The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (10 page)

And so it was that his evening gin sessions had ceased, while greater attention was being paid to both his duties and general appearance. Collars now sat stiff and clean against a smooth chin, his boots shone and he gave orders from a clear head and without ambiguity. Some of the other officers, especially those who had known him in the past, may have noticed the improvement, and in such a public world it was probably significant that no mention had been made of the change. The only one who voiced an opinion on the subject was Keats, his servant, whose life had been forced to alter just as radically, leading him to grumble and gripe about the extra duties to any fellow marine who would listen.

But even after a bare few days of the new regime, there was no doubt that King himself felt the better for it and, when he mounted the quarterdeck after the main meal of the day, and gathered with the other officers in the warm sunshine that had finally replaced the rain, he was not only ready to see the ship to sea, and start the commission proper, but actively looking forward to the prospect.

“Any sign of the coasters?” he asked the first lieutenant tentatively. Barring the ship's surgeon, Caulfield was probably his closest friend. In the past they had discussed ship's business in a casual manner that was almost on an equal footing. But what could be allowed aboard a frigate was less acceptable in a ship-of-the-line and, with the date of Davison's commission effectively coming between them, making King the third, rather than second, lieutenant he was now less sure of his position.

But Caulfield replied affably enough. “Nothing as yet,” he said. “Though I have doubled both main and fore lookouts, and doubt the bilges have ever been so dry since she were built.”

There was the faint scent of cigar smoke in the warm air. Donaldson was puffing purposefully on a black cheroot nearby and, with the majority of
Prometheus'
wardroom complement sipping sedately at cups of coffee and making polite conversation, the atmosphere on the quarterdeck was more of a social gathering than a warship about to put to sea.

Davison was holding a china cup, his smallest finger pointing delicately away, as if ashamed of using so crude an implement. “Mr Brehaut still in the bilges, is he?” the second lieutenant asked, with a smirk, of no one in particular, and there was a titter of light laughter. Brehaut, the sailing master, was one of the few not present. He had already revealed himself to be obsessive about the ship's trim, and spent most of each watch adjusting stores to ensure
Prometheus
was riding to what he gauged to be her best level. The recent introduction of seventy tons of drinking water had inevitably set his calculations awry, and the time since had been spent frantically ordering entire tiers of provisions moved, in the hope of gaining their previous equilibrium.

The bell rang out seven times and King was just considering returning below as his watch officially began in half an hour, when a foremast lookout broke into all their thoughts.

“Deck there! Three brigs coming round the headland to the nor-east.”

“And steering to weather Thatcher Rock,” another voice, this time from the masthead, added in an apparent effort to justify his existence.

“That sounds like our signal,” Caulfield said to the deck in general. “Mr Chivers, my respects to the captain and advise him of the situation if you please. Gentlemen, may we go to stations for leaving harbour?”

The polite words started a thousand different chain reactions: junior officers were summoned and, in turn, bellowed at those beneath them, while all dispersed to their appropriate places. King made his way forward to supervise the raising of
Prometheus'
remaining anchor. They had singled up to the starboard bower some while earlier. All that remained was for the remaining seventy hundredweight of iron that currently sat deep in the mud and sand of Tor Bay to be lifted clear, then safely stowed away without anyone being killed or seriously injured, and they might sail.

King took up position on the forecastle. Looking aft, he saw Banks appear from his quarters under the poop and give a nod to Caulfield. The boatswain's pipes instantly began to scream, a signal was made to the port admiral; orders rang about the deck while hands flocked aloft and marines unfixed their bayonets and stamped away from the posts they had been jealously guarding throughout the time
Prometheus
had been at anchor.

They had the gentle off-shore breeze and a compliant tide: it would be a simple matter to weather Berry Head and leave what was a wide and accommodating harbour. And actually raising the final anchor should prove no more difficult; with a clear head and his newly regained self-assurance, King was quietly confident of the manoeuvre. Water streamed from the huge twenty-one inch cable as the ship gently crept forward under topsails. Then it was 'Up and Down', and the huge weight was being borne by
Prometheus'
main capstan aft.

Now a wave to the quarterdeck was all the signal needed; they were finally free of the land, further canvas could be released, and the ship herself allowed to roam wherever she pleased, even while the dead weight of swinging iron was still being painstakingly hauled up through the dark waters.

Everything was in order, the way it should always be in the Royal Navy and King was feeling suitably smug when Adams, one of the newer midshipmen, appeared at the head of the forecastle ladder. The boy had an anxious look on his face as he scampered along the deck towards him, finally coming to a stop so abrupt that his hat fell off and had to be retrieved from the scuppers by one of the hands.

“Mr Cartwright's respects, sir, and would you be so kind as to come?”

King couldn't think why the master's mate, who was responsible for supervising the nippers and drying the sodden anchor cable, would require his attention. If a man had been injured, the surgeon was the person to send for, and the capstan was still turning at a creditable rate.

“What is it?” he demanded, conscious that the lad had, quite unintentionally, broken his happy mood.

“It's in the forepeak,” the midshipman replied, his eyes almost completely round in wonder. “They thinks they seen a ghost.”

––––––––

H
is eyes were accustomed to the bright light of a sunny afternoon, and the contrasting darkness of the orlop took some time to penetrate. King stepped off the lower companionway and turned aft towards where he trusted Cartwright and his party would be found. To one side the larboard anchor cable, raised that morning, hung loosely over the drying racks, while the sodden starboard line was snaking down unattended from the messenger and lay, muddy and dripping, in an untidy heap on the deck. King looked about but no one was present and, grunting with annoyance, he turned forward again, ever conscious of Midshipman Adams who bustled about his heels like a hungry puppy.

“What the devil is it, Mr Cartwright?” he asked, as the bulky form of the elderly master's mate finally came into view. He was standing by the entrance to the Gunner's store room amidst a cluster of heavyset, but pale-faced men who gathered about him as if for support.

“It's down below, sir,” the man explained, somewhat embarrassed and pointing foolishly at his feet. “In the forepeak. Jenkins saw it first, and a couple of others, then I caught a glimpse m'self. White, it were,” he added, almost in wonder.

“And you think it to be a bogeyman?” King asked directly. Cartwright was a good twenty years his senior and a seaman through and through. He would have no hesitation in going aloft in the fiercest of storms, leading a boarding party, or quelling a brawl between the most vehement of foes. But, as with so many of his kind, one mention of the spirit world, and the man was like a babe in arms.

“I don't know what it was, Mr King,” he replied, his weathered face contrasting oddly with an expression of naïve fear. “But what I saw certainly weren't natural.”

“You don't think it might have been a stowaway?” King asked, in mock concern. To his mind that was far more likely, and hardly an unusual occurrence. Any ship leaving harbour is liable to attract an irritating number of unofficial passengers. And to compound the annoyance, they often turned out to be female, when an extra hand would be of far greater use.

“It's a possibility, sir,” Cartwright conceded, while starting to look slightly shame-faced.

“Well, whatever you have found, I doubt it to be hostile,” King snapped, advancing and glancing down to the darkened depths of the forepeak. Quite why the place had not been searched prior to leaving was another matter entirely. Davison led the starboard watch, which had been detailed for the task. But that was something to be addressed later; first he must make his own inspection.

“Below there,” he called, stepping cautiously down the ladder. “Come out. I shall do you no harm.”

A shape moved at the far edge of the chamber, just as he reached the deck. But it did not step into the faint shaft of light that came from above, and King swallowed. Now that he found himself effectively on his own it was not quite so easy to be blasé. After all, enough ghosts had been seen elsewhere for them to have some credibility. And a warship, with all the distress, disease and death it must attract, was bound to be a suitable home for at least one troubled spirit.

But this was nonsense, the stuff of childhood fancies, and with him a king's officer. Drawing a breath, he clenched his fists before shouting up for a lantern, then tried to focus on the dim form before him.

“I'll do you no harm,” he repeated more gently, as he thought. “But you may not stay here; far better accommodation can be found elsewhere.”

It was probably a person, he assured himself; and a woman at that, so he need not be afeared. And, should it turn out so, she would belong to one of the lower deck hands. Warrant and senior petty officers might apply to the captain for their wives to accompany them, sharing their accommodation and being victualled in exchange for light duties. Banks had already agreed to the presence of Mrs Roberts, the carpenter's wife, and shown himself lenient in similar cases in the past. Not every admiral approved of the practice of course, with many viewing members of the opposite sex as something between an unnecessary distraction and instruments of the devil. And there were even those who refused their officers permission to marry when on foreign stations, although such examples were becoming fewer with the passing years. But for a common hand to bring his partner, be she legal or otherwise, was another matter entirely, and one that was rarely sanctioned.

King remained motionless, as did the vision, so much so that he began to wonder if there was really anything there.

At no time in the current commission had the wedding garland been hoisted aboard
Prometheus.
Several women had attempted to take up residence on one of the gun decks, and two contrived to make the dark recesses of the lower their home for more than three days. They were found eventually, of course, and sent back in the next shore boat although, as the days lessened before
Prometheus
was due to sail, the divisional lieutenants and midshipmen were supposed to be more sensitive to the possibility of anyone else trying the same thing.

A lantern was handed down to him and, by its warm light, King eased himself closer to the figure. More could be seen now: and it was definitely a person, one below average height. Yes, undoubtedly human, probably female, and possibly a child. He took another step noticing that, even though it was not unduly cold, she appeared to be shivering.

“Come,” he said, extending a hand, and speaking in the softest of tones. “Come, we shall take some food, and find you a place to be warm.”

The figure moved forward by barely a pace but it was enough, and King could see her more clearly. She had a round, pleasant face, marred only slightly by the matted strands of long, dark hair that stuck to the sides of her skull and reached down to well below the shoulders. Her feet were bare and she wore the briefest of what might once have been either a white shift or some form of thin dress and, even in the dim light it was obvious, very little else.

“Send down a blanket,” King ordered, only slightly raising his voice, and he noted the mutterings of confusion that his words created.

“Do you have a friend aboard?” King asked gently. “A husband, perchance?”

“Not a husband,” her voice was barely more than a whisper and, with the creaks and groans of a ship gathering way, King had difficulty catching the words. “But I knows a man; Thompson. He brought me here.”

Thompson. King sighed: he knew him as well. Not exactly a bad sort, but one that always looked for the main chance.

“You will be well cared for,” King assured her as a soft lump fell to the deck behind with a thump. He turned, collected the blanket, and held it out. “Take this,” he said. “Then we shall find you something hot to eat.”

She seemed to come to a decision before making a dash forward and wrapping herself deep within his arms as if he might offer shelter as much as warmth. King reached over and pulled the blanket tight about her, suddenly conscious that he had not been embraced so for quite some while. The girl leant into him, her body frail and vulnerable and for King to hold her close was every bit as natural as the silent tears she soon began to shed.

* * *

P
rometheus
left harbour on a light, offshore breeze which strengthened and backed more easterly as the coast was left behind. It was little more than ten miles to the rendezvous point, but their masthead picked up the tail end of the convoy in under an hour and, in two, they had crept up to windward of the main body and were making their number together with that day's private signal.

The convoy's senior naval officer was Ford, an admiral Banks had known briefly when he had been a post captain. Old and somewhat crusty then, Ford now flew a proud blue flag at the mizzen, although most of his peers considered him lucky to have escaped being yellowed.

The force he commanded was significant, however. In addition to
Prometheus
, there were two other line ships, both also being seventy-fours, as well as three frigates and a number of smaller, un-rated vessels that would have most of the work to do in chivvying up the slower or less responsive members of the convoy. And the escort's charge was no less impressive. Nine stately Indiamen of the larger classes; noble ships, built to carry wealth, power and influence in whatever form it was needed, be it general cargo, arms and equipment, or manpower. Together with the more numerous smaller traders and a handful of less impressive vessels that were already having difficulty keeping up, the total value of the convoy could be measured in millions.