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the
men huddled around him, some of whom were clad in little more than rags. And
while the bulk of his companions were either barefooted or else wearing poorly
fitting shoes, his feet were shod in what appeared to be a pair of stout but
well-scuffed military boots.
    "A sou for your
thoughts, my friend."
    The words were
spoken in French. They came from an aristocratic-looking individual dressed in
a dark grey jacket and grubby white breeches, seated on the dark-haired man's
right.
    Matthew Hawkwood
remained silent but continued staring over the water towards the black-hulled
ship.
    "Heard she
fought at Copenhagen," the speaker continued in a quiet voice. "She
was a seventy-four. They took the idea from us. Extended
their seventies. They use them as standard now. Can't
blame the bastards. Good sailing, strong gun-power, what is there not to
like?"
    The speaker,
whose name was Lasseur, grinned suddenly, the expression in marked contrast to
the unsmiling faces about him. The neat goatee beard he wore, when added to the
grin, lent his features a raffish slant.
    The grin
disappeared in an instant as a series of plaintive cries sounded from beyond
the longboat's prow.
    Ahead, another
longboat was tied up against the boarding raft in the shadow of the ship's
grime-encrusted hull. A cluster of men had already disembarked. Huddled on the
walkway, under the watchful eyes of armed guards, they were preparing to ascend
the stairs. Several of the men had difficulty walking. Two were crawling along
the grating on their hands and knees. Their progress was painfully slow. Seeing
their plight, their companions lifted them to their feet and with arms about
their shoulders shepherded them along.
    There were still
men left on the first boat. From their posture, it was clear that none of them
had the strength to make the transfer on their own. Their cries of distress
floated over the water. The two marine guards on the boat were looking up
towards the ship's rail as if waiting for orders, breaking off to jab the
barrels and butts of their muskets against the supine bodies around them.
    Lasseur bared
his teeth in a snarl.
    His reaction was
echoed by dark mutterings from the men seated about him.
    "Silence
there!" The order came from one of the marines, who stared at his
charges accusingly and brandished his musket, bayonet affixed. "Or so help
me, I'll run you through!" Adding, with ill-disguised
contempt, "Frog bastards!"
    A face had
appeared at the ship's rail. An arm waved and an inaudible command was given.
One of the marines in the boat below responded with a half-hearted salute
before turning to his companion and shaking his head. At this the rowers raised
their oars and they and the two guards climbed out on to the boarding raft.
Turning, one of the rowers used his oar to push the boat away, while one of his
fellow boatmen unfastened and began to pay out the line connecting the longboat
to the ship.
    Caught by the
current, the longboat moved slowly away from the ship's hull. When the boat was
some thirty or so yards out, the line was retied, leaving the boat's pitiful
passengers to drift at the mercy of the tide.
    Angry shouts
came from the line of men on the grating. Their protestations were met with a
severe clubbing from the guards. Retreating, the quietened men began their slow
and laboured ascent of the stairway.
    Hawkwood watched
grim-faced as the men made their way up the side of the ship. Lasseur followed
his gaze and murmured softly, "We'd have been better off with the damned
Spanish."
    "Bastards,"
a voice interjected bitterly from behind them. "I've seen this before."
    Hawkwood and
Lasseur turned. The speaker was a thin man, with sunken cheeks and watery eyes.
Grey stubble covered his jaw.
    "I was in
Portsmouth last winter, on the Vengeance. They had a delivery of prisoners
transferred from Cadiz. About thirty, all told. As thin as rakes they were;
ghost white, not an ounce of flesh on their bones and not so much as a set