The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (2 page)

“Are you warm enough here?” he asked. The girl grunted, her mouth too full to reply. “'Cause I can get you a blanket else,” Thompson added, with the air of a generous benefactor.

“I ain't cold, but don't like the rats,” she told him at last, before laying into the chunk of salted beef once more.

“Can't do much about that,” he told her, philosophically: being so close to the bilges, rats were inevitable. “But if you keeps out of their way, they shouldn't bother you unduly.”

“They run over my legs in the night,” she said, before biting again.

“Then I'll get you that blanket,” he promised. Such a task would be relatively easy, certainly more so than providing any further clothing for his treasure.

“I got to go now,” he told her when she had finished. “But will come back afore the afternoon watch tomorrow.” The girl's eyes shone in light from the glim, but her face was void of expression.

“How long will I have to stay here?” she asked.

Thompson shrugged. “That's hard to say. Ship's due to sail in just o'er a week; if anyone finds you before, you'll be put straight ashore, and no mistakin'.”

She seemed to understand.

“But once we are underway, things will be different,” he assured her. “You can come on deck, and dress proper. Meet the captain and behave like a real lady.”

“You said you was the captain,” she objected, although her words lacked conviction.

“I said I was acquainted with him,” he corrected, pulling himself up to his full height. “We have spoken twice, and shaken hands.”

“But we are going to Portugal?”

“Oh yes, we're going to the Tagus,” the words were clear but Thompson closed his eyes as he spoke them. “We'll be in and out like a fiddler's elbow: can't avoid it on our present run. And you shall be put ashore there, if that's still what you wants – though maybe I can visit when we calls in the future?”

She nodded silently in the dim light.

“Very well then.” He rose to go.

“Won't you leave the light?” She was now staring at the flickering flame that had already started to smoke. He shook his head.

“Can't do that; it would give you away eventually,” he said, smiling conspiratorially. “And we don't want that now, do we?”

* * *

T
he following morning, Lieutenant King entered the magnificent wardroom of HMS
Prometheus
to find it filled with bustle, noise and the scent of breakfast. It was, he supposed, one of the advantages of serving aboard a two decker: in
Scylla
, his last posting, the space allocated for senior officers – perversely called a gun room – had been smaller, and with a low deckhead that was always catching him out. And in addition to being cramped, the place was dark and stuffy, lacking the generous stern windows
Prometheus
provided. A fifth rate frigate also carried less than half the number of cooks and stewards a seventy-four boasted, yet there were no more than five additional mouths to feed. It was just a pity the increase in personnel had not added greatly to the quality of food provided: actually it was the very reverse.

Prometheus
was on petty warrant victuals at present, getting most of her daily provisions fresh from Brixham, and it was surely reasonable to think little could be done to spoil such excellent fare. The current wardroom staff managed it, however. From what King could gather, the warranted cook that was supposed to provide for both wardroom and great cabin had simply disappeared during a trip ashore. And without an experienced hand at the helm, the eclectic assortment of stewards and pantry-men spent far too long in argument and confusion. Made meals were either served cold or burnt to a frazzle, fresh milk seemed to turn in the course of a day, and there had been several truly monumental disasters, such as their commissioning dinner, when the roasted goose presented for Caulfield to carve was found to be red-raw and bleeding. Efforts were being made to secure a trained man, and King supposed their present staff would improve in time but, until they did, he remained cautious about what was ordered.

He seated himself in his usual place at the long table and gestured briefly to the steward who offered him his customary boiled eggs, a meal that King judged to be the safest form of cooked breakfast. He had been on duty since first light and was in need of both food and drink even though the headache that usually accompanied his early morning routine was thankfully absent.

“I've a letter from Adam Fraiser on St. Helena, Tom.” Michael Caulfield's voice broke into King's thoughts. He spoke conversationally from the head of the table; a position that confirmed his place as both first lieutenant and president of the wardroom mess. King looked towards him cautiously; Caulfield's words had certainly sparked his interest, but the younger officer hid a guilty secret. Several mysterious dark marks had appeared on the half deck overnight. No one could tell what they were, or who had made them, but no amount of holystoning or spirit of turpentine would encourage their departure. It was only a question of time before the first lieutenant was made aware, and King doubted Caulfield would be quite so affable then.

“Adam Fraiser?” he asked lightly, while reaching for the bread basket and helping himself to one of the fresh, shore-baked rolls that the wardroom stewards had yet to find a way to ruin. “Is he well?”

“Well enough,” Caulfield grunted. “Though his wound still pains him and he seems to have crossed the hawse of some superior vicar in Jamestown. Here, you may see if you wish.”

Caulfield tossed the folded paper along the long pine table. It landed in front of King who collected it and opened the single page so he could read whilst eating. Fraiser had been the sailing master in two ships he and Caulfield had served aboard. A dour Scot who knew and understood the way of seas and oceans only marginally better than he did the hand that created them, Fraiser had lost a leg in action, and opted to retire to St Helena during their last commission. King's eyes ran over the neat, clear writing while he reached for the pewter teapot, filling his cup, then sweetening with sugar almost unconsciously. There had been a time when the old man had been closer to him than his father, yet as King read the crisp and detailed descriptions of life on the remote outpost it was with scant consideration. Fraiser had been left in the care of Julia Booker, a girl King had known during their stay, though not quite as well as he would have liked. But there was no message from her, or even a specific mention and, as the three letters King had himself sent remained unanswered, he was forced to concede that his hopes for a future together should really be forgotten.

The eggs arrived. King switched his attention from Fraiser's note to tackle one with a spoon and, if he tapped the shell more firmly than the task warranted, it had nothing to do with his thoughts. Julia was a wonderful woman, and he had honestly believed they could have been happy together: it was surely a pity she did not agree. But the cure for regret was readily available, and, despite the hour and his unusually clear head, King had the sudden urge to forgo his tea and call for something stronger.

Several of the officers present were new arrivals and would hardly turn a hair were King to call for a rummer of gin. He looked about for a steward then noticed Donaldson, the bloated and ruddy captain of marines who was already halfway through a bottle of hock, his usual accompaniment to a bloody breakfast pork chop. In a hard drinking age, the wine was by no means extraordinary: Donaldson would finish that bottle as well as another of claret and be tapping the brandy long before supper. But one look at the marine's heavy, reddened jowls as they slurped at the smudged glass was enough to quell all desire, and King reached for his cup of sweetened, milk-less tea instead.

“Fraiser seems to have settled well enough,” Caulfield boomed from the end of the table. King forced himself to concentrate on his words before more thoughts of Julia could lead him further astray.

“Indeed,” he agreed, then, struggling for something to say, added: “Though it is to be expected; the island is a beautiful place, and he is in good care.”

“Care that is every bit as beautiful as good,” Caulfield agreed, catching King's train of thought in a manner the younger man had not intended. “I fancy there are worse ways and poorer company in which to see out a life than in the charge of the enchanting Miss Booker.”

King glanced sidelong at the first lieutenant who, despite their difference in status, was also a friend. At the time he had harboured suspicions that Caulfield was equally struck by Julia, yet now the man could speak easily and without a hint of regret. He turned his attention back to the eggs. It was strange how easily other people survived deep emotion, while he took even the most trivial of matters to heart, dwelling on them until they became totally out of proportion. Strange and more than a little annoying: he was quite certain such a defect in character, and he could view it in no other way, made life that much harder to live.

King finished the first of the eggs, which had been hard boiled, and found the second, a brown, to be hardly cooked and barely edible. He wondered for a moment how whoever was in charge of cooking the things could be so inept in their duties and almost made to complain, when the memory of those stains came back to haunt him. King was well aware that he was hardly the epitome of efficiency at that moment, and with
Prometheus
still in the early days of her commission, there was much slightly amiss. Perhaps the correct boiling of eggs might not be so very important.

Movement ahead caught his attention and he looked up to see Davison, the second lieutenant, seat himself opposite. The two exchanged the briefest of good mornings. They had only been living in close proximity a matter of days, yet already it was clear they would never become friends.

“Brought us a fresh hand, did you not?” Davison asked, with more than a hint of condescension as he reached for the teapot. “And an experienced man, by all accounts – how did you chance upon such a prize?” The habitually smug expression grew suddenly wicked as he added: “Been frequenting the nanny houses, have you?” in a softer tone.

King did not elaborate. Davison was actually ten months younger, but had sat his board and obtained appointment as a lieutenant a whole year ahead of him. Consequently the bright, assured and annoyingly handsome cull was rated second lieutenant to his third, despite the fact that King had served with both Captain Banks and the first lieutenant throughout several previous commissions.

“Would that be an able seaman?” Caulfield asked, overhearing.

“Indeed, sir,” Davison confirmed in a louder voice. “Fellow by the name of Ross: he has been allocated to my division. I've yet to speak with the boatswain but fancy we might rate him able.”

“Excellent,” Caulfield mumbled through a mouth now filled with soft tack.

“Of course we have yet to see how he performs,” Davison continued. “But I'd chance we may have landed ourselves a regular fo'c'sle man, and the Dear knows we've few enough to speak of.”

King wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. The volunteer from the previous evening had asked for his history to be kept secret and, in his slightly fuddled state, King had agreed. But now, in the company of fellow officers, he wondered if it had been the right decision.

There were a number of reasons why a man might be broken at court martial: by their very nature, such tribunals varied greatly. And often those assembled on foreign stations were made up from a small selection of available officers, many of whom may have known the defendant well. Such knowledge meant they could be lenient and indulging, or the exact opposite, and the mere fact that Ross had been treated harshly did not automatically imply guilt. He might simply have found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, or become the victim of a senior officer's spite. But once stripped of his rank and having little understanding of life ashore, even an experienced man may be left with no alternative other than to ship as an ordinary hand.

Then again, Ross might equally turn out to be a bad apple: someone keen to fill a seaman's mind with twisted truths and resentment. Since the Quota Act of '95, and the vast number of educated criminals consequently sent to serve afloat, the general level of understanding had risen considerably forward of the mast. An average seaman was now not quite so gullible or naïve, while the lower deck remained just as notorious as a place where rumour and tattle-tale could multiply faster than any bed bug. To introduce Ross, who was both bright and potentially brim filled with resentment, into such a fertile environment might prove other than the bonus it appeared.

But on reflection, King thought not; there had been something about the man that struck him at the time, and did so again even as he considered the subject. Broken he might have been, but Ross retained an air of competence and respectability that would have been drummed into him throughout his progress from cockpit to wardroom. Every officer lives with the eternal fear of mutiny and, however low he may have fallen or unjust his treatment, King sensed that Ross was not one to cause trouble.

“Did you say his name was Ross?” Donaldson broke in from the other side of the table. “Knew a Ross when I were stationed in India.” King's body went cold, but he looked across with an expression of apparent interest. The red faced marine was well into his fifties: old to be no more than a captain, and at sea. But despite the rheumy eyes and a constant need for alcohol, Donaldson had travelled extensively. For all King knew, he might well be acquainted with Ross, in which case the little charade was to be guessed relatively early in play.

“Factor in Bombay,” the older man continued, before reaching for his glass once more. “Though he also kept the finest set of polo ponies east of the Hooghly.”

“A trained hand is welcome, Tom.” Caulfield said, ignoring the marine. “Would that you could find us more; we still need three score at least if
Prometheus
is to sail with any confidence in ten days' time.”

“I was speakin' with Cook of the
Tonnant.
” It was the slightly hesitant voice of Lewis, a former master's mate who had recently passed his board and was their fifth lieutenant. King had served with Lewis in three previous ships, the first being an antiquated sixty-four, where Lewis was rated an ordinary hand. King was the first to notice his potential and had taken quiet satisfaction in watching the man's progress ever since. “He says they're still a hundred short,” Lewis continued. “And in danger of groundin' on their own beef bones.”