Rapscallion by James McGee

Portsmouth one of the men on the Vengeance set up his own
restaurant and became rich selling slop by the bowl. Wherever there's a
shortage of something, there's money to be made."
    "Lieutenant
Murat would probably agree with you," Hawkwood said.
    "Ah,
yes, our intrepid interpreter. Now there's a
man worth cultivating."
    "You
trust him?"
    "About
as far as I can spit."
    "That
far?" Hawkwood said.
    Lasseur
laughed.
    Hawkwood's
attention was diverted by one of the small groups occupying sections of bench
over by the starboard gun ports. It was the teacher, Fouchet, and his morning
class. His pupils - half a dozen in total - were seated on the floor at his
feet. The boy Lucien was with them. He looked to be the youngest. The eldest was
about fourteen. Fouchet caught Hawkwood's eye and smiled a greeting. His pupils
did not look up.
    There
were some two score boys on Rapacious, Fouchet had told him, ranging in age from ten to sixteen. The practice was not
exceptional. Fouchet's previous ship, the Suffolk, had held over
fifty boys, some as young as nine. Hawkwood had wondered briefly about the
Transport Board's wisdom in confining children with the men. But then, the
Royal Navy employed boys not much older than the ones attending Fouchet's class
as midshipmen and runners for their gun crews, and so presumably saw nothing
unusual in sending innocents like Lucien Ballard to face the horrors of life on
board a prison hulk. Hawkwood had a vague notion that Nelson had been around
the same age as Lucien when he'd gone to sea. He was reminded of some of the
street children he employed as informers. Age had never been a consideration
there. The only criteria he'd set during their recruitment were that they were
fleet of foot, knew the streets, and kept their eyes and ears open.
    "My
son is twelve," Lasseur said quietly. The privateer captain was also
looking towards the group by the gun port.
    "Where
is he?" Hawkwood asked.
    Lasseur
continued to watch the class. "With his grandparents in
Geveze. It's near Rennes. They have a farm."
    "Your mother and
father?"
    Lasseur
paused. "I'm an orphan. They're my wife's parents. She died."
    Hawkwood
kept silent.
    "She
fell from her horse. She loved to ride, especially in the early morning."
The Frenchman swallowed and for a second time the mask slipped. "I've not
seen my son for three months. They send me letters. They tell me he attends
school and is good at his lessons and that he likes animals." A small
smile flitted across the Frenchman's face. "His name is Francois."
Lasseur turned. "You have a wife, children?"
    "No,"
Hawkwood said.
    "A
woman? Someone waiting for you?"
    Hawkwood
thought about Maddie Teague and wondered if she'd ever viewed herself in that
role; lonely and pining for her man. He didn't think so, somehow. Maddie was
too independent for that. He had a sudden vision of her lying beside him,
auburn hair spread across the pillow, emerald-green eyes flashing, a
mischievous smile playing across her lips.
    "Ah!"
Lasseur smiled perceptively. "The look on your face tells me. She is
beautiful?"
    "Yes,"
Hawkwood said. "Yes, she is."
    Lasseur
looked suddenly serious. "Then I'd say we both have a reason to escape
this place, wouldn't you?"
    "As
long as it's not inside a bloody water barrel."
    "There'll
be other ways," Lasseur said firmly. "All we have to do is find them.
Fouchet said there've been a few who've done it. Maybe we should ask him how they did
it."
    "Maybe
we should ask somebody who's a bit more devious," Hawkwood said.
    Lasseur
grinned. "You mean Lieutenant Murat?"
    "The
very man," Hawkwood said.
    The
interpreter frowned. "Forgive me, Captain Hooper, but you may recall I was
there at your registration. I understood you were waiting for your parole
application to be approved. Why would you still harbour thoughts of escape?"
    "The
captain's weighing his options." Lasseur kept his face straight. "No
law against that, is there?"
    The
interpreter's brow remained furrowed. "Indeed not, but