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of
breeches between them. Only ten of them made it on to the Vengeance on their own. The rest were too ill to leave the
longboat. The Vengeance's surgeon refused to take them. Ordered them to be delivered to
the hospital ship. Only the commander of the Pegasus refused to
have them on board, not unless they were washed first. So the Vengeance's surgeon ordered them thrown into the sea to clean
them and left the Pegasus to pick up the bodies. Most of them were dead by the time
the Pegasus' s boat got to them." The man nodded towards the
drifting longboat. "Looks to me, that's what's
happening here."
    "My
God," Lasseur said and fell into a reflective silence as their own
longboat, its way now clear, began to manoeuvre towards the ship's side.
    Hawkwood
regarded the manacles around his ankles. If the men on the drifting boat, who
presumably had also been wearing shackles, had been thrown overboard they would
have been beyond help, sinking to the bottom of the river like stones.
    He took a look
at his fellow passengers. No one returned his gaze. They were too preoccupied,
staring up at the ship, craning their necks to take in the vast wooden rampart
looming above them. The sense of unease that had enveloped the boat was
palpable, as if a black storm cloud had descended. Behind their masks, even the
guards looked momentarily subdued.
    He could still
hear weeping. It was coming from the stern. Hawkwood followed the sound. The
boy couldn't have been much older than ten or eleven. Tears glistened on his
cheeks. He looked up, dried his eyes with the heels of his hands and turned
away, his small shoulders shaking. His clothes hung in rags about him. He'd
been one of a consignment of prisoners, Hawkwood and Lasseur among them, picked
up earlier that day from Maidstone Gaol. A midshipman or powder monkey,
Hawkwood supposed, or whatever the French equivalent might be, and without
doubt the youngest of the longboat's passengers. It seemed unlikely that the
boy had been taken alone, but there didn't appear to be anyone with him, no
shipmates to give him comfort. Hawkwood wondered where the boy had been
captured and in what circumstances he might have been separated from the rest
of his crew.
    The order came
to boat oars. A dozen heartbeats later, the longboat was secured to the raft
and the transfer began.
    The odour from
the open gun ports was almost overwhelming. The river was bounded by marshland.
On warm days with the wind sifting across the levels, the smell was beyond
foetid, but the malodorous stench issuing from the interior of Rapacious eclipsed even the smell from the shore. It was worse
than a convoy of night-soil barges.
    Hawkwood
shouldered his knapsack. He was one of the few carrying possessions. Most had
only the clothes they stood up in.
    The marines set
about prodding the prisoners with their musket butts. "Goddamn it, move
your arses! I won't tell you again! No wonder you're losing the bleedin' war! Useless buggers!"
    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.

 
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 2
     
     
    I should