'I heard there was a fight to the death on the
'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
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.
Fouchet wagged an admonishing finger. 'I'm off before they put me in the hole for breaking curfew. If I were you, I'd try and get some sleep. We've an early start tomorrow morning.'
'We have?' Lasseur said. 'How come?'
'Hadn't you heard?' Fouchet said drily. 'There's going to be a hanging.'
There was no scaffold.
Bisected by the stub of the main mast, the yard was outlined against the dawn sky like the arms of a scarecrow. Suspended from the yard's port and starboard quarters were three wooden blocks. A rope was threaded through each block. One end formed a noose. The free end of each rope was secured to a cleat at the ship's corresponding port and starboard bulwarks.
A line of militia guarded the ship's rails, bayonets fixed. The rest of the ship's complement was drawn up on the quarterdeck. An unsmiling Lieutenant Hellard was standing with the equally stern Thynne on his right and the interpreter Murat on his left, their backs to the newly risen sun. Both officers were in full uniform. Opposite them, on the port side of the deck, a row of prisoners stood in line abreast, some in prison uniform; some in civilian dress. At first glance, Hawkwood had taken them for the men under sentence until he took a closer look and did a count and realized how cleverly Hellard had played his hand. They were the eight members of the prisoners' tribunal.
You convened quickly enough to see Matisse's crew swing,
He'd witnessed punishment on board ship before, on a voyage taking him back to England after the ignominy of Corunna. It had been a flogging; a seaman had been found guilty of disobeying an order while drunk. He had been tied to a grating on deck where he had received twenty-four lashes administered by the boatswain's mate. The ship's crew had been assembled to witness the event, with marines standing by, muskets at the ready.
Squeezed against the forecastle rail with Lasseur at his shoulder and the two militia escorts from the sick berth at their backs, Hawkwood was struck by the similarity. But while the scene was almost identical, the mood was not. The flogging of the seaman had been greeted by an almost sullen silence, whereas the atmosphere on the deck of
It had been Commander Hellard's directive that all prisoners, as well as the ship's complement, were required to view the punishment, excluding those too ill to leave the sick berth, but the sheer number of prisoners housed on the hulk rendered the order impractical. In the end, the summons had been amended to the requirement that at least two delegates from each mess were to be present, including Rafales. As a result, the decks were full. Hawkwood didn't think he'd ever seen such a woebegone, ragbag gathering of human beings in his life.
Down on the Park the air, sour with the stench of the befouled, prickled with a sense of anticipation bordering on excitement. So much so that Hawkwood was half expecting the ship's pedlars to come crawling out of the woodwork and start touting for business like the pie and sweetmeat sellers that played the crowds outside Newgate.
As he looked on, Hawkwood tried to ignore the compression that was forming inexorably at the back of his throat and the sweat that was leaking from between his shoulder blades.
A murmur ran through the watchers as the condemned were brought out on deck, hands tied behind their backs and flanked by a militia guard. Two of the men were wearing togas, the rest were dressed in the yellow uniform. Half the men had cuts and bruises on their faces. The pair wearing the togas also had wounds on their arms and legs. Hawkwood wondered how many of the injuries had been inflicted during the fight in the hold and how many were due to the militia's late intervention.
Someone yelled an obscenity from the Park, which encouraged a cacophony of catcalls. The condemned men were white- eyed with terror and visibly shaking.
'Silence!' Sergeant Hook's voice boomed across the deck.
As the militia began to place nooses about the men's necks, two of the condemned collapsed weeping on to the deck. A jeer went up as they were lifted to their feet. Both swayed precariously as the ropes were finally slipped around their throats. When all the nooses had been made fast, hoods were placed over the men's heads.
Lieutenant Hellard stepped forward, accompanied by Murat. He raised his arm and the deck fell quiet.
Hellard spoke. Murat translated.
Hawkwood wondered about the other nationalities on board. Who translated for them?
'Let it be known that the ship's company and prisoners are gathered here this day to see justice done. The men you see standing before you have been found guilty of the most heinous crimes. It is upon the order of the Admiralty of His Britannic Majesty that each man is hereby sentenced to death, to hang suspended by his neck until dead. May God have mercy on their souls.'
Abruptly, as if embarrassed by the brevity of his pronouncement, Hellard stepped back and nodded towards the members of the tribunal.
The surgeon was right! Hawkwood thought.
He watched as twelve men dressed in yellow prison uniforms stepped forward. The twelve broke into three teams of four. Each team retrieved a rope end from the cleat by the port bulwark. Turning their backs on the condemned men, the three teams stood in silence, each man holding a section of rope over his right shoulder.
'Carry on, Sergeant Hook,' Hellard said.
The sergeant nodded towards a pair of militia guards, one of whom pointed his musket into the sky. The men on the ropes took up the strain. The militia escort stepped away.
Hawkwood's fists clenched. The guard fired his musket.
At the instant the shot rang out, the men holding the ropes sprinted hard towards the ship's stern. Behind
