Rapscallion (11 page)

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.

With
the ruction on the Park in full spate, the lieutenant raised his arm. The
corporal barked an order and the militia took aim.

God's
teeth!
Hawkwood thought.
He's going to
do it!

But
the lieutenant did not give the order. Instead he continued to watch the drama
playing out on the deck. The militia guards' fingers played nervously with the
triggers of their guns.

For
two or three minutes the uproar continued. Then, suddenly, as if a signal had
been given, the situation changed. The naked and toga-clad creatures began to
pull back. The other prisoners started to regroup. Several, emboldened by the
sight of the retreating horde, waded into their former tormentors, beating them
towards the open hatchways. Some were wielding sticks. Arms rose and fell.
Cries of pain and anger told where the blows landed. Driven back, the invaders
were disappearing down the stairways from which they had so recently emerged,
like cockroaches scuttling from the light.

Within
seconds, or so it seemed, the attackers had all dispersed. Immediately, several
hands were thrust aloft, palms open; a signal that the prisoners left on deck
had the situation under control. The lieutenant, however, did not move, nor did
he give any indication that he'd even seen the raised hands. Remaining
motionless, he watched the deck. The prisoners stared back at him, chests
heaving. Some were bloody and bruised. A tense silence fell over the Park. A
gull shrieked high above. No one moved. It took another ten seconds before the
lieutenant finally let his arm relax and stepped back. Immediately, the tension
on the well deck evaporated. The militia uncocked and shouldered their muskets.
The reinforcements turned about. The deck guards resumed their posts. The
atmosphere on the well deck settled back into its habitual torpor. The hurt
prisoners retired to lick their wounds.

Hawkwood
discovered he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly.

"What
happened there?" Lasseur breathed. "Who in God's name were
they?"

"Romans,"
a voice said behind them.
"Bastards!"

Hawkwood
and Lasseur turned. It was Charbonneau.

"Romans?"
Hawkwood said, thinking he must have misheard.

"Scum,"
Charbonneau said, his eyes blazing. "They live on the orlop. We don't see
them very often. They prefer the dark. Some of them have been here longer than I
have. We call them Romans from the way they wear their blankets, like togas.
They have other names, but they're still animals. They used to be held in
prisons ashore. Got sent to the hulks as punishment, I was told. Now it's the
rest of us who're suffering - twice over."