Rapscallion

them, three hooded bodies shot into the air, heading for the yard. As the ropes were pulled tight, and with the musket report still echoing around the deck, the rope ends were made fast. Only then did the members of the teams look up at their handiwork. High above them the three corpses, still spiralling from the momentum of the hoist, dangled below the yard like grotesque ornaments.

The teams moved to the starboard ropes. The militia escorts stepped aside.

At another nod from Hook, the second guard discharged his musket and the hangmen repeated their charge. Three more bodies ascended rapidly into the warm air.

A sigh, like a small wind, went around the deck.

One of the militia let out a curse as a shower of urine and a splatter of faecal matter released from one of the slow-swinging cadavers missed his shoulder by inches and hit the deck at his feet. Casting startled looks skywards, his companions jumped back to avoid the flow of piss and shit raining down from on high as the bladders and sphincter muscles of the hanged men relaxed. A ripple of laughter broke from the mass of prisoners. The tension in the air began to dissipate.

'Silence!' Another roar from Hook.

'A surgeon once told me it's a quick way to die.' Lasseur stared up at the bodies.

Hawkwood said nothing. He had known that already. The fact that there had been no kicking or pedalling from the victims' legs after the bodies had left the ground confirmed the anonymous surgeon's statement. Death had occurred the second the ropes were pulled taut, from a swiftly broken neck rather than protracted asphyxiation. He looked down at his hands, to the redness in his palms where his nails had bitten into the skin.

He heard Lasseur mutter something sharp under his breath and turned to find the privateer regarding him with a mortified expression on his face. Lasseur's mouth opened.

'It's all right, Captain,' Hawkwood said. 'It was a long time ago.'

For a moment Lasseur looked as if he was about to respond. His eyes flickered to Hawkwood's throat and the weals on his palms and he nodded silently.

Hawkwood turned away and looked towards the quarterdeck where Hellard and Murat were in consultation with the tribunal, while above them the six bodies, their lower limbs wet and stained with excreta, continued to sway gently in the morning breeze. His eyes moved over the water to some of the other hulks. Figures, both prisoners and crew, were lining the rails; all eyes focused upon Rapacious. Hawkwood wondered how quickly it had taken for word of the impending executions to spread around the estuary. Not long, if navy rumour mills were as effective as the army ones he'd known.

Slowly the prisoners started to disperse. The mood was subdued. It was as if the full reality of all that had just happened was finally sinking in. There were a lot of baleful glances up towards the yard. Hawkwood recognized the signs. The collective euphoria that had greeted the hangings was giving way to doubt and the realization that, in the guise of the tribunal, every prisoner on board Rapacious had just, in effect, given support to the enemy.

Hawkwood had also been aware for a while that his and Lasseur's presence on deck was becoming the focus of some attention. They were drawing glances, both overt and surreptitious, some respectful, some wary, and the sick-berth guards were getting twitchy. Hawkwood allowed himself to be led back below deck.

He glanced over towards the quarterdeck. The planking below the yard was being swabbed and the militia were letting out the ropes and lowering the bodies. It was tradition, Hawkwood knew, for the corpses of hanged men to remain suspended from the yard sometimes for an hour or two, as a potent warning. He suspected Hellard wanted the latest victims brought down, either as a gesture to the tribunal or, more likely, because the smell of the bodies in the heat of the morning would be too much to bear.

The surgeon, Girard, was watching the proceedings. Hawkwood presumed he was there to pronounce the men dead; not that there was likely to be any doubt. If there was one skill in which the navy enjoyed mastery, it was the tying of knots.

Hawkwood and Lasseur returned to their cots. Even with the smell of sickness seeping from every pore of the compartment it was a relief to be back in the sick berth after the overcrowded topside.

'When do you think they'll transfer us?' Lasseur looked pensive.

Hawkwood shrugged, glancing towards the guards who'd resumed their positions over by the hatchway. 'It could be any time. As soon as the commander receives authorization, would be my guess. It was never going to be before the hangings. We were always going to be present for that. Hellard and the Admiralty wouldn't want to miss the opportunity to use us to warn the prisoners on the Sampson what will happen to anyone who breaks the rules. I wouldn't put it past the bastards to have shown the two of us leniency just so that we can spread the word and put the fear of God up any other would-be insurrectionists.'

Lasseur threw Hawkwood a sideways glance. 'Did anyone ever tell you, my friend, that you've a very suspicious mind?'

'All the time,' Hawkwood said. 'It's a curse.'

Lasseur forced a grin, stroked his goatee, lay back and placed his arm over his eyes.

It was odd, Hawkwood thought, how easy it had become to align himself with the plight of the prisoners and how quickly the Admiralty had become the villain of the piece.

The sound of weighted footsteps and an outpouring of profanities interrupted his ruminations. Two prisoners were stepping off the bottom tread of the stairway. Slung awkwardly between them was a body. Lasseur let go an exclamation of disgust. The dead men that Hawkwood had seen being removed from the yard were starting to arrive.

Hawkwood and Lasseur watched as one by one the corpses of the hanged prisoners were delivered into the hands of the orderlies. Millet and Charbonneau were among those delegated with the task of toting the dead. They caught Hawkwood's eye and nodded imperceptibly. The surgeon Girard brought up the rear.

Hawkwood wondered who had come up with the suggestion that prisoners should play such an active role in carrying out the sentence. If it had been Hellard, in many respects it had been a master stroke. Matisse and his Romans had waged their war of intimidation on their fellow prisoners. If Hellard, having taken full advantage of the loathing felt by all the prisoners for the Corsican's crimes, had, by some subtle stroke, put the idea in the heads of the tribunal, in one fell swoop he'd not only adhered himself to the prisoner hierarchy, he'd also partly absolved himself of what could have been seen as implementing a draconian sentence on foreign nationals.

It was inconceivable that the Admiralty would have sanctioned prisoner involvement or, quite possibly, even the hangings themselves, particularly on board the ship; officially, at any rate. Unofficially, Hawkwood began to wonder. He suspected that the Admiralty, like the army, politicians and the judiciary, was perfectly capable of nefarious dealings when it suited its purpose. The tribunal's participation had lent an air of legitimacy to the sentencing and method of execution. If there were repercussions, the Admiralty could lay the blame squarely on Hellard's already blackened shoulders by accusing him of acting of his own volition.

As for Hellard, it could be construed that he was exerting his authority, both to the prisoners and his superiors as well as an audience closer to home, namely Lieutenant Thynne and the rest of the ship's company. By setting up the hangings, Hellard had established himself as a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps, in some bizarre way, he'd even seen it as a means of restoring himself in the eyes of the Admiralty.

Hearing Lasseur grunt, Hawkwood looked up to see a familiar figure limping towards them, carrying two knapsacks held high.

'I received permission to bring you these. Thought you might need them,' Fouchet said. 'And we can't have you going hungry.' Handing over the knapsacks, the teacher fumbled in his pockets.

'Please tell me it's not pork again,' Lasseur pleaded.

'Breakfast - the usual. Don't eat it all at once.'

Hawkwood looked down at the hunk of dry bread Fouchet was pushing into his hand. It would keep the hunger pangs at bay for a short while.

'You'd have made someone a lovely wife, Sebastien,' Lasseur said.

Fouchet chuckled. 'Someone's got to look out for you.' The smile slipped suddenly. 'Remember what I said; you might want to save that for later.'

Lasseur stiffened, the bread paused halfway to his lips.

'You've heard when they're shipping us out?' Hawkwood reached into his sack and extracted his one spare shirt. It wasn't much cleaner than the one the surgeon had cut off him. He put it on, taking care not to dislodge the dressings covering his wounds.