Rapscallion (10 page)

"They'll
have access to arms," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur
nodded.
"Undoubtedly.
There'll be an armoury
chest: pistols and muskets; cutlasses too, probably." The privateer
captain fell silent.

On
the gun deck, Hawkwood was surprised by the number of pedlars foraging for
business among their fellow prisoners. In their search for both buyers and
sellers, they were as persistent as any he'd encountered under the arches of
Covent Garden or the Haymarket. The number of men willing to trade away their
belongings appeared to be substantial, though from their pitiful appearance, it
wasn't hard to see why. Watching the transactions, Hawkwood didn't know which
depressed him most: the fact that these men had been reduced to such
penury,
or the pathetically grateful expressions on their
faces when a bargain was struck. Several of the prisoners who'd arrived the
previous day were handing over items of clothing in exchange for coinage. They
did it furtively, as if shamed by their actions. Hawkwood assumed the money
would be used to purchase extra food, a commodity that had become a currency in
its own right.

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 put 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.