The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) Read Free Page A

opposite. The two exchanged the briefest of good mornings. They had only been living in close proximity a matter of days, yet already it was clear they would never become friends.
    “Brought us a fresh hand, did you not?” Davison asked, with more than a hint of condescension as he reached for the teapot. “And an experienced man, by all accounts – how did you chance upon such a prize?” The habitually smug expression grew suddenly wicked as he added: “Been frequenting the nanny houses, have you?” in a softer tone.
    King did not elaborate. Davison was actually ten months younger, but had sat his board and obtained appointment as a lieutenant a whole year ahead of him. Consequently the bright, assured and annoyingly handsome cull was rated second lieutenant to his third, despite the fact that King had served with both Captain Banks and the first lieutenant throughout several previous commissions.
    “Would that be an able seaman?” Caulfield asked, overhearing.
    “Indeed, sir,” Davison confirmed in a louder voice. “Fellow by the name of Ross: he has been allocated to my division. I've yet to speak with the boatswain but fancy we might rate him able.”
    “Excellent,” Caulfield mumbled through a mouth now filled with soft tack.
    “Of course we have yet to see how he performs,” Davison continued. “But I'd chance we may have landed ourselves a regular fo'c'sle man, and the Dear knows we've few enough to speak of.”
    King wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. The volunteer from the previous evening had asked for his history to be kept secret and, in his slightly fuddled state, King had agreed. But now, in the company of fellow officers, he wondered if it had been the right decision.
    There were a number of reasons why a man might be broken at court martial: by their very nature, such tribunals varied greatly. And often those assembled on foreign stations were made up from a small selection of available officers, many of whom may have known the defendant well. Such knowledge meant they could be lenient and indulging, or the exact opposite, and the mere fact that Ross had been treated harshly did not automatically imply guilt. He might simply have found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, or become the victim of a senior officer's spite. But once stripped of his rank and having little understanding of life ashore, even an experienced man may be left with no alternative other than to ship as an ordinary hand.
    Then again, Ross might equally turn out to be a bad apple: someone keen to fill a seaman's mind with twisted truths and resentment. Since the Quota Act of '95, and the vast number of educated criminals consequently sent to serve afloat, the general level of understanding had risen considerably forward of the mast. An average seaman was now not quite so gullible or naïve, while the lower deck remained just as notorious as a place where rumour and tattle-tale could multiply faster than any bed bug. To introduce Ross, who was both bright and potentially brim filled with resentment, into such a fertile environment might prove other than the bonus it appeared.
    But on reflection, King thought not; there had been something about the man that struck him at the time, and did so again even as he considered the subject. Broken he might have been, but Ross retained an air of competence and respectability that would have been drummed into him throughout his progress from cockpit to wardroom. Every officer lives with the eternal fear of mutiny and, however low he may have fallen or unjust his treatment, King sensed that Ross was not one to cause trouble.
    “Did you say his name was Ross?” Donaldson broke in from the other side of the table. “Knew a Ross when I were stationed in India.” King's body went cold, but he looked across with an expression of apparent interest. The red faced marine was well into his fifties: old to be no more than a captain, and at sea. But despite the rheumy eyes and a