The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (20 page)

* * *

R
oss ran his fingers through the raw fibres of lambswool that were fixed to one end of his flexible rammer. To the other, a wooden block would see the charge was finally pressed home but what was colloquially known as the sponge performed a far more vital function. When soaked in water and used correctly, the lambswool mop ensured a barrel was wiped free of all burning embers before the next cartridge of powder was inserted. Both tasks were entirely down to him and, although a long way from the responsibilities he had carried when a lieutenant, Ross was conscious of an obligation to the men about him that actually felt more real.

Were he remiss in his work, it would be Thompson's arm that was blown off. Ross had only known the man a brief time, but they had been messmates for all of it, and both felt a natural affinity for the other. It was the same with every member of his mess, as well as those of the gun crew; a spirit of true camaraderie that had been definitely missing during his time in a wardroom.

This came as a surprise, but was only one of several – the intense fear he was feeling at that particular moment being another. It had been present throughout all the hours of waiting, and was something else Ross supposed he would have to get used to as an ordinary hand. In the past he would have been on deck, or at least remained informed of the circumstances; down here in the darkened depths of the lower battery, it was a very different proposition.

Ross had seen action on several occasions and only once, as a young midshipman, had he been truly frightened. But now, in the confines of the cramped gun deck, with Irishmen's songs and the cries of starving animals ringing about his ears, he was going through the same emotions as when a boy.
Prometheus
had yet to receive a shot or fire one in return; the action could barely be thought of as begun – which probably accounted for much of his feelings. The monotonous, inharmonious drone from below was growing louder if anything, and all about seemed affected. He guessed there was little anyone could do to stop it, although the distraction was such that he would have had no hesitation in ordering the prisoners gagged, or worse, were the responsibility with him.

“Bloody load of Micks,” Thompson grumbled. “Someone aught to learn them to keep quiet, so they should.”

Soon all the gun crew were venting similar opinions, and Ross found their words comforting. He even went to voice his own thoughts on the subject, but found his mouth to be unusually dry.

“All right, that'll do,” Flint said, quietening them gently. “Let them sing their lungs out if that's what gives them the jollies. It's not going to make no difference, we're still gonna take their ship.” He looked about at his men, and Ross thought his eyes might have settled on him. “And don't any of you start to get the shivers,” Flint added as an afterthought. “I told you, it won't be long.”

* * *

O
n the quarterdeck, Banks was of the same opinion. He had done all he could to close with the enemy, but the wind was steadily failing: a rare occurrence for those latitudes and one that was proving more than a little annoying. With her size and weight,
Prometheus
was at a distinct disadvantage in light airs, and found herself severely out-sailed by the smaller, but decidedly potent, privateer.

By now, no one had any doubt she was indeed Carroll's former ship. Large for the type she may be, but there must be a hundred like her laid up in countless French ports, while seasoned hands eager to serve at sea rather than rot ashore would be ten a penny. A vessel of such size and strength would also be more effective in tackling the larger Indiamen, as well as handier when dodging a blockading inshore squadron. Then Banks remembered they had probably been making Cádiz their base, and with Spain still ostensibly neutral, there were no sanctions on any of her ports. The privateers might ply their wicked trade all about the Portuguese coast, snapping up merchants separated from convoy, or chancing a solo run. They could also see off any unrated Navy ship, while proving a tough opponent for much that was larger. And all the time with the convenience of a free and friendly harbour close at hand, one that no blockading force was able to starve of supplies.

Almost any merchant they encountered could be seized, carried and offered up for auction within a week, the latter under the very eyes of the British. And with so many potential victims at sea, the owners would become rich, encouraging others to speculate in similar enterprises, at a cost to Britain's economy that would be devastating. His government could object to the use of a Spanish port, although all the protestations in the world would have little effect. But should Banks be able to lure them close enough to his guns, the whole escapade would end now, and without further loss. It was something he must attempt, even though it meant risking his own precious ship.

And risk there was; he could not deny that. However much larger she may be, and whatever fire-power
Prometheus
possessed, the
Belle Île
had a distinct advantage over her in both speed and manoeuvrability. And they were fighting at sea, a medium with a habit of correcting inequalities with bad luck or misfortune. It was not unknown for a powerful frigate to take a line-of-battleship; little more than five years ago Pellew had accounted for the
Droits de l'Homme
off Plozévet and there were examples a plenty of larger ships being subdued and carried by cunning and lucky captains of smaller vessels. As a former frigate man himself, Banks knew all that would be needed was to let the enemy too close to a vulnerable section, then the loss of rudder, or an important spar could redress the odds considerably in the Frenchman's favour. But he also had to allow them near enough to use his great guns to their maximum effect. It was a difficult balance, and one he found harder to judge as the time wore on. And all the while he was painfully aware that, should the unthinkable happen and his precious
Prometheus
end up the prize of a private ship, he would never walk a Royal Navy quarterdeck again.

But whether it was right or wrong to encourage close action, the privateer was proving less than compliant in his efforts, and the lack of a decent wind was certainly no help. Banks had attempted all manner of manoeuvres to tempt the Frenchman in, but all had proved fruitless, with his quarry remaining in contact, but tantalisingly at the very extreme of his main guns' range. Currently she was lying prow on and apparently in irons, with
Prometheus
creeping slowly towards her. Were they allowed to travel much further, Banks would have the advantage, and may even be able to yaw, before landing a sizeable amount of shot on the Frenchman's fragile bows. But he was not so much the fool as to think them easily beaten, and was soon proved right. As he watched, the
Belle Île
's jib was brought back to the wind. Then, when still more canvas was released, the frigate tacked to starboard, before surging forward in the gentle breeze as if to show her clumsy opponent just how easy such a manoeuvre could be.

Banks resigned himself to the prospect of continuing to conn his new command in a failing wind for a while longer. He had yet to get to know
Prometheus
properly, but already could tell the enemy had her measure in agility: any move he attempted was inevitably signalled well in advance, while the privateer seemed able to skip from one tack to the other almost on impulse. However, he still had that tremendous fire power hidden away and it would only take one mistake to allow him to deal a significant blow which must surely see the privateer at his mercy. They were no longer sailing under the Company flag; that had been struck some while back, to be replaced with the newest Navy ensign they possessed. He had hoped the enemy would consider the exchange a double bluff, and so it had proved.

He gave a quick glance to Brehaut, who was standing ready at the binnacle, then another to check his own canvas.
Prometheus
was riding under topsails, with a couple of staysails and a jib for good measure and no more would be added. The next logical sail was the distinctive forecourse, which must mark her very definitely as a man-o'-war, while any difference in speed would not be sufficient to catch such a slippery foe. The privateer had drawn ahead and was hauling in her wind, allowing
Prometheus
to forereach on her once more. Soon she would wear and make a pass across their own bows – it was the same manoeuvre the enemy had carried out several times already, but on this occasion Banks was determined they would not get away with it.

“Ready larboard, upper deck only, and remember the firing order,” he bellowed, and received an acknowledgement from King standing in the waist. Of the battleship's larboard upper battery of eighteen-pounders, all were run out, but only eight would actually be fired, an act that would hopefully maintain the fiction that
Prometheus
was indeed an Indiaman. Most merchants of such a size would carry some serviceable cannon, with the remaining ports filled by 'quakers': wooden gun barrels that appeared genuine from a distance, and were designed to fool an enemy into thinking her fully armed. By firing a reduced broadside, Banks hoped the
Belle Île
might be further convinced, and the irony that real cannon would be emulating imitation pieces was not lost on their grinning gun crews.

“Prepare to lay her to starboard, Mr Brehaut,” he added, in a voice barely louder than the din of bleating cattle, and the sailing master growled out a clearer warning to the quartermaster. Then, as the frigate was starting to swoop down upon their prow, Banks gave the word.

“Port your helm!” Brehaut ordered and the ship began to turn, throwing the aim of the gun captains, while those at the braces fought to keep pace with what breeze there was. A shout from forward heralded the crack of shot glancing off the battleship's hawse, followed by the rumble of a full broadside from the privateer. Those were no pop-guns, Banks told himself, The frigate was well armed, but range was in his favour and he trusted
Prometheus'
timbers to be strong enough to deflect such a blow without sustaining serious damage.

King bellowed from the waist, and the battleship's reduced broadside was released with a clatter of fire that came as an anticlimax to anyone familiar with her true capabilities. It too was at extreme range, though and almost all of the British shots went wide or fell short; an act that, though unintended, would have enforced their subterfuge still further. But it was good to finally hear the guns in use, and Banks was just anticipating being able to reap the benefits of his action when the Frenchman surprised him yet again.

Turning apparently within her own length, the
Belle Île
momentarily presented her stern, but was wearing round and making to starboard before the British could reveal their heavy cannon, or lay her remaining secondary armament far enough forward. Banks grunted to himself; his opponent was certainly lithe and he wondered when she would become tired of such games, or if his simple hoax would ever be revealed. The noise of
Prometheus
' broadside seemed to have encouraged the animals, who were now making a truly raucous din forward. Soon the racket must be audible to the enemy, and Banks could think of no better disguise for a fighting ship. A close and considered inspection would reveal their true status, of course, but he trusted the enemy was manoeuvring too far off for such a luxury and while he kept his lower ports closed, and the smallest of doubts remained, the action would continue.

But not for much longer. He was rarely one to believe in sixth senses or intuition, but still felt a conclusion was close by. That exchange had been at extreme range, but at least they had finally fired. It was still some time until darkness and the battle, such as it was, had already lasted for several hours. But no action can continue forever, and a feeling deep inside told him the privateer was not intending to draw things out for very much longer.

––––––––

A
nd so it proved. The frigate completed her turn and came back as close to the wind as she could bear while
Prometheus
continued, now with the breeze on her beam. Lisbon, with her batteries and the likelihood of Royal Naval support was growing steadily closer, although the sun was also beginning to head for the horizon. Both commanders were running out of time. Banks could not continue manoeuvring, when any merchant captain worth his salt would choose to run, while the privateer was starting to risk being interrupted by the appearance of another vessel, and so be cheated of her prize.

“It is my duty to inform you the enemy is gaining the windward gauge, sir.” It was Brehaut who spoke and, of all the ship's officers, he was the only one allowed such a liberty. A quick glance from Banks confirmed that there was no implied criticism: the man was simply doing his job as sailing master in advising him of the situation. And, in the majority of engagements, it might not have been the best of tactics, but Banks felt he knew what he was doing.

His plans had never involved releasing
Prometheus'
lower deck guns on the hull of the French ship: such an action would likely wreck her for sure. When the chance was finally given, it would be better to aim for her tophamper – something easier to achieve when sailing to leeward. And giving up such a tactical advantage should fit in with his imitation of a merchant captain.

The enemy was still a good mile off their quarter, but plainly preparing what the French commander intended to be the fatal blow. As they watched, the frigate tacked neatly and was adding royals as she began to charge down upon them.

It was like waiting to be set upon by a particularly vicious, if small, dog, Banks soberly decided. The enemy would continue to advance, gaining speed all the time, then either fly down the length of
Prometheus'
hull, relying on superior speed to keep them safe as they dusted her decks with grape or, more likely, turn at the last moment, peppering the British ship's stern with a close ranged broadside. But for Banks, the time for bluff was very definitely at an end. This was where he played his trump card, and must accept the consequences.