James McGee - Rapscallion

Lasseur's scream of rage reverberated around the hold. Before anyone could stop him, he leapt forward, scooped up the Mameluke's discarded razor and scythed it towards the Corsican's throat.

If there was a look of shock in Matisse's eyes, it was eclipsed by the dark lenses. Only his mouth showed animation, opening and closing soundlessly as he tried clasping his hands about his neck in a futile attempt to staunch the jet of blood that spurted like a fountain from his severed artery.

As the Corsican collapsed in a bloody heap across Lucien Ballard's still body, Lasseur swung round, the razor still in his fist. Teeth bared, he had the look of a berserker, his appearance made all the more extreme by the crimson splashes on his face and clothes. He stepped quickly to Hawkwood's side and they turned back to back.

"Who's next?" Lasseur roared.

A curse sounded from Hawkwood's right. One of Matisse's men came out of the shadows, barrel hoop raised. Hawkwood ducked and drove his elbow into the attacker's belly. The man faltered. Hawkwood slammed his boot against a knee and as the man went down Hawkwood wrested the hoop out of his grip and drove it across the back of his attacker's skull.

Behind him, Lasseur, wild-eyed and blood-splattered, wielded the razor like a man possessed. Another of Matisse's crew reeled away, shrieking, his cheek ripped through to the gums. "Come on, God damn you!" Lasseur yelled. "I'll take you all with me!"

Hawkwood felt warm liquid flowing down his left side and knew his brief exchange with the last attacker had aggravated the wound made by the Turk's razor. His right hand was also slick with blood. He adjusted his grip on the barrel hoop. Small beads of blood bubbled out from the cut across his knuckles and dribbled between the cracks in his folded fingers.

Hawkwood wondered about the irony of dying with a Frenchman defending his back. Nathaniel Jago would have thought that funny. In fact, he'd have thought it bloody hilarious.

He wondered too why Matisse's men were still willing to wage war with their leader dead. It didn't seem to make sense, unless they thought that he and Lasseur had designs on Matisse's kingdom. No time to debate the matter now, though.

Lasseur swore suddenly and Hawkwood had a half-formed view of a hoop sweeping towards the privateer's head. He sensed that Lasseur had widened the distance between them to give himself room to manoeuvre. There was the sound of a blow, metal on wood, followed by a cry and then he was turning to fight his own corner as two more of Matisse's men waded in. Hawkwood swung the hoop to block the strikes. He managed to evade one, but the second attacker's home-made blade caught him high on the shoulder. His left arm went numb.

Lasseur was still trading blows when there came a splintering sound and the noise of a body hitting the shingle, followed by a cackle of glee which could only have come from one of Matisse's henchmen. He heard Lasseur call out; the words unintelligible. Then, too late, from the corner of his eye he saw Dupin. The Corsican's lieutenant was behind him, swinging the hoop-like club above his head.

Hawkwood felt a massive impact across his back and something hard caught him a glancing blow at the base of his skull and he was falling. He tried to keep hold of the barrel hoop, knowing it was his only means of defence, but he couldn't feel his fingers. They'd gone numb, too.

He crashed to the deck and looked up through pain-filled eyes.

"Nice boots." Dupin grinned above him. He raised the hoop.

Hawkwood watched, helpless, as the hoop began its descent. Then there was a sharp report and the back of Dupin's head exploded.

More detonations followed, then a mass of surging bodies, as suddenly the hold was filled with scarlet uniforms. He looked for Lasseur and tried to sit up, but the task proved beyond him. His head felt as though it was about to burst. It was a lot less painful just to lie back and let himself drift. The strategy seemed to work. Sensation in his limbs was slipping away. It was rather a pleasant feeling. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a hand touched his forehead and he jerked back. The movement sent pain shooting through his skull and into his chest. Then he felt an arm under his shoulder and a face came into view. It was bearded and looked vaguely familiar.

He was still thinking that as the darkness rose up to claim him.

Hawkwood realized his mistake when he tried to move. Opening his eyes hadn't been a problem. In fact, that had been the easy part; no real expertise involved: a quick flicker of the eyelids and, presto, he was back in the land of the living. But when he tried to raise himself on to his elbows to find out where he was, it was like getting hit across the back of the head and shoulders all over again, only a lot more painful.

He lay back down, lowered his eyelids, and waited for the hammering inside his skull to abate. The seconds, or it could well have been hours, ticked by. Hawkwood was more than content to wait, feeling no obligation to repeat the experiment until he was sure he could cope with the immediate after-effects.

When the pounding had eventually dwindled to a dull ache, he took a deep breath and tried again, cautiously.

His second attempt was more successful; though not by much. His head still felt as if it was being skewered by a hot poker, and when he saw what lay around him, he wondered if the view had been worth the effort.

As usual there wasn't much illumination. A couple of lanterns hung from the beams and there was a square grating set in the deckhead at the far end of the compartment through which light was slanting, enough to inform him that dusk had yet to fall — though it was probably not far off — and that he was in a part of the ship he'd not been in before. He was lying on a cot, surrounded by other cots. Most, as far as he could tell, were occupied. It was too gloomy to see by whom, but from the sniffling, coughing, wheezing and retching noises it wasn't hard to guess.

The fact that he could still smell vinegar confirmed his suspicions.

He looked down. Just the dipping of his chin sent a bolt of agony screeching across the back of his eyeballs. His shirt had been removed. Dressings and bandages had been applied to his wounds. Several dark spots of blood were visible on the gauze. A single, none-too-clean linen sheet covered him below the waist. Movement caught his eye, just in time for him to see a trio of shiny carapaces disappearing at speed over the edge of his cot; cockroaches on the run.

His gaze moved out beyond his feet. There was an open hatchway leading through to a smaller, similarly dim-lit compartment. He could make out part of a table and the edge of a chair. A jacket sleeve could just be seen draped over the chair back. Cabinets and shelves were set against the bulkhead. The shelves held an impressive selection of corked and labelled bottles in a variety of hues. Some were the size of gin bottles, others looked as if they might once have contained perfume. On the table, more bottles were arrayed next to a pestle and mortar and writing materials.

Allied to the noises around him and the vinegary smell, these items told Hawkwood all he needed to know about his location. The vinegar, he knew, would have been swabbed into the deck in a vain attempt to cover the stench of the vomit and the piss and all the other excretions made by the bedridden men around him. He was in the hulk's sick berth.

"Welcome back."

The greeting came from the next cot, which lay in semi-gloom.

Hawkwood turned his head, slowly, to be on the safe side.

Lasseur had bruises and cuts on his face and a dressing on his left shoulder. He regarded Hawkwood's bandages with a laconic eye. "Looks as if we'll both live to fight another day, my friend. How are you feeling?"