by James McGee
"Swamp-ies?" Lasseur had trouble with the pronunciation.
"What you might call a term of affection," Isaac said, adding wryly, "Same reason we call you lot Frogs."
Lasseur raised a cynical eyebrow. Hawkwood kept his face straight, albeit with some difficulty.
"Where are you taking us?" Lasseur asked.
"Well, it ain't all the way home, that's for certain. My part's played as far as Warden. After that you're someone else's problem."
A tingle moved up Hawkwood's spine. If further proof was required that there was an apparatus in place to assist escapers, it had just been provided.
"This place, Warden - how long will it take us to get there?" Lasseur asked.
"Two shakes of a lamb's tail," Isaac said, without breaking stride.
It took the rest of the day.
They bypassed East Church. There wasn't a great deal to the place; a small, sleepy hamlet straddling a crossroads, comprising a dozen or so cottages huddled around a squat, grey church with crenellated walls and a square tower. There were a few people about, but they were a good distance away and, other than responding in kind to Isaac's friendly wave, paid no mind to the sheep, dogs or counterfeit shepherds.
The village occupied one of the highest points on the island. The land rolled away in a series of gentle undulations revealing spectacular views in every direction, particularly to the south, all the way to the Swale and across to the mainland.
A short way past the village, Isaac pointed towards a gentle incline. "Warden's about a mile further, at the top of the 'ill, other side of them trees."
It was about then that Lasseur began to grow restless. The excitement in his eyes was palpable. Watching the privateer catch his first smell and sight of the sea through an unexpected fold in the hills reminded Hawkwood of a thirsty horse scenting water. He suspected that even if Lasseur had been deaf and blindfolded he'd still have found his way to the coast.
They approached the village from the south, the dogs driving the sheep up the slope in a tight wedge before them.
There wasn't a lot to Warden, from the little Hawkwood could see of it through the woods. It looked to be just another row of miserly cottages and a church, all clinging like limpets to a small coastal outcrop stuck on the arse end of the back of beyond.
Isaac hadn't lied when he'd told them it would be like strolling to church on a Sunday morning, because that was precisely what they were doing, give or take a day. The church was located at the seaward end of the village, less than a stone's toss from the cliff edge. They emerged from the spinney with the late afternoon sun shining across the stonework and the coo of wood pigeons in their ears, to find the graveyard barring their way. Isaac opened the gate and the dogs did the rest. As the flock spread out between the tombstones and began to graze, Isaac secured the latch behind them, tethered the dogs to one of the gate bars, and led the way through the stones towards a heavily studded side door. Passing the stones, Hawkwood saw they were severely weathered. Most of the names were indecipherable, worn smooth by the passage of weather and time. It was easy to imagine how desolate and inhospitable the place was likely to be in the depths of winter.
Isaac knelt by the door. Removing a brick from the wall of the church, he reached in and extracted a key from the cavity behind. He caught Hawkwood and Lasseur eyeing him. "Vicar's out." He replaced the stone, adding, "Vicar's always out when there's a run on."
They entered the vestry and Isaac locked the door behind them and led the way into the nave. The interior of the church was cool and dry and smelled of stone and wood, candle grease and dust. The late afternoon sunlight shone through the stained- glass windows, casting intricate rainbow patterns on to the walls and stone floor.
"You won't be needin' them any more." Isaac indicated the smocks and the hats. "Leave 'em on the pew, there; the crooks, too. Now, give me an 'and with this." Isaac walked to the side of the nave where a row of inscribed flagstones were set into the floor. They were old, Hawkwood saw, and very worn, the names faded with time and, like the tombstones outside, barely legible, though many of them bore what looked like the name Sawbridge. Some local high-born family, Hawkwood deduced, though the village didn't look substantial enough to support anyone with aristocratic blood.
Isaac bent down and levered his knife into a crack alongside one of the flagstones. The stone looked thick and solid, but prising it up was remarkably easy. Hawkwood saw that it was a lot thinner than the stones that bordered it. Like the trapdoor out on the marsh, it had been designed to deceive; either ground down or fashioned from a lighter stone and carved with the same inscription and artificially aged so that it blended in with its companions.
Isaac descended first and told them to wait. There was a sound of flint striking steel and a second or two later the glow of a lantern bloomed in the darkness below. "Down you come," Isaac called.
He waited until they had joined him, then handed Hawkwood the lantern before reaching up and replacing the stone over the hole.
Beneath the church, Hawkwood was struck with a sudden vision of another crypt a world away from the Kent marshes. The bone vault under St Mary's, where he'd hunted the killer, Titus Hyde. A shiver ran through him, unseen by the other two.
The tunnel was just wide enough for two men to walk abreast, but it was easier in single file. Isaac took the lead with the light. Lasseur and then Hawkwood followed behind. The air was damp and smelled heavily of clay.
Where the hell is he taking us? Hawkwood wondered.
They had travelled about a hundred paces before the floor of the tunnel began to slope upwards, ending abruptly in front of a crude black wooden door. Isaac lifted the latch. Opening the door, he raised the lantern. They were in a smaller tunnel, its sides almost perfectly round. Hawkwood frowned. He tapped the walls. They were wooden and sounded curiously hollow. A loud click came from a few feet ahead of him as another latch was lifted and the entire end of the tunnel, like a ship's porthole, swung open before them.
The first objects Hawkwood saw when he clambered through the opening were the liquor tubs. The walls were lined with them: all sizes, from half-ankers to hogsheads. He heard Lasseur click his tongue in what sounded like admiration and turned, just in time to see Isaac closing the tunnel entrance behind them. Lasseur's reaction was fully justified. The end of the tunnel was formed from a huge cask, one of several stacked on their sides. Hawkwood could only guess at the volume of spirits each one might have contained - several hundred gallons at least. Each cask head had a wooden spigot driven into it. Curious,
Hawkwood turned the tap in the cask from which they'd just emerged and watched as a trickle of dark liquid splashed on to the floor. He cupped his hand beneath the tap and raised it to his lips. It was wine. He turned and saw Isaac regarding him with a sly grin. "Pays to have an escape route in case the Revenue decides to drop in."
"What is this place?" Hawkwood asked.
"Cellar room of the Smack." Isaac indicated the casks. "Local inn; figured it was best bringin' you this way rather than parade you down the 'igh street. Like I said before, folks hereabouts don't 'ave much liking for the authorities, but you can't be too careful."
Sounds came from above: a dull thud as though someone was moving furniture, and muffled voices.
"Wait 'ere," Isaac instructed. He placed the lantern on the top of a nearby tub and headed for the cellar door. Before he left the room, he turned. "An' don't bleedin' touch anythin'." The door closed behind him.
Lasseur stared around him. "Well, at least we won't die of thirst." He indicated the muslin sack that Hawkwood was still carrying. "I could eat a horse. Is there anything left?"
Hawkwood tossed Lasseur an apple and shook the earthenware jug. He was rewarded with a faint sloshing sound. He held out the jug to Lasseur, who wrinkled his nose and walked over to the false cask. He turned the tap, cupped his palm, and took a swallow. His face contorted. He turned the tap off hastily and threw Hawkwood a look of disgust. "How can they drink th
is piss?"
"They probably don't," Hawkwood said. "I doubt they'd put the good stuff in there. It's only in case the authorities decide to search the place."
Lasseur took in the other barrels. Hawkwood could tell he was debating whether or not to try their contents.
There were footsteps outside. The door opened and Isaac entered with another man. The newcomer was stoutly built with a florid face, impressive side whiskers and small, piercing eyes. He was wiping his hands on a dirty apron.
"This is Abraham," Isaac said. "He owns the place."
Lasseur bowed. "Honoured. I'm Captain -"
"Don't need names," the whiskered man cut in. "You ain't stoppin'."
"You're leavin' tonight," Isaac said. "There's a run on."
"Run?" Lasseur said. "Where are we running?"
Isaac and the landlord exchanged glances. The landlord shrugged.
"It means a delivery," Isaac said. "Contraband; brandy and tobacco. Same boat as brings the stuff in will be takin' you out. It'll be after dark, so we've got a couple of hours to kill. Might as well make yourselves comfortable." He eyed the muslin sack and the cider jug. "I'll bring you some food."
"Bandages, too," Hawkwood said.
The landlord swung round. He stared at Hawkwood, his eyes hard.
"He's a Yankee," Isaac said.
"He's a long way -"
"Everybody tells him that," Isaac said.
The landlord took in Hawkwood's scarred face, matted hair and the blood on the front of his shirt. He turned to Isaac. "Thought you said you had no trouble."
"We didn't," Isaac said. "He was bleedin' already."
The landlord's gaze moved towards the bruises on Lasseur's face and his brow furrowed. "Either of you need a doctor?"
Hawkwood shook his head. "Just the bandages."
What might have been relief showed in the landlord's eyes. He nodded brusquely. "I'll see what I can do."
The victuals and bandages were delivered a short time later. The food consisted of two bowls of mutton stew, a loaf of bread and a pitcher of ale. The stew was very tasty, with solid chunks of meat and thick gravy. Even Lasseur was impressed, though after the prison fare Hawkwood knew both of them would probably have eaten toad pie and pronounced it exquisite. But then, if a Sheppey cook couldn't provide a decent mutton stew, who could?
Isaac had also provided a kettle of hot water from the inn's kitchen, a bowl and a towel. Hawkwood and Lasseur cleansed the rest of the blood from their faces.
"How are you feeling?" Lasseur asked.
"Better than I've a right to," Hawkwood said. He was aware of a faint throbbing behind his eyes and was glad he was in the relative dark of the inn's cellar rather than in the open with the sun beating down. The hats provided by Isaac might have given the two of them an oafish look, but they had been a godsend.
Lasseur watched as Hawkwood unwound the used dressing from his side. He hesitated and then said, "In the hold, before you broke the Mameluke's neck . . . when you turned away; you knew he was going to attack, didn't you?"
Hawkwood didn't reply immediately. He examined his wounds by lantern light. Contrary to his concern, the cut across his side had not reopened. Surgeon Girard's sutures remained intact. He wound the fresh bandage around his belly. "I thought it likely."
Lasseur frowned. "That sounds as though you were inviting him to attack you."
Hawkwood shrugged. "You think if I'd been on my knees, my arm broken, he wouldn't have finished the job quickly? He wouldn't have thought twice."
"You're not telling me you were giving him a chance?"
Hawkwood shook his head. "That's one thing he never had."
Lasseur's eyes narrowed and then widened again as he gasped, "My God, that was your intention! You lured him into the attack! You killed him for the effect it would have. You were toying with him."
Hawkwood tucked in the end of the bandage.
An expression of disquiet moved across Lasseur's face. He shook his head sorrowfully. "I see a darkness in you, my friend. I saw it in your eyes in the hold when we were fighting. I think I see a measure of it now. It saddens me greatly. I'm glad we're on the same side."
Hawkwood buttoned his shirt over his wounds. "You take advantage of an opponent when you can. You might only get the one chance. Nine times out of ten, it's not pretty."
Lasseur put his head on one side and said, "There was a Malay I sailed with many years ago who got into a fight with a fellow crew member, a Sicilian. The Sicilian had a knife and yet the Malay disarmed him using only his bare hands. It was one of the strangest things I ever saw. The Malay moved as if he were dancing. It was like watching water flow. There was something similar in the way you broke the Mameluke's arm after you lost your razor. It was as if you had anticipated what you were going to do even before you struck him. Where did you learn such skills? Or did I imagine it?"
Hawkwood rinsed his hands in the rest of the water from the kettle. "I knew a soldier once. He'd travelled in the east, selling his services to any army that would pay him. There was a nawab he fought for, a prince of the Mogul empire who had a Chinoise bodyguard. The soldier said that the Chinoise used to be a priest and that there was a rebellion and priests were forbidden to carry swords and knives. So they learned to make their own weapons from farm tools and to fight with their hands and feet. He said it took years of training. He learnt a few of the skills from the bodyguard. He taught some of them to me. It isn't always effective. I'd rather use a pistol."
Or a rifle, Hawkwood thought.
The soldier in question had in fact been a Portuguese guerrilla named Rodriguez, a small but energetic man who looked as though a stiff breeze would have knocked him off his feet. Hawkwood had taught him how to fire a Baker rifle. In turn, Rodriguez had taught Hawkwood how to defend himself, unarmed, against knife and sword attacks. The guerrilla had been quick to tell Hawkwood the techniques didn't always work. If in doubt, and if you had one, use a pistol. It was a lot more effective.
"These men bringing the brandy and tobacco," Lasseur said. "You think they'll take us all the way to France?"
Hawkwood considered the question. "They're more likely to ferry us to the mainland and send us overland to one of their southern ports, then across to Ostend, or Flushing. We'll find out soon enough."
As if on cue, the cellar door opened. Isaac stepped through. "Time to go," he said briskly. "Abraham's just received word. Boat's on its way in."
They left the cellar and made their way upstairs to the taproom to find they had acquired company. Hawkwood counted at least fifteen men; all dressed in dark clothing, seated around the candlelit tables. They looked up, but no one spoke. Hawkwood recognized their kind immediately. The London rookeries were full of them: hard men with no allegiance to the law, loyal to their own kind and instantly suspicious of any stranger who wandered uninvited into their protectorate.
Abraham, minus his apron, emerged from a door at the back of the counter, tucking a pistol into his belt. "All right, let's do it." He moved to a table and picked up an unlit lantern. Three sides of the lantern, Hawkwood noticed, were blacked out.
The landlord looked towards Hawkwood and Lasseur. "Keep close and keep quiet. Once we get the goods ashore, you'll be shipping out."
The men at the tables rose to their feet. They were well armed, Hawkwood saw as he followed them out of the door. Every man carried a pistol in his belt, and some had wooden clubs. Curiously, they were also wearing what appeared to be a leather harness across their chests and shoulders.
Down in the cellar, Hawkwood had lost all track of time and, although Isaac had warned them, it was still an odd sensation walking outside and finding it was night.
Abraham led them in single file past the church and towards the end of the village. Isaac had talked about parading down the high street. Once again the description was a misnomer. The Strand and the Haymarket were high streets. Warden's main thoroughfare was a country lane bordered by darkened cottages, woods and brambles.
Aside from the men emerging from the pub there were no other signs of life.
When they reached the edge of the cliff, the view in the moonlight was extraordinary. It was like standing on the edge of the world. To the north, isolated points of light that might have been taken for stars had they been at a higher elevation twinkled distantly along a dark finger of coastline. Hawkwood tried to recall his geography and decided it was Foulness. Further west, but not as far, another faint, bobbing speck indicated the Nore Light, moored at the mouth of the Thames estuary. Hawkwood followed the panorama around. As far as the horizon, the masthead and deck lanterns of ships scattered across the water shone like tiny fireflies. To the south, on the mainland, some lights glowed with a greater intensity. One cluster indicated a substantial number of dwellings. Hawkwood guessed it was probably Whitstable, six miles across the bay.
"There!" one of the men whispered. An arm pointed.
Hawkwood saw it at the same time. Half a second later and the sight would not have registered. It was a blue powder flash. Hawkwood recognized what it was. He'd employed the same signalling method himself in the field, using a barrel-less flintlock pistol. Charging the pan with powder and pulling the trigger produced the vivid blue light - highly visible, if you knew where to look.
Hawkwood concentrated his attention on the area where the flash had originated and caught sight of a blunted shape heading towards the shore. Out beyond it, he thought he could see another, larger, shadow but as there were no lights showing he couldn't be sure if it was a vessel or not. It could just as easily have been a trick of the eye or the movement of the waves, though there didn't appear to be much of a swell.
Swiftly, Abraham raised the lantern. Turning the open side towards the direction of the powder flash, he lit the candle. He was rewarded with another blue spark.
He extinguished the lantern quickly. "Let's go."
With the moon guiding their steps, the landlord led the way down the cliff. The path was steep and in parts crumbly underfoot. Three minutes later they were on the beach, the shingle crackling under their boot heels. The wash of the waves against the shore sounded like distant applause.
