The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (6 page)

His mess had assembled at the foot of the main companionway as the bell began to strike and were half way to the upper deck before it finished.

“Fo'c'sle's the problem,” Flint told him as they emerged into the full sun of a June morning. “Payed the seams over old oakum, they did, the robbers. Job looked fine, but started to weep as soon as we was in the basin.”

“Downright liberty,” Ross exclaimed, genuinely shocked.

The was a hint of laughter from one of the men behind and Flint gave Ross a sidelong glance. “Aye, that's as maybe,” he agreed cautiously. “So now it's all got to be picked out an' begun again, just so they could move the barky on a day earlier.”

Ross followed Flint along the main deck and up the forecastle ladder. Much had been cleared away; both chase cannon were missing, and there was a distinct lack of the down lines and halyards usually found in the area. But instead the deck was crowded with the paraphernalia of caulking. Oakum lay in roughly rubbed lines, and there was a positive pile of metal prickers, pullers and various sizes and types of caulking irons, together with waste tow, pitch kettles and mysterious brown glass bottles, sealed with metal stoppers. A brazier smouldered beneath a small cauldron and the air was already rich with the smell of hot pitch and spirits of turpentine.

To starboard, the strakes were scraped clean, with neat dark lines of fresh pitch dividing them, while those to larboard lay covered by a tarpaulin. As Ross watched, Jameson and another hand removed this to reveal the ragged and uneven edges of three un-caulked planks next to a bank of several that had been rather poorly sealed. Three of Flint's men immediately set to, teasing the tar and old oakum out of these, while another stoked up the brazier and two more started to heat the long handled metal loggerheads that would be needed to keep the fresh pitch warm.

“Have you a hand with a caulking iron?” Flint asked Ross. “If not, you could make yourself busy as a sweeper.”

“I've not used an iron before, but have seen it done,” Ross told him seriously. “And would be glad to try, if you give me leave.”

“Good of you, I'm sure,” Flint grinned, collecting a wooden mallet and handing it across. “And you may consider my leave granted.”

Ross took the maul feeling mildly foolish; he really must modify his way of speaking or become a laughing stock for the entire mess. Kneeling down, the deck felt hard through the thin cloth of his trousers, but he was far too concerned with the job before him to worry about anything so mundane. He had seen caulking done a thousand times, and knew the procedure well, although this was his first opportunity to actually attempt it.

Filling the gaps between strakes with tightly packed hemp helped preserve the rigidity of the deck, and thus stiffened the ship itself, while a fresh coating of pitch would make all sound and watertight. He collected a long sausage of rubbed oakum from the pile, and laid it over a freshly cleared seam. Pickling up an iron, Ross tapped it gently with his mallet, watching as the twisted fibres were forced into the void. It was actually a simple and satisfying procedure, and soon he found himself making distinct progress along the line.

“Keep all tight and even,” a voice told him from above, and Ross took this as encouragement – had he been making a total ham of it, Flint would never have just stood there commenting. For the first time in an age he actually began to enjoy himself, and there was even a modicum of satisfaction in the work; another thing that had been distinctly lacking in his new life until then. He finished the seam, and looked along it with critical satisfaction, before shuffling back to the next, giving those with the caulking kettles room to work.

“Nice effort, that,” an anonymous comment came from the direction of the brazier. “Reckon that man was born to be a caulker.”

Mildly encouraged, Ross addressed himself to the new seam. It was tighter, and he decided would not need quite so much oakum, but still the amount he took was slightly too great. The residue spilled out, although Ross felt confident it could be pressed back in place, and collected the hammer. But his iron slipped on the excess fibres, and he struck his own hand painfully.

Ross said nothing, even forgoing to swear as he was not totally certain what oaths or profanities would be in keeping with his new status. But the voices from afar could be heard quite plainly.

“Did you see that?” one asked. “The cull struck his paw a nasty.”

“Aye,” another replied, with a distinct lack of sympathy. “Ask me, it were a downright liberty...”

––––––––

“B
utler,” the master at arms repeated thoughtfully as he indicated the space where he must sign. “Thought I recognised the phyz – we was aboard
Vanguard
together
, '
less I'm much mistaken.” The seaman, who was still slightly damp from his dip in the harbour, pulled a sour expression. Not much more than twenty four hours ago he had been on the books of a homebound transport, with no intention of ever serving in the Royal Navy again.

“An' I remember your face an' all, Mr Saunders.” he said, with a slight emphasis on the title. “Thought to have seen the last of it though, as you did mine, I've no doubt. Never did get on, did we?”

The master at arms retained his customary set countenance, although the memories were coming back and they were not all bad. “Well that's as maybe, but there's no cause to open old wounds. It seems we're to be shipmates again,” he said, checking the entry. “And might as well make the best of it.”

Butler handed back the pen and went to move away. He supposed the Navy had caught him: he had made his mark on the muster, and there was very little to be done other than accept matters. But meeting with a former shipmate, even one as miserable as this particular Jimmy Leggs had encouraged him to some extent, and he turned back to the master at arms with a more contrite expression.

“Look, I know we've had our differences, and none of this is down to you, as such, but I've just come back from a trip to New 'olland, and ain't seen my home nor nothing.”

“Is that right?” Saunders asked, his eyes ever cold.

“True as I'm standin' here,” Butler assured him. “Pressing tender caught us off Berry Head, stripped the barky of her crew, and left a bunch of useless ticket men in their place. We ain't even docked, an' all I've got to show for two years' work is a Navy promise.”

“That's sad,” the master at arms assured him, although few could have guessed his true feelings.

Butler eyed the warrant officer cagily. He held out very little hope of his story being accepted, but even this one final try was worth the effort. “Last time I saw me wife she were with child,” he continued. “It had been a straight passage out, so there weren't no mail waiting for us in Sydney, an' we never called back – the chit'll be walking b'now.”

“That's probably the case,” Saunders agreed sagely. “And likely with a brother or sister or two ta keep it company...”

Butler was now glaring with pure hatred.

“I'm not sayin' I don't feels for you,” Saunders said, his tone softening slightly as he noticed the man's change of expression. “But you won't find many aboard who ain't got some form of sorry tale to tell. With any nous you'd have volunteered whilst aboard the tender. Every pressed man gets the chance, and there'd have been clink to send your woman. As it is, you're pressed, so won't see a glimpse of coin for six months or more. And no one says you 'as to like it.”

* * *

L
ieutenant Lewis glanced at the front door of the tavern with a mixture of apprehension and loathing, before ducking back behind the wall of straw once more. This was not his favourite duty; he had disliked being a member of a press gang when a regular hand and, after several years of advancement, found being forced to lead one no more pleasant. But now he had reached the dizzy heights of lieutenant, Lewis also understood the necessity.

Should
Prometheus
remain in her undermanned state she would not be able to sail: it could hardly be more simple. And the ramifications went deeper. For a captain to be revealed as unable to raise a crew would be a very public black mark against him, with the stigma being shared equally amongst the officers he commanded. Lewis, whose uniform was both new and unpaid for, would be lucky to find another seagoing berth. Half pay when not employed was a newly acquired luxury, but one that would not see him far, or free of his current level of debt.

So, unpleasant or not, the work had to be done and, if the information obtained from the old woman was correct, at least they should come away with a good number of able men. And there might be added consolation in the knowledge that he was also solving another problem. If there really was a gang of smugglers meeting tonight, he would not only be claiming valuable bodies for the Navy, but also eradicating a few of the parasites that currently sapped the lifeblood from his country.

As a sea officer, Lewis would hardly be affected by a reduction in what the public liked to call free traders, while most who benefited from his actions might probably never know, or recognise the fact. But the old woman would. They had not spoken for more than five minutes, but Lewis hoped her business would survive. And, being of a genial nature, the concept of two birds being killed by one stone appealed, even if he were only to benefit directly from one.

He and his men had been watching the place for over an hour from the privacy of the livery stable across the lane. From their point of view, it appeared a normal country inn; one of three in the village and, being less than three miles from the sea all were strongly biased in favour of the sailing man. It was even likely that the landlord came from similar stock; many, if not most, lower deck hands harboured a desire to open just such an establishment if their luck turned. And it was not so far fetched a dream; with prize money a constant possibility, it might take little more than a single afternoon's work to acquire the necessary funds. Maybe just a minor action, or the luck to be on hand when an enemy convoy was taken. Or simply snaring a single rich merchant when theirs was the only ship in sight.

The seaman's share of any prize would be notoriously small, when compared with that paid to commissioned and flag officers, but these were desperate times, and of late more than a few enemy vessels had been caught carrying cargoes of unheard value. Even a tiny portion of such a capture could turn a tidy sum. Such riches might come at less than a couple of hours' notice and, however slow or bad the official pay, knowledge of the possibility was all that kept many foremast Jacks from utter despair.

Once the lucky man was so provided for and his premises secured, be it pot house, inn or tavern, he could say goodbye to the sea for ever. As a freeholder, he would be legally immune from the press, while his past experience must make the place a favourite amongst other salty types. Often these would be men equally lucky in funds, but with ambitions that extended only as far as several nights' complete oblivion. They would be pleased to empty their purse into the hands of a former shipmate, spending their hard earned coin in an orgy of wanton excess that covered every one of the primary deadly sins, with a few more thrown in for good measure.

Knowledge of what a beached seaman liked best could make a landlord comfortably off, and many were content to be so, even at the expense of their former colleagues. Once established and with staff installed, the business could just about run itself, and had the advantage of being totally legal. And, for those who wanted even more and did not mind a little risk, there were further ways in which additional wealth could be achieved.

Smuggling was the most logical. Many of the usual seaman's skills were required, as was the raw courage and outright temerity common amongst lower deck men. Substantial funds could be made with relatively little risk, the force of revenue officers and preventive men being so small in times of war that a determined runner was more likely to encounter shipwreck or foundering than seizure.

And from what Lewis' informant had passed on, this was one such instance. Being so near to a naval base, the tavern would have been regularly visited by the press, so any seaman found inside was likely to carry a protection. But now that it was growing dark, and most honest souls were on their way to bed, if not already inside, Lewis was reasonable certain of finding a rich haul of men ripe for impressment. And these would be bright, alert, fit young men, rather than the landsmen or fools that had made up much of the press gang's haul of late. For, by their nature, smugglers were not only acquainted with the sea, but enterprising enough to make a sizeable living from it.

Lewis was about to take a further look, but quickly dived back behind his cover as yet another visitor approached. This one was riding a horse; the third to have come so, and he tensed once more in case the animal should be brought over to shelter in the yard. But it was a pleasant enough night, and the beast was left to steam companionably next to its fellows. In time of war, for an ordinary man to afford a mount was as clear an indication as any that his business was lucrative. Lewis drew comfort from the thought they would not be arresting paupers, but rich men of business who were probably deserving of such a fate. He motioned briefly to Clement, a boatswain's mate, who was the official look out, then settled himself down with the rest of the men to wait.

His watch told him there was less than a quarter of an hour to go until the time when all should have assembled. The other seamen were yarning quietly while Chivers, the midshipman, checked the priming of his pistol for the ninth time that evening.

“Will we be takin' them on to the Rondy, sir?” one of the men chanced. Lewis turned to see it was a seasoned hand, and one he had served with in several other ships before.

“No, Jenkins,” Lewis replied softly. “I don't intend keeping any on land for longer than we need.” The others drew near to hear as he continued, and Lewis supposed it as good a time as any for a final briefing.

“Remember we want seamen, not gentry. They may well be free traders, but we ain't gobblers or landsharks and look only for those who will be of use aboard ship.”