Rapscallion

CHAPTER 5

Hawkwood stood at the rail of the forecastle and gazed down at his new world. The view was less than impressive.

Aside from the two accommodation decks, the only other areas on the ship where prisoners were permitted to gather were the forecastle and the well deck, the space referred to euphemistically by the interpreter Murat as "the Park". Lasseur had taken it upon himself to pace out the Park's circumference. The survey did not take long. It was a little over fifty feet long by forty feet in width. It didn't need many prisoners to be taking the air to make the deck seem overcrowded. It explained why so many men chose to remain below decks. With space at a premium, they didn't have much choice.

Bulkheads at the forward and aft ends of the ship separated the prisoners' quarters from those of the ship's personnel. The militia guards occupied the bow. The hulk's commander and the rest of the crew were accommodated in the stern. At first sight, the bulkheads appeared to be made of solid iron. On closer inspection, Hawkwood discovered they were constructed from thick planking studded with thousands of large-headed nails. Loopholes had been cut into the metal-shod walls at regular intervals to allow the guards on the other side of the partition to fire into the enclosed deck in the event of misbehaviour or riot. They resembled the arrow-slitted walls of a medieval keep. With the gun deck reminiscent of a long dungeon, it wasn't hard to imagine the hulk as some kind of bleak, impregnable fortress.

At six o'clock the guards had removed the hatch covers, allowing the prisoners to carry their bedding topside to be aired. Hawkwood had welcomed the first light of dawn, still conscious of the collective reek coming off his fellow inmates. Lieutenant Murat had given his assurance that it would take only a few days to become acclimatized. As far as Hawkwood was concerned, the moment couldn't come soon enough. The gun- port location may have provided access to the elements and a sea view, but it didn't mean the smell was in any way reduced. The foul odours within the hulk had built up over so many years that they'd become engrained in the ship's structure, like a host of maggots in a rotting corpse.

Breakfast had been a mug of water and a hunk of dry bread left over from the previous evening's supper. The fist-sized block of stale dough had been made marginally more digestible when dunked into the water. It remained small consolation for what had been, despite Hawkwood's ability to negotiate the hammock, a fitful night's sleep. Though it was a soldier's lot to bed down when and wherever he could, it did not always follow that slumber came easily. The night had seemed endless. Lasseur looked equally unrested as he peered out across the choppy brown water.

Perched at the extreme north-west corner of the Isle of Sheppey, Sheerness dockyard lay across the starboard quarter; an uneven line of warehouses, barracks and workshops. Rising above these was the fortress; its squat, square outline surmounted by a grey-roofed tower. Guarding the entrance to the Medway River, the fort dominated its surroundings, a stone defender awaiting an unwise invader.

To the south, at the edge of the yard, lay Blue Town. The settlement provided accommodation for the local workforce and owed its name to the colour of the buildings, all of which had been daubed in the same shade of naval paint. Made almost entirely from wood chips left over from the dockyard work, the small houses weren't much more than crude shacks, clumped together in an untidy rat-run of narrow lanes. Even so, they were several steps up from the previous riverside accommodation. Originally, dock workers had been housed in hulks, not dissimilar to Rapacious, moored to break the flow of the river and reduce the loss of shingle from the foreshore. A couple of them still remained, stranded on the mud like beached whales after a storm.

Across the river, a mile away to port, the Isle of Grain was a dark green smudge in the early-morning light, while beyond the stern rail, less than two miles to the south, lay the western mouth of the Swale Channel, separating Sheppey from the mainland.

The weather had improved considerably. Despite the sunshine, however, there was a stiff breeze and it brought with it the smell of the sea and the cloying, foetid odour of the surrounding marshes, which stretched away on both sides of the water.

A cry of warning sounded from the quarterdeck where Lieutenant Thynne was supervising the delivery of provisions from a small flotilla of bumboats drawn up alongside the hulk. Fresh water casks were being hoisted on board to replace the empty ones lifted from the hold, and one of the casks had come adrift from its sling. It was the second delivery of the day. The bread ration had arrived less than an hour before and had already been delivered to the galley.

Lasseur eyed the activity with interest. "What do you think?" he said.

Hawkwood followed his gaze to where the wayward cask was being secured. "It'd be a tight fit."

Lasseur grinned.

Hawkwood looked sceptical. "How do you know they don't check inside as soon as they get them ashore?"

"How do you know they do?"

"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 Sebastien 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 were some two score boys on Rapacious, Fouchet had told him, ranging in age from ten to sixteen. The practice was not exceptional. Fouchet's previous ship, the Suffolk, had held over fifty boys, some as young as nine. Hawkwood had wondered briefly about the Transport Board's wisdom in confining children with the men. But 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 Geveze. 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 Francois." 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?" Lasseur pressed.

There was a noticeable hesitation. An artful look stole over the interpreter's face. "As I said, Captain, you've only been here a short time. You wouldn't expect all our little secrets to be revealed to you quite so soon."

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."

"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."

"Rafales," Hawkwood murmured.

"Some call them that," Charbonneau said, eyes narrowing. "You've heard of them?"

Hawkwood nodded.

"Why don't the guards punish them?" Lasseur asked.

Charbonneau gave a dry laugh. "How? Look around. You think this place isn't punishment enough? In any case, the commander's hands are tied. They can't be flogged. No prisoner can. Direct physical punishment's forbidden, unless a British soldier or crew member is harmed."

"So he wouldn't have given the order to fire?" Lasseur said.

"Not unless there'd been a full-scale riot which threatened the safety of his men. As far as our commander's concerned, any disagreement between prisoners is dealt with by prisoners' tribunal." Charbonneau sniffed dismissively. "What goes on below deck stays below deck. It's got so that the guards hardly ever enter the orlop now. They leave them to get on with it. The rest of us don't go down there either. It's not safe. You saw what they were like."

Hawkwood remembered the scream he'd heard on his first night and the lack of reaction it had provoked. He looked across the Park towards the quarterdeck and watched as the hulk's commander removed his hat, turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes. The lieutenant stood still, letting the warmth soak into his skin. His hair was dark and streaked with grey.

After what must have been half a minute at least, the lieutenant opened his eyes and dropped his chin. Running a hand through his hair, he placed the hat back on his head and turned to go. Abruptly, he paused, as if aware that his unguarded moment had been observed. He looked over his shoulder. Hawkwood made no attempt to glance away as the lieutenant's brooding eyes roved slowly along the line of prisoners. As Hellard's gaze passed over his own, it seemed for a second as though the hulk commander's attention lingered, but then, as the lieutenant's stare moved on, the moment was gone. Hawkwood decided it had been his imagination, which was probably just as well. Clad in civilian clothes rather than the ubiquitous yellow jacket and trousers, Hawkwood knew he'd risked drawing attention to himself by making eye contact with the lieutenant. It had been an unwise move.

"Unless I'm mistaken," Lasseur commented softly as the lieutenant made his way from the deck, "there's a man who spends a lot of time in his own company."

The world began to revolve once more. Charbonneau drifted away. Beneath Hawkwood's and Lasseur's vantage point, a fencing class was being conducted. In the absence of edged weapons, the students were reduced to wielding the thin sticks that had been used to quell the recent invasion - still a risky venture given the confines of the classroom - and the Park echoed to the click-clack of wooden foils.

"Can't say I care much for their instructor," Lasseur said dismissively, looking down at the scene. "The man's style is abominable. Do you fence?"

"When the mood takes me," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur grunted at the noncommittal answer and then said, "A splendid exercise; the pursuit of gentlemen. Perhaps we should give lessons, too? Earn ourselves some extra rations."

The dry tone in the privateer's voice hinted that Lasseur was being sarcastic, so Hawkwood didn't bother to reply. He looked out across the water. Lasseur did the same. The two frigates were nearing the mouth of the river. Close hauled, yards braced, their nearness to one another suggested a friendly rivalry between the crews, with each ship determined to steal the wind from her opponent, knowing the loser would be left floundering, sheets and sails flapping, her embarrassment plain for all to see.

From Lasseur's distant gaze and by the way his hands were holding on to the rail, knuckles white, Hawkwood sensed the Frenchman was thinking about his own ship. Hawkwood tried to imagine what might be going through the privateer's mind, but suspected the task was beyond him. His world was so far removed from Lasseur's that any attempt to decipher the faraway look was probably futile.

While there were inherent dangers attached to both their professions, it was there the similarity ended. Hawkwood's world was one of ill-lit streets, thieves' kitchens, flash houses, fences, rogues and rookeries. Lasseur's, in total contrast, was the open deck of a sailing ship, running before the wind. It seemed to Hawkwood that, whereas his world was an enclosed one, almost as dark and degrading as the hulk's gun deck, Lasseur's was one of freedom, of the open main and endless skies. For Lasseur, being cooped up on the prison ship would be like a bird whose wings had been clipped. Small wonder his desire to escape was so strong.

"How long will it take, do you think?" Lasseur asked. He did not look around but continued to follow the frigates' progress towards the open water.

"Murat?"

Lasseur nodded.

"He has the advantage," Hawkwood said. "He'll probably be content to keep us waiting, even if it's just to teach us who's pulling the strings. It could be a while."

Lasseur turned. There was a bleak look in his eyes. "Any longer in this place and I swear I'll go mad."

"One day at a time," Hawkwood said. "That's how we have to look at it. I hate to admit it, but the bastard was right about one thing."

"What's that?"

"We should be patient."

Lasseur grimaced. "Not one of my better virtues."

"Mine neither," Hawkwood admitted, "except, we don't have a choice. Right now, I don't think there's much else we can do."

Lasseur nodded wearily. "You're right, of course. It does not mean I have to like it, though, does it?"

Hawkwood didn't answer. In his mind's eye he saw again the mob of prisoners rising out of the hatches and the mayhem they had created. Lasseur had referred to the hulk as a version of Hell. From what Hawkwood had witnessed so far, the privateer's description had been horribly accurate. In his time as a Runner, Hawkwood had visited a good number of London's gaols: Newgate, Bridewell, and the Fleet among them. They were, without exception, terrible places. But this black, heartless hulk was something different. There was true horror at work here, Hawkwood sensed. He wasn't sure what form it took or if he would be confronted by it, but he knew instinctively that it would be like nothing he'd encountered before.