Rapscallion (38 page)

"Is it
true?"

Morgan smiled.
"Take a look around, Captain. What do you think?"

"I think
that I'm in the wrong business."

Morgan
maintained his smile. "Then I'd say you've just answered your own
question. It's all a matter of supply and demand. If the bloody government
wasn't so determined to tax us all to within an inch of our lives, do you think
we'd be having this conversation?
         
"Governments use taxes to pay for their wars,"
Hawkwood said. "It's the only way they can raise the money. Doesn't make
any difference if you're English, French or American, you have to pay to make
your country safe. It's why taxes were invented in the first place."

Morgan shook his
head. "It's not the principle I object to, it's the percentage and the
fact they only tax the pleasures, never the pain. Damn it, they even tax
playing cards! Can you believe that? That's almost as stupid as the tax on bloody
windows! A man works hard in the fields all day; it strikes me he's a right to
enjoy a pipe, a hand of whist and a swig of brandy without having to pay the
bloody exchequer over the odds for the privilege. The way I see it, if I can
make his life a bit more bearable, then that's no crime. And if it means I can
shove two fingers up to the government at the same time, that's all right,
too."

Morgan kicked
aside a stone. "Don't get me wrong, Captain. I'm not running a charity
here. You said earlier that you thought you were in the wrong business. Well,
that's exactly what this is - a business. I saw an opportunity to invest and I
seized it. I've been in it a long time now, and the returns have been
excel
lent - like most of my other enterprises, I'm happy to
say."

"You must
have substantial outlays," Hawkwood said.

Without breaking
stride, Morgan shrugged. "Wages, transport and distribution,
warehousing;
no different to any other business. I've got a
few more palms to grease, that's all."

More than a few
, Hawkwood thought. He turned and found Morgan was giving him
a quizzical look.

"What were
you expecting, Captain? This is the nineteenth century; or had you forgotten?
If you thought the Trade was made up of a couple of
fishermen
and a rowboat, you can think again. Those days are long gone. Oh, I'll not deny
that still goes on, but it's not where the big money comes from. Buy in bulk
and make sure you've got a good accountant - that's where the profit
lies."

"You mean
like the other night at. . ." Hawkwood feigned memory loss ". . .
where was it?"

"Warden."
Morgan called out to Pepper: "How many tubs was that, Cephus?"

"Twenty-five,"
Pepper said, without looking back. "Plus six bales of tobacco."

Morgan
nodded. "Twenty-five tubs. That's not bulk, Captain Hooper. That's small
change. I've had runs where we needed eighty ponies to transport the goods. A
week ago I had two hundred and fifty men on a job; fifty to carry the goods
ashore, the rest to guard the flanks."

"You're
not telling me you've got that many men
here?"
Hawkwood
nodded towards the house and outbuildings and the cloisters, where he and
Lasseur had spent the night.

Morgan
shook his head. "I hire in. If there's one thing I'm not short of, it's
manpower
. And I pay well. A labouring man'll earn a shilling
a day, if he's lucky. I pay tub carriers four times that for one night's work.
I pay my scouts ten times that amount. They know I'll look after them. I've a
surgeon on call in case of mishap and, if the worst happens, I make sure their
families are taken care of. I've got a firm of lawyers who'll arrange bail if
they're picked up and brought before a magistrate. No one serves gaol time
working for me, Captain. You can take that as gospel."

"Accountants,
surgeons
and
lawyers?"
Hawkwood said. "I'm impressed."

"So
you should be." Morgan stopped walking, leant on his stick, and gazed
towards the house and the priory ruins, as if admiring their worth for the
first time.

"Well,
you can't argue with the evidence, I'll grant you that," Hawkwood said, following
Morgan's stare. "It's a fine place."

Morgan
turned and gave a mock bow. "Why, thank you, Captain. Though, I'm afraid I
can't claim all the credit. Most of the hard work was done for me. I did think about
having all the ruins pulled down and clearing the rest of the land, but the
local vicar objected. Said I'd be consigned to everlasting damnation if I
removed a single stone. Mind you, he was in his cups at the time, courtesy of a
keg of my best brandy, so he might not have meant it."

"But
you decided not to risk it, just in case?" Hawkwood said.

"It'd
be a foolish man who tried to second guess the Almighty, Captain Hooper."

"Not
to mention the clergy," Hawkwood said.

"Indeed.
Especially Reverend Starkweather.
His Sunday sermons
are particularly well attended." Morgan paused and then grinned. "Not
that he should complain, considering I am at least carrying on the St Anselm
tradition."

"How's
that?"

"I'm
still taking in pilgrims."

"Pilgrims?"

"They
used to shelter here on their way to Canterbury, until King Henry had the monks
all thrown out. Now we provide sanctuary for the likes of you. Curious how
things come to pass, isn't it?"

"There've
been other prisoners brought here?"

Morgan
smiled.
"Only those that have shown promise."

"Were
they offered a proposition as well?"

Hawkwood
sensed Pepper, who had halted up ahead, stiffen. Morgan's smile did not falter,
though his laughter lines may have shortened a little. Hawkwood saw that the
dogs had paused too. The brindle ran across to the grass to sniff energetically
at its companion's rear end.

"How
did you know about the fight on the ship?" Hawkwood asked.

"I
have my sources."

"The
guards?"

"They're
useful for looking the other way or passing messages, but any
number of people are
involved in maintaining the ships, and
I can afford to employ a wide net - ashore and on the water.
Money
talks."

At
that moment a hand bell rang somewhere in the cloisters.

The
dogs' heads swivelled.

Matins?
Hawkwood thought wildly.
Don't tell me
Morgan holds prayers as well.

"Ah,"
Morgan said cheerfully, resting the walking stick across his right shoulder.
"Time we were heading back." He gave a whistle that sent the dogs
running towards him,
then
started walking towards the
house. "We'll leave you to rouse Captain Lasseur. You can tell him
breakfast will be provided in the refectory. It'll be our first chance to
introduce you to the others."

"Others?"
Hawkwood said.

Morgan
smiled.
"Your fellow pilgrims."

"And
this is Lieutenant Gilles Denard," Rousseau said, his eyes blinking
earnestly behind a pair of wire-framed spectacles.

Denard,
a pleasant-looking, balding man in his late thirties, extended his hand across
the table.
"An honour, Captain."

"And
for me," Lasseur said. "Allow me to present Captain Matthew Hooper,
one of our American allies. His French is excellent, by the way."

Denard
shook Hawkwood's hand. "Welcome, Captain. I've a great liking for your
country. I've sailed into Boston a number of times. Do you know the city? It
has some splendid inns. A particular favourite of mine was on Washington
Street. The Lion, run by a Colonel Doty, I think his name was. Are you familiar
with it?"

"I
think you'll find that was the Lamb," Hawkwood said. "The Lion was further
north."

Denard
frowned and then laughed. "Why, I do believe you're right! Well, it's been
a while since my last visit."

"Gilles
served with Surcouf," Rousseau said.

"When
were you taken?" Lasseur asked.

Denard
pursed his lips. "June '08. I was in Cadiz,
then
transferred to the
Prudent
in Portsmouth for a year before I wound up on the
Poseidon.
That's where I
met Rousseau, here."

With
the exception of the
Poseidon
,
the names of the ships meant nothing to Hawkwood. He knew of the
Poseidon
because
it was another Chatham hulk and one of several Medway-moored
ships mentioned by Ludd during his briefing at Bow Street.

They
were in the refectory which was situated on the opposite side of the cloister
garth from the wing housing Hawkwood and Lasseur's cell. It was long and
rectangular in shape, with a low, black-beamed ceiling. Two heavy oaken tables
- one long and one short - formed a T which occupied the centre and ran almost
the full length of the room. There was food on the tables: fresh baked bread,
eggs, ham, sausages and coffee. Morgan had not stinted on the victuals.

"The
two of you escaped together?" Lasseur asked, reaching out and pouring
himself a mug of coffee. He looked at Hawkwood. Hawkwood nodded and Lasseur
poured a second mug.

Rousseau
nodded. "We behaved ourselves until they granted us parole and then we
went for a walk one day and never went back.
You?"

"We
died," Lasseur said, grinning, and explained.

Denard
looked at Lasseur in awe.

Hawkwood
took a swig of coffee. It was very strong with a bitter aftertaste. It reminded
him of the camp-fire brews he'd had to endure.

One
by one, Rousseau introduced the men around the table. There were eight in
total.

"Lieutenants
Souville and Le Jeune from the
Bristol.
Leberte is from the
Buckingham.
Louis Beaudouin, there, made it off the
Brunswick
and Masson and Bonnefoux at the end, there, you may know or have heard of.
They're from your ship,
Rapacious.'"
Rousseau chuckled. "I wouldn't like to be in her commander's shoes, not
with the number of prisoners he's had that have made a run for it."

"Lieutenant
Hellard sends his regards," Lasseur said. "He wanted me to tell you
that he's missing you and to hurry back."

While
Lasseur joked, Hawkwood took another sip from his mug and mentally ticked off
the names from the list that Ludd had given him. Including the two men who'd
been murdered and disposed of on the hulk, the number tallied. With all

Ludd's
escapers accounted for, that was one mystery solved at least.

He
wondered if Masson and Bonnefoux knew about the murdered men. There was nothing
to be gained by telling them, he decided.

"How
did you get off the ship?" Hawkwood asked the former
Rapacious
prisoners.

It
was Masson, a thin-faced man with a prominent Adam's apple, who replied.
"We hid out in a couple of empty water casks. What's so funny?" he
asked, perplexed by the expression on Lasseur's face.

Lasseur
shook his head.

"How
did they cover your escape?"

"They'd
have disrupted the count," Bonnefoux replied without hesitation. "You
don't know?"

Hawkwood
shook his head. "Our departure was . . . hurried. We never found
out."

Bonnefoux
grinned. His teeth were surprisingly clean and even.

Over
a period of time, using augers filched during work-party duties and a saw
fashioned from a barrel hoop, bevel-edged holes had been cut in the deck
planking between the upper, gun and orlop decks. As prisoners were counted down
into the lower decks, a designated number returned to the upper deck through
the holes and rejoined the men waiting to be counted. When the count was
complete, the holes were sealed to await the next departure.