James McGee - Rapscallion

"By the way," Rousseau said, addressing Lasseur. "If you want funny, ask Louis how he escaped."

Beaudouin looked about seventeen but was probably in his mid twenties. A thin moustache that left the impression it had been drawn on with a pencil was stuck precariously to his upper lip.

"How did you get away?" Lasseur asked.

Beaudouin grinned. "In a very fetching blue bonnet."

To Hawkwood and Lasseur's amazement, Beaudouin told them that the Brunswick had become one of Chatham's main attractions. For a small charge, local boatmen, in collusion with the hulk's commander, would row visitors out to the ship at regular intervals. They would be escorted up to the quarterdeck and from this vantage point, they could look upon the prisoners in the well deck below. Even more astonishing was the fact that many of the sightseers were female, which had given Beaudouin his idea.

Desperate to find ways of occupying time on board the hulk, the Brunswick's prisoners had formed a theatre group, performing short plays, written by themselves, for the pleasure of their fellow inmates. The culmination of their efforts had been the staging of a swashbuckling melodrama involving a pirate and his lady.

"I played the lady," Beaudouin said, "because of my angelic looks. Of course, I didn't have the moustache at the time," he added seriously.

The acting troupe had made its own costumes. The manufacture of female attire, however, had proved difficult, so an appeal had gone out to the ladies of Chatham. Donations had arrived by the sackload. Thus Beaudouin had his disguise; all he'd needed was an opportunity.

Picking his moment on the day of a visit, Beaudouin had secreted himself close to a stairway and hatch leading to the quarterdeck, merging with the departing visitors, petticoat rustling, with a handkerchief to his face as if overcome by the smell of the ship and the misery he had just witnessed. The most nerve-racking moment had been fending off the advances of one of the militia guards, who'd mistaken Beaudouin's attempt to hide his face for coquettish flirting.

"I wouldn't have minded so much," Beaudouin said, with a smile, "but the oaf had a face like a shovel." He turned to Leberte, a trim man with well-tended side whiskers and a flamboyant moustache that put Beaudouin's effort to shame. "Pierre — why don't you tell them how you did it?"

The others grinned.

Leberte's escape had been spectacular for several reasons. He had achieved his freedom from the Buckingham after watching the movement of the sentries on the outside gangway. Leberte had timed how long the sentry took to march the length of the gantry and how long his back was turned. His next task had been to "accidentally" drop a cabbage from the ship's rail and time its fall. Then he waited for high tide. When the sentry turned to retrace his steps along the walkway, Leberte made his dive for freedom.

It had been late afternoon and Leberte's plunge over the side of the forecastle had taken everyone by surprise, even his fellow prisoners. By the time the militia had recovered from the shock and collected their wits, Leberte had swum under the hull of the ship to the bow, where, using a breathing tube fashioned from a hollowed-out length of sheep bone he'd procured from one of the galley cooks under the pretence that he was making himself a bone flute, he had remained submerged until the search for his body had moved away from the hulk into the further reaches of the river. After which, at dusk, he had made his way ashore and into hiding.

"Tell them the best bit," Beaudouin grinned.

It hadn't been the cold water or sucking in air through the narrow tube that had taxed Leberte's resolve, it had been the awful knowledge that he'd taken shelter directly below the ship's heads.

Lasseur held up his hand and said hastily, "Thank you, my friend. There's no need to elaborate."

Leberte was a lieutenant in the 93rd Regiment d'Infanterie de Ligne and the only other non seaman present. Unlike the British, the French Navy didn't have marines. That function was performed by regular infantry units acting under the auspices of the Ministere de la Marine. Leberte had been in charge of a unit on a frigate, the Navarre, when he'd been taken prisoner in a skirmish off Ushant.

He'd been on the run for two weeks prior to arriving at the Haunt, living in thickets and under hedges, stealing food from fields and orchards before taking shelter in a barn, where his presence had finally been discovered. A weary Leberte had thrown himself upon the mercy of the farmer. Fearful that a search of his property would reveal the two dozen tubs of brandy and three bales of tobacco hidden in his cellar, the farmer had run not to the authorities but to Ezekiel Morgan, who, true to his reputation as a businessman, had informed Leberte that the only obstacle confronting his safe return to France was the fee for his transport.

Fortunately, Leberte's wife's family had money. The transaction had been brokered through Fector's Bank in Dover with, Hawkwood assumed, the assistance of Morgan's tame accountant.

It was fortunate, Hawkwood thought, that Leberte had had the means to pay for his passage home. He wondered what the lieutenant's fate might have been had that not been the case.

Leberte shrugged philosophically when Hawkwood posed the question. "Then I would have had to make my own way, wouldn't I?" he said.

The other seven had been Morgan's guests for differing lengths of time. Rousseau and Denard had been at the Haunt the longest, nearly five weeks, which fitted in, Hawkwood calculated, with Ludd's own records. All of them had been given refuge by farmers in the area, though Hawkwood and Lasseur were the only ones that had stayed with Jess Flynn.

As Hawkwood listened to the men's accounts, the extent of Morgan's reach became clear. With the exception of Leberte, who'd acted on his own initiative, all the other escapers from the hulks had had their route to freedom pre-arranged by prisoners' committee and Morgan's network of informers.

Rousseau and Denard, who had had the advantage of being ashore already, had engineered their flight following a direct approach by the landlord of their lodging house, further evidence of Morgan's sphere of influence.

"Why haven't you been moved on to the coast?" Hawkwood asked. He threw a look at Lasseur as he said this.

"Too dangerous." It was Denard who answered. "The British have been increasing their coastal patrols. We've been waiting for the right time." He shrugged. "Leastways, that's what they told us up until a couple of days ago."

"What do you mean?" Hawkwood asked.

Denard exchanged glances with the men around him. He turned back. "We were told our passage home had finally been arranged and that it was only a few days away, but there was something they wanted our help with first. When we asked our friend Morgan what sort of help, he laughed and told us he had something up his sleeve that would bring the colour back to our cheeks."

"He didn't tell you what it was?"

Denard shook his head. "Still, things could have been a lot worse. At least here we've been given food and shelter, so it's comfortable enough. Better than those bloody ships, I can tell you that."

"But it's not home," Souville said. "We're tired of waiting. We've all paid our fee. We just want to go home."

There was a collective nodding of heads.

"What about you and Captain Lasseur?" Rousseau asked.

"We think we're going to be offered the same proposal," Hawkwood said.

"And you don't know what it is either?"

And then the door opened and Morgan and Pepper walked in. Leberte said, sotto voce, "I think we may be about to find out."

The men looked on expectantly as Ezekiel Morgan strode briskly to the head of the table and viewed the room, Pepper at his shoulder.