Rapscallion by James McGee

Hawkwood's
and Lasseur's vantage point, a fencing class was being conducted. In the
absence of edged weapons, the students were reduced to wielding the thin sticks
that had been used to quell the recent invasion - still a risky venture given
the confines of the classroom - and the Park echoed to the click-clack of
wooden foils.
    "Can't
say I care much for their instructor," Lasseur said dismissively, looking
down at the scene. "The man's style is abominable. Do you fence?"
    "When
the mood takes me," Hawkwood said.
    Lasseur
grunted at the noncommittal answer and then said, "A splendid exercise;
the pursuit of gentlemen. Perhaps we should give lessons, too? Earn ourselves
some extra rations."
    The
dry tone in the privateer's voice hinted that Lasseur was being sarcastic, so
Hawkwood didn't bother to reply. He looked out across the water. Lasseur did
the same. The two frigates were nearing the mouth of the river. Close hauled,
yards braced, their nearness to one another suggested a friendly rivalry
between the crews, with each ship determined to steal the wind from her
opponent, knowing the loser would be left floundering, sheets and sails
flapping, her embarrassment plain for all to see.
    From
Lasseur's distant gaze and by the way his hands were holding on to the rail,
knuckles white, Hawkwood sensed the Frenchman was thinking about his own ship.
Hawkwood tried to imagine what might be going through the privateer's mind, but
suspected the task was beyond him. His world was so far removed from Lasseur's
that any attempt to decipher the faraway look was probably futile.
    While
there were inherent dangers attached to both their professions, it was there
the similarity ended. Hawkwood's world was one of ill-lit streets, thieves'
kitchens, flash houses, fences, rogues and rookeries. Lasseur's, in total
contrast, was the open deck of a sailing ship, running
before the wind. It seemed to Hawkwood that, whereas his world was an enclosed
one, almost as dark and degrading as the hulk's gun deck, Lasseur's was one of
freedom, of the open main and endless skies. For Lasseur, being cooped up on
the prison ship would be like a bird whose wings had been clipped. Small wonder
his desire to escape was so strong.
    "How
long will it take, do you
think?" Lasseur asked. He did not look around but continued to follow the
frigates' progress towards the open water.
    "Murat?"
    Lasseur
nodded.
    "He
has the advantage," Hawkwood said. "He'll probably be content to keep
us waiting, even if it's just to teach us who's pulling the strings. It could be a while."
    Lasseur
turned. There was a bleak look in his eyes. "Any longer in this place and
I swear I'll go mad."
    "One
day at a time," Hawkwood said. "That's how we have to look at it. I
hate to admit it, but the bastard was right about one thing."
    "What's
that?"
    "We
should be patient."
    Lasseur
grimaced. "Not one of my better virtues."
    "Mine
neither," Hawkwood admitted, "except, we don't have a choice. Right now,
I don't think there's much else we can do."
    Lasseur
nodded wearily. "You're right, of course. It does not mean I have to like
it, though, does it?"
    Hawkwood
didn't answer. In his mind's eye he saw again the mob of prisoners rising out
of the hatches and the mayhem they had created. Lasseur had referred to the
hulk as a version of Hell. From what Hawkwood had witnessed so far, the
privateer's description had been horribly accurate. In his time as a Runner,
Hawkwood had visited a good number of London's gaols: Newgate, Bridewell, and
the Fleet among them. They were, without exception, terrible places. But this
black, heartless hulk was something different. There was true horror at work
here, Hawkwood sensed. He wasn't sure what form it took or if he would be
confronted by it, but he knew instinctively that it would be like nothing he'd
encountered before.

CHAPTER 6
     
     
    The
interpreter had been wrong about the smell. After four days, Hawkwood still hadn't
grown used to it. Grim smells were