by James McGee
"We need to settle this," Hawkwood said. "We need to settle this now."
Matisse shook his head, though whether this was an expression of bafflement or merely amusement was hard to decipher. "You really want him that badly?" The earring jiggled again. Matisse looked to his lieutenants, who were gazing back at him in renewed, bright-eyed anticipation. They had scented blood. He turned back slowly, a shrewd look on his face. He pouted. "All right, perhaps there is a way."
"How?" Lasseur said.
Matisse paused. "A contest."
A murmur ran around the compartment.
Lasseur looked nonplussed. "You mean a wager? You'd decide the boy's future by the throw of a dice?"
"Not dice."
"The turn of a card? I'll still have no part of it!"
"There are more ways of proving a man's mettle than by having him win a hand of whist, Captain."
"Like what?" Lasseur enquired cautiously.
"A trial."
"Prisoner's tribunal?" Lasseur looked sceptical. "You want us to plead our case?"
"Not that kind of trial."
"Then what kind do you mean?"
"I mean trial by combat."
The deck erupted in excited chatter. It took several seconds before it grew still again.
"He wants you to fight for him," Hawkwood said, not quite believing it himself.
Matisse gave a short, harsh, humourless laugh. "You make it sound so vulgar, Captain. As if I was suggesting some kind of brawl. I prefer to think of it as a contest of arms. 'To the victor the spoils' - isn't that what they say?"
Lasseur stared at Matisse in horror. "I'm not going to fight you!"
"Fight me? You misunderstand, Captain. I was referring to the old-fashioned way of settling a dispute, when kings did not cross swords themselves. They nominated a champion; a valiant knight to fight on their behalf, someone versed in the art of war - a warrior." Matisse looked directly at Hawkwood. "You, Captain Hooper; you're a warrior. You've the scars to prove it. I nominate you as Captain Lasseur's champion."
"What?" Lasseur said disbelievingly.
"It's your only chance of getting him back. What do you say, Captain Hooper?"
"I think you've been down here too long. It's addled your brain. You want the boy's fate to be decided by the outcome of a bout?"
As he spoke the words, Hawkwood's brain began to spin. What the hell was happening here? What had Lasseur been thinking? This wasn't part of the plan. How in the name of all that was holy had he allowed himself to be dragged into Lasseur's private war?
"Adds piquancy to the broth, doesn't it?" Matisse said, grinning. "And it's been a while since our last diversion. When was that? Does anyone remember?" He regarded the ring of faces expectantly. "No? Ah well, that's the trouble; you lose track of time on the lower levels. Each day just seems to merge into the next. Anyway, there it is, Captain Lasseur. A sporting chance. If my man wins, the boy stays with us. If Captain Hooper emerges victorious, I'll set him free. What do you say to that?"
"Leave Captain Hooper out of this," Lasseur said. He looked at Hawkwood. His face was ashen.
"Too late for that," Matisse said.
Hawkwood saw the excitement in the eyes of the other men around them. Lasseur was still staring back at him in disbelief.
"Who's your man?" Hawkwood asked. "Dupin?"
"Dupin?" Matisse expressed surprise. His chin came up. "Oh no, not Dupin. While Corporal Dupin is a true and faithful lieutenant, I can see he'd be no match for a veteran of your calibre. No, do not protest, Corporal. You know I speak the truth. Captain Hooper is an experienced soldier, whereas you are merely a courtier with a stick. You wouldn't last five minutes, and where's the sport in that? No, Captain, I choose another; a much more worthy opponent. Call it royal prerogative."
Matisse turned. Several of the men at the table exchanged knowing grins.
"Kemel Bey!" Matisse called.
A pale wedge of light appeared in the wall of darkness behind the table. For the first time, Hawkwood saw the opening in the bulkhead over Matisse's shoulder, indicating there were yet more compartments further forward.
Lasseur drew in a breath. Hawkwood saw why.
An apparition stepped into the lantern glow. The man's skin was so dark it looked as if he might have been carved from the hulk's timbers. He was not as tall as Hawkwood, but neither was he small of stature. His face was broad. His nose was wide and flared. Below it there grew an extravagant, raven-black moustache. His hair was long and oily and curled away from the base of his neck in tight ringlets. Each ear was pierced with a golden ring, which gleamed brightly in the lantern light. His eyes, in contrast to those of Matisse, were as black as olive pits.
His striking looks were offset by the incongruity of his dress. He wore a yellow prison jacket stretched tight across a compact, muscular torso. His legs were encased in a pair of voluminous maroon pantaloons. His feet were bare. He looked, Hawkwood thought, as if he'd stepped out of the illustration in a children's book or from the ranks of a theatrical masquerade.
Hawkwood had heard reports of Bonaparte's Mamelukes from guerrilla fighters in Spain, but he'd never seen them in action. They enjoyed a fearsome reputation. It was said that the Emperor, despite having defeated them in battle, had been so taken with their fighting skills during his Egyptian campaign that he'd authorized two squadrons to accompany him on his return to France. A plea from their commanding officer and a vow that they'd defend France to the death had been enough to justify their immediate incorporation into the ranks of the Imperial Guard. Mameluke cavalry had played a decisive role in Murat's brutal suppression of the Madrid uprising.
It was also patently obvious that, compared to the majority of the hulk's population, the Mameluke was in good physical shape. But the same could be said for the rest of Matisse's crew. It was clear they weren't suffering the same privations as the others. On the hulk, Matisse and his court were like a wolf pack, where the dominant animals took the richest morsels. In fact, Matisse appeared the most undernourished of the lot, which meant that he used brain not brawn to stamp his authority, and that, Hawkwood knew, made him more dangerous than any of them.
"Colourful, isn't he?" Matisse said. "Kemel Bey's a prince of the blood. Leastways, that's what we think he told us. He doesn't speak our language very well. He was taken captive on board a transport off Tangier a year back. Did you know the Emperor still has a Mameluke bodyguard? Helps His Majesty shave every morning; a steady hand with a razor, they say." The side of Matisse's mouth lifted. Several of his minions responded in kind; a private joke shared.
"They also say a Mameluke's training starts from birth. I dare say that's an exaggeration, but they do possess a wonderful abundance of skills: swordsmanship, spear-work, archery, the use of firearms . . . Fine wrestlers, too. They're completely fearless. I choose Kemel Bey as my champion, Captain Hooper." The red-rimmed eyes threw out the challenge. "So, what's it to be? Will you stand, or will you run? Do we have our contest?"
Lasseur stepped close and gripped Hawkwood's arm. When he spoke his voice was low and urgent. "This is not your quarrel."
Hawkwood looked around at the ring of grinning faces, at the sardonic smile on the bald man's lips, at the haunted expression and the dried tear-tracks on the boy's face.
"It is now," he said.
"But it's my fault we're here. I should be the one to fight, not you!"
"It isn't a fight," Hawkwood said. "It's a contest of arms."
"I forbid you!" Lasseur hissed. His hold on Hawkwood's arm intensified.
"You can't forbid me," Hawkwood said evenly. "It's not your quarterdeck, remember? Besides, it has to be me. If you take on Matisse's man and you lose, the boy will have no one in his corner. I'm not a father. I don't have the same bond with him as you do. If anything happens to me, you'll still be here."
"And yet you'd fight for him?"
"It's not a fight," Hawkwood said. "It's -"
"I know," Lasseur said wearily. Relu
ctantly, he let go of Hawkwood's arm. "Well, at least you're honest, my friend. I can't deny that. A little strange, too, I think."
"And practical," Hawkwood said softly. "You're financing my way off this bloody ship. I don't want anything happening to you. If I lose, it won't matter much, the chances are you'll still make it."
Lasseur's mouth opened and closed again quickly.
"In your own time, Captain," Matisse called sarcastically.
Hawkwood stared at Lasseur. "You hadn't thought about that, had you? About what would happen to him once you were gone?"
Lasseur looked suddenly contrite.
"Dear God!" Hawkwood swore. "Tell me you weren't thinking of taking him with us. You know that's impossible!"
"I'll think of something," Lasseur said, though his expression suggested he wasn't too sure.
Hawkwood watched the doubt creep across the privateer's face. Things had just moved from bad to worse and they had run out of time. He searched for options. From what he could see, there weren't any, save one, if he was to keep to his agenda and maintain the charade. He looked at Matisse and sighed.
"All right, where do we do this?"
"Excellent! Spoken like a true officer and gentleman." Matisse pointed to the deck. "Down there."
The pink eyes finally blinked. They alighted on the hovering Dupin.
"Bring the boy."
CHAPTER 8
Entry was through the floor of the gunner's storeroom.
At the Corsican's signal, the men bent down and began to remove boards from the deck. They did so quickly and in silence, setting the boards against the bulkhead. It was clearly a well- rehearsed routine.
"There used to be a hatchway," Matisse said in a conversational tone. "It was sealed when they converted the ship into a hulk. We found it and opened it up again. The old magazine rooms are directly below us. They used the hatch to pass cartridge boxes to and from the gun decks during battle. We guessed it was here. They modelled these ships on the design of our seventies. There's not that much difference between theirs and ours. We know the inside of this one like the backs of our hands. After lights out, we have the run of the place. Not that we need lights. We can find our way in the dark. Some of us don't have any choice."
The last board was laid aside. A steep stairway was revealed.
Matisse's men led the way down, carrying lanterns. Most of them also carried beaten barrel hoops. It was a deliberate display of force, Hawkwood knew, intended for his and Lasseur's benefit. It was to let them know there was nowhere for them to run. They were not shackled or bound and no one had hold of them, but it was Matisse's way of telling them they were there at his whim, prisoners within a prison.
Entering the hold after the constraints of the orlop, Hawkwood felt as if he was walking into a cathedral. For the first time since leaving the top deck, he found he could stand upright. The relief was exquisite. They were deep inside the belly of the ship. Broad wooden ribs curved high around them. Shingle ballast cracked as loudly as eggshells beneath their heels. Matisse picked his way between the deck joists like a spider crossing the strands of a web.
Provision casks, including the water barrels, were embedded in the shingle and stacked in tiers about them, with the larger casks at the bottom to take the load. Wedges had been driven under the stacks for additional stability.
A mixture of strong odours dominated the hold's interior: leakage from the casks, stagnant water and rotten food, along with tar and cordage. There were other pungent smells, too. The whiff of vinegar and sulphur, a legacy from the last time the hold had been fumigated, did little to mask the smell of the rats. With a ready-made food source at their whisker-tips, the rodents had grown numerous and bold. Dust from their droppings drifted in the air like dandelion spores, accumulating at the back of the throat, while at every turn a swift flash of sleek, silken fur would catch the eye as the animals scampered away from the approaching glimmer of the lanterns.
"Top hatches are closed," Matisse said. "Next delivery boats aren't due till morning. We've got the place to ourselves."
At a signal from Matisse his men strung the lanterns from the beams. As the darkness withdrew and the candleglow grew stronger, Matisse reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a pair of spectacles. He placed them carefully on his nose and made great play of securing them behind the backs of his ears. At once, his face was transformed, for the spectacle lenses were round and dark and matched almost exactly the circumference of his eye sockets. When the pale face was viewed full on, the resemblance to a naked skull was uncanny and disturbing.
"When you're ready, Dupin!" Matisse said. He looked at Hawkwood. "My apologies, Captain; we're a little short of pistols and foils. We've had to turn to our own devices; as you'll see."
Lasseur frowned.
Hawkwood looked around at the flattened barrel hoops. An uneasy feeling began to spread through him.
Dupin walked into the circle.
"Catch," he said.
Hawkwood had barely time to react. As he snatched the object out of the air, he saw what it was. It looked the same as the sticks the fencing class had been using the day the well deck was invaded, with one noticeable augmentation. Bound tightly by twine to the end of the stick was an open razor.
"What's this?" Lasseur demanded.
Matisse tipped his head to one side. The spectacle lenses were like black holes in his face. "What did you think 'trial by combat' meant, Captain? A boxing match?"
"British law forbids duelling," Hawkwood said. "Even on the hulks."
"British law doesn't apply here, Captain. We make our own law - Matisse's law."
Hawkwood gazed down at the weapon. It was remarkably light and almost as flexible as a real foil. There was a momentary gleam as lantern light glanced off the six-inch blade.
Matisse grinned. "A shade crude, perhaps, but in the right hands it's very effective. It was Corporal Sarazin over there who came up with the idea. He saw them used to settle disputes when he was a prisoner on Cabrera."
Hawkwood recognized the name. Cabrera was a tiny island, ten miles to the south of Majorca. From what he'd heard, the prison there made Rapacious look like paradise. It had achieved its notoriety following the French defeat at Baylen, when the Comte de l'Etang surrendered his entire corps of eighteen thousand men to the Spanish. The senior staff officers were repatriated. The rank and file were sentenced first to the Cadiz hulks and then to the island. Some had later been transferred to England. It occurred to Hawkwood it had probably been some of those men who'd been cast into Portsmouth Harbour by the crew of the Vengeance.
"Sarazin was at Millbay for a time, too. They used compass points there instead of blades, but we found they're not quite as effective. Not so readily available, either. I put it down to your friend Fouchet's geometry and navigation classes." The Corsican gave a dry chuckle.
Hawkwood stared at the blade then at Matisse. "And if I choose not to fight?" he asked.
"Then you forfeit. The boy remains with us. His future's in your hands, Captain."
"And if I win, you'll give the boy up?"
"I told you: in the event of that happening, the boy will be set free. You have my word."
"What are the rules?"
"There are no rules," Matisse said.
Several of the men laughed.
Lasseur frowned. "Then what determines the outcome of the contest? Is it the first to draw blood?"
"No, it's when one of them stops breathing."
The interior of the hold went still. Only the creaking of the hulk's timbers broke the silence.
The blood drained from Lasseur's face. "This is madness!"
"No, it's how we maintain order. There has to be order. You see that, don't you? You're military men. You understand the need for discipline. Without it, there'd be anarchy. Can't have that. It would upset the balance."
"No!" Lasseur said. "You cannot do this!" He threw Hawkwood a despairing look.
"Oh, but I can. Down here I can do
anything I like."
He stared at Hawkwood. It was a blatant challenge.
A voice spoke softly inside Hawkwood's head. Walk away now!
"At least take the boy outside," Hawkwood said. "He doesn't need to see this."
Matisse shook his head. "On the contrary, I think it will do him the world of good. His first blooding. It could be the making of him. If Kemel Bey does his work, it might even be his first time for experiencing other pleasures, too." Matisse chuckled softly and squeezed the boy's shoulders. "How's your Latin,
Captain? You strike me as an educated man. Do you know the phrase: Jus primae noctis? It means the law of the first night. We call it the lord's right in French.My right. I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to it. Our evening entertainments have been lamentably dull of late. It's why we look forward to fresh arrivals. It gives us a chance to meet new . . . friends."
There was movement behind Dupin. The putrid air prickled with tension as the Mameluke emerged from the ring of men and stepped into the light. He'd removed his jacket. His torso was bare. Dressed only in the pantaloons, he stood as still and as silent as a statue, arms loose by his sides, looking neither right nor left.
Lasseur leant close and whispered nervously. "Please tell me you can best him."
Hawkwood studied the Mameluke. He wondered what was going through the man's mind. There was no change of expression, no show of concern in the eyes or anything in the face to imply that the man had heard or understood any of the conversation. Hawkwood had been shown an automaton once, a wondrous mechanical device that had consisted of a small, perfectly made manikin in the figure of a Turk. By a remarkable system of levers, rods and pulleys, the automaton had sprung to life, folding its arms and bowing its head, even smoking a tiny hookah pipe. Kemel Bey looked like a life-sized version of the toy; a mechanical man awaiting instructions.