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

by Alaric Bond

  It was so like Sarah to be doubly sure he was well provided for. His personal livestock had yet to be delivered and Banks dared not guess what she had ordered there, or where it would be put.

  “I am sure you will cope, and do, of course, use any space you require.”

  “Very good, sir; I shall see to it.”

  As soon as he was alone, Banks slumped down on the easy chair that was another unrequested addition from Sarah, and wished all his problems might be confined to finding storeroom. Ignoring the work needed correcting her shoddy repairs, Prometheus was desperately short of men, and those she did carry seemed to be mainly landsmen or ordinary hands. All could be trained up, of course, but that would take time, and they were still seventy or so actual bodies short, with little likelihood of correcting the deficiency before they were to sail. Fortunately he had a good set of officers, with many known to him through two previous ships, while those sent to supplement what would be the largest wardroom he had ever commanded carried excellent references.

  He relaxed against the upholstered back of the chair that was surely much too comfortable for shipboard use. Glancing at the deckhead, Banks noted the heavy timbers supporting the poop above. They seemed unnecessarily substantial for what was in effect a light platform, and one that did not even boast a single gun. The beams seemed to sum up Prometheus perfectly: she was as tough as they came, and might as easily have been hewn from granite as the solid, seasoned oak that actually made up her frame. Most single deckers could out-sail her on a bowline but, with the wind on the quarter and a pleasing sea, the old girl would still show a fair turn of speed. Once they had a full crew and had attended to her deficiencies, she should be able to stand up to anything the weather could produce, while the two decks of heavy cannon could deliver a punch capable of sinking whatever was foolish enough to chance too close.

  He found himself smiling slightly at the thought and, poorly prepared, ill manned and untested as she was, realised he was already becoming attached to his new command. There would be discoveries to be made and doubtless disappointments to come but, even after so short a time, Banks felt confident in his line-of-battleship and knew she would never let him down. He simply hoped to be in a position to return the favour.

  * * *

  “If it's men you're a wanting, I know where some can be found.” The woman's voice was low but clear, and Lewis, on his way below and with his mind somewhere else entirely, found himself stopping to consider her words. She must have come from one of the victualling hoys, and really should have stayed in the vessel – women visitors only being encouraged aboard H.M. ships as guests of officers, or when the wedding garland was raised. But Lewis knew from one look that she was of the kind well able to take care of herself. Short, thickset and dressed in an aged watchcoat, the woman stood solid on the half deck as if ready to resist any form of opposition. And her stare was bold and direct; with penetrating eyes that shone white in contrast to the grime on her face. There was a job to be done; she would do it, and no one was going to stop her.

  “If you know of trained hands I should of course be interested,” Lewis said, cautiously. “Perhaps you would wish to speak with our first lieutenant in the wardroom?”

  “I'll stay where I am, if you don't mind, Captain,” the woman replied. “If they sees me going below the talk will follow: I'm not proud of what I'm doing and could be held to account. But if we speaks here it might be about anything or nothing.”

  Lewis considered her further; indeed any person acting as a crimp – one paid to secure men for the Navy – was not likely to be popular. But there was something refreshingly defiant in the woman's manner, and he guessed that what she did was not for financial gain.

  “There's folk in these parts what takes liberties and don't know where to stop,” she continued, guessing further explanation was needed. “I don't mind free trade if that's what it truly is, but cannot cope with those what deals with the enemy.”

  Mention of the term struck a chord in Lewis' mind and now he thought he understood. Free trade was the euphemism usually attributed to smuggling. The woman's hoy was probably delivering the blankets they had been expecting; it was quite possible her business was being affected by the runners, although Lewis could not immediately see how.

  “Alf says I shouldn't be speakin' so, but what's wrong is wrong and owlers is undoubtedly evil,” she said with quiet feeling. “Takin' the wool I used to buy and sendin' it to the Frogs is bad enough. But when they brings back all manner of tawdry lace an' the like, we can't compete.”

  “Owling?” Lewis questioned. “Surely not from here?” Now he was fully aware of the risk the woman was taking. If she truly intended to crimp members of a smuggling gang, a good few might definitely disapprove and their objections would not be confined to verbal protests. But owling, the illegal exporting of wool and woollen goods, was more an east country crime.

  “Oh they does it in the west, sure enough,” she stated firmly. “It's not much of a hop to Guernsey, or even France if you times it right, and such goings on is taking all my supplies as well as messin' with what customers the factories 'as left us.”

  All knew the smuggling trade was rampant, but this was a side effect that Lewis had never considered.

  “An' it ain't endin' there,” she continued. “Word is they're taking gold with them now an' all. English gold what they're sellin' to the French for a profit. An' with us expectin' to be invaded at any moment – there's something plainly not right.”

  Yes, he could certainly sympathise there, but with bullion attracting premiums of up to thirty per cent, Lewis supposed there would always be those who would take a profit, even if it was their own country that suffered. But how that might gain more men for Prometheus was another matter entirely.

  “There's a meeting this evening,” she added, guessing his thoughts once more. “I can tell you where and when. You should net the whole mob, every man Jack of them. And Jacks they shall be,” she added with what might have been a smile, “if that's what you're after.”

  * * *

  The girl, and she was hardly more than that, had not spoken and barely moved since Thompson's visit of the night before. The cramped and stale forepeak had been her home for all of three days although time meant little in such a private world. She had spent much of it sleeping like a cat, making up for the almost constant vigilance of the previous week. Occasionally bells were struck and unknown voices would bellow “All's well,” from various locations in the ship. These bothered her little, even if the sentiment could not have been further from the truth.

  It was probably a mistake to have gone with the seaman in the first place: she could see that now. But after such a time of fending for herself in the streets of Paignton, it had been good to find someone so strong and assured. Someone willing to take care of her, and with a boat bound for Portugal, or so he had said, when asked: that was a major point in his favour.

  Lisbon was the closest thing to a home she knew, and the only place where things could be put right. People knew her there, good people who must at least understand the situation even if they did not approve of it. It was also somewhere she was confident of being fed and sheltered, certainly for as long as it took to catch up with James.

  As soon as the bulk of a massive warship appeared from out of the darkness she had known herself duped. Thompson was no captain, that was obvious from the start, although she could imagine the sailor having a degree of authority in something smaller; perhaps a merchant, or even a privateer. But such a huge vessel as Prometheus was bound to be officered by gentlemen, and by no stretch of the imagination could Thompson be considered so. The fact that he lacked breeding had also worked in his favour in winning her confidence, though; all too recently she had been given more than enough cause to mistrust those of higher status.

  And it had been midnight, on a small boat, in the middle of a crowded bay: there was little she could do but go along with his wishes. Besides, after sleeping in doorway
s and losing most of her possessions to the street thieves and cut-purses, her new home had not seemed so very terrible a place. It was at least private and offered far more in protection than she had been used to for a while.

  At that moment two men could be heard walking by on the deck above and she automatically froze. One addressed an unheard remark that caused the other to laugh. Then, as their footsteps gradually faded, she found she could breathe once more.

  There was a good deal of doubt in her mind as to what would happen were she discovered. Thompson, the man who had turned from friend to captor, might string yarns of having her up on deck and dining with the captain, but she wasn't as green as she was cabbage looking. Without doubt this was a ship of war, and everyone knew women were as welcome aboard such vessels as stones in a boot. But still she hoped to see Lisbon once more; he could not have been so very wrong about that. All the man had to do was get her off as easily as she had boarded, and everything would be well again.

  A rat scuttled across the deck just beyond her feet. Despite what Thompson had been told, the things hardly bothered her now; she had become almost immune to them. Just so long as they kept away, they could be tolerated and even when she had awoken to find one nestling against her belly, it had not been so very shocking. In truth, she had gone through such a lot in the last few weeks that much which would normally have sent her into fits of hysterics was being endured in a way she would never have expected.

  Her parents were both British but for many years had been nothing more than increasingly dim memories, and she knew no other world than the sun-backed town on the banks of the Tagus. She had been in full time service, so never ventured on the water, and it had taken quite a bit of persuading from Master James for her to even clamber aboard the stately and undoubtedly grand Indiaman.

  The ship was one of many calling at the port on the way back from the East, and James had been especially clever to secure a cabin. It was small, dark and stuffy, but totally theirs to enjoy and seemed like heaven. Until then, her life had lacked ambition; she carried out her duties, even to the extent of enjoying some; especially those that involved food. Such work felt natural to her, and the extent of her dreams was that one day the change would come from serving girl to cook. But when she found herself courted by the youngest son of her employer, all foolish aspirations were forgotten.

  And James had wooed her so well, and with such tenderness and respect: for the first time she felt herself truly of worth. They had barely more than kissed before boarding the ship and, with no time to explain or give notice, both of them were suddenly out in the middle of the ocean, her old world and its strange security left many miles behind.

  It wasn't until they were safely underway that she began to realise quite how young James actually was – hardly older than her, in fact. But even that did not matter greatly: with him being so understanding and compassionate, she truly felt blessed. There had been no bells to answer, no chores to attend, while the tiny cabin became the closest thing to paradise either of them could have imagined. It was only a few days later, when the sea had started to turn wild, that things began to fall apart.

  She had thought herself pregnant. To be absolutely accurate, even now she was not certain either way. But the constant sickness seemed so similar to symptoms a girl she had worked with complained of, she was soon convinced. James tried to reassure her with tales of an illness he called mal-de-mer, and told of how many succumbed to it. But, on the only occasion she had been tempted up to the fresh air on deck, none of the more seasoned passengers seemed in any way affected. That made her fate seem more certain still, and then James began to grow far less loving.

  The Indiaman had finally come to rest in a nice little bay that looked just like the England she had been told of. By then the weather had started to improve, and her symptoms abated as she allowed herself to be put into another small boat and rowed ashore. And James had been nice again; handed over two golden guineas for her to buy the secret wedding dress, before arranging to meet that afternoon by the quay to continue their journey. They would be in London within a week and married soon afterwards; that had been the last thing he promised and even now, in circumstances that must surely contradict, a part of her continued to believe it.

  But he had not been there and, with most of the money spent on white lace and linen, she soon realised herself abandoned. The wedding dress had been the first thing stolen: from then on her life just dissolved. She still had severe doubts about Thompson; he had altered her situation to some extent, but had yet to improve it, and at times was far less loving than even James at his worst. And much of what he said had already turned out to be lies but, if there was some truth in them being bound for Portugal, meeting with him might yet turn out for the good.

  * * *

  Flint's mess consisted of men of differing ages and experience. Ross soon decided that, although he was probably one of the older ones, and knew as much theory as any, he was the least well practised. He had served as a lieutenant for almost eight years and, until recently, his major concern had been the gradually decreasing chances of being made Commander. Now he was simply one of many lower deck hands and would never see further advancement. He might know more of navigation, writing up a log, or setting a watch, but in terms of pure seamanship, everyone else was streets ahead of him.

  His mess had assembled at the foot of the main companionway as the bell began to strike and were half way to the upper deck before it finished.

  “Fo'c'sle's the problem,” Flint told him as they emerged into the full sun of a June morning. “Payed the seams over old oakum, they did, the robbers. Job looked fine, but started to weep as soon as we was in the basin.”

  “Downright liberty,” Ross exclaimed, genuinely shocked.

  The was a hint of laughter from one of the men behind and Flint gave Ross a sidelong glance. “Aye, that's as maybe,” he agreed cautiously. “So now it's all got to be picked out an' begun again, just so they could move the barky on a day earlier.”

  Ross followed Flint along the main deck and up the forecastle ladder. Much had been cleared away; both chase cannon were missing, and there was a distinct lack of the down lines and halyards usually found in the area. But instead the deck was crowded with the paraphernalia of caulking. Oakum lay in roughly rubbed lines, and there was a positive pile of metal prickers, pullers and various sizes and types of caulking irons, together with waste tow, pitch kettles and mysterious brown glass bottles, sealed with metal stoppers. A brazier smouldered beneath a small cauldron and the air was already rich with the smell of hot pitch and spirits of turpentine.

  To starboard, the strakes were scraped clean, with neat dark lines of fresh pitch dividing them, while those to larboard lay covered by a tarpaulin. As Ross watched, Jameson and another hand removed this to reveal the ragged and uneven edges of three un-caulked planks next to a bank of several that had been rather poorly sealed. Three of Flint's men immediately set to, teasing the tar and old oakum out of these, while another stoked up the brazier and two more started to heat the long handled metal loggerheads that would be needed to keep the fresh pitch warm.

  “Have you a hand with a caulking iron?” Flint asked Ross. “If not, you could make yourself busy as a sweeper.”

  “I've not used an iron before, but have seen it done,” Ross told him seriously. “And would be glad to try, if you give me leave.”

  “Good of you, I'm sure,” Flint grinned, collecting a wooden mallet and handing it across. “And you may consider my leave granted.”

  Ross took the maul feeling mildly foolish; he really must modify his way of speaking or become a laughing stock for the entire mess. Kneeling down, the deck felt hard through the thin cloth of his trousers, but he was far too concerned with the job before him to worry about anything so mundane. He had seen caulking done a thousand times, and knew the procedure well, although this was his first opportunity to actually attempt it.

  Filling the gaps between strakes with tight
ly packed hemp helped preserve the rigidity of the deck, and thus stiffened the ship itself, while a fresh coating of pitch would make all sound and watertight. He collected a long sausage of rubbed oakum from the pile, and laid it over a freshly cleared seam. Pickling up an iron, Ross tapped it gently with his mallet, watching as the twisted fibres were forced into the void. It was actually a simple and satisfying procedure, and soon he found himself making distinct progress along the line.

  “Keep all tight and even,” a voice told him from above, and Ross took this as encouragement – had he been making a total ham of it, Flint would never have just stood there commenting. For the first time in an age he actually began to enjoy himself, and there was even a modicum of satisfaction in the work; another thing that had been distinctly lacking in his new life until then. He finished the seam, and looked along it with critical satisfaction, before shuffling back to the next, giving those with the caulking kettles room to work.

  “Nice effort, that,” an anonymous comment came from the direction of the brazier. “Reckon that man was born to be a caulker.”

  Mildly encouraged, Ross addressed himself to the new seam. It was tighter, and he decided would not need quite so much oakum, but still the amount he took was slightly too great. The residue spilled out, although Ross felt confident it could be pressed back in place, and collected the hammer. But his iron slipped on the excess fibres, and he struck his own hand painfully.

  Ross said nothing, even forgoing to swear as he was not totally certain what oaths or profanities would be in keeping with his new status. But the voices from afar could be heard quite plainly.

  “Did you see that?” one asked. “The cull struck his paw a nasty.”

  “Aye,” another replied, with a distinct lack of sympathy. “Ask me, it were a downright liberty...”