Rapscallion. James McGee

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      “I would,” Hawkwood said. “It’d be the first place I’d look.”

      “You’re probably right,” Lasseur murmured. “Worth considering, though.” He reached into his coat, drew out a cheroot, and gazed at it wistfully.

      “I’d make that last,” Hawkwood said. “They tell me tobacco’s hard to come by. Expensive, too.”

      Lasseur stuck the unlit cheroot between his lips and closed his eyes. He remained that way for several seconds, after which he placed the cheroot back in his coat and sighed. “The sooner I get off this damned ship, the better.”

      Latching on to Lasseur appeared to have been a sound investment. From the moment they’d been thrust into the Maidstone cell together, the privateer captain had made it clear he was looking to make his escape. Gaining the man’s confidence had been the first step. James Read had been correct in his surmise that Hawkwood’s background story and the scars on his face would stand him in good stead. Lasseur and the others had accepted him as one of their own. Hawkwood’s task now was to find some way of exploiting that acceptance. Where Lasseur went, Hawkwood intended to follow.

      Hawkwood allowed himself a smile. It was strange, he thought, given the short time he’d known him, how much he’d come to like Lasseur. It had been an unexpected turn of events, for the privateer was, after all, the enemy. But wasn’t that what happened when men, irrespective of their backgrounds, were thrown together in unfamiliar surroundings? It reminded him of his early days in the Rifle Corps.

      When Colonels Coote Manningham and Stewart had put forward their plan for a different type of unit, one which would fight fire with fire and carry the war to the French, the men who were to form the new corps had been drafted in from other regiments. Suddenly the past didn’t matter; whether they were draftees or volunteers, was irrelevant. The men’s loyalty was to the new regiment, and the glue that bound them together was their willingness to fight for their country and against the French.

      On Rapacious, it was a similar situation. It didn’t matter whether you had been a sailor or a soldier, privateer, teacher or tradesman. The important thing was that you shared a common enemy. And in the case of the men confined aboard the hulk – Hawkwood included – it was the officers and men of His Britannic Majesty’s prison ship Rapacious who were the foe.

      According to Ludd, Rapacious hadn’t been her only name. During her years as a man-of-war, as a mark of affection her crew had bestowed a nickname upon her: Rapscallion, a tribute to her role in causing mischief to the French.

      It was doubtful, Hawkwood reflected, looking around him, if any of the seamen who’d raised her sails, scaled her rigging and run out her guns would have recognized her now. Any beauty or sense of pride she might have possessed as a mighty ship of war was long gone. Even with the morning sun slanting across her quarterdeck, with her once graceful profile buried beneath a ramshackle collection of weather-beaten clapboard sheds, she was as ugly as a London slum.

      Another cry sounded from the work party. The full water casks had all been taken aboard and the last bumboat was pulling away with its cargo of empty barrels. Several of the full casks remained on deck. The contents were needed for the day’s midday soup and to replenish the drinking water tanks. The hoist was repositioned in preparation for the next round of deliveries.

      Lasseur turned from the rail. “Walk with me, my friend. I’m in need of some exercise.”

      The number of prisoners strewn around the deck made it more of an obstacle course than a walk.

      “How many soldiers are there on board, do you think?” Lasseur asked. He kept his voice low as they picked their way through the press of bodies.

      “Hard to tell,” Hawkwood said. “Not less than forty would be my guess.” He looked aft, where two members of the militia were patrolling back and forth across the width of the raised quarterdeck, muskets slung over their shoulders. Other militia were spread evenly around the hulk, including one on the forecastle from where they had just descended. Hawkwood had counted three on the gantry and one on the boarding raft, and there was one at each companionway. He suspected several others were standing by, poised to deploy at the first sign of trouble.

      The two men left the forecastle and made their way below.

      “I did a count last night,” Lasseur said as they descended the stairs. “Six on the grating, one manning the raft, and I could hear others on the companionways.”

      “You didn’t waste any time,” Hawkwood said.

      Lasseur shrugged. “It was hot, I couldn’t sleep. What else was I going to do? Besides, I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking around.”

      “There’s the crew as well,” Hawkwood said.

      “I’d not forgotten. How many, would you say?”

      Hawkwood shook his head. “On a ship this size? You’d know better than me. Thirty?”

      Lasseur thought about it, pursed his lips. “Not so many. Twenty, maybe.”

      “They’ll have access to arms,” Hawkwood said.

      Lasseur nodded. “Undoubtedly. There’ll be an armoury chest: pistols and muskets; cutlasses too, probably.” The privateer captain fell silent.

      On the gun deck, Hawkwood was surprised by the number of pedlars foraging for business among their fellow prisoners. In their search for both buyers and sellers, they were as persistent as any he’d encountered under the arches of Covent Garden or the Haymarket. The number of men willing to trade away their belongings appeared to be substantial, though from their pitiful appearance, it wasn’t hard to see why. Watching the transactions, Hawkwood didn’t know which depressed him most: the fact that these men had been reduced to such penury, or the pathetically grateful expressions on their faces when a bargain was struck. Several of the prisoners who’d arrived the previous day were handing over items of clothing in exchange for coinage. They did it furtively, as if shamed by their actions. Hawkwood assumed the money would be used to purchase extra food, a commodity that had become a currency in its own right.

      Lasseur read his thoughts. “I was talking with our friend Sébastien earlier. He told me that when he was at Portsmouth one of the men on the Vengeance set up his own restaurant and became rich selling slop by the bowl. Wherever there’s a shortage of something, there’s money to be made.”

      “Lieutenant Murat would probably agree with you,” Hawkwood said.

      “Ah, yes, our intrepid interpreter. Now there’s a man worth cultivating.”

      “You trust him?”

      “About as far as I can spit.”

      “That far?” Hawkwood said.

      Lasseur laughed.

      Hawkwood’s attention was diverted by one of the small groups occupying sections of bench over by the starboard gun ports. It was the teacher, Fouchet, and his morning class. His pupils – half a dozen in total – were seated on the floor at his feet. The boy Lucien was with them. He looked to be the youngest. The eldest was about fourteen. Fouchet caught Hawkwood’s eye and smiled a greeting. His pupils did not look up.

      There СКАЧАТЬ