The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (3 page)

The remark drew sympathetic mutterings from all at the table.
Tonnant,
a fine, eighty-gun ship – Toulon built from Adriatic oak – had been captured during Nelson's action at Aboukir Bay some years ago, and now boasted Edward Pellew as her captain. He was a man almost universally respected and even loved by his men, yet his ship lay at anchor not five cables from
Prometheus
, and with about as much chance of putting to sea as a Cheapside punt. Britain might only have been at war a matter of weeks, but all present understood the damage that had been done months, and possibly years before.

“It would have been better were the Navy maintained to the same degree as the army,” Caulfield spoke quietly but to a series of knowing grunts from those at the table. During the uneasy peace, most of Britain's fighting sail had been stood down. Working ships with seasoned crews were paid off, freeing their people to take more lucrative berths in traders and East Indiamen. Consequently, when conflict resumed and warships became needed again, precious few were available to man them. In March, a hot press had scooped up every available Jack, be they willing or otherwise, along with any landsman who gave the slightest indication of being trainable. The short term effect had been sound enough; ships so recently laid up in ordinary were able to sail in record time, and the seas Britain relied upon for both trade and protection were soon within her control once more. But barely three months later there were few seamen of any type to be found, save those already on the other side of the world and aboard merchants. Industries, such as fishing and coastal transport had almost ceased to exist, while any returning John Company fleet was set upon by the pressing tenders, seizing men who had been asea for years and turning them over to serve in the Royal Navy. All would settle in time but foresight, and a less parsimonious government, would have kept more warships in service and avoided such confusion.

“We should have news of Benson afore long,” King said, breaking the silence that was a rare commodity during wardroom mealtimes. Benson, the fourth lieutenant, had taken a party of trusted hands inland on a mission that fell somewhere between a recruiting drive and kidnapping, and was due back with his haul the following day.

“Aye, with luck he could bring us a dozen or so,” the first lieutenant agreed. “But they are likely to be weavers or other poor wretches made seedy by the factories. Trained hands is what we need; more like that Tom brought us last night.”

The murmur of agreement spread about the table, and King's eyes fell. Caulfield's words had embarrassed him in a strange way. However sure he might feel of Ross, the man had yet to prove himself, and he only hoped the first lieutenant’s confidence was well placed.

* * *

W
hen a ship is at anchor, lieutenants do not take charge of a watch; that responsibility passes to senior warrant officers. And so it was that Gabriel Cartwright, master's mate and a man with over thirty years' sea-going experience, had been left in control of one of his Majesty's line-of-battleships while her people were at breakfast. Such a duty was probably the closest Cartwright would ever come to command although he was not altogether sorry. Since joining his first ship as a third class volunteer, he considered he had done all right for himself. From being the lowest of the low – what some of the cruder members of the lower deck referred to as a powder monkey – he had risen to senior warrant rank and, in truth, was only one step away from being a commissioned officer. But sitting a board had never been one of Gabriel Cartwright's ambitions. There would be too much book learning: as it was, he struggled with many aspects of navigation. And the prospect of compiling journals, keeping the necessary logs, and conforming to officer etiquette filled him with disgust as much as trepidation. Even if he were fortunate enough to fool a bunch of post captains into granting him a commission, then trick another into taking him aboard his ship, there would be far too much responsibility for his liking. And it would come with little in the way of recompense.

Cartwright earned over three pounds a lunar month, which was less than half that paid to a lieutenant. But much of the difference would be eaten up with expensive mess bills, and Cartwright could live quite simply in the cockpit. And, as the senior master's mate, he was also in charge of the midshipmen, which gave him more than enough power and prestige, should he crave such a thing. Besides, sea-going berths for lieutenants were relatively rare, whereas an experienced warrant officer was always in demand. If he kept his current rank he would be likely to find employment for the rest of his life. He was quite content with his station, and reasonably happy to die in it, although perhaps not in the very near future.

But even with such a lack of ambition, it was still good to walk along what Cartwright told himself was the weather side of the quarterdeck – the breeze being too light and fickle to be certain. To stand at the break, hands stiffly clasped behind his back, and look down on the deck beneath. To consider those ship's boats not in use, which were stacked neatly on skids before him, then raise his eyes slowly, taking in all of the mighty foremast that, even with topmasts set down, towered way above until it quite hurt his neck to look. And to assure himself that, in theory at least, the third rate line-of-battleship on which he stood, her and every one of the mighty cannon she carried, was currently under his sole command.

The hail from the forecastle lookout rudely interrupted Cartwright's private fancies. A shore boat was heading for them and the 'Aye Aye' bellowed in response told him there would be an officer aboard. Cartwright glanced down to the larboard entry port where all but the most senior would be expected to enter. He was still not unduly worried. The likelihood was his visitor simply carried a message from the port admiral, or maybe it was one of the dockyard supervisors with ideas above his station. But even if the boat contained the Admiral of the Fleet travelling incognito, Cartwright would not be unduly moved. It was one of the benefits of his rank; in difficult situations there was likely to be someone more experienced to take control, and they were usually no more than a summons away.

But it might not be a bad idea to meet whoever was coming, he decided, as the boat hooked on to
Prometheus
' mainchains. Cartwright eased himself down the quarterdeck ladder; he was by no means stiff, old or rheumatic, but of late had not been inclined to rush some things that had been more easy when a lad. Mr Midshipman Steven, one of the young gentlemen under Cartwright's care, was already at the entry port and talking to an unknown midshipman who had presumably been one of the occupants of the boat. The two lads stiffened slightly and shed their boyish grins as Cartwright approached.

“Mr Dickson here is from the receiving ship, Mr Cartwright,” Steven said. “They've hands for us.”

“Not so many, I fear,” the second midshipman added. “
Prometheus
has only been allotted three, but all are seamen, mind.”

“Three ain't going to do us much good,” Cartwright grumbled, although it was clear that any ill feeling was not directed at the boy.

“They took a bundle out of a transport with a homebound convoy,” the visitor told him. “And from the same ship, so Mr Robson said we should divide them ’twixt every vessel at anchor.”

“Otherwise they'd have all gone to
Tonnant
I suppose.” Cartwright snorted, glancing across to where their more illustrious neighbour lay a few cables off.

“She's even worse off for hands,” the lad agreed. “But Mr Robson said this weren't a happy bunch, and wanted them split as much as possible.”

“Very well,” Cartwright sighed. “Send 'em up an' let's take a look.”

When they did, the three seamen did not appear so very remarkable. All were well dressed, clean, and appeared healthy; one even carried a ditty bag and, to look at them, few would have guessed they were being brought aboard
Prometheus
against their will.

“Welcome, lads.” Cartwright was well aware that little would be gained from antagonising pressed men further. “We're glad to have you aboard, and sorry for the necessity.”

On closer inspection it was clear that two of the newcomers had faces like thunder, although they regarded the master's mate in apparent acceptance, but the third was still too angry to make eye contact. Cartwright ignored them, and took the proffered paper from the regulating midshipman. He signed against the three names and handed the receipt back. The new hands would come round – he knew that from many years' experience. And every man present was equally aware it was not down to Cartwright that they had been dragged from a cushy berth to serve in a man-o'-war. Or that such a diabolical act had occurred just when England had hove into sight, and their wages were almost in their pockets.

“Very good, Mr Dickson,” Cartwright muttered in the manner in which he had been addressing young midshipmen for what seemed like an eternity. “We shall take them from here. Thank you for your efforts, and kindly remember us again in the future.”

The lad touched his hat, flashed a grin at Steven, then disappeared backwards through the entry port, leaving the warrant officers looking at their new recruits.

“We're for the Channel Fleet,” Cartwright told them, not unkindly. “So there'll be a better chance of a home port than aboard most ships. And the captain's a good officer who has taken more than his share of prize money in the past.”

The news had little impact. It was common knowledge that a home port did not necessarily mean shore leave, rather the opposite: such a privilege being far more likely to be granted where there was less chance of desertion.

“What say we gets you below and you can meet up with the pusser?” Cartwright continued lightly, his gaze inevitably shifting to the third, who was still glaring at the distant horizon. “Then we'll settle you in a mess and sort out any kit you may be a-missing.”

The first two seemed compliant enough. Most seamen would be pressed at least once in their careers and considered it a pitfall of their chosen path: an occupational hazard, to be offset by prize money and the certainty of enough drink to see them partially anaesthetised for at least some of the day. But the third had still to accept his fate, and Cartwright knew he would give trouble even before the man made his move.

When it came it was sudden, but lacked ingenuity. An abrupt lunge for the larboard bulwark and, with the agility of his type, the newcomer was over the side and had apparently disappeared before they knew it. Cartwright exchanged glances with Steven as a loud splash marked the man's landing, and the two officers strolled laconically across to peer over the top rail.

“Belay that,” Cartwright grunted to the marine posted at the main channel. The sentry, who had been quick to raise his musket at the prospect of enlivening a dreary watch, lowered the weapon reluctantly and gave an audible sigh. “But you can keep an eye on those two,” the warrant officer added, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

The man in the water had recovered himself to some extent and, in the main, was staying near the surface. But like the vast majority of seamen, he was plainly unable to swim, and Cartwright supposed it a measure of his desperation that such a means of escape was even considered. The boat that had delivered him still lay close by, and the young midshipman directed it over to the now struggling fugitive. In no time the sodden body had been dragged, dripping yet still objecting, into the sternsheets.

“Are we going to try again?” Cartwright asked when the man had been sent up the entry port steps for the second time and stood on the main deck once more. “You can do that as often as you wish, but we'll always get you back. And there'll be some not quite so lenient as me.”

The seaman seemed to accept Cartwright's logic and finally met his gaze. The two considered each other for a second or so, then the warrant officer tipped his head towards where the remaining two recruits were standing.

“Get yourselves below, and we'll say no more about it.” he said. Cartwright was fortunate in always choosing his berth, but he had been around pressed men long enough to appreciate something of their despair. And scant good would be served if the newcomer was called up on a charge – some might say a sound flogging would deter others, but if a man unable to swim was prepared to try and make it half way across the harbour, there was surely little that would truly discourage him.

“Get that mess swabbed up,” the master's mate told a nearby hand when the men were gone. A sizeable puddle of seawater had been left as a reminder of the incident: the sun was sure to burn it off in no time, but Cartwright would prefer to avoid any need for explanations. He knew he had bent the rules in not reporting the attempted escape, but felt there was reason enough behind the action. And, as he had been in nominal command of the ship at the time, the decision had surely been his to make.

––––––––

“S
tarboard watch be ready,” Simmonds, the boatswain's mate, warned the deck in general as mess tables were cleared of all traces of breakfast, and men prepared themselves for labour. The short and slightly stout petty officer watched them for a moment, then sauntered over to the nearest group and sought out Flint, the seaman who led them. “Chips says your lot may as well continue where you left off yes'day.”

“Right oh, Mr Simmonds.” Flint turned to Ross, the new man in his mess. He appeared to be a regular seaman, but there was something fragile and strangely vulnerable about him, and Flint had already decided he needed careful watching. “We been on caulkin' duty the last three days,” he told him. “So don't wear anythin' you was akeepin' for Sunday.”

Ross had only been on the lower deck a matter of hours and was still getting used to the dramatic change in conditions. Sleeping in a hammock slung in tiers between other men had been a very different prospect from his former accommodation, while merely being aboard a king's ship again, yet excluded from the quarterdeck and command, made his fall from grace that much more apparent. But he was grateful for the information, and pulled his second pair of trousers from the ditty bag.