Rapscallion (31 page)

Though he knew
it was ridiculous, he opened his eyes to reassure himself he wasn't back on
the gun deck. An irrational wave of relief rushed through him at the sight of
the meadow and the stream and the surrounding woods. He was seated on a log,
his back against the wall of the barn.

He sniffed and
the hairs along the back of his neck lifted. It was then he realized it wasn't
his imagination. The smell
was
there, and the source was a lot
closer to home. It was his own odour he could smell. He was carrying the taint
of the hulk with him. It was in his clothes and it was in his sweat. He sat up,
held his sleeve to his nose, and reeled. He could even smell the mackerel. No
wonder the gravedigger had made them sit at the back of the cart and no wonder
the woman had regarded them with disdain and told them to stay clear of the
house. A wild thought crossed his mind. Was that why everyone had been so eager
to pass them down the line? Was it because each participant in the escape
route had only been able to stand the smell for so long? He sat up quickly.

Lasseur, who had
been dozing beside him, sensed movement and snapped awake fast. "What is
it?" The privateer's eyes flicked towards the tree line.

Hawkwood stood.
"I'm going to take a bath." He walked into the barn and retrieved his
blanket and headed for the stream.

Lasseur watched
him go, a look of bewilderment on his face. He raised his sleeve to expose his
own armpit, inhaled, and recoiled.

The privateer
had always considered himself to be a fastidious man. Maintaining personal
cleanliness at sea wasn't difficult when one was surrounded by water. Taking
care of one's laundry in those circumstances was no great hardship either. The
facilities were certainly better than those of a soldier on the battlefield.
Since his capture by the British, however, all that had changed.

There had been
washing facilities on the hulk but they had been totally inadequate given the
number of prisoners there had been on board. Soap had never been in great
supply. Often there had been none at all. Lasseur's last immersion had been on
the day of his registration, when he and Hawkwood and the rest of them had been
forced into the water barrels on the quarterdeck. Since then soap had been as
much a rarity as fresh fruit.

It was curious and
not a little disturbing how easy it had been to let his standards slip, to the
point that both he and Hooper had become so immune to the smell of the ships,
as prophesied by Murat, that neither of them had noticed their own rank state.

Lasseur looked down
at his clothes. There was no denying they were filthy and in need of a
scrubbing, too. Deciding that just rinsing them in water wouldn't do, he got up
and made his way towards the farmhouse.

The dog was
lying by the door. It stood as Lasseur approached and barked once.

The woman came
around the side of the house, a wicker basket in her arms. There were clothes
in the basket and, behind her, Lasseur could see a washing line strung between
two of the apple trees.

The dog, its
guard duty performed, moved to the woman's side and sat down. Lasseur assumed
it was watching him. It was difficult to make out the animal's eyes behind all
the hair.

The woman's
eyes, in contrast, were perfectly visible. They reflected neither fear nor
friendliness at his presence. She did not speak, but looked at him, one hand
holding the basket, the other resting lightly, almost protectively, on the
dog's head.

Lasseur stopped
ten paces from her. The hair was again hanging loose alongside her cheek, he
noticed. He wondered about her age. There were lines around her eyes. They were
not deeply etched but, without them, Lasseur decided, her face would not have
possessed the same strength of character. She was about thirty, he guessed, and
it occurred to him that his late wife, Marie, had she lived, would have been
the same age. Lasseur was suddenly struck by an overwhelming sense of loss and
longing. He swallowed quickly, wondering if the woman had sensed his momentary
waver.

"Forgive
me, madame. I wonder if you might have some soap. My friend and I would like to
bathe and wash the dirt from our clothes."

He tugged at his
shirt as if to hold it to his nose, and decided to risk a smile.

She did not
respond but continued to gaze at him without speaking. Lasseur was surprised by
how intimidated he felt. Self-consciously, he buttoned his jacket and ran a
hand through his unkempt hair. He wondered just how bad he smelled. He was glad
he hadn't drawn closer.

"Wait
here," she said abruptly. She put down the basket and went into the house.

Lasseur and the
dog regarded each other in silence. All Lasseur could see was a pink tongue
protruding through brown foliage.

Lasseur
squatted. "Hello, Rab. Good dog."

The dog's tail
twitched.

Lasseur snapped
his fingers softly.

A definite wag
this time and what might have been a slight rising of the ears.

Two more snaps.

The dog walked
forward and licked the back of Lasseur's proffered hand. The animal was
obviously not offended by the smell.

Lasseur stood as
the woman came out of the house.

"Here
-" She held out a small bar of soap at arm's length. There was a short
pause. "It's about time."

She stepped away
and picked up the basket.

Lasseur felt
himself redden. "Thank you, madame. I will see it is returned."
Lasseur took the soap and attempted another smile. "He is a fine
dog."

"And easily
distracted."
The woman looked down. What could have been taken as a
flicker of affection passed briefly across her face, or it could have been
Lasseur's imagination.

The dog looked
up at her.

"I have
often found dogs to be excellent judges of character," Lasseur said.

"He's old.
Sometimes he gets confused."

"I know the
feeling," Lasseur said. He gave a brief bow. "Thank you again for the
soap."

The woman nodded
but her gaze remained neutral. Deflated, Lasseur turned away.

The woman and
the dog watched him go. She walked towards the apple trees. Suddenly, she
stopped and looked over her shoulder at the dog, which had not moved. It was
still staring after Lasseur.

"Rab."

The dog wagged
its tail and padded towards her.

"Come on,
you," she said.

She looked
beyond the dog and her eyes followed Lasseur as he disappeared around the back
of the barn.

Hawkwood was
checking his dressings when Lasseur reappeared.

Lasseur grinned
and tossed him the soap.

Hawkwood stared
at him.

"She
definitely likes me," Lasseur said.

"I could
pass away now and die a happy man," Lasseur announced contentedly.

Both men,
blankets around their waists, shirts, undergarments and breeches drying in the
sun, were seated on the bank, ankles submerged in the cool water.

Lasseur reached
over into his jacket and with an exhalation of pleasure drew out his last
cheroot. "I was saving this for a special occasion. I'd say cleaning the
stench of the hulk from my clothes qualifies. What do you think?"

"I think
you should cover yourself up," Hawkwood said. "Your
blanket's
slipping."

Lasseur adjusted
the offending item. "I feel as if I'm wearing one of those damned
togas." Realizing he had no means of lighting the cheroot, he stuck it
between his lips and sucked on it pensively. "I wonder how her husband
died.
The war, perhaps?"
He looked back towards
the house, but the barn was blocking the view.

"If that
was the case," Hawkwood said, "I'd have thought the last people she'd
want around the place would be enemy prisoners of war."

Lasseur took the
cheroot out of his mouth. "You're right. I am an idiot." He looked
around at the barn behind them and the other buildings.

"You could
always ask her," Hawkwood said. "Seeing as she likes you so
much."

"I might
have exaggerated slightly on that score," Lasseur said. He stuck the
cheroot back in his mouth, sucked on it for several seconds before removing it
and rolling it contemplatively between his fingers. "I was thinking
,
this farm is not large. It's smaller than the one my wife
was brought up on. Nevertheless, a place like this takes work. It cannot be an
easy life for a woman alone."

It never was,
Hawkwood thought, though, from what he'd seen, things could have been a lot
worse. She could have been alone in the city, for one thing. Here, it appeared
she had the essentials to hand, a roof over her head and, with the animals and
the produce in the garden, a means of feeding herself that didn't involve
stealing or selling her body on the nearest street corner, wherever that was.

There had been
no sign of the man called Thomas. Hawkwood wondered about that.

In the time they
had been on the farm, she had barely spoken to them, even when delivering their
meals, which she carried to the barn in a basket. He considered her attitude.
From the beginning, it had not been exactly welcoming. She'd treated their
arrival as an imposition. He had the impression that would have been the case
even if she'd taken the two of them for Englishmen. The others who had helped
them - the shepherd, the innkeeper, the sea captain and the gravedigger - had
been considerably less reticent; probably because all of them earned a living
from operating outside the law and had, if not a hatred for authority, then
certainly ambivalence towards it. As the seaman, Gideon, had said, they were
just another unlawful cargo.

But why would a
woman involve herself in the business of helping repatriate enemies of her
country? She had sounded a reluctant hoarder of contraband, too, judging by her
exchange with the gravedigger.

He wondered who
Morgan was. Mention of the tubs implied he was part of the smuggling
fraternity, but of what rank? Was he someone of importance or merely the next
man down the line?

Either way,
Ludd's conviction that free traders were aiding escaped prisoners had been
proved correct, but even Ludd couldn't have envisaged the degree of planning
that must be involved. There were obviously keen brains working behind the
scenes.
But whose?

Hawkwood reached
for his shirt and breeches. They were already dry. He put them on. Lasseur
followed suit.

"I wonder
what happens next," Lasseur said as he pulled on his boots. "How long
are we likely to be here, do you think?"

"It might
be for some time. The British have the Sleeve sewn up pretty tight with their
blockade." The nickname had come easily to him though Hawkwood had never
understood why the French name for the Channel had come from an article of
clothing.

"But the
smugglers come and go," Lasseur pointed out.

"The
penalty for helping escapers is probably greater,"

Hawkwood said.
"It's close to treason. They wouldn't want to risk it unless they were
sure."

Hawkwood knew
that a physically fit seaman caught during the seizure of a smuggling vessel
faced impressment into the navy. The penalty for helping prisoners to escape
was transportation, possibly for life. No smuggler would risk a dash across
the Channel with escaped prisoners in tow unless he was confident of success.

Lasseur nodded
glumly.

"Don't look
so downhearted," Hawkwood said. "It's only been a couple of days and
anywhere's better than that stinking ship."

Lasseur sucked
on his cheroot. Then he clapped Hawkwood on the shoulder. "You're right,
my friend. We have the fresh air, the sky above our heads and moderately clean
shirts on our backs. If I was on the deck of my ship, life would almost be
perfect."

Hawkwood closed
his eyes and let the afternoon sun play across his face.

"I dreamt
about Lucien," Lasseur said.

Hawkwood opened
his eyes.

He'd known there
was something preying on Lasseur's mind. The Frenchman had been restless all
night. Hawkwood knew that because his own sleep had been fitful and, in the
silence of the barn, in the gaps between waking and sleeping he had listened to
Lasseur toss and turn through most of the early hours.

"He saw his
father die," Lasseur said. "It was why he was on his own. He was a
cabin boy on his father's fishing boat. They were surprised by an English
cutter. They lowered sail, but for some reason the cutter captain decided to
have some sport. He turned his guns on them and blew them out of the water.
Lucien's father was killed by a flying splinter. One crew member went down with
the boat, the other man was taken, but they got separated. I suspect he was transferred
to a different prison ship." Lasseur fell silent and then said, "If
we hadn't interfered, he'd still be alive."

"As a
plaything for Matisse and his crew," Hawkwood said. "They'd have used
him and discarded him when the next pretty boy came along."