The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) Read Online Free PDF Page B

father. But while he was relearning social skills at the dining table, and discovering the joys of parenthood, his new command had been in the hands of an Admiralty dockyard. In consequence he now felt rusty and ill-prepared for the task ahead, whereas the tool he was to use had, in theory at least, been cleaned, honed and sharpened to perfection.
    HMS Prometheus was by no means freshly built but, at over sixteen hundred tons, she was undoubtedly large and, when Banks had first paced about her lower decks in the company of his first lieutenant, he had wondered quite what they were taking on. Laid down almost thirty years ago, the battleship's timbers were massive, compared with those of the fifth rate frigate he had last commanded, while her main armament – two full decks of eighteen and thirty-two pound long guns, with additional carronades to forecastle and quarterdeck – was more than sufficient to claim her place in the line-of-battle. It had been like inspecting a cathedral, when he was used to country chapels, and Banks had been suitably humbled.
    But despite her time in dockyard hands, there was still an inherent smell of rot in the bilges and both men were quick to notice many small jobs that should have been attended to, but instead had been botched or simply ignored. From speaking with other captains, Banks already knew this to be common: Lord St Vincent's recent reformations might have been intended to eliminate corruption in his Majesty's dockyards, but their performance had undoubtedly been weakened in the process and it was universally agreed that both the standard of repair, as well as materials used, were far inferior.
    Banks wondered, not for the first time, if he had made the right choice in accepting the line-of-battleship. His recent exploits had earned him a deal of credit with the Admiralty; if he had chosen to stand by Scylla , his old frigate, he might well be in the middle of an independent assignment by now; maybe even a cruise. Britain's declaration of war had taken Bonaparte by surprise coming, as it had, at a time when almost the entire French merchant fleet was at sea. There would have been fortunes to be made for those in the right place, and he had undoubtedly missed out on his share. But Banks was not a greedy man and had already done well with regards to prize money. Ignoring earlier accomplishments, his recent reward for taking one French fifth-rate, sinking two corvettes, and recapturing a Company packet in the South Atlantic had been substantial, and would keep his family comfortably for many years to come. Besides, he had wanted a ship-of-the-line; perhaps it was age, or maybe even marriage and parenthood, but the cut and dash of a frigate no longer appealed and he preferred the sheer might his present command gave him.
    He looked about as he thought. The captain's accommodation in Prometheus was truly sumptuous, with a fine spread of stern windows, a separate sleeping area, and quarter galleries the size of many officers' cabins. His servants, who were numerous, had access to a pantry that would shame most domestic kitchens, while the long dining table that was more or less permanently set up in the great cabin, could seat twelve in comfort and still allow room for other furniture as well as waiting personnel. The spell on land with all that it entailed had made Banks appreciate such luxury and there was no doubt he had also grown portly, both in mind and body. The slight belly that was a new acquisition would doubtless reduce with active service, but attitudes and expectations were a different matter.
    He knew he was no longer a frigate captain; those days had long passed. Smaller ships were for young men; they might be more likely to see action, but little can truly be achieved by capturing a merchant or sinking a privateer. The proper role of a frigate remained to bring fleets of warhorses such as Prometheus into contact with those of the enemy: it was such encounters which made a