Rapscallion (39 page)

So
damned simple, Hawkwood thought. And as long as the prisoners kept their nerve
and the guards didn't discover the trick, there was no reason it couldn't be
used time and time again.

Hawkwood
presumed Murat and the others had planned to conceal his and Lasseur's escape
using the same method, after transferring the two substitute bodies from their bunks
back into the side cabin to await the next burial party. Then he realized the
ruse would only have worked if the militia guards failed to notice their
absence for a while, which didn't seem a likely scenario, given Hellard's
decision to transfer Hawkwood and

Lasseur
to the
Sampson.
In fact, the
early discovery of their escape had prevented the miscounting ruse from being
used, which was probably a good thing in the long run, lessening the risk of
the holes in the decks being discovered, at least until after the next
successful escape.

Souville
and Le Jeune had employed almost the same method to escape from the
Bristol.
Using similar
tools they had cut a hole in the side of the hulk close to the waterline, below
the level of the sentry walkway. It had taken
them
four weeks to fashion and stain a square of timber to place over the hole to
hide their handiwork and to cut through the hull. They'd jumped ship under the
cover of darkness then made their way to shore and a pre-arranged rendezvous
with one of Morgan's intermediaries.

"By
the way," Rousseau said, addressing Lasseur. "If you want funny, ask
Louis how he escaped."

Beaudouin
looked about seventeen but was probably in his mid twenties. A thin moustache
that left the impression it had been drawn on with a pencil was stuck
precariously to his upper lip.

"How
did
you get
away?" Lasseur asked.

Beaudouin
grinned.
"In a very fetching blue bonnet."

To
Hawkwood and Lasseur's amazement, Beaudouin told them that the
Brunswick
had become one
of Chatham's main attractions. For a small charge, local boatmen, in collusion
with the hulk's commander, would row visitors out to the ship at regular
intervals. They would be escorted up to the quarterdeck and from this vantage
point,
they could look upon the prisoners in the well deck
below. Even more astonishing was the fact that many of the sightseers were
female, which had given Beaudouin his idea.

Desperate
to find ways of occupying time on board the hulk, the
Brunswick's
prisoners had
formed a theatre group, performing short plays, written by themselves, for the
pleasure of their fellow inmates. The culmination of their efforts had been the
staging of a swashbuckling melodrama involving a pirate and his
lady
.

"I
played the lady," Beaudouin said, "because of my angelic looks. Of
course, I didn't have the moustache at the time," he added seriously.

The
acting troupe had made its own costumes. The manufacture of female attire,
however, had proved difficult, so an appeal had gone out to the
ladies
of Chatham. Donations had arrived by the sackload.
Thus Beaudouin had his disguise; all he'd needed was an opportunity.

Picking
his moment on the day of a visit, Beaudouin had secreted himself close to a
stairway and hatch leading to the quarterdeck, merging with the departing visitors,
petticoat rustling, with a handkerchief to his face as if overcome by the smell
of the ship and the misery he had just witnessed. The most nerve-racking moment
had been fending off the advances of one of the militia guards, who'd mistaken
Beaudouin's attempt to hide his face for coquettish flirting.

"I
wouldn't have minded so much," Beaudouin said, with a smile, "but the
oaf had a face like a shovel." He turned to Leberte, a trim man with
well-tended side whiskers and a flamboyant moustache that put Beaudouin's
effort to shame.
"Pierre - why don't you tell them how
you
did it?"

The
others grinned.

Leberte's
escape had been spectacular for several reasons. He had achieved his freedom
from the
Buckingham
after watching
the movement of the sentries on the outside gangway. Leberte had timed how long
the sentry took to march the length of the gantry and how long his back was
turned. His next task had been to "accidentally" drop a cabbage from
the ship's rail and time its fall. Then he waited for high tide. When the
sentry turned to retrace his steps along the walkway, Leberte made his dive for
freedom.

It
had been late afternoon and Leberte's plunge over the side of the forecastle
had taken everyone by surprise, even his fellow prisoners. By the time the militia
had recovered from the shock and collected their wits, Leberte had swum under
the hull of the ship to the bow, where, using a breathing tube fashioned from a
hollowed-out length of sheep bone he'd procured from one of the galley cooks
under the pretence that he was making himself a bone flute, he had remained
submerged until the search for his body had moved away from the hulk into the
further reaches of the river. After which, at dusk, he had made his way ashore
and into hiding.

"Tell
them the best bit," Beaudouin grinned.

It
hadn't been the cold water or sucking in air through the narrow tube that had
taxed Leberte's resolve, it had been the awful knowledge that he'd taken
shelter directly below the ship's heads.

Lasseur
held up his hand and said hastily, "Thank you, my friend. There's no need
to elaborate."

Leberte
was a lieutenant in the 93rd Regiment d'Infanterie de Ligne and the only other
non seaman present. Unlike the British, the French Navy didn't have marines.
That function was performed by regular infantry units acting under the auspices
of the Ministere de la Marine. Leberte had been in charge of a unit on a
frigate, the
Navarre,
when he'd been taken prisoner in a skirmish off Ushant.

He'd
been on the run for two weeks prior to arriving at the Haunt, living in
thickets and under hedges, stealing food from fields and orchards before taking
shelter in a barn, where his presence had finally been discovered. A weary
Leberte had thrown himself upon the mercy of the farmer. Fearful that a search
of his property would reveal the two dozen tubs of brandy and three bales of
tobacco hidden in his cellar, the farmer had run not to the authorities but to
Ezekiel Morgan, who, true to his reputation as a businessman, had informed
Leberte that the only obstacle confronting his safe return to France was the
fee for his transport.

Fortunately,
Leberte's wife's family had money. The transaction had been brokered through
Fector's Bank in Dover with, Hawkwood assumed, the assistance of Morgan's tame
accountant.

It
was fortunate, Hawkwood thought, that Leberte had had the means to pay for his
passage home. He wondered what the lieutenant's fate might have been had that
not been the case.

Leberte
shrugged philosophically when Hawkwood posed the question. "Then I would
have had to make my own way, wouldn't I?" he said.

The
other seven had been Morgan's guests for differing lengths of time. Rousseau
and Denard had been at the Haunt the longest, nearly five weeks, which fitted
in, Hawkwood calculated, with Ludd's own records. All of them had been given
refuge by farmers in the area, though Hawkwood and Lasseur were the only ones
that had stayed with Jess Flynn.

As
Hawkwood listened to the men's accounts, the extent of Morgan's reach became
clear. With the exception of Leberte, who'd acted on his own initiative, all
the other escapers from the hulks had had their route to freedom pre-arranged
by prisoners' committee and Morgan's network of informers.

Rousseau
and Denard, who had had the advantage of being ashore already, had engineered
their flight following a direct approach by the
landlord
of their lodging house, further evidence of Morgan's sphere of influence.

"Why
haven't you been moved on to the coast?" Hawkwood asked. He threw a look
at Lasseur as he said this.

"Too
dangerous."
It was Denard
who answered. "The British have been increasing their coastal patrols.
We've been waiting for the right time." He shrugged. "Leastways,
that's what they told us up until a couple of days ago."

"What
do you mean?" Hawkwood asked.

Denard
exchanged glances with the men around him. He turned back. "We were told
our passage home had finally been arranged and that it was only a few days
away, but there was something they wanted our help with first. When we asked
our friend Morgan what sort of help, he laughed and told us he had something up
his sleeve that would bring the colour back to our cheeks."

"He
didn't tell you what it was?"

Denard
shook his head. "Still, things could have been a lot worse. At least here
we've been given food and shelter, so it's comfortable enough. Better than
those bloody ships, I can tell you that."

"But
it's not home," Souville said. "We're tired of waiting. We've all
paid our fee. We just want to go home."

There
was a collective nodding of heads.

"What
about you and Captain Lasseur?" Rousseau asked.

"We
think we're going to be offered the same proposal," Hawkwood said.

"And
you don't know what it is either?"

And
then the door opened and Morgan and Pepper walked in. Leberte said, sotto voce,
"I think we may be about to find out."

The
men looked on expectantly as Ezekiel Morgan strode briskly to the head of the
table and viewed the room, Pepper at his shoulder.

Morgan
spoke in French. "Good morning, gentlemen." He glanced towards
Hawkwood. "I trust you've no objections, Captain Hooper? I know you have a
command of the language, whereas some of your fellow travellers have no
English. It will make it easier for all of us."

Morgan's
accent was very good; acquired, Hawkwood presumed, from a lifetime's trading
with the other side of the Channel. Looking at Pepper's face and the calm way
he was surveying the room, Hawkwood suspected Morgan's lieutenant was just as fluent.

"Thank
you, Captain." Morgan scanned the men seated at the table.
"So, gentlemen, to business.
I know that it hasn't been
easy being separated from your loved ones and, though you've all shown great
patience, you've been wondering about the delay in sending you home.
My apologies for that.
I think it's about time I explained
myself, don't you?"

Morgan
turned to Pepper and held out his hand. Pepper reached inside his coat and
extracted a small bag. He handed it to Morgan.

"Thank
you, Cephus."

Morgan
hefted the bag in his hand. There was the unmistakable chink of loose coin.
Morgan loosened the drawstring, turned the bag upside down and let the contents
fall.

A
shower of gold cascaded across the table top.

As
Morgan tossed the bag aside, the men gasped and craned forward.

The
coins were small, a little less than an inch in diameter. The ones that had
landed face up carried the portrait of what looked like a Roman emperor
complete with flowing hair and a crown of laurels. The moon face and the pendulous
jowls, however, were not those of a Roman. The inscription that framed the head
-
GEORGIVS
III
DEI GRATIA
- and the
spade- shaped shield on the reverse side confirmed the bust's identity.
Hawkwood knew immediately what he was looking at. He said nothing, presuming
the others around the table did too.

"Gentlemen,"
Morgan said, "let me tell you about the guinea boats."

Lasseur's
head came up sharply.

Morgan
caught his eye. "You're familiar with the term, Captain Lasseur?"

Lasseur
nodded. "I saw one once." He reached over, picked up one of the coins
and studied it carefully. "It was off Grand Fort-Philippe. A galley; low
in the water, moving very fast."

"Why
don't you tell your compatriots and Captain Hooper what they're used for,"
Morgan said.