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

by Alaric Bond

  The boat's destruction was not without benefit however, and had actually served a useful purpose. As soon as the waves collected, lifted, and smashed the frail vessel against the big ship's hull it was clear the narrow avenue between the Indiaman's leeward side and the rocks was the only viable route for a rescue. With the constant but regular change of water level, it would not be an easy approach, but still infinitely preferable to coming alongside to windward. King had also learned that, though the merchant's crew were hardly of the highest order, they did not lack enterprise: something that might prove useful in what was to come.

  There was no sounding rod aboard the cutter although such an unwieldy device would have been useless in the current conditions, as the channel was visibly filling and clearing with encouraging regularity. King ordered the sails down, then pointed forward, indicating to Chivers, stationed at the bow, and Flint, who pulled stroke, that he intended to ease the boat into the Indiaman's lee. The oars picked up their speed, and the boat surged forward, but there was a dwindling gap of less than twenty feet of eddying water between ship and shore, and they would have to manhandle the tiny cutter beyond the merchant's quarterdeck to bring her to a place suitable for transferring survivors.

  “Way enough,” King called, as they rode in towards the gap on the head of a wave. Then, at the last possible second: “Boat your oars!”

  He might have been fractionally late as Chivers yelled “Steady, there!” when the starboard bow's sweep struck the merchant's side. Then each man unshipped his oar, and used it to fend the boat off against rock or hull. Between them they could hold the cutter stationary as the water beneath ebbed and flowed, but forward movement was almost impossible. Someone in the Indiaman must have noted their predicament, as a fall was tossed down. The midshipman secured it forward, and they were dragged into the wedge of space that gave them precious, if temporary, shelter.

  It was even narrower now, and the boat grounded every twenty seconds or so, before rushing up the side of the Indiaman, only to fall back and hit what must have been solid rock beneath.

  “I can take twelve,” King yelled above the din of crashing waves, screaming women and bellowing animals that was surely more suited to a believer's concept of Hades than any beached merchant. A line of faces stared blankly down at him from the big ship's larboard side. Actually he had already decided they might manage fifteen. With a crew of ten, counting himself and Chivers, that was just conceivable for such a boat, and in the present conditions. But he had no wish to risk breaking the cutter's back with too much weight on the first attempt.

  An agile young man scaled down the side of the ship, finally landing in the stern between King and Flint. He was dressed as an officer, although King could not place the flamboyant uniform.

  “David Carroll, of the Belle Île,” he announced in a strong Irish accent. Then, meeting the lieutenant's surprised eyes directly, added: “We greatly welcome your assistance, sir.”

  “Are the passengers ready to disembark?” King asked. This was only one of many questions that came to mind, but the small boat would not stand up to endless punishment: it was important they took whoever they could and moved off, to give Lewis a chance.

  “Indeed they are,” the Irishman replied. “I have organised a fair mix of civilians and crew for each load.”

  King nodded approvingly; that made sense; it might be sentimental to rescue all the passengers first, but to crowd their cutter with unskilled landsmen would be downright foolish. And he had no wish to command a boatload of hysterical wives.

  At a wave from the officer, two seamen descended. One, a lascar, was wearing robes that were totally impractical, and needed to be tucked up into his girth in a manner that was both awkward and undignified. When the passengers followed, the women were no more elegant, being lowered on a mixture of boatswain's chairs and bowlines, and needing to be guided aboard the constantly shifting boat in a flurry of cloth, lace and bare flesh.

  But King soon learned he could leave the embarkation arrangements to Carroll, and concentrate instead on keeping his boat clear of lethal obstructions. The Irishman proved worthy of the trust, arranging for a seaman to be alongside every group of civilians while chivvying both with a mixture of good humour and authority that seemed to draw any hint of danger from the situation.

  “Take a couple extra?” Carroll asked, when all had been accommodated: King considered his load. There were bodies crammed next to each of the rowers, with more huddled miserably between. In theory, a couple could be squeezed in, but their freeboard was already low. Besides, there was still the dangerous passage back to Prometheus, and the cutter was now grounding with a worrying thump.

  “No,” he snapped. “We shall return presently, and another two boats will be calling before.”

  The officer seemed to understand, then looked up and bellowed: “One more, Charlie!”

  King was about to object when Carroll made a leap for the ship's side, and landed expertly on the upper sill of a gun port. In a few more slick moves he had clambered back aboard the Indiaman, his place being taken by a flushed and overweight woman who seemed liable to burst at any moment.

  “Very good, be ready to ship your oars!” King shouted, when she was seated. They were being pulled back and into the turmoil again, with whoever was supervising the towing waiting sensibly for sufficient water beneath them. Then the boat was clear and free to be hit by breakers once more; the painter was cast adrift, and the tiny vessel left to wallow in the boiling seas.

  Oars at the bow were pressed against the Indiaman's counter where the name, Duke of Cambridge, could be read. The cutter was painstakingly manhandled round, with Flint, and the man immediately behind, ready to fend off against nearby rocks if need be.

  “Out oars!” Again, the order could have been mistimed, but King considered there to be room enough to gather speed, and so it proved. The current was now thrusting them hard against the merchant's side, and he held the rudder over as each rower dug deep into the maelstrom for a purchase. Slowly they gained water until the waves were cheated and, rather than rolling the cutter sideways in a threat to tip her over, broke with far less effect over the prow. Within thirty seconds a considerable distance had been gained, and some of the seamen were attempting to rig the sails. King glanced back; Lewis' boat had been backing water behind them, and was now intending to copy their example in approaching the lee of the Indiaman. Further off, Davison's launch seemed to be in more confusion. She was in the water but stood close to Prometheus, which was hove to, and slowly being swept southwards. The launch's single mast was in the process of being stepped, but had apparently jammed at an angle and the boat, under-loaded with what was obviously a minimal crew, was leaping and shying like a young foal. King relaxed the cutter's rudder and felt her sails take the wind, then began aiming for a point a good way ahead of the drifting battleship.

  “Very good, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, glancing once more at the selection of moon-like faces that stared back at him in hope and wonder. “Welcome aboard, you are now guests of the Royal Navy.”

  * * *

  The cutters made five trips each and were far more successful than the launch, which failed to complete even one. After Davison's first, almost disastrous, attempt, Banks was forced to call him back; despite her size and greater capacity, the boat was not ideally suited to such conditions and proved more of a liability than an asset. It was possible that someone in command with more experience, or perhaps a stronger personality, might have made a better fist of things, although the captain felt no blame could be placed on the second lieutenant’s young shoulders. And still the rescue could be considered a success, even though it took almost until nightfall and, at the end, King and Lewis looked to have aged a good ten years.

  Between each run, Prometheus emptied the boats of their human cargo before being obliged to wear round, head back, and then tack at the northernmost leg of the circuit. There the cutters, which had been towed behind her, were released to
ply back for more and the entire procedure could begin again. It was a laborious business, hardly helped by the warm but continuous rain that kept all comprehensively sodden, or the effects of almost constant concentration that started to play strange games with their minds on the latter trips. Over a hundred and ten souls were recovered, however, which apparently amounted to all aboard the Indiaman, and every one of Prometheus' men returned safely, if a little bedraggled.

  Throughout the rescue, the same young man who had boarded King's boat at its first visit was very much in evidence. If not briefly with one of the cutters, and calling the survivors down to embark, he remained on the Indiaman's deck carrying out a similar role. And it was not an easy task. To ensure a boat had the correct number of trained seamen aboard: even deferring a mother and child in their favour, took an iron will, with authority to match and King was impressed. In the past he had found Company officers, though different in outlook from those of the Royal Navy, to be of a reasonable standard. But Carroll who, by his youth, could hardly be more than a cadet or junior mate, had a natural ability to command that was worthy of any ship's master.

  The survivors were taken aboard the battleship where they gathered in unhappy groups; with passengers divided between great cabin, wardroom and gun room, while ordinary hands were accommodated on the gun decks which, though some were slow to realize, actually represented their new and permanent homes. Prometheus' generous proportions came in to their own: though she was undoubtedly crowded, there was none of the strain common when smaller vessels become overloaded. She rose to her extra human cargo with a capacity that was apparently endless as more and more damp and disheveled unfortunates were dumped upon her decks, each carrying their equally pathetic parcels of luggage and, in one case, a small dog.

  That the Indiaman apparently held no senior officers caused King to ponder. Even during the rescue, while the boats were being towed back to the north by the battleship, and their crews were grasping what rest they could, the fact bothered him. But his mind remained on the job in progress, and it wasn't until he was safely back aboard Prometheus that he was able to give more attention to the thought.

  A ferocious towelling, followed by fresh clothes as well as two cups of hot, sweet tea did much to restore him. But, when summoned to report to the captain and first lieutenant, King was still relieved when Banks immediately brought the subject of officers up.

  The great cabin and coach had been given over to the care of survivors, so the three were squeezed into the small partitioned room that usually served as the captain's sleeping quarters. Cot and attendant furniture had been removed, and a full sized mess table installed, but still there was precious little space, while the noise of passengers equally crammed beyond the thin screen bulkheads was very apparent.

  “No one of fifth officer status or above,” the captain confirmed, with an air of wonder. “Neither are there any India Army men, which is a strange occurrence in itself when a number seem to be almost mandatory on every Eastern voyage. It is as if anyone of rank had been spirited away prior to her running aground.”

  “Possibly it is a case of cause and effect,” Caulfield commented dryly. “Were senior officers present the accident may not have occurred.”

  “There was a young man, Carroll, I think his name,” King said readily. “He was of great assistance during the rescue, and may shed some light on the subject.”

  Judy chose that moment to enter with a tray of tea which she set down on the table before them. She gave King, who she clearly regarded a special friend, a very obvious smile.

  “Thank you, Kinnison,” Banks growled in a manner far more gruff than he would have used had she been a man. “Be so kind as to pass the word for a Mr Carroll; he is amongst the survivors, I believe.”

  The girl nodded seriously, and left.

  “It is a shame we could not salvage any cargo,” Banks said when she had gone. “Even in outward bound goods, there'd be a tidy sum upon those rocks.”

  “Neither were we able to burn her,” Caulfield agreed, then asked, “Were there animals aboard?”

  “Yes, but they were accounted for,” King told them. “The same man who organised the passengers saw to their despatch.”

  Caulfield and Banks said nothing in response, but King was well aware of the debt he, at least, owed the young officer.

  A tap on the door heralded the arrival of the Irishman.

  “Good even' to you gentlemen, and my thanks for agreeing to see me so promptly,” he said, squeezing into the small room and nodding politely at King as he took a seat.

  “I understand you were extremely active during the rescue, Mr...”

  “Carroll, sir,” the man beamed. “Indeed I was, and am grateful for this gentleman's assistance,” he looked towards King, “as well as the other officer. And especially appreciate the care you have given my men.”

  Carroll must have been able to dry himself to some extent, but was still wearing the same uniform that King had noticed in the cutter. Looking again, it appeared even more outlandish; a bold red jacket and cream shirt, over blue trousers; without doubt a dramatic contrast to the usual East India Company livery. Such clothes made him appear something between a cavalry officer and a coxcomb: unless King had seen evidence to the contrary, he would have written the young man off as an aspiring nonentity.

  “They will be well provided for,” Banks assured him. “And any that wish to take service with the king, especially welcomed.”

  “I think there will be few enough to do that, sir,” Carroll replied lightly.

  “Well, if we promise not to persuade them too hard,” Banks agreed. He knew, as well as any present, that only a fool would volunteer for the Royal Navy when an Indiaman's berth was infinitely more snug and profitable. But they were many miles away from the nearest English port, and with their ship currently being pounded to a wreck, the men would have little choice. And to Banks, such an influx of trained hands was a gift not to be turned down.

  “I don't think you understand, sir,” Carroll continued, more seriously. “We carry privateer papers; they should be treated as prisoners of war.”

  Banks, Caulfield and King looked uncertainly to each other, their expressions suddenly frozen.

  “Prisoners of war?” Caulfield questioned.

  “Indeed, sir.” Carroll now looked equally confused. “Why did you not know of it? Your Indiaman was a capture of my ship, the Belle Île; I was in command of her prize crew.

  Chapter Eight

  Flint was cold, wet and hungry. He had missed both his afternoon grog as well as that evening's meal and with a banyan day, when no meat would be served, due for the morrow he was desperate to get some food inside him.

  “I saved you some salt horse.” Jameson gave him the welcome news as the older man slumped down in his usual place at the mess table. “And traded your tot for a bottle of blackstrap with Greg.”

  Flint nodded appreciatively as a platter of cold, dark meat was dropped in front of him, to be followed by a dark, unlabelled bottle. The stopper was only half in; there was no doubt that the thing had been refilled on several occasions, and might contain just about anything. But it was a well known fact that drink was the fastest way of filling an empty belly, and Flint bit the cork out and spat it expertly into his left hand while raising the bottle to his lips with his right.

  “Good, is it?” Thompson asked, solicitously from the opposite side of the table. The man was only a short time into a twenty-eight day loss of spirits for smuggling Judy aboard, and could expect no supplement from his mess mates, as any caught would face double the punishment. Still he drew a masochistic pleasure in watching another enjoying the drink.

  “It'll do, Thombo,” Flint replied briefly.

  “We's taken quite a few aboard,” Harrison lisped from the far end of the table. He was known as a notoriously slow eater, and still struggled with the last of his duff. “Reckons the old girl'll be up to full numbers afore long.”

  Flint's mess
was not unusual in being light of a few bodies, and Harrison was quite right, they could expect more joining, although Flint was too intent on tackling the cold salt beef to comment. But when he was finished, and the grease had been wiped from his face with the back of a hand, he was not surprised to see Cartwright, the master's mate, once more standing at the head of the mess table with a group of seamen clustered about him.

  “Just got you down for the one, Flint: Molony here,” he said, indicating a slightly built, short haired man with a squint. “Come to us from the East Indiaman, so will probably appreciate a bit of high livin',” the petty officer continued. “I'm sure he won't be disappointed...”

  The group moved on to the next mess, leaving Molony standing alone. But space was soon found for him on the benches, and Flint graciously passed his bottle across.

  “It's kind of you, so it is,” Molony said, after taking a moderate swig. “Never been as cold and wet in my life, and doesn't the wind just kill yer?”

  “Must be your first trip to the East,” Butler, the hand seized from the homebound transport, commented. “If you'd made it as far as the Cape you'd know what a wind can really do.”

  “Well, I wasn't intending on going such a distance,” Molony replied. “Just a few more miles an' we'd have been snug in Cádiz.”

  “Spain?” Flint questioned. “Why would a John Company vessel be so bound?”

  Molony grinned. “Because some devils of privateers had captured her,” he told them.

  “Then you can hardly be a regular East India Company hand.” Butler stared at Molony in wonder.

  “No, I have to admit, that I am not,” Molony agreed, swigging once more.

  “So were you part of the prize crew?” Ross was first with the question that was just springing to everyone's lips.