Benedict hid a smile. Jem was a sharp one. He’d been one of the few members of Hammond’s gang to escape the Gravesend raid. They boy was as slippery as an eel. “I’ll pay you,” he said evenly. “If you have anything worthwhile to tell me.”

Jem wiped his nose on his ragged sleeve. “Shame about Peters and Fry. I ’eard they’s ’eaded for Van Diemen’s Land.”

“They were lucky they didn’t swing like Hammond, or die in the cells like Silas.”

Jem spat on the ground, an eloquent dismissal of the vicious ringleader. “Ain’t nobody gonna miss ’Ammond, that’s for sure. But how come you ain’t on a prison ship?”

“I bribed the Newgate turnkey.”

The youngster shrugged, unsurprised by the fickleness of man. Ben withdrew a guinea from his waistcoat pocket and idly flipped it over in his fingers. Jem watched it like a starving dog at the butcher’s shop window.

“So, what do you know?” Ben asked gently.

The boy smiled. “Being the enterprisin’ cove what I am, I’ve found it pays to listen at doors.” He puffed out his chest. “I always know what’s goin’ on, me. Listened in to ’Ammond, I did.”

Ben nodded approvingly. “And?”

“Just before the Gravesend job ’e met with a cove called Johnstone.”

“Go on.”

“Well, this Johnstone was trying to get a crew together. Said ’e ’ad a job that’d make us all richer than the pope. Told ’Ammond to find ’im men who could sail anyfink and not ask too many questions, like.”

“Plenty of those around. Half the navy’s looking for work these days. Did he say what the job was?”

“Aye. That was the funny part. This Johnstone never sounded like a Frenchie—’e were as English as roast beef—but ’e said it were to get old Boney off some island.” Jem wrinkled his nose. “Ain’t we just spent ten years gettin’ rid of ’im? Why’d anyone want to bring ’im back?”

Benedict shrugged. “He still has his supporters, both here and elsewhere. Did this Johnstone say how he planned to rescue Bonaparte? With just the one ship? Meeting up with others? Attacking the island?”

Jem shook his head. “Nah. Sorry.”

Benedict flipped the guinea, and Jem snatched it from the air like a conjurer. It disappeared into the folds of his shapeless jacket.

“Did Johnstone say who was paying for this rescue attempt? Or mention any other names?”

Jem screwed up his face. “There was somefin’ about a doctor. An Irish name, it was. Like O’Malley. Or O’Brien.”

“When did Johnstone want to sail?”

Jem scratched his head with a dirty finger, no doubt dislodging several resident lice. “Soon. That’s all I knows.”

Benedict cursed.

Jem shrugged. “You’ll know for sure if I go an’ find Johnstone, won’t ye?” He gave a toothy grin. “Which I will ’appily do—for another guinea.”