Rapscallion

CHAPTER 22

Hawkwood's warrant got them out of town, through the army- manned toll gate and south, on to the Walmer Road.

The horses were flagging, despite having been rested, and Hawkwood knew they would not be able to go much further. It came as some relief when, after only a couple of miles, Lasseur led them off the road, turning east towards the sea. A signpost, standing crooked in a hedge, read Kingsdown.

They walked the horses through the sleeping village and on to a shingle beach lying at the foot of a tall, grey rock face. Hawkwood could see the raked outline of an even higher slab of headland beyond it and another beyond that, and he knew this was the beginning of the long line of pale cliffs that stretched all the way along the coast to Dover.

Just discernible against the night sky, some three hundred yards from the shore, a dark-painted, three-masted schooner lay at anchor. No lights showed upon her deck or from within her hull. It was possible, Hawkwood thought, that if they had not been looking for the vessel, it would have taken them some time to realize it was there.

"I need a pistol," Lasseur said.

Jago reached into his saddlebag. "It's loaded," he warned.

Lasseur took a long breath, pointed the pistol into the air, and pulled the trigger. The powder flared and the report rebounded from the cliff above them. As Micah calmed the horses, Lasseur handed the pistol back and Jago stuck it in his belt.

The water looked dark and cold and deep. Hawkwood was reminded of the night they had sailed from Warden. He could see the lights of two vessels far out in the Channel beyond the black-hulled ship and he wondered if one of them was Morgan's Sea Witch.

The privateer had employed Tom Gadd as his messenger. On their first day back at the farm, while the widow attended to Hawkwood's fever, Lasseur had sent Gadd to visit his agent in Ramsgate; the same man Lasseur had been trying to reach when he'd made his dash for freedom prior to his arrival at Maidstone Gaol.

The agent had dispatched Lasseur's message to his crew in Dunkerque by carrier pigeon; informing them their captain was free and awaiting their arrival. They were to sail Scorpion to the Kent coast, and lie at anchor in the waters off Kingsdown for two hours either side of midnight. They would do this for five nights, from the time of the message's receipt, and look for Lasseur's signal.

"It all depends," Lasseur had said, "whether my men got the message in time."

It seemed they had.

Hawkwood looked towards the ship. A small object had detached itself from the hull and was heading towards them. Slowly, it drew closer and Hawkwood saw the hunched backs of the rowers and heard the light splash of the oars.

Lasseur came to life. He stepped towards the water.

A soft cry came out of the darkness. "Scorpion!"

Lasseur waded into the water. "C'est moi!"

"More bloody Frogs!" Hawkwood heard Jago mutter under his breath.

The rowboat continued its steady approach. Finally, it grounded against the shingle. The dark-haired man who leapt from the boat was about Micah's age, and of similar build. He was not wearing a uniform but was dressed from head to toe in black, as was the seaman manning the oars at the stern

of the boat. Eyes laughing and smiling broadly, the dark-haired man clasped Lasseur's arm in a firm grip.

Lasseur grinned. "This is my first officer, Lieutenant Marc Delon."

The young lieutenant nodded a greeting, though he couldn't disguise his curiosity at the presence of three strangers. Hawkwood wondered if Delon thought they were all fellow escapees.

Lasseur nodded towards the man seated in the stern. "Henri, Comment va cela?"

The oarsman grunted an inaudible reply.

Lasseur clapped his lieutenant on the back. "D'accord, allons!"

Delon scrambled back on to the boat.

"Let's go, my friends!" Lasseur urged. "Hurry!"

"Anything left in your saddlebags?" Hawkwood asked Jago.

"Nothing that I'll miss," Jago said.

Lasseur climbed into the boat. Hawkwood and Jago followed him. Micah remained on shore. The smiling lieutenant picked up his oars and the boat pulled slowly away from the beach.

Micah remained standing motionless at the edge of the water. Jago raised his hand. Micah nodded once, then turned and walked up the shingle towards the horses. He did not look back.

Hawkwood caught Lasseur's eye. "Does Jess know?"

"No," Lasseur said. He looked over the bow towards the open sea, and lapsed into silence.

Lasseur's crew made no secret of their joy at his return, lining the rail to welcome him. Once on board Scorpion, however, Lasseur wasted no time in giving his lieutenant the order to depart as quickly as possible.

As the crew sprang into action, Hawkwood looked out over the rail. He could see the long line of chalk bluffs extending into the darkness behind them. They looked close enough to touch. Of Micah and the horses, there was no sign. He looked over the bow towards the line of the horizon, but there was nothing to see except the dark curtain of night. The lights of the vessels he had seen earlier had disappeared.

Her anchor stowed, the ship began to swing round. Sails were being raised as Lasseur led them below. In the chart room, a lantern swayed from a beam as Lasseur pulled a chart from a nearby locker and opened it out upon the table.

"Morgan will be heading here -" he said, pointing with a pair of compasses. "Gravelines."

Hawkwood looked over the end of the compass points at the lines and squiggles. The name sat halfway between Dunkerque and Calais on the northern coast.

"Why there?"

"They call it la ville des Smoglers. The port was chosen by Bonaparte to accommodate free traders and their ships. They've built a special enclosure with stores, warehouses and lodgings. The whole place is protected by gun batteries. There's even an English quarter. They say that up to three hundred English free traders use it at any one time. The Emperor has granted merchants special licences to import and export goods using the smugglers. Any contraband landed along your southern coast will have started its journey here."

Lasseur tapped the chart table with his knuckle. "This is where the guinea boats deliver their cargoes. The trade is controlled by the Rothschild family. Head of operations is Nathan Rothschild, the banker; he's based in London. His brother, James, arranges for the transfer of the gold from Gravelines to Paris, where it is changed back into English bank notes. It's then that the smugglers and their backers make their profit. Morgan's heading for Gravelines, I'll stake my life on it."

"And you still think we can catch him?" Hawkwood asked.

"If any ship can, it's this one."

"Back in Deal, you said something about the breeze. What did you mean?"

"The wind's from the east."

"I don't understand," Hawkwood said.

"One of the reasons Morgan chose to carry out the raid when he did was to take advantage of the tide. Cutters have deep draughts and are not usually good for close inshore work, so he needed a high tide to enable him to load the gold on to his ship and then make his escape.

"To get to Gravelines, however, he would first have to steer south to avoid Les Sables - what you call the Goodwin Sands." Lasseur tapped the chart. "During that part of his journey, the tide would have been against him; with the wind driving him against the shore, his progress would have been very slow. Once he cleared the Downs and reached the southern end of the Sands, the tide would have been more in his favour, but so long as this wind holds, he'll find it hard to make headway. Even if the breeze remains gentle, he will have to tack constantly. Cutters are fast; that's why the free traders use them. Ordinarily, a cutter could probably outrun a schooner, but in a headwind he will not have got very far. Scorpion will be faster –she can defeat the wind. I believe we can catch him."

"I thought ships couldn't sail into the wind," Hawkwood said.

"Scorpion can," Lasseur said confidently.

"How?"

"She has a special type of sailing rig. I designed it myself. It's based on the rigs of the xebecs, the ships used by Barbary pirates. They robbed European vessels and escaped by sailing into the wind, leaving escorts unable to chase them. I studied the design when I was in the Mediterranean. Scorpion's rig has been adapted so that she can use the same tactic. You saw how her main mast is square rigged? Those sails provide the forward motion, thrusting her through the waves. The xebec sails were triangular and set between bowsprit and foremast. I use the same principle, but instead of one large sail I use two, between my fore and main masts. With the jibs, they create a lifting motion; soon as they're raised, you'll see that they are cut flatter than normal. That allows her to go to windward and to glide over the waves with ease."

Hawkwood tried to look as if he knew what Lasseur was talking about. He was pleased to see that Jago didn't appear any the wiser.

"What have you told your crew?"

"That we seek the enemy. It's what we do."

"Won't they wonder what Nathaniel and I are doing here?"

"We've been together a long time. They will not question my actions."

There was a discreet cough. Lasseur's lieutenant stood in the doorway.

Lasseur acknowledged his lieutenant's presence and laid the compasses on the chart. "Forgive me, gentlemen," he said crisply. "I need to be on deck. Let me show you to my quarters."

Lasseur led them through the ship towards the stern. The schooner was small, Hawkwood saw; a minnow compared to the Rapacious. Curiously, even though he had to duck his head beneath the beams, there seemed to be a lot more headroom; he realized it was probably due to the ship having only the one lower living deck. Several crew members, who'd already welcomed Lasseur topside, were seated at the tables in the mess area and their faces lit up as Lasseur entered. He greeted each one by name as he passed through. It was impossible not to notice the renewed spring in his step now that he was back on board his ship.

The stern cabin was tiny, with two narrow berths and a table and a seat beneath the window.

"Make yourselves comfortable," Lasseur told them. "I'll have Raoul bring you something from the galley. It will be cold on deck later, so we'll find you some extra gear."

When Lasseur had left, Jago lowered himself on to the window seat and ran a hand over his cropped hair. He looked at Hawkwood and sighed.

"Remind me again why we're here."

Hawkwood sank on to a berth.

"Because I'm damned if I'll let Morgan get away with it. This is the only chance I've got of catching him."

"Of getting killed, more like! Morgan's gone. Couldn't you just admit that you've lost him? You can't win them all."

"I haven't lost him yet," Hawkwood said.

"No, right, that's how come we're sailing to France with a

Frog privateer. You couldn't just cut your losses, hand Monsewer over to the authorities and go back to London with Micah and me?"

"I can't hand him in, Nathaniel. Not when it means sending him to the hulks. I wouldn't do that to any man. You wouldn't, either, if you'd seen what those places are like. He saved my life. I owe him. I reckon he's gotten this far, he deserves a chance. In any case, I don't see as I had much choice."

"You've always had a choice!"

"It's not that easy."

"From where I'm bloody sitting, it is," Jago snapped back. "Have you asked yourself why Lasseur's doing this? Way I see it, it's in his interest to give Morgan a clear run. The Emperor will get his gold, Lasseur gets to go home. All we are is bloody ballast! You do know you ain't going to get the gold back?"

"I don't give a damn about the gold! It's Morgan I want. The bastard's responsible for the deaths of two naval officers, a Revenue man and at least two British soldiers. Not to mention the inconvenience he's caused me."

"And the Frog prisoners?"

"I'll leave them to Lasseur's conscience."

"He's got one, has he? What's to stop him delivering us up to the Frog authorities? Could be all you've done is exchange an English hulk for a French one. That's if they don't shoot us for being bloody spies."

"He won't do that."

"Who says?"

"He did. He gave me his word."

"And you believe him?"

"Yes. Besides, it's not in his interest to give me up." Hawkwood smiled. "I still owe him four thousand francs."

"Well, that's all right then. There was me thinking he was being swayed by the thought of four tons of gold bullion swelling Boney's coffers. How daft is that? I still don't see why he's so damned fired up about catching Morgan before he reaches France. Why doesn't he wait till after Morgan gets there and then denounce the bugger?"

"Because as soon as he lands, Morgan will disappear into the English enclave. They're Morgan's people. He has friends there. There's also a good chance the French will protect him. He delivers Bonaparte twelve million francs and they'll probably think he's someone worth protecting. Maybe they'll think if he can do it once, he can do it again."

"He killed eight Frenchmen. You telling me they won't hold that against him?"

"Morgan gets to Gravelines first, his story is going to be that they died in the execution of their patriotic duty - that's assuming he even bothers to mention them. By the time Lasseur gives his version, Morgan will have become the Emperor's blue-eyed boy. Twelve million francs buys a lot of favours. And there's no proof he killed them. Who's to say they weren't shot by redcoats? It'll be Lasseur's word against his and Lasseur wasn't there."

"So Lasseur's planning to catch up with Morgan on the high seas?"

"That's the way of it."

"And mete out some justice of his own?"

Hawkwood said nothing.

"And we're going to help him?" Jago pressed.

"You didn't have to come along," Hawkwood said.

"'Course I had to come along! Christ, you get these Tomfool ideas into your head, someone has to watch your back!"

"And that's you?"

"Yes, it's me! It's always bloody me! And, might I say, you've come up with some crack-brained ideas in your time, but this one takes some beating. You're willin' to go to all this trouble just so's you can serve notice on a bloody smuggler?"

"The damned gold's lost anyway. This way at least I've a chance of making sure Morgan doesn't profit from it."

"Any likelihood we can steal it back from Lasseur's clutches?"

"Just the two of us?" Hawkwood said drily. "I doubt it."

"Worth considerin'. So Lasseur and his Emperor get twelve million francs while you get one murdering bastard free trader?" "Some might call that a bargain."

"Only if they've lost their bloody wits. And have you given any thought to how we'll get home?"

"Lasseur will see we get back."

"You're settin' an awful lot of store in the man."

"I told you, he's worried he'll lose the money I owe him."

Jago shook his head in exasperation. "You can joke, but you realize if anything happens to Lasseur and we end up in bloody Verdun or one of those other Frog prisons, we're well and truly buggered."

"That why you sent Micah home?"

"I thought it best that someone back there knows where we are."

"You're saying he'll come looking if he doesn't hear from us?"

"If he doesn't hear from me, he will." Jago fell silent, then said, "Jesus, this is a rum business. You must really want the bastard."

"I do," Hawkwood said. "But it's not business. With Morgan, it's personal."

There was a rap on the door, then a seaman entered bearing a tray loaded with bread and cold beef, two mugs, a pot of coffee and a bottle of brandy.

"Avec les compliments de Capitaine Lasseur, messieurs."

Placing the tray on the table, the cook departed.

Jago poured the coffee and added a generous measure of brandy to each mug before passing one of them across tin- table. "Get that down you."

Hawkwood took a swallow. The liquid was scalding. He waited for his throat to cool and then said, "Tell me about Cephus Pepper."

Jago grimaced. "He's Morgan's right-hand man, though you already knew that. I heard he used to be first mate on a blackbirder, runnin' slaves to the West Indies. Ran foul of a rival ship off Havana - back in '02, I think it was. Lost his arm in a deck fight. They say he escaped by going over the side. Not a man you'd want to cross in a hurry, as you found out."

"How long's he been with Morgan?"

"Eight years, or thereabouts. You think he was there with Morgan tonight?"

"You can count on it. You know Morgan, don't you?"

"We've never met, though I reckon I know enough about him not to turn my back. He likes to tell folk he's a descendant of Henry Morgan, the buccaneer, which I bloody doubt. Far as I know, he's the son of a farmer from over Ruckinge way. Family was in the Trade for years. Morgan's father used to run with the Callis Court mob. Morgan quit the farm when he was a lad. Rumour was he ran off to sea to escape the law, but that could be a story he put around. Same way he's supposed to have been a bo's'n on the Britannia; though that'd explain why he's so good at runnin' things and why a lot of his crew are former navy men. It's probably why he and Pepper make a good team. He came back and took over the business when his old man died; built it up from there. Got no Welsh blood in him at all, unless his great-grandfather was caught buggering a ewe. He say anything about that to you?"

"He must have forgotten to mention it," Hawkwood said. "Ever taken advantage of his services?"

"You referring to my business interests?"

Hawkwood smiled.

Jago shrugged. "Probably have, indirectly, given the control he's got. My line of work, you don't always know the provenance of the goods. Mostly I try and deal with the Sussex branch of the Trade."

"Don't think I care to know too much," Hawkwood said.

"Just as well."

"And Garvey, does he work for Morgan?"

"No flies on you, are there?" Jago said, taking a sip from his drink and smacking his lips in appreciation.

"Local representative?" Hawkwood said. "Come on! He knows Pepper, he recognized the bodies in the barn, and he obviously knows his way around that neck of the woods. It doesn't take a genius."

Hawkwood leant back against the bulkhead. His limbs, for some reason, had started to feel as heavy as lead. Added to which, he had the sudden overwhelming desire to close his eyes. He knew he mustn't fall asleep, for that would be fatal. If he nodded off, there was a very good chance he'd never wake up. He tried to fight the rising tide of weariness that was creeping over him.

"Aye, well," Jago said. "Not that it matters. He's one of Morgan's errand boys; delivers messages about upcoming runs and the like. Morgan also uses him to pay people off, so he knows where some of the bones are buried. We go back a ways; if ever I've a mind to visit my old hunting grounds, I get in touch. Just as well, too." He paused and took a sip of coffee and glanced across the table in time to see Hawkwood's eyes droop and the mug begin to slip from his hand.

Jago sighed. He put down his own drink and, reaching across swiftly, rescued the falling mug. "'Bout bloody time," he murmured. He placed the mug on the table, grabbed the blanket from his bunk and draped it across Hawkwood's sleeping form. He stared down at the scarred and unshaven face, his brow creasing as his eyes took in the new wounds and the state of Hawkwood's clothes. He shook his head, returned to his seat and picked up his drink. "No bloody stamina, some people," he muttered softly.

The touch of a hand on Hawkwood's arm brought him jerking awake. For a moment he wondered where he was. Then his ears picked up the creaks and groans and the cry of a crewman from somewhere on the deck above and his brain began to function. He looked up to find Jago's craggy countenance looming over him. He sat up quickly, nearly crowning himself on the underside of a deckhead beam in the process.

"Captain wants us up on deck. There's a sail off the larboard bow, whatever the hell that is."

Hawkwood scrambled to his feet and almost lost his footing as the deck pitched unexpectedly. He cursed, grabbed the edge of the table and felt his stomach turn.

He followed Jago up the canted stairway on to the schooner's deck and immediately felt the bite of the wind and the lash of spindrift on his cheek. The hiss of the waves against the ship's hull and the crack of canvas filled his ears. It was not yet light, but beyond the bowsprit a band of sienna-coloured sky was slowly widening across the horizon. Running along the lower edge of it was a long uneven smear which Hawkwood knew was land. It was too far away to pick out details.

Lasseur was braced against the port rail, peering through a telescope, shoulders thrust forward. A cheroot was clenched between his teeth. He looked like a wolf scenting prey; a man in his element.

"Home," he said, following Hawkwood's gaze. "Mine," he added. "Not yours." He gave a lupine grin.

"How far?"

"Twenty miles, maybe a little less."

Hawkwood looked over his shoulder. Beyond the stern, the sky was much darker and it was harder to differentiate between sea and land, if there was any land out there.

"There's a sail?" Hawkwood said.

Lasseur nodded. He handed Hawkwood the spyglass and pointed ahead, towards the distant smudge of coast.

"Two miles off the bow."

Hawkwood wedged his hip against the rail, tried to ignore the water sluicing over his boots, and jabbed the glass to his eye. At first, all he could see was a dark swell of blue-black waves. He lowered the glass, took his bearings, aimed at the band of light coming up over the bow and tried again. He bit back a curse as the eyeglass slipped once more, but his perseverance was rewarded when suddenly a dark, angular silhouette slid across his line of sight. The vessel was low down, running close-hauled on a port tack, her fore- and aft-rigged canvas braced tight.

"I see it!" He felt a surge of excitement move through him. "Morgan?" He passed the telescope to Jago.

"She's a cutter," Lasseur announced confidently. "And Gravelines lies almost dead ahead of us. It will be dawn in an hour. We'll know for certain then."

"She's not showing any colours," Jago muttered, peering through the glass. The telescope looked very small in his hands.

"Neither are we," Lasseur pointed out, taking the glass back and stealing another look. "If they've seen us, which they may not have done, they'll be wondering who we are, though they might guess from our rig that we're not a British ship. The British don't have many schooners. Some of the ones they do have were captured from us, but they're nothing like Scorpion, so he's probably not too concerned at the moment. That gives us the edge."

Hawkwood looked up. The schooner, like the cutter, seemed to be carrying a huge amount of sail for her size; Lasseur's Barbary rig. He peered over the side at the water rushing past the hull. The ship was slicing through the swells like a knife. Spray burst over the bow. The sense of speed was exhilarating, and as the eastern sky turned from reddish-brown to golden orange, and as the coastline drew ever nearer, Scorpion continued to overhaul her quarry.

The three men remained at the rail. Hawkwood was impressed at the speed with which the schooner was bridging the gap. In no time at all, it seemed, the cutter was barely three cables ahead of them. The sky had grown considerably lighter and he could see figures moving about her deck.

"If she didn't know we were interested in her before, I'd say she does now," Lasseur said. He raised the telescope. "Batards!'" He swore suddenly and handed Hawkwood the glass.

Hawkwood's first wild thought was that they had been following the wrong boat. Then a black-painted hull swam into the foreground; increased in size now, but still dwarfed by the spread of her canvas. Hawkwood remembered Gadd's description of the Sea Witch. He searched for a name on her counter, but the jolly boat suspended from the cutter's narrow stern obscured his view. Three men stood by the rail at her starboard quarter, close to the tiller man, staring back towards the Scorpion. Two of them were wearing blue coats and white breeches. When Hawkwood saw the third man standing between them, the boat's name became irrelevant. Tall and grey-bearded, the man was holding a telescope to his face with one hand: his right.

Pepper.

And then as Hawkwood and Lasseur watched, the three men separated. Activity on the cutter's deck suddenly took on a new urgency.

"Jesus, they're running out bloody guns," Hawkwood cursed as the cutter's crew began to remove canvas sheets from the cannons that lined the sides of the cutter's hull. Six in all, from what he could see, three to each side. He handed the telescope back to Lasseur, who took another look.

"Merde!"

"What are they?" Hawkwood asked. He wasn't well versed in the bore sizes of naval ordnance. As if it mattered. Cannon were still bloody cannon.

"What you would call six-pounders, from their look. Your Revenue uses them. They're accurate to about two hundred and fifty yards, with the right elevation. Fortunately, we have the advantage. We've got more of them."

The possibility that the Sea Witch would be carrying heavy armament had not occurred to Hawkwood. He'd assumed that Morgan and his men would be equipped with small arms; swivel guns at a pinch - indeed, he had seen one mounted on the cutter's bow - but not carriage guns, though the carronade used in the storming of the residency should have been warning enough. He wondered how well versed they were in combat at sea. It wasn't that much of a leap to suppose that Morgan would have some gunners among the ranks of the former seamen that he employed.

Lasseur was clearly surprised, too. He spun away. "Tous les marins sur le pont!"

A bell began to clang loudly. The deck echoed to the volley of pounding feet.

Scorpion rose on the swell and plunged forward.

"Preparez les canons!"

Within seconds, sand had been laid down, guns run out, personal weapons distributed, and neck cloths transferred to the men's right arms. As Lasseur explained, his crew knew each other, but everyone, especially Hawkwood and Jago, had to be able to identify friend from foe. A split second's hesitation could mean the difference between life and death.

"You definitely plannin' on boardin' her, then?" Jago asked, running his thumb down a cutlass blade as Lasseur passed Hawkwood a pistol and tomahawk.

"I doubt Morgan will surrender to a hail," Lasseur said grimly.

Her crew primed and at their stations, Scorpion swept on.

The cutter, now less than a cable's length off the bow, started wearing to port. Her sails flapped as her bow turned through the wind, then the canvas filled quickly as her sheets were pulled taut. She looked, Hawkwood thought, strikingly top heavy.

Lasseur barked out orders. The nautical jargon meant nothing to Hawkwood. Lasseur might just as well have been yelling in Chinese. But as men hauled eagerly on ropes, reducing canvas, and as the helmsman swung the wheel hard over, it was clear that the privateer was attempting to match the cutter's manoeuvre. Scorpion began to come round.

There was a distant bang and a puff of smoke appeared on the cutter's deck, then a waterspout erupted five yards off the schooner's starboard quarter.

Someone cheered derisively.

Lasseur snorted contemptuously and yelled at his first officer to fire on the up roll.

Hawkwood remembered being told that English gunners generally fired on the down roll so that any delay would cause the ball to bounce off the water and ricochet into the enemy's hull. French gun crews usually aimed for the rigging. As a consequence, the French tended to suffer greater casualties. Hawkwood knew the last thing Lasseur wanted was to sink the cutter, especially given the cargo she was carrying, so in aiming at the cutter's rig the privateer was following tradition. Hawkwood tried not to think about the rest of it.

As Scorpion's starboard rail swept past the cutter's tapered stern, Delon dropped his arm.

The gunner hauled back on the lanyard and the explosion took Hawkwood by surprise. It was sharper and louder than he had expected, more an ear-splitting crack than a roar. The sound pierced his brain like a skewer and he saw Jago flinch beside him.

Hawkwood looked for the fall of the shot and saw nothing.

They bloody missed! he thought angrily, and then he watched as the top quarter of the cutter's mast began to topple sideways in a jumble of rigging.

A loud whoop rang out from the gun crew, who were already sponging down the barrel in preparation for the next firing. The cry was taken up by the rest of the men on deck as the mast collapsed upon itself in a tangle of ropes and spars.

Lasseur had used chain shot. He yelled again. "Feu!"

Another detonation. This time Hawkwood saw the shot hit, tearing away the gaff, ripping into the sail and shattering what remained of the mast. Halyards gone, main sail shredded, the cutter's rig lost all integrity. As the man in the stern wrestled with the tiller, the vessel began to wallow.

But her crew were fighting back.

A double report sounded from across the water. Hawkwood saw the twin billows of smoke dispersing along the cutter's deck - one from the swivel gun. He hunkered down instinctively as a section of the schooner's starboard rail disintegrated under the impact, heard a whimper as the ball went past his ear and ducked again as splinters pierced the air like arrows. Screams rang out. Hawkwood saw one man spin away, hand clamped around his throat, blood pumping from between his fingers.

A roar of defiance erupted from Scorpion's crew.

"Au tribord!" Lasseur screamed at his helmsman.

The helmsman hauled down on the wheel and Scorpion obeyed the command. Her bow dipped. Water boiled along her length and foamed across her steeply sloping deck as she swung towards the cutter's hull. Her stern lifted as she slewed to starboard. There was another blast of cannon fire and Hawkwood saw one of the cutter's gun crews split asunder in a welter of blood and smoke and splinters and tumbling bodies. And Scorpion was beam on to the cutter's port side. Only yards separated them.

Lasseur screamed at his men to steady themselves. The hulls were less than two cannon lengths apart when the first grappling hook curved over the cutter's gunwale. A rain of metal claws followed. With their comrades providing covering fire, the men on the ropes began to haul in. Hawkwood felt Jago's strong hand on his shoulder, held on to a shroud and braced for impact. It wasn't dissimilar to an attack on a breach in a wall, he thought, as the distance between the vessels closed. The principle was the same: people were trying to kill you. So, eyes forward, keep your wits, don't bloody fall over.

"It's possible they'll match us in numbers," Lasseur had told them. "But my men have done this before. Watch your flanks."

Powder flashes lit up the faces lining the cutter's rail. A seaman to Hawkwood's left gave an explosive grunt and fell back, a red orchid blossoming across his front.

The hulls met with a shuddering crash and a groan of timber, and Scorpion's crew, screaming like banshees, leapt over the schooner's side and hurled themselves towards the cutter's deck.

Where they were met head on with ball and steel.

As Hawkwood jumped, he caught a glimpse of grey-green water swirling in the gap below his feet. Then he was over and the deck was rushing up to meet him. He landed hard, slithered in a pool of dark blood, brought the pistol round and fired point-blank at a body coming in, sword held high. He saw a red mist envelop the attacker's skull and then tin- corpse was falling away into the melee. Hawkwood reversed the pistol and drew the tomahawk from his belt. The air rang with the clash of steel and the crack of small-arms fire.

He looked for Morgan but couldn't see either him or Pepper. In the uproar and the noise and with powder smoke roiling across the deck, all he could see was a confused mass of struggling bodies. Hawkwood searched for anyone not wearing a neckcloth on their bicep. He saw Lasseur, fighting with knife and sword, turn his blades towards a blue-jacketed man, his face a mask of fury. A good number of Morgan's men were still wearing their French uniforms. Lasseur had briefed his crew. They were making good use of the information. The blue tunics made easy targets.

A huge figure - one of the cutter's crew, from his lack of an arm band - appeared on Hawkwood's right, in his hands a musketoon designed for close-quarter work. The gun's maw looked about a foot wide. Hawkwood saw death staring at him and then Jago was there, cutlass hacking down through the man's wrist before he could pull the trigger. Hawkwood followed through with the tomahawk, felt the blade bite into muscle, tugged the weapon free and scrambled on.

The battle raged. It was brutal and bloody, and it was becoming increasingly perilous underfoot. Detritus from the vessel's broken rig had turned the deck into a morass of cordage, black rigging, torn sailcloth and broken spars. The bodies of the dead and wounded were adding to the debris.

Then, through a gap in the fighting, Hawkwood saw Pepper. Morgan's lieutenant was at the cutter's stern, hacking a cutlass at a knot of rope wrapped around an arm of the jolly boat hoist. The tiller man lay dead by Pepper's feet.

Bastard's trying to go over the side again, Hawkwood thought. But Pepper wasn't alone. Another man was attempting to free the ropes on the hoist's other arm. Hawkwood didn't recognize Morgan immediately. His black beard was gone, but his shape gave him away. He looked up, saw Hawkwood, swallowed his shock and redoubled his efforts. Like some of his men, he was still wearing the blue tunic and white breeches. Hawkwood saw diagonal stripes low down on the tunic sleeve as Morgan raised his arm and in a moment of clarity heard Lieutenant Burden's voice in his ear describing the broad- shouldered sergeant who had shot Corporal Jefford stone dead in the residency lobby.

His eyes swept the deck, trying to pierce the smoke. He saw

Lasseur, caught the privateer's eye and pointed. Lasseur followed his gaze and his eyes took on a new intensity. Sidestepping over the mess of fallen canvas and ignoring the press about him, the privateer, teeth bared, clambered towards the jolly boat.

Hawkwood saw Pepper look up. Morgan's lieutenant had spotted Lasseur moving towards him. Beneath his beard, Pepper's cheeks hardened. He edged away from the hoist, cutlass in his hand. Behind Pepper's back, Morgan continued to attack the rope. Suddenly the strands parted and the jolly boat's bow dropped. Morgan transferred his energy to the second hoist.

Hawkwood heard Jago bellow. Another of Morgan's men chancing his arm. He turned and whipped the pistol butt into a startled face. Regaining his balance and with the fighting raging about him, he headed for the stern.

Pepper gripped the cutlass and waited for Lasseur's attack. He looked unconcerned, confident. The cutlass was his weapon.

Lasseur ran in, Pepper scythed the cutlass towards Lasseur's sword arm. Lasseur parried, driving the strike away with the side of his blade. As Pepper's weight carried him round, Lasseur went low and ripped his knife through the tendons behind Pepper's right knee. His hamstrings severed, Pepper collapsed on to the deck, his expression one of bewilderment, shock and pain. Head thrown back, his mouth opened, but the scream was cut short as Lasseur rammed his sword point down and through the exposed throat.

Lasseur placed his boot on Pepper's unmoving chest and tugged the blade free.

"Cretin!" he hissed.

Morgan was almost through the last rope when he saw Pepper fall. The sight of Lasseur and the Runner on the bow of the schooner had been shocking enough. Seeing his lieutenant killed so suddenly and with such ruthless efficiency was even worse. One second Cephus was there, guarding his back, the next he was on the deck with a gaping wound in his throat, leaking blood. It didn't seem possible things could happen that quickly.

But they had and Morgan had seen the look in Lasseur's eye and he knew what it meant. So, ignoring the dead tiller man and the pool of blood that was seeping into the deck, he continued with his frantic attempt to free the jolly boat from its cradle, knowing it was futile.

He heard a voice say, "It's over, Morgan," and turned, breathing heavily.

Lasseur and Hawkwood were standing shoulder to shoulder. Beside them stood a stocky, hard-faced man with gun-metal hair, carrying a bloodstained cutlass.

"It's over, Morgan," Hawkwood said again. "You lost. Your men are finished."

Morgan saw that Hawkwood spoke the truth. Those members of his crew that were still standing were laying down their arms in surrender and lowering themselves to the deck, hands on their heads. Lasseur's men were moving among them, collecting weapons. It was clear from the lack of cloth bands on the bodies littering the deck that the cutter's crew had been overwhelmed by sheer force of arms. The Sea Witch's scuppers were slick with blood.

"Reckon this is what they mean when they talk about rats tryin' to leave a sinkin' ship," Jago said.

Morgan let the sword slip from his grasp. His chest rose and fell.

"We're still fifteen miles off the coast," Hawkwood said. "Did you really think you'd make it?"

"The Lord loves an optimist," Lasseur murmured.

"Can't blame a man for trying," Morgan said.

Hawkwood stuck the pistol in his belt, tossed the tomahawk aside and drew the knife from his boot.

A flicker of doubt crossed Morgan's face. His jaw tightened.

The man looked strange without the beard, Hawkwood had decided. His face looked rounder and at least five years younger, and not so aggressive. In fact, Hawkwood thought, there was something else about Morgan that was different. He looked more portly round the chest, which was a bit odd, and his movements looked . . . ponderous.

Before Morgan could react, Hawkwood jabbed the knife point beneath the front hem of Morgan's tunic and with effortless ease sliced the blade towards Morgan's chin like a surgeon opening up a cadaver. The tunic cloth parted like grape skin.

"Well, would you look at that!" Jago said in wonderment. "Haven't seen one of them since the old king died."

It was a waistcoat, but it wasn't like any Hawk wood had seen before. It was lined with pockets and every one of them was bulging.

Hawkwood reached out and with another flick of his wrist performed a second filleting along one of the pocket seams. The cloth split and the weight of the contents did the rest. A gold ingot clattered to the deck.

Hawkwood slid the knife back in his boot and picked the ingot up. It wasn't very big, about half the size of a tinder box, but it was heavy nonetheless. Impressed into the dull metal were some numbers and a round stamp bearing the words Rothschild Sons.

From the size of him, Hawkwood guessed there were pockets in the back of Morgan's waistcoat, too, and there was a suspicious bulge across his lower back. Lasseur used his sword point to lift the back of the blue tunic. A bustle-like garment was tied around Morgan's waist.

"You might want to check inside his breeches, an' all," Jago said. "They used to carry thigh pieces, back in the old days."

"We get the picture," Hawkwood said. "Check Pepper."

Lasseur did so.

"The same," he announced, realizing that the weight had contributed to Pepper's sluggishness and inability to repel his attack.

"The old tea waistcoats used to hold about thirty pounds weight," Jago said.

"Judas got silver. You got gold," Hawkwood said. "You go to all that trouble and all you end up with is a bloody waist coat. Hardly worth the effort."

"What do you want to do with him?" Lasseur asked. "I give him to you. My gift."

"Let him have the gold," Hawkwood said.

"What?" Lasseur's jaw dropped.

Hawkwood shrugged. "Let him take his chances."

"You ain't bloody serious?" Jago said. "After all you said?"

Morgan's head came up. "You're not arresting me?"

"Arrest you?" Hawkwood laughed. "You've a bloody high opinion of yourself. No, I've a mind to let you keep your waistcoat. I don't think the army will miss thirty pounds of gold, do you? Far as I'm concerned, you make it to the coast, you damn well deserve to keep it. There's only one condition ..."

"What's that?" A tiny light flared in the dark eyes. Hope springing eternal.

"You have to swim."

Hawkwood half turned and slammed his boot into Morgan's belly.

The kick rocked Morgan on to his heels. The edge of the bulwark caught him across the back of his legs and momentum did the rest, sending him backwards over the cutter's side. He hit the water with the look of incredulity still glued to his face. He was still trying to recover his breath as the sea closed over him, taking his encumbered body down into its cold and lasting embrace.

It was over so quickly, there was no trace of his passing.

Hawkwood stepped back.

"That's taken the weight off his mind," Jago observed. "Though you had me worried for a while. Thought you'd gone soft."

There were more splashes from behind. Under the supervision of Lieutenant Delon and his men, the remnants of Morgan's crew were tipping the bodies of their dead comrades into the water.

"Time to go, I think," Lasseur said, turning on his heel and sheathing his sword. He called his lieutenant to him.

"When they've disposed of their dead, lock them below. Get our men back on Scorpion; including casualties. Keep a small crew behind to clear the deck, then rig a sail. We'll escort you in. She's not much of a prize by herself, but her cargo's worth more than a king's ransom." Lasseur looked at Hawkwood and grinned.

And Hawkwood said, "You'll have to be sharp about it."

He wasn't looking at Lasseur. He was looking over the bow

At the same moment Lasseur's man yelled, "Sail to the north east!"

"British frigate," Hawkwood said. "But that's just my guess. Probably on blockade patrol. She's damned close, too. I were you, I'd shoot your lookout."

Lasseur sprang to the rail.

The frigate was bearing down fast. She was closer to the French coast than Scorpion. Yards braced, with a full spread of sail, she was running before the wind. Lasseur could even see the water creaming at her bow.

"Save yourself or the gold," Hawkwood said. "Don't think there's time for you to do both. If they catch you, it'll be the black hole for sure. They'll likely throw away the key this time, the mayhem you've caused. Interesting dilemma."

"It's a bugger, right enough," Jago said.

Lasseur stared hard at the approaching man-of-war.

He turned and looked at the wreckage that was strewn across the cutter's deck; at the bodies that were still being lowered over the side, at his own ship and at the exhaustion on the faces of his men, who would be unable to withstand another pitched skirmish.

He gnawed the inside of his cheek and came to a decision.

"Merde," he said.