Rapscallion by James McGee Page A

nothing new, living in London had seen to
that, but in the enclosed world of the gun deck, four hundred bodies generated
their own particular odour and, despite the open ports and hatches, the warm
weather meant there was no way of drawing cooler and fresher air into the ship.
The sea breezes afforded no respite. They brought only the damp, faecal aroma
of the marshes, which hung across the polluted river like a moisture- laden
blanket.
    That
said, Hawkwood decided Murat might have got it wrong when he'd nominated fever
and consumption as the most prominent causes of death aboard the ship. From
what Hawkwood had seen, it was more than likely one of the main culprits was
unremitting boredom.
    While
a proportion of the hulk's inmates did engage in productive pursuits such as
arts and crafts, giving or receiving lessons, or setting themselves up as
shoemakers or tradesmen in tobacco or other goods, it seemed to Hawkwood that
they were in the minority. A vast number of the ship's population opted to pass
their days in idleness. Even on the gun deck, men gambled. It wasn't difficult
to recognize the ones who'd fallen under the spell. The quiet desperation in
their eyes as they laid down their cards or took their time lifting the cup
from the little cubes of bone, knowing their inevitable descent to the deck
below had already begun, was evidence enough. Others engaged in more dubious
dealings: the manipulation of weaker inmates through theft, intimidation and
sexual gratification, followed by threats of reprisal if their authority was
questioned. Some sought sanctuary by curling up and sleeping wherever there was
room - and there wasn't much room. The remainder seemed content merely to wait
and to die.
    In
an attempt to evade the stink, Hawkwood kept to the forecastle as much as
possible, sometimes with Lasseur for company. To avoid remaining sedentary,
he'd lent his labour to the hulk's work parties. This had drawn comment from
some of his fellow prisoners. Most officers regarded such labour as beneath
their dignity and preferred to pay a substitute to carry out any manual tasks
assigned to them. The going rate was one sou or ten ounces of bread from the
day's rations.
    Hawkwood
had no such qualms, having served in the Rifles, where every man was expected
to pitch in. And even before that, as a captain, it had always been Hawkwood's
contention that he would never assign a task to one of his soldiers that he
wasn't prepared to do himself. It had been a good way to garner loyalty and in
the heat of battle it had served him and the men he'd led very well. So
Hawkwood had willingly lent his back to hoisting supplies on board and swilling
down the foredeck and the Park after supper. Better the smell of honest sweat
in his nostrils than the all-pervading stench of the hulk's lower deck.
    Lasseur,
too, had done his share of manual graft, working alongside Hawkwood at the
hoist and in the ship's hold. The temperature within the ship was such that
jackets and shirts were soon discarded. The prisoners' backs ran wet with sweat
and it was easy to tell whether an inmate was new on board or a regular member
of a work party: the irregulars were the ones whose flesh was as pale as paper.
    Lasseur's
hide carried the healthy sheen of a seaman whose voyages had taken him to
warmer, far-flung climes. His torso was well formed without being muscular, and
evenly tanned - in contrast to some of the men, whose forearms and faces were
the only areas of their bodies that showed the effects of exposure to the sun.
The rest of their skin, normally covered by a shirt, looked bleached white in
comparison.
    What
also set Lasseur apart were the marks of the lash across his spine. Hawkwood
had passed no comment on the scars. He'd enough of his own, including the ring
of bruising around his throat, which had drawn a few curious looks both when
he'd taken the bath prior to his registration and when he removed his shirt
during the work details.
    Lasseur
had noticed