Rapscallion by James McGee Page A

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