he’d been taken. If the ship was less than 80 tons and mounting less than fourteen carriage guns of at least four-pound calibre, he would not be accorded parole status. Lasseur’s command, at 125 tons and mounted with six-pound cannon, qualified, but unfortunately for the privateer he had not been captured on his own vessel.
Lasseur’s ship, Scorpion, was a ten-gun schooner and his eyes lit up whenever he spoke of her.
“She may not be the biggest vessel afloat, but she’s as fast as the wind and her sting is deadly, and she’s all mine.” Lasseur had given a rueful smile. “And if I’d had her beneath my feet, we’d not be having this conversation.”
Scorpion had been laid up in Dunkerque for repairs following a difference of opinion with a British fifth-rate on blockade patrol. On that occasion Scorpion had not been fast enough to avoid the British gun crew’s aim, but with the aid of a convenient fog bank she had managed to give her pursuer the slip and make a successful run for home. While awaiting repairs, Lasseur had been talked into delivering dispatches between ports along the North French coast. His transport had been a two-masted caique or – as Lasseur had described it – a floating piece of excrement, and no match for the British sloop that had appeared out of nowhere and which, with a twelve-pounder carronade, had blown the caique’s main mast and rudder into matchwood and taken her crew and temporary captain captive. Lasseur had told Hawkwood that he didn’t know which would prove the most embarrassing experience, his capture or the ribbing he’d receive when he was reunited with Scorpion’s crew: “They will make my life intolerable.”
When Hawkwood hinted that any reunion was liable to be some way off, Lasseur had fixed him with a steadfast gaze. “They know I’m a prisoner. When I escape, I will send word and they will come for me.”
Recalling Lasseur’s words and watching him test the strength of the bars, it was hard not to admire the man’s faith, though Hawkwood still couldn’t help but feel that the privateer captain was being a tad over-optimistic. He wondered whether Lasseur, confronted with the reality of his incarceration, was secretly harbouring the same thought. If he was, the man gave no sign.
Hawkwood’s musings were interrupted by a sudden warning shout, followed immediately by the clatter of boots on the stairs. The prisoners seated around the gun ports scrambled to put away their paper and pens. Standing up, they moved towards the centre of the hull. Not knowing why, Hawkwood, Lasseur and the boy followed suit and watched as a dozen guards wielding lanterns and iron bars, led by a bovine corporal, thrust their way on to the deck.
“Here they come,” a man next to Hawkwood muttered. “Sons of bitches!”
“What’s happening?” Hawkwood asked.
The prisoner turned. His uniform hung off his bony frame. His hair was grey. A neat beard concealed his jaw. The state of his attire and the colour of his hair suggested he was not a young man, yet there was a brightness in his eyes that seemed out of kilter with the rest of his drawn appearance. He could have been any age from forty to seventy. He was clutching several books and sheets of paper.
“Inspection.” The prisoner looked Hawkwood up and down. “Just arrived?”
Hawkwood nodded.
“Thought so. I could tell by your clothes. The name’s Fouchet.” The prisoner juggled with his books and held out a hand. “Sébastien Fouchet.”
“Hooper,” Hawkwood said. He wondered how much pressure to apply to the handshake, but then found he was surprised by the strength in the returned grip.
Fouchet nodded sagely. “Ah, yes, the American. I heard we had one on board. You speak French very well, Captain.”
Jesus, Hawkwood thought. He didn’t recall seeing Fouchet in the vicinity of the weather-deck when his name had been registered. Word had got round fast.
“How often does this happen?” Hawkwood asked.
“Every day. Six o’clock in the summer, three o’clock in the winter.”
The guards proceeded to spread about the deck. There was no provision made for anyone seated on the floor, nor for the items upon which they might have been working. Hawkwood watched as boot heels crunched down on to ungathered chess pieces, toys and model ships. Ignoring the protestations of those prisoners who were still trying to retrieve their belongings, the guards proceeded to tap the bulkheads and floor with the iron clubs. When they got to the gun ports they paid close attention to the grilles. The deck resounded to the sound of metal striking metal. Hawkwood wondered how much of the guards’ loutish behaviour was for effect rather than a comprehensive search for damage or evidence of an escape attempt. Not that the strategy was particularly innovative. It was a tried-and-tested means of imposing authority and cowing an opponent into submission.
Satisfied no obvious breaches had been made in the hulk’s defences, the guards retraced their steps. Peace returned to the gun deck and conversation resumed.
“Bastards,” Fouchet swore softly. He nodded towards Lasseur and then squinted at the boy. “And who do we have here?”
Hawkwood made the introductions.
“There are other boys on board,” Fouchet said. “You should meet them. We’ve created quite an academy for ourselves below decks. We cover a wide range of subjects. I give lessons in geography and geometry.” Fouchet indicated the books he was holding. “If you’d like to attend my classes I will introduce you. It is not good for a child to while away his day in idle pursuits. Young minds should be cultivated at every opportunity. What do you say?” Fouchet gave the boy no chance to reply but continued: “Excellent, then it’s agreed. Lessons will commence tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock sharp, by the third gun port on the starboard side. Adults are welcome to attend too. For them, the charge is a sou a lesson.” He pointed down the hull and turned to go.
Lasseur placed a restraining hand on the teacher’s arm. “Did you see what happened to the men in the boat?”
The teacher frowned. “Which boat?”
“The one before ours; the one left to drift. The men were too weak to board.”
“Ah, yes.” The teacher’s face softened. “I hear they were taken on board the Sussex.”
“Sussex?”
“The hospital ship. She’s the one at the head of the line.” Fouchet pointed in the direction of the bow.
Lasseur let go of the teacher’s arm. “Thank you, my friend.”
“My pleasure. There’ll be another inspection in an hour, by the way, to count heads, so it wouldn’t do to get too comfortable. I’ll look out for you at supper. I can show you the ropes. In return, you can tell me the news from outside. It will help deflect our minds from the quality of the repast. What’s today, Friday? That means cod. I warn you it will be inedible. Not that it makes any difference what day it is; the food’s always inedible.” The teacher smiled and gave a short, almost formal bow. “Gentlemen.”
Hawkwood and Lasseur watched Fouchet depart. His gait was slow and awkward, and there was a pronounced stiffness in his right leg.
“Cod,” Lasseur repeated miserably, closing his eyes. “Mother of Christ!”
The next contingent of guards did not use iron bars. Instead, they used muskets and fixed bayonets to corral the prisoners on to the upper deck. From there they were made to return to the lower deck and counted on their way down. The lieutenant who had overseen the registration was in charge. His name, Hawkwood discovered, was Thynne.
The count was a protracted affair. By the time it was completed to the lieutenant’s satisfaction, shadows were lengthening and spreading across the deck like a black tide. In the dim light, the prisoners made their way to the forecastle to queue for