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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