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, fœtid 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