Rapscallion

CHAPTER 10

"It would have been better," Lasseur said despondently, "if we had been cut up and fed to the crabs."

"Better than being fed to the Rafales," Hawkwood said. He felt a warm dampness on his side. His wound had begun weeping again.

"Do you really think what Murat told us was true?" Lasseur asked. The muscles around his mouth tightened.

"Maybe," Hawkwood said. "They say eating human flesh turns you mad. There's certainly madness in this place."

Lasseur went quiet. Then he said softly, "Many years ago, I was third mate on a schooner in the South China Seas when we came across an open boat. There were four men on board. Three were barely alive. The fourth was dead. His body was badly mutilated. Two of the survivors died, the third lived. He said that seabirds were responsible for the wounds on the fourth body, but he was not believed. It was thought that he and the others had feasted upon the dead man to save their own lives. Otherwise why had they not rid themselves of the corpse at the time of death? When the last survivor was finally able to walk, he tied himself to a length of chain and threw himself overboard. We assumed he was overcome with remorse at having consumed human meat. Either that or the act had driven him insane." There was a pause, then Lasseur said joylessly, "I hear it tastes like chicken."

"I heard it was pork," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur shuddered and fell silent. A short time passed and then he said, "How did Matisse and the rest of them cover up the loss? The discrepancy would have showed up at roll call. How did they get past the head count?"

Hawkwood had been wondering the same thing. He said heavily, "Maybe they didn't."

Lasseur shifted on his cot. "Then how would they explain the missing men?"

"By letting Hellard and the guards think there'd been an escape." Hawkwood waited for the implication to sink in.

It took a while before Lasseur said, "Oh God."

The half-formed thought had been nagging away at Hawkwood since they'd left Hellard's cabin. It was only after he was back in his cot that it had become whole.

"If there have been no genuine escapes," Lasseur said, "it means Murat deceived us from the beginning."

Hawkwood said nothing.

"If I find it to be so, I'll kill the two-faced bastard," Lasseur said, eyes blazing.

"They will hang you, then," Hawkwood said. "Maybe you should stop while you're ahead."

"Christ's blood!" Lasseur cursed. "We've been played for fools!"

The privateer sank back in despair.

Could that be true? Hawkwood wondered. Perhaps Ludd had got it all wrong and there had been no genuine escapes, only disputes and the settling of arguments, with the dead men's remains disposed of through the ship's heads or in the Rafales' mess tins.

But that wouldn't have accounted for all the missing men, surely?

What was it Matisse had said? That it had been a while since they'd enjoyed a diversion, implying it had been some time since the last duel. And Ludd had told Hawkwood and James Read that escapes had occurred quite recently. Perhaps men had actually made it off the ship after all, alive and whole, rather than in pieces through the 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.

"I heard there was a fight to the death on the Sampson only a month back," Fouchet said. "Two men went into the black hole. Only one came out."

"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 Sampson is part of a plot to foment a rising of all foreign prisoners in England."

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, Hawkwood thought.

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 Rapacious was more reminiscent of a public execution outside any London gaol.

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 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.

The teacher turned to look towards the aft compartment where, through the open hatchway, the orderlies could be seen sewing the bodies of the hanged men into sailcloth burial sacks and where Millet and the others, under the bored eyes of the two militia guards, were awaiting instructions.

As Lasseur and Hawkwood followed the teacher's gaze, two more men appeared at the bottom of the stairs. One wore a militia uniform; the other caused Lasseur's face to cloud over. It was the interpreter, Murat.

The guard nodded towards the orderlies. "Tell the buggers the burial boat's 'ere and that Lieutenant Hellard wants the bodies off the ship in double-quick time. This bleedin' tar bucket stinks bad enough as it is." With a grimace at the smell in the sick berth, and after throwing a look of sympathy at his two colleagues, the guard retreated back up the stairs.

Murat relayed the information in French to the orderlies and the waiting men. "You can start taking them out."

Hawkwood, Lasseur and Fouchet watched as the first body- bag was picked up by the head and feet and carried out towards the stairs. It was a laborious business. The men carrying it were nearly bent double, both by a combination of the corpse's dead weight and the space in which they had to manoeuvre, which included the restricting height of the deckhead. There was no sense of reverence. The team's curses were as vociferous as they had been when the bodies of the hanged men had been brought down for wrapping.

As the first of the dead began their journey up the stairs under the supervision of Murat and the surgeon, inside the compartment the orderlies continued sealing up the rest of the sailcloth burial sacks.

Watching the procedure, Hawkwood wondered how many times the surgeon had carried out this particular duty.

It was as the seventh or eighth bundle was being hefted up the stairway that the calamity occurred. There was a clattering sound and a cry of woe, followed by a loud thump and barrage of invective as the man supporting the corpse's head and shoulders lost his footing and his grip. As man and cadaver slid down the stairs, careering into the pair coming up behind, a second sack slid from its handlers' clutches. Within seconds the stairs were a tangle of tumbling bodies, both alive and dead.

Alerted by the commotion, the two sick-berth guards turned quickly. With insults and accusations flying around their ears as to which imbecile had lost his footing, the militia men waded in to restore order.

The moment the guards' attention was distracted, Fouchet grabbed Lasseur's sleeve. "Come with me now," he hissed urgently. Leave your knapsacks." Reaching out, the teacher extinguished the lantern strung from the nearby deckhead.

Instinctively, Hawkwood looked towards the rumpus. Another lantern blinked out, but there was just enough light remaining for him to see two men - prisoners - hurrying towards them through the cots; Millet and Charbonneau. Each of them had a body slung over his shoulder.

Hawkwood rose to his feet. "Do it," he snapped, quickly seizing his jacket.

Lasseur looked beyond Hawkwood, to where a third man was standing by the aft compartment hatchway. Murat, beckoning furiously.

The guards' backs were still turned.

Lasseur sprang to his feet. Keeping his head low, he dodged under the beams and, half stumbling in his haste, followed Hawkwood and Fouchet towards the aft compartment.

Hawkwood knew, as sure as night followed day, the guards were going to turn round. He was still thinking that as he ducked through the hatchway and realized to his astonishment that he'd made it. Twisting, he saw that Millet and Charbonneau were placing the bodies in the vacated cots and covering them with the sheets. Then Murat was pushing him towards two half- sewn, blood-splattered sailcloth cocoons laid out side by side on the deck.

Murat pointed to the sheets. "Get inside. Cross your wrists over your stomachs. Try to remain still. Quickly!"

Hurriedly, Hawkwood and Lasseur did as they were told. As soon as their feet were at the foot of the sacks, the orderlies pulled the two lapels of the cloth around them, tight enough to prevent displacement of their bodies, yet just loose enough to still allow movement in their limbs.

At a nod from Murat, the orderlies took up their needles.

"Wait! Out of the way!" Thrusting Murat and the orderlies aside, the surgeon bent down next to Hawkwood, a wooden bowl in his hands. "Close your mouth."

"Hurry!" Fouchet hissed from the hatchway. "We haven't much time."

Hawkwood clamped his jaws shut. His eyes widened as the surgeon lifted a blood-soaked rag from the bowl and hastily squeezed it out over his lips, chin and jowls. The surgeon repeated the process with Lasseur.

"It won't fool a close examination, but it's the best I can do under the circumstances." The surgeon started as two shadows appeared in the hatchway behind Fouchet. Relief flooded across his face when he saw it was Millet and Charbonneau.

"It's done," Millet said.

Murat glanced through the hatch. "All right, the excitement's over. Get ready to start passing out the rest of the bodies." He nodded towards the two orderlies. "Sew them up." He paused. "And don't forget to piss on them."

He looked down at Hawkwood and Lasseur, at the horror on their faces. "Would you want to look inside something that was bloodstained and reeking of piss? No, me neither. And remember, you're supposed to be dead men. Not a sound. It will seem like a lifetime and the smell will be terrible. Try to keep your breathing steady. I'm sorry we had no time to warn you earlier. We received word that your passage has been agreed. We thought we had another day, but I overheard the commander and Lieutenant Thynne talking. You're due to be transferred to the Sampson tomorrow. This was our only chance to get you off the ship. We've managed to signal to our contact ashore. No matter what happens, remain calm. Millet and Charbonneau are part of the burial party. Trust them. They both know what to do. God speed."

"Hellard will know you helped us," Hawkwood said.

Fouchet shrugged. "What can he do to us that's any worse than what we have to endure now?"

"I hope you get a good price for our sleeping spaces," Lasseur said.

"Sold them already." Murat grinned. He snapped his fingers at the orderlies. "Come on! We need to get them out of here."

"They could put you in the hole," Hawkwood said.

Fouchet smiled. "They'll have to move Juvert out first. Though I could do with some peace and quiet."

"Be careful what you wish for," Hawkwood said. He looked up at Murat. "Is this how the others got out?"

Murat's face darkened. "No."

Despite the heat, Hawkwood felt a chill. "Matisse?"

Murat nodded unhappily.

"How many?"

"Two, according to Sarazin. One through the heads, the other -"

Christ! Hawkwood thought.

"We managed to get two off," Fouchet said.

"How?"

Fouchet glanced at Murat, who somehow managed a weak smile as he said, "You expect us to reveal all our little secrets, do you, Captain?"

"Give them our regards, if you see them," Fouchet said. "Lieutenant Masson and Captain Bonnefoux."

"I'll do that," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur looked up at Murat. "I might have misjudged you, Lieutenant. I'm sorry."

"You're not free yet, Captain."

Lasseur glared at the orderly who was sealing him in. "Put that stitch through my nose and I'll have your guts. And your piss had better smell of roses."

The orderly said nothing, but as he secured the final suture in the cloth, his hands shook. Lasseur's blood-smeared features disappeared from view.

Hawkwood's last sight was of Fouchet staring down at him. The teacher's mouth formed the whisper, " Vive la France/"

Not the words I want to hear going to my grave, Hawkwood thought as the needle punctured the cloth over his face for the last time.

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.