Rapscallion

CHAPTER12

Powder flashes and lights bloomed along the clifftop, sending the men on the shingle scattering for cover.

Isaac dragged a brace of pistols from his belt and drew back the hammers with his thumbs.

From both ends of the beach came the crunching clatter of hooves and Hawkwood turned and saw the swiftly moving shapes of horsemen outlined against the surf.

"Head for the boat!" Isaac yelled. A pistol cracked in his hand.

Hawkwood looked towards the edge of the beach, where the oarsmen were pushing the boat off the shingle and into the water.

"Move yourselves!" Isaac's voice again.

Hawkwood could see Abraham's men trying to run, their gait hampered by the weight of the tubs at front and back. They looked like drunken turkey cocks waddling in the darkness.

Shots rang out.

Hawkwood heard a grunt and saw Isaac stagger and go down.

Instinctively, Hawkwood reached towards Isaac's unfired pistol and felt his arm grabbed.

"Leave it!" Lasseur cried, pulling him back. "They're not going to wait!"

The horses were drawing closer. Riding officers, Hawkwood guessed, or possibly cavalry, brought in to assist. He could see them clearly now, silhouetted against the sky. Some of the headgear looked like dragoon helmets. He ducked as a ball whickered past his ear, looked for Lasseur, who had let go of his arm, and saw the Frenchman ducking as he ran for the retreating boat.

Isaac's body showed no sign of movement. Across the beach, more bright flashes and explosions showed where gunfire was being exchanged.

Following Lasseur's lead, Hawkwood abandoned the unused pistol and stumbled towards the water. In front of him, the privateer had almost reached the surf. Hawkwood picked up speed. The clatter of hooves was growing louder. He could hear jangling bridle sounds, too. The horsemen were gaining, rapidly.

Then Lasseur went down.

Hawkwood's first thought was that the privateer had been hit, and then he saw that the culprit had not been a pistol ball but one of the oilskin bundles that had been inadvertently left behind in the panic by both the boat crew and the shore party. Lasseur had fallen over it.

Hawkwood heard a sharp cry, thought it was Lasseur and then realized it was one of the horsemen who had seen the Frenchman go sprawling.

Lasseur got to his knees with a curse and looked for the boat. There was another yell, a warning this time, from one of the boat crew. The noise of hooves on the beach sounded like rolling thunder. Shouts and gunshots continued to ring out behind them.

Hawkwood glanced to the side and saw a silver glint. One of the riders had drawn his sabre; a dragoon. Moonlight flickered along the blade.

Lasseur was getting to his feet but the horsemen were coming in fast. The leader was closing at a remarkable speed, sabre raised high. Hawkwood threw himself towards the sea.

Lasseur was still floundering as the horseman put spurs to his horse. Hawkwood knew the Frenchman was never going to make it. The boat was still out of reach and the horseman was almost on top of him. As if hearing the hoofbeats for the first time, Lasseur turned and saw death bearing down.

Hawkwood reached the edge of the shingle less than ten yards ahead of the horse and rider. He had a vision of a dark mass blotting out the moon, as he hooked his arm around Lasseur's shoulder and hauled the Frenchman towards the water, knowing they didn't stand a hope in hell of reaching the boat alive.

He felt the pressure of displaced air pushing against his spine as the horse reared and he braced himself for the blow.

Then there was a crisp report from the boat and a cry from over Hawkwood's shoulder as the ball took the dragoon in the chest. A second shot rang out. Hawkwood heard the horse whinny, followed by the colossal crash of a huge and heavy body slamming down into the surf. A tidal wave surged over him. He did not dare to look around but continued to propel himself onward, pushing Lasseur ahead of him.

Sensing more mayhem, he looked over his shoulder; both mount and rider had gone down, forming a barrier between himself and the other horsemen. It was the last chance he was going to get. He turned again and saw that the water was up to Lasseur's thighs but that he had made it to the boat. Arms were already reaching for him. Hawkwood struck out into the waves and threw himself forward. As his feet lifted off the bottom he felt a hand grab his collar and made a desperate lunge. His fingers curled around the gunwale. Feet kicking, he hauled himself aboard. Another shot rang out, closer to his ear, and he felt the heat of the ignited powder, abrasive against his cheek. He turned, gasping for breath, and watched as another of the riders tumbled back over the rump of his horse.

"Glad you could join us," a voice said, as the tiller man let fly with a stream of profanity and threw his weight against the rudder.

As the bow churned towards the open sea, the crew slammed their oars into the water and the vessel started to pick up momentum.

"Pull, you buggers, pull!"

On shore, the beach reverberated with the sound of conflict. Lights dipped as the lantern bearers continued their descent of the cliff path, still firing. On the beach below, dark shapes were running in all directions. Hawkwood thought about the odds of any of the smugglers making an escape while carrying kegs two-thirds the weight of a man strapped over their shoulders. Abraham and his men would have to dump the contraband in order to avoid capture. They wouldn't have a choice.

There was still a danger, Hawkwood knew, of someone on the boat being hit, but the odds were lengthening with each stroke of the oars. Even so, the men kept their heads down.

And then, from the direction of the cliff path, there came more reports. Not muskets this time, Hawkwood could tell, but pistols. Reinforcements had come to Abraham's aid. The sounds of battle intensified.

"Bastards!" someone behind Hawkwood hissed.

Gunshots continued to echo along the foreshore. Hawkwood could see from the convergence of the lights that the lantern bearers were now congregated in one spot and seemed not to have progressed beyond the base of the cliff. It looked as if they were pinned down between Abraham's men and the reinforcements. Gradually, the rate of fire began to diminish.

Finally, the reports ceased altogether. Hawkwood continued to stare shoreward and watched as, one by one, the lights at the base of the cliff blinked out. He strained his ears. Another sound reached him that might have been the faint ring of sword blades and the scream of a horse, but they were deeply muted. Eventually, the noises faded away completely and the only sound was the splash of the oars.

Hawkwood found his heart was beating fast.

"Jesus!" someone muttered in relief at having survived.

"After us, you think?" Lasseur said softly.

Hawkwood shook his head. "More likely the Revenue Service, but from the look of things they were outnumbered."

"We live to fight again," Lasseur murmured.

Only just, Hawkwood thought. He turned away in time to see a hull materializing out of the darkness ahead of them. The larger craft's appearance did not come as a shock. The surprise was its proximity. It wasn't hard to work out why the craft had remained invisible for so long. Dark painted and with no running lights, even in the moonlight the vessel had been just another patch of shadow on the sea.

The rowing boat bumped against the pitch-black hull and a line of pale faces appeared at the rail. Helping hands reached down. At a signal from the tiller man, Hawkwood and Lasseur climbed aboard. It took only a matter of minutes for the boat to be winched up after them and for its crew to take up their stations.

"Welcome aboard the Starling, gentlemen." The greeting was voiced in passable but poorly accented French. "If you'd both stand aside while we get under way, I'd be obliged."

Hawkwood and Lasseur turned. Facing them was a stocky man with a wind-weathered face, a flattened nose and jowls in need of a shave.

"Captain?" Lasseur said.

"At your service, sir. You can call me Gideon."

Giving Hawkwood and Lasseur no time to respond, the seaman turned away and gave the signal to raise sail.

Within minutes, the main was up, the bowsprit was pointing towards open water and the jib was unfurling. It had been a very smooth transition; no berating, no barked orders. Lasseur, watching the crew in action, nodded his head in appreciation, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Starling's skipper.

"You're men of the sea, gentlemen?"

"7 am," Lasseur said. "My friend is more at home on dry land."

"I'll not hold that against you, sir; each to his own."

"I am Captain Lasseur. My friend is Captain Hooper."

"Is that right? Well everyone needs a name. Now, may I offer you something to ease the chill? I've some fine brandy on board."

"I'd be sorely disappointed if you hadn't, Captain." Lasseur grinned as he and Hawkwood followed the vessel's skipper down below. The cabin was small and cramped and smelled of damp clothing, sweat and tobacco. Not as confining as the hulk, but still claustrophobic after the rolling fields and the open boat and the endless expanse of the night sky.

The bottle uncorked and the brandy poured, Lasseur raised his mug. "Your very good health, Captain."

Gideon gave a nod of acknowledgement. "And confusion to the enemy . . . whoever they may be."

They drank.

The world's gone raving mad, Hawkwood thought. I'm in the middle of a bloody war, and I've a French privateer and an English smuggler, who've never clapped eyes on each other before tonight, toasting each other's health as if they hadn't a care in the world. Why the hell do we bother to even listen to the politicians and the generals?

And Gideon hadn't lied about the quality of the spirit.

"My compliments, sir." Lasseur licked his lips in appreciation. "You have excellent taste."

Taking another swig, Gideon smacked his lips and winked. "Perks of the job. That and putting one over on the Revenue." The weather-worn face suddenly clouded.

"What do you think happened back there?" Hawkwood asked, reading the captain's mind.

The question was met with a shrug. "Looks as if some bugger tipped them off. We can count ourselves lucky there wasn't a cutter around, too. If they did for the goods, we'll make it up on the next run. The advantage is with our side. So much coastline and not enough Revenue men."

"You think Abraham and his men got away?"

"Probably. Abraham's a smart one. If anyone was done for, it was the Revenue. My experience, they couldn't hit a barn door if it was six inches in front of them. And even if Abraham and his crew were arrested, naught'll come of it. Never does."

"Why not?" Hawkwood asked.

"Because the local magistrate's one of us."

Lasseur blinked.

"How do you think Abraham knew we were on our way?" Gideon said.

"We saw you signal," Hawkwood said.

Gideon shook his head. "That was to let him know our position. He knew we were coming before that. A little bird told him."

Hawkwood and Lasseur waited.

"The local squire's house is just along the lane from the inn. He's got a pigeon loft in his smoking room. We release the bird a couple of miles off shore. Soon as it arrives, he knows we've got the goods aboard. He passes Abraham the word."

"And the squire just happens to be -"

"The magistrate. A sweet arrangement all round."

Bloody bell, Hawkwood thought. No wonder the free traders ruled the coast.

Lasseur was grinning like a loon. Hawkwood wasn't at all surprised. As the captain of a privateer, a breed of men not exactly renowned for staying within the law - maritime or otherwise - the Frenchman was clearly of the opinion he was sharing drinks with a kindred spirit.

"Where did you learn your French?" Lasseur asked.

"Whoring and trading, mostly," Gideon chuckled. "It's amazing the vocabulary you can pick up. Nothing like commerce and copulation for broadening the mind."

"You've no qualms about helping people like us? Our countries are at war."

Gideon shook his head dismissively. "Men have been running goods around these shores for the past five hundred years; a lot earlier, probably. War's never stopped it before. It won't do now. And this war won't last for ever. My apologies, Captain, but a blind man can see your Emperor's losing the fight. I'm not a betting man, but even I'd wager a year's cargo of tubs that there'll be another war along after this one and likely more after that. There'll still be men like me doing business long after I'm cold in my grave. Fact of life. Might as well try and stop breathing. You two are just another cargo, far as I'm concerned."

"A friend once told me the first rule of commerce was never to let political differences get in the way of business," Hawkwood said.

"Did he? Well, he's a wise man, your friend," Gideon said. "In the Trade, is he?"

If you only knew, Hawkwood thought. "He's dabbled a time or two."

"Then I raise my glass to him."

"I, too," Lasseur said. He threw Hawkwood a sideways glance. "Well, it is uncommonly fine brandy and I haven't had a decent drink since I don't know how long."

Lasseur proffered Hawkwood a silent toast and drained his glass.

"How far are you taking us?" Hawkwood asked.

Gideon helped himself to another drink. "Not far."

A noncommittal answer if ever there was one, Hawkwood thought, and wondered if that was a half smile he'd seen touch the edge of the captain's lips.

The deck tilted. Lasseur frowned. He put his drink down and gave Gideon a wary look. "We're coming about?"

"That we are. Time I was on deck." The captain placed the stopper back in the bottle. "Here, you might want to keep a hold of this. It'll be a while before you can get ashore and the sun isn't due to show for a while. I'll see to it you've a couple of warm jackets to hand. Sharply now."

The captain vacated his berth and led the way topsides. Mystified, Hawkwood and Lasseur had no option but to follow.

On deck, Gideon called to a crewman: "Couple of coats out of the slop chest, Willy. Smartly does it!"

Frowning, Lasseur made his way to the rail. The breeze had freshened and the boat was running under full sail but there was little lateral movement as the keel cut through the water. Hawkwood hung on to a rope and stared over the Frenchman's shoulder at two light clusters an arm's span apart. The collection of lights over the port bow was noticeably brighter than the group over the starboard rail, indicating a larger number of buildings.

"Chandelier's Whitstable; the candle's Seasalter," Gideon said from behind them. He held out two pea-jackets. "Well, you didn't think we were taking you all the way up the Seine, did you?"

Hawkwood looked back over the stern, recalling the view from the clifftop.

"I don't understand," Lasseur said.

Hawkwood didn't, either.

"We don't have a choice," Gideon grunted. "Tide's on the ebb. I haven't enough draught under the keel to take you on to the beach, not even with the rowboat, and we can't stay; we've more deliveries to make. There's a platform offshore. Fishing boats use it to unload and pack their catches. We'll be leaving you there. While the tide's out, the mud's firm enough. You'll be able to walk ashore."

Lasseur stared at him.

"Don't worry. You'll be safe. There'll be a mess of people conducting business. It'll be like Billingsgate Market: fisher folk, gutters, shrimpers and the like. No one'll pay you heed. Once ashore, you make for the church. There'll be a gravedigger plying his trade; name of Asa Higgs. He'll be there from sun up. He'll see you right. You can't miss him. He's lacking the middle finger on his right hand." Gideon held up his own digit to demonstrate. "You got that?"

Lasseur nodded hesitantly.

"Yes," Hawkwood said.

"Grand." Gideon rubbed his hands together. "It's a fine night. Bit of a breeze, but you've got coats and my best brandy. You won't freeze."

"And the exercise will do us good," Hawkwood said.

Gideon grinned. "That's the spirit!"

It took another two hours. When they reached the platform it was bigger than Hawkwood had expected; with a jetty long enough to accommodate several boats. The timber pilings were encrusted with barnacles and seaweed, and the structure looked as if it had been there for centuries - which it probably had, give or take a replacement strut or two, though it seemed solid enough when they stepped on to it. There were open-sided shelters and lines of wooden tables, with baskets stacked alongside.

"You'd best take these, too," Gideon said. "You know how to gut fish?"

Before either Hawkwood or Lasseur could reply, two baskets of mackerel were passed over the boat's rail, along with two gutting knives.

"They're not the freshest catch of the day, but when the first folk start arriving, be they on the boats or from over the sand, it'd be best if you were looking busy. They'll just think you were early risers, which you are. That way, you won't have to talk to anyone. It'll help you blend in, make it look like you're part of the scenery. Anyone does try and strike up a conversation, say you're Belgian fishermen. We get them here looking for oysters. And don't forget," Gideon called as the boat slid away, "Asa Higgs; missing a finger!" He gave a final wave.

They watched the boat disappear into the night. Then Hawkwood took stock. The lights from the towns beckoned invitingly. They still seemed a long way off. The moon showed the tide had a way to travel before it would recede as far as the platform. Hawkwood wondered when the first fishing boats would show up to offload. Not until first light, he suspected, though that was likely to be early.

There was indeed a cool breeze coming off the sea, and he was thankful for the coat. He gave silent thanks, too, that Ludd hadn't asked for Bow Street's help in the dead of winter.

Lasseur passed him the brandy bottle after taking a swig. "That's another thing that'll have my crew pissing themselves," he said mournfully.

"What's that?" Hawkwood asked.

"Me having to tell them I was marooned."

Hawkwood shook his head and raised the bottle to his lips. "There's a difference."

"There is?"

"I heard marooned men were given a loaded pistol for when it got too bad to bear."

"Damn," Lasseur said. "We should have asked."

"We'll have to make do with this," Hawkwood said, passing the bottle.

"Better make it last," Lasseur said, eyeing the fish and the knives. "It could be a long night."

The farm was bounded by woods. There wasn't a great deal to it; a half-stone, half-brick farmhouse, a couple of outhouses, a barn, a henhouse, a sty, a wooden-fenced sheep enclosure similar to the one back on Sheppey and containing six sheep, and a small paddock, in which a pair of horses grazed contentedly. An apple orchard framed one side of the house. At the rear there was a well-tended garden containing vegetables and herbs. To the front lay a meadow of short grass, dotted with wild flowers, through which ran a small, gently flowing stream.

Approaching the farm, Hawkwood thought it one of the most tranquil places he'd ever seen. It was also one of the best concealed. The locals obviously knew the location, but anyone not of the district would only have happened upon the valley by chance. He presumed that was why it had been chosen. As a place to hide, it was ideal.

They had left the fishing platform shortly after dawn, carrying their baskets of mackerel, just as the first of the boats and the early rising townsfolk had begun to arrive. Many of the latter had been women, who weren't averse to calling out lewd suggestions to any male within hailing distance. Other than suffering the crude but good-natured banter, Hawkwood and Lasseur had negotiated the mile and a half tramp across the mud without incident.

The church had been a five-minute walk from the shingle beach. They had found the gravedigger, a small man with a nut- brown complexion, bow legs and three fingers and a thumb on his right hand, contemplating a newly filled clay pipe and a freshly dug example of his handiwork.

He had looked up, viewing Hawkwood and Lasseur's unshaven faces and mud-caked boots with a wry eye. "You'll be the two Frenchies I'm expectin'."

Lasseur nodded. Hawkwood didn't bother to contradict him. It seemed easier than having someone else tell him he was a long way from home.

"Speak English? All right, best come with me. Leave the fish."

Leading them out of the graveyard to where a horse and cart were tethered, the gravedigger pointed to the back of the cart and the two cheap wooden coffins, partially covered with sacking.

"We'd normally be travellin' at night when there's less folk about, but I don't reckon it's wise to have the both of you hangin' round here all day. We'd best be on our way. You'll be comfortable enough and I ain't goin' to nail you in. We don't have far to go. I'll let you out soon as we're off the road." He jerked his head. "In you get."

Hawkwood and Lasseur exchanged disbelieving looks and Hawkwood wondered if Lasseur had understood all that the gravedigger had told them. Not that it mattered. Both of them had been too weary to argue. And the gravedigger had been proved right. It was a comfortable way to travel. Hawkwood had come close to dozing off a couple of times.

They were out of the coffins and sitting on the back of the cart, feet dangling over the tail board, when they emerged from the trees to find the farmhouse nestling in the dip before them.

The gravedigger clicked his tongue and coaxed the horse down the track. "Welcome to the widow's."

Lasseur frowned while Hawkwood stared at the house and the wispy tendrils of wood smoke drifting from the chimney. Whoever had lit the fire had used apple logs. The smell was unmistakable and strangely comforting and reminded Hawkwood of autumn rather than summer.

"It's what folks call her." There was a slight pause. "Among other things."

"Other things?" Lasseur said.

"There's some folk round about think she's a witch."

Lasseur looked at Hawkwood and said in French, "He says it is the house of a witch."

"Perhaps she'll make us disappear," Hawkwood replied in the same language. "And we'll wake up in France."

He wondered how he'd explain that to James Read.

I've found out how they do it, sir. They smuggle them off the ships in body bags and then they deliver them to this old woman who has warts and a cat, and she turns them into blackbirds and they fly away home.

There was no cat, but there was a dog. It was lying by the open door of the barn. It raised itself as the cart drew near and looked over its shoulder. Then it padded forward hesitantly.

It was a big dog, with shaggy brown hair and eyes hidden behind a fringe. It wasn't young, Hawkwood saw. There was grey around its muzzle and it was walking like an old man suffering the first stages of arthritis. Giving a brief wag of its tail, it emitted a single bark and then lay down as if exhausted by its efforts.

The bark had been not so much a warning as a summons.

A woman walked out of the barn, a pail in her hands. Hawkwood's first thought was that she didn't look like any witch he might have imagined.

Hawkwood heard Lasseur catch his breath.

Thick black hair, drawn back and tied with a ribbon at the base of her neck, framed a pair of deep brown eyes and a strong face warmed by the sun. She was dressed in a long grey skirt, a white blouse open at the throat and a faded blue waistcoat. The clothes that covered her slender figure showed evidence of repair, with patches at knee and hem. The opening at the top of the blouse showed a V of freckled skin. A smudge of dirt marked her right jaw. A strand of hair hung down her left cheek and flirted with the corner of her mouth. She brushed it away and tucked it behind her ear. A bright sheen of perspiration lay along her top lip.

She watched the cart's approach.

The cart halted. The horse lowered its head to crop the grass.

"Morning, Jess." The gravedigger touched his cap.

"Asa."

The woman shielded her eyes from the sun and made no attempt to approach.

"You were expectin' us." The gravedigger gestured to Hawkwood and Lasseur to get down from the cart.

The woman looked Hawkwood and Lasseur up and down and said nothing.

Hawkwood knew what both of them must have looked like: bedraggled and unshaven, breeches and boots mud-stained and still damp from their recent soaking.

"Madame," Lasseur said, inclining his head.

She bestowed Lasseur with a frank look but did not acknowledge his gesture. Her gaze moved to Hawkwood, settled for a second and then moved on back to the gravedigger. Then she nodded.

"How long is it for?"

"They didn't say."

A flash of irritation touched the woman's eyes and then died. She gave a resigned nod. "Do they speak English?"

"We both do, madame." Lasseur smiled. "My name is Lasseur; Captain Paul Lasseur. This is my friend, Captain Matthew Hooper."

The woman looked at him but did not return the smile. She stared at Hawkwood then turned to the gravedigger, who was giving Hawkwood a funny look. "Tell Morgan I'm still holding those tubs. I'd prefer it if they were gone."

"He knows. I'll be along to pick them up in a day or two."

"Good."

The gravedigger nodded. "Right, then, they're all yours. I'll be off."

"How's Megan?" the woman asked.

Higgs climbed back on the cart. "She's doin' well. That magic potion you gave me 'as done wonders."

The woman gave an exasperated sigh. "It wasn't magic, Asa. Just an infusion of herbs. You could grow them in your own garden, if you'd a mind to."

Higgs shook his head hurriedly. "Lord, no. More than my life's worth. I do that an' she'd never let me leave the 'ouse." He grinned.

A smile touched the woman's face. All at once her features were transformed. She was beautiful, Hawkwood thought. "I've some elderflower cordial. You could take Megan some."

"If you're offerin'."

"Wait here." The woman set down the pail and walked into the house.

The dog tracked her progress through its fringe, trying to decide whether to follow or remain on guard, eventually concluding that vigilance in the face of strangers required marginally less effort.

The woman returned with a small earthenware jug, which she handed to the gravedigger. Placing the jug between his feet, Higgs picked up the reins, nodded briefly to Hawkwood and Lasseur, and set the cart in motion with a click of his tongue.

They watched as it trundled back towards the woods.

The woman turned. "This way. Come with me." She led the way to the barn. The dog got up and followed in a slow, lumbering jog.

It was cool in the barn. There was a corn bin and two stalls, one of which contained a milking cow. The place smelled of fresh manure and chickens. Several hens were pecking around for food.

"It's dry and there's plenty of room. I will provide you with blankets. You'll be comfortable enough, I think."

She led them to a corner. Several straw bales were stacked against the wall. Taking hold of one of the bottom bales, she pulled it out to reveal a dark opening. In the space behind, Hawkwood made out a bucket and some tubs stacked against the barn wall. "If anyone comes, you are to hide in here." She indicated the dog. "This is Rab. He's getting on in years, but he is a good dog and he will warn me of strangers."

Hearing his name, the dog looked up. His tail wagged.

"There is a man who comes in to help me. His name is Thomas. You will know him for he has a bad leg and a scar here." The woman ran the point of her finger across her right eye and cheek. "You do not have to hide from him." As she spoke, she glanced at the scars on Hawkwood's face. "Hooper, did you say?"

"That's right," Hawkwood said.

"You're English?"

"American."

She studied him for several seconds before nodding silently. Then she said, "When it's time, I will bring you something to eat and drink."

"Thank you," Lasseur said, subdued by the uncompromising gaze. "What do we call you?"

"Madame."

She turned before they could reply, heading for the farmhouse

in purposeful strides, the dog following closely in her wake. She picked up the pail as she passed. Both men watched her go.

Lasseur turned to Hawkwood and grinned. "I think she likes me.