Rapscallion. James McGee

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      So, you do have secrets, Hawkwood thought.

      Lasseur’s eyebrows rose. “Why, Lieutenant, anyone would think you didn’t trust us.”

      The interpreter spread his hands. “For a start, there’s the matter of the pot. You haven’t put anything in yet.”

      “Pot?” Lasseur looked to Hawkwood for enlightenment. “What pot? What the devil’s he talking about now?”

      “Your friend Fouchet didn’t tell you?” Murat said, a half smile forming on his lips.

      “Tell us what?” Hawkwood sat back.

      “There’s a contribution taken from our food rations. It’s kept back for prisoners on punishment. If anyone disobeys the rules or does damage to the hulk, they’re reduced to two-thirds quota. The food we put by is used to help them out.”

      “Very generous,” Lasseur said. “And maybe a little something’s put aside for escapers as well? Is that it?”

      Murat hesitated again.

      “Why, Lieutenant, you sly boots!” Lasseur grinned.

      The interpreter coloured.

      “All right,” Hawkwood said. “Let’s not piss around here. What’s it going to cost?”

      Murat blinked. “What do you mean?”

      “Don’t take us for fools, Lieutenant.”

      “Think of your commission.” Lasseur arched an eyebrow suggestively.

      “And how generous we might be,” Hawkwood added.

      A light flickered behind the interpreter’s eyes.

      “Well?” Hawkwood prompted, recognizing the bright glint of greed.

      Murat stared at them for a long time. Finally he sighed. “If such a thing could be arranged – and I’m not saying it could – it would not be cheap. There are expenses, you understand.”

      Lasseur patted the interpreter’s knee. “That’s my boy.” The privateer turned to Hawkwood and winked. “Didn’t I tell you Lieutenant Murat was the man to see?”

      Murat seemed to flinch from the touch, but he recovered quickly.

      Hawkwood leaned forward. “All right, how much?”

      The interpreter hesitated again. Hawkwood suspected he was doing it for effect.

      “Just for the sake of argument,” Hawkwood said.

      “For the sake of argument?”

      “The three of us having a little chat, nothing more.”

      Murat looked around. Then, in a low voice, he said, “I’m assuming you would not be expecting passage all the way back to America?”

      “You get me as far as French soil and let me worry about the rest.”

      Murat sat back. “Very well; four thousand francs, or two hundred English pounds, if you prefer.”

      Hawkwood sucked in his breath.

      “Each,” Murat finished.

      “God’s teeth!” Hawkwood sat back. “We don’t want to buy the bloody ship. We just want to get off it. The highest offer I had for my boots was only twenty francs. We’ll both be dead from old age or the flux before we’d earned enough. Are you mad?”

      “The price would include all transport, accommodation and safe passage to France.”

      “For that sort of money,” Hawkwood said, “I’d expect the Emperor to collect me in a golden barge and carry me up the bloody beach when we got there!”

      Lasseur chuckled. Then his face grew serious.

      “How the hell do you expect us to find that sort of money?” Hawkwood demanded.

      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.”

      

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