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

by Alaric Bond

  When it came it was sudden, but lacked ingenuity. An abrupt lunge for the larboard bulwark and, with the agility of his type, the newcomer was over the side and had apparently disappeared before they knew it. Cartwright exchanged glances with Steven as a loud splash marked the man's landing, and the two officers strolled laconically across to peer over the top rail.

  “Belay that,” Cartwright grunted to the marine posted at the main channel. The sentry, who had been quick to raise his musket at the prospect of enlivening a dreary watch, lowered the weapon reluctantly and gave an audible sigh. “But you can keep an eye on those two,” the warrant officer added, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

  The man in the water had recovered himself to some extent and, in the main, was staying near the surface. But like the vast majority of seamen, he was plainly unable to swim, and Cartwright supposed it a measure of his desperation that such a means of escape was even considered. The boat that had delivered him still lay close by, and the young midshipman directed it over to the now struggling fugitive. In no time the sodden body had been dragged, dripping yet still objecting, into the sternsheets.

  “Are we going to try again?” Cartwright asked when the man had been sent up the entry port steps for the second time and stood on the main deck once more. “You can do that as often as you wish, but we'll always get you back. And there'll be some not quite so lenient as me.”

  The seaman seemed to accept Cartwright's logic and finally met his gaze. The two considered each other for a second or so, then the warrant officer tipped his head towards where the remaining two recruits were standing.

  “Get yourselves below, and we'll say no more about it.” he said. Cartwright was fortunate in always choosing his berth, but he had been around pressed men long enough to appreciate something of their despair. And scant good would be served if the newcomer was called up on a charge – some might say a sound flogging would deter others, but if a man unable to swim was prepared to try and make it half way across the harbour, there was surely little that would truly discourage him.

  “Get that mess swabbed up,” the master's mate told a nearby hand when the men were gone. A sizeable puddle of seawater had been left as a reminder of the incident: the sun was sure to burn it off in no time, but Cartwright would prefer to avoid any need for explanations. He knew he had bent the rules in not reporting the attempted escape, but felt there was reason enough behind the action. And, as he had been in nominal command of the ship at the time, the decision had surely been his to make.

  Chapter Two

  “Starboard watch be ready,” Simmonds, the boatswain's mate, warned the deck in general as mess tables were cleared of all traces of breakfast, and men prepared themselves for labour. The short and slightly stout petty officer watched them for a moment, then sauntered over to the nearest group and sought out Flint, the seaman who led them. “Chips says your lot may as well continue where you left off yes'day.”

  “Right oh, Mr Simmonds.” Flint turned to Ross, the new man in his mess. He appeared to be a regular seaman, but there was something fragile and strangely vulnerable about him, and Flint had already decided he needed careful watching. “We been on caulkin' duty the last three days,” he told him. “So don't wear anythin' you was akeepin' for Sunday.”

  Ross had only been on the lower deck a matter of hours and was still getting used to the dramatic change in conditions. Sleeping in a hammock slung in tiers between other men had been a very different prospect from his former accommodation, while merely being aboard a king's ship again, yet excluded from the quarterdeck and command, made his fall from grace that much more apparent. But he was grateful for the information, and pulled his second pair of trousers from the ditty bag.

  “Bit of luck we'll see it finished this watch,” Jameson, who was one of the younger members of the mess, muttered to no one in particular.

  “Aye, but there's plenty more for you after that,” the boatswain's mate commented loudly. “We're about as ready for the sea as my wife's mother – though I might be wrong in that, as they do say witches float.”

  There was a ripple of appreciative laughter from the mess, and they formed up all the more readily for work. Ross had already noticed Simmonds. He might be a petty officer, but the man remained very much one of the hands and understood them as well as he did their humour. In his former life Ross had known such men existed: indeed he had fully appreciated their importance to the efficiency and well being of a crew. But this was the first time he had seen one in action, and from the lower deck's perspective. Even from such a brief example he could tell that the boatswain's mate was solid, and maintained good discipline. And it would be delivered with the tact and understanding that no commissioned officer could hope to emulate from their exalted position.

  This was just one of several similar revelations: in the last few hours Ross had learned far more about the average seaman than he had in nearly fifteen years at sea. Such insight would have been precious until only a few months ago but now, with no chance of his ever walking a quarterdeck again, it was of dubious value. And, considering the amount he had to learn about his new life, pretty much a waste of time.

  In fact, the faster he stopped thinking and acting like an officer the better. One thing he had always known about the lower deck was their ability to detect forgeries. The majority of everyday scoundrels would be tolerated, but thieves, cheats and liars drew very short shrift. Should it be discovered that he was once a lieutenant, in itself a heinous crime, and had attempted to cover the fact up, banishment to the ignominy of a pariah mess was the very least he might expect. Consequently the sooner he could get his new status accepted by the other men, the better.

  “I'd thought you a topman,” he said to Jameson, in an effort to strike up conversation. “Why then the caulking detail?”

  “Just lucky, I'd chance,” the young man replied with an ironic smirk. “The barky needs more work below than aloft, so I don't gets the option.”

  Ross felt a little easier for the exchange, even if Jameson's answer was slightly worrying. Prometheus must be far shorter of hands than he had first thought. That, combined with the number of small jobs and adjustments needed; tasks that should not have been necessary after the ship had been in dockyard hands, must be causing her lieutenants countless worries. He consoled himself with the thought that this was the first time since his court martial when he was actually glad not to be a lieutenant, and that such problems were now someone else’s to solve.

  “Aye, we've more than enough to do, and no time to do it in,” Flint agreed laconically.

  “Just what degree of re-fit has she seen?” Ross asked mildly.

  He was changing his trousers; the white ducks bought from a Brixham pawnbroker and worn the previous night were of no great quality but remained his best. They were still slightly damp from that morning's holystoning, but would be completely ruined were he to wear them whilst working with hot pitch.

  “How do you mean?” Jameson asked sharply, and Ross brought his mind back to the real world.

  “Well, aren't there various forms?” He began hesitantly, conscious that the rest of the mess had quietened to hear his reply. “A minor repair would only see the ship docked a few months, whereas a full refit can be several years' work.”

  One of the others that Ross had barely met was treating him to a quizzical look. “And you want to know what the dockyard has done to her?”

  “Aye,” another agreed, fixing Ross with his stare. “Why would you be asking that, I wonder?”

  A cold thrill ran down the new man's spine as he realised his question had overstepped the mark. Even when an officer, Ross had known that few seamen thought beyond their immediate world. He hurried to make amends. “No reason,” he said. “Other than she's fresh from dry, yet we seem to have a deal to do in putting her straight.”

  “But those dockyard mateys never were up to much,” Flint said soothingly, and the tension eased. “And since Old Jarvie started mes
sin' with them, they gone a whole lot deeper.”

  “Aye, bent as a fiddler's arm, they were,” another seaman added. “But at least you knew where you was with them. Now they still robs you blind but no one can tell how or where.”

  The last man to speak was a round faced cheerful sort with remarkably few teeth: Ross remembered him from the previous night, but could not recall his name. He knew the words to be true, though; it was hardly two years since he himself had been supervising Wakeful's commissioning. And he didn't need any reminding of the corrupt ways of those in power.

  “Well that's as maybe, but you still got a foredeck to caulk,” the boatswain's mate interrupted. “And the sooner you're up on deck, the sooner you'll finish. There's rain expected later, and we don't want to get all wet now, do we?”

  * * *

  The picture was an incredibly good likeness. It had been sketched by the rector's wife in crayon but, although smartly framed and with a generous border, was still almost too small to display. It also showed his son in baby clothes, whereas John was almost a lad now, and would soon be in britches. But as Sir Richard Banks walked about the great cabin, so much larger and more comfortable than the captain's quarters in a frigate, he quickly found the ideal place. It was by the transom knee, where it would hang well enough next to the slightly more professional portrait of Sarah, his wife. He held the sketch up and nodded to himself noting, with approval, that there was even space for further pictures should it be required.

  He placed the sketch back on the already cluttered table, and peered once more into the wooden packing case. It was one of many his wife had sent down from their Hampshire home and seemed to contain mainly personal effects. Some he was familiar with, and had already accompanied him to sea for many years: others were purchased by Sarah at his request, with the remainder being small gifts apparently included on her initiative.

  He picked out his old velvet housewife, bought when he was first commissioned as a lieutenant, and laid it to one side. In it would be his tortoiseshell comb, various brushes, scissors and a somewhat bent tooth pick. Next there was a brightly polished wooden box, which must be the new razor he had requested. He opened the lid and glanced inside; there were actually seven matched blades, one for every day of the week, and each set in identical carved bone handles. They were smart, and obviously of a very high quality, but a box of razors was an unnecessary extravagance as both he, and his body servant, were perfectly capable of maintaining an edge.

  Glancing into the crate again, he scowled slightly, before bringing out a succession of small bottles. Most were hair oil, scent or other such potions and clearly Sarah's attempt at seeing he was well cared for. Banks placed them in a neat line: he had never used perfume or powder and, even though he was now a senior captain, had no intention of starting.

  At the bottom of the case was a collection of books; he picked up several and skimmed the titles before dropping them back. Novels and poetry: whatever had she been thinking of? Sarah had sailed with him in the past and really should know that diversions or amusement of any kind had no place in the life of a fighting officer.

  Then Banks remembered he had been resting for over a year, and possibly his wife now saw a different side to him. It had been his first extended time ashore both as a husband and, latterly, a father. But while he was relearning social skills at the dining table, and discovering the joys of parenthood, his new command had been in the hands of an Admiralty dockyard. In consequence he now felt rusty and ill-prepared for the task ahead, whereas the tool he was to use had, in theory at least, been cleaned, honed and sharpened to perfection.

  HMS Prometheus was by no means freshly built but, at over sixteen hundred tons, she was undoubtedly large and, when Banks had first paced about her lower decks in the company of his first lieutenant, he had wondered quite what they were taking on. Laid down almost thirty years ago, the battleship's timbers were massive, compared with those of the fifth rate frigate he had last commanded, while her main armament – two full decks of eighteen and thirty-two pound long guns, with additional carronades to forecastle and quarterdeck – was more than sufficient to claim her place in the line-of-battle. It had been like inspecting a cathedral, when he was used to country chapels, and Banks had been suitably humbled.

  But despite her time in dockyard hands, there was still an inherent smell of rot in the bilges and both men were quick to notice many small jobs that should have been attended to, but instead had been botched or simply ignored. From speaking with other captains, Banks already knew this to be common: Lord St Vincent's recent reformations might have been intended to eliminate corruption in his Majesty's dockyards, but their performance had undoubtedly been weakened in the process and it was universally agreed that both the standard of repair, as well as materials used, were far inferior.

  Banks wondered, not for the first time, if he had made the right choice in accepting the line-of-battleship. His recent exploits had earned him a deal of credit with the Admiralty; if he had chosen to stand by Scylla, his old frigate, he might well be in the middle of an independent assignment by now; maybe even a cruise. Britain's declaration of war had taken Bonaparte by surprise coming, as it had, at a time when almost the entire French merchant fleet was at sea. There would have been fortunes to be made for those in the right place, and he had undoubtedly missed out on his share. But Banks was not a greedy man and had already done well with regards to prize money. Ignoring earlier accomplishments, his recent reward for taking one French fifth-rate, sinking two corvettes, and recapturing a Company packet in the South Atlantic had been substantial, and would keep his family comfortably for many years to come. Besides, he had wanted a ship-of-the-line; perhaps it was age, or maybe even marriage and parenthood, but the cut and dash of a frigate no longer appealed and he preferred the sheer might his present command gave him.

  He looked about as he thought. The captain's accommodation in Prometheus was truly sumptuous, with a fine spread of stern windows, a separate sleeping area, and quarter galleries the size of many officers' cabins. His servants, who were numerous, had access to a pantry that would shame most domestic kitchens, while the long dining table that was more or less permanently set up in the great cabin, could seat twelve in comfort and still allow room for other furniture as well as waiting personnel. The spell on land with all that it entailed had made Banks appreciate such luxury and there was no doubt he had also grown portly, both in mind and body. The slight belly that was a new acquisition would doubtless reduce with active service, but attitudes and expectations were a different matter.

  He knew he was no longer a frigate captain; those days had long passed. Smaller ships were for young men; they might be more likely to see action, but little can truly be achieved by capturing a merchant or sinking a privateer. The proper role of a frigate remained to bring fleets of warhorses such as Prometheus into contact with those of the enemy: it was such encounters which made a difference and truly decided the outcome of a war.

  However, much of his time was likely to be spent on blockade, while enemy shipping, though possibly in sight, would remain tantalisingly out of reach and protected by fire from shore batteries, should he steer too close. And with a dangerous coast ever present – ever ready to trap him and his ship with treacherous shoals or an uncharted rock, it would be no holiday. Blockade duty was also slow and monotonous, taking its toll on both fabric and men; a constant crossing of the same tightrope might become commonplace in time but the inherent danger remained and, as he returned the perfumes and lotions to join the books in their crate, Banks knew he would have no energy to waste on such nonsense.

  He turned from the box, picked up the picture of John once more, then replaced it rather guiltily on the table as his body servant entered the great cabin.

  “There are some more personal things here, David,” he told him. “See to them, will you? Most can go in the quarter gallery or my sleeping cabin; the books I am not so certain of.”

  “Those bookcase
s we have are already filled, sir,” the young man told him seriously. “But I can ask Chips to make up some more; maybe they could go in the coach?”

  “Do that, will you, but don't give it importance, I am certain Mr Roberts is busy enough with the ship working up.” Indeed the carpenter and his team, which represented one of the larger departments in a third rate, would be fully employed for some time to come and Banks had no intention of diverting him merely for the storage of books that would never be read. He indicated the picture of John with elaborate casualness. “But if he could send a hand to fix this next to the portrait of Lady Banks, I should be obliged. There is no urgency, however.”

  “I can rig that for you, sir,” David told him cheerfully, picking up the picture and smiling with genuine affection at the boy's image. “Won't take no time at all.”

  “Thank you, I would appreciate that,” Banks muttered, grateful, yet again, to have an efficient man at his side. David was a former slave, freed on his voyage to St. Helena roughly two years ago. Since then he had proved a loyal steward, both on the journey back, and in the house Banks and Sarah had taken near Southsea. In all that time David had never undertaken anything beyond him, and the more Banks grew to know the man, the more he was impressed by his many skills.

  “Have the rest of the cabin stores been taken aboard?” he asked, and the servant gave one of his customary full grins.

  “Oh yes, sir, though we have more than expected. Her ladyship has added items not requested, and we have a deal too much of everythin' else. There is coffee, preserves and dried fruit to supply much of the ship and I've had to store some wine in your sleeping quarters, as the sailing master says the spirit room is expected to be filled by the time we sail.”