Rapscallion

by James McGee

  Hawkwood took a deep breath. The air was fresh and scented with grass and pollen and a world away from the pervading stench of London's crowded streets. The smell of the hulk seemed a distant memory.

  The nine-foot perimeter wall looked, at first sight, to be intact, but as he continued walking, Hawkwood noticed shading in the stonework where repairs had been undertaken. Further on, he saw where parts of the wall had fallen down. Set in the breaches were lengths of palisade. The palisades didn't look that strong. It was clear they were intended purely as a holding measure, for at the base of each were assorted tools, buckets, a large pile of loose stones, and sacks of sand and lime; the main ingredients for making mortar.

  Stretches of the wall disappeared behind trees, but Hawkwood was confident they would be undamaged or, if they had fallen into disrepair, stop-gapped and awaiting full restoration. He'd seen enough to be certain that Morgan, like a good general, would make sure his perimeter was protected above all else. Hawkwood was reminded of the fortified villages he'd seen in Spain, another place where churches dominated the high ground.

  The appearance of other early risers came as no great surprise. The presence of livestock had guaranteed some kind of on-site work force. A couple of figures were making their way between one of the barns and the stable block. It hadn't been hard to spot Morgan's pickets either, as they patrolled the outer edges of the grounds. They were some distance away, but close enough for him to see the cudgels in their hands and the pistols in their belts. They'd issued no challenge. Hawkwood assumed it was because he was in plain sight and therefore had not been perceived as a threat. Lifting a hand in feigned recognition, he proceeded on his circuit without interruption. The lack of interest in his presence suggested the pickets weren't as conscientious as their employer supposed, which in turn meant that the Haunt wasn't quite as watertight as Morgan thought it was. It was possible that the men had grown lax after a night's patrol, but Hawkwood filed the information away for future reference.

  Ahead of him, the walls of an ancient outbuilding rose out of the sheep-cropped grass. Empty doorways gaped like open jaws. Weeds sprouted around the bases of the moss-covered stones. He was about to pass by the ruin when a dark, four- legged shape appeared through one of the gaps in the wall. When it saw Hawkwood it stopped dead.

  Hawkwood froze.

  The dog was huge, with a brindle coat. Powerful shoulders supported a head that was at least three feet off the ground. When the second dog, which was just as large, padded round the corner of the wall to his right, Hawkwood's stomach turned over. This one had a fawn pelt and a black face and muzzle.

  The brindle-coated dog growled. It was possibly one of the most chilling sounds Hawkwood had ever heard. It came from deep within the animal's throat and it felt as if the air was vibrating.

  The dogs took a pace forward. Their paws made no noise on the still damp grass.

  Behind them, two more shapes materialized into view. One tall and grey-bearded, the other short and bull-necked and carrying a stout blackthorn walking stick.

  "Captain Hooper!" Ezekiel Morgan called cheerily. "Good morning to you. You're out and about early. I trust the accommodation is to your satisfaction?"

  Hawkwood realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it out slowly. He made a point not to look at the dogs, which wasn't easy, given the way they were eyeing him and the size of their teeth.

  "New billet, strange bed. It takes a while to settle. Thought I'd get some fresh air. You know how it is."

  He hadn't had to lie. His sleep had been intermittent for the reasons he had given. Lasseur's heavy breathing hadn't helped much either.

  Morgan stretched out his arms and inhaled a lungful of air. "A morning constitutional? Splendid idea! Who could blame you on a day like this? Makes a man glad to be alive. Captain Lasseur's not with you?"

  Hawkwood wondered if the man standing at Morgan's shoulder was glad to be alive. It was difficult to tell. Cephus Pepper's face was a model of taciturnity.

  "Still in his pit. How's the new arrival?"

  Morgan lowered his arms and tapped the stick against the side of his boot. "The foal? He's in fine fettle. The mare's a good mother. They'll do very nicely, I think."

  Morgan was making no attempt to call the dogs to heel. Hawkwood knew the man was confirming who was in charge: Morgan's house, Morgan's rules.

  "Fine-looking animals," Hawkwood said, conscious that it was probably wise to remain still and not make any sudden moves.

  "Thor and Odin," Morgan said. "Thor's the brindle." He regarded the dogs with affection. "It was the Phoenicians who brought mastiffs to Europe. Did you know that?"

  At the mention of their names, the dogs' ears pricked up. They switched their gaze to Morgan, as if awaiting instructions. It was the first time they'd taken their eyes off Hawkwood.

  "Can't say I've given it a lot of thought," Hawkwood said.

  "They were here before Julius Caesar," Morgan went on, unconcerned by Hawkwood's less than ecstatic response. "The Romans took them home and trained them to fight in the arenas. They used to match them against bears. Used them in battle, too. They say there was a mastiff on the first ship to make landfall in the New World. Interesting it was the Phoenicians, though, don't you think? They were traders too, like me. Could be I've inherited some of their blood along the way. That'd be something, eh?"

  Hawkwood looked at the dogs. The mastiffs gazed back at him, unflinching, eyes bright, tongues hanging from their impressive jaws.

  Morgan smiled. "Would you care to walk with us, Captain? Cephus and I often take a stroll around the grounds at this time. It gives us a chance to exercise the dogs and put the world to rights."

  Hawkwood nodded and wondered briefly if Morgan had extended the invitation to prevent him wandering around on his own.

  Morgan snapped his fingers and, with a wave of his arm, sent the dogs running effortlessly ahead, noses pressed to the ground. Hawkwood fell into step alongside him. Pepper walked several paces ahead, as if on point.

  "We were told you control all the Trade along the coast," Hawkwood said. He thought he saw the back of Pepper's head twitch.

  Morgan did not alter his stride but kept walking, hands behind him, holding the stick horizontally across the base of his spine. "Were you now?"

  "Is it true?"

  Morgan smiled. "Take a look around, Captain. What do you think?"

  "I think that I'm in the wrong business."

  Morgan maintained his smile. "Then I'd say you've just answered your own question. It's all a matter of supply and demand. If the bloody government wasn't so determined to tax us all to within an inch of our lives, do you think we'd be having this conversation? "Governments use taxes to pay for their wars," Hawkwood said. "It's the only way they can raise the money. Doesn't make any difference if you're English, French or American, you have to pay to make your country safe. It's why taxes were invented in the first place."

  Morgan shook his head. "It's not the principle I object to, it's the percentage and the fact they only tax the pleasures, never the pain. Damn it, they even tax playing cards! Can you believe that? That's almost as stupid as the tax on bloody windows! A man works hard in the fields all day; it strikes me he's a right to enjoy a pipe, a hand of whist and a swig of brandy without having to pay the bloody exchequer over the odds for the privilege. The way I see it, if I can make his life a bit more bearable, then that's no crime. And if it means I can shove two fingers up to the government at the same time, that's all right, too."

  Morgan kicked aside a stone. "Don't get me wrong, Captain. I'm not running a charity here. You said earlier that you thought you were in the wrong business. Well, that's exactly what this is - a business. I saw an opportunity to invest and I seized it. I've been in it a long time now, and the returns have been excel lent - like most of my other enterprises, I'm happy to say."

  "You must have substantial outlays," Hawkwood said.

  Without breaking stride, Morgan shrugged. "Wages,
transport and distribution, warehousing; no different to any other business. I've got a few more palms to grease, that's all."

  More than a few, Hawkwood thought. He turned and found Morgan was giving him a quizzical look.

  "What were you expecting, Captain? This is the nineteenth century; or had you forgotten? If you thought the Trade was made up of a couple of fishermen and a rowboat, you can think again. Those days are long gone. Oh, I'll not deny that still goes on, but it's not where the big money comes from. Buy in bulk and make sure you've got a good accountant - that's where the profit lies."

  "You mean like the other night at. . ." Hawkwood feigned memory loss ". . . where was it?"

  "Warden." Morgan called out to Pepper: "How many tubs was that, Cephus?"

  "Twenty-five," Pepper said, without looking back. "Plus six bales of tobacco."

  Morgan nodded. "Twenty-five tubs. That's not bulk, Captain Hooper. That's small change. I've had runs where we needed eighty ponies to transport the goods. A week ago I had two hundred and fifty men on a job; fifty to carry the goods ashore, the rest to guard the flanks."

  "You're not telling me you've got that many men here?" Hawkwood nodded towards the house and outbuildings and the cloisters, where he and Lasseur had spent the night.

  Morgan shook his head. "I hire in. If there's one thing I'm not short of, it's manpower. And I pay well. A labouring man'll earn a shilling a day, if he's lucky. I pay tub carriers four times that for one night's work. I pay my scouts ten times that amount. They know I'll look after them. I've a surgeon on call in case of mishap and, if the worst happens, I make sure their families are taken care of. I've got a firm of lawyers who'll arrange bail if they're picked up and brought before a magistrate. No one serves gaol time working for me, Captain. You can take that as gospel."

  "Accountants, surgeons and lawyers?" Hawkwood said. "I'm impressed."

  "So you should be." Morgan stopped walking, leant on his stick, and gazed towards the house and the priory ruins, as if admiring their worth for the first time.

  "Well, you can't argue with the evidence, I'll grant you that," Hawkwood said, following Morgan's stare. "It's a fine place."

  Morgan turned and gave a mock bow. "Why, thank you, Captain. Though, I'm afraid I can't claim all the credit. Most of the hard work was done for me. I did think about having all the ruins pulled down and clearing the rest of the land, but the local vicar objected. Said I'd be consigned to everlasting damnation if I removed a single stone. Mind you, he was in his cups at the time, courtesy of a keg of my best brandy, so he might not have meant it."

  "But you decided not to risk it, just in case?" Hawkwood said.

  "It'd be a foolish man who tried to second guess the Almighty, Captain Hooper."

  "Not to mention the clergy," Hawkwood said.

  "Indeed. Especially Reverend Starkweather. His Sunday sermons are particularly well attended." Morgan paused and then grinned. "Not that he should complain, considering I am at least carrying on the St Anselm tradition."

  "How's that?"

  "I'm still taking in pilgrims."

  "Pilgrims?"

  "They used to shelter here on their way to Canterbury, until King Henry had the monks all thrown out. Now we provide sanctuary for the likes of you. Curious how things come to pass, isn't it?"

  "There've been other prisoners brought here?"

  Morgan smiled. "Only those that have shown promise."

  "Were they offered a proposition as well?"

  Hawkwood sensed Pepper, who had halted up ahead, stiffen. Morgan's smile did not falter, though his laughter lines may have shortened a little. Hawkwood saw that the dogs had paused too. The brindle ran across to the grass to sniff energetically at its companion's rear end.

  "How did you know about the fight on the ship?" Hawkwood asked.

  "I have my sources."

  "The guards?"

  "They're useful for looking the other way or passing messages, but any number of people are involved in maintaining the ships, and I can afford to employ a wide net - ashore and on the water. Money talks."

  At that moment a hand bell rang somewhere in the cloisters.

  The dogs' heads swivelled.

  Matins? Hawkwood thought wildly. Don't tell me Morgan holds prayers as well.

  "Ah," Morgan said cheerfully, resting the walking stick across his right shoulder. "Time we were heading back." He gave a whistle that sent the dogs running towards him, then started walking towards the house. "We'll leave you to rouse Captain Lasseur. You can tell him breakfast will be provided in the refectory. It'll be our first chance to introduce you to the others."

  "Others?" Hawkwood said.

  Morgan smiled. "Your fellow pilgrims."

  CHAPTER 16

  "And this is Lieutenant Gilles Denard," Rousseau said, his eyes blinking earnestly behind a pair of wire-framed spectacles.

  Denard, a pleasant-looking, balding man in his late thirties, extended his hand across the table. "An honour, Captain."

  "And for me," Lasseur said. "Allow me to present Captain Matthew Hooper, one of our American allies. His French is excellent, by the way."

  Denard shook Hawkwood's hand. "Welcome, Captain. I've a great liking for your country. I've sailed into Boston a number of times. Do you know the city? It has some splendid inns. A particular favourite of mine was on Washington Street. The Lion, run by a Colonel Doty, I think his name was. Are you familiar with it?"

  "I think you'll find that was the Lamb," Hawkwood said. "The Lion was further north."

  Denard frowned and then laughed. "Why, I do believe you're right! Well, it's been a while since my last visit."

  "Gilles served with Surcouf," Rousseau said.

  "When were you taken?" Lasseur asked.

  Denard pursed his lips. "June '08. I was in Cadiz, then transferred to the Prudent in Portsmouth for a year before I wound up on the Poseidon. That's where I met Rousseau, here."

  With the exception of the Poseidon, the names of the ships meant nothing to Hawkwood. He knew of the Poseidon because it was another Chatham hulk and one of several Medway-moored ships mentioned by Ludd during his briefing at Bow Street.

  They were in the refectory which was situated on the opposite side of the cloister garth from the wing housing Hawkwood and Lasseur's cell. It was long and rectangular in shape, with a low, black-beamed ceiling. Two heavy oaken tables - one long and one short - formed a T which occupied the centre and ran almost the full length of the room. There was food on the tables: fresh baked bread, eggs, ham, sausages and coffee. Morgan had not stinted on the victuals.

  "The two of you escaped together?" Lasseur asked, reaching out and pouring himself a mug of coffee. He looked at Hawkwood. Hawkwood nodded and Lasseur poured a second mug.

  Rousseau nodded. "We behaved ourselves until they granted us parole and then we went for a walk one day and never went back. You?"

  "We died," Lasseur said, grinning, and explained.

  Denard looked at Lasseur in awe.

  Hawkwood took a swig of coffee. It was very strong with a bitter aftertaste. It reminded him of the camp-fire brews he'd had to endure.

  One by one, Rousseau introduced the men around the table. There were eight in total.

  "Lieutenants Souville and Le Jeune from the Bristol. Leberte is from the Buckingham. Louis Beaudouin, there, made it off the Brunswick and Masson and Bonnefoux at the end, there, you may know or have heard of. They're from your ship, Rapacious.'" Rousseau chuckled. "I wouldn't like to be in her commander's shoes, not with the number of prisoners he's had that have made a run for it."

  "Lieutenant Hellard sends his regards," Lasseur said. "He wanted me to tell you that he's missing you and to hurry back."

  While Lasseur joked, Hawkwood took another sip from his mug and mentally ticked off the names from the list that Ludd had given him. Including the two men who'd been murdered and disposed of on the hulk, the number tallied. With all

  Ludd's escapers accounted for, that was one myst
ery solved at least.

  He wondered if Masson and Bonnefoux knew about the murdered men. There was nothing to be gained by telling them, he decided.

  "How did you get off the ship?" Hawkwood asked the former Rapacious prisoners.

  It was Masson, a thin-faced man with a prominent Adam's apple, who replied. "We hid out in a couple of empty water casks. What's so funny?" he asked, perplexed by the expression on Lasseur's face.

  Lasseur shook his head.

  "How did they cover your escape?"

  "They'd have disrupted the count," Bonnefoux replied without hesitation. "You don't know?"

  Hawkwood shook his head. "Our departure was . . . hurried. We never found out."

  Bonnefoux grinned. His teeth were surprisingly clean and even.

  Over a period of time, using augers filched during work-party duties and a saw fashioned from a barrel hoop, bevel-edged holes had been cut in the deck planking between the upper, gun and orlop decks. As prisoners were counted down into the lower decks, a designated number returned to the upper deck through the holes and rejoined the men waiting to be counted. When the count was complete, the holes were sealed to await the next departure.

  So damned simple, Hawkwood thought. And as long as the prisoners kept their nerve and the guards didn't discover the trick, there was no reason it couldn't be used time and time again.

  Hawkwood presumed Murat and the others had planned to conceal his and Lasseur's escape using the same method, after transferring the two substitute bodies from their bunks back into the side cabin to await the next burial party. Then he realized the ruse would only have worked if the militia guards failed to notice their absence for a while, which didn't seem a likely scenario, given Hellard's decision to transfer Hawkwood and

  Lasseur to the Sampson. In fact, the early discovery of their escape had prevented the miscounting ruse from being used, which was probably a good thing in the long run, lessening the risk of the holes in the decks being discovered, at least until after the next successful escape.