Rapscallion (7 page)

Hawkwood shook
his head and said wryly, "Can't say I'm likely to, either, considering I'm
an American and he's the King of Naples."

"I keep
forgetting: your French is very good. Murat's cousin served in Spain,
though."

"I
know," Hawkwood said. "And your army has been trying to clean up his
damned mess ever since."

Lasseur looked taken
aback by Hawkwood's rejoinder. Then he nodded in understanding. "Ah, yes,
the uprising."

It had been back
in '08. In response to Bonaparte's kidnapping of the Spanish royal family in
an attempt to make Spain a French satellite, the Spanish had attacked the
French garrison in Madrid. Retaliation, by troops under the command of the
flamboyant Joachim Murat, had been swift and brutal and had led to a nationwide
insurrection against the invaders, which had continued, with the assistance of
the British, ever since.

Lasseur gave a
sigh. "Kings and generals have much to answer for."

"Presidents
and emperors, too," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur
chuckled.

The boy moved to
the port and stared through the grille.

Hawkwood did the
same. Over the boy's shoulder he could see ships floating at anchor and beyond
them the flat, featureless shoreline and, further off, some anonymous
buildings with blue-grey rooftops. He heard the steady tread of boot heel on
metal. He'd forgotten the walkway. It was just outside the scuttles. He waited
until the guard's shadow had passed then gripped the grille and tried to shake
it. There was no movement. The crossbars were two inches thick and rock solid.

"Well, I
doubt we'll be able to cut our way out," Lasseur said, running an
exploratory hand over the metal.

"Planning
on making a run for it?" Hawkwood asked.

"Why do you
think I would never ask for parole?" Lasseur said. "You wouldn't want
me to break my word, would you?" The Frenchman grinned and, for a moment,
there was a flash of the man who had arrived in the gaol cell at Maidstone
looking for a means to light his cheroot. He regarded Hawkwood speculatively.

"I'm still
considering my options," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur
chuckled.

The irony was
that Lasseur wouldn't have been entitled to parole anyway, even if he hadn't
already proved he was a potential escape risk by virtue of his earlier breaks
for freedom.

There were
stringent rules governing the granting of parole, which entitled an officer to
live outside the prison to which he'd been assigned. It meant securing
accommodation in a designated parole town, sometimes taking a room with a local
family or, if possessed of sufficient funds, within a lodging house or inn. In
return, the officer gave his word he would not break his curfew but would
remain within the town limits and make no attempt to escape. The penalty for
transgressing, if apprehended, was a swift return to a prison cell.

The rules were
stricter for men like Lasseur. A privateer officer's eligibility for parole
status depended upon the size of the vessel in which he'd been taken. If the
ship was less than 80 tons and mounting less than fourteen carriage guns of at
least four-pound calibre, he would not be accorded parole status. Lasseur's
command, at 125 tons and mounted with six-pound cannon, qualified, but
unfortunately for the privateer he had not been captured on his own vessel.

Lasseur's ship,
Scorpion,
was a ten-gun schooner and his eyes lit up whenever he
spoke of her.

"She may
not be the biggest vessel afloat, but she's as fast as the wind and her sting
is deadly, and she's all mine." Lasseur had given a rueful mile. "And
if I'd had her beneath my feet, we'd not be having this conversation."

Scorpion
had been laid up in Dunkerque for repairs following a
difference of opinion with a British fifth-rate on blockade patrol. On that
occasion
Scorpion
had not been fast enough to avoid the British gun crew's
aim, but with the aid of a convenient fog bank she had managed to give her
pursuer the slip and make a successful run for home. While awaiting repairs,
Lasseur had been talked into delivering dispatches between ports along the
North French coast. His transport had been a two-masted caique or - as Lasseur
had described it - a floating piece of excrement, and no match for the British
sloop that had appeared out of nowhere and which, with a twelve-pounder
carronade, had blown the caique's main mast and rudder into matchwood and taken
her crew and temporary captain captive. Lasseur had told Hawkwood that he
didn't know which would prove the most embarrassing experience, his capture or
the ribbing he'd receive when he was reunited with
Scorpion's
crew:
"They will make my life intolerable."

When Hawkwood
hinted that any reunion was liable to be some way off, Lasseur had fixed him
with a steadfast gaze. "They know I'm a prisoner. When I escape, I will
send word and they will come for me."

Recalling
Lasseur's words and watching him test the strength of the bars, it was hard not
to admire the man's faith, though Hawkwood still couldn't help but feel that
the privateer captain was being a tad over-optimistic. He wondered whether
Lasseur, confronted with the reality of his incarceration, was secretly
harbouring the same thought. If he was, the man gave no sign.

Hawkwood's
musings were interrupted by a sudden warning shout, followed immediately by the
clatter of boots on the stairs. The prisoners seated around the gun ports
scrambled to put away their paper and pens. Standing up, they moved towards the
centre of the hull. Not knowing why, Hawkwood, Lasseur and the boy followed
suit and watched as a dozen guards wielding lanterns and iron bars, led by a
bovine corporal, thrust their way on to the deck.

"Here they
come," a man next to Hawkwood muttered.
"Sons of
bitches!"

"What's
happening?" Hawkwood asked.

The prisoner
turned. His uniform hung off his bony frame. His hair was grey. A neat beard
concealed his jaw. The state of his attire and the colour of his hair suggested
he was not a young man, yet there was
a brightness
in
his eyes that seemed out of kilter with the rest of his drawn appearance. He
could have been any age from forty to seventy. He was clutching several books
and sheets of paper.

"Inspection."
The prisoner
looked Hawkwood up and down. "Just arrived?"

Hawkwood nodded.

"Thought
so.
I could tell by your clothes. The name's Fouchet." The prisoner juggled
with his books and held out a hand. "Sebastien Fouchet."

"Hooper,"
Hawkwood said. He wondered how much pressure to apply to the handshake, but
then found he was surprised by the strength in the returned grip.

Fouchet nodded
sagely. "Ah, yes, the American. I heard we had one on board. You speak
French very well, Captain."

Jesus,
Hawkwood thought.
He didn't recall seeing Fouchet in
the vicinity of the weather-deck when his name had been registered. Word had
got round fast.

"How often
does this happen?" Hawkwood asked.

"Every day.
Six o'clock in
the summer, three o'clock in the winter."

The guards
proceeded to spread about the deck. There was no provision made for anyone
seated on the floor, nor for the items upon which they might have been working.
Hawkwood watched as boot heels crunched down on to ungathered chess pieces,
toys and model ships. Ignoring the protestations of those prisoners who were
still trying to retrieve their belongings, the guards proceeded to tap the
bulkheads and floor with the iron clubs. When they got to the gun ports they
paid close attention to the grilles. The deck resounded to the sound of metal
striking metal. Hawkwood wondered how much of the guards' loutish behaviour was
for effect rather than a comprehensive search for damage or evidence of an
escape attempt. Not that the strategy was particularly innovative. It was a tried-and-
tested means of imposing authority and cowing an opponent into submission.

Satisfied no
obvious breaches had been made in the hulk's defences, the guards retraced
their steps. Peace returned to the gun deck and conversation resumed.

"Bastards,"
Fouchet swore softly. He nodded towards Lasseur and then squinted at the boy.
"And who do we have here?"

Hawkwood made
the introductions.

"There are
other boys on board," Fouchet said. "You should meet them. We've
created quite an academy for ourselves below decks. We cover a wide range of
subjects. I give lessons in geography and geometry." Fouchet indicated
the books he was holding. "If you'd like to attend my classes I will
introduce you. It is not good for a child to while away his day in idle
pursuits. Young minds should be cultivated at every opportunity. What do you
say?" Fouchet gave the boy no chance to reply but continued:
"Excellent, then it's agreed. Lessons will commence tomorrow morning, at
nine o'clock sharp, by the third gun port on the starboard side. Adults are
welcome to attend too. For them the charge is a sou a lesson." He pointed
down the hull and turned to go.

Lasseur placed a
restraining hand on the teacher's arm. "Did you see what happened to the
men in the boat?"

The teacher
frowned. "Which boat?"

"The one
before ours; the one left to drift. The men were too weak to board."

"Ah,
yes." The teacher's face softened. "I hear they were taken on board
the
Sussex."

"Sussex?"

"The
hospital ship.
She's the one at the head of the line." Fouchet pointed
in the direction of the bow.

Lasseur let go
of the teacher's arm. "Thank you, my friend."

"My
pleasure.
There'll be another inspection in an hour, by the way, to
count heads, so it wouldn't do to get too comfortable. I'll look out for you
at supper. I can show you the ropes. In return, you can tell me the news from
outside. It will help deflect our minds from the quality of the repast. What's
today, Friday? That means cod. I warn you it will be inedible. Not that it
makes any difference what day it is; the food's always inedible." The
teacher smiled and gave a short, almost formal bow.
"Gentlemen."

Hawkwood and
Lasseur watched Fouchet depart. His gait was slow and awkward, and there was a
pronounced stiffness in his right leg.

"Cod,"
Lasseur repeated miserably, closing his eyes.
"Mother of
Christ!"

The next
contingent of guards did not use iron bars. Instead, they used muskets and
fixed bayonets to corral the prisoners on to the upper deck. From there they were
made to return to the lower deck and counted on their way down. The lieutenant
who had overseen the registration was in charge. His name, Hawkwood discovered,
was Thynne.

The count was a
protracted affair. By the time it was completed to the lieutenant's
satisfaction, shadows were lengthening and spreading across the deck like a
black tide. In the dim light, the prisoners made their way to the forecastle to
queue for their supper rations.

The food was as
unappetizing as Fouchet had predicted.

The prisoners
were divided into messes, six prisoners to a mess. Their rations were
distributed from the wooden, smoke-stained shack on the forecastle. Sentries
stood guard as a representative from each mess collected bread, uncooked
potatoes and fish from an orderly in the shack. The food was then taken to
cauldrons to be boiled by those prisoners who'd been nominated for kitchen
duty. Each mess then received its allocation. Fouchet was the representative
for Hawkwood's mess.

Lasseur stared
down at the contents of his mess tin. "Even Frenchmen can't make anything
of this swill." He nudged a lump of potato with his wooden spoon. "I
shall die of starvation."

"I doubt
you'll die alone," Hawkwood said.

"It could
be worse," Fouchet said morosely. "It could be a Wednesday."

"What
happens on Wednesdays?" Lasseur asked, hesitantly and instantly
suspicious.

"Tell him,
Millet." Fouchet nudged the man seated next to him, a sad-eyed,
sunken-chested seaman whose liver-spotted forearms were adorned with tattooed
sea serpents.

The seaman
scooped up a portion of cod and eyed the morsel with suspicion. "We get
salted herring." Millet shovelled the piece of fish into his mouth and
chewed noisily. He didn't have many teeth left, Hawkwood saw. The few that
remained were little more than grey stumps. Hawkwood suspected he was looking
at a man suffering from advancing scurvy. Hardly surprising, given the diet the
men were describing.

Lasseur regarded
the man with horror.