Rapscallion. James McGee
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go searching. We’ll just have to improvise.” He turned to Fouchet. “Where’s Juvert? Have you seen him since the boy went missing?”
A spark of hope brightened the teacher’s eyes. He nodded and pointed.
Claude Juvert was savouring the moment. He was on the beak deck, in the forward heads, enjoying a piss. There was a splendid view of the river from the pissdales, if you kept your eyes front and ignored the unsightly sterns of the prison ships moored over the bow. There was the gross stench, of course, but it was impossible to avoid that, even with the deck exposed to the elements. There were only six seats of ease on the hulk and with over eight hundred prisoners on board it was rare not to find most of them occupied at any one time. Four prisoners were seated behind Juvert, trousers bunched around their ankles, contemplating their future. Conversation was desultory.
Had Rapacious been at sea and under sail, the smell would have been barely noticeable. The constant deluge of salt and spray cascading over the forward netting would have ensured that the deck received a regular sluicing. The shit and piss stains that accumulated around the holes in the gratings would have been washed away without any bother. With the ship moored in the middle of a river in almost flat calm water with only an occasional choppiness to break the monotony, the sanitary arrangements weren’t anywhere near as effective. It was decidedly moist and treacherous underfoot.
Juvert shook himself dry, buttoned his trousers and wiped his hands on his jacket. Emitting a small sigh of satisfaction, he turned to go.
The blow from Lasseur’s boot took Juvert in the small of the back, propelling him head first against the netting stanchion. There was a dull crunch as Juvert’s thin nose took the brunt of the impact. He let out a yelp. Blood spurted. Lasseur stepped in, took Juvert by the throat and squeezed. Blood from Juvert’s broken nose dripped over the privateer’s wrist.
“Remember me?” Lasseur said. His eyes burned with rage.
Juvert’s eyes opened wide, first with shock and then in fear. He moaned and tried to jerk free, but Lasseur’s grip held him fast.
Hawkwood took Juvert’s left arm. Lasseur took the right. They hauled him to his feet.
“Any trouble,” Lasseur hissed, “and it won’t be just your nose – I’ll break your neck.”
Hawkwood smiled grimly at the row of squatting, slack-jawed prisoners who didn’t know whether to remain where they were or try to make a strategic and ungainly withdrawal. “As you were, gentlemen. We’re just leaving.”
They left the heads, escorting the whimpering Juvert between them. Their emergence drew curious looks. A few frowned at the froth of blood on Juvert’s face as he was bundled unceremoniously along the deck, but one look at Lasseur’s steely grimace was enough to warn them it would be a mistake to interfere.
Lasseur placed his lips close to Juvert’s ear. “Did I or did I not warn you to stay away from the boy?”
“W-what boy?” Juvert spluttered. The collision with the post had split his lip and loosened what remained of his yellowing front teeth.
It was the wrong answer. Lasseur spun Juvert round and slammed him against the curved bulkhead. Then he slapped Juvert sharply across the face. “Don’t play games with me! I’m not in the mood.”
“What have I done?” The words emerged weakly from between Juvert’s bloodied lips.
Lasseur hit him again, harder and very fast.
Juvert let go another high-pitched squawk. Blood dripped from his nose and down his chin.
“You took the boy, Lucien, didn’t you?” Lasseur pressed.
Hand over his nose, Juvert mumbled something unintelligible. Tears of pain misted his eyes.
“What?” Lasseur cupped a palm to his ear. “Speak up. We can’t hear you.”
Juvert, anticipating another blow, threw up his hands. “I had to do it.” The words bubbled from his broken nose and split lip.
“Had to?” Hawkwood said.
Juvert spat out a thick gobbet of blood. “It was Matisse! He made me. I was in debt after losing a w-wager. He said if I delivered the boy to him, he’d consider the debt paid.”
“You gutless piece of shit,” Lasseur snarled. He drew back his balled fist.
Juvert cringed and shut his eyes. “Please –”
“Please? You dare to beg? Did Lucien Ballard beg? Did any of the boys beg when you delivered them to him?”
Juvert shrank back.
Concerned that Lasseur would do Juvert permanent damage before they’d achieved their objective, Hawkwood put out a restraining hand.
“You’re taking us to Matisse,” Hawkwood said. “And then Captain Lasseur and I are going to point out to His Majesty the error of his ways.”
“You can’t,” Juvert pleaded, trying to pull away. His frightened gaze moved first to Hawkwood then to Lasseur and then back again. “You don’t know him. Matisse will kill me.”
Hawkwood nodded towards Lasseur. “He’ll kill you if you don’t. And if he doesn’t, I will. So move yourself.”
There should have been an inscription carved into the overhead beam, Hawkwood thought, as he looked down the darkened stairwell: Abandon hope, all ye who enter. He’d heard the phrase somewhere, but he couldn’t recall when or where.
Lasseur had purloined one of the lanterns from the gun deck. He held it over the hatchway. The opening was small compared to most of the others on board. The stairs leading down looked narrower and a lot steeper, too. Poised on the rim, Hawkwood could just make out the bottom step. It lay in shadow, barely visible. There were no signs of life, though he thought he could hear vague sounds rising from deep within the well; faint whisperings, like tiny wings fluttering. There were muted rustlings too, and growls of laughter, and a rattling noise, as if tiny claws were skittering across a table top.
Juvert looked like a man about to be thrust into a pit full of vipers. Blood from his broken nose had congealed along the crease of his upper lip and both cheeks carried thin vertical scars where the sweat and tears had forged tracks through the dirt on his face.
“Move,” Hawkwood said brusquely.
Pushing the reluctant Juvert ahead of them, Hawkwood and Lasseur stepped down through the hatch.
It was like plunging into an oven. Hawkwood felt as if the air was being drawn from his lungs with each step he took. He recalled Murat’s description of the orlop and its lack of headroom compared to the gun deck. Even so, when he reached the bottom of the stairway, he was unprepared for just how low the deckhead was; at least another six inches lower than that of the gun deck. His ears picked up a dull thump. The lantern light wavered and he heard Lasseur curse; proof that even an experienced seaman could be caught unawares.
Hawkwood suspected the word had been passed the moment Juvert’s heel hit the top step. The whispering he thought he’d heard earlier had intensified as news of their descent spread through the deck. It sounded like leaves soughing in the wind.
Had the ship still been seaworthy, the orlop would have been below the waterline, with no access to natural light or ventilation. But, as Hawkwood had seen from the longboat, scuttles had been cut into the hull along the line of the deck. Smaller than the gun-deck ports, square cut, and blocked by metal bars, they were nevertheless of sufficient size to allow daylight in, much to Hawkwood’s relief. He hadn’t relished negotiating the dark with the lantern as their only source of illumination.
If the gun deck resembled a cellar, the orlop was more like a catacomb. He heard Lasseur mutter another oath under his breath and remembered the privateer’s comment about boarding a blackbirder off the African coast. It sounded as if Lasseur was reliving the experience.