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

by Alaric Bond

  He sighed and changed his current book for another; one that spoke more of gastric ailments and, although such symptoms were only a part of the problem, he supposed it might shed some light on the subject. One thing was certain: a good three days' sailing were needed before they raised Gibraltar, and the time spent in between was not going to be uneventful.

  * * *

  But not everyone was under such pressure. Unbeknown to Manning, there had been no outbreaks of illness aboard the prize and those seamen transferred from Prometheus were actually enjoying their spell aboard the former privateer. As confirmed man-o'-war hands, there was something novel in crewing a ship purely for her sailing abilities, with no concern for practice at the guns or small arms. Even being set to working as waisters or members of the afterguard, heaving at braces and trimming sails while chattering passengers did their best to distract or encumber them, did not ruin their enjoyment.

  “Bit of a breeze blowin',” Harrison sniffed the air expectantly as they came on deck with the new watch. “With luck that yellow haired frizzy will wear her white dress again.”

  Flint eyed him thoughtfully as they formed up on the half deck. “Why should you care about a passenger's clothing?” he asked.

  “I spent most of yes'day's af'noon watch on helmsman duty,” Harrison told him smugly. “An' most of the time she were bent over the leeward bulwark, yarning with her husband. Wind kept lifting her frock up: lovely, it was. Ain't seen so much leg since Admiral Worthington's lady got stuck in the boatswain's chair. Lucky Seth Marne were my oppo. or we never would 'ave kept a regular course.”

  “It's a funny thing about old Seth,” Flint agreed. “Women's legs never did do much for him.”

  “Watch on deck, stand to!” Clement, a boatswain's mate, called and the new men brought themselves up to something approaching attention for the start of the next four hours of duty.

  * * *

  The prisoners made their move just after two bells in the afternoon watch, when most of Prometheus' crew were still recovering from two pussers' pounds of salt beef, plum duff and the quarter pint of spirit that had preceded both. Marine Lieutenant James, who had been visiting Donaldson in the sick berth, was actually on hand and one of the first to die: the bayonet of a Bess, recently wrestled from the arms of one of his own men, accounting for him with silent efficiency. Other officers were also caught napping, in some cases literally; Bruce and Sutton were asleep in the midshipmen's berth when they were run through with boarding pikes, while Simmonds, a boatswain's mate caught in the aft cockpit, at least had time and sense to shout a warning before meeting his end under the edge of a looted cutlass. But the cry had little effect; by then the contingent of twenty prisoners about to be escorted up for air and exercise had already overpowered their guard before releasing the rest, and soon most on Prometheus' orlop were well aware the deck was no longer their own.

  On receipt of his parole, Carroll had been allowed a cabin in the gun room and was seated at the warrant officers' dining table, checking the list of prisoners' names with the first lieutenant, when both men heard the first sounds of insurrection. Caulfield looked to the Irishman who gave a shrug of incomprehension, then they both turned to see five wide eyed men burst through the outer door and come crashing into the room.

  “Rise, citizen,” one shouted to Carroll in a strong Irish accent. “The orlop is ours; we are currently fightin' for this an' the upper deck. Once they are taken we may claim the ship!”

  Caulfield stood and made to reach for his sword, but the weapon was safely in his cabin on the deck above, and one of the men pressed him roughly back down on his chair, holding him there with the flat of a cutlass blade. Carroll raised a hand and silently pointed at two of the penned off cabins that ran down both sides of the gun room. The rest of the privateers understood at once and divided into separate groups, before surging forward, kicking the thin doors to splinters, and blasting into the tiny rooms. Swift, a marine lieutenant, was dragged out almost immediately and stood, shaken and fuming, in open shirt and loosened britches. Of Abbot, the gunner, there was no sign; the men exited his cabin without comment, although one appeared to have fresh blood on his sword.

  “There'll be no more of that,” Carroll stated firmly, noting the weapon. “We are privateers, not pirates; contravene the letter of marque and all will end up on the gallows.”

  The men appeared suitably shamefaced and took to securing the two officers using a length of line that had been used to hang drying laundry by the warrant officers' bread bins. Caulfield, still seated, felt his wrists bound tight behind him. Then two turns about his chest and another round his ankles meant he would remain secure for as long as his captors wished, while Swift was simply hog tied and left to wriggle uncomfortably on the deck.

  “Where is Agard?” Carroll demanded.

  “The captain is outside,” another replied in English, through a strong French accent. His teeth gleamed in the poor light. “He is about to lead the attack on the rest of this deck.”

  “Then we must not delay,” Carroll said decisively, and went to leave.

  “But your parole!” Caulfield's shout caused him to stop and look back.

  “Ah yes, my parole,” the man laughed briefly. “I was quite forgetting,” he added. Then flashed his eyes, and was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Outside, the scene was of terror and confusion. In the half light of the lower gun deck, vague figures could just be made out as they fought desperate and individual battles. Some wielded cutlasses or boarding pikes, others simple gunners' tools, awkward beneath the low deckhead, while a good few of either side preferred the bare fist fighting they were used to, laying into their opponents with all the science of a Saturday night brawl. There were shouts, calls and the occasional scream and it was clear that no order would be established until one side was seen to hold the upper hand.

  “Davie!” the girl's thin voice sounded incongruous in such surroundings, and Carroll looked round in annoyance as Judy came running down the aft companionway towards him.

  “Go to the gun room,” he told her firmly. “Find one of the cabins and lock yourself in.”

  “But I must come as well,” she protested. “You promised!”

  “I shall join you shortly,” Carroll snapped, then snatched at the boarding cutlass being handed to him by one of his colleagues. He had taken a step away and was about to enter the fray when the girl's hand stopped him.

  “Come back with me,” she pleaded, hanging on to his arm. “I'll not lose you now!”

  “You will lose me forever if you do not let me go,” he said, with heavy irony. “Now back to the gun room.” The others were already deep into the fight, and he wished beyond anything to join them. But she was looking at him with that set expression he had already learned meant her mind was made up.

  “Let me come with you,” she insisted, even as he tore her hand from him.

  “Go, Judy, go I say!” his voice was far louder than he had intended, and her face registered surprise. “I shall return for you directly, once the ship is ours, but for now be gone!” And then his expression softened. “But my promise will still hold, and you have already done far more than I could have asked.”

  * * *

  In the prize, midshipmen Adams and Steven were sharing the watch and standing, with wildly assumed confidence, to either side of the binnacle. Both ships had made good progress that day and, with the wind holding steady on their starboard quarter, there was mercifully little for either to do. Meanwhile King, who had handed over the conn all of two hours ago, remained on deck and was currently forward, on the forecastle. A faint smudge of land was steadily becoming more visible off their larboard bow, and he was staring at it intently through his personal glass.

  King knew this to be Cape St Vincent, and that they were close to the site of the fleet action he had witnessed over six years ago. Belle Île was sailing half a mile to leeward and a cable behind the battleship to give both maximum adv
antage from the wind and, for some time, he had been waiting for a signal from Brehaut that would take them further out, to round the treacherous promontory. Despite what he had said to Davison, King was reasonably sure the midshipmen would be competent enough to see the ship onto a new heading, but nevertheless had decided to remain on deck, if only to be available should they encounter trouble.

  However, the order to change course was now considerably overdue and King was growing restless. The sun still burned bright; visibility was near perfect, and they would weather the cape easily enough on their present heading. But it was so unlike the usually cautious Brehaut to delay, that he turned his glass on Prometheus in case a signal had been missed.

  “Port the helm, lay her four points to starboard!” King bellowed, surprising himself and those about him. The hands on watch had been gossiping sleepily in the shade of the starboard gangways while those passengers stoical enough for the early afternoon sun were either beneath the lee of the quarterdeck barricade or sheltering under a patch of canvas spread across the main shrouds. “Summon the watch below,” King roared, as he thundered along the gangway, while beneath him the waisters and afterguard stirred themselves into action.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” Adams asked, his young face filled with concern for what the two of them may have missed.

  “Indeed, but not of your making. Summon the cap...” he corrected himself. “Summon Mr Davison, if you please. Mr Steven, kindly escort the passengers below.”

  There were no officers from the Indiaman on deck, they being far too accustomed to an early afternoon's rest, but several appeared soon enough as the ship changed course, and were present when a flustered and angry Davison stomped out onto the quarterdeck.

  “What the devil do you mean by all this?” he began, after a single glance about him. “Why, steering as we are, we shall run aboard Prometheus. Quartermaster, starboard your helm this minute!”

  “Belay that,” King yelled, although the men at the wheel were less than fifteen feet away and Davison a good deal closer. “Small arms for all, and prepare for boarding. Gentlemen, if you are able, we should appreciate your assistance as well as that of any of your servants,” he added, turning to two nearby Company officers who were blinking in the unaccustomed sunlight.

  “King, have you lost your senses?” Davison demanded. The prize had settled on her new course and was bearing down on the two decker with every second bringing them closer.

  “Prometheus is taken,” King snapped in explanation. “Or, if not, there is certainly an uprising aboard.”

  “Taken you say?” Doubt clouded the younger lieutenant’s expression, and he took the proffered glass from King, turning it on the two-decker that was rapidly nearing their larboard bow.

  “Dear Lord,” he said after a moment. Then, after lowering the glass and looking directly at his second in command, asked: “Whatever are we to do?”

  * * *

  The battle for the lower gun deck was not going well for the British. Taken by surprise, and at a time of day when they were more used to rest than violent action, the watch below had only become fully alert to the danger when hoards of yelling men came pouring up the companionways. And their attackers were well equipped, having previously raided both small arm stores on the orlop. Prometheus' regular crew were not without weapons, however. Purpose built, in the form of the ready-use cutlasses, half-pikes and tomahawks that were set on beams or in stands about the masts, as well as the more improvised gunners' tools of handspikes and worms that also lay to hand. Yet even so armed, many were quickly overrun by what proved to be a resolute and determined enemy. A cluster of stalwarts still fought several desperate actions further forward but they were outnumbered and, as Carroll and the French captain looked on, it seemed no more than a matter of time before they would have control of the largest area in the ship.

  “We have done well,” Agard muttered to his prize master. “Although there is still much to do.”

  “Indeed,” Carroll agreed. “And those on the upper deck will now be aware. We can expect a counter attack at any moment.”

  He was right; the remainder of Prometheus' crew had certainly been warned, and were already on the offensive. Leading a party of his own men, a shirt-sleeved sergeant Jarvis was first down the wide, but steep, aft staircase. The stocky NCO reached the deck before ducking down as an erratic volley of musket fire bit into the backs of the fighting privateers. Then his marines laid in with their bayonets, while more of Prometheus' seamen, variously armed with boarding weapons and belaying pins followed close behind. Carroll flashed a look at Agard as they drew back behind the relative safety of two thirty-two pounders. Even weakened by illness and taken by surprise, the British could still overpower them. And now they were fully alert to the danger, as well as being under proper command, the situation could quickly turn sour. He watched as two Frenchmen nearby fell to the lunge of marine bayonets and decided the disciplined force would prove a far more substantial enemy. But there were others who had taken sanctuary amidst the guns and Carroll knew that, as with the British, a bit of order would do wonders.

  “Come, mes amis,” he shouted, in his finest rallying voice, while raising his captured sword as high as the deckhead would allow. “Follow me, and the ship will be ours!”

  * * *

  From the quarterdeck, Lewis watched Jarvis' men descend, and could tell they were gaining ground, although forward, a similar British force under Corporal Collins was having less success. Many had made it down the hazardous steps, and were fighting a desperate action with the French below, but no progress was being made and he sensed that the attack would eventually be repelled. Several topmen had been aloft when the enemy rebelled, together with a boatswain's team that were carrying out repairs to the foremast and they were all now dropping down a variety of backstays, eager to join the fight. This would provide a reasonable force for yet another onslaught and Saunders, the master at arms who had chanced to be on deck, was calmly issuing them with small arms from the quarterdeck store. Lewis had ordered a signal to the prize but, before it could be made, the former privateer was already responding to the emergency and would be alongside in no time. That was good news indeed, although it did leave him with one difficult decision.

  He might wait, and lead a counter attack with more men, or reinforce those already committed in the hope of keeping the French at bay until the prize crew arrived. Jarvis' men were making inroads at the aft companionway, whereas those led by Collins forward were definitely having problems.

  He looked back at the capture which was still bearing down on them, with armed men visibly gathering at her bulwarks. The frigate's freeboard was considerably lower than that of a line-of-battleship; their prize crew might board if coming alongside, but would have to scale Prometheus' mountainous sides to gain access. Some might try to enter through her ports, yet those that were secured, must be forced. Lewis wondered what he would do if in charge of the boarders, and the answer came almost immediately.

  Placing the frigate alongside the battleship's stern would allow them to board through the quarter-galleries and wardroom windows: access points that would be far harder to defend than any gun port or companionway. That being so, if Jarvis' force could hold the deck aft of the main mast, they would eventually be supplemented by the boarders. Which left him only one real choice, as regards his own contingent.

  “Mr Saunders, take all on the quarterdeck and reinforce the marines down the aft companionway. I shall lead those on the spar deck down for'ard.” The warrant officer touched his bare head in a token salute, before collecting a boarding cutlass for himself, while Lewis hurled himself down the short ladder.

  But it was only as his boots hit the main deck that the lieutenant realised he was unarmed. “Come, lads!” he shouted to a bemused group of men standing in the semi-darkness under the ship's boats. Saunders would have those stationed on the poop and quarterdeck; about twelve men should make a sizeable difference. And his own force of
fifteen or so was not insubstantial; so much so that being without a weapon himself seemed almost immaterial. Lewis had been a lieutenant a scant few months but the importance of leadership had been learned over many years. He may be heading for an all out scrap, but the true value of any officer lay in command, rather than combat.

  As he reached them, he saw the forward steps that led below were draped with the bodies of wounded British marines and seamen. There was hardly any sound footing available, yet Lewis sensed the weight of those following, and knew that to pause would be fatal to the success of the attack: they must descend, and do so without delay.

  Jumping from the top step, he threw himself down, feet first, landing with one boot on the hard deck and the other atop the torso of an unfortunate marine. He regained his balance smartly enough and immediately dodged the thrust of a pike aimed at his chest, before springing up, seizing the weapon, and tearing it free. Then it was a relativity simple matter to smash the butt back into the moustachioed face of its owner. The man crumpled to the deck with a satisfying moan as blood began to spurt, but there were more following, and Lewis swiftly reversed the pike, before pressing forward into the wall of enemies before him.

  * * *

  “We'll run across her stern,” King bellowed, without reference to anyone else. He was standing on the very break of the privateer's quarterdeck and hanging out from the larboard main shrouds as he piloted the ship in, while the supposed captain was further aft and seemed to be taking a far more dispassionate view of proceedings. Even from a distance, and they must still be half a cable off, King could hear the sounds of a heated battle and the men already gathered on the forecastle or along Belle Île's larboard gangway were spoiling for a fight.

  “Enter by the wardroom,” a new voice commanded, and King instinctively looked behind. But Davison was standing mute by the binnacle and seemed to have lost all interest. “Ignore the captain's aft gallery,” the advice continued. “The battle will be below.”