Rapscallion

by James McGee

  Lasseur read his thoughts. "I was talking with our friend Sebastien earlier. He told me that when he was at Portsmouth one of the men on the Vengeance set up his own restaurant and became rich selling slop by the bowl. Wherever there's a shortage of something, there's money to be made."

  "Lieutenant Murat would probably agree with you," Hawkwood said.

  "Ah, yes, our intrepid interpreter. Now there's a man worth cultivating."

  "You trust him?"

  "About as far as I can spit."

  "That far?" Hawkwood said.

  Lasseur laughed.

  Hawkwood's attention was diverted by one of the small groups occupying sections of bench over by the starboard gun ports. It was the teacher, Fouchet, and his morning class. His pupils - half a dozen in total - were seated on the floor at his feet. The boy Lucien was with them. He looked to be the youngest. The eldest was about fourteen. Fouchet caught Hawkwood's eye and smiled a greeting. His pupils did not look up.

  There were some two score boys on Rapacious, Fouchet had told him, ranging in age from ten to sixteen. The practice was not exceptional. Fouchet's previous ship, the Suffolk, had held over fifty boys, some as young as nine. Hawkwood had wondered briefly about the Transport Board's wisdom in confining children with the men. But then, the Royal Navy employed boys not much older than the ones attending Fouchet's class as midshipmen and runners for their gun crews, and so presumably saw nothing unusual in sending innocents like Lucien Ballard to face the horrors of life on board a prison hulk. Hawkwood had a vague notion that Nelson had been around the same age as Lucien when he'd gone to sea. He was reminded of some of the street children he employed as informers. Age had never been a consideration there. The only criteria he'd set during their recruitment were that they were fleet of foot, knew the streets, and kept their eyes and ears open.

  "My son is twelve," Lasseur said quietly. The privateer captain was also looking towards the group by the gun port.

  "Where is he?" Hawkwood asked.

  Lasseur continued to watch the class. "With his grandparents in Geveze. It's near Rennes. They have a farm."

  "Your mother and father?"

  Lasseur paused. "I'm an orphan. They're my wife's parents. She died."

  Hawkwood kept silent.

  "She fell from her horse. She loved to ride, especially in the early morning." The Frenchman swallowed and for a second time the mask slipped. "I've not seen my son for three months. They send me letters. They tell me he attends school and is good at his lessons and that he likes animals." A small smile flitted across the Frenchman's face. "His name is Francois." Lasseur turned. "You have a wife, children?"

  "No," Hawkwood said.

  "A woman?Someone waiting for you?"

  Hawkwood thought about Maddie Teague and wondered if she'd ever viewed herself in that role; lonely and pining for her man. He didn't think so, somehow. Maddie was too independent for that. He had a sudden vision of her lying beside him, auburn hair spread across the pillow, emerald-green eyes flashing, a mischievous smile playing across her lips.

  "Ah!" Lasseur smiled perceptively. "The look on your face tells me. She is beautiful?"

  "Yes," Hawkwood said. "Yes, she is."

  Lasseur looked suddenly serious. "Then I'd say we both have a reason to escape this place, wouldn't you?"

  "As long as it's not inside a bloody water barrel."

  "There'll be other ways," Lasseur said firmly. "All we have to do is find them. Fouchet said there've been a few who've done it. Maybe we should ask him how they did it."

  "Maybe we should ask somebody who's a bit more devious," Hawkwood said.

  Lasseur grinned. "You mean Lieutenant Murat?"

  "The very man," Hawkwood said.

  The interpreter frowned. "Forgive me, Captain Hooper, but you may recall I was there at your registration. I understood you were waiting for your parole application to be approved. Why would you still harbour thoughts of escape?"

  "The captain's weighing his options." Lasseur kept his face straight. "No law against that, is there?"

  The interpreter's brow remained furrowed. "Indeed not, but you've only been here a day."

  "So?" Hawkwood said. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

  "Perhaps you should be a little more patient."

  "Patient?" Lasseur said.

  "I've been patient." Hawkwood resisted the urge to wipe the condescending smile from the interpreter's face. "My patience is starting to wear thin."

  "And you've certainly been biding your time, Lieutenant," Lasseur said icily. "How long have you been here? Two years, is it?" The privateer turned down his mouth. "Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea."

  Hawkwood gazed at Murat and gave a slow shake of his head. "We thought you'd be the man to advise us. It looks as if we were wrong." He cast a glance towards Lasseur and shrugged. "Pity."

  "You want to know what I think?" Lasseur murmured. "I think the lieutenant's grown a little too complacent, a little too comfortable. I'm guessing he's never even thought of making a run for it himself. He's making too good a living here." Lasseur threw the interpreter a challenging glare. "That's it, isn't it? In fact, I'd wager you're earning a damned sight more through barter and your interpreter's pay than you were as a naval officer. Got yourself a nice little business here, haven't you? You don't want to leave. Am I right?"

  A nerve pulsed along the interpreter's cheek. "All I'm saying is that it's my understanding these things can take time - weeks, months sometimes."

  "What if we don't want to wait that long?" Hawkwood said.

  "We couldn't help noticing the water delivery earlier," Lasseur said. "We thought that had potential."

  There was a pause. Then the interpreter gave a brief shake of his head. "You can forget the water casks. It did work, but not any more. Nowadays they're the first things they check."

  "Really?" Lasseur said. He threw Hawkwood a look. "So much for that idea."

  "I told you it looked too damned easy," Hawkwood said. "All right, so what about the other deliveries?"

  Lasseur had played the interpreter beautifully. Like a fish caught on a hook, Murat hadn't been able to resist the tug at his vanity. Now, wanting to be considered the font of all knowledge, he shook his head. "That's been tried, too. I told you; the bastards check everything. You'll never get off that way."

  Murat's gaze drifted sideways, distracted by the activity around them. The three men were seated next to one of the portside grilles. Hawkwood assumed it was where Murat slung his hammock, for the interpreter had welcomed his and Lasseur's arrival as if granting them entry into his personal fiefdom. Elsewhere, dotted about the deck, the more industrious inhabitants were engaged in a variety of pursuits. Basket makers, letter writers and knitters squatted alongside bone modellers and barbers. Some worked in silence. Others chatted to their neighbours. The scratch of nib, the snip of scissors and the scrape of blade on bone filled the lulls in conversation. Hawkwood wondered if there'd ever been a time when the hulk had fallen entirely silent. He doubted it.

  "We could use the cover of night," Lasseur said. "Steal a boat."

  Murat shook his head again. "They hoist the boats up alongside. They're at least ten feet above the water. One's kept afloat, but it's secured by a chain from the boarding raft and that's always under guard."

  "Damn." Lasseur bit his lip.

  Hawkwood addressed Murat. "How did the others get off?"

  "Others?"Warily.

  "There have been others, haven't there?" Lasseur pressed.

  There was a noticeable hesitation. An artful look stole over the interpreter's face. "As I said, Captain, you've only been here a short time. You wouldn't expect all our little secrets to be revealed to you quite so soon."

  So, you do have secrets, Hawkwood thought.

  Lasseur's eyebrows rose. "Why, Lieutenant, anyone would think you didn't trust us."

  The interpreter spread his hands. "For a start, there's the matter of the pot. You haven't pu
t anything in yet."

  "Pot?" Lasseur looked to Hawkwood for enlightenment. "What pot? What the devil's he talking about now?"

  "Your friend Fouchet didn't tell you?" Murat said, a half smile forming on his lips.

  "Tell us what?" Hawkwood sat back.

  "There's a contribution taken from our food rations. It's kept back for prisoners on punishment. If anyone disobeys the rules or does damage to the hulk, they're reduced to two-thirds quota. The food we put by is used to help them out."

  "Very generous," Lasseur said. "And maybe a little something's put aside for escapers as well? Is that it?"

  Murat hesitated again.

  "Why, Lieutenant, you sly boots!" Lasseur grinned.

  The interpreter coloured.

  "All right," Hawkwood said. "Let's not piss around here. What's it going to cost?"

  Murat blinked. "What do you mean?"

  "Don't take us for fools, Lieutenant."

  "Think of your commission." Lasseur arched an eyebrow suggestively.

  "And how generous we might be," Hawkwood added.

  A light flickered behind the interpreter's eyes.

  "Well?" Hawkwood prompted, recognizing the bright glint of greed.

  Murat stared at them for a long time. Finally he sighed. "If such a thing could be arranged - and I'm not saying it could - it would not be cheap. There are expenses, you understand."

  Lasseur patted the interpreter's knee. "That's my boy." The privateer turned to Hawkwood and winked. "Didn't I tell you Lieutenant Murat was the man to see?"

  Murat seemed to flinch from the touch, but he recovered quickly.

  Hawkwood leaned forward. "All right, how much?"

  The interpreter hesitated again. Hawkwood suspected he was doing it for effect.

  "Just for the sake of argument," Hawkwood said.

  "For the sake of argument?"

  "The three of us having a little chat, nothing more."

  Murat looked around. Then, in a low voice, he said, "I'm assuming you would not be expecting passage all the way back to America?"

  "You get me as far as French soil and let me worry about the rest."

  Murat sat back. "Very well; four thousand francs, or two hundred English pounds, if you prefer."

  Hawkwood sucked in his breath.

  "Each," Murat finished.

  "God's teeth!" Hawkwood sat back. "We don't want to buy the bloody ship. We just want to get off it. The highest offer I had for my boots was only twenty francs. We'll both be dead from old age or the flux before we'd earned enough. Are you mad?"

  "The price would include all transport, accommodation and safe passage to France."

  "For that sort of money," Hawkwood said, "I'd expect the Emperor to collect me in a golden barge and carry me up the bloody beach when we got there!"

  Lasseur chuckled. Then his face grew serious.

  "How the hell do you expect us to find that sort of money?" Hawkwood demanded.

  The interpreter shook his head. "An agent makes contact with your families. It's they who arrange payment. Once the full fee's been paid, preparations for your departure would begin."

  "How do we get off the ship?"

  Murat smiled. "Come now, gentlemen; I'm sure you understand the need for discretion. The less you know at this stage, the safer it will be for all of us. I would also urge you to keep this conversation to yourselves."

  "You're telling us the walls have ears?" Lasseur asked.

  Murat grimaced. "It's not unknown for the British to plant spies among us, but no, sadly, there have been occasions when betrayal has come from closer to home."

  Hawkwood felt his insides contract.

  "Traitors?" Lasseur said.

  "Not necessarily. You forget, we're not the only nationality on board these hulks. Captain Hooper is proof of that. We've got Danes, Italians, Swedes, Norwegians . . . take your pick. France has many allies. There'll be some who'd look to alleviate their misery by claiming a reward for informing on their fellow prisoners."

  Hawkwood prayed that nothing was showing on his face. At least he'd discovered one thing: if there was an organized escape route, it was only available to the rich. He wondered how deep Bow Street's coffers were and what James Read's reaction would be when Ludd relayed details of the amount involved: four years' salary for a Runner.

  Hawkwood felt Lasseur's hand on his arm.

  He realized the privateer had misinterpreted his silence for doubt when Lasseur said, "You're wondering how you would raise the fee?"

  "It's not the money," Hawkwood said, recovering. "It's making the payment."

  That could prove an interesting exercise, Hawkwood thought, unless Ludd came up with a practical idea during their meeting.

  Lasseur patted Hawkwood's shoulder reassuringly and, to Hawkwood's surprise, said, "No need to fret, my friend." The privateer turned to Murat. "I will cover the fee for Captain Hooper."

  Murat looked momentarily nonplussed, then shrugged, almost dismissively. "Very well."

  "How long will it be before we hear anything?" Lasseur asked.

  "I cannot say. I'll require the name of the person you wish the agent to contact and a note to prove the agent is acting on your behalf. You'll be notified as soon as we receive word that agreement has been reached and payment made." Murat looked at them. "Are the terms acceptable?"

  Lasseur and Hawkwood exchanged looks.

  "For the sake of argument?" Lasseur said. "Perfectly."

  "Well?" Lasseur asked. "What do you think?"

  "I think Lieutenant Murat's a duplicitous bastard," Hawkwood said.

  They were back on the forecastle. The stifling atmosphere below had been too much to bear. They had emerged topsides to find that the breeze, although still persistent, had dropped considerably.

  "I believe we'd already established that," Lasseur said drily, and then frowned. "You're still worrying about the fee, aren't you? As I said, do not concern yourself. You can repay me when we're home."

  "You hardly know me," Hawkwood said.

  "That's true," Lasseur agreed. "But I'm an excellent judge of character. You'll honour the bargain. I know it." The privateer grinned disarmingly. "And if you prove me wrong, I shall cut out your heart and feed it to the pigs."

  "Your wife's parents can find that amount?" Hawkwood asked. He had no idea, but he didn't think a French farmer's income was that high.

  "No." Lasseur shook his head, and then said firmly, "But my men can. The name I gave to the lieutenant was one of my agents."

  "You have agents in England?" Hawkwood said.

  "But of course." Lasseur looked surprised that Hawkwood had even thought to ask. "I have a number in my employ. They keep me advised of British naval movements."

  Hawkwood sensed his preoccupation with the means of payment must still have shown on his face, for Lasseur paused and then said, "What? Don't tell me you were thinking of waiting in case your parole is granted? Forgive me, but I do not see you as a man content to bide his time in an English coffee house waiting for the war to end. You said I don't know you. Well, I do know you're a soldier, and you know both our countries need men like us to continue the fight. That's why we're going to escape from this place. I shall return to my son and my ship. You will return to your woman and your Regiment of Riflemen, and between us we will defeat the British. You will do it for your new country and your President Madison and I will do it for my Emperor and the glory of France. One can never put a fee on patriotism, my friend, and four thousand francs is a small price to pay for victory. What say you?"

  Confronted by Lasseur's earnest expression, Hawkwood forced another grin. "I say when do we leave?"

  Lasseur slapped him on the back.

  It had turned into a fine summer's day. The sunlight and the sharp cries from the gulls circling and diving above them, although plaintive in tone, were a welcome relief after the gloom of the gun deck. Shirts and breeches flapped from the lines strung between the yards. Faint sounds of industry carried from
the dockyard: the ringing clang of a hammer, the rattle of a chain, the rasp of timber being sawn. Out on the river, a pair of frigates, sails billowing like grey clouds, raced each other towards the mouth of the estuary.

  It was only when the eye returned to the deck of the hulk and on across the sterns of the other prison ships visible over her bow that the view was marred. The hulks squatted in the water as if carved from blocks of coal. Plumes of black smoke pumping from their chimney stacks spiralled into the azure sky, proving that darkness could be visited even upon the very brightest of days.

  And as if to emphasize the fact, the calm was shattered by a blood-curdling howl and up on to the already crowded well deck erupted a seething tide of horror.

  From his vantage point on the forecastle Hawkwood saw the throng of prisoners break apart. Sharp cries of panic rang out. He heard Lasseur draw in his breath. He wasn't sure what he was seeing at first. It was like watching beetles swarm over the carcass of a dead animal, except the creatures that were spewing out of the hatches and trampling over the Park were not beetles, they were human, and many of them were naked. Their hair was long and matted; their bodies were daubed with filth. The ones that were not naked might as well have been, for the rags they were wearing were little more than strips of tattered cloth. Some of them, Hawkwood realized, were wearing blankets, which they'd wrapped around themselves like togas. Hissing and screeching, fangs bared, they surged around the other prisoners like a marauding pack of baboons, leaping and prancing and in some cases laying about them with fists and feet. Others were beating mess tins. The noise was ferocious.

  Yells of alarm echoed around the quarterdeck. As the militia gathered their startled wits and hurried to unsling their muskets, a uniformed officer materialized behind them, tall and thin. The dark, cocked hat accentuated his height. It was the commander of the hulk, Lieutenant Hellard. Flanked by the guards, the lieutenant strode quickly to the rail and stared down at the fracas below. His face contorted. Without moving, he rapped out a command. Half a dozen more guards, led by a corporal, appeared at a clattering run from the lean-to on the stern. Their fellow militia, already at the rails and secure in the knowledge that reinforcements had come to support them, drew back the hammers on their muskets. Within seconds, a battery of gun muzzles was aligned along the width of the quarterdeck.