Rapscallion

Ludd sighed. “Escapes are nothing new. Some are spontaneous; the sudden recognition of an opportunity presenting itself: a door left unlocked, a careless guard looking the other way during a working party, that sort of thing. They generally involve a prisoner acting on his own. Nine times out of ten, he’s rounded up quickly, usually because he’s cold and wet and he can’t find food or clothing, he’s no idea where he is and he daren’t ask directions because he can’t speak the language. They don’t last long. Many end up turning themselves in voluntarily – and not just to the military. They’ve even surrendered to people in the street. But when it’s more than one, when two or three at a time have made a run for it, that suggests they’ve devised a plan, hoarded food and spare clothing, maybe bribed a guard to sell them a map so they know how far it is to the coast, and where they can steal a boat. Even so, not many make it. All it takes is one careless word; someone overhears them speaking Frog or talking English with an accent and the game’s up. But these recent escapes, they’ve been different.”

“How so?”

“As I said, we weren’t able to pick up their trail.”

“Which means what?”

“In my book, it means someone’s definitely helping them.”

“Like who?”

“That’s what we sent Masterson and Sark to find out.”

“What do you think?”

“My own theory? Free traders, most likely.”

“Smugglers?”

“My guess is that they’re passing the escapers down the line to the coast. They’ve got the routes all set up, they’ve got the men and the boats.”

“That, Hawkwood, is the third part of your assignment,” Read said. “If there is an organized escape route, I want it disrupted, preferably disbanded.”

“It might explain why your Lieutenant Masterson was found in the Swale,” Hawkwood said. “Could be he was thrown from a vessel.”

“Could be,” Ludd agreed. “I’d deem it a personal favour if, along the way, you could find out what happened to my men. If they were done away with, I’d prefer to be told.”

“If free traders are involved, it won’t be easy,” Hawkwood pointed out. “They’re a law unto themselves. Anyone going in and asking questions is sure to make their ears prick up. It’s more than likely they’ll see me coming a mile away.”

Ludd and Read exchanged glances.

“Quite so,” James Read said quietly. “But in this case they’re going to be looking in the wrong direction.”

“Hindsight’s a wonderful thing,” Ludd said. “Our mistake was sending Masterson and Sark through the front door. They were competent men, but they were naval officers first and landsmen second. In this situation they were out of their depth, no pun intended. We might just as well have dispatched a marching band to accompany them. Masterson’s brief was to try and infiltrate the smuggling organizations. We thought the best way for him to do that was to have him pose as a former seaman looking for work and to make it clear he wasn’t too bothered whether the work was legal or not. Trouble is, the smuggling fraternity’s too closely knit. My feeling is he ended up asking the wrong people the wrong questions – and that Sark made the same mistake.”

“You can take the man out of the navy but you can’t take the navy out of the man,” Hawkwood said.

“Something like that,” Ludd agreed unhappily.

“You, on the other hand, will not be quite so obvious,” James Read said. “We hope.”

“You mean I’ll be using the tradesman’s entrance,” Hawkwood said.

The corner of Read’s mouth twitched. “Providing we can manufacture a suitable history for you.” The Chief Magistrate paused. “My initial thought was that you should pass yourself off as a French officer, but I’m not sure that’s entirely practical. While I appreciate that your knowledge of the language is considerable, could you maintain the deception for any length of time? Captain Ludd and I have discussed the matter and we believe the current crisis with the United States has provided us with the perfect solution. You will pass yourself off as an American volunteer.”

“An American?”

“As you know all too well, from your recent encounter with William Lee, our American cousins are less than enamoured with us of late. Even before the recent declaration of war, a substantial number of American citizens have been drawn to Bonaparte’s flag; a legacy of American and French liaison during the Revolutionary War. With that in mind, we thought you could assume the mantle of an American officer attached to one of Bonaparte’s regiments who has been captured in the field. The fact that you are conversant in French gives us a distinct advantage.

“All that remains is your identity. Something credible that will pass scrutiny, preferably based on your own expertise and, ideally, involving an engagement of which you have personal knowledge. The only problem with that, however, would be the question of your whereabouts over the past three years. The most logical choice would therefore seem to be something more recent, from which all the facts have yet to be sifted. Captain Ludd and I have perused dispatches and determined that the victory at Ciudad Rodrigo will best fit the bill. Reports of the battle are still being disseminated. Are you familiar with any of the details?”

“Only from what I’ve read in the news sheets,” Hawkwood said.

The Times had carried general reports of the battle, as had the Chronicle and the Gazette. Ciudad Rodrigo was a picturesque Spanish town overlooking the Agueda River. Only a few miles from the border, it guarded the main northern route between Spain and Portugal. Wellington had laid siege to the town at the beginning of January. The attack had been a ferocious affair. Casualties had been heavy, but Wellington had emerged victorious. Many prisoners had been taken.

Read nodded. “Very good; a volunteer captain attached to the 34th Régiment d’Infanterie Légère will be the most fitting for our purposes, I venture. The regiment was created last year, drawing men from other units, so there is every possibility they could have utilized foreign experts in the field. I’ll leave you to manufacture an appropriate biography for yourself.”

The Chief Magistrate reached across his desk and picked up a small canvas pouch. “These are some of the reports pertaining to the siege. Make use of them. They contain details that are not public knowledge; for obvious reasons, as you’ll discover. Our own soldiers may well have emerged victorious, but they did not cover themselves in glory. Such knowledge could assist in fending off awkward questions. Use it to your advantage if you find yourself pressed. Attack is the best form of defence. Denigrating your former comrades in arms will help deflect attention from your alias. Read the dispatches. You’ll see what I mean.”

Read handed over the pouch. “As an officer, you’ll be permitted to carry a few personal belongings. Mr Twigg will provide you with funds. French and British currency is used on the hulks. I would urge you to be circumspect in your expenditure, however. The coffers of the Public Office are not a bottomless pit.

“The wounds you received in the Hyde case will stand you in good stead. They’re recent enough to have been sustained around the supposed date of your defeat and capture. They will add to your credibility.”

The scars from his encounter with the escaped Bedlamite, Titus Hyde, had healed well. But that wasn’t to say he didn’t sometimes wake in the small hours wondering what might have become of him had the blade of Hyde’s sword been an inch longer. The razor-thin weal along the rim of his left cheek was a visible reminder that the line between life and death can be measured by the breadth of a single hair or the span of a heartbeat.

“Who else will know I’m a peace officer?”

Read hesitated before replying. “No one. Aside from myself, Captain Ludd and Mr Twigg, no one else will be privy to your true identity.”

“Not the hulk’s commanding officer?”

“No one,” Read repeated.

“So, how do I send word if I discover something?”

“That’s why you’ll be listed as an officer in the ship’s register. It entitles you to apply for parole. Captain Ludd recommends we make it appear as though your application is pending authorization. You will thus be required to appear before a board of assessment. Your first interview will be scheduled to take place one week after your arrival. Captain Ludd will be the officer in charge. You will provide him with details of any progress you may have made.”

Hawkwood stared at the dispatch pouch and then looked up. “In that case, I hope you all remain in good health. I’d hate to find I’m stranded on the bloody ship because you’ve all been struck dead in your beds.”

3 (#ulink_47f7f00a-ae1e-5142-b1ee-a1c8900729d1)

“Name?”

The question was emitted in a thin, reedy voice by a narrow-shouldered, sour-faced man seated behind a large trestle table that had been set up in the forward section of the weather-deck. The clerk did not look up but waited, lips compressed, pen poised, for Hawkwood to reply. A large ledger lay open in front of him. The seated man to his right, a supercilious-looking individual with reddish-blond hair, slim sideburns and nails bitten down to the quick, wore a lieutenant’s uniform. The one standing by his left shoulder was younger, slightly built, dark haired, and dressed in a yellow canvas jacket and matching trousers. Stamped on the sleeves of the jacket and upon each trouser leg were a broad black arrow and the letters T.O., the initials of the Transport Office. His eyes roved back and forth along the line of waiting men.

Hawkwood gazed down at the clerk and said nothing. He was still feeling the chill from the dousing he had received.

The guards had removed the shackles and made all the new arrivals strip naked on deck before handing them a block of brown soap and ordering them into large water-filled barrels. The water was freezing and by the time each man had rubbed himself raw, clambered out, passed the soap on to the next man and dried himself with the rag towel, the water surface in every tub was covered by a thin oily residue.

Orange jackets, trousers and shirts had then been distributed. There seemed to be only one size, small, which left the recipients struggling woefully to fasten the jacket buttons. With most, the trousers reached only as far as mid calf. The only person to emerge from the handout with any modicum of dignity was the boy from the longboat. The jacket was too long at both hem and sleeve, but the trousers were close to being a good fit, albeit only after they had been secured around the boy’s thin waist by a length of twine.

Not everyone received a uniform. A number of men, Hawkwood and Lasseur among them, were allowed to keep their own clothes, supposedly because they were officers, though Hawkwood suspected it had more to do with a scarcity of jackets and trousers rather than an acknowledgement of their rank. Certainly, it appeared that prison uniform had been passed, in the main, to those whose own apparel was beyond salvage. All soiled articles were tossed on to a growing pile on the deck. To be taken off the ship, Hawkwood assumed, and burned.

Next, canvas slippers were distributed. Neither Hawkwood nor Lasseur were deemed impoverished enough to warrant the gift of the shoes. Hawkwood noticed that both his and Lasseur’s footwear were attracting surreptitious attention from some of the less fortunate prisoners and he made a silent vow not to let his boots out of his sight.

A look of irritation moved across the registration clerk’s pinched face at Hawkwood’s lack of response. The lieutenant maintained his impression of boredom. The clerk flicked his finger imperiously and the man standing at his shoulder in the yellow uniform repeated the question in French.

“Hooper,” Hawkwood said. “Matthew.”