James McGee - Rapscallion

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.