James McGee - Rapscallion

"Clearly," the surgeon said. "However…"

"Then they're to get their arses out of their cots and come with us. Or else we'll drag 'em. It's their choice, Doctor. Don't matter to me either way."

The surgeon bit back a retort, turned and addressed Hawkwood and Lasseur in French. "The sergeant is distraught to find you so incapacitated and asks you if you'd both be so kind as to vacate your cots and accompany him to the commander's quarters."

"But of course," Lasseur said, folding back his sheet. "Please advise Sergeant Hook that it's a pleasure to find him in such rude health and that Captain Hooper and I would be only too delighted to attend him. You may also inform him that I couldn't help noticing that his face is remarkably reminiscent of a cow's arse."

A nerve moved in the surgeon's cheek.

"What did he say?" Hook demanded; his tone suspicious.

"He asked if your men could point their muskets somewhere else. They're making him nervous."

"Did he indeed?" Hook said. He launched a kick at the base of Hawkwood's cot. "I said, on your feet!"

"What a tiresome little man," Lasseur said. "I hope his balls shrivel to the size of currants."

"Unless someone cuts them off first," Hawkwood said.

"May God grant us another one of Sebastien's miracles," Lasseur said, reaching for his boots.

"You'll want this," Girard said, and passed Hawkwood his jacket. "Your shirt was beyond salvage, I'm afraid."

A lot like my bloody assignment, Hawkwood thought.

"I'll not have prisoners waging a private war on my ship!" Lieutenant Hellard fixed Hawkwood and Lasseur with a Medusa stare. "Even if it is scum fighting scum." He turned to Murat. "D'you hear?"

The interpreter nodded uncomfortably. "Yes, sir."

"Then tell him," Hellard said, indicating Lasseur.

"That will not be necessary, Commander," Lasseur said. "I speak English."

Hellard glared at the privateer. Lasseur stared back at him, his expression impassive. The lieutenant turned his attention to Hawkwood. His eyes took in the bandages and the blood. His gaze lifted and he frowned. Hawkwood wondered if the commander was recalling the moment on the quarterdeck when he had scanned the line of prisoners to see whose eyes were upon him. Hawkwood held the lieutenant's eyes for the appropriate amount of time before switching his gaze to a point over Hellard's shoulder, thus giving the impression it had been he who'd weakened and broken eye contact.

They were in the commander's day cabin, which on the hulk, as in any ship of the line, doubled as an office. Two militia men guarded the door. Hellard was seated behind the main desk with his back to the inward-slanting stern windows. An open ledger lay before him, along with several sheets of paper. Outside, sunset was starting to fall over the western marshes, bathing the wetlands and the estuary in a vivid red glow. There was still plenty of movement on the river, with vessels taking final advantage of the early evening tide to navigate their way upstream to an anchorage or downstream towards the open sea.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hawkwood saw that Lasseur's gaze was fixed on the view beyond the commander's shoulders. It wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking.

The cabin was sparsely furnished. On active duty, it was usual for a vessel's commander to equip his quarters to his own specifications, depending on the depth of his pockets; everything from desks to dining tables, sideboards to wine coolers and carpets to cutlery were shipped aboard at a captain's expense.

From what could be seen, the furniture on Rapacious suggested that Hellard was either a man of very limited means — not unlikely, given his rank and the circumstances governing his appointment — or else the items had been provided by the Transport Board with the emphasis on practicality rather than personal comfort. In other words, Lieutenant Hellard had been forced to make do with what he'd been given; which wasn't much. The few sticks of furniture looked as drab and as distressed as the hulk that housed them, as if they had been salvaged from a long-forgotten storeroom in some abandoned dockyard warehouse, and taken on board as an afterthought.

Aside from the desk, there was a mirrored dressing cabinet, which Hawkwood suspected was campaign furniture; an elderly writing slope which stood in one corner; a four-drawer sideboard; and a small round table bracketed by four plain-backed hall chairs. Dark red drapes framed the windows. A layer of dust lay along the top rail. There appeared to be no personal possessions on display; no watercolour portraits on the bulkheads, no miniature likenesses of a wife or sweetheart on the cabinet or sideboard; no books. The left-hand wall was partitioned. Hawkwood guessed that Hellard's bed lay behind it. All in all, the commander's quarters were as austere as the man himself.

Up close, Hellard was more gaunt than he'd appeared on deck. Until now, Hawkwood had only seen him from a distance; a lone figure stalking the quarterdeck, hands behind his back. Close to, his cheeks were more sharply defined, his eyes more melancholic. There were flakes of dandruff on the collar and shoulders of his coat.

"Do either of you know the penalty for duelling?"

"There was no duel," Lasseur said, drawing himself up. "It was self-defence."

"Then how do you explain the razor sticks we found in the hold?" Hellard said curtly.

"Matisse's men attacked us with them," Lasseur said. "We were forced to defend ourselves."

Hellard grunted and said, "Lieutenant Thynne informs me it was a disagreement over one of the child prisoners that led to the killings. What's your story, Hooper?"

Thynne, his features made angular by the rays of the fading sun coming in through the big windows, was standing behind and a little to one side of Hellard's chair, worrying a nail. Hellard half turned to acknowledge his fellow officer's presence, then looked towards the privateer.

"The lieutenant's correct," Hawkwood said. "Matisse took the boy against his will, for his own perverted amusement and that of his men. Captain Lasseur and I took it upon ourselves to confront Matisse in the hope of returning the boy to the upper deck."

Hellard said immediately, "Why did you not inform the guards of the boy's abduction?"

"We didn't think there was any need. We didn't know the situation would turn violent."

"A touch naive of you, I'd have thought," Hellard said. "Given Matisse's reputation."

Lasseur cut in quickly. "With respect, Commander, we are only recently arrived on board. We knew nothing of Matisse or his reputation."

Hellard consulted the ledger in front of him. "So I see. You didn't waste any time finding trouble though, did you? Either of you."

The lieutenant moved his eyes to the papers. He picked up a pen and made a note on one of the sheets. "Which one of you killed Matisse?" He did not look up, but continued writing.

The question was followed by an extended silence, broken only by the pedantic scratch of nib on paper.

"I did," Lasseur said.

Hellard paused in his scribbling. He raised his head sharply and his eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps, Captain Lasseur, you would describe to us your version of events? If you find your English inadequate, Lieutenant Murat will decipher."

He stared hard at Hawkwood. Hawkwood half expected Hellard to say, "I'm not sure I like the cut of your jib" and was almost disappointed when the words didn't materialize.

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."