Rapscallion

by James McGee

  Hawkwood tried to look as if he knew what Lasseur was talking about. He was pleased to see that Jago didn't appear any the wiser.

  "What have you told your crew?"

  "That we seek the enemy. It's what we do."

  "Won't they wonder what Nathaniel and I are doing here?"

  "We've been together a long time. They will not question my actions."

  There was a discreet cough. Lasseur's lieutenant stood in the doorway.

  Lasseur acknowledged his lieutenant's presence and laid the compasses on the chart. "Forgive me, gentlemen," he said crisply. "I need to be on deck. Let me show you to my quarters."

  Lasseur led them through the ship towards the stern. The schooner was small, Hawkwood saw; a minnow compared to the Rapacious. Curiously, even though he had to duck his head beneath the beams, there seemed to be a lot more headroom; he realized it was probably due to the ship having only the one lower living deck. Several crew members, who'd already welcomed Lasseur topside, were seated at the tables in the mess area and their faces lit up as Lasseur entered. He greeted each one by name as he passed through. It was impossible not to notice the renewed spring in his step now that he was back on board his ship.

  The stern cabin was tiny, with two narrow berths and a table and a seat beneath the window.

  "Make yourselves comfortable," Lasseur told them. "I'll have Raoul bring you something from the galley. It will be cold on deck later, so we'll find you some extra gear."

  When Lasseur had left, Jago lowered himself on to the window seat and ran a hand over his cropped hair. He looked at Hawkwood and sighed.

  "Remind me again why we're here."

  Hawkwood sank on to a berth.

  "Because I'm damned if I'll let Morgan get away with it. This is the only chance I've got of catching him."

  "Of getting killed, more like! Morgan's gone. Couldn't you just admit that you've lost him? You can't win them all."

  "I haven't lost him yet," Hawkwood said.

  "No, right, that's how come we're sailing to France with a

  Frog privateer. You couldn't just cut your losses, hand Monsewer over to the authorities and go back to London with Micah and me?"

  "I can't hand him in, Nathaniel. Not when it means sending him to the hulks. I wouldn't do that to any man. You wouldn't, either, if you'd seen what those places are like. He saved my life. I owe him. I reckon he's gotten this far, he deserves a chance. In any case, I don't see as I had much choice."

  "You've always had a choice!"

  "It's not that easy."

  "From where I'm bloody sitting, it is," Jago snapped back. "Have you asked yourself why Lasseur's doing this? Way I see it, it's in his interest to give Morgan a clear run. The Emperor will get his gold, Lasseur gets to go home. All we are is bloody ballast! You do know you ain't going to get the gold back?"

  "I don't give a damn about the gold! It's Morgan I want. The bastard's responsible for the deaths of two naval officers, a Revenue man and at least two British soldiers. Not to mention the inconvenience he's caused me."

  "And the Frog prisoners?"

  "I'll leave them to Lasseur's conscience."

  "He's got one, has he? What's to stop him delivering us up to the Frog authorities? Could be all you've done is exchange an English hulk for a French one. That's if they don't shoot us for being bloody spies."

  "He won't do that."

  "Who says?"

  "He did. He gave me his word."

  "And you believe him?"

  "Yes. Besides, it's not in his interest to give me up." Hawkwood smiled. "I still owe him four thousand francs."

  "Well, that's all right then. There was me thinking he was being swayed by the thought of four tons of gold bullion swelling Boney's coffers. How daft is that? I still don't see why he's so damned fired up about catching Morgan before he reaches France. Why doesn't he wait till after Morgan gets there and then denounce the bugger?"

  "Because as soon as he lands, Morgan will disappear into the English enclave. They're Morgan's people. He has friends there. There's also a good chance the French will protect him. He delivers Bonaparte twelve million francs and they'll probably think he's someone worth protecting. Maybe they'll think if he can do it once, he can do it again."

  "He killed eight Frenchmen. You telling me they won't hold that against him?"

  "Morgan gets to Gravelines first, his story is going to be that they died in the execution of their patriotic duty - that's assuming he even bothers to mention them. By the time Lasseur gives his version, Morgan will have become the Emperor's blue-eyed boy. Twelve million francs buys a lot of favours. And there's no proof he killed them. Who's to say they weren't shot by redcoats? It'll be Lasseur's word against his and Lasseur wasn't there."

  "So Lasseur's planning to catch up with Morgan on the high seas?"

  "That's the way of it."

  "And mete out some justice of his own?"

  Hawkwood said nothing.

  "And we're going to help him?" Jago pressed.

  "You didn't have to come along," Hawkwood said.

  "'Course I had to come along! Christ, you get these Tomfool ideas into your head, someone has to watch your back!"

  "And that's you?"

  "Yes, it's me! It's always bloody me! And, might I say, you've come up with some crack-brained ideas in your time, but this one takes some beating. You're willin' to go to all this trouble just so's you can serve notice on a bloody smuggler?"

  "The damned gold's lost anyway. This way at least I've a chance of making sure Morgan doesn't profit from it."

  "Any likelihood we can steal it back from Lasseur's clutches?"

  "Just the two of us?" Hawkwood said drily. "I doubt it."

  "Worth considerin'. So Lasseur and his Emperor get twelve million francs while you get one murdering bastard free trader?" "Some might call that a bargain."

  "Only if they've lost their bloody wits. And have you given any thought to how we'll get home?"

  "Lasseur will see we get back."

  "You're settin' an awful lot of store in the man."

  "I told you, he's worried he'll lose the money I owe him."

  Jago shook his head in exasperation. "You can joke, but you realize if anything happens to Lasseur and we end up in bloody Verdun or one of those other Frog prisons, we're well and truly buggered."

  "That why you sent Micah home?"

  "I thought it best that someone back there knows where we are."

  "You're saying he'll come looking if he doesn't hear from us?"

  "If he doesn't hear from me, he will." Jago fell silent, then said, "Jesus, this is a rum business. You must really want the bastard."

  "I do," Hawkwood said. "But it's not business. With Morgan, it's personal."

  There was a rap on the door, then a seaman entered bearing a tray loaded with bread and cold beef, two mugs, a pot of coffee and a bottle of brandy.

  "Avec les compliments de Capitaine Lasseur, messieurs."

  Placing the tray on the table, the cook departed.

  Jago poured the coffee and added a generous measure of brandy to each mug before passing one of them across tin- table. "Get that down you."

  Hawkwood took a swallow. The liquid was scalding. He waited for his throat to cool and then said, "Tell me about Cephus Pepper."

  Jago grimaced. "He's Morgan's right-hand man, though you already knew that. I heard he used to be first mate on a blackbirder, runnin' slaves to the West Indies. Ran foul of a rival ship off Havana - back in '02, I think it was. Lost his arm in a deck fight. They say he escaped by going over the side. Not a man you'd want to cross in a hurry, as you found out."

  "How long's he been with Morgan?"

  "Eight years, or thereabouts. You think he was there with Morgan tonight?"

  "You can count on it. You know Morgan, don't you?"

  "We've never met, though I reckon I know enough about him not to turn my back. He likes to tell folk he's a descendant of Henry Morgan, the buccaneer, wh
ich I bloody doubt. Far as I know, he's the son of a farmer from over Ruckinge way. Family was in the Trade for years. Morgan's father used to run with the Callis Court mob. Morgan quit the farm when he was a lad. Rumour was he ran off to sea to escape the law, but that could be a story he put around. Same way he's supposed to have been a bo's'n on the Britannia; though that'd explain why he's so good at runnin' things and why a lot of his crew are former navy men. It's probably why he and Pepper make a good team. He came back and took over the business when his old man died; built it up from there. Got no Welsh blood in him at all, unless his great-grandfather was caught buggering a ewe. He say anything about that to you?"

  "He must have forgotten to mention it," Hawkwood said. "Ever taken advantage of his services?"

  "You referring to my business interests?"

  Hawkwood smiled.

  Jago shrugged. "Probably have, indirectly, given the control he's got. My line of work, you don't always know the provenance of the goods. Mostly I try and deal with the Sussex branch of the Trade."

  "Don't think I care to know too much," Hawkwood said.

  "Just as well."

  "And Garvey, does he work for Morgan?"

  "No flies on you, are there?" Jago said, taking a sip from his drink and smacking his lips in appreciation.

  "Local representative?" Hawkwood said. "Come on! He knows Pepper, he recognized the bodies in the barn, and he obviously knows his way around that neck of the woods. It doesn't take a genius."

  Hawkwood leant back against the bulkhead. His limbs, for some reason, had started to feel as heavy as lead. Added to which, he had the sudden overwhelming desire to close his eyes. He knew he mustn't fall asleep, for that would be fatal. If he nodded off, there was a very good chance he'd never wake up. He tried to fight the rising tide of weariness that was creeping over him.

  "Aye, well," Jago said. "Not that it matters. He's one of Morgan's errand boys; delivers messages about upcoming runs and the like. Morgan also uses him to pay people off, so he knows where some of the bones are buried. We go back a ways; if ever I've a mind to visit my old hunting grounds, I get in touch. Just as well, too." He paused and took a sip of coffee and glanced across the table in time to see Hawkwood's eyes droop and the mug begin to slip from his hand.

  Jago sighed. He put down his own drink and, reaching across swiftly, rescued the falling mug. "'Bout bloody time," he murmured. He placed the mug on the table, grabbed the blanket from his bunk and draped it across Hawkwood's sleeping form. He stared down at the scarred and unshaven face, his brow creasing as his eyes took in the new wounds and the state of Hawkwood's clothes. He shook his head, returned to his seat and picked up his drink. "No bloody stamina, some people," he muttered softly.

  The touch of a hand on Hawkwood's arm brought him jerking awake. For a moment he wondered where he was. Then his ears picked up the creaks and groans and the cry of a crewman from somewhere on the deck above and his brain began to function. He looked up to find Jago's craggy countenance looming over him. He sat up quickly, nearly crowning himself on the underside of a deckhead beam in the process.

  "Captain wants us up on deck. There's a sail off the larboard bow, whatever the hell that is."

  Hawkwood scrambled to his feet and almost lost his footing as the deck pitched unexpectedly. He cursed, grabbed the edge of the table and felt his stomach turn.

  He followed Jago up the canted stairway on to the schooner's deck and immediately felt the bite of the wind and the lash of spindrift on his cheek. The hiss of the waves against the ship's hull and the crack of canvas filled his ears. It was not yet light, but beyond the bowsprit a band of sienna-coloured sky was slowly widening across the horizon. Running along the lower edge of it was a long uneven smear which Hawkwood knew was land. It was too far away to pick out details.

  Lasseur was braced against the port rail, peering through a telescope, shoulders thrust forward. A cheroot was clenched between his teeth. He looked like a wolf scenting prey; a man in his element.

  "Home," he said, following Hawkwood's gaze. "Mine," he added. "Not yours." He gave a lupine grin.

  "How far?"

  "Twenty miles, maybe a little less."

  Hawkwood looked over his shoulder. Beyond the stern, the sky was much darker and it was harder to differentiate between sea and land, if there was any land out there.

  "There's a sail?" Hawkwood said.

  Lasseur nodded. He handed Hawkwood the spyglass and pointed ahead, towards the distant smudge of coast.

  "Two miles off the bow."

  Hawkwood wedged his hip against the rail, tried to ignore the water sluicing over his boots, and jabbed the glass to his eye. At first, all he could see was a dark swell of blue-black waves. He lowered the glass, took his bearings, aimed at the band of light coming up over the bow and tried again. He bit back a curse as the eyeglass slipped once more, but his perseverance was rewarded when suddenly a dark, angular silhouette slid across his line of sight. The vessel was low down, running close-hauled on a port tack, her fore- and aft-rigged canvas braced tight.

  "I see it!" He felt a surge of excitement move through him. "Morgan?" He passed the telescope to Jago.

  "She's a cutter," Lasseur announced confidently. "And Gravelines lies almost dead ahead of us. It will be dawn in an hour. We'll know for certain then."

  "She's not showing any colours," Jago muttered, peering through the glass. The telescope looked very small in his hands.

  "Neither are we," Lasseur pointed out, taking the glass back and stealing another look. "If they've seen us, which they may not have done, they'll be wondering who we are, though they might guess from our rig that we're not a British ship. The British don't have many schooners. Some of the ones they do have were captured from us, but they're nothing like Scorpion, so he's probably not too concerned at the moment. That gives us the edge."

  Hawkwood looked up. The schooner, like the cutter, seemed to be carrying a huge amount of sail for her size; Lasseur's Barbary rig. He peered over the side at the water rushing past the hull. The ship was slicing through the swells like a knife. Spray burst over the bow. The sense of speed was exhilarating, and as the eastern sky turned from reddish-brown to golden orange, and as the coastline drew ever nearer, Scorpion continued to overhaul her quarry.

  The three men remained at the rail. Hawkwood was impressed at the speed with which the schooner was bridging the gap. In no time at all, it seemed, the cutter was barely three cables ahead of them. The sky had grown considerably lighter and he could see figures moving about her deck.

  "If she didn't know we were interested in her before, I'd say she does now," Lasseur said. He raised the telescope. "Batards!'" He swore suddenly and handed Hawkwood the glass.

  Hawkwood's first wild thought was that they had been following the wrong boat. Then a black-painted hull swam into the foreground; increased in size now, but still dwarfed by the spread of her canvas. Hawkwood remembered Gadd's description of the Sea Witch. He searched for a name on her counter, but the jolly boat suspended from the cutter's narrow stern obscured his view. Three men stood by the rail at her starboard quarter, close to the tiller man, staring back towards the Scorpion. Two of them were wearing blue coats and white breeches. When Hawkwood saw the third man standing between them, the boat's name became irrelevant. Tall and grey-bearded, the man was holding a telescope to his face with one hand: his right.

  Pepper.

  And then as Hawkwood and Lasseur watched, the three men separated. Activity on the cutter's deck suddenly took on a new urgency.

  "Jesus, they're running out bloody guns," Hawkwood cursed as the cutter's crew began to remove canvas sheets from the cannons that lined the sides of the cutter's hull. Six in all, from what he could see, three to each side. He handed the telescope back to Lasseur, who took another look.

  "Merde!"

  "What are they?" Hawkwood asked. He wasn't well versed in the bore sizes of naval ordnance. As if it mattered. Cannon were still bloody cannon.
<
br />   "What you would call six-pounders, from their look. Your Revenue uses them. They're accurate to about two hundred and fifty yards, with the right elevation. Fortunately, we have the advantage. We've got more of them."

  The possibility that the Sea Witch would be carrying heavy armament had not occurred to Hawkwood. He'd assumed that Morgan and his men would be equipped with small arms; swivel guns at a pinch - indeed, he had seen one mounted on the cutter's bow - but not carriage guns, though the carronade used in the storming of the residency should have been warning enough. He wondered how well versed they were in combat at sea. It wasn't that much of a leap to suppose that Morgan would have some gunners among the ranks of the former seamen that he employed.

  Lasseur was clearly surprised, too. He spun away. "Tous les marins sur le pont!"

  A bell began to clang loudly. The deck echoed to the volley of pounding feet.

  Scorpion rose on the swell and plunged forward.

  "Preparez les canons!"

  Within seconds, sand had been laid down, guns run out, personal weapons distributed, and neck cloths transferred to the men's right arms. As Lasseur explained, his crew knew each other, but everyone, especially Hawkwood and Jago, had to be able to identify friend from foe. A split second's hesitation could mean the difference between life and death.

  "You definitely plannin' on boardin' her, then?" Jago asked, running his thumb down a cutlass blade as Lasseur passed Hawkwood a pistol and tomahawk.

  "I doubt Morgan will surrender to a hail," Lasseur said grimly.

  Her crew primed and at their stations, Scorpion swept on.

  The cutter, now less than a cable's length off the bow, started wearing to port. Her sails flapped as her bow turned through the wind, then the canvas filled quickly as her sheets were pulled taut. She looked, Hawkwood thought, strikingly top heavy.

  Lasseur barked out orders. The nautical jargon meant nothing to Hawkwood. Lasseur might just as well have been yelling in Chinese. But as men hauled eagerly on ropes, reducing canvas, and as the helmsman swung the wheel hard over, it was clear that the privateer was attempting to match the cutter's manoeuvre. Scorpion began to come round.