The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (24 page)

“Very well, my compliments and I shall join him presently,” he replied, returning to the remains of his meal.

“He did say it were urgent, sir,” Hughes whispered, conspiratorially. King raised his eyes and considered the servant, who had the grace to look abashed, before returning to his breakfast.

* * *

B
ut whatever his aspirations, the second lieutenant was still senior to him and not more than five minutes later King found himself standing in front of a seated Davison. The younger man was also dining, but alone, and at a table that was all but bare. He waved his hands dismissively at his near empty plate.

“I should have saved some for you, King,” he said, with a complete absence of regret. “But Hughes said he could find little in the way of cabin stores, and we do have several days' sailing ahead of us.”

“I have already eaten, thank you,” King replied stiffly.

Davison eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then indicated the chair opposite.

“Cartwright has the watch at present,” he continued as King seated himself. “And does a fair job. I think he can be trusted.”

King thought so as well: the master's mate had more seagoing experience than the two of them put together, and was undoubtedly competent enough to stand a watch.

“And we can allow Adams and Steven to do likewise.”

Now that was another matter entirely. Both midshipmen were in their teens and ideal as supporting officers. Either would also have the sense to call him or Davison should an emergency occur, but at sea the time to summon a superior is a luxury that cannot be guaranteed. Far too often action must be taken immediately, and King doubted they had the combined experience to handle every crisis.

“They should not be needed,” he said, temporising. “If each of us take a trick, that will mean none work more than one out of three.” King could tell from the blank look that his words were not being accepted by Davison, but continued despite this. “Counting dog watches, we will always get at least six hours off duty, and usually eight.”

“As captain, I shall not be standing a watch,” the younger man told him bluntly. “But, as I have already stated, with Adams and Steven's help, we shall not be stretched.”

King shook his head. “But that is not right,” he found himself saying. “Sir Richard placed you in command of the prize crew: that hardly constitutes being a captain.”

“Do you not regard me as your superior officer?” Davison asked with feigned concern. “I would be happy to present my commission, if that is required. You will find it significantly trumps your own as far as the date is concerned.”

King shook his head. “I do not doubt your seniority,” he said. “But am certain Captain Banks did not mean for you to behave thus.”

“Whether he did, or whether he did not is hardly your concern,” Davison continued. “But we shall say no more about it for now. You may relieve Cartwright at eight bells and, obviously, send for me if the need arises. And please remember that it would be more fitting if I am addressed as sir by all my officers. Now,” he added with a look of great condescension, “will you take tea? Hughes says there is little else, I'm afraid.”

King rose stiffly. “Thank you, but I have a pot of rather fine chocolate awaiting me below,” he replied. “Sir.”

* * *

M
anning's concern was growing steadily. Not only had two officers now fallen victim to the mystery ailment, but more of the lower ranks were being presented to him with every hour that passed. And it had not escaped his notice that a high proportion of them seemed to be marines.

He told himself that such a situation was understandable: when men sleep, mess and work together, illness is bound to spread more readily. And if this made the general caring for the prisoners more difficult, that was hardly his concern. But Manning had just reported to Lieutenant Caulfield that, of
Prometheus
' force of seventy or so marines, more than twenty five were currently considered unfit for duty. This was a high proportion and, even though his own responsibilities extended no further than the health and welfare of the men, Manning could not help but be concerned.

Apparently measures were being taken; all marines had been relieved of servant and steward duties and put to work watch and watch about to keep the prisoners exercised and fed. They still had slightly less than the minimum it took to guard such a number, however, and there was no guarantee that the current rate of attrition would cease. The first lieutenant had supplemented them with ship's corporals and boatswain's mates – men used to enforcing discipline, and not afraid to do so. But since then more seamen had started appearing amongst the surgeon's patients, and Manning was concerned that mixing regular hands with those already infected would escalate the epidemic further.

He collected yet another volume from his personal library that included works by Blane, Trotter and Gillespie, and rifled through its well thumbed pages. The symptoms were reasonably defined but none exactly fitted those of a recognised ailment, and he began to wade once more through chapters that he now knew almost by heart with feelings of increasing desperation. At the back of his mind lurked the spectre of Gibraltar Fever; a highly infectious condition known to haunt the citadel and renowned for being both quick and deadly. But
Prometheus
had yet to even sight the rock and the Indiaman had also been outward bound.

On making enquiries he had discovered the
Duke of Cambridge
to have left Blackwall barely three weeks before, so should not have been carrying anything more exotic than traditional shipborne ailments. There were lascars amongst her crew, however, and they would have been transferred directly from a homebound ship before entering British waters. It was a common practice amongst Company vessels wanting to avoid government regulations on shipping foreign hands, but one that might prove disastrous on this occasion. The native seamen, now heading back to their home without touching British soil, could easily be carrying all manner of diseases, and he would have laid the blame firmly at their door, had they not appeared to be apparently immune to the malady themselves.

It was all so terribly confusing, and yet Manning sensed there was a simple solution, if only he were given time to think of it. He wished he might speak again with the Company physician who had transferred to the prize. Chances were high that he was also experiencing similar cases by now, and they may do better by comparing notes. He might request a boat – something the first lieutenant was bound to allow, although that in itself would increase the chance of spreading the disease still further.

He sighed and changed his current book for another; one that spoke more of gastric ailments and, although such symptoms were only a part of the problem, he supposed it might shed some light on the subject. One thing was certain: a good three days' sailing were needed before they raised Gibraltar, and the time spent in between was not going to be uneventful.

* * *

B
ut not everyone was under such pressure. Unbeknown to Manning, there had been no outbreaks of illness aboard the prize and those seamen transferred from
Prometheus
were actually enjoying their spell aboard the former privateer. As confirmed man-o'-war hands, there was something novel in crewing a ship purely for her sailing abilities, with no concern for practice at the guns or small arms. Even being set to working as waisters or members of the afterguard, heaving at braces and trimming sails while chattering passengers did their best to distract or encumber them, did not ruin their enjoyment.

“Bit of a breeze blowin',” Harrison sniffed the air expectantly as they came on deck with the new watch. “With luck that yellow haired frizzy will wear her white dress again.”

Flint eyed him thoughtfully as they formed up on the half deck. “Why should you care about a passenger's clothing?” he asked.

“I spent most of yes'day's af'noon watch on helmsman duty,” Harrison told him smugly. “An' most of the time she were bent over the leeward bulwark, yarning with her husband. Wind kept lifting her frock up: lovely, it was. Ain't seen so much leg since Admiral Worthington's lady got stuck in the boatswain's chair. Lucky Seth Marne were my oppo. or we never would 'ave kept a regular course.”

“It's a funny thing about old Seth,” Flint agreed. “Women's legs never did do much for him.”

“Watch on deck, stand to!” Clement, a boatswain's mate, called and the new men brought themselves up to something approaching attention for the start of the next four hours of duty.

* * *

T
he prisoners made their move just after two bells in the afternoon watch, when most of
Prometheus'
crew were still recovering from two pussers' pounds of salt beef, plum duff and the quarter pint of spirit that had preceded both. Marine Lieutenant James, who had been visiting Donaldson in the sick berth, was actually on hand and one of the first to die: the bayonet of a Bess, recently wrestled from the arms of one of his own men, accounting for him with silent efficiency. Other officers were also caught napping, in some cases literally; Bruce and Sutton were asleep in the midshipmen's berth when they were run through with boarding pikes, while Simmonds, a boatswain's mate caught in the aft cockpit, at least had time and sense to shout a warning before meeting his end under the edge of a looted cutlass. But the cry had little effect; by then the contingent of twenty prisoners about to be escorted up for air and exercise had already overpowered their guard before releasing the rest, and soon most on
Prometheus'
orlop were well aware the deck was no longer their own.

On receipt of his parole, Carroll had been allowed a cabin in the gun room and was seated at the warrant officers' dining table, checking the list of prisoners' names with the first lieutenant, when both men heard the first sounds of insurrection. Caulfield looked to the Irishman who gave a shrug of incomprehension, then they both turned to see five wide eyed men burst through the outer door and come crashing into the room.

“Rise, citizen,” one shouted to Carroll in a strong Irish accent. “The orlop is ours; we are currently fightin' for this an' the upper deck. Once they are taken we may claim the ship!”

Caulfield stood and made to reach for his sword, but the weapon was safely in his cabin on the deck above, and one of the men pressed him roughly back down on his chair, holding him there with the flat of a cutlass blade. Carroll raised a hand and silently pointed at two of the penned off cabins that ran down both sides of the gun room. The rest of the privateers understood at once and divided into separate groups, before surging forward, kicking the thin doors to splinters, and blasting into the tiny rooms. Swift, a marine lieutenant, was dragged out almost immediately and stood, shaken and fuming, in open shirt and loosened britches. Of Abbot, the gunner, there was no sign; the men exited his cabin without comment, although one appeared to have fresh blood on his sword.

“There'll be no more of that,” Carroll stated firmly, noting the weapon. “We are privateers, not pirates; contravene the letter of marque and all will end up on the gallows.”

The men appeared suitably shamefaced and took to securing the two officers using a length of line that had been used to hang drying laundry by the warrant officers' bread bins. Caulfield, still seated, felt his wrists bound tight behind him. Then two turns about his chest and another round his ankles meant he would remain secure for as long as his captors wished, while Swift was simply hog tied and left to wriggle uncomfortably on the deck.

“Where is Agard?” Carroll demanded.

“The captain is outside,” another replied in English, through a strong French accent. His teeth gleamed in the poor light. “He is about to lead the attack on the rest of this deck.”

“Then we must not delay,” Carroll said decisively, and went to leave.

“But your parole!” Caulfield's shout caused him to stop and look back.

“Ah yes, my parole,” the man laughed briefly. “I was quite forgetting,” he added. Then flashed his eyes, and was gone.

––––––––

O
utside, the scene was of terror and confusion. In the half light of the lower gun deck, vague figures could just be made out as they fought desperate and individual battles. Some wielded cutlasses or boarding pikes, others simple gunners' tools, awkward beneath the low deckhead, while a good few of either side preferred the bare fist fighting they were used to, laying into their opponents with all the science of a Saturday night brawl. There were shouts, calls and the occasional scream and it was clear that no order would be established until one side was seen to hold the upper hand.

“Davie!” the girl's thin voice sounded incongruous in such surroundings, and Carroll looked round in annoyance as Judy came running down the aft companionway towards him.

“Go to the gun room,” he told her firmly. “Find one of the cabins and lock yourself in.”

“But I must come as well,” she protested. “You promised!”

“I shall join you shortly,” Carroll snapped, then snatched at the boarding cutlass being handed to him by one of his colleagues. He had taken a step away and was about to enter the fray when the girl's hand stopped him.

“Come back with me,” she pleaded, hanging on to his arm. “I'll not lose you now!”

“You will lose me forever if you do not let me go,” he said, with heavy irony. “Now back to the gun room.” The others were already deep into the fight, and he wished beyond anything to join them. But she was looking at him with that set expression he had already learned meant her mind was made up.

“Let me come with you,” she insisted, even as he tore her hand from him.

“Go, Judy, go I say!” his voice was far louder than he had intended, and her face registered surprise. “I shall return for you directly, once the ship is ours, but for now be gone!” And then his expression softened. “But my promise will still hold, and you have already done far more than I could have asked.”

* * *