Rapscallion. James McGee
Читать онлайн книгу.
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?”