by James McGee
Hawkwood said nothing. He suspected Hellard was trying to bait him.
"You're a renegade, Hooper, you and the rest of your countrymen. I have no truck with you or your kind, except perhaps to pity your poor choice of causes. There can't be many men who've aligned themselves with two flags and found they've made the wrong choice both times."
"The war's not over yet, Lieutenant," Hawkwood said.
"It is for you," Hellard snapped. "On that you can depend." The commander's eyes narrowed. "I'm intrigued by those bruises around your throat, though. How did you come by them?"
Hawkwood looked straight back. "None of your damned business."
Murat drew a sharp breath.
Hellard fixed Hawkwood with a raptor stare. After several seconds, which seemed to stretch for an eternity, he nodded his acceptance at Hawkwood's defiance, leant forward and closed the ledger with a thud. "I'll confess, the loss of the boy is unfortunate. However, you won't find me sacrificing a moment's sleep over the death of the Corsican or the Turk or any of the other men who lived in his shadow." Hellard paused for effect. "That said, I cannot ignore events."
"Duelling's a hanging offence," Thynne said, almost lazily, looking at Hawkwood. "Says so in the Regulations."
"Indeed it does, Lieutenant," Hellard said. "Thank you for reminding me."
Thynne coloured.
"There was no duel," Lasseur repeated stubbornly.
"Yes, Captain. So you say." Hellard threw the privateer a sour look. "The injuries sustained by the Turk and Captain Hooper here suggest otherwise. Either way, men have died today, in a most barbaric fashion, which means I am required to take action. The Admiralty demands it. I am further mindful that an example needs to be set, both to penalize and more importantly to deter. With Matisse gone to meet his maker, or in his case more likely the Devil, the prisoners need to be reminded who is in charge here, should anyone have a hankering to assume the Corsican's crown. You get my meaning?" Hellard sat back.
"What about the rest of Matisse's crew?" Hawkwood asked.
Instantly the atmosphere in the cabin changed, as if the air had been charged with an electrical current. Hellard glanced towards his fellow lieutenant.
Thynne took his finger out of his mouth. There was a significant pause then he said, "We're going to hang the bastards. Every man jack of them; God rot their black souls." The lieutenant clenched his fists.
"For duelling?" Lasseur said. He stared at the hulk's commander.
No, Hawkwood thought, watching the exchange, it was something else. He remembered the words Fouchet had spoken: If I told you the half of it, you would think me mad.
"What is it?" Hawkwood asked. His head was starting to throb again, not that it had ever really stopped.
"Tell me, Hooper," Hellard said curtly, "did you ever stop to consider what would have become of your bodies if Matisse's men had killed you both?"
"We were too busy trying to stay alive."
"Then why don't I let Lieutenant Murat tell you what would have been your fate, had you failed," Hellard said. "Go on, Lieutenant; tell them what Matisse did with the bodies of the men who fought in previous duels against the Turk and lost."
Murat swallowed nervously.
"I'm sure they'd like to know," Hellard said, "before I pass sentence."
Hawkwood waited.
"Tell us," Lasseur said.
Murat took a deep breath. "It seems the usual method was for the loser's body to be . . . disposed of."
"How?" Hawkwood asked.
"The corpses were cut into pieces and dropped through the latrines into the sea. That way the evidence was removed and the victor was saved a hanging."
Hawkwood and Lasseur stared at the interpreter.
Hellard, watching Hawkwood's and Lasseur's response, said: "Well, go on, tell them the rest of it."
Murat paled.
"What does he mean?" Lasseur asked.
"There was another method." The interpreter threw a look of mute appeal towards Hellard, who returned the look with a stony glare.
"Sarazin says it has happened once that he knows of. He said that he heard of it being done when he was at Portsmouth . . ." Murat hesitated, an odd catch in his voice.
"Go on," Lasseur said.
"He said that on one occasion the body was cut up but was not dropped into the sea. Sarazin said the corpse was jointed and fed to the Rafales."
Lasseur went white. He turned to Hellard in horror. "Is this true?"
Hellard shrugged. "It may only be a story. The creature tried to save his own skin by informing on his comrades. He'll hang from the yard with the rest of them."
Sarazin, Hawkwood remembered, was the one who'd been on Cabrera and in Millbay.
"So," Hellard said into the pregnant silence, "that leaves us with the question: what am I to do with the two of you?"
"Plenty of room left on the yard," Thynne said, and then muttered, "Though, if you ask me, hanging's too good for the buggers."
Hellard stood up.
As the lieutenant moved out from behind the desk a knot formed in Hawkwood's stomach. Aligning himself with Lasseur had seemed like a good idea. Now, because of the privateer's crusade to rescue some wet-behind-the-ears cabin boy and his own irrational sense of obligation, Hawkwood's assignment was unravelling at a rate of knots. In fact, it was probably safe to say it was beyond unravelling. It was lying in tatters around him.
Hellard pursed his lips. It looked worryingly as if he was giving Thynne's suggestion serious consideration.
Thynne, from the window, intoned, "Regulations -"
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Hellard interrupted tartly without turning. "I'm aware of the Regulations."
Thynne flushed. Hawkwood watched as the lieutenant's expression changed. There was no mistaking the acrimonious look that Thynne directed towards his commanding officer's back. Hawkwood sensed it wasn't only because of Hellard's acerbic put-down. The animosity ran deeper than that and, judging from Hellard's demeanour, the resentment was mutual. Hawkwood wondered why that was. There could have been any number of reasons, though, from the needling reference to the Regulations, it was clear that Thynne considered himself to be the better man and therefore more suited to be in charge.
Hawkwood wondered about Thynne's background. Like the army, the navy needed its best men at the war front. It didn't assign competent officers to oversee the running of decrepit prison ships in remote backwaters if it could be helped. Somewhere along the line Thynne, like Hellard, must have blotted his copybook. Either that or Thynne had sought to avoid the heat of battle by securing a lieutenancy as far away from the fighting as possible, only to find his bid for command of the hulk usurped by a disgraced officer of equal rank but seniority in years. Hawkwood had to admit to himself that the latter scenario seemed unlikely. Whatever the reason, there didn't appear to be much love lost between the two lieutenants.
Hellard said, "From prisoner Fouchet's statement and by your own admissions, I'm inclined to give you both the benefit of the doubt that your actions were out of concern for the boy's welfare. You will be spared the attention of the hangman."
"Sir?" Thynne went to take a step forward.
"However," Hellard said, holding up a hand, halting Thynne in his tracks, "the deaths of Matisse and his men cannot - indeed, will not - go unpunished. That would go against Regulations, and it would be remiss of me if I did not render chastisement commensurate to your crimes. The Admiralty will expect it. My decision is also governed by the fact that there is little doubt your actions have bestowed upon you a deal of notoriety. I suspect there are those who'd have you assume the Corsican's mantle. I would deem that singularly unacceptable. You will both, therefore, be transferred to the prison ship Sampson, currently moored in Gillingham."
Lasseur gave a sharp intake of breath.
The privateer's reaction was understandable. Every prisoner on Rapacious had heard of the Sampson, no matter how long he had been on board. It was the ship set aside for th
e prisoners considered to be trouble-makers. Rumour had it that conditions on Sampson were so harsh they made the regime on Rapacious look like a church fete.
"You'd rather I hang you with the rest of them, Captain?" Hellard said.
A smug smile broke out across Thynne's face.
Lasseur did not reply. His face remained carved in stone.
"Regrettably, you will not be making the transfer immediately," Hellard said. "I've received word there's been an incident on board the Sampson. Some prisoners have led an insurrection to protest at their rations. The commander ordered his men to fire on the demonstrators and a number have been killed. There will be a delay while things calm down. I am not an inhumane man. Until your transfer, therefore, as the punishment cells are now full and it would be unwise to incarcerate you with what remain of Matisse's cohorts, you will both reside in the sick berth under armed guard, where at least your wounds can be attended by the surgeon. I suggest you use the opportunity as a period for reflection. Naturally, Captain Hooper, your participation in this debacle means that your eligibility for parole has been revoked. I understand you're due to appear before an assessment board. That has been postponed indefinitely, pending subsequent reports on your behaviour. I venture it will be some considerable time before either of you see your homeland again, a state of affairs for which you only have yourselves to blame." Hellard nodded to the guards. "That's all. Take them down."
CHAPTER 10
"It would have been better," Lasseur said despondently, "if we had been cut up and fed to the crabs."
"Better than being fed to the Rafales," Hawkwood said. He felt a warm dampness on his side. His wound had begun weeping again.
"Do you really think what Murat told us was true?" Lasseur asked. The muscles around his mouth tightened.
"Maybe," Hawkwood said. "They say eating human flesh turns you mad. There's certainly madness in this place."
Lasseur went quiet. Then he said softly, "Many years ago, I was third mate on a schooner in the South China Seas when we came across an open boat. There were four men on board. Three were barely alive. The fourth was dead. His body was badly mutilated. Two of the survivors died, the third lived. He said that seabirds were responsible for the wounds on the fourth body, but he was not believed. It was thought that he and the others had feasted upon the dead man to save their own lives. Otherwise why had they not rid themselves of the corpse at the time of death? When the last survivor was finally able to walk, he tied himself to a length of chain and threw himself overboard. We assumed he was overcome with remorse at having consumed human meat. Either that or the act had driven him insane." There was a pause, then Lasseur said joylessly, "I hear it tastes like chicken."
"I heard it was pork," Hawkwood said.
Lasseur shuddered and fell silent. A short time passed and then he said, "How did Matisse and the rest of them cover up the loss? The discrepancy would have showed up at roll call. How did they get past the head count?"
Hawkwood had been wondering the same thing. He said heavily, "Maybe they didn't."
Lasseur shifted on his cot. "Then how would they explain the missing men?"
"By letting Hellard and the guards think there'd been an escape." Hawkwood waited for the implication to sink in.
It took a while before Lasseur said, "Oh God."
The half-formed thought had been nagging away at Hawkwood since they'd left Hellard's cabin. It was only after he was back in his cot that it had become whole.
"If there have been no genuine escapes," Lasseur said, "it means Murat deceived us from the beginning."
Hawkwood said nothing.
"If I find it to be so, I'll kill the two-faced bastard," Lasseur said, eyes blazing.
"They will hang you, then," Hawkwood said. "Maybe you should stop while you're ahead."
"Christ's blood!" Lasseur cursed. "We've been played for fools!"
The privateer sank back in despair.
Could that be true? Hawkwood wondered. Perhaps Ludd had got it all wrong and there had been no genuine escapes, only disputes and the settling of arguments, with the dead men's remains disposed of through the ship's heads or in the Rafales' mess tins.
But that wouldn't have accounted for all the missing men, surely?
What was it Matisse had said? That it had been a while since they'd enjoyed a diversion, implying it had been some time since the last duel. And Ludd had told Hawkwood and James Read that escapes had occurred quite recently. Perhaps men had actually made it off the ship after all, alive and whole, rather than in pieces through the heads.
But the counts still had to be manipulated. How easy would that be? From what he'd seen, the roll call procedure left a lot to be desired. The discrepancy only had to be concealed for the time it took an escaper to flee the ship and gain a head start once he'd made it ashore.
Not that this speculation was getting them anywhere, Hawkwood reflected. It was academic. His assignment wasn't just lying in tatters. It was dead in the water. Literally.
And how was he going to extricate himself from the mire this time? He had to get word to Ludd, but Hellard had put the lid on that. When he failed to keep his rendezvous, Ludd would surely make enquiries. He'd discover Hawkwood's fate soon enough and would take steps to retrieve him. The Admiralty would have to devise another means of investigating the prisoner escape routes and the fate of its two officers. What a bloody disaster. As Hawkwood cursed his stupidity, he realized the pounding drumbeat inside his head had, miraculously, all but dissolved. At least that was one less thing to worry about.
A series of hacking coughs from a prisoner half a dozen cots away interrupted his thoughts. The coughing intensified until it seemed as if the patient's guts were about to spew from between his lips in bloody lumps. Within seconds of the outburst a chorus of similar coughs and throat-clearing rattles had risen to a crescendo throughout the compartment until the noise was rebounding off the bulkheads. It was accompanied by the sounds of violent retching and heaving. The stench of fresh vomit and excrement began to spread through the sick berth. In the gloom Hawkwood could see orderlies moving between the cots, rags and leather buckets in their hands. There was no sign of the militia guards. Hawkwood presumed they had removed themselves outside to the comparative sanctuary of the stairwell and companionway.
Gradually the coughing died down; exhaustion having claimed most of the afflicted. Hawkwood spotted the surgeon, Girard. He was bending over patients with a concerned eye. Three times, Hawkwood saw the surgeon pause, touch the side of a patient's throat and shake his head wearily. He continued to watch as the sheets were pulled up over the faces of the dead. In the dim light, the surgeon's features looked drained of colour. As each patient's condition was confirmed, the orderlies wrapped the sheet around the body until it resembled a large cocoon. With a nod from the surgeon, each wrapped corpse was lifted from its cot and lugged unceremoniously through to a compartment at the aft end of the sick berth. Hawkwood could just see the inside of the hatchway. There were at least ten shrouded bundles laid out on the deck. He presumed they included the bodies of Matisse and the boy and the others killed in the hold.
Most of the linen wrapped around the corpses carried dark stains. It was hard to tell the colour in the dim light. It looked black, like tar. Hawkwood knew it wasn't. It was blood hacked up from the patients' lungs.
"Perhaps we'll die of fever before they transfer us," Lasseur said morosely, watching over Hawkwood's shoulder.
"If I've got a choice," Hawkwood said, staring at the filthy, gore-matted sheets, "I'll take the Sampson.''''
"You mean where there's life, there's hope?" Lasseur said. The privateer was unable to keep the cynicism out of his voice.
For me, perhaps, Hawkwood thought. At least I have a lifeline, a way out.
Lasseur had only a boat ride and an uncertain future in another floating hell-hole to look forward to. Hawkwood was intrigued at how much Lasseur's fate was starting to bother him.
He looked to wh
ere the orderlies were wiping down the decks around the recently emptied cots. A familiar tang began to waft through the compartment.
"We call it haemoptysis."
The surgeon was standing at the end of Hawkwood's cot. He was wiping his hands with a damp cloth which smelled strongly of vinegar. His hair hung limply over his forehead. He looked tired and drawn.
"Most of them have it. It's caused by congestion, brought on by consumption and fever and a dozen other diseases. I tried to persuade Dr Pellow to ship some of the more critical patients to the Sussex, but he told me there was no room. There's no hospital in the dockyard, so we must make do. As you can see, we've precious little space as it is. We'll be burying the poor devils in the morning, along with the rest of them." Girard tucked the soiled rag into his waistband.
"Rest of them?" Lasseur said, frowning.
"Matisse's men. The ones you killed and the ones that are going to hang."
"They're carrying out the sentence on board?" Hawkwood said.
The surgeon nodded grimly.
"I thought they'd do it ashore."
"It seems Commander Hellard wants it over and done with quickly."
"I'd have thought the British Admiralty would have something to say about that," Hawkwood said. "They'll want them punished, but it sounds as if the lieutenant's taking the law into his own hands."
"On his own ship, a commander is judge, jury and executioner. I'd say our Lieutenant Hellard's marking his territory. Besides, you think that anyone in the British Admiralty will lose sleep over a handful of foreign murderers? I think not." There was a pause, then Girard said, "There's a rumour that some of the prisoners have volunteered to draw on the ropes."
"My God!" Lasseur said, and then added reflectively, "Not that I'd hold it against them. I doubt there's any that'll mourn the bastards."
The surgeon sucked in his cheeks. "They say you and Captain Hooper have been nominated for sainthood."
