The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (29 page)

“So, how come the frigate?” Stewart asked when they had finished their second pot of coffee and were finally addressing matters more pertinent. “Not every day an old battle-wagon like
Prometheus
carries such a flighty little thing.”

“She was a privateer,” Banks explained briefly. “We had already encountered her capture: a five-hundred ton Indiaman.”

“And you retook her as well?” Stewart asked, with growing respect.

Banks shook his head. “No, she had been wrecked. But we rescued her people, and the prize crew, so were aware that a letter of marque was operating in the area. When she was sighted I disguised
Prometheus
as an Indiaman: the rest was relatively easy.” Banks felt the glib words flow almost without his willing them: even now he could remember those hours of worry, with the frigate taking pot shots at his precious command. But it was good to be with Stewart again, and difficult to remain formal in such company.

“Well, easy or not, you did well and Captain Otway, the naval commissioner, will be glad to hear of it. Why, I shall send for the master shipwright immediately; she can be surveyed and, if there is chance of her being taken into the service, I am sure it will be done without delay.” He paused, and bent forward slightly. “Providing that is your will, sir,” he added, using the honorific for the first time. “She is your prize, after all: I had no wish to presume.”

“I should be delighted, Gordon,” Banks replied sincerely. “Thank you.”

“Frigates are as rare as the proverbial hen's teeth at present.” Stewart sat back in his chair and relapsed into the previous, easy, manner. “We could use a dozen more and not feel ourselves filled. There's talk of a sizeable squadron coming from San Domingo; nine or ten liners, so intelligence suggests; more than enough to overpower Dickie-Bickie's fleet off Toulon, if he isn't given fair warning. And with the Dons behaving as they are, we must keep check on Cádiz as if it were already an enemy port.”

The commander paused and sighed. “You would have thought lessons would have been learned from the last war; but we seem just as short as ever. Nelson has but three frigates to play with at present, and I know wishes for more.”

“There is further to tell, I fear,” Banks said quietly.

“Of your adventures?” Stewart asked, returning to the previous subject and raising a questioning eyebrow. “How so?”

“On our way here, with the privateer in consort,” Banks began cautiously, before plunging in with the awful truth. “The prisoners rose up and almost took my ship.”

Stewart was listening intently but said nothing.

“They began by poisoning many of the people, myself included, and came horribly close to pulling it off, though I am glad to say, were not ultimately successful.”

“Then they sound to be more enterprising than is usual in their type,” Stewart said, after considering for a moment. “Though I suppose it is not to be wondered at. Whatever the government may say, private enterprise will always win out in the end.” He pondered. “Poisoning, though: that is a mite unusual.”

“They had an accomplice; an Irishman, name of Carroll, who was captured with the prize. He had given his parole, though did not think to honour it.”

“Well, that is a sorry tale indeed,” Stewart sighed at last. “But, if you will excuse me, we need not concentrate too heavily upon some aspects.”

Banks regarded him with sudden interest.

“The main point must be this: his Majesty is one frigate the richer,” Stewart continued, his voice and expression set firm. “Take my advice and make that the central theme of your report.”

“But I have my journal with me now,” Banks protested, fingering the canvas covered document on his lap.

“Forgive me, Dick, but you do not,” Stewart told him firmly while keeping his eyes well away from the document. “It has yet to be written; there was simply too much depending on you during the journey back. It is a fair excuse considering the circumstances: you will be allowed a few days' grace.”

Banks felt momentarily confused, although Stewart, it seemed was far more in control. He leaned further back in his chair and gave a relaxed smile. “Believe me, the difference between a shore posting and one at sea is not just a question of keeping your feet dry. There is far more to it than playing with stay-tape and buckram; you should be amazed at the diplomatic tricks and deceptions that abound.”

“I am certain you are right,” Banks agreed, cautiously.

“Oh, yes, and I have learned much about reports, and what happens to them, which is probably why so few of us land crabs are ever allowed back on the briny,” the Commander added with a hint of regret. “But let me tell you this, one of the skills in writing such things is telling those who read them what they want to hear.”

Banks found himself smiling at the man's candour, although it was clear he was speaking in all seriousness, and gave wise counsel.

“With the right emphasis, your little tale will sound fine, and might even end up in the Gazette; word it badly, and they shall be waiting upon you in court martial.” Both men laughed, but in Banks' case the act was forced.

“
When
you come to submit your journal,” Stewart continued, with emphasis, “don't be afraid to lean on the good points. No one shall, if you do not. There sounds to be a full butcher's bill: that never fails to impress, and who is to know if they fell in taking the frigate in the first place, or fighting off your prisoners later? And if you can single out one or two juniors to praise, do so as well.” the commander gave a subtle wink. “There's something else I have learned; nothing diverts attention from a writer's deficiencies more than a commendation or two for his inferiors.”

“I see,” Banks said, even though he was still deep in thought. “So I should be vague?”

“Not vague, as such, but hardly too specific,” Stewart smiled again. “Think of your report as a book of accounts: the end result is what really matters, how it was achieved need only be considered secondary.

“You are in profit to the tune of the crew and passengers of an Indiaman rescued, a sizeable number of privateers taken prisoner, and a very acceptable frigate captured. Against that, the loss of so many men, and maybe a modicum of equipment, must be balanced. However you choose to word it, nothing can change that bottom line and, as I have said, you can be sure it is only the nett result that our lords and masters will be truly interested in.”

Banks stayed quiet, although continued to listen intently.

“You realise I would not say this to everyone?” Stewart asked in a lower tone. “There may be some who consider such an attitude to be fundamentally wrong – corruption, even, but that is another thing I have learned ashore: such things need not be so terribly bad. Why, you need only consider the problems Old Jarvie has caused in our own dockyards. Sure, the places were a mass of double dealing and jobbery in the past, but look at the mess he has made by supposedly putting things to rights.”

“I must confess,
Prometheus'
condition after refit was not good,” Banks allowed.

“Then you will understand,” Stewart's voice rose in triumph. “And the Admiralty itself could not survive without interest in its various forms,” he beamed. “Why I dare not ponder on the number of promotions and postings that are directly attributable to the assistance of friends or family connections. If rules are bent or, on occasion, disregarded, is that such a terrible thing, providing the right results are achieved?”

“But corruption...” Banks began, hardly knowing how to finish.

“Yes, perhaps that is too strong a word,” Stewart conceded. “Even though we are talking of the merest hint. Perhaps it is better to think of what you will be doing as more of a favour; like taking aboard a trusted friend’s son as midshipman. No one wishes to learn of a fine and mighty battleship being overrun by a bunch of pirates, so do not tell them – not directly. Or, if you do, make light of the circumstances. Write your report in the way that I suggest, and no more will be said – I am certain of it.”

It was hard to comprehend how a potential disaster could be disregarded in such a way, but Banks understood the point Stewart was making. He had not asked to be poisoned, any more than Caulfield had chosen to be captured and secured so easily. And drawing attention to the act would hardly be beneficial to either of them; in fact no one would gain. A carefully worded report might well divert attention from his own, pitiful, performance without committing too many deadly sins. And when it came down to it, he himself owed his title, captaincy and every posting until the present one to his father, or rather the Admiralty and City contacts the old boy cultivated. If he were to become prim and prudish over a few carefully chosen words, and maybe a whiff of deception, he would be starting late.

“Do you eat game, Dick?”

The question came as a surprise, and Banks took several seconds to respond.

“I have done,” he replied hesitantly. “Upon occasion.”

“And do you prefer yours to be hung?” Stewart persisted.

“To some extent, yes.” Banks eyed his friend cautiously. “The meat is more tender and flavoursome if left for a while.”

The commander winked again as he poured the last of the coffee into Banks' cup. “Then surely you can see,” he said. “However terrible the word might sound, a small amount of corruption can undoubtedly be of benefit.”

* * *

T
he surgeon woke unwillingly to the hand that persistently shook his shoulder. There was a light in his cabin, but it was moving: someone must be holding a lantern above his head and the smell was particularly unpleasant.

“What is it?” he asked, rubbing his eyes, then peering at the figure that could only be dimly seen beyond the guttering flame.

“It's the prisoners, sir,” a familiar voice told him, and immediately Manning was wide awake. The first of the captured privateers had already been removed from the ship, but there were still a fair number aboard. It seemed incredible that any attempt to escape should be made now, with
Prometheus
safe in a protected harbour. But they had already proved themselves to be a desperate lot, and the surgeon supposed he should not be surprised.

“The marines,” he mumbled. “They are aware, I assume?”

“Oh, they ain't tryin' nothin',” the same voice told him with a laugh, and Manning realised it belonged to Wells, a loblolly boy who also acted as his servant. “But one of 'em's been taken proper queer, sir, an' Mr Prior thought you should be aware.”

Manning rose up in his cot and prepared to clamber out. “Very well,” he said. “I'll come. What are the symptoms?”

Wells was lighting one of the surgeon's personal wax candles, a luxury Manning allowed himself as the berth was set deep in the ship and received very little ventilation. By the extra light he could see the man's face more clearly, and that it was smiling.

“Hardly anythin' to worry over,” Wells assured him. “Mr Prior says we seen it before. He reckons a particularly bad case of saltpetre poisoning; that's all,” he continued. “And that young Irish officer seems to have been affected the worst.”

––––––––

“S
tern windows and quarter-galleries should not take more than a week,” the elderly man who appeared to be a combination of master shipwright and dockyard supervisor, told Caulfield. “Mind, they won't be quite the fine affairs you are used to: my men can't spend time or materials on gingerbread and the like...”

“As long as any repair proves weatherproof, and can be quickly achieved, I shall not care,”
Prometheus'
first lieutenant assured him.

“Then there is a touch to see to with the fittings, that larboard bulwark to scarph and refit the top rail,” the older man scratched at his balding head before referring to his bundle of notes for a moment. “Nothing too burdensome about any of that, especially if your painters can clean up and make good as we go.”

Caulfield nodded; considering the mess an English dockyard had made of finishing
Prometheus'
recent refit, he would actually prefer to have such things under his control.

“Riggers will have a spot to do aloft, of course, but that is another department. And we may well discover more when the ship is truly surveyed. Even so, I should say ten days to a fortnight should see you straight.”

“That would be very acceptable,” the first lieutenant told him, genuinely impressed. “As well as highly commendable. My captain will be sure to say as much, I am certain. And if there is any service that can be done in return, I would gladly hear of it.”

The elderly face beamed back. “Kind of you, sir, to be sure. Though we are under special instructions with your vessel,” the man told him importantly. “
Prometheus
is needed on station at Toulon, so there is no time to be lost: the commissioner told us to give her our utmost attention.”

Caulfield was taken aback; as soon as he had discovered the ship to be assigned to the Mediterranean Fleet he had wondered about her eventual posting, but it was slightly galling to have it confirmed by a shore-based artisan.

“Many of those on blockade at present are barely holding together,” the older man continued with an alarming lack of discretion. “The Admiral is supposed to be sending one in at a time for us to refit, though quite what we're to do without a proper dock is another matter. And your prize ain't going to be no holiday,” he added. “We probably won't start on that until you are once more at sea. Reckon there'll be a month or so's work on her at least, even though the damage is mostly above the waterline and of no real consequence.”

“She will be returning to England though, I do not doubt,” the first lieutenant commented absent mindedly.

“I should think not, sir,” the shipwright replied aghast. “With such a lack of ships. I'd say they'll get us to pull her together, then rustle up a scratch crew before sending her on to join Admiral Nelson.”

“Indeed?” Caulfield was surprised, both at the frigate's destination, and his informant's apparent certainty of it. “So we may be meeting with her again off Toulon?”