The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (12 page)

Individual merchants were commanded to keep up, or maintain better station, with their naval escorts often being sent to enforce the order. This meant there were usually one or two warships either crossing the convoy or leaving their own post unguarded while they chivvied a back marker, causing no end of consternation to the officer of the watch in every other vessel. And the admiral was also setting a breathless pace.
Prometheus
, being fresh from the yard, was able to keep up under topsails, courses and staysails, but there were some of the older Indiamen, those who had already made three Eastern trips and were close to the end of their useful life, that were having obvious problems.

The convoy commodore, an aged HEIC officer named Spice, had protested, sending a series of poorly composed signals that were decoded with ill suppressed amusement by Lewis and his team. But Ford was having none of it, and clearly intended to use his rank and position to the fullest extent. His enthusiasm even extended to refusing the usual request for a reduction in sail as the sun began to dip towards the horizon. It was a habit most passenger carrying merchants practised if travelling independently and had almost become traditional when in convoy. The previous rigid sailing order was relaxed to give a slightly larger margin of error between each ship, but there was no lessening in speed and the convoy's pace, which at times exceeded seven knots, was maintained throughout even the darkest hours.

After two days of such a regime, there was no doubting the standard of sailing exhibited by certain members of the convoy had improved considerably. Brehaut,
Prometheus
' sailing master, was also pleased to note they had recorded a truly creditable distance, and were out of the relative confines of the Channel.

The following afternoon he stood at the chart room table and surveyed the situation. There was a change of course due and, with the wind having backed more to the west, he expected it sooner than later. Brehaut looked once more at the series of small pin pricks that marked their progress up to that point. It might be prudent to warn the captain of such an event, and even pleasant when proved correct, as he undoubtedly would be, although Brehaut was never one to court a good opinion and certainly did not seek approval or promotion.

Since leaving his native Jersey and joining the Navy twenty-three years back, his aspirations had been met in full. For all his professional life, Brehaut's only wish had been to become a sailing master; to him a position that epitomised seamanship at its best, and he did not want for more.

“Admiral's signalling a change of course, Mr Brehaut.” The midshipman's voice had followed the slightest of taps on the barely opened chart room door and was punctuated by its sudden closure. The sailing master was unsurprised at the lad's brevity. His rank, though one of the more important in the ship, was considered less than any of the lieutenants, all of whom carried commissions drawn out on parchment, as opposed to his simple paper warrant. And it was not uncommon for midshipmen, who made up his principal students when it came to teaching navigation and general seamanship, to treat him initially as something between a schoolmaster and a jape. All aspired to wardroom rank, so could hardly take a man invited to berth there out of courtesy, rather than right, with any gravity. But Brehaut had served in many ships and knew the importance of his role would be proven in time. And he was also confident that any youngster who finished the deployment would do so with far more respect for a sailing master's duties.

He moved out of the darkness of the chart room and on to the quarterdeck. The heady sun had already chased away every sign of an earlier shower and the day was fast becoming uncomfortably hot.

“Flag orders sou'-sou' west, Mr Brehaut,” Cartwright, one of the master's mates, told him as he stepped up to the binnacle. “Captain's aware, but will not be attendin',” the warrant officer added.

“Very good,” Brehaut replied, after a nod to Davison, who was the officer of the watch.

“And the commodore is repeating the order,” the signal midshipman reported with a grin. “Just so as we knows he's still livin'.”

South-south west was most definitely the fastest course, even if it would take the convoy perilously close to the west coast of France and, more importantly, the numerous islands and shallows that littered it. Clearly the admiral was putting everything into a quick passage, and did not appear unduly worried about endangering his precious convoy in the process.

“Prepare to alter course,” Brehaut said, although the warning was unnecessary; all on the quarterdeck and most of the duty watch were aware of the situation, and what was about to happen. It was not a complex manoeuvre, like tacking or wearing, but still must be carried out well and Brehaut calmly collected the speaking trumpet from the binnacle as they began to wait.

The signal midshipman now had his glass trained solely on the flagship as every man stood ready. All were prepared to act, and intended doing so in a manner that would do their ship credit. They might have many untrained men aboard, but those with skill would cover and nothing must cloud the crack reputation they were all determined to establish for
Prometheus
. Then, after what seemed like an appreciable time but was actually less than thirty seconds, the young voice shouted “Down!” as the flags were whipped away.

Brehaut roared out the orders,
Prometheus'
helm was put across, and her braces adjusted as she took up her new course with all the composure and aplomb expected of a Royal Navy third rate line-of-battleship. About them, some of the merchants began chasing their prows. Others showed flapping canvas while, in one case, a foreyard refused to move, forcing the Indiaman concerned to fall out of station. But
Prometheus
and her sailing master had done their duty with competence and, as he recorded the time and change of course on the slate, Brehaut was content.

––––––––

“S
cran's a good deal better,” Marine Captain Donaldson commented through a half-filled mouth. “Has someone shot the cook?”

“Something upon those lines,” Dawson, the purser, agreed. “And we may blame Mr Lewis, here,” he continued, nodding towards the lieutenant seated opposite.

Lewis looked up absent-mindedly at the mention of his name and was surprised to see all at the wardroom dining table smiling benignly at him.

“Nabbed us one of the finest cooks in the West Country,” Marine Lieutenant James agreed, with evident respect.

“I did?” Lewis replied, blinking.

“Rather,” the marine confirmed. “Queer little man to speak to, but knows his food – shaken them all up in the pantry, so he has. If he keeps the same heading, we'll soon have a kitchen to be proud of.”

Lewis had noticed the improvement in wardroom fare but was totally unaware of any responsibility for the transformation, and felt suspicious of the sudden attention.

“Fellow you took from the The Three Tuns,” Dawson prompted. “Calls himself Potterton.”

The name meant little to Lewis, but then even the raid on the tavern was little more than a distant memory.

“Too used to the good things in life for my liking,” the purser continued. “Always pestering me for wardroom supplies, and I tells him that's a completely different department. But you can't argue with the result; this is the best lobscouse I have tasted in years.”

“Well, we should offer you a vote of thanks,” Donaldson said, raising his glass in approbation. “Damned fine show, Lewis. Damned fine.”

* * *

“H
er name is Judith Kinnison, she is nineteen years old, an orphan by all accounts, and hails from Lisbon,” King announced.

“But not Portuguese?” Banks questioned. He had seen the girl in passing and not been struck by any obvious foreign traits.

“I have no idea where born,” King replied hesitantly. “But she claims to be English, as was her family. Although she also states her father to have been a Scot; it is all singularly vague.” He shifted uneasily on his chair.

Actually the interview with the girl had disturbed him greatly. Since that last, disastrous, meeting with his estranged wife, King had been keeping away from females of any description. Even Mrs Roberts, the carpenter's wife, a woman with the face of a mule and a demeanour not so very different, was given a wide birth. But Miss Kinnison had awakened much of the urges he had considered successfully stifled, and to discuss her now, dispassionately and in front of his captain and first lieutenant, was strangely disconcerting. King was a seaman, and would have preferred another subject to have been chosen.

“She believes him to have worked in the diplomatic service, though any connection is tenuous,” he continued, manfully. “There are no surviving relatives that anyone is aware of. Lord and Lady Shillingford brought her up in their Lisbon house, though it was the servants who cared for her in the main, and she joined them in their work on reaching an acceptable age.”

“So what brought her to Tor Bay?” Caulfield asked.

“Well, that is where it becomes even more of a puzzle,” King confessed. “The girl is confused and speaks only of travelling in a big ship. And the surgeon said she were afeared of being with child.”

“And is she?” Banks asked.

King shook his head. “No, sir. Mr Manning thought it more likely the symptoms described to be nothing more than sea-sickness.”

His audience erupted into sudden laughter which took King, who was now deep into the story, by surprise. Caulfield even added something along the lines of wishing all such cases were so easily cured.

“I would say that the girl is no half-wit,” King continued, now decidedly flustered. “But then neither is she inordinately clever.”

“And she was transported in a big ship?” Caulfield asked, still chuckling.

“That is what she said,” King confirmed.

“Well, it was likely to have been a ship,” Banks' expression was now more controlled, even if King suspected he still found the situation annoyingly amusing. “And we can probably assume it to have been big...”

“I believe it was,” the young lieutenant agreed earnestly, conscious that he was now blushing slightly behind his notes. “An Indiaman, I would chance, though she claims not to know the name, and will not say that of her travelling companion.”

“If he abandoned her in Tor Bay I'd judge it misplaced loyalty,” Caulfield mused. “Perchance enquiries made at the Shillingford house might tell us more?”

Banks shook his head. “Be that the case or not, we are bound to this convoy until thirty-eight degrees north. And then must make for Gibraltar before seeking out
Victory
in the Med. I can authorise no diversion in order to repatriate some fool of a girl who cannot remember much beyond her name.”

King swallowed; he sympathised entirely with the captain's predicament, but that did not ease his situation any. As the officer who had discovered the stowaway, it had fallen upon him to represent her, and he would far rather have been given a different task.

“Well, there is no more to be said now; if chance presents to transfer the wench to an Indiaman, we must take it,” the captain continued. “But I will not delay the convoy any, and neither shall I request a diversion to the Tagus.” He turned to King. “You have found her accommodation?”

“She has been sleeping in the sick berth,” the lieutenant replied. “But I had assumed would eventually lodge with Mr and Mrs Roberts.”

“The two of them have space hardly bigger than the chart room,” Caulfield muttered. “And I wouldn't trust that badger Roberts to share with anything female, even with his witch of a wife in the offing.”

“No indeed,” Banks agreed. “Both gun room and orlop would be equally unsuitable, and we have no schoolmaster or chaplain to take her under their wing. It will have to be the wardroom.”

The two lieutenants regarded their captain with more than a hint of incredulity. Although supposedly manned by gentlemen, the senior officers' accommodation could be a very basic environment and hardly suitable for the introduction of a solitary young woman.

“Would that be entirely appropriate, sir?” Caulfield questioned.

“Is anywhere in a ship of war?” Banks replied. “I could oust Roberts from his cabin and let her share with Mrs Roberts alone, but fear such temptation would not be good for the people's morale, and there would undoubtedly be a problem with the heads. No, the wardroom it will have to be. The chaplain's quarters are currently being used for storage, I believe; have them cleared, and she may be suited there.”

King and Caulfield exchanged glances. In the past they had shared smaller spaces with several women; it had not been ideal, though manageable. But
Prometheus
carried a larger staff of officers, so the ratio of men to a single female would be higher.

“Perchance her presence might improve the language and behaviour of some of the newer officers,” Banks continued, warming to the idea, and seemingly oblivious to any problem he may have introduced. “And, who knows, could even prove a cure for Captain Donaldson's incessant flatulence.”

* * *

A
s the commission rolled on, a reasonable level of routine and order became established in most departments. The carpenter's was perhaps the first, luck having provided Roberts with a team of trained men who needed little instruction and were already cooperating in a way more common at the end of a voyage. Stevenson, their sailmaker, was almost as well served, as was the ship's cook; a man named Stone. In the latter's case, this was more than fortunate. Stone was an experienced seaman of advanced years who had lost a leg at the Battle of Copenhagen
,
although this was his first experience of feeding several hundred bodies, three times a day. But though he might know precious little about catering, Stone was an expert when it came to organising men, and the high proportion of landsmen aboard
Prometheus
provided a rich vein of experience for him to recruit from. Other areas were not quite so well served however, with the afterguard, gunners and topmen showing the main deficiencies. They were faults that would take time to rectify and caused more than a degree of worry amongst the lieutenants.