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

by Alaric Bond

  He gave a quick glance to Brehaut, who was standing ready at the binnacle, then another to check his own canvas. Prometheus was riding under topsails, with a couple of staysails and a jib for good measure and no more would be added. The next logical sail was the distinctive forecourse, which must mark her very definitely as a man-o'-war, while any difference in speed would not be sufficient to catch such a slippery foe. The privateer had drawn ahead and was hauling in her wind, allowing Prometheus to forereach on her once more. Soon she would wear and make a pass across their own bows – it was the same manoeuvre the enemy had carried out several times already, but on this occasion Banks was determined they would not get away with it.

  “Ready larboard, upper deck only, and remember the firing order,” he bellowed, and received an acknowledgement from King standing in the waist. Of the battleship's larboard upper battery of eighteen-pounders, all were run out, but only eight would actually be fired, an act that would hopefully maintain the fiction that Prometheus was indeed an Indiaman. Most merchants of such a size would carry some serviceable cannon, with the remaining ports filled by 'quakers': wooden gun barrels that appeared genuine from a distance, and were designed to fool an enemy into thinking her fully armed. By firing a reduced broadside, Banks hoped the Belle Île might be further convinced, and the irony that real cannon would be emulating imitation pieces was not lost on their grinning gun crews.

  “Prepare to lay her to starboard, Mr Brehaut,” he added, in a voice barely louder than the din of bleating cattle, and the sailing master growled out a clearer warning to the quartermaster. Then, as the frigate was starting to swoop down upon their prow, Banks gave the word.

  “Port your helm!” Brehaut ordered and the ship began to turn, throwing the aim of the gun captains, while those at the braces fought to keep pace with what breeze there was. A shout from forward heralded the crack of shot glancing off the battleship's hawse, followed by the rumble of a full broadside from the privateer. Those were no pop-guns, Banks told himself, The frigate was well armed, but range was in his favour and he trusted Prometheus' timbers to be strong enough to deflect such a blow without sustaining serious damage.

  King bellowed from the waist, and the battleship's reduced broadside was released with a clatter of fire that came as an anticlimax to anyone familiar with her true capabilities. It too was at extreme range, though and almost all of the British shots went wide or fell short; an act that, though unintended, would have enforced their subterfuge still further. But it was good to finally hear the guns in use, and Banks was just anticipating being able to reap the benefits of his action when the Frenchman surprised him yet again.

  Turning apparently within her own length, the Belle Île momentarily presented her stern, but was wearing round and making to starboard before the British could reveal their heavy cannon, or lay her remaining secondary armament far enough forward. Banks grunted to himself; his opponent was certainly lithe and he wondered when she would become tired of such games, or if his simple hoax would ever be revealed. The noise of Prometheus' broadside seemed to have encouraged the animals, who were now making a truly raucous din forward. Soon the racket must be audible to the enemy, and Banks could think of no better disguise for a fighting ship. A close and considered inspection would reveal their true status, of course, but he trusted the enemy was manoeuvring too far off for such a luxury and while he kept his lower ports closed, and the smallest of doubts remained, the action would continue.

  But not for much longer. He was rarely one to believe in sixth senses or intuition, but still felt a conclusion was close by. That exchange had been at extreme range, but at least they had finally fired. It was still some time until darkness and the battle, such as it was, had already lasted for several hours. But no action can continue forever, and a feeling deep inside told him the privateer was not intending to draw things out for very much longer.

  Chapter Ten

  And so it proved. The frigate completed her turn and came back as close to the wind as she could bear while Prometheus continued, now with the breeze on her beam. Lisbon, with her batteries and the likelihood of Royal Naval support was growing steadily closer, although the sun was also beginning to head for the horizon. Both commanders were running out of time. Banks could not continue manoeuvring, when any merchant captain worth his salt would choose to run, while the privateer was starting to risk being interrupted by the appearance of another vessel, and so be cheated of her prize.

  “It is my duty to inform you the enemy is gaining the windward gauge, sir.” It was Brehaut who spoke and, of all the ship's officers, he was the only one allowed such a liberty. A quick glance from Banks confirmed that there was no implied criticism: the man was simply doing his job as sailing master in advising him of the situation. And, in the majority of engagements, it might not have been the best of tactics, but Banks felt he knew what he was doing.

  His plans had never involved releasing Prometheus' lower deck guns on the hull of the French ship: such an action would likely wreck her for sure. When the chance was finally given, it would be better to aim for her tophamper – something easier to achieve when sailing to leeward. And giving up such a tactical advantage should fit in with his imitation of a merchant captain.

  The enemy was still a good mile off their quarter, but plainly preparing what the French commander intended to be the fatal blow. As they watched, the frigate tacked neatly and was adding royals as she began to charge down upon them.

  It was like waiting to be set upon by a particularly vicious, if small, dog, Banks soberly decided. The enemy would continue to advance, gaining speed all the time, then either fly down the length of Prometheus' hull, relying on superior speed to keep them safe as they dusted her decks with grape or, more likely, turn at the last moment, peppering the British ship's stern with a close ranged broadside. But for Banks, the time for bluff was very definitely at an end. This was where he played his trump card, and must accept the consequences.

  “We shall be turning to larboard,” he said with certainty as the Belle Île began to throw a large white cloud from her stem. “Pass the word to Mr King, then Mr Davison and Mr Benson on the lower deck,” he added, speaking directly to the most senior midshipman in sight. “I want a solid broadside from the upper deck; all guns are to be fired, make sure Mr King understands that.” With luck the upper eighteen-pounders and carronades would do considerable damage and hopefully delay the enemy in manoeuvring further. “As soon as our shots are received, the lower deck may open ports and run out their pieces, but not before. Ask Mr Davison to ensure every captain has adequate time to take aim: and emphasise that the target is to be their masts. And remind him I require an accurate rather than a fast response.”

  Franklin touched his hat briefly and then was off. It was proof of the importance of his message that Banks sent the older man although, even without word reaching them, he trusted his lieutenants to know their duty. This was his only chance; as soon as those lower ports opened, revealing the terror within, the Belle Île would run. His gamble was that Prometheus could cause enough damage to make escape impossible.

  * * *

  The message arrived, and was duly passed on to all on the lower gun deck. Flint had led the five elite members of his team that covered both weapons to their larboard gun some while back, and now all were ready with that piece.

  “So what do you think we shall see?” Harrison asked and Flint knew himself near the end of his temper.

  “I know as much as you,” he snapped. “But masts are to be the target, so be ready to whip that quoin out if I says. We took a nasty to larboard earlier: it's clear the Frogs are no shirkers when it comes to using their cannon.”

  “Slip the bolts and clear ports, but keep them lids tight shut,” Davison's voice erupted from aft. With darkness, heat and what was a now a constant bellowing from hungry animals, coupled with the din of Irish prisoners bleating out in song, it was a scene that would not be out of place in any nightmare. But now somet
hing positive was being called for from them, the gun crews felt far easier. “Be ready to reload with bar once more,” the young lieutenant continued, his voice now raw with shouting. “With luck we'll get a second in.”

  “That would be a luxury indeed,” Flint murmured to himself. “Target's a frigate: if the main course don't settle her, they're hardly likely to stick about for a pudding.”

  Then the ship began a sudden turn, and some of the less experienced amongst them lost their footing as the deck heaved to starboard.

  “Least that shut the animals up,” Thompson commented.

  “And the Micks,” Harrison agreed.

  Thompson went to add a rejoinder when Benson's voice cut through.

  “Cast loose and provide!” Then, a little more gently: “be ready for the word, lads...”

  Though officially second in command of the gun deck, the older man was markedly more controlled than Davison.

  Their larboard port lids were now cleared of the oakum that sealed them and began to sway with the rolling of the ship. Even such a slight movement allowed tantalising shafts of light into the gloom, while side tackles were secured and train tackles locked on to the eye bolts at the rear of each powerful weapon. Flint carefully removed the lead apron and lock cover from his gun, and eased the hammer back to half cock. Cranston, the second captain, had collected a line of smoking slow match and was twirling it in the air to redden the end. It would be used in case of a misfire and, although primitive, was more reliable than any flint on steel. In the curious silence the faint shrill of a whistle could just be heard; then the deck above apparently exploded in ear splitting cacophony.

  The noise echoed about the lower battery for some time; it was far louder than the upper deck's previous broadside and a few of the newer servers were open mouthed with shock, while others looked accusingly at their own pieces. Davison was yelling something which was being repeated by Benson but, even without hearing the words, Flint knew what must be done.

  A wave at Cranston was enough to open the heavy port that had been shielding their gun, allowing late afternoon sunlight to flood into the darkness they had become accustomed to. The sudden light dazzled the deafened beings within and added to their confusion, but a sound brain was not required to haul on a line, and the beast that was Flint's larboard cannon was soon run out to take its first look at the enemy.

  “That's close enough for a Chinaman,” Flint said, in quiet appreciation as he viewed the oncoming warship. She was considerably less than quarter of a mile off, and still heading for them at a goodly pace. Shot from their upper decks had peppered her fore topsail and course, and it appeared as if a jib had been cut down. But her major spars were unaffected and, unless they could cause serious damage in that department, she would soon be bearing away, and gone.

  Prometheus was continuing to right herself after the turn, and Flint paused, his left hand in the air, while two of the gun's permanent team eased her across with their handspikes. From further forward the deep throated crack of two cannon firing simultaneously went unheard as Flint fixed his mind solely on keeping that pyramid of sails in his sights. Then, measuring the degree of roll, he actually shoved the quoin a little deeper under the cascabel. The ship paused considerably at the top, and that was when he intended to fire. Guns were erupting on both sides now, but still the enemy ship claimed all his attention. The Frenchman was starting to turn, and would soon be beating back, and making her escape, but there was time enough for this one shot, and Flint was not going to waste it.

  “Clear the gun,” he yelled. Then, stepping to one side himself, waited for the uproll to begin. The firing line was actually pulled just before she reached the climax; there was a momentary pause, a flash from the priming, then the gun spoke with a terrible roar and it was a sound that would rebound about all their minds for the next few hours.

  Carriage wheels squealed as the dead weight was hurled back, to be checked by a groaning breech rope. Then the tackle-men took charge: Cranston yelled for the sponge and Ross was quick to plunge his sodden lambswool mop into the still smoking barrel. Men stood by with powder, shot and wads in an effort to have the gun reloaded in the least possible time but Flint, glancing at the enemy through the gun port, already knew the action to be over. Theirs was one of the last shots fired, and there could be no guarantee it was responsible for what had occurred. But the nett result was unequivocal.

  “She's hit, and hit good,” Thompson shouted as he returned from delivering his cartridge of cylinder powder.

  Flint made no reply: he could see as much from his position by the cannon's smoking breech. The enemy's fore topmast was lying in a tangle across her forecastle, having been cut down by the hail of flying metal. Her main topgallant mast had also fallen and, despite the wind that was finally rising once more, escape was now impossible. The French might surrender, or could wait to be boarded, but there was no doubting that single broadside had won the battle, and the privateer was effectively theirs.

  Chapter Eleven

  “That's a sight and no mistaking,” Lewis said in unaccustomed garrulity as Prometheus beat closer to the stricken ship. As fifth lieutenant he had charge of signals as well as the quarterdeck and forecastle carronades. The latter had taken all of his attention for some time, but he now had a fine vantage point to view the lower decks' work.

  In addition to the damaged fore and main masts, Belle Île's bowsprit had also suffered; her dolphin striker hung loose from the jib boom and her forecastle was draped in a mass of line, canvas and splintered wood. The damage looked particularly unsightly on what had been such a trim craft, but there was no time for aesthetics; the enemy had yet to surrender and could still cause them serious damage.

  “Larboard battery, stand ready!” Caulfield's voice cut through the babble of excited chatter from men and officers alike, and the order was repeated to King on the deck below, as well as Davison at the main battery. “Target the hull.”

  “Battery's reloaded with bar, sir.” a quarter gunner reported to Lewis, who looked uncertainly towards Caulfield.

  “Very well, let it be,” the first lieutenant replied. “We may still cause sufficient devilment, and, with luck, shall not have to fire.”

  And, as they drew closer, a further broadside certainly seemed to be unnecessary. Prometheus out gunned the smaller ship several times over although, with a tattered ensign still flying from her jack, there was nothing to stop Banks pounding her to a wreck, should he feel so inclined. Then an officer on the enemy's quarterdeck waved his hat; their flag was slowly lowered, and a cheer began to flow from deep within the British ship.

  Banks watched with a relief that was strongly coloured by exhaustion. He had been on deck since before sunrise and it was now late afternoon. A chunk of stale soft tack and some bacon was the only solid food eaten in that time, although what he craved most was peace and a chance to sit down. And, as the tension slowly ebbed from his body, he supposed it had been no great victory: few of his fellow officers would think anything of a two decker taking a frigate. But they did not know of the failing wind, his untried ship, and those doubts that, even after the battle was over, haunted him still.

  Caulfield was offering his hand, and he shook it absent mindedly; of all aboard Prometheus, the first lieutenant was probably more aware of what had been achieved that day than anyone.

  “Cutters and launch, if you please, Mr Caulfield,” Banks said in return. “Initial boarding party of marines, then a prize and repair crew under two officers.”

  “Very good, sir,” Caulfield replied. “Who is to command?”

  Banks paused. “Mr Davison and Mr Benson: they may select three midshipmen, and one of the master mates.” He would prefer to have sent King, who had more experience of boarding captures but, as second lieutenant, the honour should fall to Davison.

  “Boatswain and carpenter will be needed also,” he continued, as Prometheus drew closer still, and the damage they had caused became more apparent. “And alert M
r Manning.” There were dead men visible aboard the Frenchman, with doubtless more wounded below; as far as he was aware, his ship had not suffered a single casualty, and the realisation put their victory into perspective.

  Banks turned away from the sight, momentarily disgusted. He might have frightened himself with thoughts of what was at risk, but having more recently been a small ship captain was probably to blame for that. In reality, the triumph they had won was due solely to one major broadside and an enemy too greedy to leave well alone – he gave himself no credit for subterfuge, or the many hours of manoeuvring that had led to that single knock-out blow. But the time had taken its toll, and he would not be the only one to feel tired.

  “Secure from action stations, Mr Caulfield, and have the galley stove re-lit.” he said, flexing his shoulders stiffly. “Then you may pipe Up Spirits – and see to those bloody animals.”

  * * *

  “You do not care that your boat has been taken?” Judy asked Carroll. For the last four hours the two of them had been entertaining ten lively children in the stewards' room, which now bore a close resemblance to a domestic nursery. And their charges, finally weary after being treated to a succession of japes, tricks and numerous other boisterous activities, were sleeping peacefully in the midst of an extended game of 'Dead Donkey'.

  “Oh I care very much indeed,” the Irishman assured her as he accepted the mug of hot tea she proffered and rested back against the ship's scantlings. “Indeed, it is a disaster for me in many respects, the most being financial.”