by James McGee
He was on the second stitch when his ears picked up a sound that hadn't been there before. His skin prickled. Slowly, he withdrew the knife blade down into the bag.
He heard the noise again; someone was approaching cautiously. Hawkwood went rigid. There was a soft scraping sound followed by a brief silence. Then he thought he heard voices talking softly. The words were indistinct. It had to be the militia, come back to check, trying to be quiet about it, and failing. Carefully, Hawkwood reversed the knife and held it flat against his chest beneath his arm. The scraping noises resumed. Suddenly the light showing through the cloth was blotted out. A figure was kneeling over him. Without warning, a knife blade, larger than his own, stabbed through the vent in the cloth inches from his face, sliced effortlessly through the next dozen stitches and the edges of the sailcloth were peeled apart.
"You smell almost as bad as me." Lasseur wrinkled his nose, chuckled softly and jerked his head. "He says we've to hurry and we're to keep our heads down, which seems sensible advice."
Hawkwood looked beyond Lasseur's shoulder to where a man of indeterminate age was crouched, holding a short-handled spade. He was dressed in a long-sleeved grey shirt and a pair of dirty brown breeches. Other than a pair of narrowed dark eyes, it was hard to make out his features, for his mouth and nose were covered by a triangular folded scarf. Hawkwood presumed it was as a guard against the smell from the pit rather than an attempt at disguise. Curly black hair peeked from beneath a soft felt cap.
"Does he have a name?" Hawkwood asked.
"He says we're to call him Isaac." Lasseur was about to hand Hawkwood the knife when he caught sight of the blade concealed beneath Hawkwood's arm. "I see you started without me."
Lasseur tossed the knife to the man behind him and watched with approval as Hawkwood used his own blade to cut himself free before returning the weapon to its place of concealment.
Lasseur grinned. "Maybe I should be calling you the sly boots instead of Murat."
"Quit talking and move your arses!" The man calling himself Isaac slid the knife into his belt. "And don't forget the bloody sacks. You do parlez English, yes?"
"I told you," Lasseur said. "We both do." He looked at Hawkwood and rolled his eyes.
"Right, well, keep your bleedin' heads down! We ain't out of the woods yet."
"Woods?" Lasseur frowned. "I see no trees." He looked about him.
"Jesus," the man muttered, waving his hand. "Bleedin' Frogs. Come on, get behind me."
Hawkwood and Lasseur did as they were told as the guide began shovelling mud back across the top of the burial pit, filling in the depressions where Hawkwood and Lasseur had lain, restoring the disturbed surface. When he'd completed the task to his satisfaction, he turned and pushed past them, still keeping low. "Follow me. Stay close."
Hawkwood risked a glance seaward and saw why they'd been instructed to keep their heads down. Between the burial pit and the beach there was a slight rise in the ground. On the other side of the rise, the shingle sloped down to the water. At ground level, where they lay, the slope was just high enough to block the view of the hulks. A clear worm's-eye view of the estuary was also hampered by clumps of sea-grass which crested the shingle bank for several yards in either direction.
A throaty mutter came from behind. "I'd stop admirin' the bloody view, if I were you. Signal said we had to get you away sharpish, so unless you're plannin' on hangin' around for the militia, we'd best get goin'. We ain't got all day!"
Hawkwood felt his arm tugged. Turning his back on the water, he tucked the sailcloth bundle under his arm and followed Lasseur and the guide on all fours, away from the pit and its gruesome contents.
It was a laborious crawl. Hawkwood estimated they had probably covered close to fifty yards on their bellies before the ground suddenly opened up in front of them, revealing a steep- sided ditch, some six paces in width. At the bottom of the ditch a three-foot-wide ribbon of murky brown water was bordered by rushes and tall, thin-bladed reeds.
Isaac removed the scarf from his face, passed it to Hawkwood and nodded towards the water. "Ain't sweet enough to drink, but you might want to think about cleanin' yourselves up a bit. Be quick about it, though."
Hawkwood soaked the scarf in the water and rinsed the blood from his face before handing the cloth to Lasseur. The water was warm and smelled of peat and more than a hint of dung. Hawkwood didn't like to think what else might be lying under the surface, but anything was better than the stench of the pit.
"You said you had a signal," Hawkwood said, remembering that Murat had used the word, too. "What signal?"
He saw that the man was giving him a strange look.
"You don't sound like a Frog," Isaac said.
"That's because I'm not."
"Your English is bloody good. What are you then? A Dutchman?
"American."
"A Yankee?" Isaac's eyes widened. "Bloody hell, you're a long way from home."
"So everyone keeps telling me," Hawkwood said. "What signal?"
Isaac's expression shifted from surprise to disbelief that anyone with half a brain would ask such a question. He glanced towards Lasseur as if seeking reassurance that his opinion of Hawkwood's ignorance was well founded, and looked surprised to be confronted by the same quizzical expression.
He turned back. "Your bleedin' washing lines, of course! What did you think it was?"
"Washing lines?" Lasseur said, mystified. Suddenly he glanced down at the rag in his hand and his eyes opened wide. "Flags! My God, they used the laundry as signalling flags!" He swung back to Hawkwood and grinned wildly.
"All right, that's enough," Isaac said impatiently. He stared hard at the blood spots on Hawkwood's shirt and at the marks on Lasseur's face and waved the scarf away when Lasseur tried to return it. "Let's go.Allez!"
Without waiting for a reply, their guide broke into a run along the edge of the watercourse. Still carrying their sailcloth burial bags, Hawkwood and Lasseur set off in stumbling pursuit.
Hawkwood watched Lasseur stuff the piece of rag into his pocket and had a mental image of shirts and breeches twitching in the breeze like lines of bunting. He wondered how the system worked and guessed the messages were hidden in the sequence of the washed garments. A shirt followed by a pair of stockings followed by two sets of breeches and so on. It was, he was forced to admit, brilliant in its simplicity and - unless you were privy to the secret - totally undetectable.
The land around them was flat and featureless; a mixture of bog and clumpy pasture, crisscrossed with ditches that twisted through the marshland like drunken adders. There were no trees in the immediate vicinity, though further east the land rose towards a series of copse-dotted hills that rolled away gently towards the centre of the island.
Trailing Isaac along the ditch was like following a hound. Every twenty paces or so, their guide would lift his nose in the air as though searching for a scent, before turning to make sure they were still following.
They had travelled a further half-mile before they halted for the second time. They were still only a little over a mile from the ship, Hawkwood estimated. Slightly less as the crow flew; and not nearly far enough away for comfort. Their guide was evidently of the same opinion, for he peered over the rim of the dyke, back towards the way they had come, as if searching for pursuers. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he ducked back down and they set off once more.
Even though it was not the most direct path to safety, Hawkwood knew that using the ditch as cover was the sensible thing to do. The land along this stretch of coast was so low lying that if they stood up they risked being seen by anyone aboard the hulks with a half-decent spyglass. Isaac's strategy prevented their heads from breaking the skyline. Better to be safe than sorry, Hawkwood reasoned. With good fortune looking over their shoulders, they'd be able to make up the time before too long.
The day was turning warm. He could hear Lasseur breathing hard and wondered how fit the man was and whether he could keep up the pace.
In the army, Hawkwood had been used to route marches; and as a Rifleman he'd led his men on skirmishes over moor and mountain trails that would have defeated regular troops. Since returning to England and joining Bow Street, however, he was the first to admit that some muscles had grown soft through disuse. Runner by name, perhaps, but the number of times he'd had to pursue criminals for long distances over heath and hedgerow had been few and far between, which was to say never at all, as far as he could remember.
Ten paces ahead of them, Isaac held up his hand and laid a finger to his lips. When Hawkwood and Lasseur caught up with him, their guide raised his eyes above the edge of the dyke. Hawkwood and Lasseur followed suit.
"Merde!" Lasseur whispered.
The sheep were less than twenty paces away, hemmed inside a wicker pen. It was a small flock; perhaps thirty animals in total, black faced and long tailed. Some had small curved horns. It wasn't the sheep, however, that had caused Lasseur alarm.
Tied to the pen's gatepost were two wire-haired black-and-white dogs. At the sight of the men, both dogs stood, tongues lolling. Their ears were pricked. Their eyes were bright and alert.
Lasseur laid a warning hand on Hawkwood's arm.
"It's all right," Isaac said. "They know better than to bark. They do and they'll get a taste of my belt."
Isaac climbed out of the ditch and trotted towards the dogs. He gave a curt word of command and the animals dropped to their bellies.
"You can come out now," he said and waited for Hawkwood and Lasseur to join him. The dogs watched their approach with interest.
Isaac unhitched the dogs and swung the gate open. Immediately the dogs raced round to the back of the flock and began herding the sheep out of the gate into the open pasture.
Walking into the pen, Isaac dropped to his knees and used the edge of the spade to lift out a section of turf, exposing a knotted rope handle. Hooking his fingers under the rope, he leaned back and pulled. A larger section of turf came with him. The turf was bedded on top of a wooden trapdoor. Isaac pulled the trapdoor aside and Hawkwood found himself staring down into another pit.
The chamber had been well constructed. The floor was clay. The walls were lined with wooden slats. Half a dozen wooden kegs - half-ankers, Hawkwood guessed; each one capable of holding four gallons of spirits - were stacked against the wall. On the floor next to the kegs were several oilskin bags and a muslin sack. Isaac climbed into the hole and passed the sack out. "There's some bread and cheese and apples and a little something to wet the whistle." He mimed a drinking motion when Lasseur frowned. Then he held out his hand. "Give me the body sacks. Take these and put them on." He deposited the spade and the body sacks into the pit and passed out two coarse linen bundles.
Hawkwood and Lasseur opened them up. They were shepherds' smocks folded around two soft, wide-brimmed hats.
"These, too," Isaac said and held out two short hazelwood crooks. Retrieving a third, longer, crook for himself, he closed the trap and replaced the turf over the rope handle. Then he tamped down the edges of the turf and, collecting up a handful of sheep droppings, scattered them over the area. Satisfied that the entrance to the underground chamber was again concealed, he looked up and indicated the smocks. "I said put them on. Time we were leavin'."
Hawkwood and Lasseur stared at him.
Even the dogs, who had returned to Isaac's side, looked doubtful.
Isaac gave an exasperated sigh. "They'll be lookin' for two men on the run, not three shepherds movin' their flock to fresh pasture. But if you think you know better, then be my guest. Ferry's that way." Isaac pointed a stubby finger towards the south. "Make your bloody minds up."
At that moment, a sharp report, not unlike a distant roll of thunder cut short, came from the direction of the estuary. It was followed by the faint ringing of a bell. The dogs' ears and muzzles flicked towards the sounds. Isaac's head swivelled. "Shite!"
"That doesn't sound good," Lasseur said.
Hawkwood laid the walking stick down, slipped his arms through the smock's sleeves and pulled the garment over his head. It occurred to him that it was like climbing into the burial sack from the opposite direction. He jammed the hat on his head and picked up the stick.
Isaac nodded his approval. Hawkwood had the feeling he'd just transformed himself into the village idiot.
Lasseur put on his smock and hat and threw Hawkwood a lop-sided grin.
The grin made it worse. Hawkwood wondered what the chances were of one village having two idiots. He picked up the muslin sack and slung it over his shoulder.
Isaac let out a series of short, sharp whistles. Obediently, the dogs hurtled off and in a pincer movement began to drive the sheep towards a wooden gate at the far corner of the field. Isaac pointed towards the nearest tree-topped crest. "We'll take them round Furze Hill towards the East Church Road."
Lasseur followed the pointing stick and then stared back towards the coast. Hawkwood knew the privateer was gauging the time factor.
"If they've let off the cannon it means they've searched the ship and found us gone," Hawkwood said. "They're bound to send a detail to check the burial pit. That'll take them a while."
Retaining the burial sacks and filling in the pit had been a shrewd ploy. With obvious signs of disinterment removed, the only way to prove Hawkwood and Lasseur had been carried ashore would be to open the pit, exhume the full body bags and count the corpses, all of which would, hopefully, add to the confusion. Hawkwood didn't envy any of the men assigned to that task.
The dogs were enjoying themselves; zig-zagging back and forth under Isaac's watchful eye. The sheep were obviously well used to the imposition, so much so that it looked as if they were the ones who were obeying Isaac's short sharp whistles rather than the dogs. Reaching the gate, the animals waited patiently for the men to catch up. Isaac pointed past the gate to a small wooden bridge that lay beyond it. "The road's yonder."
When they got there, it wasn't much of a road; more like a fifteen-foot-wide bridle path; narrow and pitted and rutted with cart and animal tracks. On the other side of the path, the land lifted in a gentle incline.
"This here's the Minster Road," Isaac said. "We want the one over the 'ill - it runs right the way across the Isle. We'll stay off it, but if we follow alongside it'll take us where we want to go. As long as we keep our eyes peeled, the dogs'll do all the work. You spot anyone comin', you sing out. Remember, all they'll see is three locals drivin' sheep, so no need to go runnin' off. Keep your 'ats on and your 'eads down and, whatever you do, don't open your bloody mouths. You can spit on their boots if you like. Militia are used to that. They stands for authority an' Sheppey folk ain't too partial to folk in authority - don't like being told what to do; goes against the grain." Isaac grinned. He looked at Lasseur. "You understand, Monsewer?"
Lasseur nodded. "I think so."
"Right then, gentlemen," Isaac said. "Let's take a walk, shall we?"
Sheep were not fast walkers, especially up hills, and as a disguise and an aid to flight, their steady perambulations didn't exactly instil confidence. Though it was, Hawkwood conceded inwardly, a pleasant enough way to travel if you didn't have a care in the world or the possibility of armed militia snapping at your heels.
Even allowing for the fact that pursuit could be drawing ever nearer, the sheer joy of being anywhere other than on board the hulk was a wondrous feeling. No wooden walls, no men crammed on top of one another in stinking darkness. There was only the wide blue sky and grass beneath their feet. The smell of the marshes didn't seem so pervasive out here in the fields. And there was, of course, a birdsong accompaniment; not the raucous, incessant complaining of gulls, but the melodious twittering of song thrush, blackbird and hedge sparrow. Hawkwood had followed the drum through Spain, Portugal, South America and a host of foreign climes, but there was nothing he'd seen that could compare to the English countryside on a bright summer morning.
Even Lasseur looked entranced. Hawkwood had caught the privateer lifting his fa
ce to the sun on several occasions. For the Frenchman it was probably the next best thing to being on the deck of his ship.
They were moving steadily and were on the brow of a hill, about to descend into the valley, when Hawkwood saw Isaac stiffen. The guide was peering over Hawkwood's shoulder, down towards the west.
Hawkwood turned.
There were horsemen in the distance. At first glance they appeared to be heading towards them. Hawkwood's heart skipped several beats but, as he continued to watch, the riders suddenly veered away to the south.
"They'll be headin' for the Swale," Isaac said confidently. "Probably come from the Queenborough Road or Mile Town. They ain't no threat. They've likely enlisted the garrison's help, but it'll take them a while to get organized. They don't 'ave too many mounted troopers out here. Long as we take it nice an' easy and keep movin', we'll be fine. Better than runnin' around lookin' like chickens with our 'eads chopped off. And we don't 'ave that far to go. Be like strollin' to church for Sunday sermon."
They dined while they walked. The simple pleasure of biting into a hunk of bread they hadn't had to soak first in order to swallow was impossible to put into words. The cheese was full of flavour, the apples sharp and crisp. The cider, kept cool in the underground chamber and sipped straight from the jug, was as refreshing on the palate as water from a mountain spring.
They'd been going for more than two hours, resting the flock at intervals, when it occurred to Hawkwood that, with the exception of the mounted patrol glimpsed earlier, they hadn't spied another soul all morning. The same thing had struck Lasseur.
"That's why we came this way," Isaac said when Lasseur mentioned the fact to him. "Most folk live to the north, along the top road and the coast. Down south, towards Elmley and Harty, it's mostly fever and swamp land. Some folk say it's the last place God made. That's why they call Sheppey folk Swampies."
