and punished."
"Punished
how?" Hawkwood pressed.
"They get
put in the hole," Millet said, removing a fish bone from between his teeth
and flicking it over his shoulder.
Hawkwood scraped
his lump of cod to the side of his mess tin. "Hole?"
"The black hole." Millet's tone implied that he could only have meant the one
hole and Hawkwood should have known that.
Fouchet laid
down his spoon. "It's a special punishment cell; makes the gun deck look
like the gardens at Versailles."
Across the
table, Lasseur considered the description. He stared hard at Fouchet and said,
"What about the ones who got away, how did they do it?"
Fouchet
shrugged. "You'd have to find them and ask them."
"You don't
know?" Lasseur said.
"Sometimes
it pays not to ask too many questions."
"You've
never considered it?"
The teacher
shook his head. "It's a young man's game. I don't have the energy.
Besides, the war won't last for ever."
"The Lord
loves an optimist," Charbonneau muttered, scratching the inside of his
groin energetically.
Lasseur pushed
his tin to one side. "I have to ask, Sebastien: how, in the name of the
blessed Virgin, did someone like you end up in a
place like this?"
Fouchet smiled,
almost sadly. "Ah, if you only knew how many times I've asked myself that
very same question."
" You going to eat that?" Millet sniffed, indicating the
remains of Lasseur's fish.
Lasseur gave him
a look as if to say, What do you think? He then watched,
fascinated, as the seaman reached over and, with grubby fingers, helped himself
from the tin.
"I
committed an indiscretion," Fouchet said. "I was a professor of
mathematics at the university in Toulouse and I had a liaison with the wife of
one of my colleagues. He did not take kindly to the title of cuckold and
insisted on calling me out. Unfortunately for him, I proved the better shot.
His friends took it rather personally. They had influence, I did not. I lost my
position, along with what little that remained of my reputation. When
I applied for alternative teaching posts, I found doors were shut in my face. I
sought solace in the grape; a panacea not exactly conducive to the furtherance
of one's career. That would have been the end of it, had it not been for a
miracle."
"What
happened?"
A rueful smile
split Fouchet's creased face. "I was conscripted."
The grins began
to circulate around the table until Millet, who started to laugh, forgot he was
still trying to digest Lasseur's discarded cod. He was turning red when
Charbonneau slapped a palm between his shoulder blades, bringing him back to
the vertical and the rest of the table to their senses and reality.
Hawkwood guessed
Fouchet's situation wasn't unique. The latter's reference to the hulk's self-founded
academy and the standard of workmanship he'd observed looking over prisoners'
shoulders as he'd traversed the gun deck was proof of that. It was one of the
notable differences between the British and French forces. Whereas Britain
swelled the ranks with volunteers - which in many cases meant felons and
homeless men looking for a roof and a meal - Bonaparte's troops contained a
large portion of conscripted men from all walks of life. In all likelihood,
there were probably as many skilled craftsmen and
teachers among the mass of prisoners on board Rapacious as there
were in any of the small towns lining the shores of the surrounding estuary.
"I see you
favour your right leg," Lasseur said. "You were wounded?"
Fouchet smiled.
"Musket ball; just below my knee." He tapped the joint. "It's
the devil in cold weather; doesn't work too well in the damp either."
The teacher
turned to Hawkwood. "So, Captain Hooper; what's your story? How did you
come to be captured?"
"There were
more of them than there was of me," Hawkwood said.
Fouchet smiled.
"I believe I overheard Murat say it was at Ciudad Rodrigo?"
Hawkwood nodded.
"That's a
long way from home. What was an American doing there?"
The question
Hawkwood had been expecting and of which he
"Punished
how?" Hawkwood pressed.
"They get
put in the hole," Millet said, removing a fish bone from between his teeth
and flicking it over his shoulder.
Hawkwood scraped
his lump of cod to the side of his mess tin. "Hole?"
"The black hole." Millet's tone implied that he could only have meant the one
hole and Hawkwood should have known that.
Fouchet laid
down his spoon. "It's a special punishment cell; makes the gun deck look
like the gardens at Versailles."
Across the
table, Lasseur considered the description. He stared hard at Fouchet and said,
"What about the ones who got away, how did they do it?"
Fouchet
shrugged. "You'd have to find them and ask them."
"You don't
know?" Lasseur said.
"Sometimes
it pays not to ask too many questions."
"You've
never considered it?"
The teacher
shook his head. "It's a young man's game. I don't have the energy.
Besides, the war won't last for ever."
"The Lord
loves an optimist," Charbonneau muttered, scratching the inside of his
groin energetically.
Lasseur pushed
his tin to one side. "I have to ask, Sebastien: how, in the name of the
blessed Virgin, did someone like you end up in a
place like this?"
Fouchet smiled,
almost sadly. "Ah, if you only knew how many times I've asked myself that
very same question."
" You going to eat that?" Millet sniffed, indicating the
remains of Lasseur's fish.
Lasseur gave him
a look as if to say, What do you think? He then watched,
fascinated, as the seaman reached over and, with grubby fingers, helped himself
from the tin.
"I
committed an indiscretion," Fouchet said. "I was a professor of
mathematics at the university in Toulouse and I had a liaison with the wife of
one of my colleagues. He did not take kindly to the title of cuckold and
insisted on calling me out. Unfortunately for him, I proved the better shot.
His friends took it rather personally. They had influence, I did not. I lost my
position, along with what little that remained of my reputation. When
I applied for alternative teaching posts, I found doors were shut in my face. I
sought solace in the grape; a panacea not exactly conducive to the furtherance
of one's career. That would have been the end of it, had it not been for a
miracle."
"What
happened?"
A rueful smile
split Fouchet's creased face. "I was conscripted."
The grins began
to circulate around the table until Millet, who started to laugh, forgot he was
still trying to digest Lasseur's discarded cod. He was turning red when
Charbonneau slapped a palm between his shoulder blades, bringing him back to
the vertical and the rest of the table to their senses and reality.
Hawkwood guessed
Fouchet's situation wasn't unique. The latter's reference to the hulk's self-founded
academy and the standard of workmanship he'd observed looking over prisoners'
shoulders as he'd traversed the gun deck was proof of that. It was one of the
notable differences between the British and French forces. Whereas Britain
swelled the ranks with volunteers - which in many cases meant felons and
homeless men looking for a roof and a meal - Bonaparte's troops contained a
large portion of conscripted men from all walks of life. In all likelihood,
there were probably as many skilled craftsmen and
teachers among the mass of prisoners on board Rapacious as there
were in any of the small towns lining the shores of the surrounding estuary.
"I see you
favour your right leg," Lasseur said. "You were wounded?"
Fouchet smiled.
"Musket ball; just below my knee." He tapped the joint. "It's
the devil in cold weather; doesn't work too well in the damp either."
The teacher
turned to Hawkwood. "So, Captain Hooper; what's your story? How did you
come to be captured?"
"There were
more of them than there was of me," Hawkwood said.
Fouchet smiled.
"I believe I overheard Murat say it was at Ciudad Rodrigo?"
Hawkwood nodded.
"That's a
long way from home. What was an American doing there?"
The question
Hawkwood had been expecting and of which he
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