Rapscallion

CHAPTER 16

"And this is Lieutenant Gilles Denard," Rousseau said, his eyes blinking earnestly behind a pair of wire-framed spectacles.

Denard, a pleasant-looking, balding man in his late thirties, extended his hand across the table. "An honour, Captain."

"And for me," Lasseur said. "Allow me to present Captain Matthew Hooper, one of our American allies. His French is excellent, by the way."

Denard shook Hawkwood's hand. "Welcome, Captain. I've a great liking for your country. I've sailed into Boston a number of times. Do you know the city? It has some splendid inns. A particular favourite of mine was on Washington Street. The Lion, run by a Colonel Doty, I think his name was. Are you familiar with it?"

"I think you'll find that was the Lamb," Hawkwood said. "The Lion was further north."

Denard frowned and then laughed. "Why, I do believe you're right! Well, it's been a while since my last visit."

"Gilles served with Surcouf," Rousseau said.

"When were you taken?" Lasseur asked.

Denard pursed his lips. "June '08. I was in Cadiz, then transferred to the Prudent in Portsmouth for a year before I wound up on the Poseidon. That's where I met Rousseau, here."

With the exception of the Poseidon, the names of the ships meant nothing to Hawkwood. He knew of the Poseidon because it was another Chatham hulk and one of several Medway-moored ships mentioned by Ludd during his briefing at Bow Street.

They were in the refectory which was situated on the opposite side of the cloister garth from the wing housing Hawkwood and Lasseur's cell. It was long and rectangular in shape, with a low, black-beamed ceiling. Two heavy oaken tables - one long and one short - formed a T which occupied the centre and ran almost the full length of the room. There was food on the tables: fresh baked bread, eggs, ham, sausages and coffee. Morgan had not stinted on the victuals.

"The two of you escaped together?" Lasseur asked, reaching out and pouring himself a mug of coffee. He looked at Hawkwood. Hawkwood nodded and Lasseur poured a second mug.

Rousseau nodded. "We behaved ourselves until they granted us parole and then we went for a walk one day and never went back. You?"

"We died," Lasseur said, grinning, and explained.

Denard looked at Lasseur in awe.

Hawkwood took a swig of coffee. It was very strong with a bitter aftertaste. It reminded him of the camp-fire brews he'd had to endure.

One by one, Rousseau introduced the men around the table. There were eight in total.

"Lieutenants Souville and Le Jeune from the Bristol. Leberte is from the Buckingham. Louis Beaudouin, there, made it off the Brunswick and Masson and Bonnefoux at the end, there, you may know or have heard of. They're from your ship, Rapacious.'" Rousseau chuckled. "I wouldn't like to be in her commander's shoes, not with the number of prisoners he's had that have made a run for it."

"Lieutenant Hellard sends his regards," Lasseur said. "He wanted me to tell you that he's missing you and to hurry back."

While Lasseur joked, Hawkwood took another sip from his mug and mentally ticked off the names from the list that Ludd had given him. Including the two men who'd been murdered and disposed of on the hulk, the number tallied. With all

Ludd's escapers accounted for, that was one mystery solved at least.

He wondered if Masson and Bonnefoux knew about the murdered men. There was nothing to be gained by telling them, he decided.

"How did you get off the ship?" Hawkwood asked the former Rapacious prisoners.

It was Masson, a thin-faced man with a prominent Adam's apple, who replied. "We hid out in a couple of empty water casks. What's so funny?" he asked, perplexed by the expression on Lasseur's face.

Lasseur shook his head.

"How did they cover your escape?"

"They'd have disrupted the count," Bonnefoux replied without hesitation. "You don't know?"

Hawkwood shook his head. "Our departure was . . . hurried. We never found out."

Bonnefoux grinned. His teeth were surprisingly clean and even.

Over a period of time, using augers filched during work-party duties and a saw fashioned from a barrel hoop, bevel-edged holes had been cut in the deck planking between the upper, gun and orlop decks. As prisoners were counted down into the lower decks, a designated number returned to the upper deck through the holes and rejoined the men waiting to be counted. When the count was complete, the holes were sealed to await the next departure.

So damned simple, Hawkwood thought. And as long as the prisoners kept their nerve and the guards didn't discover the trick, there was no reason it couldn't be used time and time again.

Hawkwood presumed Murat and the others had planned to conceal his and Lasseur's escape using the same method, after transferring the two substitute bodies from their bunks back into the side cabin to await the next burial party. Then he realized the ruse would only have worked if the militia guards failed to notice their absence for a while, which didn't seem a likely scenario, given Hellard's decision to transfer Hawkwood and

Lasseur to the Sampson. In fact, the early discovery of their escape had prevented the miscounting ruse from being used, which was probably a good thing in the long run, lessening the risk of the holes in the decks being discovered, at least until after the next successful escape.

Souville and Le Jeune had employed almost the same method to escape from the Bristol. Using similar tools they had cut a hole in the side of the hulk close to the waterline, below the level of the sentry walkway. It had taken them four weeks to fashion and stain a square of timber to place over the hole to hide their handiwork and to cut through the hull. They'd jumped ship under the cover of darkness then made their way to shore and a pre-arranged rendezvous with one of Morgan's intermediaries.

"By the way," Rousseau said, addressing Lasseur. "If you want funny, ask Louis how he escaped."

Beaudouin looked about seventeen but was probably in his mid twenties. A thin moustache that left the impression it had been drawn on with a pencil was stuck precariously to his upper lip.

"How did you get away?" Lasseur asked.

Beaudouin grinned. "In a very fetching blue bonnet."

To Hawkwood and Lasseur's amazement, Beaudouin told them that the Brunswick had become one of Chatham's main attractions. For a small charge, local boatmen, in collusion with the hulk's commander, would row visitors out to the ship at regular intervals. They would be escorted up to the quarterdeck and from this vantage point, they could look upon the prisoners in the well deck below. Even more astonishing was the fact that many of the sightseers were female, which had given Beaudouin his idea.

Desperate to find ways of occupying time on board the hulk, the Brunswick's prisoners had formed a theatre group, performing short plays, written by themselves, for the pleasure of their fellow inmates. The culmination of their efforts had been the staging of a swashbuckling melodrama involving a pirate and his lady.

"I played the lady," Beaudouin said, "because of my angelic looks. Of course, I didn't have the moustache at the time," he added seriously.

The acting troupe had made its own costumes. The manufacture of female attire, however, had proved difficult, so an appeal had gone out to the ladies of Chatham. Donations had arrived by the sackload. Thus Beaudouin had his disguise; all he'd needed was an opportunity.

Picking his moment on the day of a visit, Beaudouin had secreted himself close to a stairway and hatch leading to the quarterdeck, merging with the departing visitors, petticoat rustling, with a handkerchief to his face as if overcome by the smell of the ship and the misery he had just witnessed. The most nerve-racking moment had been fending off the advances of one of the militia guards, who'd mistaken Beaudouin's attempt to hide his face for coquettish flirting.

"I wouldn't have minded so much," Beaudouin said, with a smile, "but the oaf had a face like a shovel." He turned to Leberte, a trim man with well-tended side whiskers and a flamboyant moustache that put Beaudouin's effort to shame. "Pierre - why don't you tell them how you did it?"

The others grinned.

Leberte's escape had been spectacular for several reasons. He had achieved his freedom from the Buckingham after watching the movement of the sentries on the outside gangway. Leberte had timed how long the sentry took to march the length of the gantry and how long his back was turned. His next task had been to "accidentally" drop a cabbage from the ship's rail and time its fall. Then he waited for high tide. When the sentry turned to retrace his steps along the walkway, Leberte made his dive for freedom.

It had been late afternoon and Leberte's plunge over the side of the forecastle had taken everyone by surprise, even his fellow prisoners. By the time the militia had recovered from the shock and collected their wits, Leberte had swum under the hull of the ship to the bow, where, using a breathing tube fashioned from a hollowed-out length of sheep bone he'd procured from one of the galley cooks under the pretence that he was making himself a bone flute, he had remained submerged until the search for his body had moved away from the hulk into the further reaches of the river. After which, at dusk, he had made his way ashore and into hiding.

"Tell them the best bit," Beaudouin grinned.

It hadn't been the cold water or sucking in air through the narrow tube that had taxed Leberte's resolve, it had been the awful knowledge that he'd taken shelter directly below the ship's heads.

Lasseur held up his hand and said hastily, "Thank you, my friend. There's no need to elaborate."

Leberte was a lieutenant in the 93rd Regiment d'Infanterie de Ligne and the only other non seaman present. Unlike the British, the French Navy didn't have marines. That function was performed by regular infantry units acting under the auspices of the Ministere de la Marine. Leberte had been in charge of a unit on a frigate, the Navarre, when he'd been taken prisoner in a skirmish off Ushant.

He'd been on the run for two weeks prior to arriving at the Haunt, living in thickets and under hedges, stealing food from fields and orchards before taking shelter in a barn, where his presence had finally been discovered. A weary Leberte had thrown himself upon the mercy of the farmer. Fearful that a search of his property would reveal the two dozen tubs of brandy and three bales of tobacco hidden in his cellar, the farmer had run not to the authorities but to Ezekiel Morgan, who, true to his reputation as a businessman, had informed Leberte that the only obstacle confronting his safe return to France was the fee for his transport.

Fortunately, Leberte's wife's family had money. The transaction had been brokered through Fector's Bank in Dover with, Hawkwood assumed, the assistance of Morgan's tame accountant.

It was fortunate, Hawkwood thought, that Leberte had had the means to pay for his passage home. He wondered what the lieutenant's fate might have been had that not been the case.

Leberte shrugged philosophically when Hawkwood posed the question. "Then I would have had to make my own way, wouldn't I?" he said.

The other seven had been Morgan's guests for differing lengths of time. Rousseau and Denard had been at the Haunt the longest, nearly five weeks, which fitted in, Hawkwood calculated, with Ludd's own records. All of them had been given refuge by farmers in the area, though Hawkwood and Lasseur were the only ones that had stayed with Jess Flynn.

As Hawkwood listened to the men's accounts, the extent of Morgan's reach became clear. With the exception of Leberte, who'd acted on his own initiative, all the other escapers from the hulks had had their route to freedom pre-arranged by prisoners' committee and Morgan's network of informers.

Rousseau and Denard, who had had the advantage of being ashore already, had engineered their flight following a direct approach by the landlord of their lodging house, further evidence of Morgan's sphere of influence.

"Why haven't you been moved on to the coast?" Hawkwood asked. He threw a look at Lasseur as he said this.

"Too dangerous." It was Denard who answered. "The British have been increasing their coastal patrols. We've been waiting for the right time." He shrugged. "Leastways, that's what they told us up until a couple of days ago."

"What do you mean?" Hawkwood asked.

Denard exchanged glances with the men around him. He turned back. "We were told our passage home had finally been arranged and that it was only a few days away, but there was something they wanted our help with first. When we asked our friend Morgan what sort of help, he laughed and told us he had something up his sleeve that would bring the colour back to our cheeks."

"He didn't tell you what it was?"

Denard shook his head. "Still, things could have been a lot worse. At least here we've been given food and shelter, so it's comfortable enough. Better than those bloody ships, I can tell you that."

"But it's not home," Souville said. "We're tired of waiting. We've all paid our fee. We just want to go home."

There was a collective nodding of heads.

"What about you and Captain Lasseur?" Rousseau asked.

"We think we're going to be offered the same proposal," Hawkwood said.

"And you don't know what it is either?"

And then the door opened and Morgan and Pepper walked in. Leberte said, sotto voce, "I think we may be about to find out."

The men looked on expectantly as Ezekiel Morgan strode briskly to the head of the table and viewed the room, Pepper at his shoulder.

Morgan spoke in French. "Good morning, gentlemen." He glanced towards Hawkwood. "I trust you've no objections, Captain Hooper? I know you have a command of the language, whereas some of your fellow travellers have no English. It will make it easier for all of us."

Morgan's accent was very good; acquired, Hawkwood presumed, from a lifetime's trading with the other side of the Channel. Looking at Pepper's face and the calm way he was surveying the room, Hawkwood suspected Morgan's lieutenant was just as fluent.

"Thank you, Captain." Morgan scanned the men seated at the table. "So, gentlemen, to business. I know that it hasn't been easy being separated from your loved ones and, though you've all shown great patience, you've been wondering about the delay in sending you home. My apologies for that. I think it's about time I explained myself, don't you?"

Morgan turned to Pepper and held out his hand. Pepper reached inside his coat and extracted a small bag. He handed it to Morgan.

"Thank you, Cephus."

Morgan hefted the bag in his hand. There was the unmistakable chink of loose coin. Morgan loosened the drawstring, turned the bag upside down and let the contents fall.

A shower of gold cascaded across the table top.

As Morgan tossed the bag aside, the men gasped and craned forward.

The coins were small, a little less than an inch in diameter. The ones that had landed face up carried the portrait of what looked like a Roman emperor complete with flowing hair and a crown of laurels. The moon face and the pendulous jowls, however, were not those of a Roman. The inscription that framed the head - GEORGIVS III DEI GRATIA - and the spade- shaped shield on the reverse side confirmed the bust's identity. Hawkwood knew immediately what he was looking at. He said nothing, presuming the others around the table did too.

"Gentlemen," Morgan said, "let me tell you about the guinea boats."

Lasseur's head came up sharply.

Morgan caught his eye. "You're familiar with the term, Captain Lasseur?"

Lasseur nodded. "I saw one once." He reached over, picked up one of the coins and studied it carefully. "It was off Grand Fort-Philippe. A galley; low in the water, moving very fast."

"Why don't you tell your compatriots and Captain Hooper what they're used for," Morgan said.

Lasseur turned the coin over in his hand. "They're given the name because smugglers use them to carry English guineas across the Sleeve to France."

Masson frowned. "What do we French need with English guineas?"

"It's not the guineas," Lasseur said, replacing the coin on the table. "It's the gold."

Masson's frown remained in place.

"The Emperor needs it to pay our troops," Lasseur said.

The room went quiet.

After a moment Denard said, "Our troops?"

Lasseur nodded.

Hawkwood said, "You're telling us the British smuggle English guineas across the Channel to pay Bonaparte's army?"

"I told you, it's the gold that matters. It just happens to come in the form of guineas."

"And they pay them in guineas?" "Occasionally, I believe. Otherwise, they're melted down and re-minted."

Beaudouin turned to Leberte. "Were you ever paid in guineas, Pierre?"

"I can't even remember the last time I got paid," Leberte said. He stared at the coins with a wistful expression.

"What about you, Captain Hooper?"

Hawkwood shook his head.

Denard stared at Morgan. His expression mirrored the questions that were obviously racing through his mind.

Morgan nodded. "It's perfectly true, gentlemen, I assure you, and it's been going on for years. It's all part of the Trade."

"It doesn't make sense," Souville said, looking equally puzzled. "Why would the English do such a thing? Surely they realize they could be adding to the length of the war, which means more of their men will die." He stared at Morgan. "Do you really hate your country that much?"

Morgan gave a dismissive shrug. "I don't judge it in those terms, Lieutenant. It's not personal. It's purely a business arrangement."

Souville shook his head in wonderment. "Then it is a very strange business indeed."

First rule of commerce, Hawkwood thought, and was it any stranger than helping enemy combatants get back home so that they could rejoin the fight?

Morgan rewarded Souville with what could have been a sympathetic smile. "I can see how you would think that. It would be interesting to put the same point to your Emperor."

"What do you mean?" Bonnefoux asked, his brow furrowing.

"Do you think it's only free traders who are running goods, my friend?"

Before Bonnefoux could reply, Morgan smiled thinly and said, "Because if you did, you'd be wrong."

"I don't understand," Bonnefoux said warily.

Morgan leant forward and fixed Bonnefoux with a piercing gaze. "What if I were to tell you that, while you've been locked away on that stinking hulk and while your comrades were lying

dead on the field or being maimed by broadsides, English and French merchants have been doing business with each other and making money with the collusion and blessing of both our governments?"

Bonnefoux stared blankly back at him, as did everyone else.

"And I don't mean people like me, Captain. I'm not talking about free traders. I mean legitimate men of business."

"What are you saying?" It was Le Jeune who cut in.

Morgan straightened. His gaze took in all the seated men. "Let me ask you this: aside from defeating her armies on the field, what's the best way to bring an enemy to its knees?"

"Attack her trading routes," Lasseur's reply was instantaneous.

"Ha! Got it in one, Captain. And you should know, eh?" Morgan raised a hand and knotted his fist. "It's like laying siege to a fortress while poisoning the well. Do that and you'll squeeze your enemy dry. More than that; you'll stop them from generating income. Bonaparte knows our strength lies with our Royal Navy. He also knows that we maintain it with profits from our overseas trade. That's why he issued his decree forbidding France's allies from trading with us. It was his plan to bring us to our knees. Trouble is, we did for most of his navy at Trafalgar. We also stopped him getting his hands on the Danish fleet in Copenhagen, which is why he's had to rely on privateers like Captain Lasseur here. Worked for a while, too; your privateers were damned effective. But then our government decided to exchange fire with fire by issuing orders-in-council that all neutral ships bound for France must divert to British ports. The result was that both sides ended up suffering, which wasn't good because we both still had men at sea and on the battlefield and equipping them is expensive. Soldiers need muskets and musket balls and the navy needs ships and cannon. What's to be done?"

Morgan smiled knowingly. "Come on, gentlemen. Just because we're at war doesn't mean we can't be civilized. You didn't really think a thousand years of trade would end just because our generals are in a paddy, did you? Of course not; which is why our governments, in a gesture of mutual co-operation, agreed to issue special licences allowing some of our merchants to trade with some of your merchants, even though we're at war. It's been going on for the past three years. You send us grain and brandy and fine wines, and we send you wool, cotton and tin. While your friends have been fighting and dying, British and French merchants have been growing fat on the profits - and it's all been perfectly legal."

The room had fallen silent. The food lay forgotten and untouched.

Morgan spread his hands. "So, ask yourselves: who's the real villain here? At least I don't deny who I am or what I do. In fact, we free traders operate with Bonaparte's blessing as well. Why? Because he needs us, because he's after as many markets as possible for his goods, same as our merchants. That's why he's allowed our vessels free access to French ports. He knows free traders have the contacts and customers legitimate merchants can only dream of."

"And gold's the key?" Hawkwood said.

Morgan turned and jabbed a finger. "That's right, Captain Hooper. Gold is the key. It's not brandy or cotton that keeps the world turning, it's gold. The value of a country's gold reserves determines its wealth. You probably didn't know it, but back in '97 there was a heavy run on our banks. The government was so afraid the country was going to run out of gold it stopped all exports. Ordered the Bank of England to stop issuing it too. The Bank Restrictions Act, they called it; a fancy little title. Damned fools thought they could rely on paper money." Morgan shook his head. "But we all know what that's worth when there's a war on, don't we? Which is bad news when you've an army and a navy to fund.

"So, British merchants started settling their accounts in gold. But they couldn't export English gold, so they started buying in foreign. When that started to run out, they dipped into our reserves, and that sent the price up, which was when everything changed."

Morgan's gaze grew more intense as he warmed to his subject. "Y'see, it didn't take long for some bright bugger to realize that, if you buy gold in London with British bank notes and sell it for British bank notes on the Continent where gold fetches a better price, you're going to make money. And when we learned that Bonaparte needed gold to pay his armies, we couldn't believe our luck. With the help of our contacts in London, we started shipping him our English guineas. Who cares if they're going to the enemy, so long as we're making money?

"And it's been doubly good for us free traders because, as long as we keep him in guineas, Bonaparte'll keep his ports open for us so we can make him even more money by stocking up on his brandy and his silks and all manner of fancy goods. Everybody's happy." Morgan's face clouded. "Or at least we were, until the bastard Excise stuck their oar in."

Morgan, incensed, had forgotten his audience and had vented the last sentence in English.

"Oar?" Lasseur said, confused by the sudden switch.

"Only stole our bloody boats, didn't they?"

Morgan paused, realizing his slip. With a gesture of apology, he reverted to French. "Government orders; all galleys in the south-east to be seized and destroyed. Dover, Folkestone, Sandgate, Hythe - there isn't a town that hasn't been hit. They confiscated nearly twenty vessels at Deal. That's the second time the place has borne the brunt. I was there in '84 when Pitt sent the troops in. He wanted to teach the town a lesson on account of its involvement in the Trade. They set fire to its entire fleet. Burnt all the boats in one night."

Morgan shook his head in disdain. "And they wonder why Deal folk have a tendency for rebellion. You'd be rebellious, too, if you'd seen your livelihood going up in flames. By God, the government was keen enough to accept the help of Deal men to bring the Danish fleet back to England back in '08 and to use their galleys at Walcheren, and it doesn't object when we pass it word of what we've seen and heard as regards Boney's activities. But if some poor bloody foot soldier or fisherman tries to put food on his table by bringing in a few tubs, that's a different matter. And do you think there's mention of compensation for seizing and burning a man's boat? Like hell there is!"

Morgan picked up the coins and replaced them in the bag. Despite his display of anger, his movements were calm and unhurried.

When the last coin had been put away, he looked up and sighed. When he spoke, his voice was steady. "I told you earlier it wasn't personal, it was business. That's not strictly true. Those were my galleys they seized. I use them because they're not subject to the whim of the breeze. They're swift and they're manoeuvrable and they don't need a lot of men to crew them. A good team can cross the Channel in a couple of hours. Not having the galleys increases the chances of the guinea runs being intercepted. And if I can't deliver, Bonaparte will close off his ports, which means I'll lose business. I've got customers, people who rely on me. I have responsibilities; investors, who won't take kindly to being short-changed. My reputation's at stake. That makes it personal." Morgan paused and then said, "Which is why you're here, gentlemen. To hell with those bastards in the government; with your help I'm going to teach them a lesson they'll never forget."

"How?" Lasseur asked.

"By giving them a taste of their own medicine. They've taken from me, so I'm going to take from them. They think they've stopped the gold runs. I'm going to prove them wrong. I'm going to get Bonaparte his gold."

Hawkwood said, "And you're going to do that, how ... ?"

"I'm going to steal it."

"From the government?"

"Not exactly."

"Who then?"

Morgan smiled. "Wellington."

"Lord Wellington?" Hawkwood said cautiously.

Morgan tossed the bag of coin to Pepper, who caught it nimbly with his good hand. "You know of another one?"

Hawkwood ignored the riposte. "The last I heard, Wellington was still in Spain. How are you going to steal his gold?"

"Well, strictly speaking, it's the army's gold. It's to pay Old Nosey's troops."

"You want us to help you steal gold from the British Army?" Rousseau blinked behind his spectacles.

Hawkwood flicked a glance at the faces around the table. Everyone was looking equally stunned.

Finally, after several seconds' consideration, Souville enquired tentatively, "How much gold?"

Morgan placed his palms on the table and leant forward. "Five hundred thousand pounds' worth."

Beaudouin, his eyes as wide as saucers, was the first to break the silence. "What's that in francs?"

"About twelve million," Rousseau said, sitting back in his seat and polishing his spectacles with the hem of his shirt.

"God Almighty!" Leberte breathed.

Morgan surveyed the room. "I take it your interest has been piqued, gentlemen?"

You could say that, Hawkwood thought, his brain spinning.

"This gold," Lasseur said cautiously, "where is it?"

"At the moment, that's not important; it's where it's going to be in four days' time."

"And where's that?"

"Deal."

"Deal?" Lasseur stared at Morgan in disbelief.

"They've been using the place as a transit point for bullion for years." Morgan smiled wryly. "You've got to admit, it does have a certain irony."

"Where in Deal?" Le Jeune's tone was instantly suspicious.

"There's a castle," Lasseur said, looking at Morgan for confirmation.

"There is indeed, but that's not where they're storing it. Captain. That's the beauty."

Lasseur's features took on a dubious frown. "Where then?"

"The Port Admiral's residency."

"Why in the name of God would they be storing it there?"

"Because that's where they put all the bullion that goes through the town. Before the government bought the house, it belonged to a banker. It still has a strong room. All specie and bullion passing through Deal is kept there. It's either landed from a ship to be forwarded by escorted wagon to London or it's transported from the London banks to Deal for shipment abroad, usually to Spain to pay the army."

"And how do you plan to remove this gold? Knock on the front door and ask them to hand it over?" Lasseur looked sceptical.

"I was thinking of something a little more persuasive."

Hawkwood realized that no one had asked the pertinent question. It looked as if it was up to him.

"Why us? What about your own crew? You told me if there was one thing you weren't short of, it was men."

Morgan nodded. "That I did, Captain, and it's no word of a lie. But there's no harm in recruiting extra bodies, especially men who've proved they're not afraid of a challenge and who are willing to take risks to achieve their objective. In my book, you all fit the bill. You've endured hell on the prison ships and yet you've not been cowed by capture. You've escaped using ingenuity and lived to tell the tale. That proves to me you have the character. You're all experienced seamen and soldiers. That tells me you're used to discipline and can work as a unit. More importantly, you've no allegiance to King George, so I doubt you'll consider betraying our intention to the authorities. In short, gentlemen, my proposition is this: I'm offering you a chance to get your own back on the country that's treated you worse than rats in a cage. They say revenge is sweet. What do you say? Do you fancy a taste?"

Morgan's eyes flashed. "Think of the glory. Instead of returning home with your tails between your legs as prisoners captured on the field, you'll be going back as free men, laden with treasure. By God, gentlemen, you'll be given a heroes' welcome! When your Emperor sees what you've done for him, there's nothing you will want for!"

"And you're doing this because your boats have been confiscated?" Lasseur said, staring hard at Morgan.

"I'm doing it for two reasons, Captain. The first is payback for what they've stolen from me and from the men of Deal. As for the second; the way I see it, twelve million francs will buy me a lot of favours with your Emperor. He'll keep his ports open and I can carry on trading; hopefully build more galleys. The last thing I need is a breakdown in supply. I don't want to give the edge to my competitors."

"I didn't think you had any competitors," Hawkwood said.

Morgan gave Hawkwood a sharp look. "There's always someone who thinks they should be top dog. Right now, that's me. I intend to keep it that way. Look upon this as a special delivery. A gesture of good faith on my part."

"You mentioned an escort," Hawkwood said.

"Nothing we can't handle," Morgan said confidently.

"Perhaps you should let us be the judge of that," Lasseur said drily.

Morgan looked towards Pepper.

Pepper came out of his state of repose. "A small detachment of marines."

"Is that all?" Lasseur said. "You had me worried for a moment. I thought it was going to be difficult."

"How small?" Hawkwood asked.

"Shouldn't be more than thirty men. They won't be a problem, though."

"Why not?"

"Because they won't be watching the gold all the time."

"How so?"

It was Morgan who replied: "Because Admiralty House doesn't have the facilities to accommodate troops. It's too small and, in any case, it's a residence. While the gold is in the strong room, the guards will be quartered in the castle."

"I thought Deal had a barracks," Lasseur said.

"There are troops stationed in the town as well?" Le Jeunc said quickly.

"A token force. There used to be two companies of volunteers, but they were disbanded. Plans to raise a militia never came to anything because the townsfolk raised a stink. The barracks are mostly used as a way station for transients. In any event, they're almost closer to Walmer than they are to Deal.

There's a company of Bombardiers at the castle to man the guns. Other than -"

"Guns?" Hawkwood interjected. "You mean cannon?"

"Nine 36-pounders, but they're all facing seawards. They're not expecting an attack from the land."

"So no more troops?"

"Other than the ones in the castle, the nearest are a couple of miles to the north. There's a shore battery on the Sandwich Road, but they won't be a threat. They'll be kept occupied."

"What about those castle troops?" Le Jeune asked.

"They and the marines will be occupied. I've a diversion planned to keep them bottled up."

"How do you expect to get away?" Hawkwood asked.

"There'll be a ship lying off the beach, ready to transport us across the Channel."

"Right in front of those Bombardiers with their 36-pounders," Hawkwood pointed out.

Morgan shook his head. "They'll be too busy watching their backs, and even if they aren't, they won't see us."

"Why not?"

"We'll be carrying out the raid at night. The darkness will give us the cover we need. It will be easier to spread confusion, and we'll be able to take advantage of the tide."

"What about the weight?" Lasseur asked.

"Four tons, give or take. A couple of stout wagons, specially strengthened, will be sufficient."

"Still a devil to move, though." Lasseur pursed his lips as he considered the implications.

"We won't be moving it far. It's less than four hundred yards from the front door of the residency to the shore. It's a straight run with no obstacles. Even if we only manage to shift half the damned stuff, we'll still be in profit."

"How do you plan to get into the strong room?" Hawkwood asked.

"That won't be a problem."

Morgan did not expand on his statement. Evidently, he wasn't inclined to give away too much information at this stage.

He's baited the hook well, Hawkwood thought. He looked around at the flushed faces. Flattery had helped.

Rousseau took off his spectacles. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes. "And our commission; what did you have in mind for that?" He held Morgan's gaze. "Because you won't be giving the Emperor the gold, will you? Even though you haven't actually paid for it, you'll be selling it to him, the same as with the other deliveries you've made."

All heads turned towards the head of the table.

Morgan smiled. "I wondered how long it would take you."

Backs straightened as the significance of Morgan's response permeated the minds of the men gathered around the table.

Rousseau breathed on his lenses, polished them with his sleeve and slipped the spectacles back over his nose.

"What's the usual profit on a guinea run?" Masson asked, trying to appear nonchalant but failing comprehensively.

Morgan glanced towards Pepper, but his lieutenant's countenance remained as inscrutable as ever. Morgan turned back: "Ten per cent."

"In that case," Rousseau said, "let's not be greedy. Why don't we make it fifteen per cent of the final profit?"

"It's going to be all profit," Masson said. "Remember?"

"Sounds fair," Le Jeune said, fixing Morgan with a speculative expression.

Hawkwood tried to calculate the amounts in his head. Fifteen per cent of twelve million francs - nearer fourteen, if Morgan realized his usual advantageous exchange rate - was a fortune, whether in francs or sterling.

Morgan stared at Pepper. Again Pepper said nothing, but this time a look passed between them.

Morgan nodded slowly. "Very well; fifteen it is."

A sequence of widening grins ran around the table.

"So, gentlemen, that's settled. Now, are you with me?"

Hawkwood looked round the room. There wasn't a man present who didn't look like the cat about to swallow the cream, except Pepper, of course. Did anything disturb that grey-bearded countenance?

Le Jeune was the first to voice his response. He nodded and laughed. "I'm up for it, by God!"

"Me, too!" Bonnefoux said eagerly. "If it means I can get my own back on those bastards!"

Morgan's eyes swept the room. "What about the rest of you?"

"Damned right, we're with you!" Masson clapped Souville on the shoulder. "Wouldn't miss it, would we, lads?"

Hawkwood wondered why Morgan bothered to ask the question, for the light of greed in their faces should have been enough to persuade him he already had them in the palm of his hand. Any lingering resentment caused by the delay in returning home had been eclipsed the moment the gold coins had hit the table top. Hawkwood caught Lasseur's eye. The privateer lifted an eyebrow in silent enquiry.

"Captain Lasseur," Morgan said amiably. "We've not heard from you."

Lasseur broke eye contact with Hawkwood and turned. "You put your case very well, my friend. I'm almost persuaded." The privateer smiled. It was the first time he'd shown any spark of humour since leaving the widow's. "But for a twenty per cent share I could be convinced beyond all doubt."

Pepper's head swivelled.

The chatter ceased.

Morgan stared at Lasseur. His expression was impenetrable.

The world revolved slowly.

Then Morgan nodded. "Agreed." He turned to Hawkwood. "Looks like you're the only one left, Captain Hooper. Are you in or out?"

This is bloody madness, Hawkwood thought. This went way beyond anything foreseen by Ludd or James Read. He looked at Lasseur. The privateer winked back at him.

Christ, Hawkwood thought.

Brain spinning, he turned to Morgan and grinned.

"Wouldn't miss it. I'm in."