Rapscallion (19 page)

"Did
it occur to you that you might actually gain some respect?" Lasseur said.

"Respect?"
The Corsican gave a coarse laugh. "That's my point, Captain. I don't want
respect. I want them to
fear
me. If they fear me, they'll obey me. That's how I bring order out of chaos.
You think I'd let one small boy jeopardize my standing here?"

"If
you'd no intention of keeping your word, then what was the point of
that
?" Lasseur
pointed angrily at the Turk's dead body.

The
Corsican shrugged. "We all have to make sacrifices. But then, who says I'm
breaking my word? Not me, Captain. You merely misinterpreted the terms. I never
said I'd hand the boy over. What I said was
,
I would
set him free."

"I
don't understand," Lasseur said. "What's the difference?"

Matisse
reached down and cupped the boy's face. He stroked the smooth cheek lovingly
and in one swift move wrenched his hands sideways. There was a sharp crack and
Lucien Ballard's body went limp. With a dismissive shrug, Matisse pushed the
body away and dusted his hands. "There, it's done. I've freed him. The
problem is solved." He jerked his head at Dupin. "Kill them
both."

Lasseur's
scream of rage reverberated around the hold. Before anyone could stop him, he
leapt forward, scooped up the Mameluke's discarded razor and scythed it towards
the Corsican's throat.

If
there was a look of shock in Matisse's eyes, it was eclipsed by the dark
lenses. Only his mouth showed animation, opening and closing soundlessly as he
tried clasping his hands about his neck in a futile attempt to staunch the jet
of blood that spurted like a fountain from his severed artery.

As
the Corsican collapsed in a bloody heap across Lucien Ballard's still body,
Lasseur swung round, the razor still in his fist.
Teeth bared, he had the look of a berserker, his appearance made all the more
extreme by the crimson splashes on his face and clothes. He stepped quickly to
Hawkwood's side and they turned back to back.

"Who's
next?" Lasseur roared.

A
curse sounded from Hawkwood's right. One of Matisse's men came out of the
shadows, barrel hoop raised. Hawkwood ducked and drove his elbow into the
attacker's belly. The man faltered. Hawkwood slammed his boot against a knee
and as the man went down Hawkwood wrested the hoop out of his grip and drove it
across the back of his attacker's skull.

Behind
him, Lasseur, wild-eyed and blood-splattered, wielded the razor like a man
possessed. Another of Matisse's crew reeled away, shrieking, his cheek ripped
through to the gums. "Come on, God damn you!" Lasseur yelled.
"I'll take you all with me!"

Hawkwood
felt warm liquid flowing down his left side and knew his brief exchange with
the last attacker had aggravated the wound made by the Turk's razor. His right
hand was also slick with blood. He adjusted his grip on the barrel hoop. Small
beads of blood bubbled out from the cut across his knuckles and dribbled
between the cracks in his folded fingers.

Hawkwood
wondered about the irony of dying with a Frenchman defending his back. Nathaniel
Jago would have thought that funny. In fact, he'd have thought it bloody
hilarious.

He
wondered too why Matisse's men were still willing to wage war with their leader
dead. It didn't seem to make sense, unless they thought that he and Lasseur had
designs on Matisse's kingdom. No time to debate the matter now, though.

Lasseur
swore suddenly and Hawkwood had a half-formed view of a hoop sweeping towards
the privateer's head. He sensed that Lasseur had widened the distance between them
to give himself room to manoeuvre. There was the sound of a blow, metal on
wood, followed by a cry and then he was turning to fight his own corner as two
more of Matisse's men waded in. Hawkwood swung the hoop to block the strikes.
He managed to evade one, but the second attacker's home-made blade caught him
high on the shoulder. His left arm went numb.

Lasseur
was still trading blows when there
came
a splintering
sound and the noise of a body hitting the shingle, followed by a cackle of glee
which could only have come from one of Matisse's henchmen. He heard Lasseur
call out; the words unintelligible. Then, too late, from the corner of his eye
he saw Dupin. The Corsican's lieutenant was behind him, swinging the hoop-like
club above his head.

Hawkwood
felt a massive impact across his back and something hard caught him a glancing
blow at the base of his skull and he was falling. He tried to keep hold of the
barrel hoop, knowing it was his only means of defence, but he couldn't feel his
fingers. They'd gone numb, too.

He
crashed to the deck and looked up through pain-filled eyes.

"Nice
boots." Dupin grinned above him. He raised the hoop.

Hawkwood
watched, helpless, as the hoop began its descent. Then there was a sharp report
and the back of Dupin's head exploded.

More
detonations followed, then a mass of surging bodies, as suddenly the hold was
filled with scarlet uniforms. He looked for Lasseur and tried to sit up, but
the task proved beyond him. His head felt as though it was about to burst. It
was a lot less painful just to lie back and let himself drift. The strategy
seemed to work. Sensation in his limbs was slipping away. It was rather a
pleasant feeling. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a hand touched his forehead and he
jerked back. The movement sent pain shooting through his skull and into his
chest. Then he felt an arm under his shoulder and a face came into view. It was
bearded and looked vaguely familiar.

He
was still thinking that as the darkness rose up to claim him.

Hawkwood
realized his mistake when he tried to move. Opening his eyes hadn't been a
problem. In fact, that had been the easy part; no real expertise involved: a
quick flicker of the eyelids and, presto, he was back in the land of the
living. But when he tried to raise himself on to his elbows to find out where
he was, it was like getting hit across the back of the head and shoulders all
over again, only a lot more painful.

He
lay back down, lowered his eyelids, and waited for the hammering inside his
skull to abate. The seconds, or it could well have been hours, ticked by.
Hawkwood was more than content to wait, feeling no obligation to repeat the
experiment until he was sure he could cope with the immediate after-effects.

When
the pounding had eventually dwindled to a dull ache, he took a deep breath and
tried again, cautiously.

His
second attempt was more successful; though not by much. His head still felt as
if it was being skewered by a hot poker, and when he saw what lay around him,
he wondered if the view had been worth the effort.

As
usual there wasn't much illumination. A couple of lanterns hung from the beams
and there was a square grating set in the deckhead at the far end of the
compartment through which light was slanting, enough to inform him that dusk
had yet to fall - though it was probably not far off - and that he was in a
part of the ship he'd not been in before. He was lying on a cot, surrounded by
other cots. Most, as far as he could tell, were occupied. It was too gloomy to
see by whom, but from the sniffling, coughing, wheezing and retching noises it
wasn't hard to guess.

The
fact that he could still smell vinegar confirmed his suspicions.

He
looked down. Just the dipping of his chin sent a bolt of agony screeching
across the back of his eyeballs. His shirt had been removed. Dressings and
bandages had been applied to his wounds. Several dark spots of blood were
visible on the gauze. A single, none-too-clean linen sheet covered him below
the waist. Movement caught his eye, just in time for him to see a trio of shiny
carapaces disappearing at speed over the edge of his cot; cockroaches on the
run.

His
gaze moved out beyond his feet. There was an open hatchway leading through to a
smaller, similarly dim-lit compartment. He could make out part of a table and
the edge of a chair. A jacket sleeve could just be seen draped over the chair
back. Cabinets and shelves were set against the bulkhead. The shelves held an
impressive selection of corked and labelled bottles in a variety of hues. Some
were the size of gin
bottles,
others looked as if they
might once have contained perfume. On the table, more bottles were arrayed next
to a pestle and mortar and writing materials.

Allied
to the noises around him and the vinegary smell, these items told Hawkwood all
he needed to know about his location. The vinegar, he knew, would have been
swabbed into the deck in a vain attempt to cover the stench of the vomit and
the piss and all the other excretions made by the bedridden men around him. He
was in the hulk's sick berth.

"Welcome
back."

The
greeting came from the next cot, which lay in semi-gloom.

Hawkwood
turned his head, slowly, to be on the safe side.

Lasseur
had bruises and cuts on his face and a dressing on his left shoulder. He regarded
Hawkwood's bandages with a laconic eye.
"Looks as if
we'll both live to fight another day, my friend.
How are you
feeling?"

"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."