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

by Alaric Bond

  Character List

  HMS Prometheus

  Captain: Sir Richard Banks

  Lieutenants: Michael Caulfield, Davison, Thomas King, Benson, Lewis, Carlton

  Sailing Master: Brehaut

  Master's Mate: Cartwright

  Midshipmen

  and Volunteers: Bruce, Chivers, Sutton, Franklin, Adams, Steven

  Surgeon: Robert Manning

  Surgeon's Mates: Dodgeson, Prior

  Loblolly boys: Macintosh, Wells, Mercer

  Purser: Dawson

  Boatswain's Mates: Simmonds, Clement

  Master at Arms a.k.a. “Jimmy Leggs”: Saunders

  Gunner: Abbot

  Gunner's Mate: Hurle

  Quarter Gunner: Guillom

  Cook: Stone

  Carpenter: Roberts

  Sailmaker: Stevenson

  Captain's Steward: David

  Davison's Steward: Hughes

  King's Steward: Keats

  Poulterer: “Jemmy Ducks”

  Seamen: Jenkins, Todd, Marne, Dilston, Colebrook, Carter, Sanderson, Jeffrey, Hill, Remmer and Moffat

  Flint's mess: Flint, Greg, Potterton, Cranston, Butler, Billings, Harrison, Jameson, Ross, Thompson and Ben (boy)

  Marines: Captain Donaldson, Captain Reynolds, Lieutenant James, Lieutenant Swift, Lieutenant Locke, Sergeant Jarvis, Corporal Collins

  And:

  Supercargo: Judith Kinnison (Judy)

  Wife of carpenter: Mrs Roberts

  Belle Île

  Captain: Agard

  Prize Master: David Carroll

  Seamen: Manasse, Molony

  Gibraltar

  Naval Commissioner's Staff: Captain William A Otway, Commander Gordon Stewart, Lieutenant Hoskins

  Garrison Commander: Major Barnett

  Solicitor: Markham

  Also

  Captain: HMB Wakeful: Commander Harker

  Captain: HMS Canopus: Captain John Conn

  Admiral commanding convoy: Rear Admiral Ford

  King's estranged wife: Juliana

  About the author

  Alaric Bond was born in Surrey, and now lives in Herstmonceux, East Sussex. He has been writing professionally for over twenty years.

  His interests include the British Navy, 1793-1815, and the RNVR during WWII. He is also a keen collector of old or unusual musical instruments, and 78 rpm records.

  Alaric Bond is a member of various historical societies and regularly gives talks to groups and organisations.

  www.alaricbond.com

  Also by Alaric Bond:

  The Fighting Sail Series

  His Majesty's Ship

  The Jackass Frigate

  True Colours

  Cut and Run

  The Patriot's Fate

  The Torrid Zone

  and:

  Turn a Blind Eye

  The Guinea Boat

  The Guinea Boat

  (sample)

  Chapter One

  Nat's story

  There is much I would change now, but that must be the same when looking back on any life: you always remember missed opportunities, while those taken and fully exploited somehow slip the mind. I probably hurt a good deal more than I healed, but that was never my intention, and if I looked out for myself whenever possible, it surely doesn't make me so very unusual. The main point is, I never set out to do any real harm. Some, who came off badly, might not have been my enemies to begin with, but certainly became so afterwards, so I can probably say in all honesty that I never hurt a friend.

  And youth had much to do with it. The young long to grow older yet cannot understand that, by doing so, they must also alter. There is no doubt I changed, and can now see how, and almost exactly when, but that is with the gift of hindsight. Along with grey hair, wrinkles and even knowledge itself, hindsight is a thing old men acquire without effort. And, again like knowledge, it is often confused with wisdom.

  But then I was far too young to look back: the only thing that concerned me was the future, and mine in particular. I had plans, many of them: all equally inspired and far too good to be challenged, compromised or modified in any way. Some were quite mundane, others more fanciful, but at the heart of every one was the very real need to avoid spending any more time in some stuffy office, which was what my father wanted.

  He trained as a book-keeper and could cast an account like a witch might spells. That was where his commercial skills ended, however; there were a number of small businesses he dabbled in that never did terribly well, and I put this down to an inability to get out of bed. To some extent this was counteracted by his working during the evenings, although even that eventually stopped. Frankly he always seemed to be in the house, and doing precisely nothing.

  We lived comfortably enough, due mainly to money inherited from his own father, but I did not rate his head for business at all, it being obvious to me that he lacked both motivation and the courage to take a risk. At first he had a family to support and probably this was a good enough reason for caution. But my sister married early and when mother died, and her position as wife was swiftly taken by another, I knew my days at home were numbered.

  My stepmother was an apparently doting little hussy hardly ten years older than me. Towards the end I would watch the two of them make eyes at each other while sitting out much of the day in the garden and most evenings at some more private haunt. Frankly his lack of enterprise appalled me.

  On reaching seventeen I felt more than able to fend for myself: I could work hard, had a fine head for figures, and considered myself to be a potential man of business. My aim was not just to be outrageously rich, but also more successful than my father. More to the point, I would become so by clever dealing and very obviously taking chances. I was determined to show him that none of his laziness or lack of ambition had been inherited by me.

  So, rather than spending any more time in the dank, dark clerks' office at Ashburnham's cannon foundry where I had been placed, I began to look elsewhere, and finally set my sights on the nearby south coast.

  It was the January of 1803, and England was at an uneasy peace with France. All knew it might end at any time but the Royal Navy was not so hungry for hands, and a man might visit even substantial ports without finding himself pressed. I knew I was not the right material for the cut and thrust of Royal Naval life, but the sea still appealed. My initial intention was to find a coaster and sign myself aboard. It would be as sure a way as any of saying at least a temporary farewell to Sussex and, after two or three short trips about Britain's shores, I might then feel inclined to lend my newly acquired skills to something a mite larger – maybe a deep sea merchant, perhaps even an Indiaman.

  It was common knowledge that substantial riches were waiting for those who sailed in John Company vessels, and I wanted my share. There was talk in the clerks' office of a local joiner who left the area some years back to ship as a carpenter's mate. Two Eastern trips later he returned with a pile big enough to set up a fine house and, by all accounts, now spent his days like a pig in butter. I'd never met the cove, and word was the riches had come through a good deal of personal trade, some of which might not have been strictly legal. But keeping to the narrow path had never been a great concern for me: if the temptation were strong enough, I would usually stray.

  Of course, my main concern was money. It didn't take long to work out that to follow the joiner's example would require an initial investment, and I had little, apart from a handful of cartwheels and one silver groat. But, as I slipped silently from the house at first light that winter's morning, at least I knew that opportunities did exist and the knowledge, together with my blatant disregard of his wishes, already seemed to have put me one step ahead of my father.

  I would make for Rye: that had been decided long ago and, as I started along the track in a light and chilly mist, there was no reason to change my mind. It sounded a pleasant enough port and not much more than a day's walk from our village. A cross-country path headed almost
directly there, but I was eager to get to the sea as soon as I could, and chose instead to go by way of Hastings; a fishing town that was far closer.

  There were no Indiamen waiting for me when I arrived, or viable coasters for that matter. The walk to Hastings had taken longer than I anticipated and, though nothing had really been expected from the place, it still disappointed. A small and rather sad collier was run up on the eastern side of the beach, but she was clearly in want of something more than an inexperienced hand. Apart from that, little caught my attention. There wasn't even a harbour, or a wharf, or a mole. Several small huts had been rather crudely constructed, some made from the hulls of old boats sawn in two. These were assembled in untidy groups towards the top and one side of a long shingle beach that I was later to know as the Stade. There was also a profusion of nets and untidy piles containing rope, spars and cork floats, all topped by the very domestic sight of washing blowing on lines in the steady breeze.

  It was early afternoon and I had been hungry since mid-morning, but still I wandered along the high water mark, just to see if the effort taken to get there had been worthwhile. A group of men in loose fitting smocks, baggy trousers and sea boots were attending to a spread of netting. One smoked a clay pipe, which he tapped against the wooden frame as I walked by. I nodded in his direction and received no reaction, but neither did he appear particularly unfriendly. Further along, what looked like a mother and two daughters were pegging small fish to lines strung between wooden tripods. One of the girls waved at me and I smiled in return, but the woman called her back to work. The air was cut with the smell of wood smoke and something familiar yet undefined, while all the time the call and cry of gulls and a regular roll of rushing water filled my ears, blocking out much of the muted conversations. The birds ranged in size from small doves to one great beast that, to my naïve mind, could easily have been an albatross. It was all interesting enough in itself, and definitely a change from the mundane inland life I had known, but only as I reached the end of the beach and stopped, did I remember the real reason for my being there, and finally looked out to sea.

  There were no fishing boats in sight. Instead what I took to be a Royal Navy ship was several miles off and steering to the east. I could see her three masts, and the single line of gun ports, but had no idea as to her purpose or type. Even then I was able to appreciate beauty, though: the way in which the onshore breeze filled her canvas, pressing the hull down until a cloud of spray was forced from beneath her bows touched me somewhere deep inside. She was not apparently moving fast, but still crossed my small horizon before I had realised it. Within minutes she started to fade from sight and soon disappeared completely behind the nearby headland.

  I say disappeared, but in my mind that ship never truly left. I still think of her now and the freedom she enjoyed. There were few limits: she could go just about wherever her captain pleased, even if the wind were against her – I already knew enough to appreciate that. And it was then I decided my life would definitely be spent on the water. Not necessarily in a frigate – as I now guess she must have been – or even the Royal Navy, where the rules and restrictions would not suit my maverick nature one jot. But on the sea, a medium which knows no bounds. I was later to learn of shoal waters, and tides; contrary currents and sudden, unforeseen squalls but the magic was strong then, and it remains so now.

  My stomach began to rumble once more and, rarely being able to ignore such a call, I turned and began to head inland. There was a small pot house directly opposite the wooden huts, and it looked friendly enough from the outside, so I stepped in.

  The place was empty, but smelled strongly of beer, sweat and fish so I guessed it usually did a good trade when the fleet was in. I sat at a table, and presently a girl of sixteen or so approached. She was pretty, with dark hair and a purposefully nonchalant manner: I straightened my back.

  “It's quiet,” I said, after ordering food and small beer. Hers was a pleasant enough face: nice eyes, a slightly over long nose, and she was definitely a year or so younger than me.

  “Most folk is workin',” she looked at me as if I was somehow strange. “It will be busier later.”

  “The fishermen?” I asked, sensing warmth but guessing that conversation might become hard work. “Expect them soon, do you?”

  “By sunset, or just before,” I was told. “The boys ashore will be here afore then, 'case any gets in early. Sometimes a few of them drops in.”

  “Boys ashore?” It was a strange term: where I came from boys didn't just drop in to pot houses.

  “Most boats have at least one in their crew what they leaves on land,” she explained, unbending a little more. “They sees to the launching, then mend nets and tackle while waiting for them to return. We've no harbour here, and it can take a fair bit of effort to beach some of the bigger ones. Then there's the sivver to be dropped and taken to auction.”

  “Sivver?” I questioned.

  “It's what they calls a catch hereabouts,” she explained.

  “And they're boys?” I asked.

  “Well a couple are women,” the girl almost laughed. “But that's more a way of saying really. Some might be lads, and a lot are retired fishermen, or those what can't take to life at sea.”

  “Any chance of my joining them?” I chanced, treating her to one of my hopeful looks.

  She seemed to size me up, and this time did give a slight smile. “What, with you being such an expert?”

  I think I took the rebuff well and hope no one could guess the effect her words had on me. Back then I was rather more the optimist, and felt most things to be within my powers. Such an attitude usually worked well, and pumping myself up with aspirations that were too frequently based on lies could often swing things in my favour. But a simple word of truth could also deflate me, and I may even have blushed.

  She was right, though; I had never worked in the fishing trade, either on land or afloat, and had only been on the water as a river boat passenger. And as for fish, well, I couldn't stand the things: apart from being forced to eat them when young, I knew little.

  “I'm willing to learn,” I said, adding, “and am known to be able,” with a not so subtle wink. The girl regarded me for a moment, then gave a slightly different look, before moving away without saying more.

  Within a few minutes she was back with my drink and food. It was really quite a substantial meal, a lump of cheese and the heel of a loaf together with one whole onion that had been neatly peeled, as well as some pickle and a carrot.

  “If you want work there's nothing to stop you askin',” she told me as I was examining the plate. “But we ain't short of men at present, not with the war being ended.”

  “Do you really think it so?” I looked up, surprised. My father was in a syndicate that subscribed to a newspaper and, from what I had read, the current peace was showing distinct signs of failing.

  “It will last for as long as it does, and not a moment more,” she replied wisely, and it was my turn to smile at the queer logic. “There ain't no point in trying to anticipate such things,” she added hurriedly, noting my reaction. “Folk spend too long trying to guess the future, when what they really should be concerned with is the present.”

  My expression faded; I didn't agree, but then neither did I argue. She was clearly sensitive and we had only just met: I did not wish to upset her. Even then I was well practised in not making enemies, and felt she may prove useful later. Besides, whatever folk might say, I never really set out to hurt anyone. But if I had only known my future, her statement would have had my full support.

  * * *

  She left me to eat my meal and said little else when I paid and left. For a while there had been the noise of something being kicked against the pot house wall and as I stepped out into the bland winter sunshine I saw a ginger haired lad of about my size but a year or so younger with a bladder ball at his feet.

  I was wearing what roughly comprised my Sunday best, while he was far more scruffy, with a w
oollen hat, plain canvas shirt and cotton trousers cut short to just below the knee. He was also barefoot, whereas I wore proper shoes that were shaped slightly differently for right and left. Such things were of little importance, though, and his feet were so heavily stained, any deficiency was not immediately obvious. As I yawned and stretched, the ball came rolling towards me. I considered it for a moment, before booting it back easily enough. It was returned straight away, and at a far higher speed. I failed to trap it with my foot, but fortunately the mis-shapen thing hit my calf, and bounced towards him.

  It didn't take much more for us to be kicking the old bladder back and forth in a way that was sporting and only mildly aggressive. At one point he captured it, and tried to dribble past me, but I flipped the thing away, and took possession, only to lose it again when he tackled rather roughly, despite his unshod state, from behind. We played for a good quarter of an hour before, by unspoken agreement, stopping to settle on the nearby sea wall.

  “You're not from round here,” he told me, and I think they were the first words either of us had spoken until then.

  “From Ninfield,” I said. “Small village to the...”

  “I know where it is,” he interrupted. “We've a cousin from round there. He's mad, of course,” he continued, with strange authority. “But then they say everyone thereabouts is.”

  I glared at him and was expecting a fight when I noticed he was grinning, and found myself smiling in turn.

  “So what brings you to Hastings?”

  “Looking for work,” I replied. “Do you know of any?”

  “Oh, plenty,” he grunted. “That is if you don't mind watching others. Should you want to do it yourself, it's another matter.”