by James McGee
The dog barked again, but it was the only sign of life beyond the cottage, implying that none of the hamlet's human inhabitants had either the desire or the nerve to venture out and investigate the disturbance.
Lasseur followed Croker's line of sight and looked towards the house. A dim light was still visible through the curtained window but the glow from the open doorway was interrupted as two figures, bound together, stumbled into the open.
"Shite!" Croker spat fiercely. He took a hard grip on the horses' reins and pulled them round.
Fifty paces from the cover of the trees, Hawkwood adjusted his hold around McTurk's shoulders and tried quickening his pace. It was never easy, hauling dead weight. That was the trouble with corpses; they had no sense of coordination. He heard a snuffle in the darkness and saw Croker and Lasseur guiding the horses towards them.
"What the bloody hell happened?" Croker snarled. "Aw, Jesus!" he gasped.
"The bastard fought back." Hawkwood feigned shortness of breath. "I thought this was supposed to be easy? McTurk's hit. I don't know how badly." Hawkwood pretended to lose his grip and cursed as McTurk's body slid from his grasp.
Croker bent down and hurriedly drew the hood off McTurk's face. He stared at the ruin that had been the back of McTurk's skull. "Christ Almighty! He's dead!" He looked at Hawkwood, his expression hard. "Jilks did this?"
Hawkwood nodded. "He had a pistol. Took Pat by surprise. We both got a shot at him, but he made a run for it. With Pat down, I thought it best to get out before the neighbours started creating. What should we do?"
Croker stood up. "We get the hell out of here, that's what."
Lasseur stared down at the body. "What about him?"
Croker, beset by indecision, chewed his lip.
"He's your mate," Hawkwood said, turning the screw.
"Christ's sake!" Croker spat angrily. "Bloody Christ's sake!" Then he said, "All right, get him on to his horse. See if there's a tie in the saddlebag. We'll take him with us. Anyone comes after us we'll have to leave him. Make it quick!" Croker tossed the hood aside.
They lifted McTurk across his horse and secured his arms and legs together by passing a cord beneath the animal's belly. They left, leading McTurk's mount behind them. As he mounted his own horse, in the darkness over his shoulder, Hawkwood thought he heard the sound of a latch dropping into place.
It might have been the sound of a stable door closing.
Henry Jilks reloaded his discharged pistol and felt the sweat break from his armpits as he recalled the moment the two men had stepped through his door. His gaze moved to the floor and the dark stain that showed where McTurk's brains had leaked through the hood and on to the tiles. Jilks thought about the dark-haired man and the lack of emotion he'd displayed when he'd pulled the trigger, dispatching McTurk into whichever afterlife he'd been assigned. Jilks assumed it was Hell. Either way, he knew he would shed no tears, even though McTurk's death had not been a merciful one.
He thought about the man who'd sent Hawkwood and McTurk to his home and his pulse quickened. Jilks had been under no illusions about the dangers when he'd taken the post of Riding Officer. The life was hard and poorly paid. Intimidation was commonplace, as were the opportunities for despair and corruption. For every officer who had been forced to flee his post because of threats to his family, there were half a dozen who had succumbed either to drink or bribery.
Jilks's last but one predecessor had been a former cavalryman called Haggard. Haggard had left the area with his wife and daughter after they had returned to their house one day to find their daughter's pet kitten hanging from one of the rafters in the kitchen. In contrast, Haggard's successor, a sexagenarian drunkard by the name of Rigsby, had spent more time in his cups than on his horse, and had expired in a drunken haze in a local drinking den after a night carousing with a group of men known to be tub carriers and scouts for one Ezekiel Morgan.
It hadn't taken Henry Jilks long to discover the degree of influence Morgan exerted over the local Trade. Knowledge, however, was not proof. Aware that the chances of finding Morgan's hand in the jar were remote, Jilks had concentrated on keeping his head down but his eyes and ears open. His perseverance had begun to pay off. In the time he had been patrolling his district - an area extending six miles inland from and including the stretch of coast between Shellness Point and South Foreland - his successes had been few in number though incrementally significant, as had been confirmed by the amount of contraband seized and the fact that Ezekiel Morgan considered him enough of a liability to have dispatched men to kill him.
Jilks wasn't sure whether he should feel aggrieved or flattered.
He did know, however, that the wisest option was to follow Special Constable Hawkwood's directive and make himself scarce. He thought about the information that Hawkwood had asked him to deliver. It sounded too fantastical to be true, but the look in Hawkwood's blue-grey eyes had been too persuasive to ignore, as was the realization that, if it was true, then he had been granted a unique opportunity to bring Ezekiel Morgan's reign to an end once and for all.
Jilks buttoned his waistcoat, pulled on his jacket and gathered both pistols. It was time to go. Esther was in the stable, having slipped out earlier to saddle his horse. He thought about Esther, who had become more than a housekeeper. He thought about asking her to go with him and wondered what her answer would be. He could send for her later, when he was safe.
Which brought him to the matter of which direction to take. Riding Officers were required to conduct regular patrols by day and by night, and Jilks had come to know the back roads well. The Wingham Road was the best route, he decided, and then on to Boughton. With luck he'd be at the dockyard gates by morning, if he didn't push the mare too hard.
He paused before letting himself out of the cottage. It had been a good ten minutes since Hawkwood had left with McTurk's body. He wanted to be sure the coast was clear. It sounded quiet. Jilks took a deep breath, opened the door and headed for the stable.
The mare was in her stall and fully saddled. She snorted softly when Jilks entered.
"Easy, girl," he whispered, and stroked the mare's haunch, wondering where Esther had got to. He placed the pistols in their holsters on his saddle. It was then that he noticed his sabre was missing. The scabbard was there, hanging from the saddle, but it lay empty. Curious, Jilks thought, trying to recall if he'd taken it into the cottage with him.
"Esther?" he called.
He heard a footstep behind him, and turned.
The sabre thrust took Jilks by surprise, piercing his waistcoat and entering his belly with ease. At first, he felt nothing, but as the sword-point continued on its path the pain took him, spreading through his body like liquid fire. Jilks clasped his hands to his stomach, curving them around the blade in a desperate effort to prevent the sword from penetrating further, but all he felt was numbness in his fingers as the tempered steel bit into his flesh. Jilks stared at his killer, an expression of stupefaction on his face, as the sabre blade was withdrawn. His hands felt suddenly warm. He looked down and watched, curious, as the dark stain spread across his waistcoat and the blood dripped on to his boots. With a groan, he fell forward on to the straw. It was odd, he thought, how his hands were still warm while the rest of him was so cold. He was still thinking that when his eyes closed for the last time.
The gatehouse picket stepped forward and lifted up McTurk's head. Gazing at the shattered eye socket and the matted mess at the back of the skull, his face clouded in grim recognition. Wordlessly, he let the head drop and moved aside.
Croker led the horses through the archway in silence and in single file.
The journey back to the Haunt had been accomplished without incident, save for the one occasion when they thought they had heard hoofbeats coming up behind them in the distance, not long after leaving the cottage. They had taken cover in a thicket, but after an anxious ten-minute wait, with no evidence of pursuit, they had continued on their way.
The lanterns wer
e burning as they entered the yard. Light issued from the stable doors. Hawkwood had no timepiece, but he knew it was late. He wondered if there was a run on or perhaps there were difficulties with the new foal. There had been no ghostly friars on the road.
Morgan appeared through the stable doorway as they dismounted, wiping his hands with a cloth. His eyes moved to McTurk's horse and the body across its back. He looked to Croker.
"It all went to shit," Croker said savagely. "That bastard, Jilks - he did for Pat."
"What happened?" Morgan sounded remarkably calm, Hawkwood thought.
Croker nodded towards Hawkwood. "Ask him."
"I was about to." Morgan regarded Hawkwood. "Well?"
"Your man Jilks is what happened. He put up more of a fight than we were expecting."
"Explain."
"What's to explain? He heard us coming. He shot at us. We shot at him. McTurk's dead. Jilks lives to fight another day. My guess is he's still running."
"We thought it best to bring Pat back with us," Croker said, avoiding Hawkwood's gaze. "Didn't seem right to leave him behind."
Morgan turned abruptly. "Bring him inside."
Croker took the bridle of McTurk's horse and led it into the stable, pulling his own horse after him. Hawkwood and Lasseur followed.
The groom, Thaddeus, was in the first stall, wiping down a bay mare. He looked up as the men entered, saw McTurk's corpse and his hand stilled.
Morgan nodded towards the body. "Help Jack lift him down."
Hawkwood and Lasseur tethered their mounts as Croker and the groom undid the ties and laid the corpse on the straw.
In the lantern light, the groom's lined face looked cracked and yellow.
"Looks as if you had a lucky escape," Morgan said as Hawkwood and Lasseur stored their saddles across the top rail of the stall.
"No thanks to McTurk," Hawkwood said. "He made enough noise to wake the dead."
"Really?" Morgan said, stepping away. "That's not what I heard. I heard he went quietly and the poor sod didn't even know what hit him. When you're ready, Cephus."
Pepper emerged from the shadows, a pistol in his right hand. He was not alone. A slight figure stepped out behind him and Hawkwood knew that his troubles were only just beginning.
"You've met Esther," Morgan said.
She had forsaken the dress, swapping it for a short coat and breeches. Her hair was tied in a ribbon at the back of her neck. Her eyes blazed with anger. "He's the one," she said, pointing at Hawkwood. Her voice was cold.
Hawkwood looked for an escape route. The only way out was through the main doors, and that wasn't an option because the two men who had been concealed behind the doors walked into the light. Both carried cocked pistols. Each had a cudgel in his belt. One of them was Del.
"Move and you're dead," Morgan said. "You, too, Captain Lasseur."
Hawkwood stood still. There wasn't much else he could do.
Lasseur raised his hands and looked around. "What is happening here?"
Croker rose to his feet, equally perplexed. "What the hell's going on?"
"We've been deceived, Jack," Morgan said. "We've another fox in the run." He looked at Lasseur. "Maybe two."
"What?"
"Seems our Captain Hooper's been a tad economical with the truth. Turns out he's not an escaped prisoner after all. He's probably not even a captain. He sure as hell isn't an American."
"What are you talking about?"
"He's the law, Jack; sent to spy on us. His name's not Hooper, it's Hawkwood. And according to Esther he's a special constable working out of - where was it? - Bow Street? You know what that means? I reckon we've gone and caught ourselves a bloody Runner!"
"Jesus!" Croker, teeth bared, clapped a hand to the butt of his pistol.
"No!" Morgan said sharply. "Not here. Take their weapons."
"He killed Pat," the girl said, her thin face all angles and shadows in the lantern light. "Shot him in cold blood, the murdering bastard!"
"That's why we're taking their weapons," Morgan said patiently. He gestured to the men by the door. To Hawkwood and Lasseur, he said, "Take out your pistols. Fingers and thumbs only. Lay them on the ground. Step away."
Hawkwood and Lasseur did as they were told. Morgan's men retrieved the guns.
Lasseur stared at the girl. "Who is this woman? What is she saying?"
Morgan feigned surprise. "Of course, I forgot. Esther, this is Captain Lasseur. Captain, allow me to present young Esther. She's family; daughter of a cousin of mine. Grand girl, smart as a whip, takes after her mother, God rest her soul. Esther's father was killed by the Revenue, five years back. Her brother, Tom, was sent down two years ago; seven years' transportation. Coincidentally, he was three months in the hulks before they shipped him off. Small world, isn't it? Means she has no love for the Revenue or the law, so it's no use trying to appeal to her better nature - she hasn't got one. That's why we placed her in Officer Jilks's employ. Got her a job as his housekeeper so she could keep an eye on him for us. What is it they say? Keep your friends close but your enemies closer? Been a mine of information, Esther has.
"Oh, and by the way, Captain - Officer - Hawkwood, whatever the hell it is you call yourself, just so you know: Jilks won't be delivering your message. He didn't make it. Esther made sure of that. Don't feel bad, though. It wasn't your visit that hastened his end. His days were already numbered."
Morgan smiled. "Remember that conversation we had when you asked me about the Warden affray and I told you we always have reinforcements standing by? Well, that's our Esther. She was all set to deal with Jilks, but it seemed a good idea to have you and Captain Lasseur save her the bother. Goes to show how hard it is to find good help these days.
"I have to say, Esther did the business. Even took his horse and rode here to warn us. She was worried she'd run into you on the road, but we were lucky, she took another track. Managed to beat you to it. That's Jilks's mare over yonder, the one Thaddeus is rubbing down."
The hoofbeats they had heard: Esther overtaking them in the darkness.
"The Frenchie's in on it?" Croker grated, turning flint eyes towards Lasseur.
Morgan gazed at Lasseur, a thin-lipped smile on his face. "Now that's a very good question."
"Captain Lasseur didn't know," Hawkwood said.
"Is that right?" Morgan turned. "You really had no idea your Captain Hooper was really a police officer?"
Lasseur stared at Hawkwood.
"Oh, I admit, he's a cut above the rest of them," Morgan said brightly. "Posing as a Yankee and speaking French the way he does, but it doesn't alter the fact he's a damned infiltrator. He'd have sold us all down the river and not thought twice about it."
Hawkwood shrugged. "Nothing personal, Captain. It was business."
Morgan looked pensive. "I've got to be honest; I can't see what your motive would be for helping him; which makes me inclined to believe Officer Hawkwood here is telling the truth when he says you were in the dark as much as we were. It's a dilemma, right enough."
"One way to find out," Pepper said. He threw Morgan a penetrating look.
"There is?" Morgan said. Then he smiled as Pepper passed him his pistol. "Now, why didn't I think of that? There you go, Captain. Be my guest." Morgan held out the gun.
"What is this?" Lasseur said.
"Your chance to make things right. If you are who you say you are, then he's played you for a fool. Are you going to let him get away with that? Go on, take it. Kill the son of a bitch."
Lasseur hesitated. Then, slowly, he took the gun. Croker looked sceptical. He took out his pistol and trained it on Lasseur.
"Kill me," Hawkwood said, "and they'll only send someone else."
Morgan laughed. "They'll be too bloody late."
"They'll hunt you down, Morgan. You'll be in a world of trouble."
"Funny, that's what that navy lieutenant said. I've forgotten his name already. Remind me, Cephus."
"Sark," Pepper said.
"No, not him.The first one."
"Masterson?"
"That's the one! Kept telling us that, if we killed him, the navy would only send someone after him."
"They did," Pepper said. "They sent Sark."
"And look what happened to him!" Morgan grinned at Hawkwood. "I'm guessing they sent you to look for the other two - am I right? Wonder why they sent a Runner? Perhaps the navy's out of lieutenants. God, you'd have thought they'd have learnt by now, wouldn't you?" He turned to Lasseur. "II you're going to do it, Captain, now's the time. Might as well put the poor bugger out of his misery."
Lasseur faced Hawkwood. His expression was as bleak as a winter sky.
He raised the pistol and fired.
CHAPTER 18
"You're telling me he's been gone for twelve days?" Jago asked.
James Read nodded.
They were in Read's office. The Chief Magistrate was seated at his desk. Jago was standing with his back to the window. It was late in the evening. Outside, darkness had fallen, reflecting the mood in the room.
"Not exactly a lifetime. The captain's a grown man. He can look after himself. When was the last time you had word of him?"
"The last positive news was six days ago, though not from Hawkwood directly. We received a dispatch from Ludd advising us that Officer Hawkwood and the privateer, Lasseur, had escaped from the ship." Read paused and then said, "Ludd informed me that they left rather a lot of chaos in their wake."
Jago was about to retort, No change there, then, only to be forestalled by the look on the Chief Magistrate's face.
"What sort of chaos?" he asked guardedly.
"Five dead, including a child."
Jago stared at Read aghast. "What?"
"I'm led to understand that the child - a young boy - was in severe jeopardy. Hawkwood and Lasseur went to his aid. They were forced to defend themselves against serious assault. At least that's the explanation that was given to the ship's commander. Captain Ludd is still ascertaining the facts. It seems the commander, a Lieutenant Hellard, chose to deal with the incident in a manner that went beyond the boundaries of Royal Navy discipline, as it applies to the treatment of prisoners of war. He is to face a Board of Enquiry and is unlikely to emerge unscathed. If he thought that commanding a prison hulk was the lowest depth he could plumb, he is going to be sorely disappointed."
