James McGee - Rapscallion

"Like shit," Hawkwood said truthfully, and discovered that talking was only marginally less painful than trying to sit up.

"Me, too, but they say it's better than being dead." A shadow flitted across Lasseur's face suggesting he wasn't a firm believer in the statement.

"I thought I saw Fouchet," Hawkwood said. "Or did I imagine it?"

The privateer did not respond immediately. He still looked preoccupied. Hawkwood presumed he was reliving the boy's death and the subsequent debacle in the hold. Finally Lasseur nodded. "Our teacher friend had an attack of conscience. He alerted the guards."

"I thought they didn't like to venture below deck."

"They don't usually. Sebastien was very persuasive."

"They killed Dupin," Hawkwood said.

"Shot him dead — luckily for you. Though, if you ask me, I'd say whoever did it was probably waiting for an excuse."

"Were there others?"

"You mean apart from Lucien and the Turk and that Corsican filth?" Lasseur screwed up his mouth and nodded towards a point over Hawkwood's shoulder. "Ask him. He'll know the full count."

Hawkwood was debating whether or not to try and turn his head when he sensed a presence behind him. He risked an upward glance. The man standing over Hawkwood's cot was young and dark complexioned, with soulful brown eyes. He was in frayed civilian dress, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A severely stained once-white apron was tied around his waist. He spoke in English.

"I see you're awake, Captain Hooper." The brown eyes crinkled. "We've not met. My name is Girard."

"Ship's surgeon?" Hawkwood asked.

The answer was a brisk shake of the head and what might have passed for a self-deprecating smile. "Officially, no. That distinction falls to Dr Pellow. Regrettably, Dr Pellow's other duties tend to keep him ashore, which prevents him from making regular visits. I have the honour to supervise the sick berth in his absence."

From what he'd seen, Hawkwood doubted it was much of an honour.

"He means the son of a bitch has got a very profitable private practice," Lasseur said contemptuously. "He's more interested in the money he earns from his rich English lords and ladies than he is in the likes of us."

Ignoring Lasseur, the surgeon lifted the edge of the dressing on Hawkwood's side and peered at the wound beneath. "I suggest you try and keep your exertions to the minimum. We don't want to disturb the sutures."

Hawkwood suspected the youthful-looking medic was being waggish.

The surgeon clicked his tongue. "You were lucky, Captain. Your wounds should heal well, providing you keep them clean, which in a place like this won't be easy, but I urge you to try. They'll make fine additions to the rest of your collection, which, I have to say, is quite impressive." The brown eyes ranged across Hawkwood's chest, narrowing slightly when they took in the ring of faded bruising around his neck.

"Don't worry," Lasseur said in a mock whisper. "He might look as though he's just started shaving, but he knows what he's doing. Or so he says."

Girard gave a rueful grin. "I was an assistant surgeon to the garrison at Procida before I was taken prisoner. The British thought I'd be better employed here than whittling bones on the gun deck."

"Lucky for us," Lasseur said. "Seeing as they can't even persuade their own man to make house calls."

The surgeon shook his head. "On the contrary, Dr Pellow's last inspection was only a few days ago. In fact, you probably just missed him. No, wait; it would have been the day of your arrival. You may even have arrived in time to witness an example of his bedside manner." There was an abrasive edge to the surgeon's voice.

Hawkwood and Lasseur looked blank. Then Lasseur swore. "The longboat set adrift! That was Pellow?"

Girard nodded. His mouth was set in a grim line. "They were transferees from Cadiz. When he saw the state of them, it was Pellow's contention they were suffering from some contagious disease and that they should be sent to the hospital ship. The poor devils weren't diseased, they were just badly dealt with by the Spanish. Mind you, the British aren't much better. They treat their damned house pets better than they do their prisoners, especially if they're French. Fortunately, we only see Pellow once a week, if that."

"Whore's son!" Lasseur spat.

It was clear Lasseur's anger was still close to boiling point. The privateer's face had been cleansed of blood, but the savage expression that had contorted his features when he'd sliced open the Corsican's throat was still vivid in Hawkwood's memory. Hawkwood felt a sharp stab of pain cut across his forehead. It was as if the effort of remembering had triggered the hurt.

Something must have shown in his expression, he realized, for a look of concern flashed across the surgeon's face.

"You ought to see the other one," Hawkwood said, without thinking.

The surgeon's expression grew serious. "Oh, but I have, Captain Hooper. I've seen all of them. You left quite a lot of damage behind, you and Captain Lasseur." The surgeon threw a look towards the next cot.

Hawkwood sank back on to the mattress. "How many?"

Girard's eyes flickered back. "Five dead, including the boy."

"Five!" Hawkwood tried to recall the sequence of events. He remembered relieving Matisse's man of the metal hoop, but it was all a bit hazy after that, and his head was still throbbing away merrily so it was easier to give up.

"There were also a couple of wounded men, with lacerations similar to your own, which was interesting. It's not the first time I've treated such wounds. Razors are a common weapon on board the hulks, particularly in settling disputes. Captain Lasseur was noticeably reticent, however, when I pressed him for details."

Hawkwood said nothing.

The surgeon shrugged. "Very well, so be it. Though it's not me you'll have to answer to. I'm under instruction from Lieutenant Hellard to inform him the second either of you awakens. It was my intention to delay that moment, but I suspect one of the guards outside may have taken it upon himself to send word. It would not surprise me if the lieutenant has already dispatched an escort to deliver you to him."

"You mean he'll not come to visit us in our sickbeds?" Lasseur said in mock indignation. "I'm shocked and offended."

"Lieutenant Hellard is not inclined to make house calls. It's a characteristic he shares with the ship's surgeon," Girard added witheringly.

"Captain Hooper has barely recovered from the blow to his head," Lasseur said.

"I think you'll find Lieutenant Hellard of the opinion that, unless either of you has lost the use of your legs, you're required to attend him under an armed guard — which, unless I'm mistaken, is here already."

A heavy tramp of military boots sounded from the stairs.

"They didn't waste any time," Lasseur muttered.

Hawkwood looked and saw a quartet of militia making their way between the cots towards them. They were experiencing some difficulty. The confined space didn't leave a lot of room for brandishing muskets.

The surgeon bent low and said quickly, "Just so you know, I may have exaggerated the nature of your wounds and the length of time needed for your recuperation. It would be best if you were to go along with that minor deceit for the time being."

Hawkwood and Lasseur exchanged glances.

"Why?" Hawkwood asked.

But the surgeon was already turning away.

"Sergeant Hook! It's always a pleasure," Girard announced.

The sergeant halted his guards. He paid no heed to the surgeon's sardonic greeting but stared coldly at the two men in the cots. "On your feet! Commander's orders!"

"These officers are not returned to full strength, Sergeant," Girard said. "Perhaps you could advise Lieutenant Hell-"

"They're breathin', ain't they?" Hook glared at the surgeon.