Rapscallion

by James McGee

  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 on the sleeves and thighs, the yellow jacket and trousers were covered in an uneven pattern of small black dots. Some of the dots were moving. Dupin's clothes were alive with lice. Hawkwood's skin crawled. He resisted the urge to scratch and bit down on the sour taste that had risen unbidden into the back of his throat.

  Lasseur had seen the infestation, too. The lantern illuminated his disgust. He shuddered.

  Hawkwood said, "Tell His Majesty that Captains Hooper and Lasseur are here. He'll know what it's concerning."

  "Best do it quickly," Lasseur said. "Otherwise stand aside."

  Dupin stared hard at the marks on Juvert's face. Then he turned. He jerked his head at the men over his shoulder and as they moved apart another table came into view at the back of the compartment. Five people were seated around it. There was no throne, as far as Hawkwood could see; only benches. No crown or robes of state, either. Bottles and jugs sat on the table alongside platters of half-consumed bread and cheese.

  The figure at the centre of the table leaned forward, revealing a closely shaven, oval-shaped head and a face empty of hue.

  Lasseur gasped. The privateer's reaction had come not from seeing the man's bald pate but from his eyes. They had no discernible pupils. The centre of each eye was not dark but shell pink, as if a thimbleful of blood had been emptied into a saucer of milk. Even odder was the way the head appeared to be disembodied, for the rest of the seated figure, from the neck down, looked to be swathed entirely in black, save for one pale, slender arm which rested languorously over the shoulders of the small, blond boy seated beside him.

  "Matisse." Lasseur made the name sound like a whispered obscenity. He went to take a step forward only to find his path blocked.

  The thin, bloodless lips split in two.

  "It's all right, Dupin. You can let them by. We've been expecting them."

  CHAPTER 7

  Hawkwood stared at the pink eyes and the shaven scalp and wondered about the colour of Matisse's hair. There was a name given to people whose hair was so blond it was almost white and whose red-rimmed eyes looked as if they were leaching blood. Whiteface, some called it, though that wasn't its only name. Spain was where Hawkwood had come across the phenomenon, for the first and only other time, in the person of a small boy in an orphanage run by priests outside Astariz. The boy had been abandoned in the confessional as a baby, wrapped in a blanket, his only possession a small silver crucifix strung on a bootlace around his neck. The child had been seven years old when Hawkwood had met him and something of a miracle, for no one had expected him to live beyond his fourth birthday. The boy's eyes had been sensitive to light, Hawkwood recalled, forcing him to spend most of his waking hours in a darkened room. It was one of the brothers who'd told Hawkwood that the word used to describe the boy's condition had been borrowed from Portuguese traders. It was the name they gave to the white Negroes they'd encountered on the coast of Africa. They called them albinos.

  The colour of Matisse's eyes suggested he might be a victim of the same abnormality. Maybe that was how the Romans' alleged preference for the dark had got started. Maybe the stories were based purely on a distorted understanding of the Roman leader's affliction.

  Hawkwood's thoughts were interrupted.

  "Captain Lasseur! This is an honour! It's not often we get to meet one of the republic's naval heroes. Why, I was regaling my friends here only yesterday with tales of your exploits. Very impressed they were, too; especially with your taking of the British brig.Justice. Where was it now? Off the coast at Oran? I heard you were severely outgunned. That must have taken some courage. We admire a man with backbone, don't we, boys?"

  There was a curious rough yet sibilant quality to the voice. The mocking words were heavily accented and didn't so much emerge as slither from the tip of the man's tongue. Hawkwood presumed that was due to the speaker's Corsican heritage. There was no response from the other men lounging at the table, who looked as dissolute as their leader and decidedly unenthused by the prospect of receiving visitors, irrespective of their reputation.

  "And you'll be our gallant American ally, Captain Hooper! I regret to say, due to an oversight no doubt, Captain Hooper's reputation has failed to precede him. My commiserations, nevertheless, on your capture, sir. The Emperor needs all the help he can get. My spies tell me you're newly arrived from Spain; a bloody battleground, by all accounts. The newspapers here say that Wellington's giving us a roasting. Is that true? Or are they pamphleteering, I wonder?"

  Hawkwood ignored the question. He stuck out his boot and shoved Juvert forward. "I'm told this belongs to you."

  Surprise and gravity did the rest. The trip sent Juvert flying. Forced to put out his hands to save himself, he let out an undignified splutter as he slewed across the deck, forcing several of the onlookers to scramble back from his line of trajectory. The boy jumped nervously, his eyes wide. Shaken out of their insouciance, the men on either side of him sat up. Shock lanced across their faces.

  The shaven-headed man's pose did
not change. It was hard to read the expression in his eyes as he stared down at Juvert's prostrate body. Only the contraction of his jaw muscles indicated the essence of his thoughts. He looked up, his arm still draped across the boy's shoulders.

  "You've a flair for the dramatic, Captain Hooper, I'll grant you that. From the look of him, I'd say Claude doesn't quite share your enthusiasm. It's true, he performs errands for me now and again. Not always to my complete satisfaction, it has to be said." There was an undeniable hint of menace in the last statement.

  Juvert got to his knees and winced. From the pallor in his cheeks, his ears had obviously picked up the nuance in his master's voice. He looked like a man trying to decide between advance or retreat, knowing in his heart and from the mutterings and the looks he was attracting that, whichever path he took, he was unlikely to recruit much sympathy.

  The shaven-headed man gave a jerk of his head. "Take him away."

  Juvert was afforded no opportunity to protest. Hauled unceremoniously to his feet, he barely had time to throw Hawkwood and Lasseur a backward glance before he was bundled through the curtain. No one looked sorry to see him go. A muffled grunt came from outside and then there was the sound of an object being dragged away. Then silence.

  Matisse sat back. He looked composed, at ease with his surroundings. His spidery fingers played idly with the hair on the back of the boy's neck. "You'll forgive us for not rising. We're not used to company. I apologize for the inadequacy of the illumination, by the way. My eyes have an aversion to light; daylight in particular. Even candle flames cause me some discomfort. An inconvenient ailment, but I've grown used to it."

  The words confirmed Hawkwood's suspicions. They also explained the rags draped over the scuttles.

  "We don't give a shit for your health," Lasseur snapped. "We're here for the boy."

  The backs of the men seated around the table stiffened at this. The shaven head tilted. Lucien Ballard sat unmoving; he looked terrified. The hand on his neck stilled but did not relinquish possession.

  Hawkwood tensed.

  "He doesn't belong down here," Lasseur said.

  "Is that right? Who says?"

  The fingers resumed their fondling. It reminded Hawkwood of a cat being stroked. Lucien Ballard was not purring, however. He looked mesmerized.

  "I warned Juvert what would happen if he showed his face again," Lasseur said. "He disobeyed me - on your orders."

  The Corsican's hand froze once more. His chin came up sharply.

  "Diso-beyed you? Juvert is not yours to command, Captain Lasseur. He's my emissary. In case you've forgotten, you're not on your quarterdeck now. This is my dominion. You're the trespasser here."

  "Commander Hellard might have something to say about that," Hawkwood said softly. It wasn't only the man's gaze that was disconcerting, he realized. Matisse hardly ever seemed to blink.

  "Hellard?" the bald man sneered. "Hellard's a weakling. He's commander in name only. I hold sway here, not him."

  "King Matisse?" Hawkwood said, and wondered if that was the reason Hellard hadn't given the order to fire on the well deck.

  The pink eyes shifted so that they were trained directly at Hawkwood. It was an unsettling feeling. But from the exchanges so far, Hawkwood sensed that, behind the grotesque facade, there was a dark, manipulative intelligence at play.

  "Some call me that. Though, to tell the truth, I can't even remember how it started. Some would think it an indulgence, but why should I discourage it? It serves its purpose, helping keep the lower orders in check."

  The words were spoken dismissively. Hawkwood wondered whether Matisse included the men around him as part of the "lower orders", and what they thought of it. There was no suggestion that any of them had taken umbrage. Maybe they weren't sure what it meant, or else they assumed it meant the rest of the Rafales.

  A thin smile played along the bald man's lips. "Personally, I like to think of myself more as a pastor, a shepherd administering to the welfare of his flock." His fingers resumed toying with the boy's collar.

  Not again, Hawkwood thought. A cold shiver passed along his spine. I had my fill of pastors and parsons the last time.

  Maybe that was why Matisse was dressed in black; to perpetuate the illusion, or perhaps in some strange way to accentuate the ghostly complexion and make him appear more striking. Matisse's attire was remarkably similar to a priest's. There were no superfluous frills or finery or affectation, save for one: a tiny tear-shaped object that occasionally caught the lantern light. Hawkwood hadn't noticed it before. It was pearl pendant earring that dangled delicately from Matisse's left ear.

  Lasseur growled, "For the last time. Hand the boy over."

  The earring danced as Matisse turned. "You know, when Juvert told me you'd taken an interest in him, I confess I was rather intrigued. What were we supposed to make of that? Perhaps you've designs on him yourself, Captain Lasseur - is that why you're here?"

  "I'm here to keep him from harm."

  "Harm?" Matisse slid his hand from the boy's neck and placed it, palm flat, over his heart. His nails were long and discoloured; their tips sharp, like talons. "You think I'd harm a child? How could you suggest such a thing? You wound me, Captain."

  "Don't play games," Lasseur said.

  "Games?"

  "Fouchet warned us."

  "Ah, yes, the teacher. And what exactly did he warn you about?"

  "He warned us about you," Lasseur said. The disgust in his voice sounded like gravel at the back of his throat. "He told us about the others."

  "Others?"

  "The other boys you've brought down here."

  "Did he now?" The Corsican pursed his lips. "That old man's become rather belligerent of late. I shall have to have words with him." The maggot-white face lifted. "He needs to be reminded of his place."

  "You don't deny it?"

  "Why should I?" Matisse stroked the boy's cheek and turned Lucien Ballard's face towards him. The boy's lower lip began to tremble. "Have you ever seen anything so precious?"

  "He's a child."

  "Yes, he is. He's a sweet child, but you make it all sound so sordid, Captain. You think we're all apprentices of Sodom? You couldn't be further from the truth, I assure you. If we weren't shut away in this foul place, do you really think we'd be having this conversation? We're a long way from home; from our wives and sweethearts. What's a man to do? All we crave is a small measure of comfort. There's nothing wrong with that, surely? A man's not meant to be on his own. A man has needs. What's so bad in trying to find companionship and affection to see us through these dark days? Would you deny us that? What right have you to judge?"

  "Affection?"

  "Yes, affection. Tell them, boy. Tell the captain. Has Matisse hurt you? No. There, you see? Not a hair spoiled. He's perfectly safe."

  "Safe?" Lasseur stared at Matisse. "You'd take him into your bed; you'd turn him into one of your catamites? You'd share him among these scum - and you call that safe?"

  Chairs scraped back as the men at the table rose around their leader.

  A nerve flickered along Matisse's jawline. "D'you hear that? He called you scum; and queer scum at that. I'd take care, if I were you, Captain. The navy may hold you in high esteem, but you'd do well to remember where you are. As for this particular boy, who elected you his guardian? You've no legitimate claim on him, have you?" There was a pause. "After all, it's not as though he's your son, now, is it?"

  "God damn you!" Lasseur swore. He took a pace forward. His face was rigid.

  A warning growl sounded from deep inside Dupin's throat. He raised the hoop blade.

  Quickly, Hawkwood put a restraining hand on Lasseur's sleeve. The muscles along the privateer's arm were as taught as knotted rope. Hawkwood's hold was enough to restrain Lasseur, but only for as long as it took for the Frenchman to shrug his hand away angrily. "I demand you hand the boy over, now!"

  The deck went deathly quiet.

  The black-clad figure placed both palms on th
e table and pushed himself to his feet. The movement was effortlessly sinuous. The Corsican didn't so much rise from his seat as uncoil.

  "Demand? You dare to come here and demand of me? Look around you, Captain. This is my kingdom. I reign here; no one else. You're newly arrived, so you're not yet acquainted with the order of things. Go back to your gun deck and take Captain Hooper with you. And if you're thinking of summoning assistance, think again. Do you really believe the British control the lives on this hulk? Oh, they may have the uniforms and their fine muskets. They may even have the authority, but do you think for one moment that they hold the power? There are more than eight hundred of us imprisoned on this stinking barge. What do you think would happen if there was a full-scale rebellion? The British don't keep the inmates in check here; I do. Matisse! Commander Hellard may despise me. He may even fear me. But you can be certain that he and the rest of his crew thanked God the day I came on board!"

  "You utter filth!" Lasseur hissed.

  For one heart-stopping moment, despite Dupin's proximity, Hawkwood thought the privateer was about to hurl himself across the table. The moment he did that, they were both dead. But then, as quickly as he had let it slip, Lasseur seemed to recover his equilibrium. He looked Matisse straight in the eye. "Very well, name your price."

  "My price?" The bald head swivelled. The movement was performed so fluidly, it reminded Hawkwood of a cobra winding itself up for the strike.

  "You heard. How much?"

  "You offer me money?" The mocking tone was still there.

  "We want the boy. We're not going back without him."

  "Brave words, Captain. Have you considered the possibility that you might not be going back at all?"

  "You think you can stop us?" Lasseur said.

  "Of course I can stop you. I need only click my fingers. How far do you think you'd get? This time, you really are outgunned."

  Looking around, Hawkwood knew the man was right. Despite Lasseur's attempt at bravado, neither of them had a hope of taking on Matisse's crew. They'd be fools to even contemplate it. It had been a mistake to have come so unprepared. They'd underestimated the hold that Matisse had over the lower deck; and indeed, if his boast was to be believed, the rest of the ship.