The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (21 page)

“We shall be turning to larboard,” he said with certainty as the
Belle Île
began to throw a large white cloud from her stem. “Pass the word to Mr King, then Mr Davison and Mr Benson on the lower deck,” he added, speaking directly to the most senior midshipman in sight. “I want a solid broadside from the upper deck; all guns are to be fired, make sure Mr King understands that.” With luck the upper eighteen-pounders and carronades would do considerable damage and hopefully delay the enemy in manoeuvring further. “As soon as our shots are received, the lower deck may open ports and run out their pieces, but not before. Ask Mr Davison to ensure every captain has adequate time to take aim: and emphasise that the target is to be their masts. And remind him I require an accurate rather than a fast response.”

Franklin touched his hat briefly and then was off. It was proof of the importance of his message that Banks sent the older man although, even without word reaching them, he trusted his lieutenants to know their duty. This was his only chance; as soon as those lower ports opened, revealing the terror within, the
Belle Île
would run. His gamble was that
Prometheus
could cause enough damage to make escape impossible.

* * *

T
he message arrived, and was duly passed on to all on the lower gun deck. Flint had led the five elite members of his team that covered both weapons to their larboard gun some while back, and now all were ready with that piece.

“So what do you think we shall see?” Harrison asked and Flint knew himself near the end of his temper.

“I know as much as you,” he snapped. “But masts are to be the target, so be ready to whip that quoin out if I says. We took a nasty to larboard earlier: it's clear the Frogs are no shirkers when it comes to using their cannon.”

“Slip the bolts and clear ports, but keep them lids tight shut,” Davison's voice erupted from aft. With darkness, heat and what was a now a constant bellowing from hungry animals, coupled with the din of Irish prisoners bleating out in song, it was a scene that would not be out of place in any nightmare. But now something positive was being called for from them, the gun crews felt far easier. “Be ready to reload with bar once more,” the young lieutenant continued, his voice now raw with shouting. “With luck we'll get a second in.”

“That would be a luxury indeed,” Flint murmured to himself. “Target's a frigate: if the main course don't settle her, they're hardly likely to stick about for a pudding.”

Then the ship began a sudden turn, and some of the less experienced amongst them lost their footing as the deck heaved to starboard.

“Least that shut the animals up,” Thompson commented.

“And the Micks,” Harrison agreed.

Thompson went to add a rejoinder when Benson's voice cut through.

“Cast loose and provide!” Then, a little more gently: “be ready for the word, lads...”

Though officially second in command of the gun deck, the older man was markedly more controlled than Davison.

Their larboard port lids were now cleared of the oakum that sealed them and began to sway with the rolling of the ship. Even such a slight movement allowed tantalising shafts of light into the gloom, while side tackles were secured and train tackles locked on to the eye bolts at the rear of each powerful weapon. Flint carefully removed the lead apron and lock cover from his gun, and eased the hammer back to half cock. Cranston, the second captain, had collected a line of smoking slow match and was twirling it in the air to redden the end. It would be used in case of a misfire and, although primitive, was more reliable than any flint on steel. In the curious silence the faint shrill of a whistle could just be heard; then the deck above apparently exploded in ear splitting cacophony.

The noise echoed about the lower battery for some time; it was far louder than the upper deck's previous broadside and a few of the newer servers were open mouthed with shock, while others looked accusingly at their own pieces. Davison was yelling something which was being repeated by Benson but, even without hearing the words, Flint knew what must be done.

A wave at Cranston was enough to open the heavy port that had been shielding their gun, allowing late afternoon sunlight to flood into the darkness they had become accustomed to. The sudden light dazzled the deafened beings within and added to their confusion, but a sound brain was not required to haul on a line, and the beast that was Flint's larboard cannon was soon run out to take its first look at the enemy.

“That's close enough for a Chinaman,” Flint said, in quiet appreciation as he viewed the oncoming warship. She was considerably less than quarter of a mile off, and still heading for them at a goodly pace. Shot from their upper decks had peppered her fore topsail and course, and it appeared as if a jib had been cut down. But her major spars were unaffected and, unless they could cause serious damage in that department, she would soon be bearing away, and gone.

Prometheus
was continuing to right herself after the turn, and Flint paused, his left hand in the air, while two of the gun's permanent team eased her across with their handspikes. From further forward the deep throated crack of two cannon firing simultaneously went unheard as Flint fixed his mind solely on keeping that pyramid of sails in his sights. Then, measuring the degree of roll, he actually shoved the quoin a little deeper under the cascabel. The ship paused considerably at the top, and that was when he intended to fire. Guns were erupting on both sides now, but still the enemy ship claimed all his attention. The Frenchman was starting to turn, and would soon be beating back, and making her escape, but there was time enough for this one shot, and Flint was not going to waste it.

“Clear the gun,” he yelled. Then, stepping to one side himself, waited for the uproll to begin. The firing line was actually pulled just before she reached the climax; there was a momentary pause, a flash from the priming, then the gun spoke with a terrible roar and it was a sound that would rebound about all their minds for the next few hours.

Carriage wheels squealed as the dead weight was hurled back, to be checked by a groaning breech rope. Then the tackle-men took charge: Cranston yelled for the sponge and Ross was quick to plunge his sodden lambswool mop into the still smoking barrel. Men stood by with powder, shot and wads in an effort to have the gun reloaded in the least possible time but Flint, glancing at the enemy through the gun port, already knew the action to be over. Theirs was one of the last shots fired, and there could be no guarantee it was responsible for what had occurred. But the nett result was unequivocal.

“She's hit, and hit good,” Thompson shouted as he returned from delivering his cartridge of cylinder powder.

Flint made no reply: he could see as much from his position by the cannon's smoking breech. The enemy's fore topmast was lying in a tangle across her forecastle, having been cut down by the hail of flying metal. Her main topgallant mast had also fallen and, despite the wind that was finally rising once more, escape was now impossible. The French might surrender, or could wait to be boarded, but there was no doubting that single broadside had won the battle, and the privateer was effectively theirs.

––––––––

“T
hat's a sight and no mistaking,” Lewis said in unaccustomed garrulity as
Prometheus
beat closer to the stricken ship. As fifth lieutenant he had charge of signals as well as the quarterdeck and forecastle carronades. The latter had taken all of his attention for some time, but he now had a fine vantage point to view the lower decks' work.

In addition to the damaged fore and main masts,
Belle Île
's bowsprit had also suffered; her dolphin striker hung loose from the jib boom and her forecastle was draped in a mass of line, canvas and splintered wood. The damage looked particularly unsightly on what had been such a trim craft, but there was no time for aesthetics; the enemy had yet to surrender and could still cause them serious damage.

“Larboard battery, stand ready!” Caulfield's voice cut through the babble of excited chatter from men and officers alike, and the order was repeated to King on the deck below, as well as Davison at the main battery. “Target the hull.”

“Battery's reloaded with bar, sir.” a quarter gunner reported to Lewis, who looked uncertainly towards Caulfield.

“Very well, let it be,” the first lieutenant replied. “We may still cause sufficient devilment, and, with luck, shall not have to fire.”

And, as they drew closer, a further broadside certainly seemed to be unnecessary.
Prometheus
out gunned the smaller ship several times over although, with a tattered ensign still flying from her jack, there was nothing to stop Banks pounding her to a wreck, should he feel so inclined. Then an officer on the enemy's quarterdeck waved his hat; their flag was slowly lowered, and a cheer began to flow from deep within the British ship.

Banks watched with a relief that was strongly coloured by exhaustion. He had been on deck since before sunrise and it was now late afternoon. A chunk of stale soft tack and some bacon was the only solid food eaten in that time, although what he craved most was peace and a chance to sit down. And, as the tension slowly ebbed from his body, he supposed it had been no great victory: few of his fellow officers would think anything of a two decker taking a frigate. But they did not know of the failing wind, his untried ship, and those doubts that, even after the battle was over, haunted him still.

Caulfield was offering his hand, and he shook it absent mindedly; of all aboard
Prometheus
, the first lieutenant was probably more aware of what had been achieved that day than anyone.

“Cutters and launch, if you please, Mr Caulfield,” Banks said in return. “Initial boarding party of marines, then a prize and repair crew under two officers.”

“Very good, sir,” Caulfield replied. “Who is to command?”

Banks paused. “Mr Davison and Mr Benson: they may select three midshipmen, and one of the master mates.” He would prefer to have sent King, who had more experience of boarding captures but, as second lieutenant, the honour should fall to Davison.

“Boatswain and carpenter will be needed also,” he continued, as
Prometheus
drew closer still, and the damage they had caused became more apparent. “And alert Mr Manning.” There were dead men visible aboard the Frenchman, with doubtless more wounded below; as far as he was aware, his ship had not suffered a single casualty, and the realisation put their victory into perspective.

Banks turned away from the sight, momentarily disgusted. He might have frightened himself with thoughts of what was at risk, but having more recently been a small ship captain was probably to blame for that. In reality, the triumph they had won was due solely to one major broadside and an enemy too greedy to leave well alone – he gave himself no credit for subterfuge, or the many hours of manoeuvring that had led to that single knock-out blow. But the time had taken its toll, and he would not be the only one to feel tired.

“Secure from action stations, Mr Caulfield, and have the galley stove re-lit.” he said, flexing his shoulders stiffly. “Then you may pipe Up Spirits – and see to those bloody animals.”

* * *

“Y
ou do not care that your boat has been taken?” Judy asked Carroll. For the last four hours the two of them had been entertaining ten lively children in the stewards' room, which now bore a close resemblance to a domestic nursery. And their charges, finally weary after being treated to a succession of japes, tricks and numerous other boisterous activities, were sleeping peacefully in the midst of an extended game of 'Dead Donkey'.

“Oh I care very much indeed,” the Irishman assured her as he accepted the mug of hot tea she proffered and rested back against the ship's scantlings. “Indeed, it is a disaster for me in many respects, the most being financial.”

“So it was your boat then?”

“Ship,” he corrected gently after sipping at his drink. “But no, she did not belong to me outright. I had a share in her, which cost my family everything we owned and more. A few days back, when we took your
Duke of Cambridge,
I was looking forward to a life of wealth and luxury, but now that appears to have been lost forever.”

“You have a family?” she asked, with poorly assumed nonchalance.

“I have,” he admitted. “Father and two sisters in Galway, though I have not seen them in more than three years.”

“And yet they lent you money...” Judy said, with more perception than Carroll expected.

“Sure, am I not the same man they knew when we lived together?” he replied. “And money is not so very difficult to move, even in war time, although it helps if you have some to begin with.”

“What will you do now?” she asked and he shrugged.

“That will depend very much on those who hold me. My ship carried a
lettre de course
so I trust the privileges of a normal prisoner will be given when I am landed. In the last war, most were exchanged; this new fellow Bonaparte may have different ideas, but I hope to be back on French soil before so very long.”

“You wish to go back to France?” she seemed surprised. “But Ireland is your home.”

“Ireland
was
my home,” he corrected. “And indeed, where my family still are; but there is little left of the old place, and I should not wish to live under English rule.”

“You do not care for the English?” her voice had grown more cautious.

“I do not care for some,” he corrected. “But others I may grow to like in time.”

For a spell neither spoke as they sipped at their tea, although both found themselves taking the occasional glance at the other as if by chance.

“And what of you?” Carroll enquired at last. “You will be returning to Lisbon?”

“It is the only home I know,” she replied. “And the only place where I have friends.”

“And presently it bears not more than a few miles off our larboard bow,” the Irishman mused. “Was not the captain willing to set you ashore there?”