Rapscallion

CHAPTER 9

Hawkwood realized his mistake when he tried to move. Opening his eyes hadn't been a problem. In fact, that had been the easy part; no real expertise involved: a quick flicker of the eyelids and, presto, he was back in the land of the living. But when he tried to raise himself on to his elbows to find out where he was, it was like getting hit across the back of the head and shoulders all over again, only a lot more painful.

He lay back down, lowered his eyelids, and waited for the hammering inside his skull to abate. The seconds, or it could well have been hours, ticked by. Hawkwood was more than content to wait, feeling no obligation to repeat the experiment until he was sure he could cope with the immediate after-effects.

When the pounding had eventually dwindled to a dull ache, he took a deep breath and tried again, cautiously.

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, but I suspect one of the guards outside may have taken it upon himself to send word. It would not surprise me if the lieutenant has already dispatched an escort to deliver you to him."

"You mean he'll not come to visit us in our sickbeds?" Lasseur said in mock indignation. "I'm shocked and offended."

"Lieutenant Hellard is not inclined to make house calls. It's a characteristic he shares with the ship's surgeon," Girard added witheringly.

"Captain Hooper has barely recovered from the blow to his head," Lasseur said.

"I think you'll find Lieutenant Hellard of the opinion that, unless either of you has lost the use of your legs, you're required to attend him under an armed guard - which, unless I'm mistaken, is here already."

A heavy tramp of military boots sounded from the stairs.

"They didn't waste any time," Lasseur muttered.

Hawkwood looked and saw a quartet of militia making their way between the cots towards them. They were experiencing some difficulty. The confined space didn't leave a lot of room for brandishing muskets.

The surgeon bent low and said quickly, "Just so you know, I may have exaggerated the nature of your wounds and the length of time needed for your recuperation. It would be best if you were to go along with that minor deceit for the time being."

Hawkwood and Lasseur exchanged glances.

"Why?" Hawkwood asked.

But the surgeon was already turning away.

"Sergeant Hook! It's always a pleasure," Girard announced.

The sergeant halted his guards. He paid no heed to the surgeon's sardonic greeting but stared coldly at the two men in the cots. "On your feet! Commander's orders!"

"These officers are not returned to full strength, Sergeant," Girard said. "Perhaps you could advise Lieutenant Hell—"

"They're breathin', ain't they?" Hook glared at the surgeon.

"Clearly," the surgeon said. "However ..."

"Then they're to get their arses out of their cots and come with us. Or else we'll drag 'em. It's their choice, Doctor. Don't matter to me either way."

The surgeon bit back a retort, turned and addressed Hawkwood and Lasseur in French. "The sergeant is distraught to find you so incapacitated and asks you if you'd both be so kind as to vacate your cots and accompany him to the commander's quarters."

"But of course," Lasseur said, folding back his sheet. "Please advise Sergeant Hook that it's a pleasure to find him in such rude health and that Captain Hooper and I would be only too delighted to attend him. You may also inform him that I couldn't help noticing that his face is remarkably reminiscent of a cow's arse."

A nerve moved in the surgeon's cheek.

"What did he say?" Hook demanded; his tone suspicious.

"He asked if your men could point their muskets somewhere else. They're making him nervous."

"Did he indeed?" Hook said. He launched a kick at the base of Hawkwood's cot. "I said, on your feet!"

"What a tiresome little man," Lasseur said. "I hope his balls shrivel to the size of currants."

"Unless someone cuts them off first," Hawkwood said.

"May God grant us another one of Sebastien's miracles," Lasseur said, reaching for his boots.

"You'll want this," Girard said, and passed Hawkwood his jacket. "Your shirt was beyond salvage, I'm afraid."

A lot like my bloody assignment, Hawkwood thought.

"I'll not have prisoners waging a private war on my ship!" Lieutenant Hellard fixed Hawkwood and Lasseur with a Medusa stare. "Even if it is scum fighting scum." He turned to Murat. "D'you hear?"

The interpreter nodded uncomfortably. "Yes, sir."

"Then tell him," Hellard said, indicating Lasseur.

"That will not be necessary, Commander," Lasseur said. "I speak English."

Hellard glared at the privateer. Lasseur stared back at him, his expression impassive. The lieutenant turned his attention to Hawkwood. His eyes took in the bandages and the blood. His gaze lifted and he frowned. Hawkwood wondered if the commander was recalling the moment on the quarterdeck when he had scanned the line of prisoners to see whose eyes were upon him. Hawkwood held the lieutenant's eyes for the appropriate amount of time before switching his gaze to a point over Hellard's shoulder, thus giving the impression it had been he who'd weakened and broken eye contact.

They were in the commander's day cabin, which on the hulk, as in any ship of the line, doubled as an office. Two militia men guarded the door. Hellard was seated behind the main desk with his back to the inward-slanting stern windows. An open ledger lay before him, along with several sheets of paper. Outside, sunset was starting to fall over the western marshes, bathing the wetlands and the estuary in a vivid red glow. There was still plenty of movement on the river, with vessels taking final advantage of the early evening tide to navigate their way upstream to an anchorage or downstream towards the open sea.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hawkwood saw that Lasseur's gaze was fixed on the view beyond the commander's shoulders. It wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking.

The cabin was sparsely furnished. On active duty, it was usual for a vessel's commander to equip his quarters to his own specifications, depending on the depth of his pockets; everything from desks to dining tables, sideboards to wine coolers and carpets to cutlery were shipped aboard at a captain's expense.

From what could be seen, the furniture on Rapacious suggested that Hellard was either a man of very limited means - not unlikely, given his rank and the circumstances governing his appointment - or else the items had been provided by the Transport Board with the emphasis on practicality rather than personal comfort. In other words, Lieutenant Hellard had been forced to make do with what he'd been given; which wasn't much. The few sticks of furniture looked as drab and as distressed as the hulk that housed them, as if they had been salvaged from a long-forgotten storeroom in some abandoned dockyard warehouse, and taken on board as an afterthought.

Aside from the desk, there was a mirrored dressing cabinet, which Hawkwood suspected was campaign furniture; an elderly writing slope which stood in one corner; a four-drawer sideboard; and a small round table bracketed by four plain-backed hall chairs. Dark red drapes framed the windows. A layer of dust lay along the top rail. There appeared to be no personal possessions on display; no watercolour portraits on the bulkheads, no miniature likenesses of a wife or sweetheart on the cabinet or sideboard; no books. The left-hand wall was partitioned. Hawkwood guessed that Hellard's bed lay behind it. All in all, the commander's quarters were as austere as the man himself.

Up close, Hellard was more gaunt than he'd appeared on deck. Until now, Hawkwood had only seen him from a distance; a lone figure stalking the quarterdeck, hands behind his back. Close to, his cheeks were more sharply defined, his eyes more melancholic. There were flakes of dandruff on the collar and shoulders of his coat.

"Do either of you know the penalty for duelling?"

"There was no duel," Lasseur said, drawing himself up. "It was self-defence."

"Then how do you explain the razor sticks we found in the hold?" Hellard said curtly.

"Matisse's men attacked us with them," Lasseur said. "We were forced to defend ourselves."

Hellard grunted and said, "Lieutenant Thynne informs me it was a disagreement over one of the child prisoners that led to the killings. What's your story, Hooper?"

Thynne, his features made angular by the rays of the fading sun coming in through the big windows, was standing behind and a little to one side of Hellard's chair, worrying a nail. Hellard half turned to acknowledge his fellow officer's presence, then looked towards the privateer.

"The lieutenant's correct," Hawkwood said. "Matisse took the boy against his will, for his own perverted amusement and that of his men. Captain Lasseur and I took it upon ourselves to confront Matisse in the hope of returning the boy to the upper deck."

Hellard said immediately, "Why did you not inform the guards of the boy's abduction?"

"We didn't think there was any need. We didn't know the situation would turn violent."

"A touch naive of you, I'd have thought," Hellard said. "Given Matisse's reputation."

Lasseur cut in quickly. "With respect, Commander, we are only recently arrived on board. We knew nothing of Matisse or his reputation."

Hellard consulted the ledger in front of him. "So I see. You didn't waste any time finding trouble though, did you? Either of you."

The lieutenant moved his eyes to the papers. He picked up a pen and made a note on one of the sheets. "Which one of you killed Matisse?" He did not look up, but continued writing.

The question was followed by an extended silence, broken only by the pedantic scratch of nib on paper.

"I did," Lasseur said.

Hellard paused in his scribbling. He raised his head sharply and his eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps, Captain Lasseur, you would describe to us your version of events? If you find your English inadequate, Lieutenant Murat will decipher."

He stared hard at Hawkwood. Hawkwood half expected Hellard to say, "I'm not sure I like the cut of your jib" and was almost disappointed when the words didn't materialize.

Hellard glanced away, "Well, Captain Lasseur?"

"Matisse killed the boy. He did it in cold blood, in front of our eyes."

"Why would he do that?"

"To prove he could," Hawkwood said. "Captain Lasseur and I tried to stop him. That was when he ordered his men to attack us."

"You appear to have given a good account of yourselves, in spite of the odds. You were severely outnumbered."

Lasseur's chin came up. "Captain Hooper and I are professionals. Matisse's men were a rabble."

Hellard sighed heavily. He put his pen down and leaned back. "I'm not sure I believe a word of it, frankly. Contrary to belief, my officers and I are not totally ignorant of what goes on below deck. You think we care a fig if you fight amongst yourselves? That is one of the reasons we choose not to interfere with your internal squabbling. We knew fine well that Matisse used the Turk to enforce his authority and intimidate his rivals. We're also aware of the use to which razor sticks are put. Interesting, by the way, that the wounds on the Turk's body should be similar to those suffered by Captain Hooper," Hellard added pointedly. "This leads me to suspect that something more was going on beyond a tug of war over the boy's virtue."

"It was the Turk who had the weapon," Hawkwood said. "I took it off him." Which was close enough to the truth anyway, he thought.

Hellard waved a quieting hand. "Yes, well, that was very enterprising of you, Captain Hooper. That is how you new Americans like to think of yourselves, isn't it? Enterprising pioneers forging a new nation? I suppose you know the word pioneer comes from the French? Peonier - it means foot soldier. A shade ironic, wouldn't you say, given your circumstances?"

Hawkwood said nothing. He suspected Hellard was trying to bait him.

"You're a renegade, Hooper, you and the rest of your countrymen. I have no truck with you or your kind, except perhaps to pity your poor choice of causes. There can't be many men who've aligned themselves with two flags and found they've made the wrong choice both times."

"The war's not over yet, Lieutenant," Hawkwood said.

"It is for you," Hellard snapped. "On that you can depend." The commander's eyes narrowed. "I'm intrigued by those bruises around your throat, though. How did you come by them?"

Hawkwood looked straight back. "None of your damned business."

Murat drew a sharp breath.

Hellard fixed Hawkwood with a raptor stare. After several seconds, which seemed to stretch for an eternity, he nodded his acceptance at Hawkwood's defiance, leant forward and closed the ledger with a thud. "I'll confess, the loss of the boy is unfortunate. However, you won't find me sacrificing a moment's sleep over the death of the Corsican or the Turk or any of the other men who lived in his shadow." Hellard paused for effect. "That said, I cannot ignore events."

"Duelling's a hanging offence," Thynne said, almost lazily, looking at Hawkwood. "Says so in the Regulations."

"Indeed it does, Lieutenant," Hellard said. "Thank you for reminding me."

Thynne coloured.

"There was no duel," Lasseur repeated stubbornly.

"Yes, Captain. So you say." Hellard threw the privateer a sour look. "The injuries sustained by the Turk and Captain Hooper here suggest otherwise. Either way, men have died today, in a most barbaric fashion, which means I am required to take action. The Admiralty demands it. I am further mindful that an example needs to be set, both to penalize and more importantly to deter. With Matisse gone to meet his maker, or in his case more likely the Devil, the prisoners need to be reminded who is in charge here, should anyone have a hankering to assume the Corsican's crown. You get my meaning?" Hellard sat back.

"What about the rest of Matisse's crew?" Hawkwood asked.

Instantly the atmosphere in the cabin changed, as if the air had been charged with an electrical current. Hellard glanced towards his fellow lieutenant.

Thynne took his finger out of his mouth. There was a significant pause then he said, "We're going to hang the bastards. Every man jack of them; God rot their black souls." The lieutenant clenched his fists.

"For duelling?" Lasseur said. He stared at the hulk's commander.

No, Hawkwood thought, watching the exchange, it was something else. He remembered the words Fouchet had spoken: If I told you the half of it, you would think me mad.

"What is it?" Hawkwood asked. His head was starting to throb again, not that it had ever really stopped.

"Tell me, Hooper," Hellard said curtly, "did you ever stop to consider what would have become of your bodies if Matisse's men had killed you both?"

"We were too busy trying to stay alive."

"Then why don't I let Lieutenant Murat tell you what would have been your fate, had you failed," Hellard said. "Go on, Lieutenant; tell them what Matisse did with the bodies of the men who fought in previous duels against the Turk and lost."

Murat swallowed nervously.

"I'm sure they'd like to know," Hellard said, "before I pass sentence."

Hawkwood waited.

"Tell us," Lasseur said.

Murat took a deep breath. "It seems the usual method was for the loser's body to be . . . disposed of."

"How?" Hawkwood asked.

"The corpses were cut into pieces and dropped through the latrines into the sea. That way the evidence was removed and the victor was saved a hanging."

Hawkwood and Lasseur stared at the interpreter.

Hellard, watching Hawkwood's and Lasseur's response, said: "Well, go on, tell them the rest of it."

Murat paled.

"What does he mean?" Lasseur asked.

"There was another method." The interpreter threw a look of mute appeal towards Hellard, who returned the look with a stony glare.

"Sarazin says it has happened once that he knows of. He said that he heard of it being done when he was at Portsmouth . . ." Murat hesitated, an odd catch in his voice.

"Go on," Lasseur said.

"He said that on one occasion the body was cut up but was not dropped into the sea. Sarazin said the corpse was jointed and fed to the Rafales."

Lasseur went white. He turned to Hellard in horror. "Is this true?"

Hellard shrugged. "It may only be a story. The creature tried to save his own skin by informing on his comrades. He'll hang from the yard with the rest of them."

Sarazin, Hawkwood remembered, was the one who'd been on Cabrera and in Millbay.

"So," Hellard said into the pregnant silence, "that leaves us with the question: what am I to do with the two of you?"

"Plenty of room left on the yard," Thynne said, and then muttered, "Though, if you ask me, hanging's too good for the buggers."

Hellard stood up.

As the lieutenant moved out from behind the desk a knot formed in Hawkwood's stomach. Aligning himself with Lasseur had seemed like a good idea. Now, because of the privateer's crusade to rescue some wet-behind-the-ears cabin boy and his own irrational sense of obligation, Hawkwood's assignment was unravelling at a rate of knots. In fact, it was probably safe to say it was beyond unravelling. It was lying in tatters around him.

Hellard pursed his lips. It looked worryingly as if he was giving Thynne's suggestion serious consideration.

Thynne, from the window, intoned, "Regulations -"

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Hellard interrupted tartly without turning. "I'm aware of the Regulations."

Thynne flushed. Hawkwood watched as the lieutenant's expression changed. There was no mistaking the acrimonious look that Thynne directed towards his commanding officer's back. Hawkwood sensed it wasn't only because of Hellard's acerbic put-down. The animosity ran deeper than that and, judging from Hellard's demeanour, the resentment was mutual. Hawkwood wondered why that was. There could have been any number of reasons, though, from the needling reference to the Regulations, it was clear that Thynne considered himself to be the better man and therefore more suited to be in charge.

Hawkwood wondered about Thynne's background. Like the army, the navy needed its best men at the war front. It didn't assign competent officers to oversee the running of decrepit prison ships in remote backwaters if it could be helped. Somewhere along the line Thynne, like Hellard, must have blotted his copybook. Either that or Thynne had sought to avoid the heat of battle by securing a lieutenancy as far away from the fighting as possible, only to find his bid for command of the hulk usurped by a disgraced officer of equal rank but seniority in years. Hawkwood had to admit to himself that the latter scenario seemed unlikely. Whatever the reason, there didn't appear to be much love lost between the two lieutenants.

Hellard said, "From prisoner Fouchet's statement and by your own admissions, I'm inclined to give you both the benefit of the doubt that your actions were out of concern for the boy's welfare. You will be spared the attention of the hangman."

"Sir?" Thynne went to take a step forward.

"However," Hellard said, holding up a hand, halting Thynne in his tracks, "the deaths of Matisse and his men cannot - indeed, will not - go unpunished. That would go against Regulations, and it would be remiss of me if I did not render chastisement commensurate to your crimes. The Admiralty will expect it. My decision is also governed by the fact that there is little doubt your actions have bestowed upon you a deal of notoriety. I suspect there are those who'd have you assume the Corsican's mantle. I would deem that singularly unacceptable. You will both, therefore, be transferred to the prison ship Sampson, currently moored in Gillingham."

Lasseur gave a sharp intake of breath.

The privateer's reaction was understandable. Every prisoner on Rapacious had heard of the Sampson, no matter how long he had been on board. It was the ship set aside for the prisoners considered to be trouble-makers. Rumour had it that conditions on Sampson were so harsh they made the regime on Rapacious look like a church fete.

"You'd rather I hang you with the rest of them, Captain?" Hellard said.

A smug smile broke out across Thynne's face.

Lasseur did not reply. His face remained carved in stone.

"Regrettably, you will not be making the transfer immediately," Hellard said. "I've received word there's been an incident on board the Sampson. Some prisoners have led an insurrection to protest at their rations. The commander ordered his men to fire on the demonstrators and a number have been killed. There will be a delay while things calm down. I am not an inhumane man. Until your transfer, therefore, as the punishment cells are now full and it would be unwise to incarcerate you with what remain of Matisse's cohorts, you will both reside in the sick berth under armed guard, where at least your wounds can be attended by the surgeon. I suggest you use the opportunity as a period for reflection. Naturally, Captain Hooper, your participation in this debacle means that your eligibility for parole has been revoked. I understand you're due to appear before an assessment board. That has been postponed indefinitely, pending subsequent reports on your behaviour. I venture it will be some considerable time before either of you see your homeland again, a state of affairs for which you only have yourselves to blame." Hellard nodded to the guards. "That's all. Take them down."