Rapscallion. James McGee
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was intense. Hawkwood’s shirt was damp with sweat. His skin prickled uncomfortably.
According to Charbonneau, the Romans craved the darkness. The statement wasn’t strictly true: the open scuttles proved that and Hawkwood could also see the flicker of lantern light. It made him wonder if it wasn’t the Romans and the Rafalés’ fear of outsiders that governed their near nocturnal existence rather than their supposed predilection for perpetual twilight.
Peering into the orlop’s murky interior, he could make out crude benches and rows of sleeping racks. Many of the men on the racks were naked. Huddled together like spoons, their skins as grey as cadavers. Others, clad in what remained of their uniforms, resembled scarecrows, while the ones dressed only in their blanket togas looked more like moths as they melted in and out of the shadows or hovered around the guttering candles, gripping their cards with spindle-thin fingers.
Hawkwood, shirt moulded to his flesh, was beginning to envy the men who were without clothes. It was becoming harder to draw breath. The cause of the faint rattling noise that he’d detected earlier was now clear and he chided himself for not recognizing it as dice being rolled across table tops. Even naked and starving, the Rafalés were prepared to gamble their lives away. The darkness couldn’t conceal the wild expressions on the faces of the wretches hunched around even the dimmest candle flame. Each tumble of the die was accompanied by cries of excitement or gales of manic laughter. It was like walking through the corridors of Bedlam.
Heads turned towards the intruders. Some faces showed open hostility. Others reflected fear at seeing their sanctuary violated. Some of the men on the sleeping racks, who in the midst of all the wretchedness had still managed to retain a small sliver of dignity, hunkered down in a desperate bid to conceal themselves beneath their meagre scraps of blanket. The remainder turned their faces away and tried to merge into the shadows.
Charbonneau had referred to the orlop-dwellers as animals. Even allowing for prejudice, the description had seemed harsh, but looking around it wasn’t hard to see the truth in it. As he made his way along the deck, Hawkwood’s stomach heaved at the sight and stench of prisoners lying in their own filth.
“I would not keep dogs in a place like this,” Lasseur whispered, horrified.
It seemed impossible to believe that men could allow themselves to be subjected to such degradation. It made Hawkwood wonder about British prisoners held in French gaols. He didn’t know if the French used hulks. There were prison fortresses, he knew that; many of them in the north, at Verdun, Quimper and Arras. Were the conditions there as bad as this? It was more than likely any French prisoner who did manage to escape would waste no time in reporting the brutal manner in which they’d been kept. It wasn’t inconceivable that, in retaliation, the French authorities would make it their duty to display the same lack of compassion as their British counterparts.
Like many soldiers, Hawkwood had always viewed a quick death in battle as infinitely preferable to being cut and probed by the regimental surgeon and slowly dying, crippled and in agony. Now, bent almost double and surrounded by such abject misery, it was only too clear there were fates far worse than the surgeon’s knife. Being captured and held in a place like this – that was death of a kind; a slow, lingering death. And no man, no matter in which army he served, deserved that.
As Hawkwood crabbed his way beneath the beams, trying to avoid the stares, several dark objects tacked to the support struts caught his eye. He paused, curious. Lasseur held up the lantern. Hawkwood found he was looking at a row of rat pelts, with the ears and tails still attached. What had Charbonneau told them? Even the rats aren’t safe. Hawkwood wondered what rat meat tasted like. He turned away, sickened.
They were almost at the bow. Ahead of them, the base of the foremast rose solidly out of the deck. The press of bodies wasn’t so bad here, Hawkwood noticed, which was curious. It was as though the mast was some sort of totem, beyond which the mass of the Rafalés were not prepared to venture.
Hawkwood was acutely aware of the ache at the base of his spine; the effect of being bent double. He tried to ease the discomfort by straightening, suspecting it would be a futile exercise, but discovered to his relief that the height of the deckhead between the crossbeams had become a little more generous. He still wasn’t able to stand upright, but there was a definite improvement over the miserly headroom at the bottom of the hatchway.
Juvert paused. He looked suddenly apprehensive. Hawkwood peered ahead cautiously. He could hear voices, but forward of the mast the bow section of the orlop lay in near impenetrable darkness and he couldn’t see a thing. Then he heard a bray of harsh laughter and he looked again. It took a second for him to see there was in fact a thick layer of blankets in the form of a curtain suspended from the overhead beam, effectively sealing off the main part of the orlop from the fore platform. From the darkness beyond the heavy veil came the hollow rattle of dice and the murmur of conversation.
Lasseur raised the lantern. He nodded. Hawkwood took Juvert’s arm and drew back the edge of the curtain.
During his time in the army Hawkwood had endured a good many sea voyages. The majority of them, almost without exception, had been miserable. But he still held memories of the transport ships and had a vague idea of their layout below deck. In the hulk’s previous life, the fore platform had probably housed the boatswain’s and carpenter’s quarters and workshop, along with the gunner’s storeroom, and the area would have been separated from the main orlop by a concave bulkhead. On Rapacious the bulkhead had been removed. The cabins and storerooms had been transformed into gloomy, lantern-lit alcoves, some of which were partially concealed behind hanging blankets. Hawkwood saw that scraps of cloth had also been hung over the scuttles, reducing the daylight coming in through the grilles.
There were perhaps ten or twelve men present, seated at the tables or sprawled on sleeping racks; most were clad in the drab yellow prison garb. Some, however, were wearing blanket togas. A couple were engaged in a dice game. At another table a foursome was playing cards – drogue, from the looks of one pair, who had wooden pegs clipped over their nostrils while they awaited the outcome of the next hand.
Hawkwood was struck by the strong resemblance to a rookery drinking den. The only difference between this section of the orlop and a rookery were the half-dozen hammocks suspended from the beams.
At Hawkwood’s and Lasseur’s entrance, conversation ceased abruptly. At the card table, the losing pair sat up straight and surreptitiously removed their nose pegs.
Hawkwood broke the silence. “We’re looking for Matisse.”
No one answered. Several men exchanged wary looks.
“Cat got your tongues?” Hawkwood gripped Juvert’s elbow. “Point him out.”
Juvert winced. His mouth formed an O. He looked petrified, but before he could reply, several men stood up. They weren’t empty-handed. Each was armed with what looked like a heavy metal blade, about eighteen inches in length.
Well, Fouchet did warn us, Hawkwood thought. But swords? He heard Lasseur mutter an obscenity.
Benches slid back noisily. Dice and cards lay forgotten.
One of the armed men shuffled forward. He was heavy set with bowed legs and a low brow. “What’s your business here?”
Lantern light played across the speaker’s face. A large, pear-shaped birthmark, as dark as a gravy stain, covered his right cheek and jaw. His nose had been broken at some time in the past.
Hawkwood took a surreptitious glance at the blade in the man’s hand. It looked like an iron barrel hoop that had been hammered flat. The edge was a long way from honed, but it looked as if it could still do considerable damage.
“You’re Matisse?”
The man looked anything but regal.
“I’m Dupin.”
“Then you’re only the monkey. It’s the organ grinder we want.”
Close to, Hawkwood noticed there was something different about Dupin’s uniform. As well as the arrows and the letters