by James McGee
He looked down. Just the dipping of his chin sent a bolt of agony screeching across the back of his eyeballs. His shirt had been removed. Dressings and bandages had been applied to his wounds. Several dark spots of blood were visible on the gauze. A single, none-too-clean linen sheet covered him below the waist. Movement caught his eye, just in time for him to see a trio of shiny carapaces disappearing at speed over the edge of his cot; cockroaches on the run.
His gaze moved out beyond his feet. There was an open hatchway leading through to a smaller, similarly dim-lit compartment. He could make out part of a table and the edge of a chair. A jacket sleeve could just be seen draped over the chair back. Cabinets and shelves were set against the bulkhead. The shelves held an impressive selection of corked and labelled bottles in a variety of hues. Some were the size of gin bottles, others looked as if they might once have contained perfume. On the table, more bottles were arrayed next to a pestle and mortar and writing materials.
Allied to the noises around him and the vinegary smell, these items told Hawkwood all he needed to know about his location. The vinegar, he knew, would have been swabbed into the deck in a vain attempt to cover the stench of the vomit and the piss and all the other excretions made by the bedridden men around him. He was in the hulk's sick berth.
"Welcome back."
The greeting came from the next cot, which lay in semi-gloom.
Hawkwood turned his head, slowly, to be on the safe side.
Lasseur had bruises and cuts on his face and a dressing on his left shoulder. He regarded Hawkwood's bandages with a laconic eye. "Looks as if we'll both live to fight another day, my friend. How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," Hawkwood said truthfully, and discovered that talking was only marginally less painful than trying to sit up.
"Me, too, but they say it's better than being dead." A shadow flitted across Lasseur's face suggesting he wasn't a firm believer in the statement.
"I thought I saw Fouchet," Hawkwood said. "Or did I imagine it?"
The privateer did not respond immediately. He still looked preoccupied. Hawkwood presumed he was reliving the boy's death and the subsequent debacle in the hold. Finally Lasseur nodded. "Our teacher friend had an attack of conscience. He alerted the guards."
"I thought they didn't like to venture below deck."
"They don't usually. Sebastien was very persuasive."
"They killed Dupin," Hawkwood said.
"Shot him dead - luckily for you. Though, if you ask me, I'd say whoever did it was probably waiting for an excuse."
"Were there others?"
"You mean apart from Lucien and the Turk and that Corsican filth?" Lasseur screwed up his mouth and nodded towards a point over Hawkwood's shoulder. "Ask him. He'll know the full count."
Hawkwood was debating whether or not to try and turn his head when he sensed a presence behind him. He risked an upward glance. The man standing over Hawkwood's cot was young and dark complexioned, with soulful brown eyes. He was in frayed civilian dress, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A severely stained once-white apron was tied around his waist. He spoke in English.
"I see you're awake, Captain Hooper." The brown eyes crinkled. "We've not met. My name is Girard."
"Ship's surgeon?" Hawkwood asked.
The answer was a brisk shake of the head and what might have passed for a self-deprecating smile. "Officially, no. That distinction falls to Dr Pellow. Regrettably, Dr Pellow's other duties tend to keep him ashore, which prevents him from making regular visits. I have the honour to supervise the sick berth in his absence."
From what he'd seen, Hawkwood doubted it was much of an honour.
"He means the son of a bitch has got a very profitable private practice," Lasseur said contemptuously. "He's more interested in the money he earns from his rich English lords and ladies than he is in the likes of us."
Ignoring Lasseur, the surgeon lifted the edge of the dressing on Hawkwood's side and peered at the wound beneath. "I suggest you try and keep your exertions to the minimum. We don't want to disturb the sutures."
Hawkwood suspected the youthful-looking medic was being waggish.
The surgeon clicked his tongue. "You were lucky, Captain. Your wounds should heal well, providing you keep them clean, which in a place like this won't be easy, but I urge you to try. They'll make fine additions to the rest of your collection, which, I have to say, is quite impressive." The brown eyes ranged across Hawkwood's chest, narrowing slightly when they took in the ring of faded bruising around his neck.
"Don't worry," Lasseur said in a mock whisper. "He might look as though he's just started shaving, but he knows what he's doing. Or so he says."
Girard gave a rueful grin. "I was an assistant surgeon to the garrison at Procida before I was taken prisoner. The British thought I'd be better employed here than whittling bones on the gun deck."
"Lucky for us," Lasseur said. "Seeing as they can't even persuade their own man to make house calls."
The surgeon shook his head. "On the contrary, Dr Pellow's last inspection was only a few days ago. In fact, you probably just missed him. No, wait; it would have been the day of your arrival. You may even have arrived in time to witness an example of his bedside manner." There was an abrasive edge to the surgeon's voice.
Hawkwood and Lasseur looked blank. Then Lasseur swore. "The longboat set adrift! That was Pellow?"
Girard nodded. His mouth was set in a grim line. "They were transferees from Cadiz. When he saw the state of them, it was Pellow's contention they were suffering from some contagious disease and that they should be sent to the hospital ship. The poor devils weren't diseased, they were just badly dealt with by the Spanish. Mind you, the British aren't much better. They treat their damned house pets better than they do their prisoners, especially if they're French. Fortunately, we only see Pellow once a week, if that."
"Whore's son!" Lasseur spat.
It was clear Lasseur's anger was still close to boiling point. The privateer's face had been cleansed of blood, but the savage expression that had contorted his features when he'd sliced open the Corsican's throat was still vivid in Hawkwood's memory. Hawkwood felt a sharp stab of pain cut across his forehead. It was as if the effort of remembering had triggered the hurt.
Something must have shown in his expression, he realized, for a look of concern flashed across the surgeon's face.
"You ought to see the other one," Hawkwood said, without thinking.
The surgeon's expression grew serious. "Oh, but I have, Captain Hooper. I've seen all of them. You left quite a lot of damage behind, you and Captain Lasseur." The surgeon threw a look towards the next cot.
Hawkwood sank back on to the mattress. "How many?"
Girard's eyes flickered back. "Five dead, including the boy."
"Five!" Hawkwood tried to recall the sequence of events. He remembered relieving Matisse's man of the metal hoop, but it was all a bit hazy after that, and his head was still throbbing away merrily so it was easier to give up.
"There were also a couple of wounded men, with lacerations similar to your own, which was interesting. It's not the first time I've treated such wounds. Razors are a common weapon on board the hulks, particularly in settling disputes. Captain Lasseur was noticeably reticent, however, when I pressed him for details."
Hawkwood said nothing.
The surgeon shrugged. "Very well, so be it. Though it's not me you'll have to answer to. I'm under instruction from Lieutenant Hellard to inform him the second either of you awakens. It was my intention to delay that moment, but I suspect one of the guards outside may have taken it upon himself to send word. It would not surprise me if the lieutenant has already dispatched an escort to deliver you to him."
"You mean he'll not come to visit us in our sickbeds?" Lasseur said in mock indignation. "I'm shocked and offended."
"Lieutenant Hellard is not inclined to make house calls. It's a characteristic he shares with the ship's surgeon," Girard added witheringly.
"Captain Hooper has barely recovered from the blow to his head," Lasseur said.
"I think you'll find Lieutenant Hellard of the opinion that, unless either of you has lost the use of your legs, you're required to attend him under an armed guard - which, unless I'm mistaken, is here already."
A heavy tramp of military boots sounded from the stairs.
"They didn't waste any time," Lasseur muttered.
Hawkwood looked and saw a quartet of militia making their way between the cots towards them. They were experiencing some difficulty. The confined space didn't leave a lot of room for brandishing muskets.
The surgeon bent low and said quickly, "Just so you know, I may have exaggerated the nature of your wounds and the length of time needed for your recuperation. It would be best if you were to go along with that minor deceit for the time being."
Hawkwood and Lasseur exchanged glances.
"Why?" Hawkwood asked.
But the surgeon was already turning away.
"Sergeant Hook! It's always a pleasure," Girard announced.
The sergeant halted his guards. He paid no heed to the surgeon's sardonic greeting but stared coldly at the two men in the cots. "On your feet! Commander's orders!"
"These officers are not returned to full strength, Sergeant," Girard said. "Perhaps you could advise Lieutenant Hell—"
"They're breathin', ain't they?" Hook glared at the surgeon.
"Clearly," the surgeon said. "However ..."
"Then they're to get their arses out of their cots and come with us. Or else we'll drag 'em. It's their choice, Doctor. Don't matter to me either way."
The surgeon bit back a retort, turned and addressed Hawkwood and Lasseur in French. "The sergeant is distraught to find you so incapacitated and asks you if you'd both be so kind as to vacate your cots and accompany him to the commander's quarters."
"But of course," Lasseur said, folding back his sheet. "Please advise Sergeant Hook that it's a pleasure to find him in such rude health and that Captain Hooper and I would be only too delighted to attend him. You may also inform him that I couldn't help noticing that his face is remarkably reminiscent of a cow's arse."
A nerve moved in the surgeon's cheek.
"What did he say?" Hook demanded; his tone suspicious.
"He asked if your men could point their muskets somewhere else. They're making him nervous."
"Did he indeed?" Hook said. He launched a kick at the base of Hawkwood's cot. "I said, on your feet!"
"What a tiresome little man," Lasseur said. "I hope his balls shrivel to the size of currants."
"Unless someone cuts them off first," Hawkwood said.
"May God grant us another one of Sebastien's miracles," Lasseur said, reaching for his boots.
"You'll want this," Girard said, and passed Hawkwood his jacket. "Your shirt was beyond salvage, I'm afraid."
A lot like my bloody assignment, Hawkwood thought.
"I'll not have prisoners waging a private war on my ship!" Lieutenant Hellard fixed Hawkwood and Lasseur with a Medusa stare. "Even if it is scum fighting scum." He turned to Murat. "D'you hear?"
The interpreter nodded uncomfortably. "Yes, sir."
"Then tell him," Hellard said, indicating Lasseur.
"That will not be necessary, Commander," Lasseur said. "I speak English."
Hellard glared at the privateer. Lasseur stared back at him, his expression impassive. The lieutenant turned his attention to Hawkwood. His eyes took in the bandages and the blood. His gaze lifted and he frowned. Hawkwood wondered if the commander was recalling the moment on the quarterdeck when he had scanned the line of prisoners to see whose eyes were upon him. Hawkwood held the lieutenant's eyes for the appropriate amount of time before switching his gaze to a point over Hellard's shoulder, thus giving the impression it had been he who'd weakened and broken eye contact.
They were in the commander's day cabin, which on the hulk, as in any ship of the line, doubled as an office. Two militia men guarded the door. Hellard was seated behind the main desk with his back to the inward-slanting stern windows. An open ledger lay before him, along with several sheets of paper. Outside, sunset was starting to fall over the western marshes, bathing the wetlands and the estuary in a vivid red glow. There was still plenty of movement on the river, with vessels taking final advantage of the early evening tide to navigate their way upstream to an anchorage or downstream towards the open sea.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hawkwood saw that Lasseur's gaze was fixed on the view beyond the commander's shoulders. It wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking.
The cabin was sparsely furnished. On active duty, it was usual for a vessel's commander to equip his quarters to his own specifications, depending on the depth of his pockets; everything from desks to dining tables, sideboards to wine coolers and carpets to cutlery were shipped aboard at a captain's expense.
From what could be seen, the furniture on Rapacious suggested that Hellard was either a man of very limited means - not unlikely, given his rank and the circumstances governing his appointment - or else the items had been provided by the Transport Board with the emphasis on practicality rather than personal comfort. In other words, Lieutenant Hellard had been forced to make do with what he'd been given; which wasn't much. The few sticks of furniture looked as drab and as distressed as the hulk that housed them, as if they had been salvaged from a long-forgotten storeroom in some abandoned dockyard warehouse, and taken on board as an afterthought.
Aside from the desk, there was a mirrored dressing cabinet, which Hawkwood suspected was campaign furniture; an elderly writing slope which stood in one corner; a four-drawer sideboard; and a small round table bracketed by four plain-backed hall chairs. Dark red drapes framed the windows. A layer of dust lay along the top rail. There appeared to be no personal possessions on display; no watercolour portraits on the bulkheads, no miniature likenesses of a wife or sweetheart on the cabinet or sideboard; no books. The left-hand wall was partitioned. Hawkwood guessed that Hellard's bed lay behind it. All in all, the commander's quarters were as austere as the man himself.
Up close, Hellard was more gaunt than he'd appeared on deck. Until now, Hawkwood had only seen him from a distance; a lone figure stalking the quarterdeck, hands behind his back. Close to, his cheeks were more sharply defined, his eyes more melancholic. There were flakes of dandruff on the collar and shoulders of his coat.
"Do either of you know the penalty for duelling?"
"There was no duel," Lasseur said, drawing himself up. "It was self-defence."
"Then how do you explain the razor sticks we found in the hold?" Hellard said curtly.
"Matisse's men attacked us with them," Lasseur said. "We were forced to defend ourselves."
Hellard grunted and said, "Lieutenant Thynne informs me it was a disagreement over one of the child prisoners that led to the killings. What's your story, Hooper?"
Thynne, his features made angular by the rays of the fading sun coming in through the big windows, was standing behind and a little to one side of Hellard's chair, worrying a nail. Hellard half turned to acknowledge his fellow officer's presence, then looked towards the privateer.
"The lieutenant's correct," Hawkwood said. "Matisse took the boy against his will, for his own perverted amusement and that of his men. Captain Lasseur and I took it upon ourselves to confront Matisse in the hope of returning the boy to the upper deck."
Hellard said immediately, "Why did you not inform the guards of the boy's abduction?"
"We didn't think there was any need. We didn't know the situation would turn violent."
"A touch naive of you, I'd have thought," Hellard said. "Given Matisse's reputation."
Lasseur cut in quickly. "With respect, Commander, we are only recently arrived on board. We knew nothing of Matisse or his reputation."
Hellard consulted the ledger in front of him. "So I see. You didn't waste any time finding trouble though, did you? Either of you."
The
lieutenant moved his eyes to the papers. He picked up a pen and made a note on one of the sheets. "Which one of you killed Matisse?" He did not look up, but continued writing.
The question was followed by an extended silence, broken only by the pedantic scratch of nib on paper.
"I did," Lasseur said.
Hellard paused in his scribbling. He raised his head sharply and his eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps, Captain Lasseur, you would describe to us your version of events? If you find your English inadequate, Lieutenant Murat will decipher."
He stared hard at Hawkwood. Hawkwood half expected Hellard to say, "I'm not sure I like the cut of your jib" and was almost disappointed when the words didn't materialize.
Hellard glanced away, "Well, Captain Lasseur?"
"Matisse killed the boy. He did it in cold blood, in front of our eyes."
"Why would he do that?"
"To prove he could," Hawkwood said. "Captain Lasseur and I tried to stop him. That was when he ordered his men to attack us."
"You appear to have given a good account of yourselves, in spite of the odds. You were severely outnumbered."
Lasseur's chin came up. "Captain Hooper and I are professionals. Matisse's men were a rabble."
Hellard sighed heavily. He put his pen down and leaned back. "I'm not sure I believe a word of it, frankly. Contrary to belief, my officers and I are not totally ignorant of what goes on below deck. You think we care a fig if you fight amongst yourselves? That is one of the reasons we choose not to interfere with your internal squabbling. We knew fine well that Matisse used the Turk to enforce his authority and intimidate his rivals. We're also aware of the use to which razor sticks are put. Interesting, by the way, that the wounds on the Turk's body should be similar to those suffered by Captain Hooper," Hellard added pointedly. "This leads me to suspect that something more was going on beyond a tug of war over the boy's virtue."
"It was the Turk who had the weapon," Hawkwood said. "I took it off him." Which was close enough to the truth anyway, he thought.
Hellard waved a quieting hand. "Yes, well, that was very enterprising of you, Captain Hooper. That is how you new Americans like to think of yourselves, isn't it? Enterprising pioneers forging a new nation? I suppose you know the word pioneer comes from the French? Peonier - it means foot soldier. A shade ironic, wouldn't you say, given your circumstances?"
