Rapscallion

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.”

“Some of them were naked!” Lasseur said, unnecessarily.

Charbonneau nodded. “They’re the lowest of the lot. They’ll be the ones who’ve gambled all their belongings away. It’s how they exist. They have a mania for it. Cards and dice dominate their lives. Most start with money. When that’s gone, they wager their clothes and their bedding, even their rations. Sometimes they starve themselves, hoarding their rations to sell them off and then start over again. When they run out of belongings or food they steal from others or roam the decks looking for peelings or fish heads. Even the rats aren’t safe. Now and again they send out raiding parties, like the one you just saw.”