Rapscallion (21 page)

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?"

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 the 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."

"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."