James McGee - Rapscallion

"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?"

Lasseur nodded.

"He has the advantage," Hawkwood said. "He'll probably be content to keep us waiting, even if it's just to teach us who's pulling the strings. It could be a while."

Lasseur turned. There was a bleak look in his eyes. "Any longer in this place and I swear I'll go mad."

"One day at a time," Hawkwood said. "That's how we have to look at it. I hate to admit it, but the bastard was right about one thing."

"What's that?"

"We should be patient."

Lasseur grimaced. "Not one of my better virtues."

"Mine neither," Hawkwood admitted, "except, we don't have a choice. Right now, I don't think there's much else we can do."

Lasseur nodded wearily. "You're right, of course. It does not mean I have to like it, though, does it?"

Hawkwood didn't answer. In his mind's eye he saw again the mob of prisoners rising out of the hatches and the mayhem they had created. Lasseur had referred to the hulk as a version of Hell. From what Hawkwood had witnessed so far, the privateer's description had been horribly accurate. In his time as a Runner, Hawkwood had visited a good number of London's gaols: Newgate, Bridewell, and the Fleet among them. They were, without exception, terrible places. But this black, heartless hulk was something different. There was true horror at work here, Hawkwood sensed. He wasn't sure what form it took or if he would be confronted by it, but he knew instinctively that it would be like nothing he'd encountered before.

The interpreter had been wrong about the smell. After four days, Hawkwood still hadn't grown used to it. Grim smells were nothing new, living in London had seen to that, but in the enclosed world of the gun deck, four hundred bodies generated their own particular odour and, despite the open ports and hatches, the warm weather meant there was no way of drawing cooler and fresher air into the ship. The sea breezes afforded no respite. They brought only the damp, faecal aroma of the marshes, which hung across the polluted river like a moistureladen blanket.

That said, Hawkwood decided Murat might have got it wrong when he'd nominated fever and consumption as the most prominent causes of death aboard the ship. From what Hawkwood had seen, it was more than likely one of the main culprits was unremitting boredom.

While a proportion of the hulk's inmates did engage in productive pursuits such as arts and crafts, giving or receiving lessons, or setting themselves up as shoemakers or tradesmen in tobacco or other goods, it seemed to Hawkwood that they were in the minority. A vast number of the ship's population opted to pass their days in idleness. Even on the gun deck, men gambled. It wasn't difficult to recognize the ones who'd fallen under the spell. The quiet desperation in their eyes as they laid down their cards or took their time lifting the cup from the little cubes of bone, knowing their inevitable descent to the deck below had already begun, was evidence enough. Others engaged in more dubious dealings: the manipulation of weaker inmates through theft, intimidation and sexual gratification, followed by threats of reprisal if their authority was questioned. Some sought sanctuary by curling up and sleeping wherever there was room — and there wasn't much room. The remainder seemed content merely to wait and to die.

In an attempt to evade the stink, Hawkwood kept to the forecastle as much as possible, sometimes with Lasseur for company. To avoid remaining sedentary, he'd lent his labour to the hulk's work parties. This had drawn comment from some of his fellow prisoners. Most officers regarded such labour as beneath their dignity and preferred to pay a substitute to carry out any manual tasks assigned to them. The going rate was one sou or ten ounces of bread from the day's rations.

Hawkwood had no such qualms, having served in the Rifles, where every man was expected to pitch in. And even before that, as a captain, it had always been Hawkwood's contention that he would never assign a task to one of his soldiers that he wasn't prepared to do himself. It had been a good way to garner loyalty and in the heat of battle it had served him and the men he'd led very well. So Hawkwood had willingly lent his back to hoisting supplies on board and swilling down the foredeck and the Park after supper. Better the smell of honest sweat in his nostrils than the all-pervading stench of the hulk's lower deck.

Lasseur, too, had done his share of manual graft, working alongside Hawkwood at the hoist and in the ship's hold. The temperature within the ship was such that jackets and shirts were soon discarded. The prisoners' backs ran wet with sweat and it was easy to tell whether an inmate was new on board or a regular member of a work party: the irregulars were the ones whose flesh was as pale as paper.

Lasseur's hide carried the healthy sheen of a seaman whose voyages had taken him to warmer, far-flung climes. His torso was well formed without being muscular, and evenly tanned — in contrast to some of the men, whose forearms and faces were the only areas of their bodies that showed the effects of exposure to the sun. The rest of their skin, normally covered by a shirt, looked bleached white in comparison.

What also set Lasseur apart were the marks of the lash across his spine. Hawkwood had passed no comment on the scars. He'd enough of his own, including the ring of bruising around his throat, which had drawn a few curious looks both when he'd taken the bath prior to his registration and when he removed his shirt during the work details.

Lasseur had noticed Hawkwood's passing glance at his back and had made only one comment: "I wasn't always a captain."

"Me neither," Hawkwood had told him, and that had been enough. The rest of the men, whose quizzical looks might have indicated a desire for explanation, they ignored.