Rapscallion (25 page)

The order was
greeted by a cascade of laughter.

They moved off.
Hawkwood exhaled and heard Charbonneau swear under his breath. He tried to
recall how many corpses had been removed from the sick berth before him. He had
a vision of being placed into the net and smothered by the pile of bodies being
tossed in after him, and fought to quell the rising tide of panic.

And then he was
being lowered. He felt the strands of the net through the cloth and the
pressure of another burial sack against his flank. He allowed himself to take
several slow and cautious breaths. The blood the surgeon had daubed around his
jaw had dried and he ran his tongue along his lips to moisten them. He wondered
if it was his imagination or if it really was piss he could taste.

The sounds of
the hulk enveloped him on all sides: the clatter of wheels in their blocks, the
flap of lines against the yards, voices conversing - in a variety of accents,
both muted and strident - gulls protesting from the mastheads, the tramp of
boots across the decking.

He wondered if
the body next to him was Lasseur. Pulse pounding, despite his attempt to
breathe evenly, he waited for the cry of alarm that would indicate their
disappearance from the sick berth had been discovered. How long would the
surgeon and Murat and the orderlies be able to conceal their absence? Was this
how prisoners before them had made their escape?

Another shout
rang out and the sack next to him moved.

Hawkwood felt
his breath catch.

Was it Lasseur
easing a cramp, or a suspicious guard making an inspection? Then something
rolled against his other thigh. He heard the rattle of a winch and realized the
net was being hauled into the air. The movement had been caused by gravity
settling the bodies. He had a flash of memory, mackerel in a basket, heads and
tails jumbled, and wondered if that was what the net-ful of burial sacks looked
like to an observer.

Murat hadn't
only been right about the smell. Hawkwood knew it couldn't have been much more
than ten minutes since the orderlies had applied their final stitch, yet it
seemed a lifetime ago. His nerves were stretching with each passing second.

He detected
another shift in the net's trim. A sixth sense told him to brace himself. He
did so just in time. The net landed with a thump. It was more of a collision
than
a grounding
- no sympathy for the dead from the
man on the winch - and the motion beneath him told Hawkwood that they had been
deposited in the thwarts of the boat. He felt the craft rock as the burial
party and the militia escort arranged themselves. Then came the command to cast
off and wear away, followed by the unmistakable sound of oars turning in
rowlocks as the boat was edged out from the side of the ship.

It was warm
inside the sack and the squeaking of the oars and the gentle pitching of the
boat were starting to have
an
hypnotic effect.
Hawkwood was deeply conscious not only of the stench in his own burial bag but
the aroma of the bodies around him, all of them caked in either piss, blood or
shit, or in some cases all three. The accumulated smells would become worse as
the sun continued to rise, which was why Hellard had wanted the bodies removed.
There were too many for them to remain on board. Hygiene was difficult to
maintain at the best of times. Conditions would have become untenable,
particularly in the already tainted sick berth, had the remains of the dead
been kept on board.

Hawkwood knew
they were close to their destination when he heard the order to boat oars. A
brief silence, followed by a shudder as the boat's keel grated against the
shingle, confirmed it.

Hawkwood could
hear digging sounds as he was carried up the foreshore. A strong, sickly
bouquet began to infiltrate the sack the closer they drew to the crunch of the
spades, so cloying it even masked
his own
scent.
Hawkwood knew what it was. He'd come across it before, in field hospitals and
mortuaries. It was the smell of putrefying bodies. Lying on the ground, pebbles
digging into his back, nose pressed against the rancid cloth, it was all he
could do to prevent himself from retching.

"All right,
toss the buggers in!"

The order,
Hawkwood realized, had come from several paces away. He suspected the escort
were trying to remain upwind and some distance from the burial pit.

A voice came
close to his ear and he recognized Charbonneau's whisper. "Not long now,
Captain. It's nearly over."

Hands slid under
his shoulders again, dragging him across the mud. He felt the sharp edge of a
stone rake his shoulder blade, and then the ground dipped sharply and he had
the sensation of being deposited atop what felt, from the lumps and bumps and
other, sharper protrusions, as if it might be a stack of logs. The stench of
rotting corpses was suddenly far worse than anything that had come before.

His ears picked
up the dull clunk of a blade being driven into the ground.

Hawkwood gasped
as the first spadeful of mud and pebbles landed across his legs. His heart
lurched as the second load was deposited over his chest. The mud was damp and
heavy. He tried to move his arms, but he was prevented from doing so by another
fusillade of stones that rattled against the outside of the cloth like rain
striking the side of a tent.

He heard a voice
call softly. "Goodbye, Captain."

And then the
earth closed over his face and the world went dark.

Hawkwood
uncrossed his wrists and brought his right arm down by his side. He flexed his
fingers and tried bending his knees and experienced a wave of relief when he
found he was able to accomplish both tasks, albeit with some difficulty. He
couldn't bend his knees to any great angle, but he knew there was probably
enough leeway, despite the weight of the earth, for him to achieve his
objective.

He could still
make out tiny patches of daylight through the cloth, which meant the filling in
of the burial pit had either been half-hearted or deliberately slipshod, with
just enough dirt having been cast over the newly interred burial sacks to
deceive the militia.

He could no
longer hear voices. They had faded as the burial detail returned to the boat.
He could hear seabirds in the distance and the lap of waves along the
shoreline. He could also hear sheep bleating. It was a sound the prisoners had
grown used to, for when the wind was in the right direction the animals'
plaintive cries could be heard clear across the marshes, even as far as the
hulks.

He drew his
right knee towards him, extended his right arm, stretched his fingers and began
inching his hand down his thigh. It wasn't as easy as he'd hoped. There wasn't
enough room in the sack to allow him the flexibility he was looking for while
laying on his back. He paused, muscles straining.

Then, taking a
deep breath, he twisted on to his left side. Immediately, he felt the corpse
beneath him move. A wave of putrescence enveloped him. He bit down on the sour
taste and tried the manoeuvre again. This time, he almost made it. His
fingertips moved beyond his kneecap. Hunching his shoulders, he reached down
once more. The muscles in his shoulder shrieked as his thumb and forefinger
drew the knife out from the inside of his boot.

He rested, chest
heaving, and waited for his shoulder to stop protesting. Then he turned on to
his back once more and brought his arm up. With the knife less than a hand's
breadth from his face, he infiltrated the razor-sharp blade into the gap
between the stitches in the sailcloth and began cutting.

He was on the
second stitch when his ears picked up a sound that hadn't been there before.
His skin prickled. Slowly, he withdrew the knife blade down into the bag.

He heard the
noise again; someone was approaching cautiously. Hawkwood went rigid. There was
a soft scraping sound followed by a brief silence. Then he thought he heard voices
talking softly. The words were indistinct. It had to be the militia, come back
to check, trying to be quiet about it, and failing. Carefully, Hawkwood
reversed the knife and held it flat against his chest beneath his arm. The
scraping noises resumed. Suddenly the light showing through the cloth was
blotted out. A figure was kneeling over him. Without warning, a knife blade,
larger than his own, stabbed through the vent in the cloth inches from his
face, sliced effortlessly through the next dozen stitches and the edges of the
sailcloth were peeled apart.

"You smell
almost as bad as me." Lasseur wrinkled his nose, chuckled softly and
jerked his head. "He says we've to hurry and we're to keep our heads down,
which seems sensible advice."

Hawkwood looked beyond
Lasseur's shoulder to where a man of indeterminate age was crouched, holding a
short-handled spade. He was dressed in a long-sleeved grey shirt and a pair of
dirty brown breeches. Other than a pair of narrowed dark eyes, it was hard to
make out his features, for his mouth and nose were covered by a triangular
folded scarf. Hawkwood presumed it was as a guard against the smell from the
pit rather than an attempt at disguise. Curly black hair peeked from beneath a
soft felt cap.

"Does he
have a name?" Hawkwood asked.

"He says
we're to call him Isaac." Lasseur was about to hand Hawkwood the knife
when he caught sight of the blade concealed beneath Hawkwood's arm. "I see
you started without me."

Lasseur tossed
the knife to the man behind him and watched with approval as Hawkwood used his
own blade to cut himself free before returning the weapon to its place of
concealment.

Lasseur grinned.
"Maybe I should be calling you the sly boots instead of Murat."

"Quit
talking and move your arses!" The man calling himself Isaac slid the knife
into his belt. "And don't forget the bloody sacks. You do parlez English,
yes?"

"I told
you," Lasseur said. "We both do." He looked at Hawkwood and
rolled his eyes.

"Right,
well, keep your bleedin' heads down! We ain't out of the woods yet."

"Woods?"
Lasseur
frowned. "I see no trees." He looked about him.

"Jesus,"
the man muttered, waving his hand.
"Bleedin' Frogs.
Come on, get behind me."

Hawkwood and
Lasseur did as they were told as the guide began shovelling mud back across the
top of the burial pit, filling in the depressions where Hawkwood and Lasseur
had lain, restoring the disturbed surface. When he'd completed the task to his
satisfaction, he turned and pushed past them, still keeping low. "Follow
me. Stay close."

Hawkwood risked
a glance seaward and saw why they'd been instructed to keep their heads down.
Between the burial pit and the beach there was a slight rise in the ground. On
the other side of the rise, the shingle sloped down to the water. At ground
level, where they lay, the slope was just high enough to block the view of the
hulks. A clear worm's-eye view of the estuary was also hampered by clumps of
sea-grass which crested the shingle bank for several yards in either direction.

A throaty mutter
came from behind. "I'd stop admirin' the bloody view, if I were you.
Signal said we had to get you away sharpish, so unless you're plannin' on
hangin' around for the militia, we'd best get goin'. We ain't got all
day!"

Hawkwood felt
his arm tugged. Turning his back on the water, he tucked the sailcloth bundle
under his arm and followed Lasseur and the guide on all fours, away from the
pit and its gruesome contents.

It was a
laborious crawl. Hawkwood estimated they had probably covered close to fifty
yards on their bellies before the ground suddenly opened up in front of them,
revealing a steep- sided ditch, some six paces in width. At the bottom of the
ditch a three-foot-wide ribbon of murky brown water was bordered by rushes and
tall, thin-bladed reeds.

Isaac removed
the scarf from his face, passed it to Hawkwood and nodded towards the water.
"Ain't sweet enough to drink, but you might want to think about cleanin'
yourselves up a bit. Be quick about it, though."

Hawkwood soaked
the scarf in the water and rinsed the blood from his face before handing the
cloth to Lasseur. The water was warm and smelled of peat and more than a hint
of dung. Hawkwood didn't like to think what else might be lying under the
surface, but anything was better than the stench of the pit.

"You said
you had a signal," Hawkwood said, remembering that Murat had used the
word, too. "What signal?"

He saw that the
man was giving him a strange look.

"You don't
sound like a Frog," Isaac said.

"That's
because I'm not."

"Your
English is bloody good. What are you then?
A Dutchman?

"American."

"A
Yankee?"
Isaac's eyes widened. "Bloody hell, you're a long way
from home."

"So
everyone keeps telling me," Hawkwood said. "What signal?"

Isaac's
expression shifted from surprise to disbelief that anyone with half a brain would
ask such a question. He glanced towards Lasseur as if seeking reassurance that
his opinion of Hawkwood's ignorance was well
founded,
and looked surprised to be confronted by the same quizzical expression.