by James McGee
"Practice," Hawkwood said.
"Morgan's men?" Lasseur suggested.
"We'll have to assume so."
They crossed the lane and stepped quickly into the woods on the other side. Behind them, they could hear the shouts of the dog handlers. It sounded as if they were beating the underbrush for game, as if they knew they were drawing close to their quarry.
The trees began to thin out once more. Hawkwood and Lasseur moved forward as if walking on glass. At the edge of the woods, they stopped. Hawkwood could see the river. It lay beyond a strip of meadow, less than a pebble's toss from them. It was broad, at least thirty yards in width and shaded by trees on both banks. He looked to his left. Two hundred yards away there was an ancient stone bridge. He could see the parapet and beneath it a keystone and the curve of an arch. He could see the tops of reeds, too, and he could hear water rushing over a weir.
A series of howls, sounding ever closer and rising in volume, reminded them why they had sought out the water. If they could make it to the river, it would be hard - hopefully impossible - for the dogs to track them.
They stepped from the trees.
And a twig snapped at the edge of the wood behind them.
Hawkwood and Lasseur froze. Hawkwood was aware of a shadow moving to his right. His nostrils caught a familiar whiff.
"Got you now," Del said. As he moved into the open, his mouth formed a grotesque gash in his thin face. He was dressed in work clothes. There was no ghostly skull, nor a monk's robe. Just the pistol gripped in his hand.
Another chorus of baying came from the woods at their back and Hawkwood knew with sickening finality that Morgan's men had finally managed to close the gap.
Del grinned again. "Saw you coming. You were making a real racket. Now we'll have some fun," he said. His voice seemed to change, to take on a darker, crueller tone. Suddenly, Del didn't seem quite so oafish.
"No," Lasseur said. "I don't think so. Not today."
It was the timbre in Lasseur's voice that alerted Del to the imminent danger. His response was immediate, driven by panic.
Hawkwood was standing to Lasseur's right and thus partially blocking Del's view as Lasseur drew the pistol from his belt. With an alacrity that belied his doltish looks, Del raised his pistol and fired. Hawkwood felt the impact of the ball against his skull. As he went down in a vortex of pain, he heard Lasseur return fire. His last memory was of seeing a bright flower bloom in scarlet abandon across Del's chest.
Before the world ended.
CHAPTER 19
At one point it felt as if he was falling, the next as if he was floating, drifting at the mercy of a weak tide, ebbing back and forth without purpose, never quite breaching the waves and never quite reaching the shore. One moment he was cold, the next he was bathed in perspiration. During each of these episodes there had been a strange taste - bitter, but not unpleasant - which had lingered on his tongue and at the back of his throat.
He'd also been vaguely aware of shadows and voices. But the shadows, like all shadows, had been without definition and the words he thought he'd heard had been like dry leaves rustling in the wind. Sometimes they had seemed close and almost audible, at other times they were no more than whispers, as if the speakers were far away and afraid of being overheard. He'd suspected they were talking about him and had strained his ears to hear better, but the harder he'd tried the harder it had been to mark the conversation clearly.
He also had a hazy recollection of a cup being placed against his lips and of swallowing, but with no clear memory of what he might have ingested. Once, he thought he heard a dog bark and a cry started in his throat, but then the sound faded abruptly and the tightness in his chest began to ease and the moment passed and he did not feel so afraid.
When he opened his eyes he thought for one terrible moment that he was back in the hulk's sick berth. The stinging sensation along the side of his skull, although mild, seemed horribly reminiscent, until the feel of a cool, damp cloth and gentle fingers smearing something on his scalp began to soothe the hurt away and he heard a woman's voice say softly, "He's awake."
The voice sounded vaguely familiar.
Maddie? Hawkwood thought.
He turned his head. He was lying in a narrow bed. Alongside the bed was a night stand upon which stood an unlit candle in a holder, a bowl and some small blue-glass jars. He could not tell what they contained.
A woman's face was looking down at him. It did not belong to Maddie Teague.
"Hello, Captain," Jess Flynn said.
"About time," Lasseur said, appearing from behind Jess Flynn's shoulder. "How do you feel?"
Hawkwood stared at them both and wondered if he was dreaming. He touched fingertips to his skull and winced. "Tired of getting hit on the head." He took his fingers away. They were sticky, as if they had been dipped in beeswax. He rubbed the ends of his fingers together.
"Don't worry, Captain, it's only an ointment. I make it myself from special oils and herbs," Jess Flynn said. "It reduces the pain and encourages healing. The ball grazed your skull, which was why you lost consciousness. You were very lucky; there was some bleeding and you were feverish for a while, but that's all."
"Good thing it was only your head," Lasseur said, smiling. "Anywhere else and I'd have been worried."
Hawkwood realized he had felt no residual pain when he moved. Encouraged by the discovery, he tried to sit up. His effort was rewarded with only minor discomfort. He looked around. The room was small with a sloped ceiling. There was a half-open window, through which he could just see the underside of the eaves. There was a simple mirrored dressing table upon which sat another bowl and a pitcher. A chair stood in front of the dressing table. A narrow wardrobe rested against one wall.
He looked down. He appeared to be wearing someone's nightshirt. There was no sign of his clothes, though he could see his boots propped on the floor beside the wardrobe.
"It was my husband's," Jess Flynn said, indicating the nightshirt. She exchanged glances with Lasseur and smiled. "I'll leave you to talk." She squeezed the cloth out into the bowl and stood up. Her hand brushed Lasseur's as she walked towards the door. Lasseur watched her go before pulling the chair to the side of the bed and sitting down.
Hawkwood still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "How in the name of God did we get here?"
Lasseur grinned. "By boat."
" What?" Hawkwood felt another brief twinge.
Lasseur laid his hand on Hawkwood's arm. His face was full of concern. "How much do you remember?"
"I saw you shoot Del. After that. . . not a damned thing. What do you mean, 'by boat'?"
"It's a long story. Do you remember me carrying you to the river?"
"No."
Lasseur had left him on the bank while he returned for Del's body, hauling it to the edge of the water in the hope of putting the hounds off the scent. The ruse had worked, but it had been a close thing. Daubing their faces with mud, Lasseur had dragged Hawkwood into the reeds moments before the dogs burst from the trees.
Lasseur frowned at the memory. "I could hear them baying and the men searching. I didn't know if you were alive or dead beside me. I waited until the searchers moved off, then pulled you ashore; still breathing, thank God. And that's when I saw the boat. It was almost submerged. When I found the oars beneath it I thought I was seeing things, and when I examined the hull and realized it was sound, I couldn't believe it. I think the owner must have sunk it deliberately so people wouldn't think it was worth stealing. Fortunately for us, it was.
"I could still hear the dogs, but they were heading downriver. Morgan's men must have assumed we'd try to get to the coast. I knew we needed to go in the opposite direction, so I raised the boat and took us upstream. It was easier than carrying you across country. Del's body was still there when we left. I heard them say they were going to send the gravedigger to pick it up later." He looked at the expression on Hawkwood's face. "What is it?"
"I was going to ask
you why we came here, but something tells me that would be a stupid question."
"We were close; I knew we would be safe here and the Widow Flynn might have some means of treating your wound. I was right. She's the one who's been looking after you with her medicines and broth."
Which explained the bitter taste on my tongue, Hawkwood thought. To Lasseur, he said, "Don't think I'm not grateful, but are you sure those were the only reasons?" Then, for the first time, he noticed the privateer's clothes. "I don't recall you wearing that shirt before."
Lasseur smiled. "I'm happy to see your head wound has not robbed you of your powers of deduction. You're right; like you, I am the happy beneficiary of the Flynn family slop chest."
"It's a good fit," Hawkwood observed laconically. "You know, our being here places her at serious risk. If Morgan finds out she's harbouring us, it will go badly for her."
Lasseur's face grew immediately serious. "I know that, my friend. Believe me; I know that only too well."
Hawkwood watched the worry lines on Lasseur's face deepen. "And how the devil did you find your way back here? Higgs transported us at night."
Lasseur's features lightened. "I'm a sailor, Matthew. Did you think I was sleeping when the gravedigger took us to the Haunt? I was reading the stars. It was a clear night, remember? I knew the course we were taking. I knew where and when we crossed the river, and I knew the farm was upstream. In daylight, it was simple. Some day, you must let me teach you the finer points of celestial navigation!"
"And no one saw us?"
"Not to my knowledge. Though, if our pursuers hadn't had the dogs it might have been different. I might not have heard them coming. All I can say is that the gods must have been with us." Lasseur straightened. "Thomas Gadd knows Jess has taken us in, by the way. He helped me get you upstairs. 1 le also took the boat back downstream. We've been here ever since."
The room was warm but Hawkwood suddenly felt a cold chill on his back. "What do you mean; ever since? How long have we been here?"
Lasseur hesitated. Something moved behind his eyes. "You've been confined to your bed for just over twenty-four hours."
It took a moment for Hawkwood to absorb the shock. "What?" Then his mind did the calculation and he started to push the sheet back. "Jesus!"
Lasseur's eyes widened in alarm. He placed a hand on Hawkwood's chest. "What are you doing?"
Hawkwood thrust Lasseur's hand aside. "I have to get a message to the authorities! I've got to warn them about the attack on the Admiral's residency! It's tomorrow night!"
Lasseur grasped his arm. "Wait! Tom Gadd told me that Morgan's men are still searching for us. There's a price on our heads. If either of us sets foot off the farm there's a risk we'll be seen. Besides," Lasseur added urgently, "look at you! You're in no fit state to go anywhere."
"I'll take my chances." Hawkwood pushed Lasseur's hand away once more, swung his legs round and placed his feet on the floor. "Where are my bloody clothes?"
Lasseur's eyes flickered to the wardrobe.
Hawkwood stood up. The room swam before his eyes. 1 le sat down again, quickly.
Lasseur threw up his hands in despair. "You see? You can hardly walk. You need to recover your strength."
"There's no time for that!" Hawkwood looked towards the window. It was like looking through a gauze veil. "What the hell is the time?"
"It's late; nearly six. Are you hungry? You've eaten nothing solid for a while."
"No, I'm not bloody hungry!" Hawkwood pushed himself off the bed again. The room tilted dramatically, but only for a moment or two before returning to its true axis. He took a deep breath, crossed unevenly to the wardrobe and discovered his jacket, shirt, breeches and underclothes suspended from hooks and hangers. He leant on the wardrobe door and studied them. They were suspiciously clean, considering they'd been immersed in a river, and certainly when compared to how he remembered them from the day before, following their breakneck run through the woods.
He pulled the clothes out, took off the nightshirt, and began to dress. He bent down and picked up his boots. Light-headed, he sat on the end of the bed and attempted to pull on his right boot. The knife, he saw, was still in place. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and almost didn't recognize the unshaven individual staring back at him. He had to admit he'd looked in better health. He turned away and found that Lasseur was watching him with a look of worry on his face. When he made no offer to help, Hawkwood guessed the privateer was trying to make a point.
Lasseur tried again. "Matthew, listen to me. You're not thinking properly. Morgan won't go through with the raid on the gold anyway. Not at this late stage. He daren't. If he hasn't tracked us down, he has no way of knowing if you were able to get word to your people. For all he knows, the army's going to be there waiting for him. He'll only go ahead with the theft if he can silence us first, and then only if he has time to spare. You're more likely to prevent the attack by remaining here and keeping him guessing. That way we'll all be safe."
"We won't ever be safe! Not from Morgan. We've damaged him too deeply. He'll be angry at losing face." Hawkwood reached for his other boot. "I have to do this. The bastard's that bloody cocky, I wouldn't put it past him to still go through with it. In which case, I've no choice. It's my duty to try and stop him."
Lasseur sighed. "Then I ask you for one favour. At least wait until sunset before you leave. You'll reduce the risk of being observed while you're still close to the farm."
Hawkwood shook his head. "I can't do that. I'll be careful, but I can't wait until dark. I have to get to Barham while it's still light."
"Barham?" Lasseur frowned. "What is Barham? And why do you need to be there before dark? I don't understand."
"It's an Admiralty telegraph station."
Hawkwood had been briefed on the telegraph by Ludd, in case he needed to take advantage of it. The Admiralty had devised the system to allow it to communicate directly with its bases around the south coast. It consisted of a line of shutter stations placed on high ground across the country. Each station consisted of a large rectangular frame comprised of six shutters arranged vertically in two columns of three. The shutters could be opened and closed at will, with the positions of the shutters representing letters of the alphabet. Ludd had taken Hawkwood up to the roof of the Admiralty building to show him the signalling mechanism in action. It was an ingenious contraption. Ludd had boasted that, given good visibility, a message could be relayed from Portsmouth to Whitehall in less than ten minutes. Preparatory signals could be acknowledged in a quarter of that time, which was impressive, given that it had taken almost five minutes for Hawkwood and Ludd just to reach the roof.
There were two lines of shutter stations in Kent. One ran from Sheerness to Faversham - Hawkwood assumed notification of his and Lasseur's escape had been sent down that route. The other line ran from the roof at Whitehall via a dozen stations, including Chatham and Faversham, all the way to Deal.
Given the farm's location in relation to the coast, Hawkwood estimated the Shottenden telegraph was the nearest. It was probably no more than seven or eight miles away, but it lay across country. Barham, the next station down the line, sat on the main Canterbury to Dover Road. The distance was perhaps a mile or so longer, and it was a route Morgan was probably monitoring, but the journey would be quicker. Hawkwood knew if he could get to Barham, he could alert both the Admiralty and the Deal authorities at the same time.
"Then wait until morning," Lasseur argued. "That's still more than enough time for the signal to be seen. You need to eat and you'll be fully rested. If you leave at first light, you're less likely to find Morgan's men on the road, and you'll be in better shape should you need to take evasive action."
Hawkwood pulled on his left boot and reached for his jacket, which he had laid on the bed. It was more of a struggle than he had anticipated. He felt slightly nauseous and the bitter aftertaste of the Widow Flynn's tincture was suddenly strong at the back of his tongue. His clothes were b
eginning to feel tight around him, too, after the looseness of the nightshirt. He had the sudden, intense desire to rest his head on the nearest pillow.
In his heart, he knew there was sense in what Lasseur was telling him. His body was warning him that it needed rest. He hadn't eaten in a long time. He was in no condition to sit astride a horse and endure a nine-mile ride or deal with any threat that came at him.
He nodded reluctantly. "All right - you win. I'll leave at dawn."
When Pepper walked into the room, Morgan was at his desk, going through the accounts ledger. He was not having a good day. Despite the upheaval - in particular, the threat posed by the disappearance of the Runner and the Frenchman - work had to go on. There were still things that required his attention: runs and meetings to arrange, people to manage, deliveries to supervise, accounts to be maintained, both the legitimate ones and those "off the books". He looked up. There was no warmth in his gaze. "Cephus."
"Ezekiel," Pepper said, closing the door behind him.
Morgan glowered at his lieutenant. "Well?"
The severe expression on Pepper's face told him all he needed to know.
Morgan slammed his pen down on to the table. His features darkened. "God damn it to hell! Somebody must know something!" He shook his head in anger and exasperation. "That bastard Runner can't have made it home. There's been no sign that an alarm's gone out. Deal's quiet. There's no extra troop activity. The place would be crawling if the Admiralty or the army had been alerted."
"We're still on, then?" Pepper said. He stood as if awaiting orders.
Morgan glanced towards the unlit hearth, where the two mastiffs were stretched out, hogging most of the carpet. Useless bloody animals, he thought, and felt more anger building. The dogs did not look up. It was as if they were trying to avoid eye contact, knowing they were the objects of Morgan's displeasure.
"I haven't decided." He tried to keep his voice steady.
"We're cutting it fine," Pepper said.
"I bloody know that, Cephus!" Frustrated, Morgan pushed the books to one side. So much for keeping calm. He knew he was running out of time; the decision could not be put off for much longer. As a result he could feel the tension welling up inside him like a dam threatening to burst. He chewed his lip. "What's happening with our guests?"
