James McGee - Rapscallion

Hellard said, "From prisoner Fouchet's statement and by your own admissions, I'm inclined to give you both the benefit of the doubt that your actions were out of concern for the boy's welfare. You will be spared the attention of the hangman."

"Sir?" Thynne went to take a step forward.

"However," Hellard said, holding up a hand, halting Thynne in his tracks, "the deaths of Matisse and his men cannot — indeed, will not — go unpunished. That would go against Regulations, and it would be remiss of me if I did not render chastisement commensurate to your crimes. The Admiralty will expect it. My decision is also governed by the fact that there is little doubt your actions have bestowed upon you a deal of notoriety. I suspect there are those who'd have you assume the Corsican's mantle. I would deem that singularly unacceptable. You will both, therefore, be transferred to the prison ship Sampson, currently moored in Gillingham."

Lasseur gave a sharp intake of breath.

The privateer's reaction was understandable. Every prisoner on Rapacious had heard of the Sampson, no matter how long he had been on board. It was the ship set aside for the prisoners considered to be trouble-makers. Rumour had it that conditions on Sampson were so harsh they made the regime on Rapacious look like a church fete.

"You'd rather I hang you with the rest of them, Captain?" Hellard said.

A smug smile broke out across Thynne's face.

Lasseur did not reply. His face remained carved in stone.

"Regrettably, you will not be making the transfer immediately," Hellard said. "I've received word there's been an incident on board the Sampson. Some prisoners have led an insurrection to protest at their rations. The commander ordered his men to fire on the demonstrators and a number have been killed. There will be a delay while things calm down. I am not an inhumane man. Until your transfer, therefore, as the punishment cells are now full and it would be unwise to incarcerate you with what remain of Matisse's cohorts, you will both reside in the sick berth under armed guard, where at least your wounds can be attended by the surgeon. I suggest you use the opportunity as a period for reflection. Naturally, Captain Hooper, your participation in this debacle means that your eligibility for parole has been revoked. I understand you're due to appear before an assessment board. That has been postponed indefinitely, pending subsequent reports on your behaviour. I venture it will be some considerable time before either of you see your homeland again, a state of affairs for which you only have yourselves to blame." Hellard nodded to the guards. "That's all. Take them down."

"It would have been better," Lasseur said despondently, "if we had been cut up and fed to the crabs."

"Better than being fed to the Rafales," Hawkwood said. He felt a warm dampness on his side. His wound had begun weeping again.

"Do you really think what Murat told us was true?" Lasseur asked. The muscles around his mouth tightened.

"Maybe," Hawkwood said. "They say eating human flesh turns you mad. There's certainly madness in this place."

Lasseur went quiet. Then he said softly, "Many years ago, I was third mate on a schooner in the South China Seas when we came across an open boat. There were four men on board. Three were barely alive. The fourth was dead. His body was badly mutilated. Two of the survivors died, the third lived. He said that seabirds were responsible for the wounds on the fourth body, but he was not believed. It was thought that he and the others had feasted upon the dead man to save their own lives. Otherwise why had they not rid themselves of the corpse at the time of death? When the last survivor was finally able to walk, he tied himself to a length of chain and threw himself overboard. We assumed he was overcome with remorse at having consumed human meat. Either that or the act had driven him insane." There was a pause, then Lasseur said joylessly, "I hear it tastes like chicken."

"I heard it was pork," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur shuddered and fell silent. A short time passed and then he said, "How did Matisse and the rest of them cover up the loss? The discrepancy would have showed up at roll call. How did they get past the head count?"

Hawkwood had been wondering the same thing. He said heavily, "Maybe they didn't."

Lasseur shifted on his cot. "Then how would they explain the missing men?"

"By letting Hellard and the guards think there'd been an escape." Hawkwood waited for the implication to sink in.

It took a while before Lasseur said, "Oh God."

The half-formed thought had been nagging away at Hawkwood since they'd left Hellard's cabin. It was only after he was back in his cot that it had become whole.

"If there have been no genuine escapes," Lasseur said, " it means Murat deceived us from the beginning."

Hawkwood said nothing.

"If I find it to be so, I'll kill the two-faced bastard," Lasseur said, eyes blazing.

"They will hang you, then," Hawkwood said. "Maybe you should stop while you're ahead."

"Christ's blood!" Lasseur cursed. "We've been played for fools!"

The privateer sank back in despair.

Could that be true? Hawkwood wondered. Perhaps Ludd had got it all wrong and there had been no genuine escapes, only disputes and the settling of arguments, with the dead men's remains disposed of through the ship's heads or in the Rafales' mess tins.

But that wouldn't have accounted for all the missing men, surely?

What was it Matisse had said? That it had been a while since they'd enjoyed a diversion, implying it had been some time since the last duel. And Ludd had told Hawkwood and James Read that escapes had occurred quite recently. Perhaps men had actually made it off the ship after all, alive and whole, rather than in pieces through the heads.

But the counts still had to be manipulated. How easy would that be? From what he'd seen, the roll call procedure left a lot to be desired. The discrepancy only had to be concealed for the time it took an escaper to flee the ship and gain a head start once he'd made it ashore.

Not that this speculation was getting them anywhere, Hawkwood reflected. It was academic. His assignment wasn't just lying in tatters. It was dead in the water. Literally.

And how was he going to extricate himself from the mire this time? He had to get word to Ludd, but Hellard had put the lid on that. When he failed to keep his rendezvous, Ludd would surely make enquiries. He'd discover Hawkwood's fate soon enough and would take steps to retrieve him. The Admiralty would have to devise another means of investigating the prisoner escape routes and the fate of its two officers. What a bloody disaster. As Hawkwood cursed his stupidity, he realized the pounding drumbeat inside his head had, miraculously, all but dissolved. At least that was one less thing to worry about.

A series of hacking coughs from a prisoner half a dozen cots away interrupted his thoughts. The coughing intensified until it seemed as if the patient's guts were about to spew from between his lips in bloody lumps. Within seconds of the outburst a chorus of similar coughs and throat-clearing rattles had risen to a crescendo throughout the compartment until the noise was rebounding off the bulkheads. It was accompanied by the sounds of violent retching and heaving. The stench of fresh vomit and excrement began to spread through the sick berth. In the gloom Hawkwood could see orderlies moving between the cots, rags and leather buckets in their hands. There was no sign of the militia guards. Hawkwood presumed they had removed themselves outside to the comparative sanctuary of the stairwell and companionway.

Gradually the coughing died down; exhaustion having claimed most of the afflicted. Hawkwood spotted the surgeon, Girard. He was bending over patients with a concerned eye. Three times, Hawkwood saw the surgeon pause, touch the side of a patient's throat and shake his head wearily. He continued to watch as the sheets were pulled up over the faces of the dead. In the dim light, the surgeon's features looked drained of colour. As each patient's condition was confirmed, the orderlies wrapped the sheet around the body until it resembled a large cocoon. With a nod from the surgeon, each wrapped corpse was lifted from its cot and lugged unceremoniously through to a compartment at the aft end of the sick berth. Hawkwood could just see the inside of the hatchway. There were at least ten shrouded bundles laid out on the deck. He presumed they included the bodies of Matisse and the boy and the others killed in the hold.