Free Rapscallion by James McGee Page B

enemy. And in the case of the men
confined aboard the hulk - Hawkwood included - it was the officers and men of
His Britannic Majesty's prison ship Rapacious who were
the foe.
    According to
Ludd, Rapacious hadn't been her only name. During her years as a
man-of-war, as a mark of affection her crew had bestowed a nickname upon her: Rapscallion, a tribute to her role in causing mischief to the
French.
    It was doubtful,
Hawkwood reflected, looking around him, if any of the seamen who'd raised her
sails, scaled her rigging and run out her guns would have recognized her now.
Any beauty or sense of pride she might have possessed as a mighty ship of war
was long gone. Even with the morning sun slanting across her quarterdeck, with
her once graceful profile buried beneath a ramshackle collection of
weather-beaten clapboard sheds, she was as ugly as a London slum.
    Another cry
sounded from the work party. The full water casks had all been taken aboard and
the last bumboat was pulling away with its cargo of empty barrels. Several of
the full casks remained on deck. The contents were needed for the day's midday
soup and to replenish the drinking water tanks. The hoist was repositioned in
preparation for the next round of deliveries.
    Lasseur turned
from the rail. "Walk with me, my friend. I'm in need of some
exercise."
    The number of
prisoners strewn around the deck made it more of an obstacle course than a
walk.
    "How many
soldiers are there on board, do you think?" Lasseur asked. He kept his
voice low as they picked their way through the press of bodies.
    "Hard to
tell," Hawkwood said. "Not less than forty would be my guess." He
looked aft, where two members of the militia were patrolling back and forth
across the width of the raised quarterdeck, muskets slung over their shoulders.
Other militia were spread evenly around the hulk, including one on the forecastle
from where they had just descended. Hawkwood had counted three on the gantry
and one on the boarding raft, and there was one at each companionway. He
suspected several others were standing by, poised to deploy at the first sign
of trouble.
    The two men left
the forecastle and made their way below.
    "I did a
count last night," Lasseur said as they descended the stairs. "Six on
the grating, one manning the raft, and I could hear others on the
companionways."
    "You didn't
waste any time," Hawkwood said.
    Lasseur
shrugged. "It was hot, I couldn't sleep. What else was I going to do? Besides, I've
seen the way you've been looking around."
    "There's
the crew as well," Hawkwood said.
    "I'd
not forgotten. How many, would you say?"
    Hawkwood
shook his head. "On a ship this size? You'd know
better than me. Thirty?"
    Lasseur
thought about it, pursed his lips. "Not so many. Twenty,
maybe."
    "They'll
have access to arms," Hawkwood said.
    Lasseur
nodded. "Undoubtedly. There'll be an armoury
chest: pistols and muskets; cutlasses too, probably." The privateer
captain fell silent.
    On
the gun deck, Hawkwood was surprised by the number of pedlars foraging for
business among their fellow prisoners. In their search for both buyers and
sellers, they were as persistent as any he'd encountered under the arches of
Covent Garden or the Haymarket. The number of men willing to trade away their
belongings appeared to be substantial, though from their pitiful appearance, it
wasn't hard to see why. Watching the transactions, Hawkwood didn't know which
depressed him most: the fact that these men had been reduced to such penury, or the pathetically grateful expressions on their
faces when a bargain was struck. Several of the prisoners who'd arrived the
previous day were handing over items of clothing in exchange for coinage. They
did it furtively, as if shamed by their actions. Hawkwood assumed the money
would be used to purchase extra food, a commodity that had become a currency in
its own right.
    Lasseur
read his thoughts. "I was talking with our friend Sebastien earlier. He
told me that when he was at