Free The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) by Alaric Bond

look forward to was an immediate return trip to England. Most were philosophical enough to take such an outcome well, with only a few showing more than a degree of bitterness or disappointment. But any resentment was dwarfed by that exhibited by Lady Hatcher.
    From the outset it was made clear that she blamed the captain personally for the loss of her husband, and there had been stony silences at the dining table together with rapid departures from the quarterdeck whenever he had the temerity to show his face until, by unspoken agreement, her meals began to be taken in solitary splendour in the great cabin after the usual dining hour. It also became common for her late husband's servant to enquire of Thompson, the captain's steward, exactly when Sir Richard might be free of the deck, to allow her to take the air in private: an arrangement that Banks was happy to co-operate with whenever possible.
    Nothing more had been said of her accusations and he felt he had disguised the fact that they continued to concern him. He had however noted that others, his officers and specifically Sarah, were not quite so blasé. Lady Hatcher clearly attracted influence as easily as she did money, and however sound Banks' reputation, mud was inclined to stick. Normally such accusations might also have been supported by the crew. The average British sailor was known for his sentimental tendencies and, when asked to choose between a blousy yet arguably attractive widow against the man who had the power to see any of their backs stripped to the bone at a grating, some undercurrent of support could be expected. But, in that respect at least, Banks, and his officers were fortunate and felt they could count upon the men's support. Lady Hatcher might be of common stock, but the adoption of a title had wiped away any loyalty she may have expected from the lower deck. Her behaviour with the cabin stewards and anyone else unfortunate enough to enter her web had also not gone unreported and, however mawkish the crew might appear at times, few could feel any great sympathy for her. To them, a supposed lady who indulged in so many of their own vices was more a subject of derision than pity.
    “Was there anything else, Captain?”
    Banks realised his mind had wandered, and he must have been staring aimlessly while the sailing master waited.
    “No, Mr Fraiser. Thank you: that will be all.”
    The elderly warrant officer made as if to return below, then stopped at the mouth of the quarterdeck ladder.
    “If it is of any assistance I would say the weather will hold, sir,” he said. “At least until the end of the afternoon.”
    Banks was momentarily taken aback. “In what way will that help, Mr Fraiser?”
    The sailing master lowered his head slightly. “I had assumed you were planning celebrations: for the passing of the line, sir. And I guessed that was why you sent for me.”
    The man was quite right: Banks had completely forgotten, so lost was he in his own thoughts. He glanced up at the sky and felt the wind on his freshly shaven cheek; the morning had certainly dawned bright and clear and, although the sun was hardly over the rim of the horizon, it was already hot.
    “Why yes, master, that was exactly what I had in mind.” It wasn't the first time the older man had effectively read his thoughts. “So you would say that we should go ahead with the ceremony?”
    Fraiser took a step nearer his captain, and his face relaxed into what might generously be called a smile. “You'll excuse me, sir, but as a Christian man I can have little truck with such superstitions.”
    Banks said nothing. His own faith was far less defined than Fraiser's although, in a largely God-fearing world, it was usually better not to admit as much.
    “But I accept that to some they are important, and if it has to be done, today would be as good as any.”
    Most of Scylla 's people were seasoned hands, yet a good few would not have travelled south before and the ritual of