The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (37 page)

Another of the monsters nearby fired, and another after that until all the guns left intact were giving a creditable performance, and even those men detailed to deal with the dead and wounded had started to make headway on their grim task.

But the French were also active; after their first, drawn out barrage they had also apparently opted for independent fire and, from such a close distance, their shots were breaking through
Prometheus'
heavy timbers with worrying regularity. Despite this, King knew his men were performing well; they might not be setting any records for speed or efficiency but, amidst such chaos, it was surprising the lower battery worked at all.

And he was also keeping his head. King knew himself to be less than the fire-brand he tried to portray, and secretly worried about his occasional bout of soft heartedness. But in the current bedlam there was no room for such niceties and he found himself screaming at the sweating bodies to stretch themselves still further, while vehemently wishing his guns were causing similar devastation across the short stretch of dark water.

The noise was almost constant now; if a British cannon was not in the act of firing then shot was being received from the French. A thick cloud of smoke threatened to engulf what light there was from the remaining battle lanterns, and the lads carrying powder were desperately dodging unexpected obstacles as they carried their deadly loads to the waiting guns. There was no way of knowing the state of the action but this was undoubtedly warm work. Then a section of bulwark directly opposite was blown in, and the Frenchman's fire suddenly became very much more personal.

King watched, transfixed, as the heavy ball entered, even noticing the fair sized hole it punched between two adjacent ports, thus expending much of the raw energy that could have carried the thing on for at least a further thousand yards. But there was momentum enough remaining for it to rip into
Prometheus'
inner timbers, and certainly sufficient for a swath of well worn oak to be torn into a dozen deadly splinters. And King actually saw the one that made for him, felt the chunk of wood that ripped through his arm before puncturing the side of his thorax. It was just below the level of his heart and the shard was naturally sharp, entering his body with little more pain than a gentle caress.

A part of his jacket fell away, and he gasped as what felt like something large filled an important void deep within him. Breathing became difficult, then impossible. He noticed with dispassionate interest that blood, his blood, was flowing down, staining the second best pair of white britches donned especially before going ashore the previous morning. His left arm was also bleeding and swung impotently at his side, and there was a sudden feeling of heat that came, then went, in a single instant. The sounds of hell echoed about his head before mercifully fading, to be replaced by feelings of peace, light and an odd sense of reassurance. He knew himself to be lying on the deck, although how he arrived there remained a mystery. And then, at last, came a deep and blessèd, silence.

––––––––

O
n the quarterdeck, no one was aware quite how badly the lower battery had been hit: their main concern was damage done to the enemy. Already the two ships were drawing apart on opposing tacks but, even as their opponent dwindled into the night, the changes to her tophamper were obvious. Fire from the British ship's upper deck and carronades had been both devastating and accurate; the enemy's mizzen topmast was the first to go and soon the main followed. Now, as they watched, the foremast was also apparently in danger, although all that could really be seen was the white waves of canvas as they floated down, robbed of support.
Prometheus
had inflicted definite and decisive hits to the Frenchman's hull as well; in several places adjoining gun ports had been knocked into one, both levels of the starboard quarter galleries were all but destroyed and the enemy's starboard mainchains had disappeared, meaning any sizeable wind from that side should see them totally dismasted. But however loud the men might cheer, Banks knew that no respite would be possible. There was another, undamaged and possibly more deadly, enemy following, and they must act now, or be caught napping.

“Mr Brehaut, lay her to starboard, if you please. As close to the wind as she will lie.” The sailing master reacted immediately and, despite their excitement, the afterguard was not so very far behind. “What see you, masthead?” Banks called up to the invisible Adams.

“Approaching enemy is two cables off,” the boy replied, timing his words between gunfire. “Steering a steady course and coming across our prow as we turn.”

That was good, the captain told himself. He just hoped they could gain enough sea room before they were caught in irons. All stared forward into the gloom, but there was no sign of a Frenchman's bows.

“Even if we make it, we should soon be trapped by the wind,” Caulfield voice was low but it spoke surprisingly close to him, and Banks realised he had been standing right next to the first lieutenant for some while. “And it will be tight; no closer than a biscuit toss,” he added, enunciating each word clearly, to make sure his captain heard.

Banks did not reply, but took note. More to the point, Caulfield's statement had alerted him to the fact that the two ships might run foul of the other. If their yardarms were to touch and tangle, the French could board, and he was not sure if those in
Prometheus
were ready to repel a determined attack. He wished there had been chance, and space, to tack; allowing him to present their broadside to the oncoming enemy's bows. But voicing regret would not change the wind and, even as he thought, Banks accepted the fact that it was also starting to fade.

“It will be close, without a doubt,” he agreed instead. “Make certain upper deck and carronades reload with grape on round, and switch their aim for the hull; do you think we should prompt King to reload the larboard battery with double?”

“He will surely notice the distance and do so without our interference,” Caulfield replied, confidently. “Why Benson has already told off his crews without our asking: see, there is grape drawn.”

Caulfield was right, although Benson had a better view of the action than King, who was stuck deep below in the bowels of the ship. But then the second lieutenant was a seasoned gunnery officer, and must notice how close they were off the third target. He would reload with double round without their prompting; it was the obvious choice for anyone with experience.

* * *

B
ut King was not on the lower gun deck; that station, arguably the most important in
Prometheus
at the time, had been without command for several minutes. His limp body was finally collected by two men detailed for just such a task and, noticing some possibility of life, they half carried, half dragged it down the aft companionway and onto the deck below.

“Another for you, witch,” one told Judy pragmatically as it was placed on the canvas covered deck beside her.

“I don't want no more dead ones,” she replied with equal frankness and without taking her attention from the wounded marine that was only just being persuaded to sip lemonade.

“That one ain't dead,” the second man told her, glancing back at his load. “He's an officer, an' a good one, so no messing with any of your evil concoctions or there'll be the devil to pay.”

“And no pitch hot enough,” the other agreed as they walked away.

She said nothing; insults from the seamen had been common since she was caught colluding with the Irishman, although Judy was stoical enough to ignore them. Besides, she had sorted the little worm's lot in a way that no one else appeared to have noticed. And, despite her apparently brusque attitude, she cared greatly for those under her charge. Her current patient had lapsed into a deep sleep and Judy gently lowered him back to the deck, before turning to assess the new arrival.

“Oh Lordy!” she said in horror, as a familiar, but whitened, face stared back vacantly at her. King's shirt was soaked in blood and a large lump of wood protruded through the torn material. “Mr Manning,” she shouted at the surgeon who was bent over his operating table only a few feet away. “It's Mr King, he needs your help!”

But it was as if she had not spoken; the surgeon's total concentration remained on his current patient, and Judy wondered if she should repeat herself. Only some lengthy seconds later did Manning's gaze lift, his expression a mixture of surprise and anger.

“I cannot attend,” he told her quickly. “He shall have to wait: do what you can for him.”

Judy looked back at the body: it was the first patient who had been known to her. Mr King: the smart lieutenant who let her call him Tom, and she secretly found rather attractive. The one who discovered her in the forepeak, and had remained a friend since, even to the extent of speaking up to the captain when her terrible crime was discovered. In return Judy had been pleased to warn the first lieutenant about the duel, and there was nothing she would not do to help him further. But as to what, well she hardly knew where to start.

She pulled back the torn flap of blue jacket and what remained of King's cotton shirt before gasping for a second at the evil shard of oak that lay embedded in the young man's chest. The majority appeared to be pressed between his ribs and skin, although some might have bypassed the bone, and be resting inside the chest cavity. Blood continued to seep from the wound and no great medical knowledge was needed to deduce it was the wooden splinter itself that allowed such a steady flow.

There was a rag that had served her well until that moment but, seeing it was a new and special patient, she reached for fresh, and soaked it liberally in the spirit supplied for just such a purpose. Once cleaned, the wound was more presentable, although the bleeding remained constant. Desperately her gaze travelled back to the surgeons but both Mr Manning and his two assistants were far too busy to be disturbed. Then she took a firm grip on the warm fragment of wood, and began to heave.

It came surprisingly easily and was soon free, even if small remnants remained in the jaws of the lesion. Picking delicately at these, Judy repeatedly dabbed at the area with her cloth and when the two loblolly boys came looking for their next patient, she was quick to catch their attention.

“I have removed a splinter,” she told the surgeon, as the body was placed on the soiled platform of midshipmen's chests that formed Manning's operating table. “Though there may be traces that remain.”

Manning examined the wound, pressing it with his fingers and pulling out the occasional sliver of wood that came to the surface. “It is as clean a job as I could wish for,” he told her softly, “though he requires a deal of attention.”

“But you will look after him?” she questioned.

“I will,” he replied evenly. “Tom is my friend as well.”

* * *

T
he ship began to turn to starboard and Ross was at a loss. All about him men were working furiously; the guns were in the main secured, though those that had been hit still lay at odd angles, their muzzles either pointing downwards, or at an oblique slant, while his own was simply lying sideways on the ragged remains of a former messmate. Harrison had eventually been released and should by now be safe in the hands of the medical team on the deck below. In fact it appeared all of the wounded were cleared, while those of the dead who could be reached had been despatched through a convenient gun port. And with some degree of order restored, it was obvious to him that command was the next requirement.

He could hear the rumble of wheels as the larboard battery on the deck above was run out. The target to starboard was now out of their arc of fire but he could appreciate the likelihood of the third enemy being immediately behind and, with the ship turning yet again, guessed it to be to larboard. A distant order filtered down; that would be lieutenant Benson who had charge of
Prometheus
' secondary armament. When a lieutenant himself, Ross had commanded gun decks in two ships. He knew what needed to be done, and that any distraction would not be appreciated. A midshipman, if there were any left, or one of the quarter gunners may well appeal to Benson for assistance, but it was unlikely the man would have either time or energy to supervise both decks. One of the senior warrant officers, or possibly the fifth lieutenant, might be found at length, but if the guns were to continue to fire efficiently it was a job that required immediate attention. And here he was, trained, experienced, and well versed in the work: there really was no option.

“Pay attention there, secure starboard battery and attend the larboard!” his voice rang out far louder than it had for many months, and carried with it a note of command that amazed himself almost as much as those he served with. But, apart from a few foolish grins and rather more blank expressions, no one actually responded.

“Do you hear me there? Larboard battery, and now!” Desperation was giving even more authority to his words, yet still the men regarded him with little other than tolerance. “You, there: Guillom: do you see a target for'ard?”

The quarter gunner; a petty officer who supervised four thirty-two pounders and comfortably out-ranked any able seaman, stared back for a good second before dutifully making for a forward port.

“Enemy liner is in sight,” he replied, turning back and looking at Ross as if having just performed some special trick. “She's a cable to larboard, and we're going to pass her close,” then, still with the look of wonder on his face he added: “Sir.”

A cable to larboard was tight work indeed; Ross was surprised the captain had not ordered them to double shot the larboard battery.

“Stand to your pieces,” he ordered, beginning the routine, as he had a thousand times on past occasions. “Now, check your priming.”

The men dutifully attended to their weapons; each captain carefully inspected the fine mealed powder that would ignite the main charge, before flipping forward the frizzen on the gun locks, and drawing back their hammers to full cock.