Rapscallion (4 page)

"How many
in total?"
Hawkwood asked.

"Ten
unaccounted for."

"Over how
long a period?"

"Two
months," Ludd said.

"As I was
saying ..." James Read spoke into the pregnant silence which followed
Ludd's admission. "You are also to determine whether the escapers have
received outside assistance. Captain Ludd is of the opinion that they
have."

"Based on
what?" Hawkwood said.

"Based on
the fact that we haven't managed to track any of the buggers down," Ludd
said.

"Explain."

Ludd sighed.
"Escapes are nothing new. Some are spontaneous; the sudden recognition of
an opportunity presenting itself: a door left unlocked, a careless guard
looking the other way during a working party, that sort of thing. They
generally involve a prisoner acting on his own. Nine times out of ten, he's
rounded up quickly, usually because he's cold and wet and he can't find food or
clothing, he's no idea where he is and he daren't ask directions because he
can't speak the language. They don't last long. Many end up turning themselves
in voluntarily - and not just to the military. They've even surrendered to
people in the street. But when it's more than one, when two or three at a time
have made a run for
it, that
suggests they've devised
a plan, hoarded food and spare clothing, maybe bribed a guard to sell them a
map so they know how far it is to the coast, and where they can steal a boat.
Even so, not many make it. All it takes is one careless word; someone overhears
them speaking Frog or talking English with an accent and the game's up. But
these recent escapes, they've been different."

"How
so?"

"As I said,
we weren't able to pick up their trail."

"Which
means what?"

"In my
book, it means someone's definitely helping them."

"Like
who?"

"That's
what we sent Masterson and Sark to find out."

"What do
you think?"

"My own
theory?
Free traders, most likely."

"Smugglers?"

"My guess
is that they're passing the escapers down the line to the coast. They've got the
routes all set up, they've got the men and the boats."

"That,
Hawkwood, is the third part of your assignment," Read said. "If there
is an organized escape route, I want it disrupted, preferably disbanded."

"It might
explain why your Lieutenant Masterson was found in the Swale," Hawkwood
said. "Could be he was thrown from a vessel."

"Could
be," Ludd agreed. "I'd deem it a personal favour if, along the way,
you could find out what happened to my men. If they were done away with, I'd
prefer to be told."

"If free
traders are involved, it won't be easy," Hawkwood pointed out.
"They're a law unto themselves. Anyone going in and asking questions is
sure to make their ears prick up. It's more than likely they'll see me coming a
mile away."

Ludd and Read
exchanged glances.

"Quite
so," James Read said quietly. "But in this case they're going to be
looking in the wrong direction."

"Hindsight's
a wonderful thing," Ludd said. "Our mistake was sending Masterson
and
Sark through the front door. They were competent men, but they were naval
officers first and landsmen second. In this situation they were out of their
depth, no pun intended. We might just as well have dispatched a marching band
to accompany them. Masterson's brief was to try and infiltrate the smuggling organizations.
We thought the best way for him to do that was to have him pose as a former
seaman looking for work and to make it clear he wasn't too bothered whether the
work was legal or not. Trouble is
,
the smuggling
fraternity's too closely knit. My feeling is he ended up asking the wrong
people the wrong questions - and that Sark made the same mistake."

"You can
take the man out of the navy but you can't take the navy out of the man,"
Hawkwood said.

"Something
like
that," Ludd agreed unhappily.

"You, on the
other hand, will not be quite so obvious," James Read said. "We
hope."

"You mean
I'll be using the tradesman's entrance," Hawkwood said.

The corner of
Read's mouth twitched.
"Providing we can manufacture a
suitable history for you."
The Chief Magistrate paused. "My
initial thought was that you should pass yourself off as a French officer, but
I'm not sure that's entirely practical. While I appreciate that your knowledge
of the language is considerable, could you maintain the deception for any
length of time? Captain Ludd and I have discussed the matter and we believe the
current crisis with the United States has provided us with the perfect
solution. You will pass yourself off as an American volunteer."

"An
American?"

"As you
know all too well, from your recent encounter with William Lee, our American
cousins are less than enamoured with us of late. Even before the recent
declaration of war, a substantial number of American citizens have been drawn
to Bonaparte's flag; a legacy of American and French liaison during the
Revolutionary War. With that in mind, we thought you could assume the mantle of
an American officer attached to one of Bonaparte's regiments who has been
captured in the field. The fact that you are conversant in French gives us a
distinct advantage.

"All that
remains is your identity. Something credible that will pass scrutiny,
preferably based on your own expertise and, ideally, involving an engagement of
which you have personal knowledge. The only problem with that, however, would
be the question of your whereabouts over the past three years. The most logical
choice would therefore seem to be something more recent, from which all the
facts have yet to be sifted. Captain Ludd and I have perused dispatches and
determined that the victory at Ciudad Rodrigo will best fit the bill. Reports
of the battle are still being disseminated. Are you familiar with any of the
details?"

"Only from
what I've read in the news sheets," Hawkwood said.

The Times
had carried general reports of the battle, as had the
Chronicle
and the
Gazette.
Ciudad Rodrigo was a picturesque
Spanish town overlooking the Agueda River. Only a few miles from the border, it
guarded the main northern route between Spain and Portugal. Wellington had laid
siege to the town at the beginning of January. The attack had been a ferocious
affair. Casualties had been heavy, but Wellington had emerged victorious. Many
prisoners had been taken.

Read nodded.
"Very good; a volunteer captain attached to the 34th Regiment d'Infanterie
Legere will be the most fitting for our purposes, I venture. The regiment was
created last year, drawing men from other units, so there is every possibility
they could have utilized foreign experts in the field. I'll leave you to
manufacture an appropriate biography for yourself."

The Chief
Magistrate reached across his desk and picked up a small canvas pouch.
"These are some of the reports pertaining to the siege. Make use of them.
They contain details that are not public knowledge; for obvious reasons, as
you'll discover. Our own soldiers may well have emerged victorious, but they
did not cover themselves in glory. Such knowledge could assist in fending off
awkward questions. Use it to your advantage if you find yourself pressed.
Attack is the best form of defence. Denigrating your former comrades in arms
will help deflect attention from your alias. Read the dispatches. You'll see
what I mean."

Read handed over
the pouch. "As an officer, you'll be permitted to carry a few personal
belongings. Mr Twigg will provide you with funds. French and British currency
is used on the hulks. I would urge you to be circumspect in your expenditure,
however. The coffers of the Public Office are not a bottomless pit.

"The wounds
you received in the Hyde case will stand you in good stead. They're recent
enough to have been sustained around the supposed date of your defeat and
capture. They will add to your credibility."

The scars from
his encounter with the escaped Bedlamite, Titus Hyde, had healed well. But that
wasn't to say he didn't sometimes wake in the small hours wondering what might
have become of him had the blade of Hyde's sword been an inch longer. The
razor-thin weal along the rim of his left cheek was a visible reminder that the
line between life and death can be measured by the breadth of a single hair or
the span of a heartbeat.

"Who else
will know I'm a peace officer?"

Read hesitated
before replying.
"No one.
Aside from
myself
, Captain Ludd and Mr Twigg, no one else will be privy
to your true identity."

"Not the
hulk's commanding officer?"

"No
one," Read repeated.

"So, how do
I send word if I discover something?"

"That's why
you'll be listed as an officer in the ship's register. It entitles you to apply
for parole. Captain Ludd recommends we make it appear as though your
application is pending authorization. You will thus be required to appear
before a board of assessment. Your first interview will be scheduled to take
place one week after your arrival. Captain Ludd will be the officer in charge.
You will provide him with details of any progress you may have made."

Hawkwood stared
at the dispatch pouch and then looked up. "In that case, I hope you all
remain in good health. I'd hate to find I'm stranded on the bloody ship because
you've
all been struck dead in your beds."

"Name?"

The question was
emitted in a thin, reedy voice by a narrow- shouldered, sour-faced man seated
behind a large trestle table that had been set up in the forward section of the
weather-deck. The clerk did not look up but waited, lips compressed, pen
poised, for Hawkwood to reply. A large ledger lay open in front of him. The
seated man to his right, a supercilious-looking individual with reddish-blond
hair, slim sideburns and nails bitten down to the quick, wore a lieutenant's
uniform. The one standing by his left shoulder was younger, slightly built,
dark haired, and dressed in a yellow canvas jacket and matching trousers.
Stamped on the sleeves of the jacket and upon each trouser leg were a broad
black arrow and the letters T.O., the initials of the Transport Office. His
eyes roved back and forth along the line of waiting men.

Hawkwood gazed
down at the clerk and said nothing. He was still feeling the chill from the
dousing he had received.

The guards had
removed the shackles and made all the new arrivals strip naked on deck before
handing them a block of brown soap and ordering them into large water-filled
barrels. The water was freezing and by the time each man had rubbed himself
raw, clambered out, passed the soap on to the next man and dried himself with
the rag towel, the water surface in every tub was covered by a thin oily
residue.

Orange jackets,
trousers and shirts had then been distributed. There seemed to be only one size,
small, which left the recipients struggling woefully to fasten the jacket
buttons. With most, the trousers reached only as far as mid calf. The only
person to emerge from the handout with any modicum of dignity was the boy from
the longboat. The jacket was too long at both hem and sleeve, but the trousers
were close to being a good fit, albeit only after they had been secured around
the boy's thin waist by a length of twine.

Not everyone
received a uniform. A number of men, Hawkwood and Lasseur among them, were
allowed to keep their own clothes, supposedly because they were officers,
though Hawkwood suspected it had more to do with a scarcity of jackets and
trousers rather than an acknowledgement of their rank. Certainly, it appeared
that prison uniform had been passed, in the main, to those whose own apparel
was beyond salvage. All soiled articles were tossed on to a growing pile on the
deck. To be taken off the ship, Hawkwood assumed, and burned.

Next, canvas
slippers were distributed. Neither Hawkwood nor Lasseur were deemed
impoverished enough to warrant the gift of the shoes. Hawkwood noticed that
both his and Lasseur's footwear were attracting surreptitious attention from
some of the less fortunate prisoners and he made a silent vow not to let his boots
out of his sight.

A look of
irritation moved across the registration clerk's pinched face at Hawkwood's
lack of response. The lieutenant maintained his impression of boredom. The
clerk flicked his finger imperiously and the man standing at his shoulder in
the yellow uniform repeated the question in French.

"Hooper,"
Hawkwood said. "Matthew."

As Hawkwood gave
his name, the clerk stiffened and frowned, while next to him the lieutenant's
head snapped round. His eyes darkened.

The clerk
recovered his composure and turned his eyes to the grainy sheet of paper at his
elbow. He ran the nib of his pen down the page and gave a small click of his
tongue as he found the entry he was looking for. Hawkwood assumed it was the
list of prisoners transferred from Maidstone and that the clerk was confirming
his name.