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

by Alaric Bond

  * * *

  But King was not on the lower gun deck; that station, arguably the most important in Prometheus at the time, had been without command for several minutes. His limp body was finally collected by two men detailed for just such a task and, noticing some possibility of life, they half carried, half dragged it down the aft companionway and onto the deck below.

  “Another for you, witch,” one told Judy pragmatically as it was placed on the canvas covered deck beside her.

  “I don't want no more dead ones,” she replied with equal frankness and without taking her attention from the wounded marine that was only just being persuaded to sip lemonade.

  “That one ain't dead,” the second man told her, glancing back at his load. “He's an officer, an' a good one, so no messing with any of your evil concoctions or there'll be the devil to pay.”

  “And no pitch hot enough,” the other agreed as they walked away.

  She said nothing; insults from the seamen had been common since she was caught colluding with the Irishman, although Judy was stoical enough to ignore them. Besides, she had sorted the little worm's lot in a way that no one else appeared to have noticed. And, despite her apparently brusque attitude, she cared greatly for those under her charge. Her current patient had lapsed into a deep sleep and Judy gently lowered him back to the deck, before turning to assess the new arrival.

  “Oh Lordy!” she said in horror, as a familiar, but whitened, face stared back vacantly at her. King's shirt was soaked in blood and a large lump of wood protruded through the torn material. “Mr Manning,” she shouted at the surgeon who was bent over his operating table only a few feet away. “It's Mr King, he needs your help!”

  But it was as if she had not spoken; the surgeon's total concentration remained on his current patient, and Judy wondered if she should repeat herself. Only some lengthy seconds later did Manning's gaze lift, his expression a mixture of surprise and anger.

  “I cannot attend,” he told her quickly. “He shall have to wait: do what you can for him.”

  Judy looked back at the body: it was the first patient who had been known to her. Mr King: the smart lieutenant who let her call him Tom, and she secretly found rather attractive. The one who discovered her in the forepeak, and had remained a friend since, even to the extent of speaking up to the captain when her terrible crime was discovered. In return Judy had been pleased to warn the first lieutenant about the duel, and there was nothing she would not do to help him further. But as to what, well she hardly knew where to start.

  She pulled back the torn flap of blue jacket and what remained of King's cotton shirt before gasping for a second at the evil shard of oak that lay embedded in the young man's chest. The majority appeared to be pressed between his ribs and skin, although some might have bypassed the bone, and be resting inside the chest cavity. Blood continued to seep from the wound and no great medical knowledge was needed to deduce it was the wooden splinter itself that allowed such a steady flow.

  There was a rag that had served her well until that moment but, seeing it was a new and special patient, she reached for fresh, and soaked it liberally in the spirit supplied for just such a purpose. Once cleaned, the wound was more presentable, although the bleeding remained constant. Desperately her gaze travelled back to the surgeons but both Mr Manning and his two assistants were far too busy to be disturbed. Then she took a firm grip on the warm fragment of wood, and began to heave.

  It came surprisingly easily and was soon free, even if small remnants remained in the jaws of the lesion. Picking delicately at these, Judy repeatedly dabbed at the area with her cloth and when the two loblolly boys came looking for their next patient, she was quick to catch their attention.

  “I have removed a splinter,” she told the surgeon, as the body was placed on the soiled platform of midshipmen's chests that formed Manning's operating table. “Though there may be traces that remain.”

  Manning examined the wound, pressing it with his fingers and pulling out the occasional sliver of wood that came to the surface. “It is as clean a job as I could wish for,” he told her softly, “though he requires a deal of attention.”

  “But you will look after him?” she questioned.

  “I will,” he replied evenly. “Tom is my friend as well.”

  * * *

  The ship began to turn to starboard and Ross was at a loss. All about him men were working furiously; the guns were in the main secured, though those that had been hit still lay at odd angles, their muzzles either pointing downwards, or at an oblique slant, while his own was simply lying sideways on the ragged remains of a former messmate. Harrison had eventually been released and should by now be safe in the hands of the medical team on the deck below. In fact it appeared all of the wounded were cleared, while those of the dead who could be reached had been despatched through a convenient gun port. And with some degree of order restored, it was obvious to him that command was the next requirement.

  He could hear the rumble of wheels as the larboard battery on the deck above was run out. The target to starboard was now out of their arc of fire but he could appreciate the likelihood of the third enemy being immediately behind and, with the ship turning yet again, guessed it to be to larboard. A distant order filtered down; that would be lieutenant Benson who had charge of Prometheus' secondary armament. When a lieutenant himself, Ross had commanded gun decks in two ships. He knew what needed to be done, and that any distraction would not be appreciated. A midshipman, if there were any left, or one of the quarter gunners may well appeal to Benson for assistance, but it was unlikely the man would have either time or energy to supervise both decks. One of the senior warrant officers, or possibly the fifth lieutenant, might be found at length, but if the guns were to continue to fire efficiently it was a job that required immediate attention. And here he was, trained, experienced, and well versed in the work: there really was no option.

  “Pay attention there, secure starboard battery and attend the larboard!” his voice rang out far louder than it had for many months, and carried with it a note of command that amazed himself almost as much as those he served with. But, apart from a few foolish grins and rather more blank expressions, no one actually responded.

  “Do you hear me there? Larboard battery, and now!” Desperation was giving even more authority to his words, yet still the men regarded him with little other than tolerance. “You, there: Guillom: do you see a target for'ard?”

  The quarter gunner; a petty officer who supervised four thirty-two pounders and comfortably out-ranked any able seaman, stared back for a good second before dutifully making for a forward port.

  “Enemy liner is in sight,” he replied, turning back and looking at Ross as if having just performed some special trick. “She's a cable to larboard, and we're going to pass her close,” then, still with the look of wonder on his face he added: “Sir.”

  A cable to larboard was tight work indeed; Ross was surprised the captain had not ordered them to double shot the larboard battery.

  “Stand to your pieces,” he ordered, beginning the routine, as he had a thousand times on past occasions. “Now, check your priming.”

  The men dutifully attended to their weapons; each captain carefully inspected the fine mealed powder that would ignite the main charge, before flipping forward the frizzen on the gun locks, and drawing back their hammers to full cock.

  “I have her!” someone from far forward shouted excitedly, and a buzz of anticipation ran down the larboard side of the deck.

  “Hold fast there, hold fast!” Ross snapped. He had not controlled a battery for many months and was unlikely ever to do so again: this one last chance was not to be ruined by any premature discharges. “We'll fire off as loaded, but serve the next double-shotted.” There were nods of comprehension from the loaders as Ross continued. “Now, wait upon my word,” he added, striding up the deck with total authority.

  And they all did exactly as they were told.

  * * *


  There was perhaps the faintest lightening in the sky; but it was far too early for dawn and with no moon due, Banks turned back and saw the blaze from the first ship they had engaged. Beside her, but not too close, Aries could be seen in the process of lowering boats, while Canopus had moved on and was doing all she could in such light airs to close with the second Frenchman. He switched his attention back; Conn, with what must be a relatively intact eighty, should be able to deal with a damaged seventy-four without trouble, which left him free to direct all his attention to the present problem.

  The enemy was hard by and, every four or five minutes, fired her bow chasers into Prometheus, while they replied with far more celerity and speed, using their forward facing long nines. The British ship remained underway, but was moving with such reluctance that her rudder could be of little use, and Banks knew he was relying more on a fortunate current for forward motion than any wind. But progress there was; his opponent became clearer with every gun flash and, when one particularly lucky shot started a small fire on her forecastle, it was obvious the time when they might properly exchange broadsides was near.

  Presumably a similar thought had struck his opposite number. The Frenchman's helm had been put across in the hope of bringing her broadside to bear on the British ship's bows but now, as such a move was proving impossible, she was correcting, and appeared content to wait until the two met side on. Then, almost imperceptibly, the wind began to rise.

  It came with hardly more force than a breath, then grew, causing men to look to each other in doubt, before peering up through the gloom to their sails. The canvas that had been hanging torpid and flat, first rippled, then flapped, and soon was billowing softly.

  Prometheus responded well: there was a murmur from the stays, her rudder bit and then the quartermaster could finally make that much needed point to starboard. With the rise, the wind had also veered, giving them far more space for a considered distance, although Banks now felt there was less need for room. He had no knowledge of any deficiencies below; all damage reports so far received had mostly come from the upper deck or spars. And King was well known to him: any major problem would have been relayed promptly enough, and the lad would not bother his captain with anything less. Consequently Banks was quite prepared to match his well proven guns against any Frenchman, undamaged or not: actually he was looking forward to the prospect.

  * * *

  Judy had done well; the wound was clean and almost free from debris, although Manning was still not confident. Splinter wounds alone were bound to account for a good proportion of the casualties he would be dealing with that night, and carried a far greater risk of infection than the effects of more conventional weapons. Even as he worked, stitching deep into the mess of muscle and tissue that currently constituted his friend’s chest, he knew he may be leaving fragments behind. Fragments that would stay hidden long enough to indicate a good recovery, when their festering presence would finally be revealed. He knew, but there was little he could do about it; King had already lost a great deal of blood and, in the make-do surgery he was forced to practise, the immediate need was to achieve a sound closure.

  And so he worked, with half a brain set on the difficulties of keeping the stitches even, while the rest of his mind tracked movement all around. Of his two mates, Dodgeson was proving faster in attending to his charges, but that was in keeping with the man's more brittle personality, and Manning knew the more careful Prior would not be slacking. The flow of casualties had slowed; there were still many awaiting attention, but it was not an inordinate number and all would be dealt with, even if it took the rest of the night.

  That the action was in no way over had also been noted. The ship appeared to be underway following a brief period of calm, and Manning had worked through enough major battles in the past to know the difference between an interval and the end of a performance. There was none of the excitement common when an enemy either surrendered or attempted to board, so further fighting, and subsequent casualties, could be expected.

  But no part of his thinking was reserved for King the person; his best friend, and shipmate for most of his adult life. He tied off the last stitch and motioned to Judy, who appeared to have abandoned all other work to assist him. She wiped down King's chest with a liberal amount of spirit, then did so again using a cleaner piece of tow. Manning said nothing as he watched. He knew he must continue to take a dispassionate view and his prognosis was exactly on those lines.

  “The patient has sustained major trauma to the upper chest, with complications stemming from the impact and removal of a large fragment of wooden debris,” he told himself, taking refuge in the impartial prose of a surgeon's report. “After cleansing, the wound has been closed, and it is hoped that convalescence will encourage a full recovery.”

  For a moment he stopped and thought some more: he had further to add and, despite the inevitable conclusion being painful, it must be reached.

  “There is, however, the risk that latent foreign matter remains within the lesion, which will inevitably cause an imbalance in the humors and subsequent mortification. A further operation might rid the patient of this if the corruption is not too deeply seated although, once established, the malady is likely to remain and no permanent recovery can be expected.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Those on the lower gun deck had long since dismissed the novelty of being commanded by an able seaman. Ross knew what he was about and, in a service where skilled men with a lifetime's experience were expected to take orders from privileged children, they instinctively sensed competence and felt comfortable in his control.

  “What see you there?” he growled at Guillom once more, and the quarter gunner bent through the open port yet again.

  “We got the wind, and are gaining speed,” he shouted back. “For'ard broadside guns will be coming into range shortly.”

  Ross nodded, but did not speak further. The command to open fire would come soon enough and his true responsibilities began when the enemy started to hit back. In case of injury, men would have to be moved, making up numbers from one gun to another, while the regular supply of powder could not be interrupted. Only by constant attention could the main guns continue to fire. If they should ever stop, Prometheus would be taken for certain, and it was down to him to see they did not.

  * * *

  “Captain orders independent fire, and as you bear!”

  The order was screamed down the aft companionway by a voice surely far too young to carry such a message. But it was heard by most on the lower gun deck and, at a supplementary command from Ross, all crews immediately stood to.

  “Keep 'em laying straight!” he added quickly, as some captains made to train their pieces forward. Several seconds might be gained by aiming the guns so, but Ross knew the angle of impact would be altered: their shots would not penetrate the enemy's hull so easily, and might even be deflected. “Range will be less than point blank,” he continued. “Should we touch, fully depress your pieces.”

  In a true close action, shot aimed low was more likely to sink an enemy, while endangering fewer boarders that might have been sent from the upper decks. The thirty-two pound balls would also not hull the opposing ship – passing straight through and potentially damaging friendly vessels beyond. All on the lower gun deck were aware of these basics, but there were still respectful acknowledgements from the nearest crews, and Ross felt that his authority, assumed though it might have been, was holding up well.

  “Target!” Guillom shouted from forward, and the discharge from the farthest gun followed a few seconds later. The rest of the battery continued in turn, with only one, which suffered a misfire, and had need of the slow match, being out of order. Ross watched in approval as the well trained teams then went into action serving their pieces, and was wondering vaguely why there had been no answering fire when the enemy did reply. It was with a simultaneous broadside and seemed to come from so close a range that Prometheus was all but pressed sideways by the impa
ct.

  “Fire buckets aft!” Ross directed as a small blaze erupted close to, and above, the main magazine. “You there, the wash-deck pump and smart at it!” Directly next to the flames an unlucky hit had also killed a lad carrying two cartridges of cylinder powder and, what was even more unfortunate, spread his load evenly over the surrounding area. A circle roughly fifteen feet in diameter was coated in fine powder; if the fire was allowed to spread, the entire ship would be in imminent danger. “Fire buckets,” he repeated, steadily. “Dilston, Colebrook – all those of the fire party – look to!”

  His words seemed to wake everyone out of a trance. The fire itself was soon out but continued to smoke heavily and two pails of sand together with the entire contents of the scuttlebutt were subsequently poured over the grisly mess. A further pail of water was added, neutralising any remaining grains and giving a degree of grip to the barefoot men who had to tread the deck.

  “No powder, no powder here!” He turned to see two groups of servers shouting from further forward. Evidently the ready-use charges were not being immediately replaced: something must have broken down in the chain of loading, and in no time other hands were calling attention to the problem. Ross looked about and realised the team of powder monkeys were gathered about the body of their fallen colleague.

  “Make a move there!” he shouted in a voice that might have never left the quarterdeck, and the lads were instantly brought back to their duty. All else appeared to be in order; a man was examining his left hand, that appeared to be lacking a number of fingers, and there was some sort of argument going on within a nearby gun crew, which was instantly quelled by the strict voice of authority. Apart from that, Ross decided, the lower battery had got off remarkably lightly. Two men appeared to be missing from number eight, but the gun was being served well enough by its remaining crew. Then, even before he was considering it time, the first of Prometheus' thirty-twos fired in reply.