Rapscallion (13 page)

With
the exception of those who'd retreated into their own little world and the
denizens of the orlop deck, most of the prisoners seemed content to co-exist
in small social groups centred round their messes. Many would probably have no
idea there'd been an escape, let alone have any knowledge of how it had been
accomplished; their first inkling that something untoward had taken place would
come with the increased activity of the hulk's commander and his crew, and the
heavy-handed actions of the guards as they inspected and emptied the deck to
take an unexpected body count. Someone as well informed as Fouchet would know
more, but the teacher was too cautious to discuss such matters with a new
arrival, particularly in the light of Murat's reference to informers. Hawkwood
had operated clandestinely before and, though patience did not come easily to
him, he'd learned that a subtle approach would achieve better results than
barging around asking too many pertinent questions.

Ludd's
suspicion that there was organization behind the escapes had been confirmed by
Murat. Yet Hawkwood was still no wiser as to who was behind it. He wondered how
long it would be before the translator got back to them.
A
week?
Two?
Or would it be a month?
Or longer?
The thought made his blood run cold. His
rendezvous with Ludd was in three days. Would he have
anything
positive to
report? It didn't seem likely. Unless a man could change himself into something
the size of a rat and slip between the grilles like Hawkwood's scaly-tailed
friend the other night, the only way off the hulk seemed to be as a corpse
wrapped inside a burial cloth. Even then you wouldn't get very far.

There
had been seven deaths in the time Hawkwood had been aboard. The cause was marsh
fever. During the summer months the fever claimed many victims among the weak and
undernourished. Age was an inevitable contributing factor, though in the
close-knit squalor of a prison ship, fever, typhus, pox and depression showed
no favouritism. Two of the dead men had been in their twenties.

There
had been no ceremony in the removal of the deceased. Wrapped in filthy sacks of
hastily sewn sailcloth, the corpses had been lowered into a waiting boat using
a winch and net. Then, accompanied by a burial detail of prisoners and a
quartet of militia, the sorry cargo had been rowed to a bank of shingle half a
mile off the hulk's stern. Hawkwood and Lasseur had watched in sombre silence
as the bodies had been carried up the foreshore and thrown into a pit dug at
the back of the beach. From what they'd been able to see, no words were spoken
over the burial before the boat made its return journey.

What
had been noticeable to Hawkwood was that, aside from himself, Lasseur and a few
of the newer prisoners, no one had taken any interest in the proceedings. On
Rapacious
, death and
burial were commonplace.

Mid-afternoon
of his fifth day on the hulk, Hawkwood was leaning on the forecastle rail,
taking a rest after three hours spent hauling barrels of dried herring and
sacks of onions on board. The work had been hard, but there had been a sense of
purpose to the task, and, more importantly, it had made the time pass quicker.
Now the sun was warm on his back and the estuary was calm. If he closed his
eyes and nostrils, a man could, for a moment or two, imagine he was a thousand
miles away.

Lasseur
was standing next to him. The privateer captain had pulled the cheroot out of
his jacket for what must have been the hundredth time and was staring at it
with all the concentration of a drunkard eyeing a bottle of grog.

Hawkwood
sensed a presence at his shoulder.

It
was the teacher, Fouchet, his face frozen in an expression that struck Hawkwood
with a sense of impending dread.

"Sebastien?"
Lasseur enquired cautiously.

Fouchet
stared at them, as if he didn't know where to begin. Sorrow exuded from every
pore.

"Sebastien?"
Lasseur said again.

The
teacher's face crumpled. "They've taken the boy."

Hawkwood
frowned. "Who have?
The guards?"

Fouchet
shook his head.
"The Romans."

Lasseur
gasped in shock, his cheroot forgotten. "What?
How?"

"I
sent him to the galley after his lessons to help Samuel prepare for supper. He
didn't arrive. I only found that out when I went to sort out the rations for
the mess." The teacher began to wring his hands. "I should have gone
with him. It's my fault."

At
Lasseur's request, Fouchet had secured the boy a job as assistant to one of the
galley cooks.

"How
do you know the Romans have him?" Hawkwood said. "He could be with
one of the other boys."

The
dwellers from the orlop had kept a low profile since their lightning raid on
the Park - collectively, at any rate. Individually, they still made forays on
to the forecastle in search of galley scrapings or the chance to barter, though
they were usually given short shrift by the non-Roman captives. En masse,
however, their presence on board, only a deck below, continued to cast a dark
shadow in the minds of all the other prisoners. They reminded Hawkwood of the
untouchables he'd seen in India: hated and feared, but impossible to ignore.

Fouchet
shook his head. "I spoke with Millet and Charbonneau. They asked around.
Lucien was seen with Juvert."

"Who's
Juvert?" Hawkwood asked.

"I
know him," Lasseur said quickly.
"Damned pederast!
I caught him talking to Lucien on the first day. I warned him to leave the boy
alone."

Hawkwood's
mind went back to the prisoner he'd seen crouched beside the boy, slender
fingers caressing Lucien's back. "He's a Roman?"

"He's
one of Matisse's acolytes," Fouchet said.

"Matisse?"

"A
vile creature; calls himself king of the Romans.
He rules the lower levels. A Corsican, too, if you can believe that," the
teacher added sourly.

"There's
a leader?" Lasseur couldn't hide his disbelief.

"What
about the guards?" Hawkwood asked, wondering why Matisse had adopted the
title of king. The Romans of old had been ruled by an emperor, hadn't they?
Though on second thoughts, one Corsican emperor at a time was probably enough.

His
mind went back to the comment he'd overheard between the two militia men when
he'd arrived on board:

Wait
till His Majesty gets a look at that!

A
sick feeling began to worm its way into Hawkwood's stomach.

Fouchet
shook his head. "They'll do nothing. No crime has been committed. In any
case, they won't dare to venture that far below deck."

Hawkwood
stared hard at the teacher. "It's a British ship! You're telling me the
British Navy has no rights on one of its own vessels?"

Fouchet
spread his hands. "It has the
right.
It's the will that's lacking, especially where the Romans are concerned. If you
want the truth, I think the commander and his men are more wary of Matisse and
his courtiers than we are."

"But
the British are armed. They have guns!" Lasseur protested.

"True,
but you saw for yourselves the other day: they'll not use them unless one of
their own is threatened."

Lasseur
gazed at the teacher in horror. Fouchet wilted under the scrutiny.

"This
is what you meant, wasn't it?" Lasseur said finally. "This is why you
told me to watch him. Matisse has done this before. He's taken other boys. My
God, what sort of place is this?"

"If
I told you the half of it," Fouchet replied softly, "you'd say I was
mad."

"What
about the tribunal? Doesn't that have influence?"

Fouchet
shook his head. "Not over Matisse, it doesn't. Besides, tribunal is just
another word for committee. When
was the last time a
committee
did anything constructive? And by the time the
tribunal's
convened it would be too late. We have to do
something now!"

Dear God!
Hawkwood
thought wildly. "All right, Charbonneau told us anything that happens
below deck stays below deck. We'll take care of it ourselves."

"How?"
Fouchet's head jerked up. "Wait, you're going down there?"
"Unless you can think of another way," Hawkwood said. He waited for
an answer.

Fouchet
looked at them helplessly.

"This
Matisse, can
you
take us to him?" Lasseur asked.

Fouchet
paled. He took a step back, nearly overbalancing in the process.

Anger
flared briefly in Lasseur's eyes and his expression hardened. But as he stared
at Fouchet, he saw the fear in the teacher's face.

"We're
wasting time," Hawkwood said.

"I'm
so sorry," Fouchet whispered. His face sagged. He looked suddenly very old
and very frail.

Lasseur
gave the teacher a reassuring smile. "We'll get him back, Sebastien, I
give you my word." He turned to Hawkwood. "Perhaps we should be
armed?"

Hawkwood
looked at Fouchet. "Will they have weapons down there?"

Fouchet
gave an unhappy nod. "It's possible."

"Wonderful,"
Lasseur said. "What should we do about that?"

"I
can't see Hellard giving us the key to the armoury," Hawkwood said drily.
"And we don't have time to go searching. We'll just have to
improvise." He turned to Fouchet. "Where's Juvert? Have you seen him
since the boy went missing?"

A
spark of hope brightened the teacher's eyes. He nodded and pointed.

Claude
Juvert was savouring the moment. He was on the beak deck, in the forward heads,
enjoying a piss. There was a splendid view of the river from the pissdales, if
you kept your eyes front and ignored the unsightly sterns of the prison ships
moored over the bow. There was the gross stench, of course, but it was
impossible to avoid that, even with the deck exposed to the elements. There
were only six seats of ease on the hulk and with over eight hundred prisoners
on board it was rare not to find most of them occupied at any one time. Four
prisoners were seated behind Juvert, trousers bunched around their ankles,
contemplating their future. Conversation was desultory.

Had
Rapacious
been at sea and
under sail, the smell would have been barely noticeable. The constant deluge of
salt and spray cascading over the forward netting would have ensured that the
deck received a regular sluicing. The shit and piss stains that accumulated
around the holes in the gratings would have been washed away without any
bother. With the ship moored in the middle of a river in almost flat calm water
with only an occasional choppiness to break the monotony, the sanitary
arrangements weren't anywhere near as effective. It was decidedly moist and
treacherous underfoot.

Juvert
shook himself dry, buttoned his trousers and wiped his hands on his jacket.
Emitting a small sigh of satisfaction, he turned to go.

The
blow from Lasseur's boot took Juvert in the small of the back, propelling him
head first against the netting stanchion. There was a dull crunch as Juvert's
thin nose took the brunt of the impact. He let out a yelp. Blood spurted.
Lasseur stepped in, took Juvert by the throat and squeezed. Blood from Juvert's
broken nose dripped over the privateer's wrist.

"Remember
me?" Lasseur said. His eyes burned with rage.

Juvert's
eyes opened wide, first with shock and then in fear. He moaned and tried to
jerk free, but Lasseur's grip held him fast.

Hawkwood
took Juvert's left arm. Lasseur took the right. They hauled him to his feet.

"Any
trouble," Lasseur hissed, "
and
it won't be
just your nose - I'll break your neck."

Hawkwood
smiled grimly at the row of squatting, slack- jawed prisoners who didn't know
whether to remain where they were or try to make a strategic and ungainly
withdrawal.
"As you were, gentlemen.
We're just
leaving."