Rapscallion (20 page)

Girard gave a
rueful grin. "I was an assistant surgeon to the garrison at Procida before
I was taken prisoner. The British thought I'd be better employed here than whittling
bones on the gun deck."

"Lucky for
us," Lasseur said.
"Seeing as they can't even
persuade their own man to make house calls."

The surgeon
shook his head. "On the contrary, Dr Pellow's last inspection was only a
few days ago. In fact, you probably just missed him. No, wait; it would have
been the day of your arrival. You may even have arrived in time to witness an
example of his bedside manner." There was an abrasive edge to the
surgeon's voice.

Hawkwood and
Lasseur looked blank. Then Lasseur swore. "The longboat set adrift! That
was Pellow?"

Girard nodded.
His mouth was set in a grim line. "They were transferees from Cadiz. When
he saw the state of them, it was Pellow's contention they were suffering from some
contagious disease and that they should be sent to the hospital ship. The poor
devils weren't
diseased,
they were just badly dealt
with by the Spanish. Mind you, the British aren't much better. They treat their
damned house pets better than they do their prisoners, especially if they're
French. Fortunately, we only see Pellow once a week, if that."

"Whore's
son!"
Lasseur spat.

It was clear
Lasseur's anger was still close to boiling point. The privateer's face had been
cleansed of blood, but the savage expression that had contorted his features
when he'd sliced open the Corsican's throat was still vivid in Hawkwood's
memory. Hawkwood felt a sharp stab of pain cut across his forehead. It was as
if the effort of remembering had triggered the hurt.

Something must
have shown in his expression, he realized, for a look of concern flashed across
the surgeon's face.

"You ought
to see the other one," Hawkwood said, without thinking.

The surgeon's
expression grew serious. "Oh, but I have, Captain Hooper. I've seen all of
them. You left quite a lot of damage behind, you and Captain Lasseur." The
surgeon threw a look towards the next cot.

Hawkwood sank
back on to the mattress.
"How many?"

Girard's eyes
flickered back.
"Five dead, including the boy."

"Five!"
Hawkwood tried to recall the sequence of events. He remembered relieving
Matisse's man of the metal hoop, but it was all a bit hazy after that, and his
head was still throbbing away merrily so it was easier to give up.

"There were
also a couple of wounded men, with lacerations similar to your own, which was
interesting. It's not the first time I've treated such wounds. Razors are a
common weapon on board the hulks, particularly in settling disputes. Captain
Lasseur was noticeably reticent, however, when I pressed him for details."

Hawkwood said
nothing.

The surgeon
shrugged. "Very well, so be it. Though it's not me you'll have to answer
to. I'm under instruction from Lieutenant Hellard to inform him the second
either of you awakens. It was my intention to delay that moment, but I suspect
one of the guards outside may have taken it upon himself to send word. It would
not surprise me if the lieutenant has already dispatched an escort to deliver
you to him."

"You mean
he'll not come to visit us in our sickbeds?" Lasseur said in mock
indignation. "I'm shocked and offended."

"Lieutenant
Hellard is not inclined to make house calls. It's a characteristic he shares
with the ship's surgeon," Girard added witheringly.

"Captain
Hooper has barely recovered from the blow to his head," Lasseur said.

"I think
you'll find Lieutenant Hellard of the opinion that, unless either of you has
lost the use of your legs, you're required to attend him under an armed guard -
which, unless I'm mistaken, is here already."

A heavy tramp of
military boots sounded from the stairs.

"They
didn't waste any time," Lasseur muttered.

Hawkwood looked
and saw a quartet of militia making their way between the cots towards them.
They were experiencing some difficulty. The confined space didn't leave a lot
of room for brandishing muskets.

The surgeon bent
low and said quickly, "Just so you know, I may have exaggerated the nature
of your wounds and the length of time needed for your recuperation. It would be
best if you were to go along with that minor deceit for the time being."

Hawkwood and
Lasseur exchanged glances.

"Why?"
Hawkwood asked.

But the surgeon
was already turning away.

"Sergeant
Hook! It's always a pleasure," Girard announced.

The sergeant
halted his guards. He paid no heed to the surgeon's sardonic greeting but
stared coldly at the two men in the cots.
"On your feet!
Commander's orders!"

"These
officers are not returned to full strength, Sergeant," Girard said.
"Perhaps you could advise Lieutenant Hell—"

"They're
breathin', ain't they?" Hook glared at the surgeon.

"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.