by James McGee
"Come on, you," she said.
She looked beyond the dog and her eyes followed Lasseur as he disappeared around the back of the barn.
Hawkwood was checking his dressings when Lasseur reappeared.
Lasseur grinned and tossed him the soap.
Hawkwood stared at him.
"She definitely likes me," Lasseur said.
"I could pass away now and die a happy man," Lasseur announced contentedly.
Both men, blankets around their waists, shirts, undergarments and breeches drying in the sun, were seated on the bank, ankles submerged in the cool water.
Lasseur reached over into his jacket and with an exhalation of pleasure drew out his last cheroot. "I was saving this for a special occasion. I'd say cleaning the stench of the hulk from my clothes qualifies. What do you think?"
"I think you should cover yourself up," Hawkwood said. "Your blanket's slipping."
Lasseur adjusted the offending item. "I feel as if I'm wearing one of those damned togas." Realizing he had no means of lighting the cheroot, he stuck it between his lips and sucked on it pensively. "I wonder how her husband died. The war, perhaps?" He looked back towards the house, but the barn was blocking the view.
"If that was the case," Hawkwood said, "I'd have thought the last people she'd want around the place would be enemy prisoners of war."
Lasseur took the cheroot out of his mouth. "You're right. I am an idiot." He looked around at the barn behind them and the other buildings.
"You could always ask her," Hawkwood said. "Seeing as she likes you so much."
"I might have exaggerated slightly on that score," Lasseur said. He stuck the cheroot back in his mouth, sucked on it for several seconds before removing it and rolling it contemplatively between his fingers. "I was thinking, this farm is not large. It's smaller than the one my wife was brought up on. Nevertheless, a place like this takes work. It cannot be an easy life for a woman alone."
It never was, Hawkwood thought, though, from what he'd seen, things could have been a lot worse. She could have been alone in the city, for one thing. Here, it appeared she had the essentials to hand, a roof over her head and, with the animals and the produce in the garden, a means of feeding herself that didn't involve stealing or selling her body on the nearest street corner, wherever that was.
There had been no sign of the man called Thomas. Hawkwood wondered about that.
In the time they had been on the farm, she had barely spoken to them, even when delivering their meals, which she carried to the barn in a basket. He considered her attitude. From the beginning, it had not been exactly welcoming. She'd treated their arrival as an imposition. He had the impression that would have been the case even if she'd taken the two of them for Englishmen. The others who had helped them - the shepherd, the innkeeper, the sea captain and the gravedigger - had been considerably less reticent; probably because all of them earned a living from operating outside the law and had, if not a hatred for authority, then certainly ambivalence towards it. As the seaman, Gideon, had said, they were just another unlawful cargo.
But why would a woman involve herself in the business of helping repatriate enemies of her country? She had sounded a reluctant hoarder of contraband, too, judging by her exchange with the gravedigger.
He wondered who Morgan was. Mention of the tubs implied he was part of the smuggling fraternity, but of what rank? Was he someone of importance or merely the next man down the line?
Either way, Ludd's conviction that free traders were aiding escaped prisoners had been proved correct, but even Ludd couldn't have envisaged the degree of planning that must be involved. There were obviously keen brains working behind the scenes. But whose?
Hawkwood reached for his shirt and breeches. They were already dry. He put them on. Lasseur followed suit.
"I wonder what happens next," Lasseur said as he pulled on his boots. "How long are we likely to be here, do you think?"
"It might be for some time. The British have the Sleeve sewn up pretty tight with their blockade." The nickname had come easily to him though Hawkwood had never understood why the French name for the Channel had come from an article of clothing.
"But the smugglers come and go," Lasseur pointed out.
"The penalty for helping escapers is probably greater,"
Hawkwood said. "It's close to treason. They wouldn't want to risk it unless they were sure."
Hawkwood knew that a physically fit seaman caught during the seizure of a smuggling vessel faced impressment into the navy. The penalty for helping prisoners to escape was transportation, possibly for life. No smuggler would risk a dash across the Channel with escaped prisoners in tow unless he was confident of success.
Lasseur nodded glumly.
"Don't look so downhearted," Hawkwood said. "It's only been a couple of days and anywhere's better than that stinking ship."
Lasseur sucked on his cheroot. Then he clapped Hawkwood on the shoulder. "You're right, my friend. We have the fresh air, the sky above our heads and moderately clean shirts on our backs. If I was on the deck of my ship, life would almost be perfect."
Hawkwood closed his eyes and let the afternoon sun play across his face.
"I dreamt about Lucien," Lasseur said.
Hawkwood opened his eyes.
He'd known there was something preying on Lasseur's mind. The Frenchman had been restless all night. Hawkwood knew that because his own sleep had been fitful and, in the silence of the barn, in the gaps between waking and sleeping he had listened to Lasseur toss and turn through most of the early hours.
"He saw his father die," Lasseur said. "It was why he was on his own. He was a cabin boy on his father's fishing boat. They were surprised by an English cutter. They lowered sail, but for some reason the cutter captain decided to have some sport. He turned his guns on them and blew them out of the water. Lucien's father was killed by a flying splinter. One crew member went down with the boat, the other man was taken, but they got separated. I suspect he was transferred to a different prison ship." Lasseur fell silent and then said, "If we hadn't interfered, he'd still be alive."
"As a plaything for Matisse and his crew," Hawkwood said. "They'd have used him and discarded him when the next pretty boy came along."
"He didn't deserve to die."
"No, he didn't. But we didn't kill him."
Lasseur sighed. "You reckon that absolves us of responsibility? I think not. You know, I once heard an old proverb that says the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. I'm not sure I understood what that meant, until now." He stared at Hawkwood, dampness misting the corner of his eye. "I miss my son, Matthew. I want to go home and hold him close and tell him that I love him. This bloody war ..."
"Wars don't start by themselves," Hawkwood said. "You want to blame anyone, blame the bastard politicians."
"And to whom do they answer? God? I'm not sure He even exists any more." With a gesture of frustration, Lasseur got to his feet and tucked the cheroot back in his pocket. "Enough of this; I need to clear my mind. I'm going for a walk. And before you say anything, don't worry; I'm not going to run away. I won't go beyond the woods. I'll stick to the farm." He patted Hawkwood on the shoulder. "You're a good friend, Matthew Hooper. I'm glad we're together."
Hawkwood said nothing. He watched Lasseur walk away, head down. As a father, it was inevitable that Lasseur should have been hit harder by the boy's murder. Hawkwood thought about his own reaction to Lucien Ballard's death. He'd felt anger but, unlike Lasseur, he'd felt no guilt. He wondered what that said about him. Hawkwood had never wanted the responsibility of fatherhood. Was that something he could live with? Yes, it was. He wondered why he was even asking himself the question, especially when he had more pressing matters on his mind; like how to get a message to Bow Street, for one.
But what information did he have for James Read anyway? Ludd would have been told about the escape by now. He'd know Hawkwood was on the run. Hawkwood's own store of knowledge didn't extend much beyond that. He sti
ll needed to find out who was behind the escape organization. Until he had that information, all he could do was maintain his deception and see where the road led him. With luck and application, he'd be able to pick up information further down the line.
As he walked, Lasseur could see that more than a few areas of the farm were in need of repair. There were gaps in the walls of the barn. A corner of the cow stall was falling down. There were gate-posts that needed replacing, and the meadow grass close to the house and a number of trees at the sides and rear needed chopping back. They were small jobs, but Lasseur knew from his wife's parents' farm that, if small jobs were not tackled, they grew into bigger jobs. It was the same on board ship.
The woman had told them that there was a man who helped out, but so far there had been no sign of him. Lasseur glanced over towards the house and caught sight of the stack of logs by the back door, and next to it the axe stuck blade-deep in a chopping block with a birch broom propped up against it. Weren't witches supposed to ride on broomsticks? Lasseur grinned to himself.
Then he saw the dog.
He stopped, uncertain. The animal was behaving strangely; padding to and fro outside the door, breaking off to scratch on the wood, as if it wanted to be let in. There was no sign of the woman. The dog continued its pawing. Lasseur could hear it whining. He drew closer.
The dog saw him coming. He could tell it was unsure, as if it didn't recognize him. He waited for the bark, but it didn't come. Instead, the dog returned to the door and scratched again. Then it turned and came slowly towards Lasseur, head low. It looked as if it couldn't decide whether to wag its tail or not.
"Here, Rab," Lasseur said softly, crouching down and ruffling the dog's ears. "What's the matter, boy?"
He realized he was addressing the dog in French. He switched to English. "Good boy."
The dog squirmed away from him and headed back towards the door.
At first Lasseur thought it was the dog whining, but the sounds were coming from inside the house. Curious, he walked forward. The closer he got to the door, the more it sounded as though someone was in distress. The dog looked back at him and made a snuffling noise. It obviously wanted to be let in.
Lasseur bent and looked through the window into the kitchen. A large table dominated the centre of the room. The base of the woman's spine was pressed against it. Her skirt hem was raised high upon her bare hips. A lank-haired man was leaning forward over her, his legs between her parted thighs. Lasseur could not see his face and his back obstructed Lasseur's view of the woman's features. The man was reaching down between his legs. Lasseur couldn't tell if he was fumbling with his own clothes or the woman's. He saw a hand reach out and clasp the man's shoulder.
Lasseur stepped back hurriedly, fearful that they might have sensed his shadow at the glass. The sounds he'd taken for whimpers from someone under duress had in fact been cries of passion. He looked down at the dog, which was still watching him expectantly, and smiled ruefully. "Sorry, my friend, but I'm not sure your mistress would appreciate the interruption."
Lasseur tried to cast his mind back. Had the dog barked earlier? He couldn't remember. More than likely, he'd been too busy rinsing the grime of the hulk out of his ears.
The woman's lover was probably the man she'd mentioned earlier. He tried to quell the irrational feeling of envy that rose in his chest.
He was turning away from the house when the sound of a blow stopped him in his tracks. This time, there could be no mistake. The utterance that accompanied it was guttural and unmistakably male while the responding cry came from a woman in distress, not the throes of ecstasy.
Lasseur returned quickly to the window and peered into the room. The positions of the two figures had hardly altered. The woman's back was still arched. The man had not moved from between her legs. But this time Lasseur could see it all. The man's left hand was clamped over her mouth, while his right fumbled with the front flap of his breeches. Her hand was still on his shoulder but as Lasseur could now see, she was not trying to pull the man to her but to thrust him away. As he took in the scene, the woman's head turned towards him and Lasseur found himself staring into her face. The woman's eyes widened. Lasseur saw that her blouse was ripped, enough that her left breast was almost fully exposed. He saw then the track of a tear on her cheek.
The dog was already thrusting past him as Lasseur slammed the door back against its hinges.
The man turned, his hand poised over his half-unbuttoned crotch flap. Shock flooded his face. There was no scar. It was not the man Jess had described to them as her helper.
The dog leapt forward with a growl. For its age, it showed unexpected agility.
Instinctively, the man lashed out with his foot. There was a shrill yelp as his boot made contact with the dog's ribs. The woman cried out as Lasseur sprang forward and scythed the back of his hand against the man's jaw. There was a satisfying sound of knuckles striking flesh and bone. The man grunted and jerked away, but not before Lasseur had caught the whiff of alcohol on his breath. Following through, Lasseur took hold of an arm and a fistful of hair. As he hurled the man across the room, the woman pushed herself away from the table and began rearranging her dress. The dog was barking furiously at the man, who twisted free and staggered backwards through the open door. Lasseur, eyes dark with anger, stormed after him. The man dabbed a hand to his lip. It came away stained crimson. He stared at the blood, then at Lasseur and finally at the woman. "You bitch! You wanted it! Don't tell me you didn't!"
Clutching the torn half of her blouse to her body, she stood in the doorway, her face burning, her breasts rising and falling. "Not with you, Seth! Never with you. Hell would freeze over before that."
The man's gaze moved to Lasseur, then flickered sideways.
Lasseur's heart turned over when he saw what had caught the man's attention.
They both moved at the same time, but Lasseur knew he wasn't going to make it, he was too far away. The woman's attacker jerked the axe out of the chopping block. His mouth split in a crooked grin. "First I'm going to deal with you; then I'll take care of her."
Lasseur looked for a weapon. He grabbed a log and held it before him like a club. It seemed spectacularly inadequate.
There was a bark. The dog, its courage restored, had made a lumbering dash for the open door. The woman grabbed for the dog's neck and missed. Her blouse slipped, revealing her nakedness once more. "Rab, no!"
The man swung the axe. The dog jinked aside as the blade missed its skull by inches. It continued to bark, growing more excited.
Lasseur moved forward, brandishing the log.
The axe man sneered, revealing stained and uneven teeth. His hair hung in greasy fronds around his pockmarked face. He wasn't big, about Lasseur's height, but his frame was solid and muscular. "That the best you can do?" He curved the axe towards Lasseur's skull. Lasseur swung the log in an attempt to parry the blow. The axe blade thudded into the wood, wrenching it out of Lasseur's hand.
Lasseur heard the woman cry out, "No, Seth!" as the attacker moved in, axe held high.
And a tall dark shape detached itself from the corner of the wall.
"Hey!"
The axe man turned.
Hawkwood whipped the broom through the air.
The scream that erupted from the axe man's throat as the broom head raked across his face was so intense it reduced even the dog to silence. Lasseur could only guess at the number of birch twigs that formed the broom head, but the end of each one had flayed the attacker's skin like a sharpened claw. Dropping the blade, the axe wielder stumbled away and lifted his hands to his ruined flesh. Blood oozed from between his fingers.
Lasseur picked up the axe. His unshaven face was a savage mask. Before Hawkwood could stop him, he ran forward and kicked the attacker to the ground. The man raised his arms to protect himself. His face looked as if it had been lashed with a scourge.
"Not so brave now, are you?" Lasseur grated. "Lache/"
Through the bloody runnel
s, he saw the man's expression change. Instantly, Lasseur knew his accent had betrayed him. He raised the axe. The man cringed.
A hand fell across his arm. Lasseur heard the woman say, "Don't!"
Lasseur shook his head. "He forced himself on you. Don't you want him punished?"
"Not like that." She looked down at her attacker. Her eyes flashed. "But if you show your face here again, Seth, I'll take the gun to you. I swear it."
Lasseur glared down at the blood-streaked face.
"If you kill him, Paul," Hawkwood said, his hand sliding from Lasseur's arm to the axe handle, "and they catch us, they'll hang us for certain."
"He needs to know that I will kill him if he comes near her again."
"He knows," Hawkwood said. "Believe me, he knows."
Slowly, Lasseur relinquished his hold, allowing Hawkwood to take possession of the axe.
"Go home, Seth," the woman said. Her face was still highlighted with colour. "Go now, while you still can."
Lasseur backed away, his eyes afire, and the man rose unsteadily to his feet. With a final glare of defiance he turned and stumbled towards the woods. Only when he had been swallowed by the trees did Hawkwood place the axe back in the chopping block.
Lasseur picked up the broom and leant it against the wall. "A very under-rated weapon, the broom; especially in the hands of an expert." He threw Hawkwood a look before turning to the woman. "Are you hurt, madame?"
Still staring towards the trees, she shook her head and then shivered. "I am unharmed."
"But you're cold. Here, take my coat."
Lasseur removed his jacket. She did not protest as he placed it over her shoulders. Suddenly, she looked around, her face anxious. "Rab?"
"He's here," Lasseur said as the dog loped towards her, tail wagging.
She ruffled the dog's hair, her face softening with relief.
"Come," Lasseur said gently.
There was only a slight pause, then, gathering the jacket about her and holding the torn halves of her blouse to her breast, she nodded and turned towards the house.
Hawkwood and Lasseur fell into step beside her. The dog followed close behind. When they reached the threshold, she paused and gave a small gasp, as if seeing the disorder for the first time. The floor, Hawkwood saw over her shoulder, was in disarray and littered with dirt and debris; shards of earthenware lay strewn among a scattering of twigs and leaves that had been crushed underfoot, presumably during the assault. More plants and herbs hung from the beams. The room was more like an apothecary's herbarium than a kitchen.
