Rapscallion

Legs clanking, the men started to climb from the longboat on to the raft.

“Shift yourselves!” The guards continued to use their weapons to herd the men along the walkway. Movement was difficult due to the shackles, but the guards made no allowance for the restraints. “Lively now! Christ, you buggers stink!”

The insults rained down thick and fast, and while it was doubtful many of the men shuffling along the grating could understand the harsh words, the tone of voice and the poking and prodding made it clear what was required of them.

Slowly, in single file, the men clinked their way up the ship’s side.

“Keep moving, damn your eyes!”

Hawkwood stepped from the stairs on to the pulpit, Lasseur at his shoulder. A jam had formed in the enclosed space. Both men stared down into the belly of the ship. Lasseur recoiled. Then the Frenchman leaned forward so that his mouth was close to Hawkwood’s ear. His face was set in a grimace.

“Welcome to Hell,” he said.

2

I should have bloody known, Hawkwood thought.

Ezra Twigg’s face should have given the game away. Hawkwood wondered why he hadn’t picked up the signals. The little clerk’s head had been cast down when Hawkwood entered the ante-room in reply to the Chief Magistrate’s summons. Normally, Twigg would have looked up from his scribbling and passed some pithy comment about the marks on the floor left by Hawkwood’s boot heels, but this time Twigg had barely acknowledged the Runner’s arrival. All he’d done was look up quickly, murmur, “They’re waiting for you,” and return to his paperwork. The omens hadn’t been good. Hawkwood chided himself for not being more observant. Though he had absorbed the warning that the Chief Magistrate had company.

As Hawkwood entered the office, James Read stepped away from the tall window. It was mid-morning and sunlight pierced the room. Hawkwood wondered why the Chief Magistrate, a man who made no secret of his dislike for cold weather, looked so pensive. Given his usual disconsolate manner when confronted with inclement skies, he should, by rights, have been dancing across the carpet.

The second man looked around. He was heavy-set, with short, sandy hair, a broad face and a web of red veins radiating across his cheeks. He was dressed in the uniform of a naval officer and clearly suffered from the habitual stoop, characteristic of so many seamen, which, Hawkwood had come to realize, was more a testimony to the lack of headroom in a man-of-war than any lingering defect of birth.

The officer looked Hawkwood up and down, taking in the scarred face, the unfashionably long hair tied at the nape of the neck and the dark, well-cut attire. The Chief Magistrate walked to his desk. His movements, as ever, were measured and precise. He sat down. “Officer Hawkwood, this gentleman is Captain Elias Ludd. As his uniform implies, Captain Ludd is from the Admiralty.”

Hawkwood and the captain exchanged cautious nods.

“The Transport Board, to be exact,” James Read said.

Hawkwood said nothing. The Transport Board had been created initially to provide ships, troops and supplies during the American War of Independence. But the wars against Bonaparte had seen the Board expand its range of activities far beyond the original borders of the Atlantic. Now, due to Britain’s vast military and naval commitments, the Board was responsible for the movement of supply ships to the four corners of the globe.

“The Admiralty requires our assistance.” Read nodded towards his visitor. “Captain, you have the floor.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ludd looked down at the carpet and then raised his head. “I’ve an officer who’s gone missing; name of Sark. Lieutenant Andrew Sark.”

There was a short silence.

Hawkwood looked towards the Chief Magistrate for guidance, then back to the officer. “And what, you want us to find him? Isn’t that the navy’s job?”

Ludd looked taken aback by Hawkwood’s less than sympathetic response. James Read said, “There are other factors to consider. As you know, the Transport Board’s jurisdiction extends beyond what might be viewed as its traditional bailiwick.”

What the hell did that mean? Hawkwood wondered.

“The Board also administers foreign prisoners of war,” James Read said. “You recall it took over the duty from the Sick and Hurt Board.”

Hawkwood wondered if the Chief Magistrate was expecting a vocal acknowledgement. He decided it was probably best to remain silent. Better to keep your mouth shut and be thought an idiot than to speak and remove all doubt. He decided a noncommittal nod would probably suffice.

“My apologies, Captain,” Read said. “Please continue.”

Ludd cleared his throat. “Over the past several weeks, there’s been a sudden increase in the number of prisoners who’ve escaped from detention. We sent Lieutenant Sark to investigate whether these were random events or part of some orchestrated effort.”

“And he’s failed to report back?” Hawkwood said.

Ludd nodded, his face solemn.

“When did you last hear from him?”

Ludd stuck out his chin. “That’s just it – we haven’t heard from him at all. It’s been six days.”

“Not long,” Hawkwood said.

“In the general scheme of things, I’d not disagree with you.” Ludd gnawed the inside of his lip.

“Captain?” Hawkwood prompted.

Ludd ceased chewing. “He was not the first,” he said heavily.

Hawkwood sensed James Read shift in his seat. Ludd continued to look uncomfortable. “The first officer we sent, a Lieutenant Masterson, died.”

“Died? How?”

“Drowned, it’s presumed. His body was discovered two weeks ago on a mud bank near Fowley Island.”

“Which is where?” Hawkwood asked.

“The Swale River.”

“Kent.”

Ludd nodded. “At the time there was nothing to indicate he’d been the victim of foul play. We mourned him, we buried him, and then Lieutenant Sark was dispatched to continue the investigation.”

“But now that Sark’s failed to report back, you’re thinking that perhaps the drowning wasn’t an accident.”

“There is that possibility, yes.”

“Forgive me, Captain, but I still don’t see what this has to do with Bow Street,” Hawkwood said. “This remains a navy matter, surely?”

Before Ludd could respond, James Read interjected: “Captain Ludd is here at the behest of Magistrate Aaron Graham. Magistrate Graham is the government inspector responsible for the administration of all prisoners of war. He reports directly to the Home Secretary. It was Home Secretary Ryder’s recommendation that the Board avail itself of our services.”

Hawkwood had met Home Secretary Richard Ryder and hadn’t been overly impressed, but then Hawkwood had a low opinion of politicians, irrespective of rank. In short, he didn’t trust them. He had found Ryder to be a supercilious man, too full of his own importance. He wondered if Ryder had been in contact with James Read directly. There was nothing in the Chief Magistrate’s manner to indicate he was talking to Ludd under sufferance, but then Read was a master of the neutral expression. It didn’t mean his mind wasn’t whirring like clockwork underneath the impassive mask.

Read got to his feet. He walked to the fireplace and adopted his customary pose in front of the hearth. The fire was unlit, but Read stood as if warming himself. Hawkwood suspected that the magistrate assumed the stance as a means to help him think, whether a fire was blazing away or not. Oddly, it did seem to imbue an air of gravity to whatever pronouncement he came up with. Hawkwood wondered if that wasn’t the magistrate’s real intention.

Read pursed his lips. “It’s no secret that the Board has come in for a degree of criticism over the past twelve months. It has been the subject of two Select Committees. Their findings were that the Board has not performed as efficiently as expected. Further adverse reports would be most … unhelpful. So far, these escapes have been kept out of the public domain. There’s concern that, should word of its inability to keep captured enemy combatants in check emerge, the government’s credibility could suffer a severe blow. With all due deference to Captain Ludd, while the loss of one officer sent to investigate these escapes might be construed as unfortunate, the loss of two officers could be regarded as carelessness. It is all grist to the mill, and with the nation at war any lack of confidence in the administration could have dire consequences.”

Hawkwood stole a glance at the captain and felt an immediate sympathy. He knew what it was like to lose men in battle; he himself had lost more men than he cared to remember, and it was a painful burden to bear.

“What services?” Hawkwood asked.

Read frowned.

“You said the Home Secretary wants the Board to avail itself of our services. What services?”

James Read looked towards Ludd, who gave a rueful smile. “My superiors are unwilling to commit further resources to the investigation.”

“By resources, you mean men,” Hawkwood said.

Ludd flushed. “As Magistrate Read stated, two officers have apparently fallen prey to the investigation already. I am not anxious to dispatch a third man to investigate the death and disappearance of the first two.”

Everything became clear. Hawkwood stared at James Read. “You want Bow Street to take over the investigation?”

“That is the Home Secretary’s wish, yes.”

“What makes him think we can succeed where the navy has failed?”

Read placed his hands behind his back. “The Home Secretary feels that, while the Admiralty is perfectly capable of assigning officers to the field, there are certain advantages in utilizing non-naval personnel, particularly in what one might consider to be investigations of a clandestine nature.”

“Clandestine?”

“There are avenues open to this office that are not available to other – how shall I put it? – more conventional, less flexible departments of government. Would you not agree, Captain Ludd?”

“I’m sure you’d know more about that, sir,” Ludd said tactfully.

“Indeed.” The Chief Magistrate fixed Hawkwood with a speculative eye.

An itch began to develop along the back of Hawkwood’s neck. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation.

“I refer to the art of subterfuge, Hawkwood; the ability to blend into the background – most useful when dealing with the criminal classes, as you have so ably demonstrated on a number of occasions.”

Hawkwood waited for the axe to fall.

“Captain Ludd and I have discussed the matter. Based on our discussion, I believe you’re the officer best suited to the task.”

“And what task would that be, sir … exactly?”

James Read smiled grimly. “We’re sending you to the hulks.”

The Chief Magistrate’s expression was stern. “We’ve got prisoners of war spread right around the country, from Somerset to Edinburgh. Fortunately for us, the new prison in Maidstone is ideally situated for our purposes. It’s been used as a holding pen for prisoners prior to their transfer to the Medway and Thames hulks. You’ll begin your sentence there. From Maidstone you’ll be transported to the prison ship Rapacious. She’s lying off Sheerness. Better you arrive on the hulk within a consignment of prisoners rather than alone. There’s no reason to suppose anyone will question your credentials, but it should give you an opportunity to form liaisons with some of your fellow internees before embarkation.”

It was interesting, Hawkwood mused, that the Chief Magistrate had used the word sentence rather than assignment. Perhaps it had been a slip of the tongue. Then again, he thought, maybe not.

“Your mission is several fold,” Read said. “Firstly, you are to investigate how these escapes have been achieved –”

“You mean you don’t know?” Hawkwood cut in, staring at Ludd.

Ludd shifted uncomfortably. “We know Rapacious has lost four prisoners in the past six weeks. The trouble is, we don’t know the exact time the losses took place. We can assume the other prisoners concealed the escapes from the ship’s crew, possibly by manipulating the roll count. Without knowing the precise times of the escapes we haven’t been able to pin down how they were achieved, whether it was a spur-of-the-moment thing based on a lapse in our procedures or if the escapes were planned and executed over a period of time. All we know is that Rapacious is missing four men. What makes it more interesting is that there have been similar losses from some of the other Medway-based ships. We’re also missing a couple who broke their paroles.”

“How many in total?” Hawkwood asked.

“Ten unaccounted for.”

“Over how long a period?”

“Two months,” Ludd said.

“As I was saying …” James Read spoke into the pregnant silence which followed Ludd’s admission. “You are also to determine whether the escapers have received outside assistance. Captain Ludd is of the opinion that they have.”

“Based on what?” Hawkwood said.

“Based on the fact that we haven’t managed to track any of the buggers down,” Ludd said.

“Explain.”

Ludd sighed. “Escapes are nothing new. Some are spontaneous; the sudden recognition of an opportunity presenting itself: a door left unlocked, a careless guard looking the other way during a working party, that sort of thing. They generally involve a prisoner acting on his own. Nine times out of ten, he’s rounded up quickly, usually because he’s cold and wet and he can’t find food or clothing, he’s no idea where he is and he daren’t ask directions because he can’t speak the language. They don’t last long. Many end up turning themselves in voluntarily – and not just to the military. They’ve even surrendered to people in the street. But when it’s more than one, when two or three at a time have made a run for it, that suggests they’ve devised a plan, hoarded food and spare clothing, maybe bribed a guard to sell them a map so they know how far it is to the coast, and where they can steal a boat. Even so, not many make it. All it takes is one careless word; someone overhears them speaking Frog or talking English with an accent and the game’s up. But these recent escapes, they’ve been different.”

“How so?”

“As I said, we weren’t able to pick up their trail.”

“Which means what?”

“In my book, it means someone’s definitely helping them.”

“Like who?”

“That’s what we sent Masterson and Sark to find out.”

“What do you think?”

“My own theory? Free traders, most likely.”

“Smugglers?”

“My guess is that they’re passing the escapers down the line to the coast. They’ve got the routes all set up, they’ve got the men and the boats.”

“That, Hawkwood, is the third part of your assignment,” Read said. “If there is an organized escape route, I want it disrupted, preferably disbanded.”

“It might explain why your Lieutenant Masterson was found in the Swale,” Hawkwood said. “Could be he was thrown from a vessel.”

“Could be,” Ludd agreed. “I’d deem it a personal favour if, along the way, you could find out what happened to my men. If they were done away with, I’d prefer to be told.”

“If free traders are involved, it won’t be easy,” Hawkwood pointed out. “They’re a law unto themselves. Anyone going in and asking questions is sure to make their ears prick up. It’s more than likely they’ll see me coming a mile away.”

Ludd and Read exchanged glances.

“Quite so,” James Read said quietly. “But in this case they’re going to be looking in the wrong direction.”

“Hindsight’s a wonderful thing,” Ludd said. “Our mistake was sending Masterson and Sark through the front door. They were competent men, but they were naval officers first and landsmen second. In this situation they were out of their depth, no pun intended. We might just as well have dispatched a marching band to accompany them. Masterson’s brief was to try and infiltrate the smuggling organizations. We thought the best way for him to do that was to have him pose as a former seaman looking for work and to make it clear he wasn’t too bothered whether the work was legal or not. Trouble is, the smuggling fraternity’s too closely knit. My feeling is he ended up asking the wrong people the wrong questions – and that Sark made the same mistake.”

“You can take the man out of the navy but you can’t take the navy out of the man,” Hawkwood said.

“Something like that,” Ludd agreed unhappily.

“You, on the other hand, will not be quite so obvious,” James Read said. “We hope.”

“You mean I’ll be using the tradesman’s entrance,” Hawkwood said.

The corner of Read’s mouth twitched. “Providing we can manufacture a suitable history for you.” The Chief Magistrate paused. “My initial thought was that you should pass yourself off as a French officer, but I’m not sure that’s entirely practical. While I appreciate that your knowledge of the language is considerable, could you maintain the deception for any length of time? Captain Ludd and I have discussed the matter and we believe the current crisis with the United States has provided us with the perfect solution. You will pass yourself off as an American volunteer.”

“An American?”

“As you know all too well, from your recent encounter with William Lee, our American cousins are less than enamoured with us of late. Even before the recent declaration of war, a substantial number of American citizens have been drawn to Bonaparte’s flag; a legacy of American and French liaison during the Revolutionary War. With that in mind, we thought you could assume the mantle of an American officer attached to one of Bonaparte’s regiments who has been captured in the field. The fact that you are conversant in French gives us a distinct advantage.

“All that remains is your identity. Something credible that will pass scrutiny, preferably based on your own expertise and, ideally, involving an engagement of which you have personal knowledge. The only problem with that, however, would be the question of your whereabouts over the past three years. The most logical choice would therefore seem to be something more recent, from which all the facts have yet to be sifted. Captain Ludd and I have perused dispatches and determined that the victory at Ciudad Rodrigo will best fit the bill. Reports of the battle are still being disseminated. Are you familiar with any of the details?”

“Only from what I’ve read in the news sheets,” Hawkwood said.

The Times had carried general reports of the battle, as had the Chronicle and the Gazette. Ciudad Rodrigo was a picturesque Spanish town overlooking the Agueda River. Only a few miles from the border, it guarded the main northern route between Spain and Portugal. Wellington had laid siege to the town at the beginning of January. The attack had been a ferocious affair. Casualties had been heavy, but Wellington had emerged victorious. Many prisoners had been taken.

Read nodded. “Very good; a volunteer captain attached to the 34th Régiment d’Infanterie Légère will be the most fitting for our purposes, I venture. The regiment was created last year, drawing men from other units, so there is every possibility they could have utilized foreign experts in the field. I’ll leave you to manufacture an appropriate biography for yourself.”

The Chief Magistrate reached across his desk and picked up a small canvas pouch. “These are some of the reports pertaining to the siege. Make use of them. They contain details that are not public knowledge; for obvious reasons, as you’ll discover. Our own soldiers may well have emerged victorious, but they did not cover themselves in glory. Such knowledge could assist in fending off awkward questions. Use it to your advantage if you find yourself pressed. Attack is the best form of defence. Denigrating your former comrades in arms will help deflect attention from your alias. Read the dispatches. You’ll see what I mean.”

Read handed over the pouch. “As an officer, you’ll be permitted to carry a few personal belongings. Mr Twigg will provide you with funds. French and British currency is used on the hulks. I would urge you to be circumspect in your expenditure, however. The coffers of the Public Office are not a bottomless pit.

“The wounds you received in the Hyde case will stand you in good stead. They’re recent enough to have been sustained around the supposed date of your defeat and capture. They will add to your credibility.”

The scars from his encounter with the escaped Bedlamite, Titus Hyde, had healed well. But that wasn’t to say he didn’t sometimes wake in the small hours wondering what might have become of him had the blade of Hyde’s sword been an inch longer. The razor-thin weal along the rim of his left cheek was a visible reminder that the line between life and death can be measured by the breadth of a single hair or the span of a heartbeat.

“Who else will know I’m a peace officer?”

Read hesitated before replying. “No one. Aside from myself, Captain Ludd and Mr Twigg, no one else will be privy to your true identity.”

“Not the hulk’s commanding officer?”

“No one,” Read repeated.

“So, how do I send word if I discover something?”

“That’s why you’ll be listed as an officer in the ship’s register. It entitles you to apply for parole. Captain Ludd recommends we make it appear as though your application is pending authorization. You will thus be required to appear before a board of assessment. Your first interview will be scheduled to take place one week after your arrival. Captain Ludd will be the officer in charge. You will provide him with details of any progress you may have made.”

Hawkwood stared at the dispatch pouch and then looked up. “In that case, I hope you all remain in good health. I’d hate to find I’m stranded on the bloody ship because you’ve all been struck dead in your beds.”

3

“Name?”

The question was emitted in a thin, reedy voice by a narrow-shouldered, sour-faced man seated behind a large trestle table that had been set up in the forward section of the weather-deck. The clerk did not look up but waited, lips compressed, pen poised, for Hawkwood to reply. A large ledger lay open in front of him. The seated man to his right, a supercilious-looking individual with reddish-blond hair, slim sideburns and nails bitten down to the quick, wore a lieutenant’s uniform. The one standing by his left shoulder was younger, slightly built, dark haired, and dressed in a yellow canvas jacket and matching trousers. Stamped on the sleeves of the jacket and upon each trouser leg were a broad black arrow and the letters T.O., the initials of the Transport Office. His eyes roved back and forth along the line of waiting men.

Hawkwood gazed down at the clerk and said nothing. He was still feeling the chill from the dousing he had received.

The guards had removed the shackles and made all the new arrivals strip naked on deck before handing them a block of brown soap and ordering them into large water-filled barrels. The water was freezing and by the time each man had rubbed himself raw, clambered out, passed the soap on to the next man and dried himself with the rag towel, the water surface in every tub was covered by a thin oily residue.

Orange jackets, trousers and shirts had then been distributed. There seemed to be only one size, small, which left the recipients struggling woefully to fasten the jacket buttons. With most, the trousers reached only as far as mid calf. The only person to emerge from the handout with any modicum of dignity was the boy from the longboat. The jacket was too long at both hem and sleeve, but the trousers were close to being a good fit, albeit only after they had been secured around the boy’s thin waist by a length of twine.

Not everyone received a uniform. A number of men, Hawkwood and Lasseur among them, were allowed to keep their own clothes, supposedly because they were officers, though Hawkwood suspected it had more to do with a scarcity of jackets and trousers rather than an acknowledgement of their rank. Certainly, it appeared that prison uniform had been passed, in the main, to those whose own apparel was beyond salvage. All soiled articles were tossed on to a growing pile on the deck. To be taken off the ship, Hawkwood assumed, and burned.