Rapscallion

CHAPTER 19

At one point it felt as if he was falling, the next as if he was floating, drifting at the mercy of a weak tide, ebbing back and forth without purpose, never quite breaching the waves and never quite reaching the shore. One moment he was cold, the next he was bathed in perspiration. During each of these episodes there had been a strange taste - bitter, but not unpleasant - which had lingered on his tongue and at the back of his throat.

He'd also been vaguely aware of shadows and voices. But the shadows, like all shadows, had been without definition and the words he thought he'd heard had been like dry leaves rustling in the wind. Sometimes they had seemed close and almost audible, at other times they were no more than whispers, as if the speakers were far away and afraid of being overheard. He'd suspected they were talking about him and had strained his ears to hear better, but the harder he'd tried the harder it had been to mark the conversation clearly.

He also had a hazy recollection of a cup being placed against his lips and of swallowing, but with no clear memory of what he might have ingested. Once, he thought he heard a dog bark and a cry started in his throat, but then the sound faded abruptly and the tightness in his chest began to ease and the moment passed and he did not feel so afraid.

When he opened his eyes he thought for one terrible moment that he was back in the hulk's sick berth. The stinging sensation along the side of his skull, although mild, seemed horribly reminiscent, until the feel of a cool, damp cloth and gentle fingers smearing something on his scalp began to soothe the hurt away and he heard a woman's voice say softly, "He's awake."

The voice sounded vaguely familiar.

Maddie? Hawkwood thought.

He turned his head. He was lying in a narrow bed. Alongside the bed was a night stand upon which stood an unlit candle in a holder, a bowl and some small blue-glass jars. He could not tell what they contained.

A woman's face was looking down at him. It did not belong to Maddie Teague.

"Hello, Captain," Jess Flynn said.

"About time," Lasseur said, appearing from behind Jess Flynn's shoulder. "How do you feel?"

Hawkwood stared at them both and wondered if he was dreaming. He touched fingertips to his skull and winced. "Tired of getting hit on the head." He took his fingers away. They were sticky, as if they had been dipped in beeswax. He rubbed the ends of his fingers together.

"Don't worry, Captain, it's only an ointment. I make it myself from special oils and herbs," Jess Flynn said. "It reduces the pain and encourages healing. The ball grazed your skull, which was why you lost consciousness. You were very lucky; there was some bleeding and you were feverish for a while, but that's all."

"Good thing it was only your head," Lasseur said, smiling. "Anywhere else and I'd have been worried."

Hawkwood realized he had felt no residual pain when he moved. Encouraged by the discovery, he tried to sit up. His effort was rewarded with only minor discomfort. He looked around. The room was small with a sloped ceiling. There was a half-open window, through which he could just see the underside of the eaves. There was a simple mirrored dressing table upon which sat another bowl and a pitcher. A chair stood in front of the dressing table. A narrow wardrobe rested against one wall.

He looked down. He appeared to be wearing someone's nightshirt. There was no sign of his clothes, though he could see his boots propped on the floor beside the wardrobe.

"It was my husband's," Jess Flynn said, indicating the nightshirt. She exchanged glances with Lasseur and smiled. "I'll leave you to talk." She squeezed the cloth out into the bowl and stood up. Her hand brushed Lasseur's as she walked towards the door. Lasseur watched her go before pulling the chair to the side of the bed and sitting down.

Hawkwood still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "How in the name of God did we get here?"

Lasseur grinned. "By boat."

" What?" Hawkwood felt another brief twinge.

Lasseur laid his hand on Hawkwood's arm. His face was full of concern. "How much do you remember?"

"I saw you shoot Del. After that. . . not a damned thing. What do you mean, 'by boat'?"

"It's a long story. Do you remember me carrying you to the river?"

"No."

Lasseur had left him on the bank while he returned for Del's body, hauling it to the edge of the water in the hope of putting the hounds off the scent. The ruse had worked, but it had been a close thing. Daubing their faces with mud, Lasseur had dragged Hawkwood into the reeds moments before the dogs burst from the trees.

Lasseur frowned at the memory. "I could hear them baying and the men searching. I didn't know if you were alive or dead beside me. I waited until the searchers moved off, then pulled you ashore; still breathing, thank God. And that's when I saw the boat. It was almost submerged. When I found the oars beneath it I thought I was seeing things, and when I examined the hull and realized it was sound, I couldn't believe it. I think the owner must have sunk it deliberately so people wouldn't think it was worth stealing. Fortunately for us, it was.

"I could still hear the dogs, but they were heading downriver. Morgan's men must have assumed we'd try to get to the coast. I knew we needed to go in the opposite direction, so I raised the boat and took us upstream. It was easier than carrying you across country. Del's body was still there when we left. I heard them say they were going to send the gravedigger to pick it up later." He looked at the expression on Hawkwood's face. "What is it?"

"I was going to ask you why we came here, but something tells me that would be a stupid question."

"We were close; I knew we would be safe here and the Widow Flynn might have some means of treating your wound. I was right. She's the one who's been looking after you with her medicines and broth."

Which explained the bitter taste on my tongue, Hawkwood thought. To Lasseur, he said, "Don't think I'm not grateful, but are you sure those were the only reasons?" Then, for the first time, he noticed the privateer's clothes. "I don't recall you wearing that shirt before."

Lasseur smiled. "I'm happy to see your head wound has not robbed you of your powers of deduction. You're right; like you, I am the happy beneficiary of the Flynn family slop chest."

"It's a good fit," Hawkwood observed laconically. "You know, our being here places her at serious risk. If Morgan finds out she's harbouring us, it will go badly for her."

Lasseur's face grew immediately serious. "I know that, my friend. Believe me; I know that only too well."

Hawkwood watched the worry lines on Lasseur's face deepen. "And how the devil did you find your way back here? Higgs transported us at night."

Lasseur's features lightened. "I'm a sailor, Matthew. Did you think I was sleeping when the gravedigger took us to the Haunt? I was reading the stars. It was a clear night, remember? I knew the course we were taking. I knew where and when we crossed the river, and I knew the farm was upstream. In daylight, it was simple. Some day, you must let me teach you the finer points of celestial navigation!"

"And no one saw us?"

"Not to my knowledge. Though, if our pursuers hadn't had the dogs it might have been different. I might not have heard them coming. All I can say is that the gods must have been with us." Lasseur straightened. "Thomas Gadd knows Jess has taken us in, by the way. He helped me get you upstairs. 1 le also took the boat back downstream. We've been here ever since."

The room was warm but Hawkwood suddenly felt a cold chill on his back. "What do you mean; ever since? How long have we been here?"

Lasseur hesitated. Something moved behind his eyes. "You've been confined to your bed for just over twenty-four hours."

It took a moment for Hawkwood to absorb the shock. "What?" Then his mind did the calculation and he started to push the sheet back. "Jesus!"

Lasseur's eyes widened in alarm. He placed a hand on Hawkwood's chest. "What are you doing?"

Hawkwood thrust Lasseur's hand aside. "I have to get a message to the authorities! I've got to warn them about the attack on the Admiral's residency! It's tomorrow night!"

Lasseur grasped his arm. "Wait! Tom Gadd told me that Morgan's men are still searching for us. There's a price on our heads. If either of us sets foot off the farm there's a risk we'll be seen. Besides," Lasseur added urgently, "look at you! You're in no fit state to go anywhere."

"I'll take my chances." Hawkwood pushed Lasseur's hand away once more, swung his legs round and placed his feet on the floor. "Where are my bloody clothes?"

Lasseur's eyes flickered to the wardrobe.

Hawkwood stood up. The room swam before his eyes. 1 le sat down again, quickly.

Lasseur threw up his hands in despair. "You see? You can hardly walk. You need to recover your strength."

"There's no time for that!" Hawkwood looked towards the window. It was like looking through a gauze veil. "What the hell is the time?"