Rapscallion

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.

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.