Murat had been right. The smell inside the sack was truly appalling. The tang of urine filled his nostrils while the coppery taste of blood lingered unpleasantly at the back of his throat. He wondered what other body fluids the cloth had been subjected to. It was probably best not to think about that.
He assumed Lasseur was suffering the same discomfort. A perverse part of him hoped so.
Suddenly, the hands under his shoulders shifted their grip and then his legs dropped. They were ascending the stairway. At least they were bearing him up head first, he thought.
It was a strange sensation, being carried and sightless at the same time. It was too dark below deck for him to make out anything through the cloth, other than subtle changes in the density of shadows, but his other senses had already started to compensate. Every footfall, every groan of timber, every thump, every vocal emission, from a shout to a whisper, began to take on a new resonance. When he'd climbed into the burial sack, his first instinct had been to let his body relax so as to mimic dead weight. Now, with his senses heightened, there was not a muscle, tendon, nerve or sinew in his entire body that wasn't drawn as tight as a bowstring. The fear of discovery had become all-consuming. So when he heard Charbonneau murmur throatily, 'We're coming on deck,' he felt the sweat burst from his palms.
The transformation from gloom to daylight was instantly noticeable. Hawkwood still couldn't discern anything specific through the cloth, but the mere fact that there was light beyond the confines of the material made the inside of the sack seem marginally less claustrophobic.
His mind shifted back to the day he and Lasseur had been witness to the burial barge's previous voyage. On that occasion there had been seven corpses requiring passage. This time there was more than double that number. Pray to God, Hawkwood thought, they wouldn't have to make two trips.
'Belay there!' The shout came from somewhere close.
The men carrying Hawkwood froze. Hawkwood felt sure they would be able to hear his heart thudding like a drum against his chest.
The same voice came again. 'All right, shift your arses, then! Toss the bloody thing! Lively, now! He ain't goin' to feel anythin'. He's bleedin' dead already!'
The order was greeted by a cascade of laughter.
They moved off. Hawkwood exhaled and heard Charbonneau swear under his breath. He tried to recall how many corpses had been removed from the sick berth before him. He had a vision of being placed into the net and smothered by the pile of bodies being tossed in after him, and fought to quell the rising tide of panic.
And then he was being lowered. He felt the strands of the net through the cloth and the pressure of another burial sack against his flank. He allowed himself to take several slow and cautious breaths. The blood the surgeon had daubed around his jaw had dried and he ran his tongue along his lips to moisten them. He wondered if it was his imagination or if it really was piss he could taste.
The sounds of the hulk enveloped him on all sides: the clatter of wheels in their blocks, the flap of lines against the yards, voices conversing - in a variety of accents, both muted and strident - gulls protesting from the mastheads, the tramp of boots across the decking.
He wondered if the body next to him was Lasseur. Pulse pounding, despite his attempt to breathe evenly, he waited for the cry of alarm that would indicate their disappearance from the sick berth had been discovered. How long would the surgeon and Murat and the orderlies be able to conceal their absence? Was this how prisoners before them had made their escape?
Another shout rang out and the sack next to him moved.
Hawkwood felt his breath catch.
Was it Lasseur easing a cramp, or a suspicious guard making an inspection? Then something rolled against his other thigh. He heard the rattle of a winch and realized the net was being hauled into the air. The movement had been caused by gravity settling the bodies. He had a flash of memory, mackerel in a basket, heads and tails jumbled, and wondered if that was what the net-ful of burial sacks looked like to an observer.
Murat hadn't only been right about the smell. Hawkwood knew it couldn't have been much more than ten minutes since the orderlies had applied their final stitch, yet it seemed a lifetime ago. His nerves were stretching with each passing second.
He detected another shift in the net's trim. A sixth sense told him to brace himself. He did so just in time. The net landed with a thump. It was more of a collision than a grounding - no sympathy for the dead from the man on the winch - and the motion beneath him told Hawkwood that they had been deposited in the thwarts of the boat. He felt the craft rock as the burial party and the militia escort arranged themselves. Then came the command to cast off and wear away, followed by the unmistakable sound of oars turning in rowlocks as the boat was edged out from the side of the ship.
It was warm inside the sack and the squeaking of the oars and the gentle pitching of the boat were starting to have an hypnotic effect. Hawkwood was deeply conscious not only of the stench in his own burial bag but the aroma of the bodies around him, all of them caked in either piss, blood or shit, or in some cases all three. The accumulated smells would become worse as the sun continued to rise, which was why Hellard had wanted the bodies removed. There were too many for them to remain on board. Hygiene was difficult to maintain at the best of times. Conditions would have become untenable, particularly in the already tainted sick berth, had the remains of the dead been kept on board.
Hawkwood knew they were close to their destination when he heard the order to boat oars. A brief silence, followed by a shudder as the boat's keel grated against the shingle, confirmed it.
Hawkwood could hear digging sounds as he was carried up the foreshore. A strong, sickly bouquet began to infiltrate the sack the closer they drew to the crunch of the spades, so cloying it even masked his own scent. Hawkwood knew what it was. He'd come across it before, in field hospitals and mortuaries. It was the smell of putrefying bodies. Lying on the ground, pebbles digging into his back, nose pressed against the rancid cloth, it was all he could do to prevent himself from retching.
'All right, toss the buggers in!'
The order, Hawkwood realized, had come from several paces away. He suspected the escort were trying to remain upwind and some distance from the burial pit.
A voice came close to his ear and he recognized Charbonneau's whisper. 'Not long now, Captain. It's nearly over.'
Hands slid under his shoulders again, dragging him across the mud. He felt the sharp edge of a stone rake his shoulder blade, and then the ground dipped sharply and he had the sensation of being deposited atop what felt, from the lumps and bumps and other, sharper protrusions, as if it might be a stack of logs. The stench of rotting corpses was suddenly far worse than anything that had come before.
His ears picked up the dull clunk of a blade being driven into the ground.
Hawkwood gasped as the first spadeful of mud and pebbles landed across his legs. His heart lurched as the second load was deposited over his chest. The mud was damp and heavy. He tried to move his arms, but he was prevented from doing so by another fusillade of stones that rattled against the outside of the cloth like rain striking the side of a tent.
He heard a voice call softly. 'Goodbye, Captain.'
And then the earth closed over his face and the world went dark.
CHAPTER 11
Hawkwood uncrossed his wrists and brought his right arm down by his side. He flexed his fingers and tried bending his knees and experienced a wave of relief when he found he was able to accomplish both tasks, albeit with some difficulty. He couldn't bend his knees to any great angle, but he knew there was probably enough leeway, despite the weight of the earth, for him to achieve his objective.
He could still make out tiny patches of daylight through the cloth, which meant the filling in of the burial pit had either been half-hearted or deliberately slipshod, with just enough dirt having been cast over the newly interred burial sacks to deceive the militia.
He could no longer hear voices. They had faded as the burial detail returned to the boat. He could hear
