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

by Alaric Bond

  “No, I think we shall see action afore then,” Banks replied, and Caulfield could see the gleam of his smile in the green binnacle light. “At least, I hope so.”

  * * *

  “Enemy is expected to larboard,” King repeated for the fifth time as he strode down the length of the lower gun deck. With ports closed but battle lanterns alight and open, what was usually one of the darker areas in the ship was unusually well lit, and the men who stolidly moved across from their positions at the starboard guns could see each other remarkably well.

  “Do we have a range, sir?” Flint asked as the lieutenant passed.

  “Range, Flint?” King snorted. “We can't even be sure they're there – it's as black as Newgate's knocker outside. But be ready, all of you,” he continued in a louder voice. “We're liable to run them down with little notice.”

  The men, though tired, revived at his words, and began checking their particular pieces of equipment. Then an excited squeal took everyone's attention, and one of the younger volunteers could be seen scampering down the companionway and over to Carlton, who was second in command of the main battery.

  “Captain orders the guns run out to larboard,” he panted.

  “Is the enemy sighted?” King shouted across the crowded space.

  “I don't believe so, sir,” the lad replied doubtfully.

  “Very well,” King glanced back along the deck. “We'll have all lanterns closed, then open ports and run out your pieces,” he said, and the order was quickly passed down the line. The various pin-points of light were quickly shuttered until only the faintest of cracks could be seen, but a glow came from the two companionways that led down to the orlop, directly beneath them.

  It was where Manning had his medical team waiting in readiness. And there would be at least four lanthorns burning over the operating area. To larboard, the heavy ports were being heaved up amid a cloud of oakum dust, allowing a cold breeze to banish the close, moist atmosphere all had become accustomed to. And, as the solid black muzzles of the battleship's main armament were run out to stare at the empty night, King wondered if the orlop lights might be visible to an enemy. He supposed he could send a message to Manning, or maybe even nip down himself; he had not seen his old friend for ages and Carlton was quite capable of looking after the deck for thirty seconds. He could simply check all was in order, and possibly ask the surgeon to mask a couple of lamps.

  And Judy would be there: she had responded well to the second chance Banks granted. This was ostensibly for the tireless work put in with the wounded, although King suspected her action in all but fatally poisoning that blackguard Carroll might have been an unmentioned factor in the captain's decision. But, whatever the reason, she was back to her previous duties and it was always good to see a pretty face.

  King actually took a step towards the aft companionway, then felt himself abruptly stop. Suddenly he had no desire to meet with Manning, or Judy, or visit the orlop. It was as if the place, and all those who worked there, had become totally repugnant to him, and should be avoided at all costs.

  There was nothing so very strange about that, he assured himself. He had witnessed a crowded cockpit during the heat of battle and there were few worse stations. Of course the action had yet to begin and there would be no wounded, but still he resolved to stay well away. The cold wind was now veritably howling through the open ports; it might have been summer, but there could be no doubting the chill of early morning. And that explained why he was actually shivering slightly as he waited for the action to begin.

  * * *

  An hour later, they were none the wiser. Occasional glimmers from astern showed where Canopus was slowly being left behind. She was on roughly the same course, though and all on deck knew the battleship would catch them quickly enough should they raise an enemy. But of the French there was no sign; either they were better at darkening ship than the British, or had altered course once more, and might be heading away in almost any direction at that very moment. Marines were stood to along the bulwarks, muskets loaded and bayonets fixed. Servers crowded about their guns and anyone with the merest glimpse of the outside world appeared to be looking out to sea. But only the black night stared back. Some would spot images, faint swirlings in the mist, or a flurry of spray as the breeze woke up a particularly proud wave, but these were soon revealed as the frauds they were, and nothing solid came to take their place. Nothing worthy of report, nothing but the night.

  And then, impossibly, the outline of a ship began to take form off the larboard bow.

  A low murmuring accompanied the discovery, alerting all who looked in that direction and drawing those whose attention had been elsewhere. She was laughably close, less than a cable off their prow, and steering roughly the same course as Prometheus.

  The captain was the first to react, his mind beginning to spin even before he knew it. As they were, Prometheus must soon be alongside and in a position to exchange broadsides. And it was quite possible the French would be caught napping, enabling the battleship to serve before she received. But Banks could see a far better way of dealing with the situation. Providing, that is, he was as sure of his ship as he truly felt.

  “Starboard the helm, Mr Brehaut; take us hard to larboard,” he ordered, still staring at the enemy. “And Mr Caulfield, we shall take her with the starboard battery!”

  Shouts came from the Frenchman, and a musket shot rang out, but by then those aboard the British battleship were already in action. At the long guns, men once more rushed across the decks before heaving their black monsters out to greet a vacant ocean. But all knew it could not stay that way for long; even as the pieces were secured, Prometheus began to heel as the wind swept her prow round. One moment they were pointing directly at the Frenchman's imposing stern, the next their speed increased, and the mighty battle-wagon was running down on the enemy's larboard quarter. Points of light began to appear on the British ship's upper deck: battle lanterns were being unmasked or re-lit, and a collective cheer erupted from the gunners as they steadily approached what was probably the finest firing position any of them had ever known.

  The French were first, however: twin tongues of flame licked out from their stern mounted long guns, almost blinding anyone unfortunate enough to be looking in that direction, while the silent night was split with a deafening roar. The heavy shots struck low on Prometheus' hull, but she had been given a task to complete and neither paused, nor deviated from her course as she performed it.

  “Ready Mr Benson...” Caulfield cautioned from the fife rail, but all on the upper gun deck were certainly so, as would be those at the thirty-two pounders under King's direction. Then, with a single shouted command, Prometheus spoke.

  The broadside was simultaneous and neatly raked the Frenchman, knocking through her stern, and creating untold carnage and terror deep within the warship's hull. Watching from his position on the quarterdeck, Banks knew that the single barrage would have knocked much of the fight from his enemy. The shots would dig deep into her very vitals, killing men and destroying equipment; any vessel treated so would take an age to recover from such a drubbing.

  But in performing the action he had also exposed his own ship to danger. The night held two more equally powerful enemy war machines; they would remain hidden, but now must know exactly where Prometheus was to be found.

  “Masthead, what do you see there?” The captain's voice had to battle against the cheering of his own men, as well as a rumble of gun carriages as the starboard pieces were served.

  “What do you see there?” Brehaut repeated, with the advantage of a speaking trumpet.

  “Only the immediate enemy, sir,” Butler's voice came back apologetically.

  “You, boy – get aloft to the masthead,” Banks snapped at a nearby midshipman who was gazing, white-faced, into the night. The lad was still apparently in shock at seeing the devastating results a single close-ranged broadside could achieve. But it was possible the lookouts had committed the cardinal sin o
f losing their night sight, or even that this particular Frenchman had become separated from her consorts, and an extra pair of young eyes was not to be wasted.

  Another flash, and the crack of a single enemy cannon, followed by two others and, after a pause, three more. Prometheus was now passing her opponent’s larboard side, and evidently some of the French crew were sufficiently alert to reply, if only in a derisible manner.

  “Take her further to larboard,” Banks snarled as the deck beneath him jarred with the impact of heavy shot. Prometheus was a solid ship, with sides made up from several layers of oak and elm and specifically designed to take such punishment. But the Frenchman was close by, and Banks could not afford to suffer any unnecessary damage. More to the point, that single, raking broadside had started a small fire deep within the enemy battleship. By its light he could already make out their own topsails and, if they were visible to those aboard Prometheus, others further off would also spot them.

  “Deck there, enemy in sight to larboard!” It was Adams, the midshipman he had sent aloft. The boy must have made the ascent in record time, and was already proving his worth.

  “Where away?” Caulfield shouted before Banks had the chance.

  “Right on our larboard beam!” Adams replied. “We're in the perfect position!”

  “Ready larboard battery,” the first lieutenant ordered, and there was a moment's disorder as the starboard pieces, as yet not fully served, were abandoned in favour of their opposite numbers.

  “Belay that!” Banks shouted, his voice breaking in sudden excitement. He sensed Caulfield's confusion, but there was no time to explain. The captain rushed across the quarterdeck and, thrusting aside a pair of marines standing sentinel, leaned out over the top rail.

  There was the ship Adams had spotted, right enough and a line-of battleship without a doubt. The lad had also been correct with regard to their firing position. The last turn had placed Prometheus neatly across her bows; it would only need for them to spill their wind to be able to deal a devastating blow upon the vulnerable prow.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” Caulfield asked, joining his captain.

  “There would be, if we opened fire,” Banks replied, nodding towards the dark shape that was gradually taking form at point blank range from their loaded battery. “That's Canopus.”

  * * *

  “Belay larboard and continue serving the starboard pieces,” King ordered, when the message reached him. He peered through an open port, and guessed what had so nearly happened. Their consort must have increased sail on seeing Prometheus go into battle, and come up on their lee. Such things were hardly unusual in the confusion of battle and, given the present conditions, Banks could hardly have been blamed if he had fired on her. But serving such a devastating blow against Canopus would have affected Prometheus almost as much. A well timed broadside could only have taken out a large proportion of her crew, to say nothing of the material damage inflicted on the British liner. Once so weakened, it was extremely likely the French would have overpowered them both, even with one of their own number severely damaged.

  “What do you see there?” he asked a quarter gunner who was peering through one of the starboard ports.

  “The Frenchie we raked is taking fire, sir,” Guillom, a seasoned hand, reported. “I'd say we hit her hard, but there's no sign of any of the others.”

  “What of Canopus?” King asked.

  “She's turned to starboard and is coming past our stern; looks as if she intends finishing the Frog off.”

  King considered this; it was probably wise to make sure the wounded Frenchman was totally silenced although, in doing so, Conn would be exposing his own ship to the light of her flames.

  “Starboard battery ready,” Carlton told him, adding, “I've sent the word to Mr Benson.”

  “Very good,” King muttered. They had done well to reload so quickly, especially with the distraction of being called to the larboard guns. Prometheus was once more able to deal a blow on either side, and may have to do so at any moment.

  Or she might continue into the dark night, gamely feeling her way, with all eyes straining for further enemies, yet not encounter another until dawn. Really there was no telling when this game might end, but he was certain it would last a while longer.

  * * *

  But King did not have to wait long; no one did. As predicted, Canopus passed their taffrail, and took position off the wounded Frenchman's quarter. The solid thump of a broadside followed, and was repeated in good time by another just as devastating. Banks, who had retreated alone to the starboard bulwark to think, watched from the darkness and relative safety that distance had bought them. He could well understand Conn's desire to involve himself in the fray, but there could be no fight left in the enemy battleship now, and every second the British ship remained illuminated by her funeral pyre, was time allowed the other two enemy vessels to re-form. And then, even as he thought, there came another call from Adams at the masthead, and Banks knew he had been correct.

  “Two ships running down off our starboard beam,” Caulfield announced as Banks rejoined the group at the binnacle. “I should chance it to be the French coming back to save their own.”

  That was exactly what Banks had anticipated, and it was a trifle annoying not to be able to say so. But, more importantly, Canopus might be unaware; the fire, burning so close to her, would rob those on board of any vision in the dark.

  “Port the helm, take us four points to starboard,” he commanded, and the orders were swiftly translated into a series of shouts and responses. There was no time to signal Canopus; but if he could bring Prometheus round in time, he may still be able to alert her to the danger in a less conventional manner.

  “What of the sighting, masthead?” he shouted, as the ship was brought closer to the wind.

  “First is fine off our larboard bow, and a good three cables' distance. The other I have lost for now, but she were a way behind.”

  Banks was satisfied; Prometheus had ceased to turn and would be coming on the enemy out of the darkness. He was not one to trust much to fortune but, on this occasion felt unusually confident. With luck they were heading for an encounter every bit as successful as the last.

  Chapter Twenty

  They had five patients so far and none had taxed them any. Manning stood up gingerly after tending to the last, his head bowed to clear the low deckhead. It had been the simple amputation of a waister's right arm that was smashed at the elbow. Before that, two men had been brought down with the self inflicted injuries that were to be expected when firing heavy cannon in dark, confined spaces. One nursed a broken leg, caused by being in the wrong place when the beast discharged while another had been careless enough to drop a thirty-two pound round shot directly onto his foot. There was also a minor splinter wound, and one of the midshipmen had succumbed to mild hysterics after a French eighteen pound ball came clean through an open port and missed his head by inches.

  But from several years' service, Manning knew the party was only just beginning to warm, and a good many more could be expected to clutter his clear and still orderly space on the orlop. And he was not alone in his experience; although he had yet to see them properly stretched in an extended engagement, both his assistants had previously seen fleet action at least twice, with Dodgeson being a veteran of Copenhagen. His loblolly boys also appeared relatively practised, and were not indulging in the irreverent chatter so common in those yet to know the terrors of a crowded cockpit. It was just the girl, Judy, who caused him to worry.

  With such a history he, as a professional man, had objected strongly when she was posted to looking after wounded prisoners. And even after her tireless efforts had reclaimed a measure of respect, part of him was still only prepared to tolerate her presence with a good deal of caution. The incident with the Irishman, Carroll, had hardly helped. He could appreciate the measure of poetic justice involved, but to deliberately poison a prisoner went against a score of moral and legal codes.
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  Yet Manning was not without compassion; Judy was hardly the brightest of sparks, and her remorse for what she had done to her rescuers was obvious. He was also more than familiar with the numerous ways the human body could fail and, in his opinion she had simply exhibited a recurring weakness. Were her symptoms to have been physical: a deformed limb, or bouts of giddiness, the ailment would have been defined as medical, and addressed. But this was something far more subtle: Judy had shown a pathological tendency to trust.

  It was hardly a major defect by anyone's standards even if, as Manning knew, the condition had already endangered her own life on more than one occasion. And, as far as he was concerned, there was no specific remedy; character faults being way beyond any correction by surgical intervention. She would either have to diagnose the disorder herself, and make the appropriate allowances, or become resigned to a lifetime of being constantly hoodwinked and beguiled. Such a prospect offered only a very poor prognosis, so he was prepared to tolerate her presence in his medical department, and even bestow on her the care and almost respect he would give any chronically ill patient.

  But if Judy's character had a defect, it was balanced to some extent by an attribute that was truly valuable. Manning knew of her ability with food, and accepted this as a natural talent, but her prowess in other areas was, to a surgeon's mind at least, far more precious. For Judy had an innate understanding of the human body. More than that, she seemed able to see past physical disorders and discern a patient's inner wants, be it food, rest, or other natural requirements. This had quickly been accepted when dealing with the injured prisoners; even those without a word of English seemed able to communicate their needs to her. But dealing with patients who expected nothing from their captors was a different matter from attending her own kind. And when the English wounded began to arrive, Manning became concerned.

  The first, who had broken three toes from dropping the round shot, objected strongly when Judy attempted to examine his foot. Manning swiftly intervened, but it was a similar situation with the splinter patient. From what he understood, wild stories were still circulating about the young woman who, as legend had it, had come so close to accounting for all of the officers as well as a good many bootnecks into the bargain. Only the troubled midshipman, perhaps through greater understanding or need, had shown any faith and even then seemed more inclined to believe the girl to be his mother. And soon she would be needed. There were few major actions that proved anything like as economical as the present one and Manning was not so blessed with medical staff to be able to delegate any of his team to less personal duties.