The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (38 page)

“I have her!” someone from far forward shouted excitedly, and a buzz of anticipation ran down the larboard side of the deck.

“Hold fast there, hold fast!” Ross snapped. He had not controlled a battery for many months and was unlikely ever to do so again: this one last chance was not to be ruined by any premature discharges. “We'll fire off as loaded, but serve the next double-shotted.” There were nods of comprehension from the loaders as Ross continued. “Now, wait upon my word,” he added, striding up the deck with total authority.

And they all did exactly as they were told.

* * *

T
here was perhaps the faintest lightening in the sky; but it was far too early for dawn and with no moon due, Banks turned back and saw the blaze from the first ship they had engaged. Beside her, but not too close,
Aries
could be seen in the process of lowering boats, while
Canopus
had moved on and was doing all she could in such light airs to close with the second Frenchman. He switched his attention back; Conn, with what must be a relatively intact eighty, should be able to deal with a damaged seventy-four without trouble, which left him free to direct all his attention to the present problem.

The enemy was hard by and, every four or five minutes, fired her bow chasers into
Prometheus,
while they replied with far more celerity and speed, using their forward facing long nines. The British ship remained underway, but was moving with such reluctance that her rudder could be of little use, and Banks knew he was relying more on a fortunate current for forward motion than any wind. But progress there was; his opponent became clearer with every gun flash and, when one particularly lucky shot started a small fire on her forecastle, it was obvious the time when they might properly exchange broadsides was near.

Presumably a similar thought had struck his opposite number. The Frenchman's helm had been put across in the hope of bringing her broadside to bear on the British ship's bows but now, as such a move was proving impossible, she was correcting, and appeared content to wait until the two met side on. Then, almost imperceptibly, the wind began to rise.

It came with hardly more force than a breath, then grew, causing men to look to each other in doubt, before peering up through the gloom to their sails. The canvas that had been hanging torpid and flat, first rippled, then flapped, and soon was billowing softly.

Prometheus
responded well: there was a murmur from the stays, her rudder bit and then the quartermaster could finally make that much needed point to starboard. With the rise, the wind had also veered, giving them far more space for a considered distance, although Banks now felt there was less need for room. He had no knowledge of any deficiencies below; all damage reports so far received had mostly come from the upper deck or spars. And King was well known to him: any major problem would have been relayed promptly enough, and the lad would not bother his captain with anything less. Consequently Banks was quite prepared to match his well proven guns against any Frenchman, undamaged or not: actually he was looking forward to the prospect.

* * *

J
udy had done well; the wound was clean and almost free from debris, although Manning was still not confident. Splinter wounds alone were bound to account for a good proportion of the casualties he would be dealing with that night, and carried a far greater risk of infection than the effects of more conventional weapons. Even as he worked, stitching deep into the mess of muscle and tissue that currently constituted his friend’s chest, he knew he may be leaving fragments behind. Fragments that would stay hidden long enough to indicate a good recovery, when their festering presence would finally be revealed. He knew, but there was little he could do about it; King had already lost a great deal of blood and, in the make-do surgery he was forced to practise, the immediate need was to achieve a sound closure.

And so he worked, with half a brain set on the difficulties of keeping the stitches even, while the rest of his mind tracked movement all around. Of his two mates, Dodgeson was proving faster in attending to his charges, but that was in keeping with the man's more brittle personality, and Manning knew the more careful Prior would not be slacking. The flow of casualties had slowed; there were still many awaiting attention, but it was not an inordinate number and all would be dealt with, even if it took the rest of the night.

That the action was in no way over had also been noted. The ship appeared to be underway following a brief period of calm, and Manning had worked through enough major battles in the past to know the difference between an interval and the end of a performance. There was none of the excitement common when an enemy either surrendered or attempted to board, so further fighting, and subsequent casualties, could be expected.

But no part of his thinking was reserved for King the person; his best friend, and shipmate for most of his adult life. He tied off the last stitch and motioned to Judy, who appeared to have abandoned all other work to assist him. She wiped down King's chest with a liberal amount of spirit, then did so again using a cleaner piece of tow. Manning said nothing as he watched. He knew he must continue to take a dispassionate view and his prognosis was exactly on those lines.

“
The patient has sustained major trauma to the upper chest, with complications stemming from the impact and removal of a large fragment of wooden debris,
” he told himself, taking refuge in the impartial prose of a surgeon's report. “
After cleansing, the wound has been closed, and it is hoped that convalescence will encourage a full recovery.
”

For a moment he stopped and thought some more: he had further to add and, despite the inevitable conclusion being painful, it must be reached.

“
There is, however, the risk that latent foreign matter remains within the lesion, which will inevitably cause an imbalance in the humors and subsequent mortification. A further operation might rid the patient of this if the corruption is not too deeply seated although, once established, the malady is likely to remain and no permanent recovery can be expected
.”

––––––––

T
hose on the lower gun deck had long since dismissed the novelty of being commanded by an able seaman. Ross knew what he was about and, in a service where skilled men with a lifetime's experience were expected to take orders from privileged children, they instinctively sensed competence and felt comfortable in his control.

“What see you there?” he growled at Guillom once more, and the quarter gunner bent through the open port yet again.

“We got the wind, and are gaining speed,” he shouted back. “For'ard broadside guns will be coming into range shortly.”

Ross nodded, but did not speak further. The command to open fire would come soon enough and his true responsibilities began when the enemy started to hit back. In case of injury, men would have to be moved, making up numbers from one gun to another, while the regular supply of powder could not be interrupted. Only by constant attention could the main guns continue to fire. If they should ever stop,
Prometheus
would be taken for certain, and it was down to him to see they did not.

* * *

“C
aptain orders independent fire, and as you bear!”

The order was screamed down the aft companionway by a voice surely far too young to carry such a message. But it was heard by most on the lower gun deck and, at a supplementary command from Ross, all crews immediately stood to.

“Keep 'em laying straight!” he added quickly, as some captains made to train their pieces forward. Several seconds might be gained by aiming the guns so, but Ross knew the angle of impact would be altered: their shots would not penetrate the enemy's hull so easily, and might even be deflected. “Range will be less than point blank,” he continued. “Should we touch, fully depress your pieces.”

In a true close action, shot aimed low was more likely to sink an enemy, while endangering fewer boarders that might have been sent from the upper decks. The thirty-two pound balls would also not hull the opposing ship – passing straight through and potentially damaging friendly vessels beyond. All on the lower gun deck were aware of these basics, but there were still respectful acknowledgements from the nearest crews, and Ross felt that his authority, assumed though it might have been, was holding up well.

“Target!” Guillom shouted from forward, and the discharge from the farthest gun followed a few seconds later. The rest of the battery continued in turn, with only one, which suffered a misfire, and had need of the slow match, being out of order. Ross watched in approval as the well trained teams then went into action serving their pieces, and was wondering vaguely why there had been no answering fire when the enemy did reply. It was with a simultaneous broadside and seemed to come from so close a range that
Prometheus
was all but pressed sideways by the impact.

“Fire buckets aft!” Ross directed as a small blaze erupted close to, and above, the main magazine. “You there, the wash-deck pump and smart at it!” Directly next to the flames an unlucky hit had also killed a lad carrying two cartridges of cylinder powder and, what was even more unfortunate, spread his load evenly over the surrounding area. A circle roughly fifteen feet in diameter was coated in fine powder; if the fire was allowed to spread, the entire ship would be in imminent danger. “Fire buckets,” he repeated, steadily. “Dilston, Colebrook – all those of the fire party – look to!”

His words seemed to wake everyone out of a trance. The fire itself was soon out but continued to smoke heavily and two pails of sand together with the entire contents of the scuttlebutt were subsequently poured over the grisly mess. A further pail of water was added, neutralising any remaining grains and giving a degree of grip to the barefoot men who had to tread the deck.

“No powder, no powder here!” He turned to see two groups of servers shouting from further forward. Evidently the ready-use charges were not being immediately replaced: something must have broken down in the chain of loading, and in no time other hands were calling attention to the problem. Ross looked about and realised the team of powder monkeys were gathered about the body of their fallen colleague.

“Make a move there!” he shouted in a voice that might have never left the quarterdeck, and the lads were instantly brought back to their duty. All else appeared to be in order; a man was examining his left hand, that appeared to be lacking a number of fingers, and there was some sort of argument going on within a nearby gun crew, which was instantly quelled by the strict voice of authority. Apart from that, Ross decided, the lower battery had got off remarkably lightly. Two men appeared to be missing from number eight, but the gun was being served well enough by its remaining crew. Then, even before he was considering it time, the first of
Prometheus'
thirty-twos fired in reply.

Soon the entire deck was vibrating with the rumble of trucks and erratic, but almost constant, discharges from cannon that Ross was starting to consider his own. He checked through the nearest port: they were hardly moving; apparently the captain had hauled in their wind, so now it was all down to the speed of his gunners.

Another broadside was received from the French, again simultaneous, and again the lower deck did not suffer greatly, although Ross heard the extended crash and clatter from above that might be falling tophamper. But the mere fact that the enemy was not trusting their gunners to fire independently was a strong indication of their lack of practice, and Ross was growing increasingly confident as he prowled behind his straining teams.

“You there, Carter,” he bellowed, just as the nearest cannon erupted, adding, “make up as shot-and-wad man on number seven,” when the deafening noise had subsided. The curly, red-haired Londoner who was part of a full team obediently presented himself to Hill, now down to five servers, and soon became integrated within his unit.

Once more there was a lack of fire from further forward; a larboard gun had been hit muzzle on, and was lying diagonally across the deck, with the remains of some who had attended it sprawled ungainly about. Hurle, one of the gunner's mates, was bellowing at a group of powder monkeys. Debris was scattered across the deck and the boys were finding it hard to pass. As Ross watched, the petty officer organised an improvised human chain that covered the explosives' final journey; the boys would be able to remain relatively stationary, and throw the charges from one to the other, rather than running with them. It was a method that had worked on previous occasions and he was glad to see Hurle resorting to it without reference to him. As soon as the charges were reaching their rightful place, Ross gave a wave of thanks to the gunner's mate. The gesture was returned by Hurle with a nod, followed by the briefest touch of his forehead that owed nothing to irony.

* * *

B
ut none of this mattered to those on the quarterdeck; as far as the officers, now gathered about the larboard bulwark were concerned,
Prometheus
was simply fighting well. Long guns from both upper and lower batteries were keeping up an incessant pounding that was supplemented in no small way by the forecastle and quarterdeck carronades. Even her marines, rigid lined yet firing independently, seemed to be sniping effectively at any hint of movement on their opponent's deck. The flickering flares from British cannon fire cast the scene in an unearthly, ever changing, light and it was obvious to all that the French broadsides, still simultaneous even this deep into the action, were becoming slower, and less blinding.
Prometheus
was missing her jib boom, and the lower mainmast had been struck by a heavy round shot that remained partially embedded in its mass. But Banks had long since discounted any further movement; they could be kept on station easily enough with what sail-power remained and he had no wish or need to board while they could continue to hand out such a drubbing.