Rapscallion

CHAPTER 11

Hawkwood uncrossed his wrists and brought his right arm down by his side. He flexed his fingers and tried bending his knees and experienced a wave of relief when he found he was able to accomplish both tasks, albeit with some difficulty. He couldn't bend his knees to any great angle, but he knew there was probably enough leeway, despite the weight of the earth, for him to achieve his objective.

He could still make out tiny patches of daylight through the cloth, which meant the filling in of the burial pit had either been half-hearted or deliberately slipshod, with just enough dirt having been cast over the newly interred burial sacks to deceive the militia.

He could no longer hear voices. They had faded as the burial detail returned to the boat. He could hear seabirds in the distance and the lap of waves along the shoreline. He could also hear sheep bleating. It was a sound the prisoners had grown used to, for when the wind was in the right direction the animals' plaintive cries could be heard clear across the marshes, even as far as the hulks.

He drew his right knee towards him, extended his right arm, stretched his fingers and began inching his hand down his thigh. It wasn't as easy as he'd hoped. There wasn't enough room in the sack to allow him the flexibility he was looking for while laying on his back. He paused, muscles straining.

Then, taking a deep breath, he twisted on to his left side. Immediately, he felt the corpse beneath him move. A wave of putrescence enveloped him. He bit down on the sour taste and tried the manoeuvre again. This time, he almost made it. His fingertips moved beyond his kneecap. Hunching his shoulders, he reached down once more. The muscles in his shoulder shrieked as his thumb and forefinger drew the knife out from the inside of his boot.

He rested, chest heaving, and waited for his shoulder to stop protesting. Then he turned on to his back once more and brought his arm up. With the knife less than a hand's breadth from his face, he infiltrated the razor-sharp blade into the gap between the stitches in the sailcloth and began cutting.

He was on the second stitch when his ears picked up a sound that hadn't been there before. His skin prickled. Slowly, he withdrew the knife blade down into the bag.

He heard the noise again; someone was approaching cautiously. Hawkwood went rigid. There was a soft scraping sound followed by a brief silence. Then he thought he heard voices talking softly. The words were indistinct. It had to be the militia, come back to check, trying to be quiet about it, and failing. Carefully, Hawkwood reversed the knife and held it flat against his chest beneath his arm. The scraping noises resumed. Suddenly the light showing through the cloth was blotted out. A figure was kneeling over him. Without warning, a knife blade, larger than his own, stabbed through the vent in the cloth inches from his face, sliced effortlessly through the next dozen stitches and the edges of the sailcloth were peeled apart.

"You smell almost as bad as me." Lasseur wrinkled his nose, chuckled softly and jerked his head. "He says we've to hurry and we're to keep our heads down, which seems sensible advice."

Hawkwood looked beyond Lasseur's shoulder to where a man of indeterminate age was crouched, holding a short-handled spade. He was dressed in a long-sleeved grey shirt and a pair of dirty brown breeches. Other than a pair of narrowed dark eyes, it was hard to make out his features, for his mouth and nose were covered by a triangular folded scarf. Hawkwood presumed it was as a guard against the smell from the pit rather than an attempt at disguise. Curly black hair peeked from beneath a soft felt cap.

"Does he have a name?" Hawkwood asked.

"He says we're to call him Isaac." Lasseur was about to hand Hawkwood the knife when he caught sight of the blade concealed beneath Hawkwood's arm. "I see you started without me."

Lasseur tossed the knife to the man behind him and watched with approval as Hawkwood used his own blade to cut himself free before returning the weapon to its place of concealment.

Lasseur grinned. "Maybe I should be calling you the sly boots instead of Murat."

"Quit talking and move your arses!" The man calling himself Isaac slid the knife into his belt. "And don't forget the bloody sacks. You do parlez English, yes?"

"I told you," Lasseur said. "We both do." He looked at Hawkwood and rolled his eyes.

"Right, well, keep your bleedin' heads down! We ain't out of the woods yet."

"Woods?" Lasseur frowned. "I see no trees." He looked about him.

"Jesus," the man muttered, waving his hand. "Bleedin' Frogs. Come on, get behind me."

Hawkwood and Lasseur did as they were told as the guide began shovelling mud back across the top of the burial pit, filling in the depressions where Hawkwood and Lasseur had lain, restoring the disturbed surface. When he'd completed the task to his satisfaction, he turned and pushed past them, still keeping low. "Follow me. Stay close."

Hawkwood risked a glance seaward and saw why they'd been instructed to keep their heads down. Between the burial pit and the beach there was a slight rise in the ground. On the other side of the rise, the shingle sloped down to the water. At ground level, where they lay, the slope was just high enough to block the view of the hulks. A clear worm's-eye view of the estuary was also hampered by clumps of sea-grass which crested the shingle bank for several yards in either direction.

A throaty mutter came from behind. "I'd stop admirin' the bloody view, if I were you. Signal said we had to get you away sharpish, so unless you're plannin' on hangin' around for the militia, we'd best get goin'. We ain't got all day!"

Hawkwood felt his arm tugged. Turning his back on the water, he tucked the sailcloth bundle under his arm and followed Lasseur and the guide on all fours, away from the pit and its gruesome contents.

It was a laborious crawl. Hawkwood estimated they had probably covered close to fifty yards on their bellies before the ground suddenly opened up in front of them, revealing a steep- sided ditch, some six paces in width. At the bottom of the ditch a three-foot-wide ribbon of murky brown water was bordered by rushes and tall, thin-bladed reeds.

Isaac removed the scarf from his face, passed it to Hawkwood and nodded towards the water. "Ain't sweet enough to drink, but you might want to think about cleanin' yourselves up a bit. Be quick about it, though."

Hawkwood soaked the scarf in the water and rinsed the blood from his face before handing the cloth to Lasseur. The water was warm and smelled of peat and more than a hint of dung. Hawkwood didn't like to think what else might be lying under the surface, but anything was better than the stench of the pit.

"You said you had a signal," Hawkwood said, remembering that Murat had used the word, too. "What signal?"

He saw that the man was giving him a strange look.

"You don't sound like a Frog," Isaac said.

"That's because I'm not."

"Your English is bloody good. What are you then? A Dutchman?

"American."

"A Yankee?" Isaac's eyes widened. "Bloody hell, you're a long way from home."

"So everyone keeps telling me," Hawkwood said. "What signal?"

Isaac's expression shifted from surprise to disbelief that anyone with half a brain would ask such a question. He glanced towards Lasseur as if seeking reassurance that his opinion of Hawkwood's ignorance was well founded, and looked surprised to be confronted by the same quizzical expression.

He turned back. "Your bleedin' washing lines, of course! What did you think it was?"

"Washing lines?" Lasseur said, mystified. Suddenly he glanced down at the rag in his hand and his eyes opened wide. "Flags! My God, they used the laundry as signalling flags!" He swung back to Hawkwood and grinned wildly.

"All right, that's enough," Isaac said impatiently. He stared hard at the blood spots on Hawkwood's shirt and at the marks on Lasseur's face and waved the scarf away when Lasseur tried to return it. "Let's go. Allez!"

Without waiting for a reply, their guide broke into a run along the edge of the watercourse. Still carrying their sailcloth burial bags, Hawkwood and Lasseur set off in stumbling pursuit.

Hawkwood watched Lasseur stuff the piece of rag into his pocket and had a mental image of shirts and breeches twitching in the breeze like lines of bunting. He wondered how the system worked and guessed the messages were hidden in the sequence of the washed garments. A shirt followed by a pair of stockings followed by two sets of breeches and so on. It was, he was forced to admit, brilliant in its simplicity and - unless you were privy to the secret - totally undetectable.

The land around them was flat and featureless; a mixture of bog and clumpy pasture, crisscrossed with ditches that twisted through the marshland like drunken adders. There were no trees in the immediate vicinity, though further east the land rose towards a series of copse-dotted hills that rolled away gently towards the centre of the island.

Trailing Isaac along the ditch was like following a hound. Every twenty paces or so, their guide would lift his nose in the air as though searching for a scent, before turning to make sure they were still following.

They had travelled a further half-mile before they halted for the second time. They were still only a little over a mile from the ship, Hawkwood estimated. Slightly less as the crow flew; and not nearly far enough away for comfort. Their guide was evidently of the same opinion, for he peered over the rim of the dyke, back towards the way they had come, as if searching for pursuers. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he ducked back down and they set off once more.

Even though it was not the most direct path to safety, Hawkwood knew that using the ditch as cover was the sensible thing to do. The land along this stretch of coast was so low lying that if they stood up they risked being seen by anyone aboard the hulks with a half-decent spyglass. Isaac's strategy prevented their heads from breaking the skyline. Better to be safe than sorry, Hawkwood reasoned. With good fortune looking over their shoulders, they'd be able to make up the time before too long.

The day was turning warm. He could hear Lasseur breathing hard and wondered how fit the man was and whether he could keep up the pace. In the army, Hawkwood had been used to route marches; and as a Rifleman he'd led his men on skirmishes over moor and mountain trails that would have defeated regular troops. Since returning to England and joining Bow Street, however, he was the first to admit that some muscles had grown soft through disuse. Runner by name, perhaps, but the number of times he'd had to pursue criminals for long distances over heath and hedgerow had been few and far between, which was to say never at all, as far as he could remember.

Ten paces ahead of them, Isaac held up his hand and laid a finger to his lips. When Hawkwood and Lasseur caught up with him, their guide raised his eyes above the edge of the dyke. Hawkwood and Lasseur followed suit.

"Merde!" Lasseur whispered.

The sheep were less than twenty paces away, hemmed inside a wicker pen. It was a small flock; perhaps thirty animals in total, black faced and long tailed. Some had small curved horns. It wasn't the sheep, however, that had caused Lasseur alarm.

Tied to the pen's gatepost were two wire-haired black-and-white dogs. At the sight of the men, both dogs stood, tongues lolling. Their ears were pricked. Their eyes were bright and alert.

Lasseur laid a warning hand on Hawkwood's arm.

"It's all right," Isaac said. "They know better than to bark. They do and they'll get a taste of my belt."

Isaac climbed out of the ditch and trotted towards the dogs. He gave a curt word of command and the animals dropped to their bellies.

"You can come out now," he said and waited for Hawkwood and Lasseur to join him. The dogs watched their approach with interest.

Isaac unhitched the dogs and swung the gate open. Immediately the dogs raced round to the back of the flock and began herding the sheep out of the gate into the open pasture.

Walking into the pen, Isaac dropped to his knees and used the edge of the spade to lift out a section of turf, exposing a knotted rope handle. Hooking his fingers under the rope, he leaned back and pulled. A larger section of turf came with him. The turf was bedded on top of a wooden trapdoor. Isaac pulled the trapdoor aside and Hawkwood found himself staring down into another pit.

The chamber had been well constructed. The floor was clay. The walls were lined with wooden slats. Half a dozen wooden kegs - half-ankers, Hawkwood guessed; each one capable of holding four gallons of spirits - were stacked against the wall. On the floor next to the kegs were several oilskin bags and a muslin sack. Isaac climbed into the hole and passed the sack out. "There's some bread and cheese and apples and a little something to wet the whistle." He mimed a drinking motion when Lasseur frowned. Then he held out his hand. "Give me the body sacks. Take these and put them on." He deposited the spade and the body sacks into the pit and passed out two coarse linen bundles.

Hawkwood and Lasseur opened them up. They were shepherds' smocks folded around two soft, wide-brimmed hats.

"These, too," Isaac said and held out two short hazelwood crooks. Retrieving a third, longer, crook for himself, he closed the trap and replaced the turf over the rope handle. Then he tamped down the edges of the turf and, collecting up a handful of sheep droppings, scattered them over the area. Satisfied that the entrance to the underground chamber was again concealed, he looked up and indicated the smocks. "I said put them on. Time we were leavin'."

Hawkwood and Lasseur stared at him.

Even the dogs, who had returned to Isaac's side, looked doubtful.

Isaac gave an exasperated sigh. "They'll be lookin' for two men on the run, not three shepherds movin' their flock to fresh pasture. But if you think you know better, then be my guest. Ferry's that way." Isaac pointed a stubby finger towards the south. "Make your bloody minds up."

At that moment, a sharp report, not unlike a distant roll of thunder cut short, came from the direction of the estuary. It was followed by the faint ringing of a bell. The dogs' ears and muzzles flicked towards the sounds. Isaac's head swivelled. "Shite!"

"That doesn't sound good," Lasseur said.

Hawkwood laid the walking stick down, slipped his arms through the smock's sleeves and pulled the garment over his head. It occurred to him that it was like climbing into the burial sack from the opposite direction. He jammed the hat on his head and picked up the stick.

Isaac nodded his approval. Hawkwood had the feeling he'd just transformed himself into the village idiot.

Lasseur put on his smock and hat and threw Hawkwood a lop-sided grin.

The grin made it worse. Hawkwood wondered what the chances were of one village having two idiots. He picked up the muslin sack and slung it over his shoulder.

Isaac let out a series of short, sharp whistles. Obediently, the dogs hurtled off and in a pincer movement began to drive the sheep towards a wooden gate at the far corner of the field. Isaac pointed towards the nearest tree-topped crest. "We'll take them round Furze Hill towards the East Church Road."

Lasseur followed the pointing stick and then stared back towards the coast. Hawkwood knew the privateer was gauging the time factor.

"If they've let off the cannon it means they've searched the ship and found us gone," Hawkwood said. "They're bound to send a detail to check the burial pit. That'll take them a while."

Retaining the burial sacks and filling in the pit had been a shrewd ploy. With obvious signs of disinterment removed, the only way to prove Hawkwood and Lasseur had been carried ashore would be to open the pit, exhume the full body bags and count the corpses, all of which would, hopefully, add to the confusion. Hawkwood didn't envy any of the men assigned to that task.

The dogs were enjoying themselves; zig-zagging back and forth under Isaac's watchful eye. The sheep were obviously well used to the imposition, so much so that it looked as if they were the ones who were obeying Isaac's short sharp whistles rather than the dogs. Reaching the gate, the animals waited patiently for the men to catch up. Isaac pointed past the gate to a small wooden bridge that lay beyond it. "The road's yonder."

When they got there, it wasn't much of a road; more like a fifteen-foot-wide bridle path; narrow and pitted and rutted with cart and animal tracks. On the other side of the path, the land lifted in a gentle incline.

"This here's the Minster Road," Isaac said. "We want the one over the 'ill - it runs right the way across the Isle. We'll stay off it, but if we follow alongside it'll take us where we want to go. As long as we keep our eyes peeled, the dogs'll do all the work. You spot anyone comin', you sing out. Remember, all they'll see is three locals drivin' sheep, so no need to go runnin' off. Keep your 'ats on and your 'eads down and, whatever you do, don't open your bloody mouths. You can spit on their boots if you like. Militia are used to that. They stands for authority an' Sheppey folk ain't too partial to folk in authority - don't like being told what to do; goes against the grain." Isaac grinned. He looked at Lasseur. "You understand, Monsewer?"

Lasseur nodded. "I think so."

"Right then, gentlemen," Isaac said. "Let's take a walk, shall we?"

Sheep were not fast walkers, especially up hills, and as a disguise and an aid to flight, their steady perambulations didn't exactly instil confidence. Though it was, Hawkwood conceded inwardly, a pleasant enough way to travel if you didn't have a care in the world or the possibility of armed militia snapping at your heels.

Even allowing for the fact that pursuit could be drawing ever nearer, the sheer joy of being anywhere other than on board the hulk was a wondrous feeling. No wooden walls, no men crammed on top of one another in stinking darkness. There was only the wide blue sky and grass beneath their feet. The smell of the marshes didn't seem so pervasive out here in the fields. And there was, of course, a birdsong accompaniment; not the raucous, incessant complaining of gulls, but the melodious twittering of song thrush, blackbird and hedge sparrow. Hawkwood had followed the drum through Spain, Portugal, South America and a host of foreign climes, but there was nothing he'd seen that could compare to the English countryside on a bright summer morning.

Even Lasseur looked entranced. Hawkwood had caught the privateer lifting his face to the sun on several occasions. For the Frenchman it was probably the next best thing to being on the deck of his ship.

They were moving steadily and were on the brow of a hill, about to descend into the valley, when Hawkwood saw Isaac stiffen. The guide was peering over Hawkwood's shoulder, down towards the west.

Hawkwood turned.

There were horsemen in the distance. At first glance they appeared to be heading towards them. Hawkwood's heart skipped several beats but, as he continued to watch, the riders suddenly veered away to the south.

"They'll be headin' for the Swale," Isaac said confidently. "Probably come from the Queenborough Road or Mile Town. They ain't no threat. They've likely enlisted the garrison's help, but it'll take them a while to get organized. They don't 'ave too many mounted troopers out here. Long as we take it nice an' easy and keep movin', we'll be fine. Better than runnin' around lookin' like chickens with our 'eads chopped off. And we don't 'ave that far to go. Be like strollin' to church for Sunday sermon."

They dined while they walked. The simple pleasure of biting into a hunk of bread they hadn't had to soak first in order to swallow was impossible to put into words. The cheese was full of flavour, the apples sharp and crisp. The cider, kept cool in the underground chamber and sipped straight from the jug, was as refreshing on the palate as water from a mountain spring.

They'd been going for more than two hours, resting the flock at intervals, when it occurred to Hawkwood that, with the exception of the mounted patrol glimpsed earlier, they hadn't spied another soul all morning. The same thing had struck Lasseur.

"That's why we came this way," Isaac said when Lasseur mentioned the fact to him. "Most folk live to the north, along the top road and the coast. Down south, towards Elmley and Harty, it's mostly fever and swamp land. Some folk say it's the last place God made. That's why they call Sheppey folk Swampies."

"Swamp-ies?" Lasseur had trouble with the pronunciation.

"What you might call a term of affection," Isaac said, adding wryly, "Same reason we call you lot Frogs."

Lasseur raised a cynical eyebrow. Hawkwood kept his face straight, albeit with some difficulty.

"Where are you taking us?" Lasseur asked.

"Well, it ain't all the way home, that's for certain. My part's played as far as Warden. After that you're someone else's problem."

A tingle moved up Hawkwood's spine. If further proof was required that there was an apparatus in place to assist escapers, it had just been provided.

"This place, Warden - how long will it take us to get there?" Lasseur asked.

"Two shakes of a lamb's tail," Isaac said, without breaking stride.

It took the rest of the day.

They bypassed East Church. There wasn't a great deal to the place; a small, sleepy hamlet straddling a crossroads, comprising a dozen or so cottages huddled around a squat, grey church with crenellated walls and a square tower. There were a few people about, but they were a good distance away and, other than responding in kind to Isaac's friendly wave, paid no mind to the sheep, dogs or counterfeit shepherds.

The village occupied one of the highest points on the island. The land rolled away in a series of gentle undulations revealing spectacular views in every direction, particularly to the south, all the way to the Swale and across to the mainland.

A short way past the village, Isaac pointed towards a gentle incline. "Warden's about a mile further, at the top of the 'ill, other side of them trees."

It was about then that Lasseur began to grow restless. The excitement in his eyes was palpable. Watching the privateer catch his first smell and sight of the sea through an unexpected fold in the hills reminded Hawkwood of a thirsty horse scenting water. He suspected that even if Lasseur had been deaf and blindfolded he'd still have found his way to the coast.

They approached the village from the south, the dogs driving the sheep up the slope in a tight wedge before them.

There wasn't a lot to Warden, from the little Hawkwood could see of it through the woods. It looked to be just another row of miserly cottages and a church, all clinging like limpets to a small coastal outcrop stuck on the arse end of the back of beyond.

Isaac hadn't lied when he'd told them it would be like strolling to church on a Sunday morning, because that was precisely what they were doing, give or take a day. The church was located at the seaward end of the village, less than a stone's toss from the cliff edge. They emerged from the spinney with the late afternoon sun shining across the stonework and the coo of wood pigeons in their ears, to find the graveyard barring their way. Isaac opened the gate and the dogs did the rest. As the flock spread out between the tombstones and began to graze, Isaac secured the latch behind them, tethered the dogs to one of the gate bars, and led the way through the stones towards a heavily studded side door. Passing the stones, Hawkwood saw they were severely weathered. Most of the names were indecipherable, worn smooth by the passage of weather and time. It was easy to imagine how desolate and inhospitable the place was likely to be in the depths of winter.

Isaac knelt by the door. Removing a brick from the wall of the church, he reached in and extracted a key from the cavity behind. He caught Hawkwood and Lasseur eyeing him. "Vicar's out." He replaced the stone, adding, "Vicar's always out when there's a run on."

They entered the vestry and Isaac locked the door behind them and led the way into the nave. The interior of the church was cool and dry and smelled of stone and wood, candle grease and dust. The late afternoon sunlight shone through the stained- glass windows, casting intricate rainbow patterns on to the walls and stone floor.

"You won't be needin' them any more." Isaac indicated the smocks and the hats. "Leave 'em on the pew, there; the crooks, too. Now, give me an 'and with this." Isaac walked to the side of the nave where a row of inscribed flagstones were set into the floor. They were old, Hawkwood saw, and very worn, the names faded with time and, like the tombstones outside, barely legible, though many of them bore what looked like the name Sawbridge. Some local high-born family, Hawkwood deduced, though the village didn't look substantial enough to support anyone with aristocratic blood.

Isaac bent down and levered his knife into a crack alongside one of the flagstones. The stone looked thick and solid, but prising it up was remarkably easy. Hawkwood saw that it was a lot thinner than the stones that bordered it. Like the trapdoor out on the marsh, it had been designed to deceive; either ground down or fashioned from a lighter stone and carved with the same inscription and artificially aged so that it blended in with its companions.

Isaac descended first and told them to wait. There was a sound of flint striking steel and a second or two later the glow of a lantern bloomed in the darkness below. "Down you come," Isaac called.

He waited until they had joined him, then handed Hawkwood the lantern before reaching up and replacing the stone over the hole.

Beneath the church, Hawkwood was struck with a sudden vision of another crypt a world away from the Kent marshes. The bone vault under St Mary's, where he'd hunted the killer, Titus Hyde. A shiver ran through him, unseen by the other two.

The tunnel was just wide enough for two men to walk abreast, but it was easier in single file. Isaac took the lead with the light. Lasseur and then Hawkwood followed behind. The air was damp and smelled heavily of clay.

Where the hell is he taking us? Hawkwood wondered.

They had travelled about a hundred paces before the floor of the tunnel began to slope upwards, ending abruptly in front of a crude black wooden door. Isaac lifted the latch. Opening the door, he raised the lantern. They were in a smaller tunnel, its sides almost perfectly round. Hawkwood frowned. He tapped the walls. They were wooden and sounded curiously hollow. A loud click came from a few feet ahead of him as another latch was lifted and the entire end of the tunnel, like a ship's porthole, swung open before them.

The first objects Hawkwood saw when he clambered through the opening were the liquor tubs. The walls were lined with them: all sizes, from half-ankers to hogsheads. He heard Lasseur click his tongue in what sounded like admiration and turned, just in time to see Isaac closing the tunnel entrance behind them. Lasseur's reaction was fully justified. The end of the tunnel was formed from a huge cask, one of several stacked on their sides. Hawkwood could only guess at the volume of spirits each one might have contained - several hundred gallons at least. Each cask head had a wooden spigot driven into it. Curious,

Hawkwood turned the tap in the cask from which they'd just emerged and watched as a trickle of dark liquid splashed on to the floor. He cupped his hand beneath the tap and raised it to his lips. It was wine. He turned and saw Isaac regarding him with a sly grin. "Pays to have an escape route in case the Revenue decides to drop in."

"What is this place?" Hawkwood asked.

"Cellar room of the Smack." Isaac indicated the casks. "Local inn; figured it was best bringin' you this way rather than parade you down the 'igh street. Like I said before, folks hereabouts don't 'ave much liking for the authorities, but you can't be too careful."

Sounds came from above: a dull thud as though someone was moving furniture, and muffled voices.

"Wait 'ere," Isaac instructed. He placed the lantern on the top of a nearby tub and headed for the cellar door. Before he left the room, he turned. "An' don't bleedin' touch anythin'." The door closed behind him.

Lasseur stared around him. "Well, at least we won't die of thirst." He indicated the muslin sack that Hawkwood was still carrying. "I could eat a horse. Is there anything left?"

Hawkwood tossed Lasseur an apple and shook the earthenware jug. He was rewarded with a faint sloshing sound. He held out the jug to Lasseur, who wrinkled his nose and walked over to the false cask. He turned the tap, cupped his palm, and took a swallow. His face contorted. He turned the tap off hastily and threw Hawkwood a look of disgust. "How can they drink this piss?"

"They probably don't," Hawkwood said. "I doubt they'd put the good stuff in there. It's only in case the authorities decide to search the place."

Lasseur took in the other barrels. Hawkwood could tell he was debating whether or not to try their contents.

There were footsteps outside. The door opened and Isaac entered with another man. The newcomer was stoutly built with a florid face, impressive side whiskers and small, piercing eyes. He was wiping his hands on a dirty apron.

"This is Abraham," Isaac said. "He owns the place."

Lasseur bowed. "Honoured. I'm Captain -"

"Don't need names," the whiskered man cut in. "You ain't stoppin'."

"You're leavin' tonight," Isaac said. "There's a run on."

"Run?" Lasseur said. "Where are we running?"

Isaac and the landlord exchanged glances. The landlord shrugged.

"It means a delivery," Isaac said. "Contraband; brandy and tobacco. Same boat as brings the stuff in will be takin' you out. It'll be after dark, so we've got a couple of hours to kill. Might as well make yourselves comfortable." He eyed the muslin sack and the cider jug. "I'll bring you some food."

"Bandages, too," Hawkwood said.

The landlord swung round. He stared at Hawkwood, his eyes hard.

"He's a Yankee," Isaac said.

"He's a long way -"

"Everybody tells him that," Isaac said.

The landlord took in Hawkwood's scarred face, matted hair and the blood on the front of his shirt. He turned to Isaac. "Thought you said you had no trouble."

"We didn't," Isaac said. "He was bleedin' already."

The landlord's gaze moved towards the bruises on Lasseur's face and his brow furrowed. "Either of you need a doctor?"

Hawkwood shook his head. "Just the bandages."

What might have been relief showed in the landlord's eyes. He nodded brusquely. "I'll see what I can do."

The victuals and bandages were delivered a short time later. The food consisted of two bowls of mutton stew, a loaf of bread and a pitcher of ale. The stew was very tasty, with solid chunks of meat and thick gravy. Even Lasseur was impressed, though after the prison fare Hawkwood knew both of them would probably have eaten toad pie and pronounced it exquisite. But then, if a Sheppey cook couldn't provide a decent mutton stew, who could?

Isaac had also provided a kettle of hot water from the inn's kitchen, a bowl and a towel. Hawkwood and Lasseur cleansed the rest of the blood from their faces.

"How are you feeling?" Lasseur asked.

"Better than I've a right to," Hawkwood said. He was aware of a faint throbbing behind his eyes and was glad he was in the relative dark of the inn's cellar rather than in the open with the sun beating down. The hats provided by Isaac might have given the two of them an oafish look, but they had been a godsend.

Lasseur watched as Hawkwood unwound the used dressing from his side. He hesitated and then said, "In the hold, before you broke the Mameluke's neck . . . when you turned away; you knew he was going to attack, didn't you?"

Hawkwood didn't reply immediately. He examined his wounds by lantern light. Contrary to his concern, the cut across his side had not reopened. Surgeon Girard's sutures remained intact. He wound the fresh bandage around his belly. "I thought it likely."

Lasseur frowned. "That sounds as though you were inviting him to attack you."

Hawkwood shrugged. "You think if I'd been on my knees, my arm broken, he wouldn't have finished the job quickly? He wouldn't have thought twice."

"You're not telling me you were giving him a chance?"

Hawkwood shook his head. "That's one thing he never had."

Lasseur's eyes narrowed and then widened again as he gasped, "My God, that was your intention! You lured him into the attack! You killed him for the effect it would have. You were toying with him."

Hawkwood tucked in the end of the bandage.

An expression of disquiet moved across Lasseur's face. He shook his head sorrowfully. "I see a darkness in you, my friend. I saw it in your eyes in the hold when we were fighting. I think I see a measure of it now. It saddens me greatly. I'm glad we're on the same side."

Hawkwood buttoned his shirt over his wounds. "You take advantage of an opponent when you can. You might only get the one chance. Nine times out of ten, it's not pretty."

Lasseur put his head on one side and said, "There was a Malay I sailed with many years ago who got into a fight with a fellow crew member, a Sicilian. The Sicilian had a knife and yet the Malay disarmed him using only his bare hands. It was one of the strangest things I ever saw. The Malay moved as if he were dancing. It was like watching water flow. There was something similar in the way you broke the Mameluke's arm after you lost your razor. It was as if you had anticipated what you were going to do even before you struck him. Where did you learn such skills? Or did I imagine it?"

Hawkwood rinsed his hands in the rest of the water from the kettle. "I knew a soldier once. He'd travelled in the east, selling his services to any army that would pay him. There was a nawab he fought for, a prince of the Mogul empire who had a Chinoise bodyguard. The soldier said that the Chinoise used to be a priest and that there was a rebellion and priests were forbidden to carry swords and knives. So they learned to make their own weapons from farm tools and to fight with their hands and feet. He said it took years of training. He learnt a few of the skills from the bodyguard. He taught some of them to me. It isn't always effective. I'd rather use a pistol."

Or a rifle, Hawkwood thought.

The soldier in question had in fact been a Portuguese guerrilla named Rodriguez, a small but energetic man who looked as though a stiff breeze would have knocked him off his feet. Hawkwood had taught him how to fire a Baker rifle. In turn, Rodriguez had taught Hawkwood how to defend himself, unarmed, against knife and sword attacks. The guerrilla had been quick to tell Hawkwood the techniques didn't always work. If in doubt, and if you had one, use a pistol. It was a lot more effective.

"These men bringing the brandy and tobacco," Lasseur said. "You think they'll take us all the way to France?"

Hawkwood considered the question. "They're more likely to ferry us to the mainland and send us overland to one of their southern ports, then across to Ostend, or Flushing. We'll find out soon enough."

As if on cue, the cellar door opened. Isaac stepped through. "Time to go," he said briskly. "Abraham's just received word. Boat's on its way in."

They left the cellar and made their way upstairs to the taproom to find they had acquired company. Hawkwood counted at least fifteen men; all dressed in dark clothing, seated around the candlelit tables. They looked up, but no one spoke. Hawkwood recognized their kind immediately. The London rookeries were full of them: hard men with no allegiance to the law, loyal to their own kind and instantly suspicious of any stranger who wandered uninvited into their protectorate.

Abraham, minus his apron, emerged from a door at the back of the counter, tucking a pistol into his belt. "All right, let's do it." He moved to a table and picked up an unlit lantern. Three sides of the lantern, Hawkwood noticed, were blacked out.

The landlord looked towards Hawkwood and Lasseur. "Keep close and keep quiet. Once we get the goods ashore, you'll be shipping out."

The men at the tables rose to their feet. They were well armed, Hawkwood saw as he followed them out of the door. Every man carried a pistol in his belt, and some had wooden clubs. Curiously, they were also wearing what appeared to be a leather harness across their chests and shoulders.

Down in the cellar, Hawkwood had lost all track of time and, although Isaac had warned them, it was still an odd sensation walking outside and finding it was night.

Abraham led them in single file past the church and towards the end of the village. Isaac had talked about parading down the high street. Once again the description was a misnomer. The Strand and the Haymarket were high streets. Warden's main thoroughfare was a country lane bordered by darkened cottages, woods and brambles. Aside from the men emerging from the pub there were no other signs of life.

When they reached the edge of the cliff, the view in the moonlight was extraordinary. It was like standing on the edge of the world. To the north, isolated points of light that might have been taken for stars had they been at a higher elevation twinkled distantly along a dark finger of coastline. Hawkwood tried to recall his geography and decided it was Foulness. Further west, but not as far, another faint, bobbing speck indicated the Nore Light, moored at the mouth of the Thames estuary. Hawkwood followed the panorama around. As far as the horizon, the masthead and deck lanterns of ships scattered across the water shone like tiny fireflies. To the south, on the mainland, some lights glowed with a greater intensity. One cluster indicated a substantial number of dwellings. Hawkwood guessed it was probably Whitstable, six miles across the bay.

"There!" one of the men whispered. An arm pointed.

Hawkwood saw it at the same time. Half a second later and the sight would not have registered. It was a blue powder flash. Hawkwood recognized what it was. He'd employed the same signalling method himself in the field, using a barrel-less flintlock pistol. Charging the pan with powder and pulling the trigger produced the vivid blue light - highly visible, if you knew where to look.

Hawkwood concentrated his attention on the area where the flash had originated and caught sight of a blunted shape heading towards the shore. Out beyond it, he thought he could see another, larger, shadow but as there were no lights showing he couldn't be sure if it was a vessel or not. It could just as easily have been a trick of the eye or the movement of the waves, though there didn't appear to be much of a swell.

Swiftly, Abraham raised the lantern. Turning the open side towards the direction of the powder flash, he lit the candle. He was rewarded with another blue spark.

He extinguished the lantern quickly. "Let's go."

With the moon guiding their steps, the landlord led the way down the cliff. The path was steep and in parts crumbly underfoot. Three minutes later they were on the beach, the shingle crackling under their boot heels. The wash of the waves against the shore sounded like distant applause.

The men stood still and listened. From the darkness beyond the surf came the rhythmic scraping of oars. Hawkwood's eyes caught a ripple of quicksilver as water broke against a half-turned blade. Suddenly, the scraping ceased, and as the rowing boat scudded towards them the men on the beach stepped back. The oarsmen were out of the boat before it had grounded. Whispered greetings were exchanged and the unloading got under way.

The men worked without speaking. Moonglow played over their tense faces. Hawkwood and Lasseur stood well back up the beach so as not to impede the operation, watching as the tubs were taken off the boat and placed on the shingle. The reason for the leather harnesses soon became clear. They were for carrying the tubs; one on the chest, a second slung between the shoulder blades. Hawkwood was impressed by the weight each man was carrying: it had to be close to one hundred pounds. Lugging the contraband back up to the inn was going to be hard on the legs and lungs.

The moment the tubs were secured in the rigs, the men set off across the shingle towards the cliff path. It took a while to get all the tubs out of the boat and pile them on the beach. When the last one had been unloaded, the boat crew began to pass out large oilskin bags. Hawkwood assumed it was tobacco.

When the line of weighted men was strung across the width of the beach, the tiller man waved urgently.

Isaac grabbed Hawkwood's sleeve. "Right, on your way."

At that moment, from the direction of the church, there came the plaintive cry of an owl.

Isaac went rigid. "Aw, Christ!"

And the night erupted in a rattle of musket fire.