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

by Alaric Bond

  “So it was your boat then?”

  “Ship,” he corrected gently after sipping at his drink. “But no, she did not belong to me outright. I had a share in her, which cost my family everything we owned and more. A few days back, when we took your Duke of Cambridge, I was looking forward to a life of wealth and luxury, but now that appears to have been lost forever.”

  “You have a family?” she asked, with poorly assumed nonchalance.

  “I have,” he admitted. “Father and two sisters in Galway, though I have not seen them in more than three years.”

  “And yet they lent you money...” Judy said, with more perception than Carroll expected.

  “Sure, am I not the same man they knew when we lived together?” he replied. “And money is not so very difficult to move, even in war time, although it helps if you have some to begin with.”

  “What will you do now?” she asked and he shrugged.

  “That will depend very much on those who hold me. My ship carried a lettre de course so I trust the privileges of a normal prisoner will be given when I am landed. In the last war, most were exchanged; this new fellow Bonaparte may have different ideas, but I hope to be back on French soil before so very long.”

  “You wish to go back to France?” she seemed surprised. “But Ireland is your home.”

  “Ireland was my home,” he corrected. “And indeed, where my family still are; but there is little left of the old place, and I should not wish to live under English rule.”

  “You do not care for the English?” her voice had grown more cautious.

  “I do not care for some,” he corrected. “But others I may grow to like in time.”

  For a spell neither spoke as they sipped at their tea, although both found themselves taking the occasional glance at the other as if by chance.

  “And what of you?” Carroll enquired at last. “You will be returning to Lisbon?”

  “It is the only home I know,” she replied. “And the only place where I have friends.”

  “And presently it bears not more than a few miles off our larboard bow,” the Irishman mused. “Was not the captain willing to set you ashore there?”

  “Lieutenant King said he would make a request,” she said, brightening slightly. “Apparently it would be possible, without delaying this ship hardly at all. He was to take a boat – a cutter, I think. Run me to land and then rejoin the ship later. It seemed the ideal solution and I was so grateful, but with things as they are...”

  “Well I'm truly sorry to have upset your plans,” Carroll told her, and they both laughed. “But I would chance you shall find yourself back in Lisbon soon enough,” he added. “If that is where you really wish to be.”

  “Oh I do not mind wherever I ends up,” she said with frank conviction. “Just as long as there is someone close who cares for me.”

  * * *

  “As I see it, we have a number of options,” Banks told the group of officers. They were in his sleeping quarters once more, but this time crammed about the small, baize-topped card table, that was proving far more practical than the larger mess furniture had been. And it was less than twenty-four hours later, yet much had been done. The captured frigate boasted a fresh fore topmast, the replacement having been transferred from Prometheus' spar deck that morning. It would take the rest of that day and most of the next to rig shrouds and yards, then set up a new main topgallant and repair the bowsprit. But much of the patching to the hull and superstructure had already been attended to, and there seemed little reason why both ships might not set sail before the following night.

  However, despite what was undoubtedly good progress, and the fact of his recent victory, Banks was finding it hard to evoke either energy or enthusiasm. His head ached: the pain had been increasing steadily since early morning and was now on the verge of becoming unbearable. His mouth also felt uncommonly dry and, despite a night in his cot that had only been interrupted once, he was in sore need of rest. As with all commonly fit people, Banks detested being even mildly unwell, and rejected the notion that his ailment could be down to overwork. To his mind, the strain of the past few days would be considered nothing to most sea officers, and should have been carried off without a thought.

  But there was no question that he was suffering and, once he had accepted the fact, the doubts began. Perhaps it was becoming a father? Perhaps he was just not fit to command such a huge enterprise as Prometheus? Or perhaps he was simply getting too old? But, whatever the reason, Banks was definitely not feeling quite the thing that day.

  “I have spoken at length with Belle Île's captain,” he continued, “who initially proved less cooperative than his subordinate, Mr Carroll.” Banks' mind went back to the conversation. Despite commanding a mixed crew that included a good many Irish, Captain Agard had refused to admit any knowledge of the English language. Fortunately Brehaut was on hand: the Jersey born sailing master had spoken French all his life, and soon punctured that little bubble of obstinacy to the extent that Banks was finally able to speak with the man without an interpreter. “It would seem to have been a relatively new venture,” Banks told them. “And the Duke of Cambridge was the first ship taken, which explains the large crew and such a high proportion of officers.”

  Any ambitious privateering venture would provide for potential prize crews and it seemed Belle Île was no exception. There were nods of general agreement and King looked as if he might be wanting to ask a question, but Banks hurried on. Usually he welcomed comments from his officers, although on that particular day he would rather the meeting was simply over.

  “Which brings us back to where we should make for,” he continued resolutely. “I understand from Mr Brehaut that we are currently less than six hours from the Tagus, and obviously shelter may be found there.” The pain was causing his mind to wander and, as he tried to focus on the task in hand, his eyes flashed round the group seated elbow to elbow at the table before him. They consisted of all his lieutenants, as well as the sailing master and Marine Captain Donaldson. Each, apart from Brehaut, nodded quickly in agreement as his gaze met theirs, but Banks found he had lost his thread and was forced to pause and collect his thoughts before starting again.

  “The Tagus, yes,” he repeated. “Calling there is certainly an option.”

  It was a wide, yet sheltered harbour, and the anchorage had been a Godsend to the Mediterranean Fleet for some while. Just how a captured prize would be dealt with was a different matter, however. Banks was no expert in international law but had read enough of previous cases to make him cautious. With Portugal a neutral country there may be no end of legal wrangles; though apparently French, Belle Île had been using a Spanish port and, for all he knew, might even be registered in Cádiz. If so he could be forced to release his prisoners and return their ship; a thought that momentarily appalled him, and made the headache worse.

  “Or, of course, Gibraltar is also well within reach.” He forced himself to adopt a slightly more optimistic tone. Indeed, given a favourable wind, the tiny outpost might be raised within three to four days, and probably not more than a week if all turned contrary. That option brought up another highly significant question though: were they prepared to travel so far with the liability of a captured ship?

  The actual vessel did not present too much of a problem but, with almost two hundred of her crew as prisoners, and a further contingent of passengers and officers from the Indiaman to cram between both ships, it was not an especially joyous prospect. In fact, to him, and given the way he felt at that moment, it seemed utterly impossible. But then Banks also knew he was under the weather, and all would appear so much easier once his damned headache passed.

  “Were we to attempt such a journey, I would suggest the following,” he persevered, although even as he spoke the words, he realised there was only really one option.

  Gibraltar would undoubtedly be their destination and, as for him making a suggestion, the days when he would proffer or propose ideas had ended when he
moved away from frigates. Now, as captain of a line-of-battleship, a far more positive attitude was called for. But Banks equally acknowledged that he wasn't at his best, and many of the officers before him were also friends, so there was little harm in dressing his orders up in a modicum of politeness.

  “We clear the capture of prisoners, and accommodate all aboard Prometheus.” It might have been his imagination, but the room seemed to have suddenly grown uncommonly hot, and there was a faint haze in the air not noticed before. “Secure quarters can be built into the orlop, which incorporate the former midshipmen and warrant officers' berths, with any vulnerable stores or provisions moved accordingly. Captain Donaldson, the prisoners would be in your care, with the marines maintaining an all-watch guard.”

  The bovine officer's permanent flush deepened slightly at the mention of his name, but he did not seem unduly perturbed by the responsibility. Banks regarded him for a moment, focussing on the red nose that seemed, if anything, a little larger than normal, before deciding that not so very much could go wrong.

  “Sixty trained seamen could then be transferred to the capture, under the command of two commissioned officers and whatever master's mates and midshipmen they may require.” The headache was growing worse now, but he struggled on manfully. “Passengers can be divided between both ships: the most being taken aboard our prize while those of standing being suited in the great cabin aboard Prometheus.” He could foresee some of the Duke of Cambridge's more pretentious travellers objecting to being forcibly accommodated aboard a recently captured Frenchman and, however bad he might be feeling, didn't wish to ruffle feathers unnecessarily.

  The officers before him seemed agreeable while Banks' pounding brain tried to detect a fault. But it was a reasonable scenario, and he could find none. With just a sailing crew aboard, space would not be at a premium in the prize, and sufficient men could be retained aboard Prometheus to provide protection for both ships, should such a thing be required.

  “Well, I would judge that a workable scenario; if anyone has any comments, I shall be delighted to hear them,” Banks concluded, his focus travelling unsteadily about the faces before him.

  But, even as he waited, the captain realised he did not wish to hear more. Usually, and when his head was feeling normal, proposals or remarks were welcomed from his deputies. On occasions they had proved valuable, and were often adopted, at no loss to his prestige or position. Now though, not only did he not want to hear from the assembled company, he also doubted if any action or intelligent comment could be made on what might be said.

  But fortunately no one spoke, and Banks was secretly relieved. There would inevitably be problems constructing the temporary accommodation to house so many prisoners; well, they had an experienced carpenter in Roberts, who led a capable team: let them deal with it. Likewise, isolating the hazardous stores, such as spirit, paint, pitch and powder, from the reach of any captive set on self murder; there were plenty of sensible officers available to deal with such matters. Passenger space aboard Prometheus must be limited to the great cabin and coach, and it was likely that more would wish to stay than could be suited, while the French victuals served in the privateer were bound to offend the taste of some sent aboard her. But he would have two commissioned men on hand, and they should be able to handle any such crisis without reference to him.

  Thoughts of the officers to be chosen prompted him to consider further and, as no one was apparently interested in gilding his lily, Banks' aching mind turned to this final issue.

  “So, who is to go?” he asked rhetorically. There might have been expressions of mild concern on the faces of King and Caulfield, but these disappeared as he spoke, and every lieutenant looked back expectantly. Davison and Benson had been the boarding officers who accepted the privateer's surrender, with both supervising repairs up until that time. But Davison had already complained about the fourth's lack of ability, something that had hardly come as a surprise to Banks.

  He had previously noticed his second lieutenant's tendency to hold high expectations, and equally that he was rather too keen to blame others for what were possibly his own deficiencies. Banks regarded both as symptoms of youth and inexperience. Without doubt, Benson and Lewis had much to learn, but they were keen to do so and, under the guidance of someone more seasoned, would probably benefit from the experience.

  Davison was not that man, however; despite anything his references might say, the days when he could command respect through ability rather than rank were still to come. And Caulfield could also be discounted: with so many prisoners to guard, as well as a reduced crew, his organisational abilities were needed aboard Prometheus. Which only left King.

  The latter had commanded prizes in the past and was not wanting in ability or initiative. Actually he might easily have led the prize crew, with Benson or Lewis as support. But no, that would never have done; Davison was bound to see a junior man being given the posting as an affront and was known to have important friends: men of influence who might someday be useful to Banks' own future.

  He mused, caring little that all in the tiny cabin were waiting for him to come to a decision. Then the ideal solution presented itself; one that would solve all problems while leaving him free to dismiss his guests and get some rest. He would post Davison as lieutenant in command with King, admittedly the more experienced, in support. To his throbbing mind there was little wrong in such a combination and, more importantly, the meeting could be called to a close.

  Once all were gone, Banks would ask David to rig his cot and, with the way he felt, perhaps the surgeon should be sent for. But first, he hoped, a short sleep might set him to rights.

  * * *

  “It's a mild fever,” Manning told Caulfield in the dispensary, which was probably one of the more private parts of the ship at that time. “I have administered a draught of Peruvian Bark, and taken eight ounces of blood. He is currently asleep and it is best if we allow him to remain so. His servant is giving excellent attention.”

  “Are there any other instances?” the first lieutenant asked. News of his captain's sickness was bad enough; were the illness to spread to other members of the crew, it could spell disaster.

  “Yes, though mainly amongst the marines.” Manning scratched his head thoughtfully. “None of the Indiaman's former passengers are reporting symptoms, which surprises me as I would have guessed them to be the cause. Their medical man appears to be a fine practitioner, and is Edinburgh trained. I am glad to say he does not suspect typhus, but believes the malady to be nothing more than a minor chill, which should not prove life threatening. With luck and good care it may even pass.”

  “Could you estimate how long that might take?” Caulfield was not in any great hope of an answer, but at least the captain's life did not appear in danger.

  “I should say no more than a week,” Manning replied.

  A week: in such a time they could have raised Gibraltar, or found themselves in action with an enemy fleet. But at least much had already been done as far as planning was concerned. Both ships would soon be ready to sail, and the carpenter's team were finishing the improvised cells on the orlop.

  “Very well,” Caulfield said, with sudden decision. “Then we should make for Gibraltar without delay. We can start transferring passengers and captives at first light and square away shortly afterwards. You will keep me informed of developments with the captain?”

  “I shall indeed,” Manning confirmed. “As well as any further patients that might present.”

  * * *

  “Well, it's hardly the grandest of pitches,” Thompson said, dropping his ditty bag and hammock onto the deck at their allotted space. “Not for a single decker.”

  Being entirely free of cannon, the berth deck of a frigate was usually spacious to the point of being draughty, and the sixty or so hands selected to sail the prize had been expecting far more in the way of accommodation. But the lesser passengers would be making their homes aft of a canvas screen, rigged rathe
r hurriedly between main and foremast, and the seamen were pragmatic enough to know that stealing their space was likely to be the least of the civilians' crimes.

  “When's that lot comin' aboard, then?” Harrison asked, eyeing the barrier with mistrust.

  “Almost immediately, I'd say,” Flint replied. “What with the Frenchies an' all, it were getting like a cattle market aboard the barky.”

  “Well, at least we got the galley fire,” Thompson, who liked his comfort, muttered. “An' the 'eads.”

  “An' it'll only be a brief while,” Flint agreed, glad to find a positive comment. “Three or four days, at worst, then Gib. an' all her wonders.”

  Those detailed to the prize had been drafted in messes, the theory being that men already acquainted and in most cases used to working together would be of more use aboard a strange vessel. Such a consideration was even more important when dealing with ships of the third rate and above, where crews were seldom less than five hundred and could frequently rise to almost double. But of all of Flint's mess, only Jameson and Butler were recognised topmen, which was the obvious requirement when sailing an alien ship. Consequently, the others would have to reconcile themselves to acting as members of the afterguard or even waisters.

  “She's a tight enough craft,” Butler said as he placed an appreciative hand on one of the overhead beams. “With a bit of luck, they'll buy her into the service.”

  “Why should you care if they do?” Billings asked suspiciously.

  Butler gave him a sideways look. “Because they'll be needing a transit crew,” he said. “And I, for one, don't intend spending the rest of my days beating 'bout the Med.”

  “Anyone checked out the ballast?” Thompson asked of nobody in particular.

  “Should we need to?” Ben, the lad of the mess, asked innocently.

  “Far too many Frenchies been aboard this tub for my liking,” Thompson explained. “They got a nasty trick of burying their dead in the shingle.”