highly unprofessional. However, the verdict has yet to be confirmed by London, and that is by no means a certainty when dealing with the Leewards. Should the Admiralty see fit to do so, I feel we would have sufficient grounds for appeal. That is based on what I have already discovered: a thorough examination of the papers may well bring forth further issues.”

  There was a silence as Banks and Caulfield considered this, then Markham continued.

  “It is a sad fact that many trials conducted on foreign stations are not carried out with strict regard to legal procedure. Indeed, there are frequently times when the facts are disregarded in favour of friendships and associations. Normally such patronage is allowed, especially when intended for leniency although, in this particular instance, it would seem the very reverse was the case.”

  “You believe Ross was used as a scapegoat?” Banks suggested, but still Markham would not be drawn.

  “I shall say nothing further until my requested copy of the court records has been delivered,” he said. “But, as I have said, the subject appears to have already attracted a deal of public sympathy. Such incidents are an embarrassment to the Admiralty and I should go so far as to predict their Lordships would greatly prefer the whole thing to be swiftly forgotten.” He paused. “You would not be surprised to discover how often cases can be solved in such a manner.”

  The lawyer regarded both officers for a moment. It was as if his words might carry some special significance to them, although neither Banks nor Caulfield seemed particularly sensitive to their meaning.

  “Do you think the court martial decision might be quashed?” the first lieutenant persisted.

  “Not quashed, as such,” Markham replied. “But, if confirmed, Mr Ross is probably entitled to a re-trial at the very least. However, from what I gather, there was never any question of him being dismissed the service as such: even to have his commission revoked might well be considered harsh and, as I have said, has yet to be confirmed by London. Consequently, and despite what the president might have stated, I would doubt an official block on further progress to his Naval career exists or, if it does, will be upheld.”

  “So I might at least appoint him midshipman?” Banks asked.

  “I would be surprised if such an action were challenged.” Markham's previous smile returned. “Indeed, he may well be entitled to a return of his commission. And if not, I might anticipate any recommendation from a future lieutenants' board would also be looked upon favourably. Frankly, gentlemen, I judge Mr Ross to have been abominably ill treated, and predict any truly impartial judge would have no hesitation in both agreeing, and putting matters to right.”

  Epilogue

  “I understand Mr King is continuing to show signs of improvement,” Manning said, as he followed the duty loblolly boy into the sick berth.

  “He is indeed, sir,” Wells agreed. “Miss Kinnison's with him now. But then there ain't so much time as she's not with one or other of the patients,” he added, and Manning noted that considerably more respect was now being paid to Judy.

  The ship had been at anchor for more than a week and, although the small room still held six filled bunks, its patients had less severe injuries. This was not entirely due to Manning's care; most of the more complicated cases had been transferred to the Naval hospital ashore. A few might grow better, and some could even find themselves taken aboard another ship in time. But the outlook for most of the current inhabitants of Prometheus' sick berth was far more hopeful. All had stated their intention of staying with the ship and most could be expected to take an active part in her future. Most, but not all, as there was still a rhetorical question mark hovering above Lieutenant King.

  Without doubt he was a far stronger man than the one transferred from the cockpit nine days earlier. There was more colour in his face, and Judy stoutly maintained some weight had been added. But it was equally definite that he was not out of the woods and, in his professional capacity, Manning was forced to remain cautious. His friend had survived the initial trauma and so far the wound was mending, but experience told him there was a good way to go before he could be confident of a full recovery.

  “Well, you certainly seem to be eating well enough,” Manning conceded. “And soup yet again,” he added, eyeing the empty bowl that Judy had been feeding King from. “Why, if you take any more chicken, I shall expect you to turn into one.”

  “That's not how it works at all, Robert,” King replied seriously. His voice, though weak, was richer now, and this was the first time the surgeon had noticed the welcome hint of humour. “I should have thought a medical man would have known better.”

  “How is the arm?” Manning asked, reverting to his professional role.
>
  “It is much improved,” King replied, flexing his left hand: the limb had been badly cut and was still swathed in bandages. “Still very stiff, and I cannot raise it.”

  “Then do not attempt to; the time for physical exercise will come soon enough, but better, for now, to place no strain upon it unnecessarily.” Indeed, it would not, Manning thought grimly. He alone knew how piecemeal his repairs had been, although it was the chest wound that caused him true concern.

  Many layers of tissue and muscle had been bound together with horse hair and catgut, in a way that would never have impressed a shore-based surgeon. But then few in general practice knew the need for tending to one patient while keeping a wary eye on those that were to follow. Over sixty men had been injured aboard Prometheus during the recent action, and only slightly less than half received exclusive attention from Manning himself. Yet he could have spent the entire thirteen hour spell of duty on three or four cases alone. King's wounds would normally have required the care of two surgeons, and probably an operation lasting a good deal longer than the fifteen minutes allowed.

  But the end result seemed sound enough, and Manning was cautiously confident as he removed the single outer bandage that had taken the place of King's previous full chest wrap.

  “Will you be travelling soon?” he asked, and it took a second or two for the others to realise he was addressing Judy.

  “I – I hope to leave on Monday,” she told him. Mr Potterton has arranged cabins for us both aboard the general packet. It is fortunate, she sails straight from here to Tor Bay, with perhaps only one call at the Tagus.”

  “That was your home, as I recall,” Manning commented, as the bandage came away. “You do not wish to return to Portugal permanently?”

  “No, those days are gone,” she laughed. “I see my future at the Three Tuns, Galmpton; it sounds a fine place, and I know I shall be happy working with Mr P.”