by James McGee
Souville and Le Jeune had employed almost the same method to escape from the Bristol. Using similar tools they had cut a hole in the side of the hulk close to the waterline, below the level of the sentry walkway. It had taken them four weeks to fashion and stain a square of timber to place over the hole to hide their handiwork and to cut through the hull. They'd jumped ship under the cover of darkness then made their way to shore and a pre-arranged rendezvous with one of Morgan's intermediaries.
"By the way," Rousseau said, addressing Lasseur. "If you want funny, ask Louis how he escaped."
Beaudouin looked about seventeen but was probably in his mid twenties. A thin moustache that left the impression it had been drawn on with a pencil was stuck precariously to his upper lip.
"How did you get away?" Lasseur asked.
Beaudouin grinned. "In a very fetching blue bonnet."
To Hawkwood and Lasseur's amazement, Beaudouin told them that the Brunswick had become one of Chatham's main attractions. For a small charge, local boatmen, in collusion with the hulk's commander, would row visitors out to the ship at regular intervals. They would be escorted up to the quarterdeck and from this vantage point, they could look upon the prisoners in the well deck below. Even more astonishing was the fact that many of the sightseers were female, which had given Beaudouin his idea.
Desperate to find ways of occupying time on board the hulk, the Brunswick's prisoners had formed a theatre group, performing short plays, written by themselves, for the pleasure of their fellow inmates. The culmination of their efforts had been the staging of a swashbuckling melodrama involving a pirate and his lady.
"I played the lady," Beaudouin said, "because of my angelic looks. Of course, I didn't have the moustache at the time," he added seriously.
The acting troupe had made its own costumes. The manufacture of female attire, however, had proved difficult, so an appeal had gone out to the ladies of Chatham. Donations had arrived by the sackload. Thus Beaudouin had his disguise; all he'd needed was an opportunity.
Picking his moment on the day of a visit, Beaudouin had secreted himself close to a stairway and hatch leading to the quarterdeck, merging with the departing visitors, petticoat rustling, with a handkerchief to his face as if overcome by the smell of the ship and the misery he had just witnessed. The most nerve-racking moment had been fending off the advances of one of the militia guards, who'd mistaken Beaudouin's attempt to hide his face for coquettish flirting.
"I wouldn't have minded so much," Beaudouin said, with a smile, "but the oaf had a face like a shovel." He turned to Leberte, a trim man with well-tended side whiskers and a flamboyant moustache that put Beaudouin's effort to shame. "Pierre - why don't you tell them how you did it?"
The others grinned.
Leberte's escape had been spectacular for several reasons. He had achieved his freedom from the Buckingham after watching the movement of the sentries on the outside gangway. Leberte had timed how long the sentry took to march the length of the gantry and how long his back was turned. His next task had been to "accidentally" drop a cabbage from the ship's rail and time its fall. Then he waited for high tide. When the sentry turned to retrace his steps along the walkway, Leberte made his dive for freedom.
It had been late afternoon and Leberte's plunge over the side of the forecastle had taken everyone by surprise, even his fellow prisoners. By the time the militia had recovered from the shock and collected their wits, Leberte had swum under the hull of the ship to the bow, where, using a breathing tube fashioned from a hollowed-out length of sheep bone he'd procured from one of the galley cooks under the pretence that he was making himself a bone flute, he had remained submerged until the search for his body had moved away from the hulk into the further reaches of the river. After which, at dusk, he had made his way ashore and into hiding.
"Tell them the best bit," Beaudouin grinned.
It hadn't been the cold water or sucking in air through the narrow tube that had taxed Leberte's resolve, it had been the awful knowledge that he'd taken shelter directly below the ship's heads.
Lasseur held up his hand and said hastily, "Thank you, my friend. There's no need to elaborate."
Leberte was a lieutenant in the 93rd Regiment d'Infanterie de Ligne and the only other non seaman present. Unlike the British, the French Navy didn't have marines. That function was performed by regular infantry units acting under the auspices of the Ministere de la Marine. Leberte had been in charge of a unit on a frigate, the Navarre, when he'd been taken prisoner in a skirmish off Ushant.
He'd been on the run for two weeks prior to arriving at the Haunt, living in thickets and under hedges, stealing food from fields and orchards before taking shelter in a barn, where his presence had finally been discovered. A weary Leberte had thrown himself upon the mercy of the farmer. Fearful that a search of his property would reveal the two dozen tubs of brandy and three bales of tobacco hidden in his cellar, the farmer had run not to the authorities but to Ezekiel Morgan, who, true to his reputation as a businessman, had informed Leberte that the only obstacle confronting his safe return to France was the fee for his transport.
Fortunately, Leberte's wife's family had money. The transaction had been brokered through Fector's Bank in Dover with, Hawkwood assumed, the assistance of Morgan's tame accountant.
It was fortunate, Hawkwood thought, that Leberte had had the means to pay for his passage home. He wondered what the lieutenant's fate might have been had that not been the case.
Leberte shrugged philosophically when Hawkwood posed the question. "Then I would have had to make my own way, wouldn't I?" he said.
The other seven had been Morgan's guests for differing lengths of time. Rousseau and Denard had been at the Haunt the longest, nearly five weeks, which fitted in, Hawkwood calculated, with Ludd's own records. All of them had been given refuge by farmers in the area, though Hawkwood and Lasseur were the only ones that had stayed with Jess Flynn.
As Hawkwood listened to the men's accounts, the extent of Morgan's reach became clear. With the exception of Leberte, who'd acted on his own initiative, all the other escapers from the hulks had had their route to freedom pre-arranged by prisoners' committee and Morgan's network of informers.
Rousseau and Denard, who had had the advantage of being ashore already, had engineered their flight following a direct approach by the landlord of their lodging house, further evidence of Morgan's sphere of influence.
"Why haven't you been moved on to the coast?" Hawkwood asked. He threw a look at Lasseur as he said this.
"Too dangerous." It was Denard who answered. "The British have been increasing their coastal patrols. We've been waiting for the right time." He shrugged. "Leastways, that's what they told us up until a couple of days ago."
"What do you mean?" Hawkwood asked.
Denard exchanged glances with the men around him. He turned back. "We were told our passage home had finally been arranged and that it was only a few days away, but there was something they wanted our help with first. When we asked our friend Morgan what sort of help, he laughed and told us he had something up his sleeve that would bring the colour back to our cheeks."
"He didn't tell you what it was?"
Denard shook his head. "Still, things could have been a lot worse. At least here we've been given food and shelter, so it's comfortable enough. Better than those bloody ships, I can tell you that."
"But it's not home," Souville said. "We're tired of waiting. We've all paid our fee. We just want to go home."
There was a collective nodding of heads.
"What about you and Captain Lasseur?" Rousseau asked.
"We think we're going to be offered the same proposal," Hawkwood said.
"And you don't know what it is either?"
And then the door opened and Morgan and Pepper walked in. Leberte said, sotto voce, "I think we may be about to find out."
The men looked on expectantly as Ezekiel Morgan strode briskly to the head of the table and viewed the ro
om, Pepper at his shoulder.
Morgan spoke in French. "Good morning, gentlemen." He glanced towards Hawkwood. "I trust you've no objections, Captain Hooper? I know you have a command of the language, whereas some of your fellow travellers have no English. It will make it easier for all of us."
Morgan's accent was very good; acquired, Hawkwood presumed, from a lifetime's trading with the other side of the Channel. Looking at Pepper's face and the calm way he was surveying the room, Hawkwood suspected Morgan's lieutenant was just as fluent.
"Thank you, Captain." Morgan scanned the men seated at the table. "So, gentlemen, to business. I know that it hasn't been easy being separated from your loved ones and, though you've all shown great patience, you've been wondering about the delay in sending you home. My apologies for that. I think it's about time I explained myself, don't you?"
Morgan turned to Pepper and held out his hand. Pepper reached inside his coat and extracted a small bag. He handed it to Morgan.
"Thank you, Cephus."
Morgan hefted the bag in his hand. There was the unmistakable chink of loose coin. Morgan loosened the drawstring, turned the bag upside down and let the contents fall.
A shower of gold cascaded across the table top.
As Morgan tossed the bag aside, the men gasped and craned forward.
The coins were small, a little less than an inch in diameter. The ones that had landed face up carried the portrait of what looked like a Roman emperor complete with flowing hair and a crown of laurels. The moon face and the pendulous jowls, however, were not those of a Roman. The inscription that framed the head - GEORGIVS III DEI GRATIA - and the spade- shaped shield on the reverse side confirmed the bust's identity. Hawkwood knew immediately what he was looking at. He said nothing, presuming the others around the table did too.
"Gentlemen," Morgan said, "let me tell you about the guinea boats."
Lasseur's head came up sharply.
Morgan caught his eye. "You're familiar with the term, Captain Lasseur?"
Lasseur nodded. "I saw one once." He reached over, picked up one of the coins and studied it carefully. "It was off Grand Fort-Philippe. A galley; low in the water, moving very fast."
"Why don't you tell your compatriots and Captain Hooper what they're used for," Morgan said.
Lasseur turned the coin over in his hand. "They're given the name because smugglers use them to carry English guineas across the Sleeve to France."
Masson frowned. "What do we French need with English guineas?"
"It's not the guineas," Lasseur said, replacing the coin on the table. "It's the gold."
Masson's frown remained in place.
"The Emperor needs it to pay our troops," Lasseur said.
The room went quiet.
After a moment Denard said, "Our troops?"
Lasseur nodded.
Hawkwood said, "You're telling us the British smuggle English guineas across the Channel to pay Bonaparte's army?"
"I told you, it's the gold that matters. It just happens to come in the form of guineas."
"And they pay them in guineas?" "Occasionally, I believe. Otherwise, they're melted down and re-minted."
Beaudouin turned to Leberte. "Were you ever paid in guineas, Pierre?"
"I can't even remember the last time I got paid," Leberte said. He stared at the coins with a wistful expression.
"What about you, Captain Hooper?"
Hawkwood shook his head.
Denard stared at Morgan. His expression mirrored the questions that were obviously racing through his mind.
Morgan nodded. "It's perfectly true, gentlemen, I assure you, and it's been going on for years. It's all part of the Trade."
"It doesn't make sense," Souville said, looking equally puzzled. "Why would the English do such a thing? Surely they realize they could be adding to the length of the war, which means more of their men will die." He stared at Morgan. "Do you really hate your country that much?"
Morgan gave a dismissive shrug. "I don't judge it in those terms, Lieutenant. It's not personal. It's purely a business arrangement."
Souville shook his head in wonderment. "Then it is a very strange business indeed."
First rule of commerce, Hawkwood thought, and was it any stranger than helping enemy combatants get back home so that they could rejoin the fight?
Morgan rewarded Souville with what could have been a sympathetic smile. "I can see how you would think that. It would be interesting to put the same point to your Emperor."
"What do you mean?" Bonnefoux asked, his brow furrowing.
"Do you think it's only free traders who are running goods, my friend?"
Before Bonnefoux could reply, Morgan smiled thinly and said, "Because if you did, you'd be wrong."
"I don't understand," Bonnefoux said warily.
Morgan leant forward and fixed Bonnefoux with a piercing gaze. "What if I were to tell you that, while you've been locked away on that stinking hulk and while your comrades were lying
dead on the field or being maimed by broadsides, English and French merchants have been doing business with each other and making money with the collusion and blessing of both our governments?"
Bonnefoux stared blankly back at him, as did everyone else.
"And I don't mean people like me, Captain. I'm not talking about free traders. I mean legitimate men of business."
"What are you saying?" It was Le Jeune who cut in.
Morgan straightened. His gaze took in all the seated men. "Let me ask you this: aside from defeating her armies on the field, what's the best way to bring an enemy to its knees?"
"Attack her trading routes," Lasseur's reply was instantaneous.
"Ha! Got it in one, Captain. And you should know, eh?" Morgan raised a hand and knotted his fist. "It's like laying siege to a fortress while poisoning the well. Do that and you'll squeeze your enemy dry. More than that; you'll stop them from generating income. Bonaparte knows our strength lies with our Royal Navy. He also knows that we maintain it with profits from our overseas trade. That's why he issued his decree forbidding France's allies from trading with us. It was his plan to bring us to our knees. Trouble is, we did for most of his navy at Trafalgar. We also stopped him getting his hands on the Danish fleet in Copenhagen, which is why he's had to rely on privateers like Captain Lasseur here. Worked for a while, too; your privateers were damned effective. But then our government decided to exchange fire with fire by issuing orders-in-council that all neutral ships bound for France must divert to British ports. The result was that both sides ended up suffering, which wasn't good because we both still had men at sea and on the battlefield and equipping them is expensive. Soldiers need muskets and musket balls and the navy needs ships and cannon. What's to be done?"
Morgan smiled knowingly. "Come on, gentlemen. Just because we're at war doesn't mean we can't be civilized. You didn't really think a thousand years of trade would end just because our generals are in a paddy, did you? Of course not; which is why our governments, in a gesture of mutual co-operation, agreed to issue special licences allowing some of our merchants to trade with some of your merchants, even though we're at war. It's been going on for the past three years. You send us grain and brandy and fine wines, and we send you wool, cotton and tin. While your friends have been fighting and dying, British and French merchants have been growing fat on the profits - and it's all been perfectly legal."
The room had fallen silent. The food lay forgotten and untouched.
Morgan spread his hands. "So, ask yourselves: who's the real villain here? At least I don't deny who I am or what I do. In fact, we free traders operate with Bonaparte's blessing as well. Why? Because he needs us, because he's after as many markets as possible for his goods, same as our merchants. That's why he's allowed our vessels free access to French ports. He knows free traders have the contacts and customers legitimate merchants can only dream of."
"And gold's the key?" Hawkwood said.
Morgan turned and jabbed a fi
nger. "That's right, Captain Hooper. Gold is the key. It's not brandy or cotton that keeps the world turning, it's gold. The value of a country's gold reserves determines its wealth. You probably didn't know it, but back in '97 there was a heavy run on our banks. The government was so afraid the country was going to run out of gold it stopped all exports. Ordered the Bank of England to stop issuing it too. The Bank Restrictions Act, they called it; a fancy little title. Damned fools thought they could rely on paper money." Morgan shook his head. "But we all know what that's worth when there's a war on, don't we? Which is bad news when you've an army and a navy to fund.
"So, British merchants started settling their accounts in gold. But they couldn't export English gold, so they started buying in foreign. When that started to run out, they dipped into our reserves, and that sent the price up, which was when everything changed."
Morgan's gaze grew more intense as he warmed to his subject. "Y'see, it didn't take long for some bright bugger to realize that, if you buy gold in London with British bank notes and sell it for British bank notes on the Continent where gold fetches a better price, you're going to make money. And when we learned that Bonaparte needed gold to pay his armies, we couldn't believe our luck. With the help of our contacts in London, we started shipping him our English guineas. Who cares if they're going to the enemy, so long as we're making money?
"And it's been doubly good for us free traders because, as long as we keep him in guineas, Bonaparte'll keep his ports open for us so we can make him even more money by stocking up on his brandy and his silks and all manner of fancy goods. Everybody's happy." Morgan's face clouded. "Or at least we were, until the bastard Excise stuck their oar in."
Morgan, incensed, had forgotten his audience and had vented the last sentence in English.
"Oar?" Lasseur said, confused by the sudden switch.
"Only stole our bloody boats, didn't they?"
Morgan paused, realizing his slip. With a gesture of apology, he reverted to French. "Government orders; all galleys in the south-east to be seized and destroyed. Dover, Folkestone, Sandgate, Hythe - there isn't a town that hasn't been hit. They confiscated nearly twenty vessels at Deal. That's the second time the place has borne the brunt. I was there in '84 when Pitt sent the troops in. He wanted to teach the town a lesson on account of its involvement in the Trade. They set fire to its entire fleet. Burnt all the boats in one night."
