The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) by Alaric Bond Page A

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