James McGee - Rapscallion

"They also say a Mameluke's training starts from birth. I dare say that's an exaggeration, but they do possess a wonderful abundance of skills: swordsmanship, spear-work, archery, the use of firearms… Fine wrestlers, too. They're completely fearless. I choose Kemel Bey as my champion, Captain Hooper." The red-rimmed eyes threw out the challenge. "So, what's it to be? Will you stand, or will you run? Do we have our contest?"

Lasseur stepped close and gripped Hawkwood's arm. When he spoke his voice was low and urgent. "This is not your quarrel."

Hawkwood looked around at the ring of grinning faces, at the sardonic smile on the bald man's lips, at the haunted expression and the dried tear-tracks on the boy's face.

"It is now," he said.

"But it's my fault we're here. I should be the one to fight, not you!"

"It isn't a fight," Hawkwood said. "It's a contest of arms."

"I forbid you!" Lasseur hissed. His hold on Hawkwood's arm intensified.

"You can't forbid me," Hawkwood said evenly. "It's not your quarterdeck, remember? Besides, it has to be me. If you take on Matisse's man and you lose, the boy will have no one in his corner. I'm not a father. I don't have the same bond with him as you do. If anything happens to me, you'll still be here."

"And yet you'd fight for him?"

"It's not a fight," Hawkwood said. "It's — "

"I know," Lasseur said wearily. Reluctantly, he let go of Hawkwood's arm. "Well, at least you're honest, my friend. I can't deny that. A little strange, too, I think."

"And practical," Hawkwood said softly. "You're financing my way off this bloody ship. I don't want anything happening to you. If I lose, it won't matter much, the chances are you'll still make it."

Lasseur's mouth opened and closed again quickly.

"In your own time, Captain," Matisse called sarcastically.

Hawkwood stared at Lasseur. "You hadn't thought about that, had you? About what would happen to him once you were gone?"

Lasseur looked suddenly contrite.

"Dear God!" Hawkwood swore. "Tell me you weren't thinking of taking him with us. You know that's impossible!"

"I'll think of something," Lasseur said, though his expression suggested he wasn't too sure.

Hawkwood watched the doubt creep across the privateer's face. Things had just moved from bad to worse and they had run out of time. He searched for options. From what he could see, there weren't any, save one, if he was to keep to his agenda and maintain the charade. He looked at Matisse and sighed.

"All right, where do we do this?"

"Excellent! Spoken like a true officer and gentleman." Matisse pointed to the deck. "Down there."

The pink eyes finally blinked. They alighted on the hovering Dupin.

"Bring the boy."

Entry was through the floor of the gunner's storeroom.

At the Corsican's signal, the men bent down and began to remove boards from the deck. They did so quickly and in silence, setting the boards against the bulkhead. It was clearly a well- rehearsed routine.

"There used to be a hatchway," Matisse said in a conversational tone. "It was sealed when they converted the ship into a hulk. We found it and opened it up again. The old magazine rooms are directly below us. They used the hatch to pass cartridge boxes to and from the gun decks during battle. We guessed it was here. They modelled these ships on the design of our seventies. There's not that much difference between theirs and ours. We know the inside of this one like the backs of our hands. After lights out, we have the run of the place. Not that we need lights. We can find our way in the dark. Some of us don't have any choice."

The last board was laid aside. A steep stairway was revealed.

Matisse's men led the way down, carrying lanterns. Most of them also carried beaten barrel hoops. It was a deliberate display of force, Hawkwood knew, intended for his and Lasseur's benefit. It was to let them know there was nowhere for them to run. They were not shackled or bound and no one had hold of them, but it was Matisse's way of telling them they were there at his whim, prisoners within a prison.

Entering the hold after the constraints of the orlop, Hawkwood felt as if he was walking into a cathedral. For the first time since leaving the top deck, he found he could stand upright. The relief was exquisite. They were deep inside the belly of the ship. Broad wooden ribs curved high around them. Shingle ballast cracked as loudly as eggshells beneath their heels. Matisse picked his way between the deck joists like a spider crossing the strands of a web.

Provision casks, including the water barrels, were embedded in the shingle and stacked in tiers about them, with the larger casks at the bottom to take the load. Wedges had been driven under the stacks for additional stability.

A mixture of strong odours dominated the hold's interior: leakage from the casks, stagnant water and rotten food, along with tar and cordage. There were other pungent smells, too. The whiff of vinegar and sulphur, a legacy from the last time the hold had been fumigated, did little to mask the smell of the rats. With a ready-made food source at their whisker-tips, the rodents had grown numerous and bold. Dust from their droppings drifted in the air like dandelion spores, accumulating at the back of the throat, while at every turn a swift flash of sleek, silken fur would catch the eye as the animals scampered away from the approaching glimmer of the lanterns.

"Top hatches are closed," Matisse said. "Next delivery boats aren't due till morning. We've got the place to ourselves."

At a signal from Matisse his men strung the lanterns from the beams. As the darkness withdrew and the candleglow grew stronger, Matisse reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a pair of spectacles. He placed them carefully on his nose and made great play of securing them behind the backs of his ears. At once, his face was transformed, for the spectacle lenses were round and dark and matched almost exactly the circumference of his eye sockets. When the pale face was viewed full on, the resemblance to a naked skull was uncanny and disturbing.

"When you're ready, Dupin!" Matisse said. He looked at Hawkwood. "My apologies, Captain; we're a little short of pistols and foils. We've had to turn to our own devices; as you'll see."

Lasseur frowned.

Hawkwood looked around at the flattened barrel hoops. An uneasy feeling began to spread through him.

Dupin walked into the circle.

"Catch," he said.

Hawkwood had barely time to react. As he snatched the object out of the air, he saw what it was. It looked the same as the sticks the fencing class had been using the day the well deck was invaded, with one noticeable augmentation. Bound tightly by twine to the end of the stick was an open razor.

"What's this?" Lasseur demanded.

Matisse tipped his head to one side. The spectacle lenses were like black holes in his face. "What did you think 'trial by combat' meant, Captain? A boxing match?"

"British law forbids duelling," Hawkwood said. "Even on the hulks."

"British law doesn't apply here, Captain. We make our own law — Matisse's law."

Hawkwood gazed down at the weapon. It was remarkably light and almost as flexible as a real foil. There was a momentary gleam as lantern light glanced off the six-inch blade.

Matisse grinned. "A shade crude, perhaps, but in the right hands it's very effective. It was Corporal Sarazin over there who came up with the idea. He saw them used to settle disputes when he was a prisoner on Cabrera."

Hawkwood recognized the name. Cabrera was a tiny island, ten miles to the south of Majorca. From what he'd heard, the prison there made Rapacious look like paradise. It had achieved its notoriety following the French defeat at Baylen, when the Comte de l'Etang surrendered his entire corps of eighteen thousand men to the Spanish. The senior staff officers were repatriated. The rank and file were sentenced first to the Cadiz hulks and then to the island. Some had later been transferred to England. It occurred to Hawkwood it had probably been some of those men who'd been cast into Portsmouth Harbour by the crew of the Vengeance.