Rapscallion

CHAPTER 14

"This is Thomas . . . Tom," Jess Flynn said. "As you can see, he is flesh and blood."

Thomas Gadd was sixty if he was a day; a short, wiry man with powdery grey hair secured in a plait at the nape of his neck. His leathery brown complexion and labourer's hands spoke of a life spent outdoors. His limp was noticeable but not severe and despite the injury he appeared sprightly for his age. The scar, on the other hand, was a lot more livid than Hawkwood had envisaged from Jess's description. It looked as if it had been made by a blade. It was a miracle the man had not lost his eye.

Gadd had seaman written all over him. His grizzled countenance and braided queue were a dead giveaway, as was the tattoo of an anchor emblazoned on his right forearm.

"Tom, this is Captain Hooper, and Captain Lasseur."

Gadd's face betrayed no surprise, as if being confronted by prisoners of war on the run was an everyday occurrence.

"These gentlemen would like to earn their keep, Tom," Jess Flynn said.

Hawkwood and Lasseur felt themselves perused in turn.

"Been tellin' you I could do with some help," Gadd said. He stared hard at Hawkwood. "Jessie tells me you're a Yankee, Captain."

"That's right."

Gadd nodded. "Won't hold that against you. Met a fair few in my time. Liked most of 'em." In the same breath, Gadd said, "You'll be a soldier, too, Captain Hooper, and your friend's a seafaring man, I'm thinking."

Lasseur blinked in surprise.

Gadd sniffed. He regarded Hawkwood levelly. "You walk straighten I saw you and I said to myself, now there's a man who's done some marching and carried a pack or two in his time." He turned to Lasseur. "You, though, Captain, you've the mark of a man who's used to the wind and spray on his face. You only get that look on the deck of a ship. Am I right?"

"You are right, my friend," Lasseur replied, impressed and not a little bemused.

"Then you and me have got something in common. Reckon I've sailed on just about every kind of rig there is, and then some. Did time with John Company and the Dutch navy before I joined the King's service. Got the wounds at the Nile, in case you were wondering, but don't worry, I ain't a man who holds a grudge; leastways, not for that long."

"I'm very glad," Lasseur said.

"Speak your lingo, an' all." He favoured Hawkwood with a grin. "Enough to get by, anyways. Picked up a bit of Spanish, too; an' I can curse in Portuguese if I've a mind."

"Tom was in the navy with my husband," Jess Flynn said.

"Served together on Orion," Gadd said. "Jack was an able seaman. I was a quartergunner. Got paid off in '02."

When the peace had been signed at Amiens, Hawkwood recalled. Though it had not lasted long. Hostilities had broken out again just over a year later. He wondered why Gadd and his friend Jack Flynn had not returned to sea. Gadd's wounds wouldn't have prevented him from joining a ship. Maybe he'd just had enough of the life. As for Flynn, perhaps it had been because he'd acquired a wife. He wondered when the Flynns had taken their vows.

"Crew mates look after each other," Gadd said. "That's how it works. They see their mates' families are all right, too. Isn't that so, Captain?" He looked to Lasseur.

Lasseur nodded soberly. Hawkwood wondered if he was thinking of his dead wife and son.

"Right then," Gadd said briskly. "Can't stand here chin- wagging all day. Why don't you leave these gentlemen to me, Jessie? I'll find something for them to do. Reckon we'll have this place lookin' shipshape in no time!"

They rested at midday when the woman took them a basket of food and a jug of cider, which they placed in the stream to keep cool. By that time the gate to the sheep pasture had been mended, the meadow grass had been cut back and the slats on the barn nailed into place. The woman had left the food and returned to the house, leaving the three men to fend for themselves.

Hawkwood took a sip of cider and passed Gadd the jug. The seaman was puffing contentedly at a short-stemmed clay pipe. He put the pipe down and raised the jug to his lips. When he had drunk he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, put the jug to one side, leant back on his elbow and took up his pipe once more. With his eyes half closed against the sun he looked like a man satisfied with his lot.

"Is Madame Flynn a smuggler?" Lasseur asked.

Gadd opened his eyes at the unexpected question. Then he removed the pipe from his mouth and tapped the bowl against his boot. "Not everyone in the trade works the boats. There's some folk who just store the goods till they can be moved up the line to the buyer."

Shepherds, innkeepers and widows, Hawkwood thought. "Are there many like that?"

"A whole army. Someone offers you a keg for the use of your byre for a few nights or they need a couple of ponies for a run; you're not going to turn them down. You take someone like Morgan, for instance; he's got people all over the county."

"Who's Morgan?"

It was the second time the name had cropped up.

"Ezekiel Morgan. He controls most of the coast around here. Took over when the old gangs died out. There's not much goes on that he doesn't know about."

"Did he arrange our stay here?"

Gadd nodded.

"Will we get to shake his hand?" Lasseur asked.

"If you do, best count your fingers afterwards."

Gadd paused as if suddenly aware that he might have given out a little too much information. He reached over and placed the stopper back in the jug. "Anyways, you don't need to bother your heads about that. We've chores to finish. And we'd best get a move on. Jessie'll have our hides if she sees us sitting here gossiping like three old fishwives."

Hawkwood wondered if Morgan was the other form of protection Jess Flynn had mentioned the previous evening. He mulled over the possibility as they returned to work.

It was late afternoon when they halted for the day, by which time a pleasant ache had settled across Hawkwood's back and shoulders.

Lasseur drew a hand across his brow. "I shall sleep well tonight, I think."

"You'll eat first," Jess Flynn told them.

She had prepared food, which they ate seated at the table in the kitchen, while the dog kept watch outside the open door.

"How many others have there been before us?" Hawkwood asked.

"A few," Jess Flynn acknowledged. "But not for a while."

"This man, Morgan; did he arrange their passage, too?"

"Morgan?" Jess Flynn looked up, her face suddenly still.

"Thomas mentioned the name. He told us Morgan rules the free-trade business and that he'll have been the one who arranged our escape."

Jess Flynn looked towards Gadd, who returned her stare with an apologetic shrug before tearing off a hunk of bread and using it to mop the gravy from his plate.

"We were just curious, that's all," Hawkwood said. "We wanted to know who to thank for our freedom."

"I doubt your thanks would interest Ezekiel Morgan," Jess Flynn said tartly. "His only interest will have been in counting the money he's been paid for your passage."

"Sounds as if you don't care for him much," Hawkwood said.

"Can you blame her?" Gadd said.

"Tom," Jess Flynn said warningly.

Gadd threw her a look that said, You might as well tell them.

Jess Flynn hesitated, then said, "My husband worked for Morgan. It was after we were wed, when Jack was signed off the Orion. There wasn't much work around."

"Lots of ships lying in ordinary," Gadd cut in. "Too many men; too few jobs."

The price of peace, Hawkwood thought. It was ever thus. An end to hostilities meant ships were placed on reserve and their crews laid off, creating a glut of idle bodies in search of employment.

"He was always good with his hands, though." She smiled at the memory. "He could make anything."

"Built the barn out there." Gadd jerked a thumb and his lips tightened. "For Morgan."

"Ezekiel Morgan's my landlord," Jess Flynn explained. "He owns a lot of land hereabouts. That's the honest side of his business. Well, honest in comparison to his other interests. When we came here, the farm didn't pay for itself. We'd sell eggs and milk, but it wasn't enough. Jack would do all sorts of odd jobs to make ends meet: mending carts, shoeing horses, fixing gates - everything. He even made coffins. It was hard, but we got by. Then Morgan increased the rent. The first time we were unable to pay, he asked for the use of our horses for one of his runs. The next time, he needed some tubs stored for a few days. Then it was tobacco. Before long, we were hiding something away every week."

"You don't say no to Morgan," Gadd interjected. "Not if you know what's good for you. Anyone who does is soon put right. You'll find a couple of your pigs have died overnight or a hay rick's caught fire or a dead lamb's been tossed down your well. It's a lot safer to go along with whatever it is Morgan wants. If you're lucky and it all goes well, there'll be a keg of brandy on your doorstep the next morning."

Jess Flynn continued. "After a while, Jack began going out on runs. It was good money. He started off as a tub carrier, then a bat man and lookout. Eventually, he became one of Morgan's lieutenants." She stopped and her voice faltered. "And then one night he didn't come back." She fell silent.

Gadd took up the story. "There was a landing up at White Ness; a big consignment, two hundred tubs plus tobacco; seventy ponies. They were carrying the kegs up from the beach. A Revenue patrol was waiting for them at the top of Kemp's Stairs. Ten of Morgan's men were taken; six were injured; three were shot, including Jack, but he and a couple of men managed to get away. They made it as far as Reading Street. The Revenue searched the houses. The others were found. Jack managed to hide out. Morgan got the doctor to him, but it was too late; he was gone."

Jess Flynn said, "I thought I'd have to leave the farm, but Morgan let me stay on. In return, he has the use of the horses when he wants and I still hide tubs from the Revenue. Once in a while I'll get a message that he needs a special favour, and I end up taking in strays like you."

"What would happen if you told him about Seth?" Hawkwood asked.

"Seth?" Tom Gadd said, puzzled. "What's that bugger got to do with anything?"

"It would depend," Jess Flynn said.

"On what?"

"On Morgan deciding whether or not Seth bothering me was a threat to his business."

"Has he been here?" Gadd stared at her.

"And if he did consider him a threat?" Hawkwood said.

"Then I'd be lending my sister my mourning dress."

"What's the bugger done now, Jessie?" Gadd asked.

"It's all right, Tom. Nothing happened."

"He tried to force himself on her," Lasseur said. "Captain Hooper and I saw him off."

"Bloody hell, Jess!" Gadd said.

"He was drunk, Tom."

"He's always bloody drunk," Gadd muttered.

"And if Morgan decided that Seth bothering you wasn't a risk to his business, what then?" Hawkwood asked.

"I'd spend my days worrying about Annie and her boy."

"Annie?" Hawkwood said. "Your sister?"

Jess Flynn nodded. "Seth threatened to hurt them if I didn't give myself to him. I don't know whether he really would, but if I went to Morgan and he didn't do anything, and Seth found out, he could take it out on them to spite me."

Lasseur turned to Hawkwood. "You should have let me kill him."

Hawkwood did not respond to that. He studied Jess for a moment. "So you've no idea whether Morgan will take your side or Seth's?"

"No. But Seth can't be sure either. He's one of Morgan's bat men, but he knows that won't save him if Morgan decides he's stepped out of line."

"And you're hoping that the mere threat of going to Morgan will be enough to keep Seth at bay?"

"That's a dangerous game you're playing, Jess," Gadd said.

"I know, Tom. You don't have to tell me."

"Bloody Morgan," Gadd said.

Outside, the dog let out a single bark.

"Shite!" Gadd spat, swinging round in alarm.

"Stay here," Jess Flynn said. She stood up quickly and walked out into the yard, closing the door behind her.

They should have stayed in the barn, Hawkwood knew, close to the hiding space behind the bales. They had grown careless.

"There's a cellar," Gadd said urgently. "Entrance is in the pantry, under the mat." He nodded towards a door in the corner.

Hawkwood and Lasseur were already moving as the latch lifted on the back door.

Too bloody late, Hawkwood thought.

The door opened.

"It's Asa," Jess Flynn said. "He's come to pick up the tubs."

"God save us," Tom Gadd said, relief flooding across his seamed face.

Hawkwood and Lasseur helped with the loading. There were six tubs in total. It didn't take long to remove them from the hiding place behind the bales.

The gravedigger had brought two empty coffins with him on the back of the cart. Hawkwood wondered if they were new or the same ones as before. They placed three tubs in each coffin. Laid on their sides, end to end, they were a snug fit. Once the tubs had been secured, Higgs used thin nails to keep the lids in place.

"What if you're stopped?" Hawkwood asked, stepping back. "Won't it seem an odd time of day to be transporting coffins?"

The gravedigger shook his head. "Dead don't know what time it is. It ain't as though they keep regular hours. Leastways, not round here. Besides we'll be stickin' to the back lanes."

"But what if you're stopped and someone wants to take a look?"

"I'll tell 'em I'm carryin' a couple of pox victims. See if they want to take a look then. God's sakes, you ask a lot of bleedin' questions for a Frenchie." Higgs's eyes narrowed. "But then, you ain't a Frenchie, are you?"

"You were misinformed," Hawkwood said.

Tom Gadd rolled his eyes.

"Aye, well, it wouldn't be the first time," Higgs said morbidly. "Not that it makes any bleedin' difference. I just does what I'm told. Now, you ready or not?"

"For what?" Hawkwood said.

"Tubs ain't the only things I came for," Higgs said. "You got any belongings you want to take with you, best grab them now. We've a ways to go."

"Go?" Lasseur said.

"You didn't think you'd be stayin' here permanent, did you? Time you was movin' on."

"Where to?" Hawkwood asked.

"A little place in the country; nice and secluded, no pryin' eyes."

"I thought this was the country," Hawkwood said, thinking, If this isn't secluded, what is?

"There's other parts."

"Asa?" Jess Flynn said.

"Come on, Jess, you know you're not supposed to ask. I deliver 'em and I take 'em off your hands when I'm told. You don't need to know the rest."

"Bollocks, Asa," Gadd said. "Don't give me that. Where are you taking them?"

Higgs sighed, bit the inside of his lip, and said, "All right, I'm takin' them to the Haunt. Satisfied?"

Gadd frowned. "Why there?"

"God's sake, Tom, I'd have thought that was bleedin' obvious."

"What's at the Haunt?" Hawkwood asked.

"It ain't what," Gadd said, an edge to his voice. "It's who."

Hawkwood waited.

It was the gravedigger who finally answered: "Mr Morgan wants to meet you."

Well, this should be interesting, Hawkwood thought.

The sun was hanging low over the end of the valley as the gravedigger steered the coffin-laden cart up the track towards the trees. It was a strange feeling, leaving the place that had been their home for the past three days. Hawkwood had never been one for looking back over his shoulder but, on this occasion, even though he was impatient to move on, he couldn't help himself. Sunset was probably less than an hour away; at the edge of the woods, shadows were already lengthening and the house and barn were suffused in a warm russet glow. Hawkwood glanced to his side. Lasseur was staring back too, but there was a distant look in his eye that suggested he was seeing something far beyond his immediate view.

There had been no protracted farewells.

Shaking their hands in turn, Tom Gadd had wished them a fair wind and then looked vaguely embarrassed by his verbosity.

Jess Flynn had hung back, only stepping forward to press a folded napkin into Lasseur's hands. "Some food for the journey. It's not much; just some bread and cheese."

As she stepped away, Hawkwood saw her fingers make contact with the back of Lasseur's wrist. The gesture had been so subtle, he wondered if he might have imagined it; yet he knew instinctively he had not and that more had been said in that fleeting touch and in the look on Jess Flynn's face than could have been expressed in a thousand words.

She had turned to Hawkwood then. "Safe passage, Captain Hooper."

"Madame," Hawkwood said.

With a brief nod and a final glance towards Lasseur, she turned and, straight-backed, head held high, made her way back to the house, a shaggy, four-legged shape padding obediently in her wake.

Lasseur had watched her walk away, his face still.

"Time to go, Captain," Tom Gadd murmured beside him.

Lasseur nodded.

The seaman lingered as Hawkwood and Lasseur climbed on to the cart. At the last minute, Lasseur turned to him. "Watch over her, Thomas," he said quietly. "Try and keep her safe."

Gadd nodded. "I'll do my best, Captain." He watched as Lasseur settled himself down and waited until Asa Higgs had set the horse in motion before turning to follow the woman and dog towards the house.

"So, if you ain't a Frenchie, what the hell are you?"

Asa Higgs winkled a clot of ash from his pipe and tapped the bowl against the side of his boot.

"American," Hawkwood said.

"Is that right?" The gravedigger considered Hawkwood's response. "An' that's why you'd rather be fighting for Boney than for the King?"

"He's not my king," Hawkwood said. "That's why we had a revolution."

The gravedigger sucked on his pipe stem. "Emperors pay well, do they?"

"Better than kings," Hawkwood said.

The gravedigger grinned and adjusted his gnarled grip on the reins. "Got a cousin over Rochester way tells me they've got hundreds of your lot behind bars. Said the Crown Prince at Chatham is full to the gunwales with pressed Yankee sailors who've refused to fight for Farmer George."

Which was why Hawkwood had been sent to Rapacious, further downriver, where there had been less risk of his false identity being discovered.

The gravedigger went on: "Heard tell the army's been sendin' recruitin' sergeants aboard offerin' sixteen guineas to any American willing to switch sides. From what I knows of the hulks, you'd have thought they'd be queuin' up, but they ain't had any takers. You was lucky you got away."

It had been some time since they'd left the farm. Sunset had given way to dusk, which in turn had darkened into an indigo- hued twilight. It was now night time. There were no clouds to mask the moon. The sky was bright and clear; the stars strewn across the night sky like diamonds on black velvet.

From what Hawkwood had been able to deduce, Asa Higgs had been true to his word, keeping them well away from anything resembling an established road. Most of the journey had taken them down narrow cart tracks and drovers' trails; hidden byways which, over the centuries, had been used by generations of farmers to herd stock across country to market. Some of the trails were so overshadowed by trees it was like passing through a series of tunnels. On these occasions, Higgs had been content to let the horse take the lead, which it had done without any notable deviation. The animal was obviously as familiar with the ground as its driver, which was fortunate, for even in daylight the most eagle-eyed person might have found himself teetering on the rim of the trail, or plunging into the steep-sided gulley below.

On one occasion they had crossed a river. As the cart rattled over the old stone bridge, Hawkwood had seen the moon reflecting on the dark water flowing beneath them.

Signs of habitation were few and far between. Occasionally a distant light would catch the eye, indicating an isolated cottage or farmstead. There had been no sign of any other travellers.

Hawkwood, Lasseur and the gravedigger might well have been the only people abroad.

"Your friend don't have a lot to say for himself," the gravedigger murmured.

"Been a long day," Hawkwood said. "He's feeling a bit weary."

The gravedigger was right, though. Lasseur had been noticeably quiet since they'd left the farm. It was obvious he was thinking about Jess Flynn.

Just as well we left when we did, Hawkwood concluded. It was patently obvious that Lasseur's feelings for the woman went beyond mere sympathy for the loss of her husband and her solitary status. The manner of their leaving had suggested the attraction was mutual, though Hawkwood knew it was equally possible that the widow's parting gesture had not been a sign of some deep-seated feeling but a tactile expression of gratitude for Lasseur's intervention when she had been attacked. A gut instinct, however, told him that wasn't the case. And therein, he knew, lay the problem. The privateer's concern for the underdog, while admirable, had already cost them dear, nearly compromising their escape plan, and Hawkwood's assignment in the process. The last thing Hawkwood needed was for Lasseur to lose his objectivity over a woman with whom he had no possible future. Sooner or later the Frenchman would have to be reminded that he couldn't save all the lost and disaffected souls, no matter how hard he tried.

The land rose before them. They were no longer travelling in the dips and the hollows but had emerged on to a broader track bordered on both sides by tangled thickets. The night was full of eerie feral sounds: owls hooting, frogs croaking, animals foraging and leaves rustling. Somewhere deep within the wood a fox barked. The noise rose like a scream into the night like a soul in torment. Even though he recognized the sound, the short hairs prickled along the back of Hawkwood's neck.

Suddenly the bark was cut short.

The evening seemed suddenly unnaturally still. Asa Higgs urged the horse on and looked about him warily.

Hawkwood tensed. There had been a movement to his right; a vague, shadowy shape at the corner of his vision, flitting through a break in the trees; moonlight glancing off. . . something; he wasn't sure what.

He felt Lasseur stir beside him and was reassured. Despite the distractions, the privateer's senses were still fully alert.

Even so, neither of them was prepared for the wild, nerve- jarring screech of laughter that exploded from the trees, or the ghastly apparitions that vaulted without warning on to the track ahead of them.

The startled gravedigger yanked back on the reins and the cart slewed sideways.

There were two of them; a matching pair. They were dressed like monks, in black habits and hoods. But it was not the nature of their attire, which was torn and streaked with dirt, or the pistol that each of them brandished that drew the eye and set the heart beating; it was what lay within the cowls. For the black-clad priors had no faces, only bare skulls that gleamed like white-hot coals in the darkness.