The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (16 page)

The survivors were taken aboard the battleship where they gathered in unhappy groups; with passengers divided between great cabin, wardroom and gun room, while ordinary hands were accommodated on the gun decks which, though some were slow to realize, actually represented their new and permanent homes.
Prometheus'
generous proportions came in to their own: though she was undoubtedly crowded, there was none of the strain common when smaller vessels become overloaded. She rose to her extra human cargo with a capacity that was apparently endless as more and more damp and disheveled unfortunates were dumped upon her decks, each carrying their equally pathetic parcels of luggage and, in one case, a small dog.

That the Indiaman apparently held no senior officers caused King to ponder. Even during the rescue, while the boats were being towed back to the north by the battleship, and their crews were grasping what rest they could, the fact bothered him. But his mind remained on the job in progress, and it wasn't until he was safely back aboard
Prometheus
that he was able to give more attention to the thought.

A ferocious towelling, followed by fresh clothes as well as two cups of hot, sweet tea did much to restore him. But, when summoned to report to the captain and first lieutenant, King was still relieved when Banks immediately brought the subject of officers up.

The great cabin and coach had been given over to the care of survivors, so the three were squeezed into the small partitioned room that usually served as the captain's sleeping quarters. Cot and attendant furniture had been removed, and a full sized mess table installed, but still there was precious little space, while the noise of passengers equally crammed beyond the thin screen bulkheads was very apparent.

“No one of fifth officer status or above,” the captain confirmed, with an air of wonder. “Neither are there any India Army men, which is a strange occurrence in itself when a number seem to be almost mandatory on every Eastern voyage. It is as if anyone of rank had been spirited away prior to her running aground.”

“Possibly it is a case of cause and effect,” Caulfield commented dryly. “Were senior officers present the accident may not have occurred.”

“There was a young man, Carroll, I think his name,” King said readily. “He was of great assistance during the rescue, and may shed some light on the subject.”

Judy chose that moment to enter with a tray of tea which she set down on the table before them. She gave King, who she clearly regarded a special friend, a very obvious smile.

“Thank you, Kinnison,” Banks growled in a manner far more gruff than he would have used had she been a man. “Be so kind as to pass the word for a Mr Carroll; he is amongst the survivors, I believe.”

The girl nodded seriously, and left.

“It is a shame we could not salvage any cargo,” Banks said when she had gone. “Even in outward bound goods, there'd be a tidy sum upon those rocks.”

“Neither were we able to burn her,” Caulfield agreed, then asked, “Were there animals aboard?”

“Yes, but they were accounted for,” King told them. “The same man who organised the passengers saw to their despatch.”

Caulfield and Banks said nothing in response, but King was well aware of the debt he, at least, owed the young officer. 

A tap on the door heralded the arrival of the Irishman.

“Good even' to you gentlemen, and my thanks for agreeing to see me so promptly,” he said, squeezing into the small room and nodding politely at King as he took a seat.

“I understand you were extremely active during the rescue, Mr...”

“Carroll, sir,” the man beamed. “Indeed I was, and am grateful for this gentleman's assistance,” he looked towards King, “as well as the other officer. And especially appreciate the care you have given my men.”

Carroll must have been able to dry himself to some extent, but was still wearing the same uniform that King had noticed in the cutter. Looking again, it appeared even more outlandish; a bold red jacket and cream shirt, over blue trousers; without doubt a dramatic contrast to the usual East India Company livery. Such clothes made him appear something between a cavalry officer and a coxcomb: unless King had seen evidence to the contrary, he would have written the young man off as an aspiring nonentity.

“They will be well provided for,” Banks assured him. “And any that wish to take service with the king, especially welcomed.”

“I think there will be few enough to do that, sir,” Carroll replied lightly.

“Well, if we promise not to persuade them too hard,” Banks agreed. He knew, as well as any present, that only a fool would volunteer for the Royal Navy when an Indiaman's berth was infinitely more snug and profitable. But they were many miles away from the nearest English port, and with their ship currently being pounded to a wreck, the men would have little choice. And to Banks, such an influx of trained hands was a gift not to be turned down.

“I don't think you understand, sir,” Carroll continued, more seriously. “We carry privateer papers; they should be treated as prisoners of war.”

Banks, Caulfield and King looked uncertainly to each other, their expressions suddenly frozen.

“Prisoners of war?” Caulfield questioned.

“Indeed, sir.” Carroll now looked equally confused. “Why did you not know of it? Your Indiaman was a capture of my ship, the
Belle Île
; I was in command of her prize crew.

––––––––

F
lint was cold, wet and hungry. He had missed both his afternoon grog as well as that evening's meal and with a banyan day, when no meat would be served, due for the morrow he was desperate to get some food inside him.

“I saved you some salt horse.” Jameson gave him the welcome news as the older man slumped down in his usual place at the mess table. “And traded your tot for a bottle of blackstrap with Greg.”

Flint nodded appreciatively as a platter of cold, dark meat was dropped in front of him, to be followed by a dark, unlabelled bottle. The stopper was only half in; there was no doubt that the thing had been refilled on several occasions, and might contain just about anything. But it was a well known fact that drink was the fastest way of filling an empty belly, and Flint bit the cork out and spat it expertly into his left hand while raising the bottle to his lips with his right.

“Good, is it?” Thompson asked, solicitously from the opposite side of the table. The man was only a short time into a twenty-eight day loss of spirits for smuggling Judy aboard, and could expect no supplement from his mess mates, as any caught would face double the punishment. Still he drew a masochistic pleasure in watching another enjoying the drink.

“It'll do, Thombo,” Flint replied briefly.

“We's taken quite a few aboard,” Harrison lisped from the far end of the table. He was known as a notoriously slow eater, and still struggled with the last of his duff. “Reckons the old girl'll be up to full numbers afore long.”

Flint's mess was not unusual in being light of a few bodies, and Harrison was quite right, they could expect more joining, although Flint was too intent on tackling the cold salt beef to comment. But when he was finished, and the grease had been wiped from his face with the back of a hand, he was not surprised to see Cartwright, the master's mate, once more standing at the head of the mess table with a group of seamen clustered about him.

“Just got you down for the one, Flint: Molony here,” he said, indicating a slightly built, short haired man with a squint. “Come to us from the East Indiaman, so will probably appreciate a bit of high livin',” the petty officer continued. “I'm sure he won't be disappointed...”

The group moved on to the next mess, leaving Molony standing alone. But space was soon found for him on the benches, and Flint graciously passed his bottle across.

“It's kind of you, so it is,” Molony said, after taking a moderate swig. “Never been as cold and wet in my life, and doesn't the wind just kill yer?”

“Must be your first trip to the East,” Butler, the hand seized from the homebound transport, commented. “If you'd made it as far as the Cape you'd know what a wind can really do.”

“Well, I wasn't intending on going such a distance,” Molony replied. “Just a few more miles an' we'd have been snug in Cádiz.”

“Spain?” Flint questioned. “Why would a John Company vessel be so bound?”

Molony grinned. “Because some devils of privateers had captured her,” he told them.

“Then you can hardly be a regular East India Company hand.” Butler stared at Molony in wonder.

“No, I have to admit, that I am not,” Molony agreed, swigging once more.

“So were you part of the prize crew?” Ross was first with the question that was just springing to everyone's lips.

“Indeed I was,” Molony agreed, cheerfully enough. “Though no one seems to have smoked the fact. Born in Clonakilty, but I've been serving with the French since 'ninety-nine. And if you did but know it, you're all drinking with the enemy.”

* * *

“S
o you are a French corsair?” Banks asked, after nothing had been said for several seconds.

“I serve as prize master in a French privateer, sir
.
” Carroll's tone was even and quite respectful. “Though am Irish myself, as are all of my people. Our ship,
Belle Île
took the
Duke of Cambridge
a little to the north. The Indiaman had become separated from her convoy in a Biscay storm.”

“And the senior officers?” Caulfield asked, with the air of one who already knew.

“Regrettably the captain, and two of his mates were amongst those killed during the capture, I believe the rest still to be aboard
Belle Île
,” Carroll confirmed. “As well as a few of the more notable passengers that Captain Agard, my commander, felt better accommodated there. We were making a run for Cádiz, when we struck those rocks.”

With Spain still a nominal neutral there would be no official blockading force on the port. And even were it not the base for the privateer herself, Cádiz would prove convenient for anyone wishing to quickly and quietly dispose of a large merchant vessel and her cargo.

“Our prize crew was not sufficient for the size of vessel,” Carroll went on. “And it appeared the India Company quartermaster decided he would rather take the ship onto rocks, than remain my prisoner. Sure, I cannot blame the man; more attention should have been paid to him; we were remiss.”

Mention of Carroll's associates appeared to prompt Banks, and he dropped the pen he had been toying with.

“Your men are still mixed with the East India seamen?” he announced, momentarily horrified.

“So they will be,” the Irishman responded without emotion. “All are Irish so may not have been noticed, though they will do you no harm, and are doubtless grateful for the rescue.”

“You will point them out to me without delay,” Banks informed him.

“I shall be happy to, or can provide a listing of their names if you so wish,” Carroll agreed. “But you have nothing to fear from them, Captain. Without your help we would have been dashed to pieces on those rocks, there is little doubt of that.”

Banks seemed little assured, although he did allow Caulfield to take up the questioning.

“Your ship, would she still be in these waters?” he asked, with elaborate casualness.

“Now that I would not know,” Carroll replied, more guardedly. “And frankly, neither would I tell you if I did. She is the
Belle Île
as I have said, and hails from Lorient. More than that you must discover for yourselves.”

There was silence as all considered what had been said, and King suspected his thoughts were running on a similar course to those of the other officers. Lorient was all of six hundred miles to the north-east. Other, more local, ports must be used to supply and maintain the privateer during her cruise. Therefore it seemed likely she was treating Cádiz as a victualling point, although Carroll would have been a fool to have admitted as much.

“Can you tell us her strength?” Caulfield asked, with little hope.

“I may say she is of no danger to this fine ship,” Carroll replied, his eyes twinkling slightly.

“Well, we shall be keeping a sharp look out, nevertheless,” Banks continued, collecting the pen once more, and starting to fiddle with it in his fingers. “And if we are lucky enough to sight her, shall do all we can to bring her to battle.”

“Captain, I would expect nothing less,” the Irishman confirmed.

* * *

O
f the seventy-seven seasoned hands rescued from the wreck, only fifteen turned out to be Carroll's men. The rest were pressed aboard
Prometheus
and, even though they exhibited differing levels of enthusiasm, ranging from resigned acceptance to outright hostility, there could be no doubting the following day's sail drill was more efficient. Further practice with the great guns then resumed and, with at least one battery being exercised at most hours of the day, the rumble of carriages was once more constant throughout the ship. The additional men also filled every available space in the messes and, when combined with the passengers accommodated in the great cabin, as well as a screened off portion of the upper deck,
Prometheus
soon became a crowded and noisy place. But at least her officers now had the material to create a proper workable watch list and, as Caulfield, King and Davison left the cramped confines of the chart room where the third version had just been drawn up, it seemed they had the basis of a fine crew.

King's mind was on this, and little else as he followed Davison across the quarterdeck. So much had happened in the last few hours that a good deal had been forgotten and, when the second lieutenant turned and stopped him with the back of an elegantly placed hand, he was more than a little taken aback.

“There was something I had been meaning to bring up,” the young man said. King glanced down at his chest, then up and into Davison's eyes. There was the slightest flicker, and the hand was withdrawn.

“You wished to speak to me?” King asked coldly. The fact that the second lieutenant was both younger and apparently less experienced than he was had been enough to make him cautious from the start. But, and ironically for the same reasons, he had gone out of his way to be polite, even though Davison's arrogant manner annoyed him greatly. However, the more he grew to know the officer, the more King became convinced that, not only did he have genuine cause for dislike, but there was also something inherently unpleasant about the lieutenant.