no attempt to escape. The penalty for
transgressing, if apprehended, was a swift return to a prison cell.
The rules were
stricter for men like Lasseur. A privateer officer's eligibility for parole
status depended upon the size of the vessel in which 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 mile. "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.
CHAPTER 4
"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. "Sebastien 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,
transgressing, if apprehended, was a swift return to a prison cell.
The rules were
stricter for men like Lasseur. A privateer officer's eligibility for parole
status depended upon the size of the vessel in which 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 mile. "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.
CHAPTER 4
"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. "Sebastien 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,
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