The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (25 page)

I
n the prize, midshipmen Adams and Steven were sharing the watch and standing, with wildly assumed confidence, to either side of the binnacle. Both ships had made good progress that day and, with the wind holding steady on their starboard quarter, there was mercifully little for either to do. Meanwhile King, who had handed over the conn all of two hours ago, remained on deck and was currently forward, on the forecastle. A faint smudge of land was steadily becoming more visible off their larboard bow, and he was staring at it intently through his personal glass.

King knew this to be Cape St Vincent, and that they were close to the site of the fleet action he had witnessed over six years ago.
Belle Île
was sailing half a mile to leeward and a cable behind the battleship to give both maximum advantage from the wind and, for some time, he had been waiting for a signal from Brehaut that would take them further out, to round the treacherous promontory. Despite what he had said to Davison, King was reasonably sure the midshipmen would be competent enough to see the ship onto a new heading, but nevertheless had decided to remain on deck, if only to be available should they encounter trouble.

However, the order to change course was now considerably overdue and King was growing restless. The sun still burned bright; visibility was near perfect, and they would weather the cape easily enough on their present heading. But it was so unlike the usually cautious Brehaut to delay, that he turned his glass on
Prometheus
in case a signal had been missed.

“Port the helm, lay her four points to starboard!” King bellowed, surprising himself and those about him. The hands on watch had been gossiping sleepily in the shade of the starboard gangways while those passengers stoical enough for the early afternoon sun were either beneath the lee of the quarterdeck barricade or sheltering under a patch of canvas spread across the main shrouds. “Summon the watch below,” King roared, as he thundered along the gangway, while beneath him the waisters and afterguard stirred themselves into action.

“Is there a problem, sir?” Adams asked, his young face filled with concern for what the two of them may have missed.

“Indeed, but not of your making. Summon the cap...” he corrected himself. “Summon Mr Davison, if you please. Mr Steven, kindly escort the passengers below.”

There were no officers from the Indiaman on deck, they being far too accustomed to an early afternoon's rest, but several appeared soon enough as the ship changed course, and were present when a flustered and angry Davison stomped out onto the quarterdeck.

“What the devil do you mean by all this?” he began, after a single glance about him. “Why, steering as we are, we shall run aboard
Prometheus
. Quartermaster, starboard your helm this minute!”

“Belay that,” King yelled, although the men at the wheel were less than fifteen feet away and Davison a good deal closer. “Small arms for all, and prepare for boarding. Gentlemen, if you are able, we should appreciate your assistance as well as that of any of your servants,” he added, turning to two nearby Company officers who were blinking in the unaccustomed sunlight.

“King, have you lost your senses?” Davison demanded. The prize had settled on her new course and was bearing down on the two decker with every second bringing them closer.

“
Prometheus
is taken,” King snapped in explanation. “Or, if not, there is certainly an uprising aboard.”

“Taken you say?” Doubt clouded the younger lieutenant’s expression, and he took the proffered glass from King, turning it on the two-decker that was rapidly nearing their larboard bow.

“Dear Lord,” he said after a moment. Then, after lowering the glass and looking directly at his second in command, asked: “Whatever are we to do?”

* * *

T
he battle for the lower gun deck was not going well for the British. Taken by surprise, and at a time of day when they were more used to rest than violent action, the watch below had only become fully alert to the danger when hoards of yelling men came pouring up the companionways. And their attackers were well equipped, having previously raided both small arm stores on the orlop.
Prometheu
s' regular crew were not without weapons, however. Purpose built, in the form of the ready-use cutlasses, half-pikes and tomahawks that were set on beams or in stands about the masts, as well as the more improvised gunners' tools of handspikes and worms that also lay to hand. Yet even so armed, many were quickly overrun by what proved to be a resolute and determined enemy. A cluster of stalwarts still fought several desperate actions further forward but they were outnumbered and, as Carroll and the French captain looked on, it seemed no more than a matter of time before they would have control of the largest area in the ship.

“We have done well,” Agard muttered to his prize master. “Although there is still much to do.”

“Indeed,” Carroll agreed. “And those on the upper deck will now be aware. We can expect a counter attack at any moment.”

He was right; the remainder of
Prometheus'
crew had certainly been warned, and were already on the offensive. Leading a party of his own men, a shirt-sleeved sergeant Jarvis was first down the wide, but steep, aft staircase. The stocky NCO reached the deck before ducking down as an erratic volley of musket fire bit into the backs of the fighting privateers. Then his marines laid in with their bayonets, while more of
Prometheus'
seamen, variously armed with boarding weapons and belaying pins followed close behind. Carroll flashed a look at Agard as they drew back behind the relative safety of two thirty-two pounders. Even weakened by illness and taken by surprise, the British could still overpower them. And now they were fully alert to the danger, as well as being under proper command, the situation could quickly turn sour. He watched as two Frenchmen nearby fell to the lunge of marine bayonets and decided the disciplined force would prove a far more substantial enemy. But there were others who had taken sanctuary amidst the guns and Carroll knew that, as with the British, a bit of order would do wonders.

“Come,
mes amis
,” he shouted, in his finest rallying voice, while raising his captured sword as high as the deckhead would allow. “Follow me, and the ship will be ours!”

* * *

F
rom the quarterdeck, Lewis watched Jarvis' men descend, and could tell they were gaining ground, although forward, a similar British force under Corporal Collins was having less success. Many had made it down the hazardous steps, and were fighting a desperate action with the French below, but no progress was being made and he sensed that the attack would eventually be repelled. Several topmen had been aloft when the enemy rebelled, together with a boatswain's team that were carrying out repairs to the foremast and they were all now dropping down a variety of backstays, eager to join the fight. This would provide a reasonable force for yet another onslaught and Saunders, the master at arms who had chanced to be on deck, was calmly issuing them with small arms from the quarterdeck store. Lewis had ordered a signal to the prize but, before it could be made, the former privateer was already responding to the emergency and would be alongside in no time. That was good news indeed, although it did leave him with one difficult decision.

He might wait, and lead a counter attack with more men, or reinforce those already committed in the hope of keeping the French at bay until the prize crew arrived. Jarvis' men were making inroads at the aft companionway, whereas those led by Collins forward were definitely having problems.

He looked back at the capture which was still bearing down on them, with armed men visibly gathering at her bulwarks. The frigate's freeboard was considerably lower than that of a line-of-battleship; their prize crew might board if coming alongside, but would have to scale
Prometheus'
mountainous sides to gain access. Some might try to enter through her ports, yet those that were secured, must be forced. Lewis wondered what he would do if in charge of the boarders, and the answer came almost immediately.

Placing the frigate alongside the battleship's stern would allow them to board through the quarter-galleries and wardroom windows: access points that would be far harder to defend than any gun port or companionway. That being so, if Jarvis' force could hold the deck aft of the main mast, they would eventually be supplemented by the boarders. Which left him only one real choice, as regards his own contingent.

“Mr Saunders, take all on the quarterdeck and reinforce the marines down the aft companionway. I shall lead those on the spar deck down for'ard.” The warrant officer touched his bare head in a token salute, before collecting a boarding cutlass for himself, while Lewis hurled himself down the short ladder.

But it was only as his boots hit the main deck that the lieutenant realised he was unarmed. “Come, lads!” he shouted to a bemused group of men standing in the semi-darkness under the ship's boats. Saunders would have those stationed on the poop and quarterdeck; about twelve men should make a sizeable difference. And his own force of fifteen or so was not insubstantial; so much so that being without a weapon himself seemed almost immaterial. Lewis had been a lieutenant a scant few months but the importance of leadership had been learned over many years. He may be heading for an all out scrap, but the true value of any officer lay in command, rather than combat.

As he reached them, he saw the forward steps that led below were draped with the bodies of wounded British marines and seamen. There was hardly any sound footing available, yet Lewis sensed the weight of those following, and knew that to pause would be fatal to the success of the attack: they must descend, and do so without delay.

Jumping from the top step, he threw himself down, feet first, landing with one boot on the hard deck and the other atop the torso of an unfortunate marine. He regained his balance smartly enough and immediately dodged the thrust of a pike aimed at his chest, before springing up, seizing the weapon, and tearing it free. Then it was a relativity simple matter to smash the butt back into the moustachioed face of its owner. The man crumpled to the deck with a satisfying moan as blood began to spurt, but there were more following, and Lewis swiftly reversed the pike, before pressing forward into the wall of enemies before him.

* * *

“W
e'll run across her stern,” King bellowed, without reference to anyone else. He was standing on the very break of the privateer's quarterdeck and hanging out from the larboard main shrouds as he piloted the ship in, while the supposed captain was further aft and seemed to be taking a far more dispassionate view of proceedings. Even from a distance, and they must still be half a cable off, King could hear the sounds of a heated battle and the men already gathered on the forecastle or along
Belle Île's
larboard gangway were spoiling for a fight.

“Enter by the wardroom,” a new voice commanded, and King instinctively looked behind. But Davison was standing mute by the binnacle and seemed to have lost all interest. “Ignore the captain's aft gallery,” the advice continued. “The battle will be below.”

King was still trying to identify the speaker; possibly a warrant officer further forward: probably on the forecastle. But with the noise of battle and murmurings from their own boarding party steadily growing louder, it was impossible to be certain. Then a more definite shout followed, and he saw Ross, the former officer, catch his eye and wave. “I shall lead the first attack, Mr King,” he yelled, and it was the same voice. “Follow as soon as you are able.”

There was no time to discuss the order of command and Ross certainly had the right idea: the wardroom windows would make an excellent entry point: there was no sign of fighting on the upper decks, so they would be arriving close to the centre of the action.

“Starboard a point!” King ordered, and the ship moved almost imperceptibly round to line up directly with the seventy-four's gilded stern. Now all lay in the hands of time, and what they had was fast running out. He knew he would be leaving the prize almost unmanned; a group of elderly military men from the passengers had agreed to defend the ship if the French proved successful in taking
Prometheus
. But King had no illusions: should he fail, the privateers would be in possession of the first British liner to be taken in the current war, and must also reclaim their own vessel into the bargain.

But this was not the time to even consider defeat. “Starboard,” he repeated, as the ship neared. Then: “starboard – hard a starboard!” and, with a drawn out groaning of wood against wood, they scraped gracefully against the battleship's ornate gingerbread.

Those on the forecastle and forward of the main mast were the first to board. Ross himself, wielding a gunner's crow of iron, smashed through the starboard wardroom windows and soon the air was filled with the crashing of glass as Flint and Harrison copied his example. Then there was a tumble of bodies landing aboard the liner, with those still in the prize eagerly pressing forward for their turn to follow.

“Avast there!” King bellowed. He was still peering over the
Belle Île's
top rail and could see that some vagary in wind or waves was forcing the two ships apart. There was now a space of several feet between them, even though both ships appeared to be relatively stationary. “Wait for the time, lads,” he continued, noticing with despair, that the distance was actually widening further. This was as bad as it could be; less than half of the boarding party had made it across: unless King could follow with the rest, both parts of the now divided force were in danger of being annihilated. Some of those about him had also registered the fact and one, a young topman and unusually lithe, looked ready to leap, despite the considerable gap that divided the two vessels.

“Stand down there, Jameson!” King ordered. He had no wish to snub the man's enthusiasm but to jump, and fail, would be the waste of a life. And if he were to succeed, it might persuade others less able to follow. Jameson positively growled with anger but the two ships were now being drawn together once more, and King realised with relief that all soon would be able to follow. Then the time was right and he himself leapt the last remaining few feet, landing soundly on the stern of the battleship, and clambering up and over the wrecked windows.