James McGee - Rapscallion

Most of the linen wrapped around the corpses carried dark stains. It was hard to tell the colour in the dim light. It looked black, like tar. Hawkwood knew it wasn't. It was blood hacked up from the patients' lungs.

"Perhaps we'll die of fever before they transfer us," Lasseur said morosely, watching over Hawkwood's shoulder.

"If I've got a choice," Hawkwood said, staring at the filthy, gore-matted sheets, "I'll take the Sampson.''''

"You mean where there's life, there's hope?" Lasseur said. The privateer was unable to keep the cynicism out of his voice.

For me, perhaps, Hawkwood thought. At least I have a lifeline, a way out.

Lasseur had only a boat ride and an uncertain future in another floating hell-hole to look forward to. Hawkwood was intrigued at how much Lasseur's fate was starting to bother him.

He looked to where the orderlies were wiping down the decks around the recently emptied cots. A familiar tang began to waft through the compartment.

"We call it haemoptysis."

The surgeon was standing at the end of Hawkwood's cot. He was wiping his hands with a damp cloth which smelled strongly of vinegar. His hair hung limply over his forehead. He looked tired and drawn.

"Most of them have it. It's caused by congestion, brought on by consumption and fever and a dozen other diseases. I tried to persuade Dr Pellow to ship some of the more critical patients to the Sussex, but he told me there was no room. There's no hospital in the dockyard, so we must make do. As you can see, we've precious little space as it is. We'll be burying the poor devils in the morning, along with the rest of them." Girard tucked the soiled rag into his waistband.

"Rest of them?" Lasseur said, frowning.

"Matisse's men. The ones you killed and the ones that are going to hang."

"They're carrying out the sentence on board?" Hawkwood said.

The surgeon nodded grimly.

"I thought they'd do it ashore."

"It seems Commander Hellard wants it over and done with quickly."

"I'd have thought the British Admiralty would have something to say about that," Hawkwood said. "They'll want them punished, but it sounds as if the lieutenant's taking the law into his own hands."

"On his own ship, a commander is judge, jury and executioner. I'd say our Lieutenant Hellard's marking his territory. Besides, you think that anyone in the British Admiralty will lose sleep over a handful of foreign murderers? I think not." There was a pause, then Girard said, "There's a rumour that some of the prisoners have volunteered to draw on the ropes."

"My God!" Lasseur said, and then added reflectively, "Not that I'd hold it against them. I doubt there's any that'll mourn the bastards."

The surgeon sucked in his cheeks. "They say you and Captain Hooper have been nominated for sainthood."

"No wonder the lieutenant wants to get rid of us," Lasseur snorted. "When do the hangings take place?"

"Dawn."

"Then I'll pray for fine weather," Lasseur said. His face lit up suddenly. "Sebastien!"

Hawkwood and Girard turned.

The teacher was limping towards them. In his hands were two mess tins and two spoons. "I saved you a little something from supper. I thought you might be hungry."

"As long as it's not herring," Lasseur said, grimacing. "Or I may throw up like those other poor devils."

"Bread, potatoes and a bit of pork." Fouchet passed the mess tins over. "It's not much."

Lasseur studied the contents. "You're sure it's pork?" He glanced at Hawkwood.

"It could be mutton," Fouchet said, frowning. "What day is it?"

"Maybe I'll just eat the potatoes," Lasseur said.

"I think it's safe," Fouchet said. "Matisse hasn't killed anyone for a while, that we know of."

"You heard?" Hawkwood said.

Fouchet nodded. "It's all round the ship."

Lasseur continued to stare bleakly into his mess tin. "What about Juvert?"

"He's in the black hole with the rats, licking his wounds. A week in there and he'll be eating his own shit." Without a trace of sympathy, the teacher nodded at the food. "What you don't eat now, you can save for later."

Lasseur placed the mess tin to one side.

"I'll leave you to it," Girard said. "I've patients to see to. And you should eat. It will keep your strength up." He nodded to Fouchet, fished the vinegar-soaked rag from his waist and walked away through the cots.

Fouchet watched him go then laid a hand on Hawkwood's arm. "Tell me the boy did not suffer."

"It was quick," Hawkwood said. "That's about the only thing good you could say about it."

The teacher's face sagged. "He would still be alive if I'd kept watch over him," he said forlornly.

"The boy died at Matisse's hands, Sebastien," Lasseur said gently. "Not yours."

Fouchet eyed Hawkwood's and Lasseur's bloodstained bandages. "I would have liked to have seen you kill the swine."

"If you had, we wouldn't be here," Hawkwood said. "If it wasn't for you bringing the guards, they'd have been delivering us to the heads in buckets… or worse."

"And now they're sending you to the Sampson," Fouchet said unhappily.

"Better than to the yard," Lasseur said.

"You might not think so when you get there."

I think I've had this conversation before, Hawkwood thought.

"I heard there was a fight to the death on the Sampson only a month back," Fouchet said. "Two men went into the black hole. Only one came out."

"I wonder where they got that idea from," Lasseur smiled thinly.

Fouchet leaned close. "Charbonneau heard two of the militia talking. The British believe the revolt on the Sampson is part of a plot to foment a rising of all foreign prisoners in England."

Lasseur gnawed at the inside of his cheek. "That must have put the fear of God up them."

Fouchet shrugged. "One can understand their quandary. While their Admiralty believes there's a benefit to containing all the instigators of the revolt in the one location, by the same token, they're mindful of the dangers in placing so many trouble-makers in close proximity. Clashes between prisoners don't bother them; they regard it as one way of culling the herd. But to have so many malcontents under one roof could place British lives at unnecessary risk."

"The last thing they need is another two joining them," Lasseur said. "No wonder they're delaying our arrival. I'm beginning to wonder why Commander Hellard didn't sentence us to the noose."

"Because that's what his second-in-command wanted him to do," Hawkwood said. "Lieutenant Thynne believes his commander isn't fit for the purpose. Hellard thinks Thynne is after his command. I'd say we owe our lives to Commander Hellard's contrariness."

"Lucky for us it wasn't the other way round then," Lasseur said, "and it wasn't Thynne suggesting clemency."

"Amen to that," Hawkwood said.

There was a shout from outside. A bell began to clang.

"Curfew," Fouchet said. "I have to go."

Hawkwood looked towards the grating. The last of the daylight had disappeared. The only illumination left came from the lanterns suspended from the deckhead.

The teacher shook their hands solemnly. "I am very glad you are alive, my friends. I'll gather up your belongings and make sure no one helps themselves." He gave a smile. "Not that they'd dare. You've both gained quite a reputation."

"I doubt that'll stop Murat from selling our spaces to the next lot of new arrivals," Lasseur said moodily. "What's the betting he'll even try and turn our reputation to his advantage? ' Captains Lasseur and Hooper slept here. That'll be ten francs extra, thank you very much.'"

Hawkwood couldn't help but grin.

"You shouldn't judge the lieutenant too harshly, Captain," Fouchet said seriously. "In this place, all of us make do as best we can."

"And some of us make do better than others," Lasseur said.