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.'
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,
