The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (27 page)

“And where do we stand as far as healthy bodies are concerned?” he asked, switching his attention to Caulfield.

“Five hundred and ten,” Caulfield replied crisply, and without reference to notes. “Four hundred and seven trained hands, the rest are landsmen and boys. Our marine force has been cut to thirty nine by fatalities, injury and current sickness,” he glanced across at Manning. “Although I understand that most of the latter are expected to be back on duty within the next day. Mr Donaldson is still indisposed, and has expressed a wish to be exchanged when we reach Gibraltar. Until then, the marine contingent is under the temporary command of Lieutenant Swift.” All looked towards the young officer who was seated with them. He had been silent throughout and now blushed at the sudden attention.

Banks closed his eyes for a moment. The headache had passed, but he was still feeling incredibly weak and hearing the number of killed and injured simply reinforced his contrasting feelings of gratitude and failure. They might have suffered far greater casualties: indeed, he could so easily have lost the ship.

“I owe you all a good deal,” he said, as his eyes opened once more. “And will say as much in my report, although,” and now a faint smile came to play upon his lips, “I will of course be dependant on each of you to provide the necessary details.”

There was a low rumble of laughter, then Banks fixed on the second lieutenant.

“None more than you, Mr Davison,” he said, and noticed that both Caulfield and King grew strangely alert. “You showed great fortitude in boarding
Prometheus
so promptly: indeed the task was done in the best traditions of the service. Had it not, we might be holding this conversation on the orlop right now.”

The captain had been expecting his remark to arouse further laughter, but instead the young man grew visibly embarrassed, while King appeared positively angry. His eyes flashed from one to the other and then across to Caulfield, who simply looked resigned. Banks supposed the first lieutenant was still suffering from the humiliation of being captured so easily, whereas the two more junior lieutenants were bound to compete for battle honours. So be it. Caulfield had nothing to berate himself for, and young men would always squabble.

“Well, if there is no more,” he said. It was much harder to appear formal from an easy chair, but Banks' intention was unmistakeable, and his officers rose to leave. He thought King might have been trying to catch his eye, but purposely did not respond. Caulfield had already informed him how well the third lieutenant performed during the action; King was probably just a little put out that Davison, who had not been mentioned by the first lieutenant, was receiving all the praise. But there could be no argument that the prize's intervention had carried the battle and Banks was determined to see that the young man's efforts were properly acknowledged.

* * *

“S
o how was it you ended in command of the fo'c's'le?” Thompson demanded, when they were back in their temporary berth aboard the prize.

“Aye, shoutin' instructions to Mr King you was like a proper Admiral of the Fleet,” Harrison agreed, from the other side of the mess table. “An' 'im doin' what you said like 'e were no more than a middie.”

Ross turned away from his questioners, and found himself looking straight into the eyes of Flint, the head of the mess. In the past he had thought there might be a modicum of understanding in the man, and even wondered if Flint already guessed his secret. But now the seaman was fixing him with a set stare, and appeared as interested in his answer as any of the others.

“I didn't mean no disrespect,” Ross told them, striving, as usual, to ape the casual way in which they spoke. “Only, from where I was, I could see best how we might lay the ship alongside, and so board in the right place.”

His reply was greeted with silence and Ross was momentarily relieved. But all were in the midst of eating their first hot meal for some time, and the questioning had only been postponed.

“There weren't any of us worrying about where the ship was to be set,” Harrison continued, after he had gummed his way through a piece of gristle. “Just wanted to get our 'ands on a Frenchman.”

“As did I,” Ross replied, with assumed resentment. “And could see the best way of doin' it. Is there anything so very wrong in that?”

The unexpectedly sharp response surprised most although Harrison, it seemed, was not so easily dissuaded.

“But it didn't end there though, did it?” he persisted. “Once aboard the barky you went on orderin' us about. Takin' command like you was meant for the task – like you was used to doin' it.”

“An' then, when it were done, there was all the back slappin' and handshakin' with King and Lewis,” Butler had taken up the thread. “It were as if you'd all been thrown out of the same nanny house.”

Ross forced himself to think. They had entered
Prometheus'
wardroom in utter confusion. King and Davison were still to board and, with no junior officers present, the men became confused. Some began cheering, calling out, or tripping over the furniture and there was no apparent understanding of what needed to be done. But Ross had felt far more comfortable, and was the only one with any thought for the carnage they might find beyond the closed doors.

So yes, he had taken control: had bullied them into a governable body. And when they did burst through to the fight, it was undoubtedly down to him that their force was in some form of order.

He opened his eyes and looked to Flint, trying to gauge the man's exact position. As head of the mess, Flint was senior to Ross, yet had been one of those so commanded. And, though it might be resented now, the man had performed well: they all did. Every member of the boarding party seemed to welcome the word of authority, as a frightened horse might the reassuring pressure of a rein. But that was then – now they clearly held a very different view.

“Well if I did, it turned out for the best,” Ross replied lamely, before setting his attention back to the food in front of him. The strain of living a lie was starting to tell and he had already decided to find some way of leaving
Prometheus
when they reached Gibraltar. He could jump ship, or feign illness; both methods were not without their perils, and neither would be easy to pull off. But Ross felt there was little left to lose, and nothing as far as his self respect was concerned.

He had known becoming a lower deck hand would never be easy, but the reality had proved even harder than his predictions. The work was arduous, with limited leisure time, and absolutely no privacy, although such things were off-set by benefits he had equally failed to anticipate. He was now well versed in many seamen's skills, and had become foolishly proud of his abilities, although the main gain lay in something far more subtle.

Ross had always enjoyed studying his fellow men, and what he had learned about the regular foremast Jack was utterly fascinating. In the past few weeks he had come across men who wanted for a formal education, yet possessed a different pattern of intelligence that was equally useful and actually quite formidable. Some, who could neither read or write, proved able to calculate the value of a prize, its cargo and any head money, along with the seaman's share of it. The network of communication also spread further than most in command realised, with discussions in the wardroom, gun room and even the great cabin regularly being dissected and evaluated during the same day's dog watches.

And the lower deck's corporate knowledge, which verged upon a shared understanding, was truly impressive. It had been exhibited on several occasions; from choosing mess cooks and other honorary positions, to the subtle manipulation of divisional officers. Petty thieves and other minor miscreants were almost instantly identified by the whole, despite being as sharp as any single one of their fellows.

During his time aboard
Prometheus
, Ross had become aware of several minor crimes that were hidden from authority to allow them to be privately resolved by the seamen's own, unwritten code. And the judgements that followed, together with penalties imposed, appeared far more apt than those expected from dispassionate and remote commissioned officers.

With a chill, Ross wondered if his particular case was about to come under such scrutiny; should it do so, there was no doubt they would discover his secret.

“Ask me, there's a touch more to our Mister Ross than meets the eye,” Butler was saying.

“Per'aps the lower deck's not good enough for him,” Harrison agreed, while he continued to gum manfully at his chunk of beef. “Maybe he's got ideas above 'is station.”

“So what did I do that offended you so?” Ross demanded, looking up suddenly. “No one else was willing to take charge: you were all running about like headless chickens. All I did was take you in order – someone had to.”

“Mr King was due to board,” Cranston murmured. “And Mr Davison followed eventually.”

“But both came with the second wave,” Butler pointed out.

“Davison were in command, though” Harrison again. “It were up to him to lead us – we should have waited.”

“If we'd have waited for Davison, the Frogs would have likely taken the ship,” Thompson grunted, disparagingly. “He's not up to it; the man's a fool.”

“Aye,” Ross found himself agreeing. “I'd say he were rocked in a stone kitchen.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and the former lieutenant felt a wave of instant and genuine regret. As an officer, it had been drummed into him never to ridicule another man of similar or superior rank. It was almost a cardinal sin and, when done amongst others of a lower status, might even be considered mutiny. The gulf that separated him from Davison's position as second lieutenant was vast indeed, and he felt immediate guilt for having committed such a crime.

It was not a sentiment shared by the others, though. As he glanced along the two rows of faces there was no sign of censure; they merely appeared surprised and amused in equal measure.

“Rocked in a stone kitchen,” Harrison repeated, savouring the words as much as any concept. The expression might not have been totally of the lower deck, but it was one they undoubtedly approved of and, for probably the first time since joining
Prometheus
, Ross felt properly part of the mess.

––––––––

T
hey raised Gibraltar at first light, four days later, and entered her harbour during the late afternoon. The sun was still bright and the wind remained in their favour as Lewis, in
Prometheus
, made her number and the private signal, before announcing the prize as their own. Hurle, one of the gunner's mates, supervised the saluting procedures in Abbot's absence: they were ordered to anchor in the lee of the new mole and, within half an hour, Banks was seated in his barge, stiff in his fresh, full dress uniform, journal in hand, and prepared to explain all to whoever received him.

And there was much to tell, he decided, as the boat skimmed across the flat waters of the harbour. Firm news that the
Duke of Cambridge
was lost, for instance: there were bound to be those in London and beyond who would probably expect her to be on the way to the East for some time to come. Even the very existence of the
Belle Île
may come as a surprise. The Indiaman had been her first victim: that
Prometheus
had already found and dealt with her so efficiently could only be greeted with relief. Shipping owners would be that much more confident of sending their charges along the Portuguese coast and across the Bay of Cádiz, while the Royal Navy had been spared a powerful and probably elusive enemy to hunt down, just when their smaller warships were at a premium. But Banks was less certain how the near loss of one of his Majesty’s third rates would be received.

Any captain who allowed prisoners to take over his ship would have much to answer for, and the fact that he, and several others, were indisposed at the time, when the cause was also directly attributable to the enemy, would hardly be an excuse. To balance that, he was delivering a fine frigate, and one that was likely to be taken under the British flag. But whether or not one would equal out the other was still to be seen and, as the boat turned for the stone steps of the quay, his doubts increased.

If the Admiralty did buy her,
Belle Île
might need to return to England for refit, and some time would pass before she sailed again. The government would pay handsomely though and, when it came, Banks' personal share would be no small sum; certainly enough to see him and his family secure, should he find himself censured in any way. But were he to be sent for court martial, and if the unthinkable happened and he found himself dismissed the service, no amount of wealth could compensate for being denied the right to walk a quarterdeck again. And if his capture were not considered suitable for Navy use, she would be put up in the local prize auction, when he would be lucky to get a quarter of her value at scrap.

Now they were drawing closer to the quay and the fact that he would shortly be explaining himself hardly lightened his mood. Even if he were spared, and a blind eye turned to the uprising aboard
Prometheus
, he must still face the unhappy task of seeking further men. The losses they had suffered of late had accounted for a good proportion of what had been an enviable crew. Marines could be sourced on Gibraltar, even replacements for the two officers should present no difficulty, and there were bound to be midshipmen a plenty keen for a sea-going post. But the ordinary and able seamen were more of a problem. Their like were in short supply wherever British ships sailed and Gibraltar, being one of only two local ports serving the Mediterranean Fleet, would be no exception. Then, to top it all, they required another gunner. Abbot had been with the ship since
Prometheus
first commissioned and, old and cranky though he may have been, he carried out his duties admirably. It would be hard to find another half as good without returning to England.