The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (8 page)

The road was rough and must have felt uncomfortable to his prisoners, the majority of whom were lying prone and relatively quiet as they bounced on the hard wooden bed of the carts. There was no time to address that either; the surface would improve in time, while bruises and scrapes could be attended to later. For now they must simply make all speed; that and hope nothing appeared to delay them.

It proved to be in vain. The first sight of pursuing horsemen came about a minute later, one of the seamen seated at the rear of Lewis' cart giving the alarm as they were half way between the village just left and the wall of trees they were all too slowly approaching. Lewis glanced back and saw the dim outline of several mounted riders heading hard for them. He reckoned there were ten, maybe twelve, only just less than his own force but, mounted as they were, the enemy would be so much more manoeuvrable. There was also the additional problem of a divided command. Clement, in the first wagon, appeared bright enough, but did not have the intellect to act independently whereas Chivers was little more than a boy.

“We've company astern” he bellowed to the first cart, and noticed the boatswain's mate turn back and raise one hand in acknowledgement. “Maintain your way, and prepare for boarders,” Lewis continued, speaking to the men in general. “Any with pistols, save your powder until they are close, and then aim for the horses.”

It was a futile hope, and Lewis had no illusions: those under his command were as hard as they came and would think nothing of killing any legitimate foe. But they could also be sentimental fools and, when ordered to kill what they would doubtless consider innocent animals, most would baulk. A horse made a far larger target, however, and for as long as Lewis' force could keep moving, their enemies remained a threat only while they were mounted.

A pistol ball whined past, some feet from his head, but Lewis was almost pleased to hear it. Their pursuers were still some distance off. Any shot was as likely to hit one of the prisoners as his men, and it would be impossible to reload whilst at the gallop.

Chivers was bringing the reins down hard upon his horses; the beasts had begun to tire and would be looking for the chance to slow at any opportunity. Lewis glanced back; his pursuers had halved the distance between them and now could be made out far more clearly. He forced himself to count and was fairly certain there were eleven, with most, apparently, armed. Forward, the oncoming trees seemed no nearer, and the shelter they offered would probably be of dubious benefit. Lewis swallowed as he braced himself for what was to come.

“Want me to take a pot shot at 'em?” A round faced, toothless seaman asked, raising his pistol in enquiry. Lewis shook his head, struggling to remember the man's name. Was it Harris? Henderson?

“No,” he hissed, temporising. “Wait for them to draw nearer!”

Harrison, that was it. Lewis twisted himself on his seat and tried to look back before deciding it was too great an effort, and instead clambered from the driver's box while drawing his own gun.

Another ball sped past, this time far closer; it had caused Chivers, on the driving box, to duck and may have fazed the horses. Lewis stood uncertainly on the rocking cart and stared at the oncoming force. If he had brought some marines with them it might have been a different matter. The British Brown Bess was a reliable piece: a group of men so armed, and practised in reloading on a crowded deck, would have accounted for that little lot in no time. As it was, most seamen viewed firearms as boarding weapons and, given the choice, usually chose a cutlass, half-pike or tomahawk instead. They would certainly fire the things readily enough, but were unlikely to take accurate aim, preferring to press them into the stomachs of an enemy, when a miss was less likely. Their cutlasses might prove more effective: most were drawn now and held firmly in each man's right hand, while those equipped with pistols, which were probably of more immediate value, clutched them in their left. The first horse was drawing closer to the tailgate of his cart, and the rider began to take deliberate aim with his own weapon.

Lewis fired quite instinctively, only realising afterwards that the target had been the man rather than his mount, and he had ignored his own instructions. The job was done though and the rider fell sideways, leaving his animal to veer off into the night. A small cheer from the seamen greeted the result, and Lewis grimly accepted that no horses would be shot that evening.

And then none of it appeared to matter. Bullets seemed to be flying in all directions as horsemen approached on either side.

“Faster!” Lewis shouted, moving over to cover Chivers' right. “They're gaining on us!”

The midshipman struck wildly with the reins, but to little effect; their horses were either exhausted or determined not to give any more. And then, amid a succession of pistol shots from the British seamen, their pursuers were upon them.

One, close alongside, brought his sword up to slash at Chivers. The attacker was at a disadvantage though, being on the starboard side of the cart, and Lewis was able to hack sideways with his own hanger before any damage could be done. Sensing his rider hurt, the horse shied away, but another soon came to take his place. Lewis was leaning out to strike once more when that one also fell back, this time struck by a bullet fired from the leading cart. Another shot slammed into the wooden frame between him and Chivers, miraculously missing both, and then the lieutenant's attention was drawn to something amiss ahead.

To larboard, a rider had drawn level with the wagon's horses, and was attempting to rein the beasts in. His actions were only partially successful but the pair's natural synergy had been disrupted, and Chivers, flapping wildly with the reins, was hardly helping. But there was no doubt the cart had slowed, and was starting to be left behind by the other; soon Lewis would have all the attackers to contend with on his own. It may mean Clement would make
Prometheus
with at least some of their captives, but that was not an arrangement he was prepared to accept.

Harrison, the toothless seaman next to him, was still clutching his pistol. Lewis snatched it from him by the barrel and was about to take aim when he noticed the hammer resting redundantly against an open frizzen and knew it to have been fired. Instead he flung the thing, with a mixture of rage and intent, in the general direction of the man who now sat almost astride the cart's larboard horse, and was pleased to see the empty weapon bounce satisfyingly off his head. The blow, which must have been considerable, had no immediate effect but, as he and Harrison watched, the fellow soon began to sway and, accompanied by a roar of delight from the seaman, finally fell between his own mount and the cart's horse.

Chivers regained control, and they seemed to be travelling faster as the horses fell into step once more. Lewis looked about. They were still being chased, but the number had dropped considerably. Then the sky darkened, and he realised they were finally in the depths of the forest.

The track had also narrowed: hedges brushed against them on either side. He drew a sigh of relief; for as long as the path stayed as tight, they could not be overtaken, while it would be far easier for his men to reload their pistols on the back of a cart than for those mounted and riding at speed. Something of this must have occurred to their pursuers who fell back almost immediately, and soon the two wagons were left to continue alone.

“Anyone wounded?” Lewis called out, to no response and, for the first time in what felt like ages, he drew a full breath.

“Reckon we was lucky there, weren't we, sir?” Harrison enquired with a gummy grin and Lewis nodded. He reckoned they were.

––––––––

T
he rain that had been predicted by Simmonds held off until the following morning and then fell with a vengeance. Individual drops descended in force to test the caulking or devised other, more ingenious, ways to get below, while those less ambitious gathered together to wash across the decks in wide and abundant rivers. Dales and scuppers soon became full and began gushing out untidily, carrying away layers of newly applied paint, while the fresh running rigging became swollen and impossible to reeve. Any cleaning, painting or paying still to be done on the open deck had to be abandoned, with the hands being sent below to work instead in stuffy storerooms or cabins. And all the time those officers who had been informed both of
Prometheus'
new destination, and her revised departure date, swore testily at what men they did command, while privately wondering where more might be found.

But there was good news as well; Benson's excursion had proved far more successful than they could have expected. Earlier that morning the fourth lieutenant had returned from his recruiting drive bringing with him five experienced hands along with seven landsmen, three of which had actually volunteered. The able hands were man-o'-war trained, having recently returned from a thirty month commission in a frigate, and apparently spending their accumulated wages over a two night binge that ended with them before the local assizes. All five had shown spirit to begin with but now seemed resigned to their fate, whereas the landsmen were still so bemused by their situation and surroundings as to be positively docile. The receiving tender had provided three more the previous morning, two of whom were already settled, but Lewis' lot from the night before were not quite so amiable.

There had almost been a riot getting them aboard and, even several hours later, some of the more lively were continuing to object. Caulfield supposed he would have to go and listen to their complaints eventually but for now was content to let them expend their energy below, where the more violent were safely contained in bilboes. But however much trouble they were causing, he readily acknowledged that
Prometheus
' most junior lieutenant had done well.

Two of his prisoners needed to be released almost immediately, and left threatening to return with injunctions for the rest, but such legal niceties would take at least three days to produce, and the ship should be well out to sea by then. And those still held appeared experienced seamen in the main; just the kind they were after. Even their overly expressed anger at being taken showed character that only needed to be channelled to good advantage, and the first lieutenant made a mental note to alert the captain of Lewis' performance. A commendation from him would mean much to the lad, who had not held a commission for more than a couple of months and would be feeling his way for some time.

But that still left them short of the five hundred or so lower deck hands that was their ideal wartime complement. It was not a massive deficit; ships had sailed with far smaller crews, but one that Caulfield was at a loss to know how to rectify.
Prometheus
was well provisioned, the only other commodity lacking being fresh water and, as he looked out at the appalling weather through the chart room scuttle, the irony did not appeal. Once that was aboard, they might sail, and the first of the lighters was expected that very afternoon. He had placed his pen down and was rolling up the watch list he had been studying when there came a tap at the door. One of the midshipmen poked his nose through the crack.

“Captain presents his compliments, sir, and might he speak with you when convenient?”

Caulfield grunted an assent to what amounted to a royal summons, and slipped the watch list under his arm before leaving the tiny room. He had a feeling it would be needed.

* * *

“W
e have new messmates for you, Flint,” Cartwright announced as he approached the head of the table. He had three contrasting men in tow, and each viewed their new home with differing levels of interest. Dinner, the mail meal of the day, had just been eaten, while the first issue of spirit was still warm in their bellies. So those of Flint's mess were in a genial mood, and they in turn examined the newcomers with a collective, and amused, curiosity.

“Butler has joined us from a transport,” the master's mate continued, indicating the first. “Carrying lags out to the colonies he was, so will be used to mixing with a better class of folk. He's a seaman through and through, though, as is Billings, who can surely hand reef and steer, even if he may not have done so for a spell. And Potterton here seems more suited to preparing scran, though none the worse will be thought of him for that.”

The men were certainly diverse: the first two could easily have been father and son. Butler was hardly in his twenties yet had broad shoulders and a deep chest that suggested a good store of strength, while his slim waist and clear eyes showed him to be supremely fit: perfect material for a topman. But the look was sullen and he was obviously there against his wishes. Billings was the very antithesis in shape, having allowed himself to grow plump to the extent that he even boasted a slight paunch. What hair remained was turning to grey and he had the look of one heading for an early old age. Placed together, it was like looking at opposing ends of the same life, while Potterton differed again.

The man possessed an ageless quality that placed him anywhere from thirty-five to sixty. As with the other two, he was clad in the standard seaman's attire that would have been freshly issued, but in his case it he wore it with an air of competence and dignity. Either the jacket had been especially tailored to fit, or he carried it well; the white duck trousers were hauled up so they hardly brushed the deck and his neckerchief was neatly tied. But even if he was undoubtedly the smartest, a lubber could tell there was little of the mariner about him.

The rest of Flint's mess eyed them critically from the security of the group, each sitting comfortably to one side of their table, while the newcomers stood more uncertainly at the head. All three had damp hair and the scent of men recently washed and were loaded down with a filled ditty bag, as well as two brand new hammocks.

“So make a space there,” Flint said in mock desperation. “These are our mates now and, given time, you might even get to like 'em.”