Rapscallion. James McGee
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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 Sébastien 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 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