LITMIR.BIZ

       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.

      Next, canvas slippers were distributed. Neither Hawkwood nor Lasseur were deemed impoverished enough to warrant the gift of the shoes. Hawkwood noticed that both his and Lasseur’s footwear were attracting surreptitious attention from some of the less fortunate prisoners and he made a silent vow not to let his boots out of his sight.

      A look of irritation moved across the registration clerk’s pinched face at Hawkwood’s lack of response. The lieutenant maintained his impression of boredom. The clerk flicked his finger imperiously and the man standing at his shoulder in the yellow uniform repeated the question in French.

      “Hooper,” Hawkwood said. “Matthew.”

      As Hawkwood gave his name, the clerk stiffened and frowned, while next to him the lieutenant’s head snapped round. His eyes darkened.

      The clerk recovered his composure and turned his eyes to the grainy sheet of paper at his elbow. He ran the nib of his pen down the page and gave a small click of his tongue as he found the entry he was looking for. Hawkwood assumed it was the list of prisoners transferred from Maidstone and that the clerk was confirming his name.

      The lieutenant peered over the clerk’s shoulder.

      The clerk sneered. “Our first American. Not so independent now, are you?” He sniggered at his own wit.

      The lieutenant viewed Hawkwood with undisguised hostility as the clerk began to transfer the details into the ledger, repeating the information under his breath as he did so. “Rank: captain; date of capture: 20th January; action in which taken: Ciudad Rodrigo; date of arrival: 27th May; application for parole under consideration; physical description …” The clerk raised his eyes again and murmured, “Height: approximately six feet; scarring on left side of face … surly-looking brute. Assigned to the gun deck. Next!”

      After listening silently to the description and the comment, the lieutenant favoured Hawkwood with a final grimace of distaste before he turned away.

      “Damned renegade,” Hawkwood heard him mutter under his breath.

      The interpreter jerked his head for Hawkwood to move along. Behind him, he heard Lasseur give his name and the clerk’s litany began again.

      At the next table the prisoners were presented with a rolled hammock, a threadbare blanket and a thin, wool-stuffed mattress.

      Hawkwood studied the armed guards ringing the deck. Their escort had been composed of marines, seconded to the shore establishment, but neither the army nor the navy liked to assign regulars to the prison ships. True fighting men were needed abroad. This lot would be members of a local militia, specially recruited, Ludd had told him. He’d seen two of the guards exchange knowing grins as they stared at the boy’s milk-white buttocks during the enforced bathing. One of them had nudged the other and sniggered. “Wait till His Majesty gets a look at that!”

      Hawkwood wondered what that meant.

      The processing stretched over two hours. There were not that many new arrivals – three boatloads in all, perhaps forty men in total – but the ill-tempered admissions clerk seemed intent on proving how pedantic he could be. Slowly, however, the line of men began to shorten. Hawkwood was intrigued as to why they’d been herded into one half of the quarterdeck rather than escorted below. His question was answered as the last prisoner was handed his bedding.

      A figure appeared at the rail of the deck above them. He was tall and raw-boned. His face was gaunt and pale. The white piping on his lapels proclaimed him to be another lieutenant, though he looked old to be holding the rank. Hands clasped behind his back, he gazed dispassionately at the crowd of men gathered beneath him. His eyes were very dark. Gradually, as the prisoners became aware that they were being observed, an uneasy silence descended upon the deck. Beneath his hat, the lieutenant’s eyes moved unblinkingly over the upturned faces. The clerk and the lieutenant at the table rose to their feet.

      The gaunt lieutenant remained by the rail, his body incredibly still, as he continued to stare down. Not a word was uttered. Only the sound of the gulls wheeling high above the ship broke the stillness. Then, abruptly, after what seemed like minutes but could only have been twenty or thirty seconds, the lieutenant stepped back from the rail, turned abruptly, and, still not having spoken, returned from whence he came.

      “Our brave commander,” Lasseur whispered. “Rumour has it he once captained a frigate, had a run-in with one of our eighties off Finisterre, and surrendered his ship. After they exchanged him, he was court-martialled.” Lasseur sucked in his cheeks. “Took to drink, I’m told.”

      Hawkwood wondered where Lasseur had got his information. Some people had an uncanny knack of picking up all kinds of rumours. Though, in fact, Lasseur was only half right. The commander of the hulk, if that’s who the lieutenant had been, was named Hellard and he had indeed been demoted from captain. But it had been Funchal not Finisterre where the lieutenant’s fate had been sealed, and he had taken refuge in the bottle before the engagement, not following it. Hawkwood had been told the correct version by Ludd during his briefing; though it didn’t alter the fact that Hellard had been assigned to Rapacious as punishment. Furthermore Ludd had told Hawkwood that Hellard’s background was modest, which meant he’d been unable to call on a patron to rescue him from exile and set him back on the promotion ladder. Commanding this floating tomb was as high as Lieutenant Mortimer Hellard was ever going to get. And he knew it. It accounted for the stony countenance, Hawkwood thought.

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