Rapscallion. James McGee
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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.”
“Rafalés,” 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?”