Rapscallion (22 page)

"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
where 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."

"No wonder
the lieutenant wants to get rid of us," Lasseur snorted. "When do the
hangings take place?"

"Dawn."

"Then I'll
pray for fine weather," Lasseur said. His face lit up suddenly.
"Sebastien!"

Hawkwood and
Girard turned.

The teacher was
limping towards them. In his hands were two mess tins and two spoons. "I
saved you a little something from supper. I thought you might be hungry."

"As long as
it's not herring," Lasseur said, grimacing. "Or I may throw up like
those other poor devils."

"Bread,
potatoes and a bit of pork."
Fouchet passed the mess tins over. "It's not
much."

Lasseur studied
the contents. "You're sure it's pork?" He glanced at Hawkwood.

"It could
be mutton," Fouchet said, frowning. "What day is it?"

"Maybe I'll
just eat the potatoes," Lasseur said.

"I think
it's safe," Fouchet said. "Matisse hasn't killed anyone for a while,
that we know of."

"You
heard?" Hawkwood said.

Fouchet nodded.
"It's all round the ship."

Lasseur
continued to stare bleakly into his mess tin. "What about Juvert?"

"He's in
the black hole with the rats, licking his wounds. A week in there and he'll be
eating his own shit." Without a trace of sympathy, the teacher nodded at
the food. "What you don't eat now, you can save for later."

Lasseur placed
the mess tin to one side.

"I'll leave
you to it," Girard said. "I've patients to see to. And you should
eat. It will keep your strength up." He nodded to Fouchet, fished the
vinegar-soaked rag from his waist and walked away through the cots.

Fouchet watched
him go then laid a hand on Hawkwood's arm. "Tell me the boy did not
suffer."

"It was
quick," Hawkwood said. "That's about the only thing good you could
say about it."

The teacher's
face sagged. "He would still be alive if I'd kept watch over him," he
said forlornly.

"The boy
died at Matisse's hands, Sebastien," Lasseur said gently. "Not
yours."

Fouchet eyed
Hawkwood's and Lasseur's bloodstained bandages. "I would have liked to
have seen you kill the swine."

"If you
had, we wouldn't be here," Hawkwood said. "If it wasn't for you
bringing the guards, they'd have been delivering us to the heads in buckets ...
or worse."

"And now
they're sending you to the
Sampson
," Fouchet said
unhappily.

"Better
than to the yard," Lasseur said.

"You might
not think so when you get there."

I
think I've had this conversation before
, Hawkwood thought.

"I heard
there was a fight to the death on the
Sampson
only a
month back," Fouchet said. "Two men went into the black hole. Only
one came out."

"I wonder
where they got that idea from," Lasseur smiled thinly.

Fouchet leaned
close. "Charbonneau heard two of the militia talking. The British believe
the revolt on the
Sampson
is part of a plot to foment a rising of all foreign
prisoners in England."

Lasseur gnawed
at the inside of his cheek. "That must have put the fear of God up
them."

Fouchet
shrugged. "One can understand their quandary. While their Admiralty
believes there's a benefit to containing all the instigators of the revolt in
the one location, by the same token, they're mindful of the dangers in placing
so many trouble-makers in close proximity. Clashes between prisoners don't
bother them; they regard it as one way of culling the herd. But to have so many
malcontents
under
one roof could place British lives
at unnecessary risk."

"The last
thing they need is another two joining them," Lasseur said. "No
wonder they're delaying our arrival. I'm beginning to wonder why Commander
Hellard didn't sentence us to the noose."

"Because
that's what his second-in-command wanted him to do," Hawkwood said.
"Lieutenant Thynne believes his commander isn't fit for the purpose.
Hellard thinks Thynne is after his command. I'd say we owe our lives to
Commander Hellard's contrariness."

"Lucky for
us it wasn't the other way round then," Lasseur said, "and it wasn't
Thynne suggesting clemency."

"Amen to
that," Hawkwood said.

There was a
shout from outside. A bell began to clang.

"Curfew,"
Fouchet said. "I have to go."

Hawkwood looked
towards the grating. The last of the daylight had disappeared. The only illumination
left came from the lanterns suspended from the deckhead.

The teacher
shook their hands solemnly. "I am very glad you are alive, my friends.
I'll gather up your belongings and make sure no one helps themselves." He
gave a smile. "Not that they'd dare. You've both gained quite a
reputation."

"I doubt
that'll stop Murat from selling our spaces to the next lot of new
arrivals," Lasseur said moodily. "What's the betting he'll even try
and turn our reputation to his advantage
? '
Captains
Lasseur and Hooper slept here. That'll be ten francs extra, thank you very
much.'"