The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (14 page)

Their sinister followers failed to re-appear, clearly having a set hunting ground that did not extend so far south, but that did not mean there was no longer any danger from pirates. Each day brought them nearer to the Barbary Coast, a particularly evil stretch of land to the north of Africa that was infested with all sizes and types of warship. Some, the larger ones, were known to prowl quite deep into the Atlantic, and made a rich living from ships similar to those
Prometheus
protected.

As a stately two decker, tackling smaller enemies was not strictly in her remit; far better to leave such matters to lighter escorts: the brigs, sloops and frigates that were faster and so much more manoeuvrable. But, as all the officers were aware, should
Prometheus
fall in with a corsair as an enemy, it would be a difficult action to carry off well. A handy little gun boat might run rings around the ponderous battleship and, if a merchant fell victim while supposedly under her protection, they would be held up to ridicule by all.

But no pirates were spotted and, as they came increasingly closer to the line of latitude where they might finally bid farewell to their charges, there was a noticeable lightening in the attitude of most officers.

All were now yearning to be released from the convoy; to say goodbye to the constant tension of chivvying obstinate civilian masters, some of whom seemed hell bent on self destruction. To see an end to taking orders from superannuated admirals who delighted in making contrary signals while apparently glorying in their power.

And soon they would be free: soon their prow must turn for Gibraltar and, soon,
Prometheus
could take on her correct role as a warship, sailing in a mighty fleet with others of her kind. Then her overall command would shift to that of Admiral Nelson, noted firebrand and born fighter, and such a change could not come too early for most on board.

But when it did arrive, they were all taken by surprise.

––––––––

“W
e are steering damnably close to the Burlings,” the sailing master said in disgust.

King had the watch and turned to him. “The rocks to the north of the Tagus?” he asked, surprised. “We have already worked out to sea; do they still stand in our path?”

“Not exactly,” Brehaut conceded. “More to the south-west, and will doubtless be in sight presently. By my estimation we should pass within a couple of miles but, with this wind, and the manner in which some have kept station so far...”

He left the sentence unfinished; Brehaut did not approve of Admiral Ford, or anyone in authority who took unnecessary risks, although it was probably unwise to say as much out loud, even to one as trusted as King.

The convoy's navigation had made the sailing master uneasy for most of the journey, being as it relied far too much on detecting seamarks and coastal points, rather than sun and star sightings. And on the occasions when they were forced further out to sea, direction became worryingly vague. During the mad dash through the storms and tempests of Biscay, they had apparently been surprised by the northern coast of Spain, which was a concern in itself. There might have been some excuse for the last incident; a blanket of cloud had made shooting any celestial object all but impossible. But simple dead reckoning had told Brehaut they were off course, and for several hours he was left with the dilemma of when he should alert the captain. Fortunately the land was spotted in daylight and good time, so no ships were lost; but since then the admiral had only seemed happy when the Portuguese coast was visible off their larboard beam, and
Prometheus'
sailing master remained uncomfortable.

“Oh I dare say we shall clear all well enough,” Brehaut grunted. “We have done so with every hazard to date, though the Burlings are known for being hard to spot, and I should be happier to leave any lee shore a little further beyond the horizon.”

The ship was on a broad reach, showing topsails, staysails and forecourse, and easily maintaining the speed that Ford also appeared to find so essential. And what Brehaut said was correct: even while standing by the binnacle, his memory of the chart was almost as good as having it before him. To be certain was never a bad thing however and, as any good sailing master eventually becomes almost pathologically cautious, Brehaut was about to leave the deck and check when a call came from the masthead.

It was land, presumably one of the outcrops of the treacherous rocks the locals called the Berlengass and, as he had predicted, well enough away to be of no immediate danger. But there was more: a further complication.

“I can make out what looks like a ship set down upon it,” the lookout added a few minutes later.

Brehaut and King exchanged glances, and both waited while a midshipman with a glass was sent up to check and make a full report.

“It looks like a liner: something of size, at least – maybe an Indiaman,” the lad began hesitantly. “But a good deal larger than the rocks about her. And she is partially dismasted.”

“It would appear someone has already discovered your hazard,” King told the sailing master laconically, but Brehaut made no reply. To him any vessel running aground was too sensitive a subject to be taken lightly.

“She's an Indiaman, right enough,” the midshipman continued when they had drawn closer. “Not of the largest class, but firmly aground.”

“Too far off to be one of our current charges, surely?” King murmured.

“Oh I should say so,” the sailing master agreed. “We are the stern escort, but any of the convoy's ships would need to be spectacularly off station to manage such a feat.”

“Then I think Sir Richard should know,” King replied, with only faint reluctance. It would mean disrupting the captain's meal; by tradition he dined an hour later than the wardroom, but Banks insisted on being informed of anything out of the usual, so could hardly blame King for obeying his standing orders.

By the time the captain appeared, most of the convoy were also aware of the beached Indiaman, and several had even made a mild, but unilateral, turn to starboard to be sure of not sharing her fate. Banks waited patiently on the quarterdeck while the admiral sent admonishing signals to his errant charges, and then
Prometheus'
number inevitably came up. They were the sternmost escort of any size and it was of no surprise that they had been chosen to investigate.

“What is our exact position, Mr Brehaut?” Banks asked formally.

The sailing master touched his hat and approached the captain. “Thirty-nine degrees, twenty-eight minutes north, sir,” he replied with commendable efficiency. “I shall be certain to note that in the log.”

“Do that, if you please, master,” Banks replied. “There is what appears to be an Indiaman caught on the rocks off the Burlings,” he continued. “We are to see if we may haul her off.”

All knew Brehaut had been present throughout, but still it seemed appropriate, and even polite, for the sailing master to adopt a look of mild surprise.

“I should be obliged if we might close with her,” Banks continued. He had dined well and phrasing the order in the form of a request suited his mood.

“Shall we be rejoining the convoy subsequently, sir?” King asked, as Brehaut directed
Prometheus
onto the course that had long since been stored ready inside the sailing master's head. King knew both the captain, and his moods, well enough to guess the question would be tolerated.

“That depends upon a number of factors,” Banks told him. “The most important being the condition of the wreck. She may be derelict and empty, in which case we might simply stop for a look see, before returning to the others. But if any form of salvage is possible it shall take time, and will not be aided by the current wind.”

Indeed, lee shores were to be avoided, and the thought of the complex manoeuvring which would undoubtedly accompany a rescue attempt, was enough to cause any seaman concern.

“But with our departure point hardly more than two hundred miles off,” Banks continued, “I rather think
Prometheus
may have seen the last of Admiral Ford.”

“We should close with the wreck in under half an hour, sir,” Brehaut reported as he rejoined them by the binnacle. There was a definite lightening in atmosphere and, conscious of it, the sailing master looked from one to the other. The captain carried what might be called a self-satisfied expression, while King was grinning openly and, as
Prometheus
steered away from the constraints of the convoy, Brehaut found that he too was in a better frame of mind.

They were heading for a hazard that had already claimed one victim, and there were likely to be difficult and perilous manoeuvres ahead that must be carried out in a contrary wind. But at least three of
Prometheus'
officers were facing the future in far higher spirits.

* * *

T
here was light enough for the time being but rescue, if indeed it were possible, would not be quick or easy. An hour later,
Prometheus'
quarterdeck was alive with officers: even her marine lieutenants, as well as the gouty old Captain Donaldson, were amongst the group that lined the larboard bulwark as the ship stood off to windward, about half a mile from the wreck. The breeze had dropped slightly, but would remain a hindrance if anything too ambitious were attempted. And it was still summoning sufficient breakers to dismantle the grounded merchant even as they watched.

“Indiaman, though not a large one; probably under five hundred tons,” Caulfield said decisively. He went on studying the hull through the deck glass for a while longer, then added, “I'd say she were from the earlier southbound. Might have fallen by the wayside, or have been intending an independent course to the Tagus. But whatever, she won't be travelling further under her own sail.”

The last part was especially true. The Burlings jutted out more than ten miles into the Atlantic and seemed to be composed entirely of granite. The merchant, which by her only partially dismantled state could not have struck more than a day or so before, had been fortunate in selecting an area with marginally less rock, and her hull was still holding together. But impact must have been made while she was under full sail: her fore and main topmasts had carried away, and were now draped forlornly over the forecastle, while the mizzen, which might not have been carrying appreciable canvas, was still intact, and stood stock still, indicating the ship to be securely beached.

Banks, who was also studying the wreck through his personal glass, had reached very much the same conclusions as Caulfield. And only when the condition of her fabric had fully been assessed did he allow his gaze to wander on to those still crowding the decks. Of these there were a goodly few, some seamen, currently attempting to cut away the damaged spars, but also a fair number of passengers – civilians – shore-dressed men and, in one case, a woman who would have no connection with the sea, and were desperately waving hats and coats in
Prometheus'
direction. It was as if they were certain the proud Navy ship would otherwise miss their plight, and leave them abandoned.

“What think you?” Banks determinedly looked back to the ship and spoke as quietly as the conditions allowed. “Would we be able to haul her off?”

“I should not wish to try, sir,” Caulfield replied firmly. “With the wind as it is, we might as easily discover ourselves sharing her fate, and would doubt that hull to be in any condition to swim.”

Both men said no more, but diverted their eyes from the imploring civilians as
Prometheus
, with backed main and a watchful quartermaster, was slowly carried past and to the south. A further outcrop of rock was visible off their larboard bow, and Banks could tell Brehaut was itching to take her about. He gave a nod to the sailing master and soon the ship was gaining sea room, in preparation for tacking back to the north, and sweeping in again.

“No, it would be foolishness in the extreme,” Banks agreed when they were on the opposite tack and passing the wreck once more, although now a good deal further off. “Even were we able to take her under tow, we might lose our own masts in the process, and there is no guarantee she would hold together.”

And there was something else, something that Banks was hesitant about even mentioning, if only due to some insane fear that it might bring bad luck. Were they to try, and fail,
Prometheus
would be landed with a sinking ship stuffed full of vulnerable beings. A vessel of such a size could be expected to require a crew of at least seventy. Passengers were less easy to estimate; the better class of traveller would naturally choose the larger, more stable Indiamen, but even if she carried a minimal number, several trips with the ship's larger boats would be necessary to carry them off. To rescue all in one go from the water, and on the very edge of a lee shore, would be asking too much, and many would inevitably drown. The captain's eyes unwillingly drifted back to the pleading figures aboard the wreck, only to be diverted as soon as he realised what they were doing.

No, Banks decided; he could only attempt a gradual evacuation: they would use the launch, with both cutters. He muttered the order, and preparations immediately began to free the boats from their berths on the spar deck.

The cutters were excellent sea craft; even under oars alone, they would be fast and stable but, being a mere twenty-five feet in length and with a beam of under seven, could carry less than the more stately launch. The larger boat would be the devil to handle though and, if filled to capacity, was more likely to find herself swamped. He would need sound men in each; lieutenants, as opposed to midshipmen and even then, those he felt he could trust.

“Mr King, you will command the blue cutter, Mr Lewis, the black. Mr Davison, you shall have overall charge in the launch. Tell your crews off, and prepare to leave at once.”

The officers responded instinctively, touching their hats in acknowledgement, before moving towards the break of the quarterdeck. Banks paused; he would have liked to send Benson in one of the cutters, but the man had suffered badly from seasickness during Biscay, and a spell in an open boat might easily reawaken the condition. Had that not been the case, King could have led in the launch, which would have been infinitely preferable. Davison, the second lieutenant, had not given him cause for worry as such, but the captain was still watchful of the man. He had yet to prove himself and, when it came down to it, appeared far too young for his present position.