Rapscallion

CHAPTER 21

"I'd lose the beard," Jago said. "It puts years on."

They had emerged to find that dusk had fallen. They had been in the cellar for nearly three hours. All four of them must have fallen asleep for some of the time. The smoke had not infiltrated the space because the outer wall of the pantry had collapsed in on itself, leaving that side of the house exposed, so that the smoke was allowed to dissipate in the air.

The rest of the house was in a similar state of ruin; a shell of scorched brick and blackened timber. None of the furniture had survived. Most items had been reduced to charcoal and ash. The stench of smoke was overpowering.

Jess Flynn knelt on the ground supporting Tom Gadd as he drank from the canteen Jago had filled in the stream. The old man swallowed eagerly. His eyes were open and moving. He seemed more alert now that he was out in the open air. Lasseur sat beside her with his elbows on his knees, surveying the wreckage. The dog lay with its head on its paws next to them.

Jago turned to the two men at his back.

Hawkwood saw an individual of similar build to Jago; thick set and sturdy with a heavy face and farmer's hands. The second man was younger. Well set, with a strong, clean-cut face and dark eyes. He regarded Hawkwood in cool appraisal.

"You remember Micah?" Jago said.

"Of course," Hawkwood said.

Micah nodded. "Captain."

"And this here is Jethro Garvey." Jago nodded towards the first man.

"Jethro," Hawkwood said.

"Take a look around," Jago instructed.

The two men turned away.

"Who's Garvey?" Hawkwood asked.

Jago thought about it. "He's what you might call my local representative."

"How the devil did you find me?" Hawkwood was having difficulty believing it really was Jago standing in front of him and not some figment of a dream or an extension of the images he'd experienced in the cellar.

"Magistrate Read was worried when he hadn't heard from you. He sent for me. Obviously thinks you can't cope on your own."

"He did what?"

"Told me about your assignment, too. Your man Ludd sent Bow Street a dispatch about a possible sighting of you and the captain boarding a boat at Warden. I figured that was as good a place to start as any. I had a quiet word with the local landlord, Abraham. Very accommodating, he was. Seems it's a well-used route for escaping prisoners - and not just foreigners, either. Anyway, he confirmed that an American and a French officer had boarded a lugger bound for Seasalter on the night in question."

Hawkwood wondered about Jago's definition of a "quiet word".

"But how did you find this place?" Hawkwood asked.

"You familiar with a culley named Higgs?"

Jess Flynn's head came up.

"The gravedigger," Hawkwood said.

Jago nodded. "That's him. Abraham told me he was the next man down the line. I tracked him to his local; place called the Blind Hog - a right bloody hovel. He was a bit reluctant to talk at first, but it's amazing how a drop of grog'll loosen a man's tongue, once he's in the right mood."

From the expression on Jago's face, Hawkwood suspected the "right mood" might have been helped along by Jago's hand clenched around Higgs's testicles or a threat to cut off his remaining fingers.

"Our Asa," Jago said, "let slip all manner of interestin' gossip 'bout how he'd delivered the Yankee and the Frenchman first to here and then to this Ezekiel Morgan's place. What was even more fascinating was that Morgan was now offerin' a reward for the Yankee and his mate. Seems he wasn't a bloody Yankee at all but a poxy Runner!

"Then he told me about a drinking session he'd had with some arse-wipe name of Tyler. Seems Tyler had been all ears when he heard that Morgan was after the blood of the Runner and Frenchie. Started saying it would serve the Frog right for sniffing around our women."

Lasseur and Jess Flynn exchanged glances.

"Higgs thought Tyler might have had a particular woman in mind, on account of it was his sister-in-law's farm the two captains had been staying at. He said he'd had a feeling, when he came to pick you up, that the widow and the captain were a bit more than landlady and lodger, if you get my drift. And that got me thinking: if I was on the run, looking for somewhere to hide out, where would I run to? Somewhere I'd find a friendly face, that's where. So I decided Mrs Flynn's farm might be worth a visit, even if it was only to see if I could dig up some more information. Turns out it was a sound stroke. Mind you, if we hadn't heard the dog barkin' we might have missed you. We were just about to head back."

So Higgs had seen Lasseur and Jess Flynn's tactile goodbye, too, Hawkwood thought. One small gesture that had led to consequences unimagined.

"Nathaniel -"

Jago turned. It was Garvey. He was on his own, his face grim. "You'd better come and take a look at this."

Jago, Hawkwood and Lasseur left Jess with Tom Gadd and accompanied Garvey towards the barn.

Micah had found a lantern. He held it high so they could see.

The bodies were covered with straw. There were six of them. Three lay face up, the others lay face down.

"That's Tyler," Hawkwood said, pointing to one of the corpses that was lying on its back.

Tyler's mouth was still wide open, as were his eyes; a man surprised, even in death. In the lantern light, his face was the colour of rancid cheese.

"You know them, Jethro?" Jago asked.

Garvey looked down at the corpses. He nodded grimly.

Hawkwood wondered what Jago had meant by local representative.

"I'm assuming this is all your doing," Jago said. "Want to tell me about it?"

"Later," Hawkwood said.

"They left the horses, too," Lasseur said. He was standing outside the barn door, looking into the paddock.

"Why would they do that?" Jago asked.

"They were in a hurry," Hawkwood said. "They were probably planning to come back for them later."

"Who's 'they'?" Jago asked.

"A man called Pepper and three surviving members of his crew."

Garvey's head came round.

An owl called from the nearby woods.

Jago said, "That wouldn't be Cephus Pepper?"

"You know him?"

"I know of him. Why would they be in a hurry?"

"They had an appointment."

"With who?"

"Morgan," Hawkwood said.

"Something else you're not telling me?" Jago asked.

"Plenty, but there's no time."

"Why's that?"

"I've got an appointment, too."

"Don't tell me," Jago said. "Same place?"

"Yes."

"And where's that?" "Deal."

"An' I don't suppose it can wait?"

"No."

"You going to need any help?"

"Probably," Hawkwood said.

"Christ," Jago shook his head. "I should definitely be on the bloody payroll. Micah, bring the horses round."

"Someone has to get Tom Gadd to a doctor," Hawkwood said.

"That'll be Jethro. Did you hear that, Jethro? I saw a cart round the side. Take the lantern. Go hitch it up. Then collect Mrs Flynn and the old 'un and take them to wherever she tells you."

Garvey nodded. He took the light and left.

"Good man." Jago studied Hawkwood's face. "I meant it when I said you looked like shit. Are you going to be all right? It's a fair ride."

"You know the road?"

"'Course I know the bloody road!"

Jago had been raised in a small village on the Kent marshes. As a young man, he had tried his hand at a variety of jobs - some legal, some more dubious in nature - all over the county before finally accepting the two-guinea signing-on fee from a recruiting sergeant at a Maidstone fair.

"How long?"

Jago looked thoughtful. "Depends how fast you want to push the horses. Sky's clear and it's a good moon. Our best bet'll be the Dover Road down to Green Street. Then across country through Eythorne. It ain't going to be a stroll in the park. I reckon it'll take a fair while."

"The horses that Pepper's men left will be fresh."

"Good point. We'll still have to walk them some of the way."

"I'll go and pick out the best ones," Lasseur said.

Jago looked at Hawkwood and raised an eyebrow.

"Best to have him inside the tent," Hawkwood said.

"Your call," Jago said. He watched as Lasseur let himself into the paddock.

"He's a good man, too," Hawkwood said.

"For a Frog, you mean?"

For the first time in a while, Hawkwood smiled.

Micah returned with his and Jago's mounts. There was no discussion as to whether Micah would be riding with them. Hawkwood had had dealings with Jago's lieutenant before and had been impressed with the man's quiet efficiency.

Jago and Micah retained their own horses. Lasseur had picked out the best of Pepper's string: a russet mare and a blue gelding.

Garvey, meanwhile, had taken the cob from the barn and backed it on to the cart, then tied his own horse to the rear. He was now sitting ready with the reins. Gadd was lying on the flat boards, covered up to his chest with a horse blanket. The dog's head lay across his thighs.

Hawkwood went over and took Gadd's hand. "You did well, Tom. You made a difference. I won't forget."

"Won't be forgettin' you in a hurry either, Cap'n." Gadd smiled weakly, though some of the fire was back in his eyes. "You going to make them pay?"

"Count on it," Hawkwood said.

"Especially Pepper."

"Especially him." Hawkwood leant in close. "I've a question for you, Tom: Morgan mentioned a ship that would be waiting for him off Deal. Any idea what that ship might be?"

"That'll be the Sea Witch. He uses her for special runs. She's an ex-navy cutter, fast; schooner-rigged and black-painted. You can't miss her."

At night time, you would, Hawkwood thought. He looked up at the sky.

"Sounds as if that'll be the one. Thanks, Tom. Take care of Jess, you hear?"

"I will, Cap'n. Good luck to you."

Hawkwood climbed on to the mare. Jago and Micah were already mounted. Lasseur stood with Jess Flynn.

"By the way," Jago said. "Thought you might need this -" He reached into his saddlebag and lifted out Hawkwood's baton, the ebony tipstaff containing his Runner's warrant.

"Where the hell did you get it?"

"Don't ask," Jago said, and winked.

Hawkwood gripped the baton, enjoying the feel. It was like- greeting an old friend. He looked over to Lasseur. "We have to go, Captain."

He watched as Lasseur and the woman embraced. Lasseur whispered something in her ear and waited as she climbed up beside Gadd. The cart moved off and she raised her hand in silent farewell. Lasseur stared after her for a moment, then climbed on to his horse.

As the cart started up the track, Hawkwood, Jago, Micah and Lasseur turned their horses about and rode for Deal.

It was after midnight when they finally arrived.

It had been a hard ride. They had joined the Dover Road to the south of the church at Blean and made good progress along the ten miles between there and Den Hill. The road had been firm and it had been a straight run, though they'd had to temper their speed through Canterbury, walking their horses part of the way through the town. Jago had used the opportunity to ask Hawkwood what was going on. Hawkwood had told him.

"Can't leave you alone for a bloody minute, can I?" had been Jago's response.

The route had continued south through Barham Downs. Ii had been too dark and too late to send a signal by shutter, but Hawkwood had seen the station outlined against the night sky at the top of the hill as they rode past.

They had been making good time until Wooten, but then the journey had taken a turn for the worse. The roads had become little more than narrow winding tracks, barely wide enough for a wagon, forcing them to ride in single file. Some stretches had taken them across moonlit fields. Hawkwood suspected it might have been quicker riding all the way to Dover and then taking the main road north, but Jago had argued that their chosen path was five miles shorter.

They entered Deal through the toll gate on the western end of the town. They could tell by the lights and the frantic activity that they were too late. In truth, Hawkwood had suspected that would be the case from the moment they had left the ashes of the farmhouse.

True to his promise, Morgan had taken his revenge. In doing so, he had left a trail of death and destruction behind him.

The attack had not been subtle. If Morgan's only intention had been to instil fear and confusion, then he had succeeded admirably. Six wagons and more than two dozen men had taken part in the assault on the Admiral's residency. The handsome two-storeyed building with its large windows either side of a pillared and porticoed entrance didn't look like the sort of place where bullion was stored. To the right of the pillars stood a manned sentry box. A pair of heavy doors formed an effective barrier to the street. Or at least they had done. Morgan's attack had left them hanging from their hinges, blown apart by twelve-pound shot fired from a 6-cwt carronade that had been mounted on the heavy horse-drawn, flat-bedded wagon that was now parked at an oblique angle across the road.

The carronade was an effective weapon, short-barrelled, utilizing a variety of calibres - of which the twelve-pounders were the smallest - but it had its flaws. One being that it was prone to violent recoil. The stubby, nozzled tube of metal resting on its side next to the wagon told its own tale.

A four-man military guard stood watch over the gun and the two horses, now waiting placidly in their harnesses.

"Nathaniel, you and Micah have a word with the guards," Hawkwood said. "See what you can find out. Captain Lasseur and I will pay our compliments to the Admiral."

Jago looked Hawkwood and Lasseur up and down. "That's if he doesn't have you both arrested for vagrancy first."

After running a gauntlet of curious stares, Hawkwood's warrant got them through the door and into a cold marble- floored room with an impressive domed ceiling, where a harassed army lieutenant called Burden identified himself as the officer in charge of the bullion escort. He and his troops had been in their quarters in the castle when Morgan launched his assault.

Rear Admiral Foley had not been in residence at the time, Burden explained. A galloper had been sent to Dover, where he was attending a meeting with his fellow Port Admirals, to inform him of the night's events.

"Who was in the residency?" Hawkwood asked.

Hawkwood could tell that Burden was still wondering who he was, but the warrant gave him the authority to ask questions, and Burden knew it, irrespective of the fact that Hawkwood looked like the bastard son of a low-class bordello keeper and the town drunkard.

There had been six people in the house: the admiral's secretary, the cook, the housekeeper and three armed guards, who rotated shifts in the sentry box under the portico. The unfortunate sentry manning the box when the carronade round demolished the entrance doors had been Private Hobley. His body had been found, face down and badly mutilated, twenty feet from the entrance. It was still lying there now, awaiting removal to the dead room next to the castle's infirmary, where it would join the night's other casualties.

Throughout his report, Burden kept casting surreptitious looks in Lasseur's direction. The Frenchman had remained silent thus far, but Burden's interest had been piqued; no doubt because Lasseur, with his goatee beard, didn't have the look of an Englishman. And, like Hawkwood, he was bloodied and bruised and reeked of smoke.

To satisfy Burden's curiosity, Hawkwood introduced Lasseur by name but described him as a Bourbon loyalist officer on special detachment to the Home Office. He could see that Burden wasn't entirely satisfied with the explanation, but that was something the lieutenant would just have to live with.

Then Burden said to Lasseur, "You'll have to forgive me, Captain, but after what we've seen tonight, my men and I ain't feeling too well disposed to your countrymen."

"What are you talking about?" Hawkwood asked.

Burden gazed at him in puzzlement. "You mean, you don't know?"

"Know what?"

"It was a French raiding party that did this."

Hawkwood felt cold fingers caress the back of his neck.

Burden explained, with another sideways glance at Lasseur, that the men who'd invaded the residency had been wearing French infantry uniforms.

"They killed two of my men, the murdering bastards," Burden said, unable to keep the anguish from his voice.

In addition to the sentry, Corporal Jefford, one of the guards stationed in the inner lobby, had been killed. His body was lying next to Hobley's, under the same blanket.

The lieutenant in charge had spoken in English, summoning all the building's occupants to assemble before him. Then he had demanded the key to the strong room. The admiral's secretary, the individual entrusted with the safety of the key in his master's absence, had, in a laudable but ultimately futile display of defiance, refused to comply. At which point, one of the lieutenant's men, a short, broad-shouldered sergeant somewhat older than his comrades, had shot Corporal Jefford stone dead.

The key had been produced within minutes.

And then the raiding party had commenced emptying the strong room.

It had taken some time to remove the bullion boxes, but the Frenchmen had worked with quiet, speedy efficiency. According to the surviving guard, Private Butcher, it looked as if it was something they did every day.

When the last box had been taken, the lieutenant had locked the staff in the strong room. He and his men had then departed with the bullion.

"Where was the army?" Hawkwood demanded. "What the devil were you doing while all this was going on?"

The army, Burden told him miserably, had been outmanoeuvred.

Following a tip-off that two major contraband runs involving hundreds of men and ponies were planned for that evening - one to the north at Sandwich Flats, the other to the south at Margaret's Bay - the Revenue had turned to the town's regular contingent of troops, modest at the best of times, for assistance. Only a handful of soldiers had been left in Deal.

Hawkwood realized then how well Morgan had played his cards. He had obviously started the rumours himself, instructing his agents to spread the word the runs were taking place. With the troops out of the way, his men had soon sealed off the town's three major access roads: the Dover Road to the south, Five Bell Lane in the west and the turnpike road to the north.

Burden coloured. "And we were stuck in the bloody castle. We were able to return fire, but I'm still not sure if we hit any of them."

Deal Castle lay at the southern edge of the town, close to the Dover Road toll gate. It had been besieged once before, during the Civil War. Since then it had remained inviolate, its massive circular bastions standing guard over the town and the coast, a monument to Tudor engineering.

Like the carronade, however, the fortress had its flaws. Its primary use was as a defence against attack from the water, not from the land. Its guns faced the sea. The second major flaw was that, like all castles, it had only one main entrance: the gatehouse.

Access to the gatehouse was by a narrow stone causeway. Morgan's men had turned the causeway into a killing ground, blockading it with another of their heavy wagons and a pair of mounted swivel guns opposite the entrance.

When the carronade opened fire on the Admiral's residency, a patrol had immediately set out from the castle to investigate. The soldiers made it only as far as the causeway before Morgan's men, dressed in their French infantry uniforms, opened fire to lethal effect. Four men dead, six injured, out of a force that hadn't been large to begin with.

"We couldn't get at the bastards," Burden said. "And all they had to do was keep us confined. We couldn't get out by the moat either. They had the postern gate under their guns, too."

"What about the Naval Yard; aren't there any troops there?"

Burden shook his head. The Yard lay next to the castle. It was small by Admiralty standards and its main role was to victual ships with bread and beer and ballast from the local beach. Enclosed by high walls and with only three entrances, it had been easy to seal off. In any case there were no troops stationed there beyond a couple of sentries manning the gates.

With his wagon crews effectively in control of the town, Morgan and his raiders had driven the gold straight down to the beach where his ship had been waiting. They had used a fleet of small boats to ferry the bullion boxes from the shingle beach out to the ship.

"She was flying the ensign," Burden said heavily. "In the dark, we thought she was one of ours."

With the gold on board, the ship had weighed anchor and Morgan's wagon crews had melted away in the night, leaving the strong room bare and the town in a state of shock.

That had been nearly two hours ago, Burden told them.

Morgan had put the army to shame. And he had done it with a precision the army would have been proud of. Even down to executing the robbery at night so that the Deal telegraph station would not be able to send a shutter message alerting the next station down the line that the residency was under attack.

The time had come for Hawkwood to add to the lieutenant's suffering.

It wasn't the French, he told Burden, at which the man seemed to age a thousand years in front of their eyes.

Leaving the shattered lieutenant in the empty strong room to contemplate what remained of his career, Hawkwood and Lasseur made their way to rejoin Jago and Micah.

"Perhaps he'll shoot himself," Lasseur said. "It would be the honourable thing."

"I think someone will probably do it for him," Hawkwood said.

Outside, the bodies of the dead were being lifted on to a cart.

Jago nodded towards the soldiers guarding the overturned carronade. "There are some bodies on the beach and the corporal told us there are more up by the castle," he said, then paused and looked at Lasseur. "They're French." Jago turned back to Hawkwood: "I thought you said Morgan and his men were behind this?"

"It's only the uniforms that are French," Hawkwood said. "It was Morgan's crew."

Jago shook his head. "The ones I saw were definitely French. They had tattoos. I'd know that eagle anywhere."

"You've seen them?"

"Beach is that way -" Jago pointed. "And you won't even get your feet wet."

"Show me," Hawkwood said.

The bodies had been laid side by side, face up, on the shingle, ready for disposal. In the moonlight, in their dark tunics, shakos and dirty breeches, and with their faces already grey and misshapen by death, they looked like bloodstained ragdolls left by the tide.

Le Jeune looked about a hundred years old. The tattoo was visible just below the crook of his arm. The tunic was too short for him and the sleeve had ridden up. Next to him, in complete contrast, Louis Beaudouin looked about twelve. Souville resembled a skeleton already; Rousseau wasn't much better.

Jago had referred to another lot of bodies found by the castle. Hawkwood was willing to wager he knew the identities.

"He killed them," Lasseur breathed. "He killed them all." The breeze ruffled his hair as he gazed down at the corpses in disbelief.

"They'd served their purpose," Hawkwood said, and then wished that he could take the words back, even though he knew it was the truth. Morgan had used Frenchmen in French uniforms; hearing them conversing and giving orders and probably exhorting their comrades to greater effort in their own language, any witnesses present would have been left in no doubt that the gold had been stolen by a French raiding party.

And dead men in French infantry uniforms gave added credence to the lie. In the confusion, it would have been assumed that some of Burden's beleaguered troops had managed to fight back.

Leaving Morgan's men to steal away scot-free.

Sooner or later the truth would have come out. Morgan kept his people on a tight leash and the hardened members of his crew knew how to keep secrets, but this was huge. Eventually, over a glass of grog or a pipe of tobacco, the story would be told. But by then it would be too late.

Wearily, Hawkwood lowered himself to the pebbles and rested his hands on his knees.

What had it all been for?

Jago sat down next to him and let out a sigh. "Don't know about you, but I'm getting too old for all this runnin' about. A man of my age, it ain't good for my health."

Hawkwood could hear cries behind him and the sound of tramping feet. Pretty soon the army, having learned that its pay chests had been stolen not by the French but by someone much closer to home, would begin hammering on doors.

To what degree, Hawkwood wondered, had the town's inhabitants been involved? Morgan could not have deployed his crew or distributed the weapons - especially the carronade - without reconnoitre or support. And there were the wagons and the horses to consider, too. Morgan had once boasted that there would never be a shortage of men willing to do his bidding. Did that mean he could recruit an entire town? Deal folk were a close-knit community, and they had seen their livelihoods overturned by the authorities on more than one occasion. They didn't like the government or the army, and a share of Morgan's profit from the gold would keep families housed and fed for a long time to come, ensuring their loyalty. He even had the bloody judges in his pocket, and half a million pounds bought a lot of protection. The authorities - and that included the army - would have their work cut out.

"Now what?" Jago asked.

Hawkwood looked back at the town. Lights were flickering on. He could hear shouts, more running feet. "See if we can find ourselves beds for what's left of the night. Leave someone else to clear up this damned mess."

"I could use a wet," Jago said, getting to his feet. "I've got a throat like a tinker's crotch. Let's go find ourselves an inn."

Lasseur, standing to one side, continued to gaze out over the water. His expression was as black as the waves.

Hawkwood stood. "Looks like you got what you wanted."

Lasseur looked at the line of bodies. "Not like this."

"But your Emperor will get his gold."

Lasseur shook his head, saying nothing. He looked deep in thought. Then he said, "They can still be caught."

"What?" Hawkwood said, not quite hearing.

"I said they can still be caught."

Hawkwood laughed. He couldn't help it. "I don't think so. Captain. It's the navy's task now, and it'll take them the rest of the night just to get their bloody breeches on. The bastards are long gone. Besides, no one knows what port they're heading to."

"I do," Lasseur said. "I know exactly where they're going. We might be able to catch them."

"It's too damned late. They'll be across the water before anyone can raise a sail."

"Not necessarily," Lasseur said. "Not if this breeze stays on the same heading."

Hawkwood fixed him with a stare. "What do you mean, 'We'?"

Lasseur turned slowly. "I mean my ship, the Scorpion.'"

"Your ship?" Hawkwood said. "What the devil's your ship got to do with it?"

And Lasseur smiled.