James McGee - Rapscallion

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?"

"The price would include all transport, accommodation and safe passage to France."

"For that sort of money," Hawkwood said, "I'd expect the Emperor to collect me in a golden barge and carry me up the bloody beach when we got there!"

Lasseur chuckled. Then his face grew serious.

"How the hell do you expect us to find that sort of money?" Hawkwood demanded.

The interpreter shook his head. "An agent makes contact with your families. It's they who arrange payment. Once the full fee's been paid, preparations for your departure would begin."

"How do we get off the ship?"

Murat smiled. "Come now, gentlemen; I'm sure you understand the need for discretion. The less you know at this stage, the safer it will be for all of us. I would also urge you to keep this conversation to yourselves."

"You're telling us the walls have ears?" Lasseur asked.

Murat grimaced. "It's not unknown for the British to plant spies among us, but no, sadly, there have been occasions when betrayal has come from closer to home."

Hawkwood felt his insides contract.

"Traitors?" Lasseur said.

"Not necessarily. You forget, we're not the only nationality on board these hulks. Captain Hooper is proof of that. We've got Danes, Italians, Swedes, Norwegians… take your pick. France has many allies. There'll be some who'd look to alleviate their misery by claiming a reward for informing on their fellow prisoners."

Hawkwood prayed that nothing was showing on his face. At least he'd discovered one thing: if there was an organized escape route, it was only available to the rich. He wondered how deep Bow Street's coffers were and what James Read's reaction would be when Ludd relayed details of the amount involved: four years' salary for a Runner.

Hawkwood felt Lasseur's hand on his arm.

He realized the privateer had misinterpreted his silence for doubt when Lasseur said, "You're wondering how you would raise the fee?"

"It's not the money," Hawkwood said, recovering. "It's making the payment."

That could prove an interesting exercise, Hawkwood thought, unless Ludd came up with a practical idea during their meeting.

Lasseur patted Hawkwood's shoulder reassuringly and, to Hawkwood's surprise, said, "No need to fret, my friend." The privateer turned to Murat. "I will cover the fee for Captain Hooper."

Murat looked momentarily nonplussed, then shrugged, almost dismissively. "Very well."

"How long will it be before we hear anything?" Lasseur asked.

"I cannot say. I'll require the name of the person you wish the agent to contact and a note to prove the agent is acting on your behalf. You'll be notified as soon as we receive word that agreement has been reached and payment made." Murat looked at them. "Are the terms acceptable?"

Lasseur and Hawkwood exchanged looks.

"For the sake of argument?" Lasseur said. "Perfectly."

"Well?" Lasseur asked. "What do you think?"

"I think Lieutenant Murat's a duplicitous bastard," Hawkwood said.

They were back on the forecastle. The stifling atmosphere below had been too much to bear. They had emerged topsides to find that the breeze, although still persistent, had dropped considerably.

"I believe we'd already established that," Lasseur said drily, and then frowned. "You're still worrying about the fee, aren't you? As I said, do not concern yourself. You can repay me when we're home."

"You hardly know me," Hawkwood said.

"That's true," Lasseur agreed. "But I'm an excellent judge of character. You'll honour the bargain. I know it." The privateer grinned disarmingly. "And if you prove me wrong, I shall cut out your heart and feed it to the pigs."

"Your wife's parents can find that amount?" Hawkwood asked. He had no idea, but he didn't think a French farmer's income was that high.

"No." Lasseur shook his head, and then said firmly, "But my men can. The name I gave to the lieutenant was one of my agents."

"You have agents in England?" Hawkwood said.

"But of course." Lasseur looked surprised that Hawkwood had even thought to ask. "I have a number in my employ. They keep me advised of British naval movements."

Hawkwood sensed his preoccupation with the means of payment must still have shown on his face, for Lasseur paused and then said, "What? Don't tell me you were thinking of waiting in case your parole is granted? Forgive me, but I do not see you as a man content to bide his time in an English coffee house waiting for the war to end. You said I don't know you. Well, I do know you're a soldier, and you know both our countries need men like us to continue the fight. That's why we're going to escape from this place. I shall return to my son and my ship. You will return to your woman and your Regiment of Riflemen, and between us we will defeat the British. You will do it for your new country and your President Madison and I will do it for my Emperor and the glory of France. One can never put a fee on patriotism, my friend, and four thousand francs is a small price to pay for victory. What say you?"

Confronted by Lasseur's earnest expression, Hawkwood forced another grin. "I say when do we leave?"

Lasseur slapped him on the back.

It had turned into a fine summer's day. The sunlight and the sharp cries from the gulls circling and diving above them, although plaintive in tone, were a welcome relief after the gloom of the gun deck. Shirts and breeches flapped from the lines strung between the yards. Faint sounds of industry carried from the dockyard: the ringing clang of a hammer, the rattle of a chain, the rasp of timber being sawn. Out on the river, a pair of frigates, sails billowing like grey clouds, raced each other towards the mouth of the estuary.

It was only when the eye returned to the deck of the hulk and on across the sterns of the other prison ships visible over her bow that the view was marred. The hulks squatted in the water as if carved from blocks of coal. Plumes of black smoke pumping from their chimney stacks spiralled into the azure sky, proving that darkness could be visited even upon the very brightest of days.