Rapscallion

Lasseur sighed. "Then I ask you for one favour. At least wait until sunset before you leave. You'll reduce the risk of being observed while you're still close to the farm."

Hawkwood shook his head. "I can't do that. I'll be careful, but I can't wait until dark. I have to get to Barham while it's still light."

"Barham?" Lasseur frowned. "What is Barham? And why do you need to be there before dark? I don't understand."

"It's an Admiralty telegraph station."

Hawkwood had been briefed on the telegraph by Ludd, in case he needed to take advantage of it. The Admiralty had devised the system to allow it to communicate directly with its bases around the south coast. It consisted of a line of shutter stations placed on high ground across the country. Each station consisted of a large rectangular frame comprised of six shutters arranged vertically in two columns of three. The shutters could be opened and closed at will, with the positions of the shutters representing letters of the alphabet. Ludd had taken Hawkwood up to the roof of the Admiralty building to show him the signalling mechanism in action. It was an ingenious contraption. Ludd had boasted that, given good visibility, a message could be relayed from Portsmouth to Whitehall in less than ten minutes. Preparatory signals could be acknowledged in a quarter of that time, which was impressive, given that it had taken almost five minutes for Hawkwood and Ludd just to reach the roof.

There were two lines of shutter stations in Kent. One ran from Sheerness to Faversham - Hawkwood assumed notification of his and Lasseur's escape had been sent down that route. The other line ran from the roof at Whitehall via a dozen stations, including Chatham and Faversham, all the way to Deal.

Given the farm's location in relation to the coast, Hawkwood estimated the Shottenden telegraph was the nearest. It was probably no more than seven or eight miles away, but it lay across country. Barham, the next station down the line, sat on the main Canterbury to Dover Road. The distance was perhaps a mile or so longer, and it was a route Morgan was probably monitoring, but the journey would be quicker. Hawkwood knew if he could get to Barham, he could alert both the Admiralty and the Deal authorities at the same time.

"Then wait until morning," Lasseur argued. "That's still more than enough time for the signal to be seen. You need to eat and you'll be fully rested. If you leave at first light, you're less likely to find Morgan's men on the road, and you'll be in better shape should you need to take evasive action."

Hawkwood pulled on his left boot and reached for his jacket, which he had laid on the bed. It was more of a struggle than he had anticipated. He felt slightly nauseous and the bitter aftertaste of the Widow Flynn's tincture was suddenly strong at the back of his tongue. His clothes were beginning to feel tight around him, too, after the looseness of the nightshirt. He had the sudden, intense desire to rest his head on the nearest pillow.

In his heart, he knew there was sense in what Lasseur was telling him. His body was warning him that it needed rest. He hadn't eaten in a long time. He was in no condition to sit astride a horse and endure a nine-mile ride or deal with any threat that came at him.

He nodded reluctantly. "All right - you win. I'll leave at dawn."

When Pepper walked into the room, Morgan was at his desk, going through the accounts ledger. He was not having a good day. Despite the upheaval - in particular, the threat posed by the disappearance of the Runner and the Frenchman - work had to go on. There were still things that required his attention: runs and meetings to arrange, people to manage, deliveries to supervise, accounts to be maintained, both the legitimate ones and those "off the books". He looked up. There was no warmth in his gaze. "Cephus."

"Ezekiel," Pepper said, closing the door behind him.

Morgan glowered at his lieutenant. "Well?"

The severe expression on Pepper's face told him all he needed to know.

Morgan slammed his pen down on to the table. His features darkened. "God damn it to hell! Somebody must know something!" He shook his head in anger and exasperation. "That bastard Runner can't have made it home. There's been no sign that an alarm's gone out. Deal's quiet. There's no extra troop activity. The place would be crawling if the Admiralty or the army had been alerted."

"We're still on, then?" Pepper said. He stood as if awaiting orders.

Morgan glanced towards the unlit hearth, where the two mastiffs were stretched out, hogging most of the carpet. Useless bloody animals, he thought, and felt more anger building. The dogs did not look up. It was as if they were trying to avoid eye contact, knowing they were the objects of Morgan's displeasure.

"I haven't decided." He tried to keep his voice steady.

"We're cutting it fine," Pepper said.

"I bloody know that, Cephus!" Frustrated, Morgan pushed the books to one side. So much for keeping calm. He knew he was running out of time; the decision could not be put off for much longer. As a result he could feel the tension welling up inside him like a dam threatening to burst. He chewed his lip. "What's happening with our guests?"

"Restless. They want it over and done with."

"Don't we all."

"They keep asking if we've news of Lasseur."

"They miss him?"

"No," Pepper said. "I think they want to kill him."

"Then they'll have to join the bloody queue," Morgan snarled. He sat back. "I suppose we should be thankful their loyalty isn't in question."

"It won't be, not as long as they think they're going to make money," Pepper said.

"Just so long as they keep thinking that," Morgan said, rising from his desk.

Walking across to the side table, Morgan reached for the bottle of brandy and poured a measure into a small, ornate glass. He downed the brandy in one swallow. He did not offer a drink to Pepper.

Pepper said nothing. He waited.

Without warning, Morgan picked up the bottle and hurled it at the wall above the fireplace. He followed it with the tumbler. As the bottle shattered and the glass and spirit rained down upon them, the dogs shot to their feet and fled towards the shelter of the desk. "God damned bastard sons of bitches!" Morgan roared. Globules of spittle flecked his beard. He picked up another bottle and threw it at the brindle mastiff, catching it across its rear end. The dog yelped and tried to hide behind one of the chairs.

"Ezekiel?" Pepper said, moving towards him, halting abruptly when he saw that Morgan had retrieved one of the loaded pistols from the table.

Morgan cocked the pistol, aimed at the fawn dog, and fired. The dog howled and fell away, paws scrabbling impotently on the carpet. Suddenly, it began to shake, its back legs kicking uselessly. The howls became whimpers. The dog's flanks stopped moving. Blood pooled on the floor beneath it.

"For the love of God, Ezekiel!" Pepper cried as the brindle mastiff padded cautiously out of hiding and started to lick the blood off its companion's hindquarters.

Morgan lowered the gun. He stared down at the dog, then walked purposefully across the room and laid the pistol on the desk.

He turned to Pepper. His face suddenly composed. "Get someone in to clear that mess up." Morgan pointed to the dead mastiff.

Pepper hesitated then nodded silently. He could hear footsteps and muted voices outside; people wondering what was happening.

Morgan stepped around the corpse. Absently he stroked the brindle mastiff's ears before sitting back down at his desk. He felt, he realized, remarkably at peace now.

"And, Cephus?"

Pepper halted by the door.

"The Runner and the Frenchman - I want them found; I want their balls served up on a plate."

"We're looking," Pepper said.

"Look harder. Lasseur will be making for the coast. He'll be trying to get home. I want every fisherman, every skipper, anyone with a bloody rowboat between Rye and Rochester to keep his eyes peeled."

"And the Runner?"

"He's the dangerous one. He'll want to tell everyone what he's heard here, whereas the Frog'll want to keep his head down." Morgan hesitated. "You can't deny they're damned effective as a pair. It could be the two of them will stick together at first, so they can watch each other's backs. Increase the reward. I want people on their toes, so start pulling in markers. Everyone who owes us - and that's everyone from shit shovellers to magistrates. Any bugger kicks up a fuss, do what you have to do. Billy Hollis reckons the Frenchman might have been nicked before they went over the wall, and it's possible Del did some damage before they killed him. Get Rackham to have a word with some of his cronies. They might have received a couple of visitors looking for medical assistance."

"I'll do that," Pepper said. Rackham was Morgan's pet surgeon. His surgical skills wouldn't win him any kudos at Barts or St Thomas's, but he was discreet, and that was what counted.

"All right," Morgan said.

Pepper let himself out.

Morgan returned to his books but found it impossible to concentrate. Restless, he stood up and moved to the window.

The door opened behind him.

"Ezekiel."

It was Pepper again. There was something in his voice. Morgan turned.

Pepper wasn't alone. He stepped aside to allow the figure behind him to enter.

Morgan stared at his visitor's face.

The brindle lifted its muzzle and growled threateningly.

Pepper closed the door. "I think you should hear this."

"Hello, Mr Morgan," Seth Tyler said. His eyes widened when he saw the dead dog and the blood around the brindle's massive jaws. The scratch marks from the besom showed livid across Tyler's face. Some of them still looked raw. He swallowed nervously. "Heard you were looking for information. Reckon I've got something that might interest you ..."

"At last you see sense," Lasseur sighed. "I was beginning to think I was talking to myself."

Hawkwood pulled on his jacket. A thought struck him. "Do Jess and Tom Gadd know I'm a police officer?"

Lasseur hesitated. "They did not hear it from me, but Thomas knew."

"Morgan put the word out."

"Undoubtedly."

"And they still took me in?"

"It seems, my friend, that they trust us more than they trust Morgan."

"God Almighty," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur smiled. "It must be my Gallic charm."

They made their way downstairs; Hawkwood less energetically than Lasseur, though it felt good to be back on his feet, no matter how precariously. Jess Flynn was at the kitchen table cutting up vegetables and placing them in a cooking pot. A familiar shape was sprawled half in and half out of the back door. The dog looked round, its eyes hidden by its fringe, and wagged its tail at the new arrivals before turning back to protect the herb garden.

Jess Flynn regarded Hawkwood with a critical eye. "You should in bed."

"It's thanks to you I'm not," Hawkwood said.

A small smile touched her face, though it might have been a little forced. She still had problems with that errant strand of hair, Hawkwood saw. "You've nothing to fear from me," he said.

There was a pause. The tension seemed to leave her and she nodded. "I know." She glanced at Lasseur. Her face softened and then she turned back and frowned. "Should I still call you Captain? Please, sit down before you fall down. You need some food inside you. There's some broth on the hob and a fresh loaf and butter on that platter beside you. Help yourself." She gestured to a chair, brushing the hair off her face, and busied herself at the fire.

"I was a captain once," Hawkwood said, taking a seat. "In another life."

"You really were in the army?" Lasseur asked. He looked genuinely surprised as he sat down opposite Hawkwood.

"The Rifle Brigade. The British regiment, not the American one."

Hawkwood leant back as Jess Flynn returned to the table and placed a bowl of broth and a spoon before him.

"Eat," she ordered.

The smell rising from the bowl was wonderful. Hawkwood broke off a piece of bread.

"And you fought in Spain?" Lasseur asked.

"Yes."

"At Ciudad Rodrigo?"

Hawkwood dipped the spoon into the bowl and raised it to his lips. Chicken, potatoes, carrots and herbs; flavours exploded across his tongue.

"No, that was after my time."

He ate some bread and took another spoonful, savouring the taste. He could feel the torpor slipping away with each mouthful.

"And now you're a police officer. What was it Morgan called you? A Runner - I do not know what that means."

At the mention of the word, Jess Flynn's eyes widened. Presumably Gadd hadn't revealed that little snippet of information.

Hawkwood broke off some more bread and dipped it in the bowl. "It means I'm a special kind of police officer."

"You hunt smugglers?"

"Not just smugglers."

"Ah," Lasseur nodded. "You mean you hunt people like me: escaped prisoners. That's why you were on the ship."

"Not entirely. I was investigating the disappearance of two naval officers."

Lasseur's brow furrowed. "The men Morgan mentioned? I forget their names."

"Sark and Masterson."

"Morgan had them killed?"

"Sark's body was never found, so we didn't know for sure. But after what Morgan told us in the stables, I'm prepared to take his word for it."

"And you plan to bring him to justice."

"If it's the last thing I do," Hawkwood said. He took another piece of bread and used it to soak up the broth. It tasted as good as the first mouthful. He rested his spoon, looked down and was surprised to find he'd emptied the bowl. He felt remarkably fortified. Perhaps he could make it to the telegraph station after all.

Suddenly, the dog stood up. A low grumble began at the back of its throat.

"Into the pantry," Jess Flynn said quickly, wiping her hands on her apron. "The trap's open."

The dog's tail began to wag.

"Wait," Jess Flynn said, relief filling her voice. "It's only Tom."

A minute later, Gadd limped in through the door, followed by the dog. Its nose was twitching. When the seaman saw Hawkwood and Lasseur he paused. The scar running through his cheek and eye socket looked like a slug trail crossing a paving stone. He had a muslin sack over his shoulder and a fowling piece in his hand.

"Tom," Hawkwood said.

Gadd nodded in solemn and cautious recognition. He regarded Hawkwood's unshaven features for what seemed like an inordinately long time. There was no malice in the seaman's gaze. Nor did there appear to be disapproval. It was almost as if he couldn't make his mind up what to think. Eventually, he nodded and said neutrally, "You're on your feet, Cap'n. That's good. Not sure the beard suits you."

"Captain Lasseur tells me I've you to thank for helping me up the stairs." Self-consciously, Hawkwood drew a hand across his jaw. He thought about the razor the woman had given Lasseur. It was back in the cell at the Haunt. Lasseur's facial hair also needed a trim, but because he already had a goatee, it seemed to suit his face.

Gadd shrugged. "Aye, well, you were there to help Jessie when she was in trouble. Reckoned I owed you. Besides, digging a grave's too much like hard work. And Morgan's still after your blood, by the way."

"Tell us something we don't know," Hawkwood said.

"He's upped the bounty. That good enough for you?" Gadd reached inside the bag and brought out two rabbits. He went to the open pantry door and suspended the game from a hook in one of the beams. He propped the gun against the wall by the door. Behind his back, the dog's nose continued to twitch.

"I'm flattered," Lasseur said.

"You should be," Gadd responded. "It's a tidy sum. McTurk and Croker were two of his best men. Plus there was young Del. Morgan don't take kindly to someone removing three of his crew. Word's spreading that he's willing to pay over the odds for information, which means people'll be on the lookout. You're safe here for a while, but there's no telling for how long." Gadd nodded towards Hawkwood. "And you, Captain, or Constable or whatever it is they call you, are a long way from home."

"Funny," Hawkwood said. "That's what people told me when they thought I was an American."

"Aye, well," Gadd said morosely. "Just so's you know."

"The captain was not solely responsible," Lasseur said.

The privateer glanced towards Jess Flynn as he spoke and Hawkwood saw a look pass between them. He wondered how much Lasseur had told her. She didn't look shocked by the admission.

"That's as maybe," Gadd said. "Not that it matters. Morgan wants the two of you found. And he wants you dead. Probably planning to do it himself. Rumour has it that he likes to keep his hand in. He thought you'd try for a boat, so he's got his people making enquiries along the coast. He's got 'em watching the roads, too. I haven't seen this much activity since the army thought Boney was going to invade back in '04. Word is, he can't believe you've lasted these past two days without being seen. You'd've thought..." The seaman's voice trailed off, rendered mute by the look on Hawkwood's face.

Lasseur's head lifted.

Hawkwood stared at the old seaman. "How long did you say?"

"How long, what?" Gadd said.

"How long did you say we've been here?" Hawkwood stood up.

Gadd looked at Jess Flynn, whose hands, dusted with flour, had stilled at the coldness in Hawkwood's tone.

"Since the day before yesterday. The captain brought you by boat. Jessie and I thought he was too late. You were in a bad way, all covered in mud. Looked like you weren't breathing. Had the devil of a job lugging you up the stairs. Captain and me had to peel your clothes off, they were that damp. You smelled something rotten, too." Gadd paused. "Why're you asking?"

Hawkwood stared down at Lasseur as the significance of Gadd's words struck home. "You told me we'd only been here a day. We've been here two days. That means the robbery's not due tomorrow; it's tonight!"

It hit him then, like a hammer blow to the ribs.

"My God, you want them to go ahead!" Suddenly everything had become clear. "That's it, isn't it? You actually want Morgan to go through with it!"

At first the privateer did not respond. Finally, he spread his hands in an admission of defeat. "You have me." He gave Hawkwood a look of wry contrition. "What can I say? I knew you'd discover my ruse eventually. Though I had hoped it would take you a little while longer." His eyebrows lifted as he met Hawkwood's gaze. "You look shocked, my friend. But what would you do if the situation was reversed and you had the chance to relieve your enemy of the means to feed and equip his army? Would you take it? I think we both know the answer to that. I'm a patriot, Matthew, and for that I make no apology. I told you I looked upon you as my friend, but I love France. And France needs that gold."

"Gold?" Gadd said. "What bloody gold?"

"You're siding with Morgan?" Hawkwood said, ignoring Gadd's look of confusion. "You'd do that, knowing he sent his men after us? Two of your own countrymen tried to kill you! How does that fit in with your definition of patriotism?"

"Jessie?" Gadd said. "Do you know what they're on about?"

Jess Flynn stood still, her eyes flicking between the two men. She was obviously as bewildered as Gadd by the sudden turn of events.

Lasseur shook his head. "I'm not the one who's important. It's for the greater good."

"That's why you were so concerned for my health," Hawkwood said. "And why you were persuading me to stay put. If Morgan does go ahead with the raid tonight, you knew any message sent from Barham in the morning would be too damned late."

He pushed the chair back angrily, his eyes moving to the open door. Sunset was a little over two hours away. There was still time to get to the telegraph station at Barham and use the shutters to send a warning to the authorities at Deal and the Admiralty before darkness rendered the system impotent.

But would Morgan be making his play tonight? Would he take a chance, knowing that his quarry was still free? Hawkwood knew he couldn't take the risk that Morgan wouldn't go through with his plan.

He spun towards Jess Flynn who was still staring at them both as if mesmerized. "I need a horse, Jess! Now!"

"Would somebody mind tellin' the rest of us what the bloody hell's going on?" Gadd implored. "What's all this talk about gold?"

"Morgan's planning to attack the Admiral's residency at Deal and steal the army's pay chests," Hawkwood said. "Then he's going to sell the gold to the French. It's possible he's going to do it tonight. Captain Lasseur here would like to see him get away with it. I'd like to stop him."

"Bloody hell!" Gadd took a step backwards.

Hawkwood turned to Lasseur. "What now, Captain? Is this where you try and stop me?"

Lasseur smiled sadly. "I did not think it would come to this, my friend."

"Me neither," Hawkwood admitted truthfully.

Lasseur started to rise from the table. "I am sorry, Matthew."

"No!" Jess Flynn cried.

Hawkwood tensed; thought about the knife in his boot and how quickly he could reach it.

"Best stay where you are, Cap'n. I'd hate to have to shoot you."

"Tom!" Jess Flynn said urgently.

Hawkwood looked around. Gadd had retrieved the fowling piece. The muzzle was pointed at Lasseur's chest. Tom Gadd's finger was curled around the trigger.

"It's loaded, Cap'n, in case you were wondering. I keep it that way on account of I always need game for the pot and you never know when something's going to come flying up out of the barley. So before you try anything stupid, you can rest assured there's no way you can move your body from behind that table faster than I can squeeze this trigger."

Lasseur showed his palms and lowered himself into his seat, the half smile still hovering on his face.

"That's the way," Gadd said. "Make yourself comfortable while the rest of us try and figure things out. Army pay chests, you say?"

"For Wellington's troops in Spain," Hawkwood said.

"And Morgan plans to give 'em to Bonaparte?"

"No, he plans to sell them to him."

Gadd sucked on a tooth. "Can't say as I like the sound of giving Old Nosey's gold to the French. I've smuggled a few guineas in my time, but we never stole 'em from our own lads. Seems to me you've got to draw the line somewhere. And if Morgan's fingers are in the pie, you'd have to be bloody stupid not to know he's featherin' his own nest at the same time. Heard you mention Barham. You talking about the telegraph?"

"That's right."

Gadd drew himself up. "Best get going then. You leave now, you'll still make it before dark. There's two horses in the barn. Take the mare. She's the quicker. The cob's more used to pulling a cart. You want the Dover Road; take the track through the bottom wood till you reach the church, then turn south. That'll take you all the way to Barham Downs. You'll see the shutter station on top of the hill. Can't bloody miss it. We'll keep the captain here while you're gone. Maybe enjoy some of Jessie's cooking and a wet at the same time. That sit all right with you, Jessie?" Before she had time to reply, Gadd turned. "You still here, Constable? Best get your finger out. Time's a wasting."

Hawkwood looked back at Lasseur. "Safe journey, Captain," Lasseur said, making it sound almost as though he meant it.

Hawkwood left the kitchen at a run.

And saw the flash at the top of the slope as he turned towards the barn.

Too damned late, he thought, knowing that it had to be the sun glancing off a spyglass lens. He'd experienced the phenomenon too many times for it to be anything else.

Reacting instinctively, he was already ducking back into the house as the first of the horsemen broke silently from the edge of the trees above him.

Then the dog began to bark.