Rapscallion. James McGee

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СКАЧАТЬ then, the Royal Navy employed boys not much older than the ones attending Fouchet’s class as midshipmen and runners for their gun crews, and so presumably saw nothing unusual in sending innocents like Lucien Ballard to face the horrors of life on board a prison hulk. Hawkwood had a vague notion that Nelson had been around the same age as Lucien when he’d gone to sea. He was reminded of some of the street children he employed as informers. Age had never been a consideration there. The only criteria he’d set during their recruitment were that they were fleet of foot, knew the streets, and kept their eyes and ears open.

      “My son is twelve,” Lasseur said quietly. The privateer captain was also looking towards the group by the gun port.

      “Where is he?” Hawkwood asked.

      Lasseur continued to watch the class. “With his grandparents in Gévezé. It’s near Rennes. They have a farm.”

      “Your mother and father?”

      Lasseur paused. “I’m an orphan. They’re my wife’s parents. She died.”

      Hawkwood kept silent.

      “She fell from her horse. She loved to ride, especially in the early morning.” The Frenchman swallowed and for a second time the mask slipped. “I’ve not seen my son for three months. They send me letters. They tell me he attends school and is good at his lessons and that he likes animals.” A small smile flitted across the Frenchman’s face. “His name is François.” Lasseur turned. “You have a wife, children?”

      “No,” Hawkwood said.

      “A woman? Someone waiting for you?”

      Hawkwood thought about Maddie Teague and wondered if she’d ever viewed herself in that role; lonely and pining for her man. He didn’t think so, somehow. Maddie was too independent for that. He had a sudden vision of her lying beside him, auburn hair spread across the pillow, emerald-green eyes flashing, a mischievous smile playing across her lips.

      “Ah!” Lasseur smiled perceptively. “The look on your face tells me. She is beautiful?”

      “Yes,” Hawkwood said. “Yes, she is.”

      Lasseur looked suddenly serious. “Then I’d say we both have a reason to escape this place, wouldn’t you?”

      “As long as it’s not inside a bloody water barrel.”

      “There’ll be other ways,” Lasseur said firmly. “All we have to do is find them. Fouchet said there’ve been a few who’ve done it. Maybe we should ask him how they did it.”

      “Maybe we should ask somebody who’s a bit more devious,” Hawkwood said.

      Lasseur grinned. “You mean Lieutenant Murat?”

      “The very man,” Hawkwood said.

      

      The interpreter frowned. “Forgive me, Captain Hooper, but you may recall I was there at your registration. I understood you were waiting for your parole application to be approved. Why would you still harbour thoughts of escape?”

      “The captain’s weighing his options.” Lasseur kept his face straight. “No law against that, is there?”

      The interpreter’s brow remained furrowed. “Indeed not, but you’ve only been here a day.”

      “So?” Hawkwood said. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

      “Perhaps you should be a little more patient.”

      “Patient?” Lasseur said.

      “I’ve been patient.” Hawkwood resisted the urge to wipe the condescending smile from the interpreter’s face. “My patience is starting to wear thin.”

      “And you’ve certainly been biding your time, Lieutenant,” Lasseur said icily. “How long have you been here? Two years, is it?” The privateer turned down his mouth. “Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.”

      Hawkwood gazed at Murat and gave a slow shake of his head. “We thought you’d be the man to advise us. It looks as if we were wrong.” He cast a glance towards Lasseur and shrugged. “Pity.”

      “You want to know what I think?” Lasseur murmured. “I think the lieutenant’s grown a little too complacent, a little too comfortable. I’m guessing he’s never even thought of making a run for it himself. He’s making too good a living here.” Lasseur threw the interpreter a challenging glare. “That’s it, isn’t it? In fact, I’d wager you’re earning a damned sight more through barter and your interpreter’s pay than you were as a naval officer. Got yourself a nice little business here, haven’t you? You don’t want to leave. Am I right?”

      A nerve pulsed along the interpreter’s cheek. “All I’m saying is that it’s my understanding these things can take time – weeks, months sometimes.”

      “What if we don’t want to wait that long?” Hawkwood said.

      “We couldn’t help noticing the water delivery earlier,” Lasseur said. “We thought that had potential.”

      There was a pause. Then the interpreter gave a brief shake of his head. “You can forget the water casks. It did work, but not any more. Nowadays they’re the first things they check.”

      “Really?” Lasseur said. He threw Hawkwood a look. “So much for that idea.”

      “I told you it looked too damned easy,” Hawkwood said. “All right, so what about the other deliveries?”

      Lasseur had played the interpreter beautifully. Like a fish caught on a hook, Murat hadn’t been able to resist the tug at his vanity. Now, wanting to be considered the font of all knowledge, he shook his head. “That’s been tried, too. I told you; the bastards check everything. You’ll never get off that way.”

      Murat’s gaze drifted sideways, distracted by the activity around them. The three men were seated next to one of the portside grilles. Hawkwood assumed it was where Murat slung his hammock, for the interpreter had welcomed his and Lasseur’s arrival as if granting them entry into his personal fiefdom. Elsewhere, dotted about the deck, the more industrious inhabitants were engaged in a variety of pursuits. Basket makers, letter writers and knitters squatted alongside bone modellers and barbers. Some worked in silence. Others chatted to their neighbours. The scratch of nib, the snip of scissors and the scrape of blade on bone filled the lulls in conversation. Hawkwood wondered if there’d ever been a time when the hulk had fallen entirely silent. He doubted it.

      “We could use the cover of night,” Lasseur said. “Steal a boat.”

      Murat shook his head again. “They hoist the boats up alongside. They’re at least ten feet above the water. One’s kept afloat, but it’s secured by a chain from the boarding raft and that’s always under guard.”

      “Damn.” Lasseur bit his lip.

      Hawkwood addressed Murat. “How did the others get off?”

      “Others?” Warily.

      “There have been others, haven’t there?” СКАЧАТЬ