The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (23 page)

Being entirely free of cannon, the berth deck of a frigate was usually spacious to the point of being draughty, and the sixty or so hands selected to sail the prize had been expecting far more in the way of accommodation. But the lesser passengers would be making their homes aft of a canvas screen, rigged rather hurriedly between main and foremast, and the seamen were pragmatic enough to know that stealing their space was likely to be the least of the civilians' crimes.

“When's that lot comin' aboard, then?” Harrison asked, eyeing the barrier with mistrust.

“Almost immediately, I'd say,” Flint replied. “What with the Frenchies an' all, it were getting like a cattle market aboard the barky.”

“Well, at least we got the galley fire,” Thompson, who liked his comfort, muttered. “An' the 'eads.”

“An' it'll only be a brief while,” Flint agreed, glad to find a positive comment. “Three or four days, at worst, then Gib. an' all her wonders.”

Those detailed to the prize had been drafted in messes, the theory being that men already acquainted and in most cases used to working together would be of more use aboard a strange vessel. Such a consideration was even more important when dealing with ships of the third rate and above, where crews were seldom less than five hundred and could frequently rise to almost double. But of all of Flint's mess, only Jameson and Butler were recognised topmen, which was the obvious requirement when sailing an alien ship. Consequently, the others would have to reconcile themselves to acting as members of the afterguard or even waisters.

“She's a tight enough craft,” Butler said as he placed an appreciative hand on one of the overhead beams. “With a bit of luck, they'll buy her into the service.”

“Why should you care if they do?” Billings asked suspiciously.

Butler gave him a sideways look. “Because they'll be needing a transit crew,” he said. “And I, for one, don't intend spending the rest of my days beating 'bout the Med.”

“Anyone checked out the ballast?” Thompson asked of nobody in particular.

“Should we need to?” Ben, the lad of the mess, asked innocently.

“Far too many Frenchies been aboard this tub for my liking,” Thompson explained. “They got a nasty trick of burying their dead in the shingle.”

“This was a privateer,” Ross spoke softly, but with his usual authority. “And only recently out of harbour so you have nothing to fear.”

“Aye, there'll be no bodies rising up in the night and strangling you in yer 'ammock,” Harrison chuckled, running his hands up Thompson's back and grasping him playfully by the throat.

“Oh, I ain't afeared o' nothing,” Thompson lied, as he struggled free of his mate's embrace. “It's just not a very nice habit, that's all.”

* * *

J
udy examined the jar that Carroll had passed to her earlier that morning. She had already been able to use some of the powder, but there was still a good deal of it left. Davie had said it would do no harm, but she was not convinced. And neither was she certain the stuff would go unnoticed. Slipping some into one of the ship's coppers would be no problem; Stone had boasted about cooking up a spicy lobscouse for the marines that day, and such slop could hide any amount of strange flavouring. But the officers' food was different, and commissioned men's palates were likely to be more sensitive than those of marines. She had tried some on the captain's devilled kidneys without him apparently noticing, but then neither had he been seen since. There was even a rumour that Sir Richard had taken to his cot, although that might just be tattle-tale. She opened the lid, and sniffed at the white powder within; it looked quite innocuous – similar to sugar although, when a finger was cautiously dipped in, it tasted anything but. Still, there were plenty of kidneys left over from the ration bullocks which Potterton had allocated for tomorrow's wardroom's breakfast. And she had promised Davie the stuff would all be used as soon as possible.

––––––––

“A
s officer in command, I shall be taking the captain's quarters,” Davison announced when they had finished their inspection of the privateer. There were a number of items he had found fault with, none of which were King's sole responsibility, although the young man had made each sound like a personal affront. But it was the last statement, made on the half deck when they were as close to being alone as was possible, that really raised King's ire.

“Indeed?” he asked sharply. “It was my understanding that we were to share the great cabin. Space must be found for the master's mates and midshipmen, and there are several families with young children aboard, as well as single women who require private accommodation.”

“Female civilians can berth together; they are not our responsibility and middies will take the cockpit: it is what they are used to, after all,” Davison replied. “Likewise the master's mates. Claim a cabin in the gun room for yourself, by all means. I trust the screaming babies will not take too much of your sleep.”

King went to speak but Davison had already turned on his heel and was gone.

“Am I to put your dunnage in the great cabin, sir?”

It was Keats, his servant: the man was approaching under a pile of luggage that included King's watchcoat, sword and spare clothing.

“No,” King told him. “My quarters appear to be in the gun room.”

* * *

C
aulfield stood by the binnacle of
Prometheus
. It was four bells in the afternoon watch, the passengers who had been persuaded to leave were already embarked in the prize, while all prisoners, apart from Carroll, who had given his parole, were secured in their newly made pens below. And every man in both ships had been fed – in itself a major undertaking, and one that took a good deal longer in the frigate, whose stove had proved a mystery to the cook's mate sent to master it. The British amongst them were still slightly groggy from the effects of their mid-day spirit ration, but there were several hours of daylight left, and no sense in delaying longer.

“Very well, Mr Brehaut,” the first lieutenant said, with more formality than was usual. “You have a course; kindly make sail. Mr Lewis, you may signal the prize to that effect.”

The bunting broke out on the larboard main halyards and was brought down just as
Prometheus'
topsails were released; an action copied by those aboard the frigate as near simultaneously as could be managed: Davison was clearly intending to impress. The wind, strong in the north-west, began to fill the canvas and, as forecourses and jibs were added, both vessels eased into motion, with the battleship taking station to windward of her charge. Caulfield felt the deck heel only slightly beneath his feet, and listened with satisfaction to the creaking of spars, rigging and hull as
Prometheus
took life. This was not his favoured position; he was used to being second-in-command and had to admit, preferred to be so. There had been a time when the role of captain appealed, but that was some while ago, and he knew himself too old now. But Banks was lying in his bunk with a temperature hot enough to fry an egg and, as no one better equipped to carry out the task was on hand, Caulfield felt he might cope – at least on a temporary basis.

And it really should be for the briefest of periods; a day's good sailing would see the journey time cut significantly and, by then, he should have grown more used to being ultimately responsible for two ships and nearly a thousand lives. But still it was not a duty the first lieutenant enjoyed, and he could only wish it over as soon as possible.

* * *

A
s it turned out, all went agreeably enough for the first few hours: it wasn't until the following morning that Caulfield's troubles began. They had spent a peaceful night: the traverse board consistently showing speeds of over six knots, and he was looking forward to having logged a considerable portion of their journey by the noon observations. And after a shaky start, the prisoners were also behaving themselves. At first their officers, especially the privateer captain, caused a measure of trouble, but this was swiftly calmed, and by an unexpected ally.

None, apart from Carroll, would agree to give their parole, so Caulfield was left with no alternative other than to incarcerate them with their men. This was not popular, but with space at a premium, he had no option. Fortunately the Irish prize master came to his aid: he had no idea what words of persuasion Carroll used, but the nett result was a peaceful ship. It was all he required, and the first lieutenant felt grudgingly grateful for the man's intervention.

More men had presented with the mystery illness but, for the moment at least, they could manage, while the captain's condition seemed to be progressing steadily. His fever remained high, but there were signs of waking and Banks' servant was sure of improvement.

Consequently, when he settled down to breakfast in a wardroom finally cleared of passengers and children, Caulfield was feeling mildly optimistic: a mood that was heightened by the smell of devilled kidneys and what might be mutton chops that came from the officers' pantry. He reached for the wardroom copy of a newspaper. It was over two months old and had already been well thumbed, but there was only Captain Donaldson and his subaltern at the table, and the first lieutenant preferred to read the thing for the umpteenth time than make small talk.

But before he had even been able to order his breakfast, the first signs that matters were not to continue well made themselves known. Donaldson had dined slightly earlier, and was sitting at ease, enjoying the last of his customary early morning bottle of white wine, when an odd change began to overtake him. Caulfield watched over his newspaper as the man's almost constant flush suddenly lightened, before reverting to an even darker puce. Then his half-filled glass dropped to the table and he lifted both hands to his head, while letting out a guttural moan.

“Whatever is the matter, man?” Caulfield demanded as Marine Lieutenant James rose to attend his superior.

“Damnedest pain in the head,” Donaldson slurred, still pressing at his temples. “Can't see straight, and my mouth's gone as dry as a drab's kiss.”

“You'd better see him to his quarters,” Caulfield said to James. “And pass the word for Mr Manning.”

Until that moment there had been no more instances of fever amongst the officers, and Caulfield had even come to hope they might be in some way immune. But if anyone was to succumb, he would have guessed it to be the old soak. The first lieutenant watched as, in the arms of James and one of the wardroom stewards, Donaldson allowed himself to be eased upright and, still moaning pitifully, dragged backwards the short distance to his cabin.

“Would you care for breakfast, sir?” Judy, the girl steward, asked from close by and Caulfield looked up in surprise. He had grown accustomed to having the woman about, and there could be no doubting she made herself useful. But still the sight of a pretty face was enough to disconcert him, even on the best of mornings.

“What's that?” he asked sharply, while tearing his glance away from those finely shaped breasts that had surely been presented far too near to his face.

“I was offering you breakfast, sir,” she answered. As one well versed at both table service, and the irascibility of gentlemen before breakfast, Judy always appeared self possessed although, on that particular occasion, Caulfield noticed her lip was trembling slightly.

“What is available, Kinnison?” he enquired, a little more gently.

“We have mutton loin or kidneys,” she replied. “An' there is some tommy soaked in cow's milk that has toasted up nice.”

A roar came from Donaldson's cabin, followed by the sound of someone retching. Judy seemed to wince, while the first lieutenant tried to ignore the chest that was still being held tantalisingly close to his face.

“Did you say kidneys?” he asked vaguely: Caulfield was an officer of the old school and had always been particularly partial to offal.

“Yes, sir. Devilled, and served with fried onions,” she confirmed, although her attention appeared to be elsewhere and there was now a definite flush to her cheeks. “Or there's fresh loin chops from the gun room pig what died last Tuesday.”

“What did Mr Donaldson have?”

“He took the kidneys,” Judy answered instantly, adding: “but the pork looks nice, an' 'er death were natural,” with half a smile.

“Oh, very well, bring me that,” the first lieutenant sighed, before holding up the paper to read, and tearing the thing neatly down the middle.

* * *

I
n the captured frigate, King was also enjoying breakfast. What was actually a substantial gun room now felt quite small when compared to the massive proportions of
Prometheus,
and the space they did have seemed a good deal more crowded. He sat at the head of a table that was filled with at least three generations of passengers, with the youngest making themselves known by crawling about the deck, and occasionally encountering his feet. The food was good, though. A few of the wives seemed to have formed some sort of catering committee and, using discovered cabin stores and a good deal of ingenuity, had taken it upon themselves to organise meals for all of their number, as well those officers berthing in the gun room. Consequently he had eaten his fill of scrambled duck eggs, served with particularly dry sausages which were not in the least unpleasant, and a form of flat bread that tasted as if it had been freshly baked. There were also jugs of chocolate, not usually King's favourite of morning drinks, but very acceptable. The drink was far thicker and stronger than any he had tasted before and left him with an effect not unlike that felt after taking too much coffee. He had just finished his second cup when Hughes, Davison's steward, pressed his way through the crowd of chattering civilians to speak with him.

“Captain's compliments, sir and he'd like to see you in his quarters.” Hughes might have been speaking directly to King, but the servant's attention was elsewhere and the man appeared fascinated by the still heavily laden table.

King suppressed a grin; he supposed that, as the officer in charge of a prize, Davison might conceivably be referred to as a Captain, but it was stretching matters slightly.