by James McGee
Del's gaze shifted to the grey-bearded man. "Mr Pepper." His tone was immediately deferential.
"Del," Pepper said. There was no warmth in the response.
Not so benevolent, after all, Hawkwood thought, and wondered who Pepper was and whether the severed limb indicated that he'd served in the wars.
"Asa brought them," Del said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
A spark of interest showed in Pepper's blue eyes. He looked Hawkwood and Lasseur over. "And the tubs?"
"They're outside on the cart," Del responded nervously.
"Good, go and help Asa unload. You can store them in the usual place."
Del nodded. He still looked, Hawkwood thought, a little cowed. Studying Pepper, it wasn't hard to see why. The man exuded menace, even though he'd barely moved a muscle. With a look of relief and a sideways nod towards Hawkwood and Lasseur, Del departed, robes flapping.
"Where's that damned lantern, Thaddeus?"
The question came from behind Pepper's back.
The mare was standing, legs straddled, in the centre of the stall, flanks glistening with sweat. The distended belly told its own story. A stocky, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped black hair and a dark beard, shirt rolled back to his elbows, was gently stroking the mare's neck. He made no acknowledgement of Hawkwood or Lasseur's presence.
The man with Pepper stepped back into the stall and held the lantern high. The mare looked around. Her soft brown eyes, caught by the candle flame, gleamed brightly. She shifted restlessly, pawing the straw.
"She's close," the dark-haired man said. He stepped away quickly. "Let's give her some room."
Suddenly, as if on cue, the mare braced herself and whickered softly as a stream of fluid gushed from her rear opening and flowed down her hind legs, dampening the bed of straw beneath. Abdominal muscles quivering and with her waters still breaking, the mare sank heavily to her knees and rolled on to her side. The rush of fluid seemed endless. Eventually, after what must have been the release of several gallons, the flood ceased and the mare recovered her breath. Her belly continued to undulate.
"The foal's turning," the bearded man said.
The mare laid her head on the straw, as if gathering strength. Then she raised her head and whinnied softly. Her hindquarters roiled and a small bulge of white mucus ballooned from beneath her tail. As the men watched, the balloon increased in size, becoming elongated in the process. Within the expanding membrane a pair of dark, stick-like objects could be seen. Hawkwood realized he was looking at a pair of forelegs. The mare quietened, belly heaving. She pushed again. A triangular shape appeared, resting on top of the legs. It was the foal's head. The veined birth sac continued to stretch until, without warning, it ruptured and a small hoof poked into view. The mare paused and then gave another heavy push. Nothing happened. She tried again. There was still no movement.
"Come on, girl," the dark-bearded man said coaxingly.
The mare strained again. The foal's head and feet remained resolutely in place. The dark-bearded man cursed under his breath.
"Looks like she's stuck, Mr Morgan," the man holding the lantern said. "Should we give her a hand?"
Morgan stared down at the horse. His lips moved soundlessly. Hawkwood wondered if he was praying.
The mare's hind legs thrust weakly against the straw as she tried again to expel the foal. She gave a small snuffle of distress and laid her head down.
Morgan stepped into the stall. "Hold the light up."
As the lantern was raised, Morgan squatted down and positioned himself behind the mare's hindquarters. Moving the tail out of the way, he took hold of the foal's forelegs, just above the fetlock joints. "All right, girl, let's give it another try." Bracing himself, he pulled gently on the foal's legs.
As if sensing that assistance was at hand, the mare, head still lowered, pushed again. Morgan increased his grip and angled the foal's legs towards the mare's hocks. The mare strained once more. Morgan's arm muscles tightened.
Suddenly, the mare's flanks rippled. Morgan continued his steady pull. A pair of narrow shoulders eased into view. The mare heaved again and Morgan let go. Seconds later, the foal lay in a glistening wet heap.
Tenderly, Morgan cleared the membrane away from the foal's mouth and nostrils. The foal's head lifted and Morgan grunted with satisfaction. Taking care not to sever the umbilical cord, Morgan eased the foal around to where the mare could see it. He stood up and, by the time he'd moved out of the way, the foal had rolled upright. The mare got to her knees and then to her feet and nuzzled her newborn, licking away the rest of the birth sac.
Morgan wiped his hands with some dry straw and looked round. "Captains Hooper and Lasseur, I presume? Welcome, gentlemen; good to meet you. I'm Ezekiel Morgan."
Hawkwood guessed that Morgan and Pepper were of similar age. From Pepper's grey hair and the light dusting down the laughter lines either side of Morgan's jaw, he doubted either of them would see fifty again, though they did not have the deportment of old men. When they stood side by side, the difference in height was even more apparent. Morgan's head was level with Pepper's shoulders. In the lantern light, Morgan's eyes - dark, deep set, intelligent and watchful - were the brightest.
Morgan tossed the used straw aside. "My apologies for not giving your arrival my full attention. As you see, I'd a rather pressing matter to attend to." Morgan held out his hand. His grip was firm and still slightly damp. Hawkwood could feel the calluses. "You've met my associate, Cephus Pepper?" Morgan indicated the grey-haired man.
Pepper did not extend his hand but instead held Hawkwood's gaze for several seconds before giving a curt nod.
Morgan cocked his head. "You've had quite a journey. The Warden incident gave us some concern. We weren't expecting an affray."
"Neither were we," Hawkwood said. "How many men did you lose?"
"None, fortunately; though we had three wounded."
"We saw Isaac go down," Lasseur said.
Morgan nodded. "He was lucky. The ball took him in the shoulder, but there's no permanent damage."
"And the attackers?" Hawkwood said. "Were they after us or the contraband?"
Morgan threw Hawkwood a wry look. "It's all right, Captain. You can rest easy. It was the goods they were after, not you. Someone tipped them the nod. My people are making enquiries. When we find out who it was, they'll be dealt with." Morgan cocked his head on one side. "Gideon said it was a close-run thing. You only just made it into the boat."
Hawkwood shrugged. "Better to be damp than dead. What about the Revenue? Did they lose anyone? There was a lot of shooting. There looked to be some dragoons with them."
Morgan frowned. "Three Revenue men wounded and one dragoon dead. There was a horse killed, too, which was a bloody shame." He glanced over to the stall. "Good mounts are hard to come by."
So are good dragoons, Hawkwood thought. "You had reinforcements on the cliff."
"We always have reinforcements. It pays to be cautious, Jessie Flynn looked after you all right?"
Hawkwood nodded. "No complaints there. We could have done without the ambush on the way here, though. It nearly gave your man Higgs a heart attack."
A flicker of alarm moved across the bearded face and then understanding dawned. "Ah, you mean our phantom friars. I'll admit they're a mite crude, but they do the trick. Gave you a bit of a fright, did they?"
"Only the smell of them."
"That'll be our Del. Fragrant, ain't he?"
"Not the paint, then," Hawkwood said.
The corner of Morgan's mouth lifted. "No. The paint's made with putrefied horse piss. It's what makes it glow. But it doesn't hold the smell. That was all Del. It's why we like to keep him out in the fresh air, away from the house."
"You make paint from horse piss?" Lasseur said.
Another wry smile formed between the bearded lips. "Not personally. I employ people for that. Don't ask me how they do it. Some kind of fancy chymical process." Morgan fell silent and then said, "I u
nderstand the two of you caused quite a rumpus before you left."
Lasseur's head came up.
He knows about Seth Tyler was the thought that speared its way into Hawkwood's brain. Lasseur, he knew, would be thinking the same thing, though the privateer's face betrayed no outward emotion.
How had the man found out? Had Tyler told him?
And then he heard Morgan say, "Lucky we got you out before they transferred you," and realized that Morgan was referring to the events aboard Rapacious.
Hawkwood let out a slow, inaudible breath. As he did so he wondered how Morgan knew what had occurred on the hulk. The man obviously had a good intelligence system in place.
"You shouldn't believe all you hear," Lasseur said, his expression neutral.
Morgan's head lifted. "Oh, I don't, Captain, but you really mustn't underestimate yourself." He looked at Hawkwood. "I've a mind to offer you the same advice, Captain Hooper, but, if you'll forgive the impertinence, modesty's not a trait I'd associate with you Americans, judging by the ones I've come across."
"Met many of us, have you?" Hawkwood asked.
"There've been a few. And I have to say I've always found them refreshingly honest in the promotion of their own abilities. Not sure if it's self-confidence or sheer bloody arrogance, but it's a damned powerful quality either way. Won you your revolution and forged a damned country. Can't argue with that."
"We just don't like anyone else telling us what to do," Hawkwood said.
Morgan's dark eyes flashed. "Ha! Did you hear that, Cephus? We'll make a free trader out of him yet!"
Pepper said nothing. It was becoming clear that Morgan's lieutenant was a man of few words.
"How's our new arrival doing, Thaddeus?" Morgan addressed his groom, who was still watching over the mare and her foal, seemingly oblivious to the exchange going on behind his back.
"Very nicely, Mr Morgan. Afterbirth's on its way."
"Good. Keep your eye on her." Morgan turned back.
"Why are we here?" Hawkwood asked.
The question seemed to catch Morgan off guard. Pepper's eyes narrowed.
Morgan showed his teeth again. "By God, there's no beating about the bush with you, Captain Hooper, is there? No matter, I like a straight talker. You're here because I've a proposition for you."
Lasseur frowned. "What sort of proposition?"
"If all goes well, a damned profitable one."
"What about our passage to France?" Hawkwood asked.
"Don't worry, you'll both be delivered safe and sound as promised, only with a little extra something to remember us by."
"And what might that be?"
Morgan looked as if he was still mildly amused by Hawkwood's directness. "All in good time, Captain." He drew a watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted the dial. "It's too late to go into details now. I still have work to do here and I'm sure you've both had a long day. Why don't I let you get some rest and we can talk again in the morning? I'll explain everything then; saves me having to do it twice. How does that sit with you?"
Do we have a choice in the matter? Hawkwood thought and wondered what Morgan had meant by the comment about doing it twice.
Before either of them had a chance to reply, Morgan gave a satisfied nod. "Then it's settled. Cephus'll show you to your cell. It's all right, Captain," Morgan added, chuckling at Lasseur's expression of alarm. "Just my little jest. You're quite safe. You'll find no gaolers here." Morgan turned away and then paused, as if he'd just remembered something. "I'd advise you, however, while you're at liberty to move around, it'd be best if you didn't stray too far. As you saw earlier, I do have men patrolling the outer walls and, having gone to all the trouble of getting you this far, it'd be a damned shame if you wandered off and one of my lads put a ball through your brain because he thought you were trespassing."
Morgan smiled at Lasseur's expression, though his eyes remained dark. "Stranger things have happened, Captain. Trust me."
They emerged from the stables to find the cart had gone. Hawkwood assumed it meant Asa Higgs and Del were away unloading the liquor tubs; either that or the gravedigger was already making his return to the coast while Del was back frolicking in the woods with his equally odorous pal, Billy.
A taciturn Pepper, lantern in hand, led the way across the yard and around a series of corners, emerging eventually into a cloistered quadrangle. The cloisters were clearly very old, a remnant of the original priory. Beneath the arches, the flagstones, worn smooth over the centuries, reflected the moonlight like the dark surface of a pond. It wasn't hard to imagine black-robed friars stalking the shaded walkway, wrapped in silent contemplation and wearing away the stones with each pious footstep.
Pepper did not dawdle but took them through a stone archway in the corner of the building. Entering a dark corridor, they arrived at a low wooden door. When Pepper pushed the door open and stood back, Morgan's little joke was explained.
The cell, for that had undoubtedly been the room's former role, was plainly furnished with just enough room for two narrow cots, a chair and a small table on which stood a candle-holder containing a stub of wax and tapers. Opposite the door, high in the stone wall, a tiny window, barely worthy of the name, admitted a thin shaft of moonlight. The only thing missing was a crucifix on the wall.
Pepper used one of the tapers to transfer a flame from the lantern to the candle stub. "Dormitory's full, so you're in here. You'll be comfortable enough. Mind what you were told. Stay close to the house. It's for your own safety. There's a washroom and privy down the passage."
Without waiting for a response, Pepper backed out and closed the door behind him. Hawkwood and Lasseur stood in silence. The thickness of the door prevented them from hearing whether Pepper had retraced his path or if he was still outside with his ear pressed against the wood.
Hawkwood tried the handle. Although there had been no sound of a key turning he'd half expected the door to be locked, but it opened without opposition. The passage outside was dark, empty and silent.
"So," Lasseur said, testing the cot and wincing at the lack of spring in the thin palliasse. "The adventure continues. What do you think of our Monsieur Morgan?"
"I think anyone who surrounds himself with a cordon of armed men deserves to be taken seriously."
Lasseur smiled. Candlelight played across his aristocratic face. "And Pepper?"
"Pepper's dangerous," Hawkwood said, without hesitation.
Lasseur considered that for a moment. "This proposition Morgan talked about; what do you think he meant?"
"It won't be something for nothing," Hawkwood said. "It never is."
Lasseur looked around the room. "So, we sleep on it."
Hawkwood stretched out on the second cot and laced his hands behind his head.
"For now," he said.
Dawn.
Hawkwood pushed aside his blanket, sat up and pulled on his boots. He looked over at Lasseur's cot. The Frenchman
gave no sign that he was awake. His face was turned to the wall.
Picking up his coat, Hawkwood let himself out of the cell and made his way to the privy, where he took a piss before sluicing his face with cold water in one of the large stone washroom sinks. His fingertips brushed stubble. He ran a hand along his jaw and wondered idly about growing a beard. Then he pictured the look on Maddie Teague's face when he turned up at her door sporting whiskers. Not such a good idea after all, he decided.
He shrugged on the jacket. Time to take a walk.
Retracing his path to the cloisters, Hawkwood left the shelter of the arches, cut away from the main buildings and headed towards open ground. Jacket collar turned up, hands in pockets, he walked in plain sight. Mindful of the maxim that it was unwise to send a terrier down a rat hole without there being at least one viable way out, Hawkwood knew his first task was to gauge the layout of the Haunt and the efficiency of its outer defences.
Hawkwood had no watch. He guessed it was a couple of hours past sunrise. The morning had
all the makings of another fine day. A watery sun had burned away most of the early haze. Misty vapours still hung low above the dew-soaked grass. Wood pigeons fluttered and cooed in the nearby woods while, beyond the trees, from meadows further down the hill, the sound of lowing cattle rose plaintively in the still air. In such a peaceful setting, it wasn't hard to see why a religious order had found the site so appealing. The elevation and isolation would certainly have given the holy fathers the illusion they were closer to God.
Hawkwood doubted the current landowner harboured the same spiritual sentiment. Ezekiel Morgan's appreciation of the location would be governed purely by logistics. It would have taken a blind man not to see the strategic advantage of occupying a position with such commanding views over the surrounding countryside. Even allowing for the encroaching woodland, the chances of a substantial force scaling the Haunt unseen were, Hawkwood judged, exceedingly remote.
He looked back over his shoulder. Daylight revealed the extent of Ezekiel Morgan's domain. Jess Flynn's smallholding could probably have fitted into the Haunt several times over. If the size of the estate was anything to go by, the profits from running contraband were manifestly greater than anything Hawkwood could have envisaged. Small wonder the man put so much effort into protecting his privacy.
In addition to the house and the stable block, Hawkwood could see a number of outhouses and a large barn. There were several paddocks, with a handful of horses in each. The remains of the original priory buildings were easily identifiable by their age and architecture. The walls were all that were left of the chapel, the roof having long since collapsed, leaving the nave exposed to the elements. The tall windows, which would once have been monuments to the art of stained glass, looked like sightless eye sockets in a line of grey skulls. Dark-fleeced sheep grazed among the stones.
