Rapscallion

CHAPTER 18

"You're telling me he's been gone for twelve days?" Jago asked.

James Read nodded.

They were in Read's office. The Chief Magistrate was seated at his desk. Jago was standing with his back to the window. It was late in the evening. Outside, darkness had fallen, reflecting the mood in the room.

"Not exactly a lifetime. The captain's a grown man. He can look after himself. When was the last time you had word of him?"

"The last positive news was six days ago, though not from Hawkwood directly. We received a dispatch from Ludd advising us that Officer Hawkwood and the privateer, Lasseur, had escaped from the ship." Read paused and then said, "Ludd informed me that they left rather a lot of chaos in their wake."

Jago was about to retort, No change there, then, only to be forestalled by the look on the Chief Magistrate's face.

"What sort of chaos?" he asked guardedly.

"Five dead, including a child."

Jago stared at Read aghast. "What?"

"I'm led to understand that the child - a young boy - was in severe jeopardy. Hawkwood and Lasseur went to his aid. They were forced to defend themselves against serious assault. At least that's the explanation that was given to the ship's commander. Captain Ludd is still ascertaining the facts. It seems the commander, a Lieutenant Hellard, chose to deal with the incident in a manner that went beyond the boundaries of Royal Navy discipline, as it applies to the treatment of prisoners of war. He is to face a Board of Enquiry and is unlikely to emerge unscathed. If he thought that commanding a prison hulk was the lowest depth he could plumb, he is going to be sorely disappointed."

Jago, still shaken, looked pensive. "And that's it? That's all you know?"

"There may be more."

"Meanin' what?"

"Ludd also reported that, on the night of their escape, there was an incident on the opposite coast. A place called Warden. A force of Revenue men supported by a small company of dragoons intercepted a landing party. In the melee that ensued, several men were wounded. One of the Revenue men was watching through a spyglass. He couldn't be certain, but he thought there were two members of the smugglers' gang who stood aside and appeared to play no part in the landing of the contraband, and when the shooting started they did not seek to conceal themselves ashore, but instead hurried to board the smugglers' boat as it pulled away. He also said that, unlike the rest of the smuggler crew, they seemed to be unarmed. He thought that was . . . unusual."

"And you think it was the captain and the Frenchie?" Jago said, looking doubtful. "Any of the smugglers caught or questioned?"

"Unfortunately, it was the smugglers who emerged victorious. They were able to call up support; as a result it was the Revenue who were forced to retreat." Read pursed his lips. "I know it's not much to go on, Sergeant. In fact, it might be nothing at all, but it's the only lead we have."

Interesting that he still calls me sergeant, Jago thought.

He suspected it was the closest Read would come to granting him the courtesy of a title. He doubted the Chief Magistrate would ever address him as "Mister". Mister inferred respectability, and Jago suspected that, while James Read was willing to overlook the more nefarious aspects of his commercial activities in the interest of quid pro quo, the magistrate wasn't yet prepared to accept Nathaniel Jago as a fully paid-up member of legitimate society.

"If you ask me," Jago said grimly, "it sounds like a complete bloody mess."

Read nodded, thin lipped. "From all I've heard so far, I'm inclined to agree. It adds up to a very unpalatable brew, especially if one takes into account the fate of the two naval lieutenants I told you about: one dead and one missing."

"So, what is it you're asking me to do, exactly?" Jago asked, not a little warily.

Read steepled his slender fingers. "I know you to have knowledge of that part of the country. Certain avenues are open to you that would be inaccessible to the authorities. I'm hoping you can use your contacts to discover Officer Hawkwood's whereabouts and perhaps pick up his trail."

Jago's eyebrows rose. "You don't want much, do you? You do realize that if it was him getting on that boat, he's probably in France by now? I've got contacts all right, but they ain't that widespread."

"I take your point, but we cannot be sure that it was him. It's possible that Hawkwood, along with Lasseur, is still in the locality, in which case it's also possible that he is in difficulty and unable to send word."

Jago sighed and then nodded. "All right, suppose I do go looking and I find him. Then what?"

Read lowered his hands. "I'm prepared to leave that to your discretion."

Jago fixed the Chief Magistrate with a jaundiced eye. "That's mighty trusting of you. I take it this doesn't mean I'm on the payroll?"

Read allowed himself a wry smile. "That suggestion was put to me in the light of your assistance during the William Lee affair. I'm told you found the idea humorous, as it would represent a considerable drop in your earnings?"

"Aye, well . . ." Jago shrugged, "just thought I'd ask. You do realize, if you'd come to me in the first place, you might have been able to save yourselves a deal of bother."

"In hindsight, you may well be right," Read conceded. "At the time we considered that the fewer people who knew of Officer Hawkwood's assignment, the better. We -"

"What you're tryin' to say is that you thought there might be a conflict of interest on account of my occasional dealings with the import trade," Jago said.

"There was that possibility, yes," Read agreed solemnly.

"But now that his nibs' assignment has gone tits up, it's because of those dealings that you'd like me to help you out?"

"In as much as we have no firm evidence to suppose Officer Hawkwood is in extremis, that is correct."

"Well, at least you're honest," Jago said. "I'll grant you that. But you've got a bloody nerve."

There was a pause.

"So, you'll do it?" Read said.

Jago did not reply immediately. He turned and looked out of the window, gazing down on the dimly lit windows of the street below before raising his eyes to stare out over the steeply tiled, moon-flecked rooftops.

Finally, he nodded.

"Of course I'll bloody do it."

The gunshot echoed around the stable like a thunderclap, causing the horses to shy and stomp in fear. The powder smoke dissipated.

"Now, there's a pity," Morgan said. He stared at the pistol muzzle, which was aimed at a point over Hawkwood's left shoulder.

Lasseur lowered the gun. His eyes met Hawkwood's and he gave a wry smile.

Hawkwood said nothing. The distant booming sound was not an echo from the shot, he realized, but the pounding of his own heartbeat slowing to a crescendo.

Morgan held out his hand. "It wasn't loaded anyway, Captain. It was to see what you'd do with it. You didn't think we'd actually give you a loaded weapon, did you?"

Morgan looked almost sorrowful as Lasseur, silent and stone- faced, handed over the pistol.

"Better the devil you know, eh?" Morgan said. "Though I'd be a liar if I said I was surprised. It's a damned shame. I had high expectations for you two. Now I'm three men down." He shook his head. "It'll be interesting to hear what Captain Lasseur's compatriots say when I give them the news. Maybe I should let them deal with you, Captain, the same way they do on the hulks. Know how they punish traitors on the prison ships? It's not pretty. They use needles and gunpowder to tattoo the words I betrayed my brothers on the forehead. They tell me there's a severe amount of discomfort. Still, let's not jump the gun." Morgan smiled mirthlessly and turned to Del and his companion. "Either of them so much as farts - shoot him."

Croker didn't look happy with that proviso. "Can't we kill them, anyway?"

"Not yet. We'll find a use for them later. Maybe give the dogs a run if Captain Lasseur's friends don't care to pass sentence. That'll be after Cephus and I have a few words with Officer Hawkwood, of course."

"I'd like to be in on that," Croker said.

"Don't look so disappointed, Jack, my boy. If you behave yourself, you'll get your chance. All in good time. For now, Thaddeus has just put clean straw down and it'd be a pity to mess it up. Besides, it'll disturb the horses and we've spooked them enough as it is. I don't want the mare panicking and stepping on that foal, not after the trouble I've been through."

To Hawkwood, Morgan said, "Gave you a bit of a fright, did we?"

Croker sneered. "Smells like he's soiled his breeches."

Hawkwood shook his head. "Not me. That'll be Del. I've known sweeter-perfumed middens. I thought you said he wasn't allowed inside?"

Del wrinkled his nose. "What's he on about?"

"Your boss thinks you smell," Hawkwood said. He eyed the pistol in Del's hand. Getting the weapon wouldn't be that hard, but Croker was too eager and Del's companion looked useful and Hawkwood wasn't prepared to gamble with the odds. There was Pepper, too, to contend with and Pepper was the unknown quantity. Not to mention the girl; she'd proved her worth by killing Jilks. Hawkwood wondered how she'd done it. He recalled the pistols on the sideboard.

"Ignore him, Del," Morgan said wearily. "He thinks he's being funny."

"Ain't me," Del said, looking pained. "It's the bloody paint. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"You're not wearing any paint," Hawkwood said.

"Ha, bleedin' ha," Del said, though he still looked doubtful. He turned to Morgan for instructions. "Where d'you want them?"

"Out of my sight. Take Sol; put them in one of the cellars. Let them stew for a while. Jack, you go with them. There's safety in numbers. Don't give either of them an inch - I mean it. Soon as they're locked away, Del, I want you back watching the road. Better send word to Asa Higgs, too. Use one of the carrier birds. Tell him there's a burial that needs arranging." He looked at Hawkwood and Lasseur. "Possibly three."

Morgan tossed Pepper his spent pistol and turned to the girl. "Esther, you get Jilks's bay back in her stable before it gets light. Make sure you rub her down. We don't want her looking like she's been ridden hard. Once you've done that, give it till morning, then make out you just found him. Not too tearful; just enough to make it look good. You know the drill. If you go now, you should just make it. Thaddeus'll give you a hand to saddle up."

The girl nodded.

"Good," Morgan said. "You all know what to do."

Croker picked up a lantern. "All right; move your arses." He pointed the muzzle of his pistol at Hawkwood's cheek. "Just give me an excuse."

"Enough, Jack," Morgan said. "You'll get your chance."

Croker looked as if he couldn't wait that long.

Sol, carrying a lantern of his own, led the way out of the stables, across the yard and down a series of steps into a dank, vault-like passage beneath the foundations of yet another outbuilding from the ancient priory complex.

Croker halted them outside a closed door and withdrew the bolt. He pulled the door open and gestured Hawkwood into the room. Hawkwood was halfway through the doorway when Croker's boot slammed into the back of his calf, folding his leg and pitching him on to the hard stone floor.

"Watch the Frog," Croker snarled and launched his boot towards Hawkwood's groin. Hawkwood twisted aside, leaving his thigh to catch the brunt of the strike. It was still hard enough to make him cry out with the pain. Two more kicks in quick succession found their mark before Croker stepped away; finally heeding Sol's warning that their employer was unlikely to be happy if the bastard pegged out before he'd been questioned.

Holding up the light, he gazed down at Hawkwood, his eyes black with hate. "You're a dead man," he said.

He turned. "Get the other one in here."

Del pushed Lasseur forward and Croker exited the cellar. Lasseur had barely enough time to move to Hawkwood's side before the door was slammed shut behind him, leaving him cocooned in darkness, with only Hawkwood's ragged breathing for company.

It was several minutes before the pain subsided and Hawkwood was able to sit up. He did so gingerly, thankful that Croker had aimed for his lower torso. None of the kicks had landed on the previous wounds sustained from the duel in the hulk.

He couldn't see a thing. The interior of the cellar was as dark as a tomb.

"Matthew?" Lasseur's disembodied voice came out of the blackness.

"Still here," Hawkwood said.

He felt a hand on his arm. "Are you hurt?"

"I'll live."

"I should quote Charbonneau. What was it he used to say? 'The Lord loves an optimist'?"

Ignoring the pain in his belly and his thigh, Hawkwood got to his feet and heard Lasseur do the same. He reached out and took hold of Lasseur's sleeve. "The door's to our left, yes?"

Lasseur thought for a second. "Yes."

"Let's make sure," Hawkwood said. "Back up until we reach the wall."

It took five paces before their spines touched the cold stone.

"Now, what?" Lasseur asked, intrigued.

Leaning flat against the wall, Hawkwood took his bearings, picturing in his mind the things he'd seen in the cellar before the door closed and the light vanished. Croker's keen desire to inflict punishment had provided him with valuable seconds in which to take stock of his surroundings, the dimensions of the room and some of the objects immediately to hand.

Uppermost were the position of the door and a shelf to the left of it bearing a candle stub and what had looked like a tinder box.

"Don't move," Hawkwood said.

Holding his hands out in front of him, moving painfully, he set off towards the opposite wall. A vision struck him of soldiers blinded in action and reduced to begging on street corners, enclosed in perpetual darkness. I'd rather be dead than blind, he thought.

When his hands finally touched stone, he paused. Knowing the dark would have caused some disorientation he debated whether to move left or right. He chose left. The shelf had been set low, he recalled, and at waist height. Tentatively, he began to edge along the wall. After a few side steps his fingers encountered wood; moved on, and found metal. It was the tin. Hawkwood fumbled awkwardly with the lid, eased it open and probed the interior. Yes! He breathed a sigh of relief and ran his fingers over a flint and steel, and something with the consistency of thistledown. He heard Lasseur's exclamation at seeing the spark as he struck the flint. Looking down, he saw not only the tinder but two short lengths of taper lying on the shelf next to the candle stub.

A few seconds later, they had light.

Extinguishing the tinder, Hawkwood placed the fire-starting tools back in the tin and slipped it into his pocket. "We need a way out or something to fight with. Preferably both."

"You still have your knife?" Lasseur said, remembering.

"It won't be enough," Hawkwood said. He looked at Lasseur. "Why didn't you try and shoot me? You had the chance to save yourself."

Lasseur, trapped by the candlelight, looked surprised by the question. "You still owe me four thousand francs, remember? I was protecting my investment."

"Now, who's the optimist?" Hawkwood said, and winced.

His discomfort did not go unnoticed. Lasseur frowned. "I thought you said you weren't hurt."

"No, I said I'd live. I hurt like hell."

"You can't blame Croker. You killed his friend."

"I might just kill Croker as well," Hawkwood growled. He paused. "Why are you doing this, Captain? What's the real reason?"

Lasseur smiled and then his face grew serious. "I said you were an honourable man. I also said there was a darkness within you. I believe both statements to be true. You proved it by fighting by my side to protect the boy and when you saved my life on the beach. For those acts alone, I will always count you as my friend. As a general rule, I do not kill my friends. Did Morgan speak the truth? You really are a police officer?"

Hawkwood nodded.

"You had me fooled."

"But I didn't take you for a fool," Hawkwood said. "It's not the same thing."

"No," Lasseur said. He looked thoughtful. "I don't believe it is."

The candlelight confirmed there was only the one door and that the cellar held nothing lethal enough to use as a weapon. A dozen half-anker tubs were stacked against the far end of the room. Six bigger barrels rested on their sides next to them. Adjacent to the large barrels were several glass demijohns containing what appeared to be, in the dull candle glow, a coloured liquid. Next to the demijohns were some wooden crates containing dozens of glass bottles, all of them empty. The smell was enough to tell them what the barrels contained. Hawkwood nudged the small kegs. Their weight told him they were full. He presumed the six tubs Asa Higgs had transported from Jess Flynn's farm were among them, though there was no way to know for sure as they all looked the same. Morgan was taking a risk keeping them on his property, Hawkwood reflected, if the Haunt was ever raided by the Revenue, though that seemed an unlikely prospect given the pickets and the representatives of officialdom Morgan supposedly had on his payroll.

There was a spigot in each of the large barrels. Hawkwood held his hand under one and turned the tap. He let the clear liquid run and took a sip. He had taken it for gin, but it was water he could taste.

"At least we won't die of thirst," Lasseur said.

"Depends which barrel you sup from," Hawkwood said. "Pick the wrong one and you're more likely to die of alcohol poisoning."

"What?" Lasseur's eyebrows lifted.

"Not all the brandy that's brought in is drinkable. A lot of its seventy per cent over proof. They have to add water. Some of it comes in clear, so they add caramel syrup to darken it. I'm guessing that's what's in those." Hawkwood indicated the demijohns and then the kegs. "You drink that stuff undiluted, it'll likely kill you."

"There might be worse ways of going," Lasseur said. He stared wistfully at the kegs. Then his eyes shifted to a large wooden tea chest. "What do you suppose is in there?"

More smuggled goods, Hawkwood guessed, though it was unlikely to hold tea, as the duty on tea had been heavily reduced decades ago. It was more likely to be lace, or gloves, or rolls of silk. There was no lock. He undid the clasps and opened the lid.

Nothing to get excited about; bundles of material, though none of them were of lace or silk. Hawkwood was reaching down to feel if there was anything concealed beneath the layers when something about the material struck him as vaguely familiar. He held the candle close then placed it to the side and lifted one of the bundles out. When he unrolled it, he was holding a jacket and a pair of breeches. The jacket was dark blue with a red collar and cuffs. The trousers were a grubby white.

He heard Lasseur give a grunt of surprise. "That's a French infantry uniform."

Hawkwood nodded. "Company of Fusiliers."

"You're familiar with French army uniforms?"

"It's a long story," Hawkwood said.

"These aren't new." Lasseur pointed to a hole in the tunic. "That was made by a musket ball."

Or maybe even a bullet from a Baker rifle, Hawkwood thought.

There were upwards of two dozen more uniforms in the chest. What was Morgan doing with them? He couldn't begin to guess, but he wasn't going to lose sleep over it. He tossed the uniform back in the chest and closed the lid.

"I think we've exhausted our possibilities," Lasseur said. "It looks as if your knife's the only weapon we've got."

Hawkwood looked around.

"Not necessarily," he said.

Lasseur frowned. "What did you have in mind?"

Hawkwood told him.

Lasseur considered Hawkwood's idea.

"The darkness returns," he said grimly.

Footsteps, followed by the rasp of metal catching on metal.

Hawkwood, senses alert, opened his eyes. It didn't make any difference. He still couldn't see a damned thing. He wondered if it was morning already. Had he slept? It didn't seem as if five minutes had passed since they had been locked in.

He heard voices behind the door but the words were indistinct. He assumed Lasseur had heard them, too. Acting quickly, using the flint and steel, he set light to the tinder and transferred the flame to the candle. Slipping the tin into his pocket, he squatted down with his back to the wall, the flickering candle on the floor by his hand. He glanced across the room to where Lasseur was crouching. The privateer nodded.

The sound came again; a door bolt being released. The door swung open. Croker stood on the threshold, a pistol in his hand. Sol, also armed, was behind him with the lantern.

Hawkwood saw it was morning. Beyond the doorway, grey light from outside was filtering along the passageway.

Croker jerked his head. "You - lawman - on your feet, now! The Frog stays put."

Hawkwood remained where he was.

Croker raised the pistol. "You bleedin' deaf? I said outside! Mr Morgan wants to see you."

"I don't think so," Hawkwood said. "I prefer it here."

Croker moved forward. For the first time, he appeared to notice the candle flame. "Would you look at that, Sol? They found themselves a light. Afraid of the dark, were we? How sweet. Keep your eye on the Frog while I deal with his nibs."

Croker stepped further into the cellar, Sol close behind him, holding the lantern high and looking wary.

The cellar had always carried the smell from the kegs. It was nothing new, but it wasn't until Croker looked down and noticed the lantern reflecting off the wetness on the floor and the dampness on his boots that it occurred to him the smell might be stronger than usual.

Which was when Lasseur kicked over the opened brandy keg and Hawkwood touched the candle to the edge of the puddle.

Croker let out a yell as the floor and his boots and breeches erupted in blue tongues of fire.

Hawkwood knew the flames might not last long, depending on the strength of the liquor, but he was counting on Croker's initial panic to give them the edge. Pushing himself off the wall, Hawkwood slammed the knife towards Croker's throat. The blade entered Croker's neck with devastating force. Croker's eyes widened with astonishment. As he toppled backwards, the pistol still held fast in his hand, Hawkwood swept the knife sideways before tugging it free. Gravity did the rest.

Sol turned too late and screamed as Lasseur rose and smashed the empty bottle on to the bridge of his nose. The lantern fell from his hand. As Sol went down, Lasseur levered the pistol from his grip and swung his boot into Sol's crotch. Sol joined Croker on the floor. Lasseur tossed the bottle aside, ignoring the sound of breaking glass. Croker, prostrate, brandy-soaked and burning, tried to bring his pistol to bear and died, choking on his own blood.

Placing the knife inside his boot, Hawkwood prised the pistol from Croker's hand. Already, the flames were dying.

Lasseur was in the passageway. Hawkwood slammed the door shut and rammed the bolt home. He caught up with Lasseur at the bottom of the stairs.

"If we can get to the stables," Lasseur urged, "we can steal a couple of horses."

But Hawkwood shook his head. "No time. If any of Morgan's crew are in the stables we'd have to deal with them and saddle up. Even if we managed to get clear, we'd still have to get past the pickets at the gatehouse. We can assume Morgan's briefed his men. They'll hear us coming and seal us in. So far, no one knows we've broken out. The longer we can keep it that way, the better. We're better off going over the back wall and heading for the woods."

"Morgan has men on the perimeter."

"They'll be spread out. We can deal with them."

Hawkwood thought about the palisades. They were the only weak spots he'd seen. They would have to cross open ground but when weighed against being on horseback in full view and making noise, to Hawkwood's mind, the option still made more sense. It wasn't much of a choice, either way.

Lasseur contemplated Sol's pistol. "Then, let's hope this one's loaded."

They halted at the top of the steps. The yard was empty. The stable doors stood enticingly ajar. Hawkwood felt a twinge of doubt.

"Ready?" Lasseur murmured.

He found he was talking to himself. Hawkwood was already on the move.

"What are Croker and Sol playing at, for Christ's sake?" Morgan shook his head, half in anger, half in bafflement. "It would have been quicker sending Del."

"We should have gone ourselves," Pepper said. "At least, if there's a mess, it'll be easier to clean the cellar than the carpet."

They were in the main house. Morgan was at his desk. Pepper was leaning against the hearth.

Morgan thought about that. He stared at the carpet. What Pepper said made sense. He nodded. "You're right." He picked up the blackthorn walking stick. "Come on."

Pepper retrieved a pistol from the table and followed Morgan out of the room.

They headed for the stable yard.

There was still no sign of either Croker or Sol en route. Morgan tried to ignore the seeds of doubt germinating deep in his gut. He wondered whether Pepper was experiencing concern, too. If he was, there was no sign. But that was the thing with Pepper: he rarely showed any outward emotion. It didn't matter if the news was good or bad, Pepper's expression hardly ever seemed to change.

The two men crossed the yard and descended the cellar stairs.

It was Pepper who sensed it first.

"What?" Morgan said.

Pepper raised the pistol and approached the cellar door. Cautiously, Morgan tugged back the bolt and pulled the door open.

"God damn it to hell!" Morgan's features distorted with rage as he stared down at the carnage. His knuckles whitened around the blackthorn. "Useless bloody sods!"

Croker lay on his back. His clothes were singed; his eyes were open and sightless. There looked to be a lot of blood. Sol was on his side with his knees drawn up, clutching his balls with blistered hands and whimpering. One eye was closed. Blood and snot from his broken nose was dripping on to the floor. The cellar reeked. Pepper took in the opened brandy keg, the shards of broken bottle, the discarded lantern and the extinguished candle stub.

Clever, he thought. He glanced towards the other tubs at the back of the cellar. It was a good job Hawkwood and Lasseur had concentrated their escape strategy on this immediate area and that the flames had extinguished themselves before they'd had a chance to spread to the rest of the kegs.