become transfixed by the true nature of the fate that was about to befall them. As if to emphasize their passengers’ rising sense of horror, the marine guards traded knowing looks and raised their neck scarves over their lower faces.
The long boat approached the rear of the ship. High above, embedded beneath the stern windows, a nameplate that once had been embossed in gold but which was now tarnished beyond repair, proclaimed the vessel to be the
Close to, the ship looked even more intimidating. The dark-hulled vessel had all the appearance of a smoke- stained sarcophagus rather than a former ship of the line. Massive chains at bow and stern secured the ship to the riverbed. Beyond, four more vessels in a similar state of disrepair sat moored in mid-stream, line astern and a cable’s length apart, their blunted bows facing down river.
All around, a bewildering variety of other vessels lay at anchor, but from brigs to cutters and from frigates to flush-decked sloops, they were worlds away from the five charred leviathans. Yellow and black hulls gleamed. A forest of masts rose tall and straight, and pennants fluttered gaily from their yardarms. They were Britain’s pride and they were ready for war.
By comparison, isolated from the rest of the fleet, the
Seated in the waist of the longboat, one man ignored the lamentations of his companions and gazed at the ship with what could have been interpreted as interest rather than dread. Two scars were visible on the left side of his face. The first followed the curve of his cheekbone, an inch below his left eye. The second scar, less ragged, ran an inch below the first. His long hair was dark save for a few streaks of grey above the temple. His jacket and breeches were worn and faded, much like those of the men around him, but while the bulk of the other men were either bare-footed 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 blue 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 74. They took the idea from us. Extended their 70s. 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 boat’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 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. The response was a half-hearted salute from one of the marines in the boat below who turned to his companion and shook his head. Whereupon, the rowers shipped their oars and they and the two guards climbed out of the boat 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 started to pay out the line connecting the longboat to the ship. Caught by the current, the longboat began a slow movement 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 by a severe clubbing from their 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, then 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. He 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 ship oars. A dozen heartbeats later, the longboat was secured to the raft and the transfer began.
The odour seeping through the open gun ports from the inside of the ship was almost overwhelming. The river was bounded by marshland. On warm days with the wind sifting across the levels, the smell was beyond fetid, but the malodorous stench erupting from the interior of the
Hawkwood shouldered his knapsack. He was one of the few who carried possessions. Most had only the clothes they stood up in.
The marines began prodding. “God damn it, move your arses! I won’t tell you again! No wonder you’re losing the bleedin’ war! Useless buggers!”
Legs clanking, the men began to climb from the longboat on to the raft.
“Shift yourselves!” The guards continued to use their rifle butts to cajole 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. While it was doubtful many of the men shuffling along the grating could understand the harsh words thrown at them, the tone of voice and the poking and prodding made it clear what was required of them.
Slowly, in single file, the men began to clink their way up the side of the ship.
“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.
About the Author
JAMES McGEE
An army brat who grew up in Gibraltar, Germany and Northern Ireland, James McGee became a writer after
