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  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 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 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. "Ca
ptain, 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 investig
ate 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."