Rapscallion. James McGee
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a burial cloth. Even then you wouldn’t get very far.
There had been seven deaths in the time Hawkwood had been aboard. The cause was marsh fever. During the summer months the fever claimed many victims among the weak and undernourished. Age was an inevitable contributing factor, though in the close-knit squalor of a prison ship, fever, typhus, pox and depression showed no favouritism. Two of the dead men had been in their twenties.
There had been no ceremony in the removal of the deceased. Wrapped in filthy sacks of hastily sewn sailcloth, the corpses had been lowered into a waiting boat using a winch and net. Then, accompanied by a burial detail of prisoners and a quartet of militia, the sorry cargo had been rowed to a bank of shingle half a mile off the hulk’s stern. Hawkwood and Lasseur had watched in sombre silence as the bodies had been carried up the foreshore and thrown into a pit dug at the back of the beach. From what they’d been able to see, no words were spoken over the burial before the boat made its return journey.
What had been noticeable to Hawkwood was that, aside from himself, Lasseur and a few of the newer prisoners, no one had taken any interest in the proceedings. On Rapacious, death and burial were commonplace.
Mid-afternoon of his fifth day on the hulk, Hawkwood was leaning on the forecastle rail, taking a rest after three hours spent hauling barrels of dried herring and sacks of onions on board. The work had been hard, but there had been a sense of purpose to the task, and, more importantly, it had made the time pass quicker. Now the sun was warm on his back and the estuary was calm. If he closed his eyes and nostrils, a man could, for a moment or two, imagine he was a thousand miles away.
Lasseur was standing next to him. The privateer captain had pulled the cheroot out of his jacket for what must have been the hundredth time and was staring at it with all the concentration of a drunkard eyeing a bottle of grog.
Hawkwood sensed a presence at his shoulder.
It was the teacher, Fouchet, his face frozen in an expression that struck Hawkwood with a sense of impending dread.
“Sébastien?” Lasseur enquired cautiously.
Fouchet stared at them, as if he didn’t know where to begin. Sorrow exuded from every pore.
“Sébastien?” Lasseur said again.
The teacher’s face crumpled. “They’ve taken the boy.”
Hawkwood frowned. “Who have? The guards?”
Fouchet shook his head. “The Romans.”
Lasseur gasped in shock, his cheroot forgotten. “What? How?”
“I sent him to the galley after his lessons to help Samuel prepare for supper. He didn’t arrive. I only found that out when I went to sort out the rations for the mess.” The teacher began to wring his hands. “I should have gone with him. It’s my fault.”
At Lasseur’s request, Fouchet had secured the boy a job as assistant to one of the galley cooks.
“How do you know the Romans have him?” Hawkwood said. “He could be with one of the other boys.”
The dwellers from the orlop had kept a low profile since their lightning raid on the Park – collectively, at any rate. Individually, they still made forays on to the forecastle in search of galley scrapings or the chance to barter, though they were usually given short shrift by the non-Roman captives. En masse, however, their presence on board, only a deck below, continued to cast a dark shadow in the minds of all the other prisoners. They reminded Hawkwood of the untouchables he’d seen in India: hated and feared, but impossible to ignore.
Fouchet shook his head. “I spoke with Millet and Charbonneau. They asked around. Lucien was seen with Juvert.”
“Who’s Juvert?” Hawkwood asked.
“I know him,” Lasseur said quickly. “Damned pederast! I caught him talking to Lucien on the first day. I warned him to leave the boy alone.”
Hawkwood’s mind went back to the prisoner he’d seen crouched beside the boy, slender fingers caressing Lucien’s back. “He’s a Roman?”
“He’s one of Matisse’s acolytes,” Fouchet said.
“Matisse?”
“A vile creature; calls himself king of the Romans. He rules the lower levels. A Corsican, too, if you can believe that,” the teacher added sourly.
“There’s a leader?” Lasseur couldn’t hide his disbelief.
“What about the guards?” Hawkwood asked, wondering why Matisse had adopted the title of king. The Romans of old had been ruled by an emperor, hadn’t they? Though on second thoughts, one Corsican emperor at a time was probably enough. His mind went back to the comment he’d overheard between the two militia men when he’d arrived on board:
Wait till His Majesty gets a look at that!
A sick feeling began to worm its way into Hawkwood’s stomach.
Fouchet shook his head. “They’ll do nothing. No crime has been committed. In any case, they won’t dare to venture that far below deck.”
Hawkwood stared hard at the teacher. “It’s a British ship! You’re telling me the British Navy has no rights on one of its own vessels?”
Fouchet spread his hands. “It has the right. It’s the will that’s lacking, especially where the Romans are concerned. If you want the truth, I think the commander and his men are more wary of Matisse and his courtiers than we are.”
“But the British are armed. They have guns!” Lasseur protested.
“True, but you saw for yourselves the other day: they’ll not use them unless one of their own is threatened.”
Lasseur gazed at the teacher in horror. Fouchet wilted under the scrutiny.
“This is what you meant, wasn’t it?” Lasseur said finally. “This is why you told me to watch him. Matisse has done this before. He’s taken other boys. My God, what sort of place is this?”
“If I told you the half of it,” Fouchet replied softly, “you’d say I was mad.”
“What about the tribunal? Doesn’t that have influence?”
Fouchet shook his head. “Not over Matisse, it doesn’t. Besides, tribunal is just another word for committee. When was the last time a committee did anything constructive? And by the time the tribunal’s convened it would be too late. We have to do something now!”
Dear God! Hawkwood thought wildly. “All right, Charbonneau told us anything that happens below deck stays below deck. We’ll take care of it ourselves.”
“How?” Fouchet’s head jerked up. “Wait, you’re going down there?”
“Unless you can think of another way,” Hawkwood said. He waited for an answer.
Fouchet looked at them helplessly.
“This Matisse, can you take us to him?” Lasseur asked.
Fouchet paled. He took a step back, nearly overbalancing in the process.
Anger flared briefly in Lasseur’s eyes and his expression hardened. But as he stared at Fouchet, he saw the fear in the teacher’s face.
“We’re wasting time,” Hawkwood said.
“I’m so sorry,” Fouchet whispered. His face sagged. He looked suddenly very old and very frail.
Lasseur gave the teacher a reassuring smile. “We’ll get him back, Sébastien, I give you my word.” He turned to Hawkwood. “Perhaps we should be armed?”
Hawkwood looked at Fouchet. “Will they have weapons down there?”
Fouchet gave an unhappy nod. “It’s possible.”
“Wonderful,” Lasseur said.