The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (33 page)

King, as newly appointed second lieutenant, would command the lower gun deck; two batteries, both containing fourteen of
Prometheus
' heaviest artillery. And they were big; the largest long guns regularly used by the Royal Navy: each consisted of over fifty-five hundredweight of cast iron and he would be responsible for dispatching broadsides with a combined weight of close to a quarter of a ton. There had been little time to exercise the crews, but King knew the men were more than familiar with their weapons, and only hoped he might prove worthy of such a force.

Lieutenant Benson was equally unsure. Davison had not been easy to work with but, now the young fool had gone – flounced almost – to take up what he had insisted to be a superior position aboard the prize, his absence was being felt in a most unexpected way.

Davison's replacement, the even less experienced but far more likeable Carlton, had only been commissioned a few weeks before Lewis. This meant that Benson was now third lieutenant, and had the entire upper gun deck under his control. To date his responsibilities only extended as far as second in command of the lower batteries: now he would have the ship's secondary armament of eighteen pounders to play with, and the prospect was daunting.

This was also his first taste of being in overall charge of such a large body of men. And it would be such a public duty: were the topmen a little tardy taking in a sail, or the afterguard not quite up to scratch when it came to attending the braces, few would notice. But an ill-timed or incomplete broadside was not to be missed, and he could expect comments, derision and even censure from the captain downwards.

For Brehaut too, this would be the largest action in which he had conned a ship, although in his case there were no doubts, just a mild but genuine desire to use his expertise. The Strait was a challenging region; should the action be extended, they might encounter hazards in almost every direction. And even if they confined their manoeuvres to a small area, there was a fast running rip that would have to be allowed for, as well as the famed Levanter: that very wind that currently filled their canvas so admirably. It was potentially a devastating force and could easily run to forty knots while raising a hazardous sea. The waves at present, white capped and rolling, were of no particular danger, although Brehaut had heard tell of gale force gusts building without notice and often carrying fog and rain in their wake. But, should such a situation occur, he would be prepared for it. His chart was laid out in readiness less than ten feet from where he stood, while the previous weeks aboard
Prometheus
had been enough to instil sufficient respect for him and his abilities from every station. And Brehaut would be doing what he enjoyed most; practising a talent honed through a lifetime's usage, while testing his powers to the utmost. If he were spared and blessed with the chance, he might one day end up as sailing master aboard a three-decker, and responsible for leading a battle fleet to victory. But at that moment to have charge of
Prometheus
was sufficient; in fact Brehaut wondered if he had ever been quite so happy.

“
Canopus
is signalling...” Lewis began solidly but a younger voice interrupted him.

“Deck there, I have them!” It was Midshipman Steven, who had been placed way above at the main masthead for just such a purpose.

“Enemy is three line ships,” Lewis continued. “Steering west.”

“Sighting off the larboard bow; looks to be a thumper, and steering west,” the lad unwittingly confirmed from his lofty perch.

“That sounds like the last in line,” Caulfield commented. “And would be roughly twenty miles off, if our masthead is in sight.”

“They may have been intending to try for the Med., sir,” Brehaut agreed. “This wind has only risen in the last couple of hours. It were more southerly afore, and had blown so for a while. Such a breeze would have seen them past Gib. easily.”

Banks remained non-committal. What Brehaut said was probably true and, if the French really had come from San Domingo, they would naturally have tried to head for Toulon first. But Stewart had mentioned a larger number, and no more were in sight. It was not inconceivable that a few might have become separated after such a voyage, or this could be a completely different force.

The contrary wind, combined with sighting a British line-of-battleship on the horizon, was likely to have encouraged their change of plan. And, now that it had arisen, the Levanter was likely to linger, while
Canopus
could be the head of a veritable fleet, rather than fronting what was really only a derisory force of two liners and a jackass frigate. Yes, he decided, in their position he would abandon all thoughts of a home port, and make for Cádiz: the Spanish base was considerably closer and a far more favourable option.

“I think she might take the royals, sir.” Brehaut spoke gently, as was his habit when proffering a suggestion to the captain, but Banks was immediately attentive. The wind had steadied to a fine eighteen to twenty knots and
Prometheus
was making good progress, running before it under forecourse, topsails and topgallants. The addition of royals would increase their speed still further, as long as there was no strain to the top hamper.

“Do you think she can carry them?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Brehaut replied with certainty. “At least for a spell; if it freshens I shall be sure to alert you.”

“Very well,” Banks murmured and the air became alive with the squeal of pipes and a bellowing of orders.

Ahead,
Aries
had caught
Canopus
and both ships sat a mile or so off
Prometheus'
jib boom. But, as the extra canvas was released and began to fill, Banks felt the deck positively buck under his feet and knew they would make up the distance soon enough.

“
Canopus
is signalling.” Lewis again. “It's
Aries
' number; she's being told to close with the enemy; I think they may be speaking.”

Banks watched; the two were abreast and barely half a cable apart.
Canopus
was possibly slightly slower than
Prometheus
; but a sixth rate would have the heels of them both, and it made perfect sense for her to stalk the French. If more were hidden, she would be able to report the fact, while there was always the possibility of sighting other British vessels and drawing them in to join the party.

The bell rang seven times; the forenoon watch was drawing on. Soon Banks would have to order Up Spirits, and arrange for the people to be fed. It would be a scratch meal of cheese and hard tack when, being a Tuesday, they would have woken to the prospect of two pounds of salt beef at midday. Since then the ship had sailed and was already in chase although, with such a lead, it would be late evening at the earliest before the French were brought to battle. He was well aware how tiring an all day pursuit could be, and having an empty belly would not make matters easier. They had yet to beat to quarters, so officially those of the starboard watch were below, but the ship was also cleared for action, and scant comfort would be found anywhere. Banks considered the problem for a moment: he had no wish to take unnecessary chances, but tired and hungry men did not fight well. And if he was to compromise the safety of the ship, it would be better done now than when the enemy was actually within striking distance.

“Mr Caulfield, ask Mr Stone to relight the galley fire, if you please. And he may call away his mates to assist.” Caulfield looked up, but was experienced enough to cover his surprise. “We may have a Frenchman's breakfast for our dinner,” Banks continued. “But supper shall be beef, and with a double shotted duff to follow, if it can be managed.”

“Very good, sir,” the first lieutenant replied, before flashing a look at Adams, the duty midshipman, who made off in search of the cook.

“I have another in sight,” Steven reported from the masthead, confirming Bank's suspicion that they were gaining on the enemy. “Same bearing, and I'd judge her to be another liner, steering a similar course.”

Banks said nothing; even if the French hove to, it would be several hours before
Prometheus
closed on them, and he was convinced that feeding the men a hot meal later was the correct decision. They would then go through the evening and part of the night with full bellies and, when action was joined, be that much the stronger for it.

In theory, the chase might continue for far longer, of course; the British may follow the entire run to Cádiz, only to be cheated of their prize at the very mouth of what purported to be a neutral port. But Banks thought not: an inner feeling, born either from experience or intuition, told him this would not last more than twelve hours. Within that time they would see action. And the French would be defeated; of that he was quietly positive, even if he could derive little pleasure from the prospect.

Instead he seemed to know already that the victory was to be tainted. However hard he may try, he could tell no more, but the feelings remained strong, and he was strangely disconcerted.

* * *

“N
ever gone into battle afore with duff in me belly,” Harrison commented with an air of wonder. It was over six hours since
Prometheus
made her hasty exit from Gibraltar, and the men had just consumed an unexpectedly large supper. “I'm not sayin' it ain't welcome,” he continued. “But it just don't feel like we're gonna do any fighting today.”

Despite the fact they had still to beat to quarters and were officially off watch, most of Flint's mess had gathered about the starboard gun that several of them manned. The piece also marked the aftmost limit of their mess area; there was no table slung from the deckhead, and their benches had been consigned to the forward hold, but all were comfortable enough. Some perched on the gun carriage, others leant back against a convenient oak knee or, in the case of Butler and Jameson who were younger and far more supple than most, sat cross-legged on the deck. And they had eaten well, for the considerable meal recently issued came atop of a perfectly acceptable midday dinner of cheese, raw onions, pickle and biscuit; something which would have suited them perfectly on most banyan days.

“It was on the captain's orders,” King, who was passing by, told Flint's men.

“Kind of 'im, I'm sure,” Harrison replied, picking at his gums with his finger.

“Aye,” Thompson mumbled. “Probably thinks we'll die better with decent scran inside us.”

“Any news of the enemy, sir?” Flint asked in a clearer voice. He had known King since the officer had been a raw volunteer and, despite the fact that Flint's career had failed to progress to the same extent, there was mutual respect between them.

King paused and squatted down to speak with the mess. “I've not been on deck for an hour or more,” he said. “Last I heard they were still six or eight miles off our prow.”

“Travelling slow for Frenchmen,” Cranston commented.

“There's some talk about them having come from the Americas, so they might not be as spry,” King replied.

“Or as well manned,” Ross added.

“How do you work that out?” Thompson asked, suspiciously.

“Fever,” the seaman replied briefly.

“He's right,” Harrison agreed. “They got all sorts out there, you can take your choice.”

“Long as barrel fever's included, I'm in,” Thompson commented dryly.

“So when do you think we'll meet them?” Flint asked, and King shrugged.

“Blowed if I knows.
Aries
, the frigate, was off their larboard beam earlier; trying to steal past to make sure there weren't no more hiding ahead, and one of them let off a broadside in her direction. They were out of range, but it was trained straight: if the French are short of men, they've a fair few gunners left and no lack of powder.”

“How far is Cádiz?” Ross asked, and King considered him for a moment. No mention had been made to the hands about the enemy's probable destination: he had worked it out for himself. But then King supposed it was no great mystery. The man was a former officer after all and, if he had retained his commission, might even have been his senior.

“We're comfortably through the Strait by now,” he replied, glancing through the open port. “If that's where they're heading I would expect us to turn north-westerly at any time. Then it can't be more than fifty miles.”

“Do you think there will be British thereabouts?” Ross again and, again, an intelligent question.

“Now that is something we can only guess,” King replied. “Last heard, the Dons were neutral. We may have a couple of ships keeping watch, but there'll be no official blockade.”

“Fifty mile ain't far,” Flint pondered.

“No it isn't,” Ross agreed. “And if they've come from the Indies, the French will know less than we do. So I'd say they'll go elsewhere.”

“Not make straight for Cádiz?” King asked. “Why so?”

“If they've crossed without speaking to any ship, they may think us at war with Spain,” he reasoned. “Everyone knows it will happen soon enough and, when it does, there is bound to be sanctions on every Spanish port. Three big ships might make it through from seaward and take a blockading force by surprise, especially if they come by night. But if we're on their tail, we should be close enough to give warning. And with our help, even an inshore squadron would snap them up, neatly enough.”

“So you think they might give Cádiz a miss?” King asked, impressed, despite himself.

“To my mind; at first anyway.” Ross confirmed. “I think our friends will carry on westerly in the hope of shaking us off, which they may well do in the dead of night.”

“And then what?” Thompson asked.

“Well, there's no moon at present,” Ross mused. “If we get a change of wind, I wouldn't put it beyond them to work past, leaving us sailing blindly into the Atlantic while they try their luck on Cádiz without us a chasing them.” There was a pause while they all digested this, and then Ross added; “Sir.”

* * *

I
t was five hours later, the wind had indeed veered and was now blowing just as strong but more from the south-east.
Prometheus
and the other British ships remained steady on their westward course and Caulfield was just considering going below to get what rest he could. His cabin would not exist, of course. Even though it lacked a gun to encumber the space, the frail bulkheads would have been knocked down with the rest and what had been the officers' wardroom would simply be an extension to the upper gun deck. He may get a hot drink from one of the stewards, if they were serving a nearby gun, but no more. And there would be little chance of conversation, something he craved even more than any bodily need at that moment. Then he saw King clambering stiffly up the quarterdeck ladder; he and the second lieutenant had been shipmates for years and Caulfield waited expectantly in the half light of dusk.