by James McGee
"You'd best take these, too," Gideon said. "You know how to gut fish?"
Before either Hawkwood or Lasseur could reply, two baskets of mackerel were passed over the boat's rail, along with two gutting knives.
"They're not the freshest catch of the day, but when the first folk start arriving, be they on the boats or from over the sand, it'd be best if you were looking busy. They'll just think you were early risers, which you are. That way, you won't have to talk to anyone. It'll help you blend in, make it look like you're part of the scenery. Anyone does try and strike up a conversation, say you're Belgian fishermen. We get them here looking for oysters. And don't forget," Gideon called as the boat slid away, "Asa Higgs; missing a finger!" He gave a final wave.
They watched the boat disappear into the night. Then Hawkwood took stock. The lights from the towns beckoned invitingly. They still seemed a long way off. The moon showed the tide had a way to travel before it would recede as far as the platform. Hawkwood wondered when the first fishing boats would show up to offload. Not until first light, he suspected, though that was likely to be early.
There was indeed a cool breeze coming off the sea, and he was thankful for the coat. He gave silent thanks, too, that Ludd hadn't asked for Bow Street's help in the dead of winter.
Lasseur passed him the brandy bottle after taking a swig. "That's another thing that'll have my crew pissing themselves," he said mournfully.
"What's that?" Hawkwood asked.
"Me having to tell them I was marooned."
Hawkwood shook his head and raised the bottle to his lips. "There's a difference."
"There is?"
"I heard marooned men were given a loaded pistol for when it got too bad to bear."
"Damn," Lasseur said. "We should have asked."
"We'll have to make do with this," Hawkwood said, passing the bottle.
"Better make it last," Lasseur said, eyeing the fish and the knives. "It could be a long night."
The farm was bounded by woods. There wasn't a great deal to it; a half-stone, half-brick farmhouse, a couple of outhouses, a barn, a henhouse, a sty, a wooden-fenced sheep enclosure similar to the one back on Sheppey and containing six sheep, and a small paddock, in which a pair of horses grazed contentedly. An apple orchard framed one side of the house. At the rear there was a well-tended garden containing vegetables and herbs. To the front lay a meadow of short grass, dotted with wild flowers, through which ran a small, gently flowing stream.
Approaching the farm, Hawkwood thought it one of the most tranquil places he'd ever seen. It was also one of the best concealed. The locals obviously knew the location, but anyone not of the district would only have happened upon the valley by chance. He presumed that was why it had been chosen. As a place to hide, it was ideal.
They had left the fishing platform shortly after dawn, carrying their baskets of mackerel, just as the first of the boats and the early rising townsfolk had begun to arrive. Many of the latter had been women, who weren't averse to calling out lewd suggestions to any male within hailing distance. Other than suffering the crude but good-natured banter, Hawkwood and Lasseur had negotiated the mile and a half tramp across the mud without incident.
The church had been a five-minute walk from the shingle beach. They had found the gravedigger, a small man with a nut- brown complexion, bow legs and three fingers and a thumb on his right hand, contemplating a newly filled clay pipe and a freshly dug example of his handiwork.
He had looked up, viewing Hawkwood and Lasseur's unshaven faces and mud-caked boots with a wry eye. "You'll be the two Frenchies I'm expectin'."
Lasseur nodded. Hawkwood didn't bother to contradict him. It seemed easier than having someone else tell him he was a long way from home.
"Speak English? All right, best come with me. Leave the fish."
Leading them out of the graveyard to where a horse and cart were tethered, the gravedigger pointed to the back of the cart and the two cheap wooden coffins, partially covered with sacking.
"We'd normally be travellin' at night when there's less folk about, but I don't reckon it's wise to have the both of you hangin' round here all day. We'd best be on our way. You'll be comfortable enough and I ain't goin' to nail you in. We don't have far to go. I'll let you out soon as we're off the road." He jerked his head. "In you get."
Hawkwood and Lasseur exchanged disbelieving looks and Hawkwood wondered if Lasseur had understood all that the gravedigger had told them. Not that it mattered. Both of them had been too weary to argue. And the gravedigger had been proved right. It was a comfortable way to travel. Hawkwood had come close to dozing off a couple of times.
They were out of the coffins and sitting on the back of the cart, feet dangling over the tail board, when they emerged from the trees to find the farmhouse nestling in the dip before them.
The gravedigger clicked his tongue and coaxed the horse down the track. "Welcome to the widow's."
Lasseur frowned while Hawkwood stared at the house and the wispy tendrils of wood smoke drifting from the chimney. Whoever had lit the fire had used apple logs. The smell was unmistakable and strangely comforting and reminded Hawkwood of autumn rather than summer.
"It's what folks call her." There was a slight pause. "Among other things."
"Other things?" Lasseur said.
"There's some folk round about think she's a witch."
Lasseur looked at Hawkwood and said in French, "He says it is the house of a witch."
"Perhaps she'll make us disappear," Hawkwood replied in the same language. "And we'll wake up in France."
He wondered how he'd explain that to James Read.
I've found out how they do it, sir. They smuggle them off the ships in body bags and then they deliver them to this old woman who has warts and a cat, and she turns them into blackbirds and they fly away home.
There was no cat, but there was a dog. It was lying by the open door of the barn. It raised itself as the cart drew near and looked over its shoulder. Then it padded forward hesitantly.
It was a big dog, with shaggy brown hair and eyes hidden behind a fringe. It wasn't young, Hawkwood saw. There was grey around its muzzle and it was walking like an old man suffering the first stages of arthritis. Giving a brief wag of its tail, it emitted a single bark and then lay down as if exhausted by its efforts.
The bark had been not so much a warning as a summons.
A woman walked out of the barn, a pail in her hands. Hawkwood's first thought was that she didn't look like any witch he might have imagined.
Hawkwood heard Lasseur catch his breath.
Thick black hair, drawn back and tied with a ribbon at the base of her neck, framed a pair of deep brown eyes and a strong face warmed by the sun. She was dressed in a long grey skirt, a white blouse open at the throat and a faded blue waistcoat. The clothes that covered her slender figure showed evidence of repair, with patches at knee and hem. The opening at the top of the blouse showed a V of freckled skin. A smudge of dirt marked her right jaw. A strand of hair hung down her left cheek and flirted with the corner of her mouth. She brushed it away and tucked it behind her ear. A bright sheen of perspiration lay along her top lip.
She watched the cart's approach.
The cart halted. The horse lowered its head to crop the grass.
"Morning, Jess." The gravedigger touched his cap.
"Asa."
The woman shielded her eyes from the sun and made no attempt to approach.
"You were expectin' us." The gravedigger gestured to Hawkwood and Lasseur to get down from the cart.
The woman looked Hawkwood and Lasseur up and down and said nothing.
Hawkwood knew what both of them must have looked like: bedraggled and unshaven, breeches and boots mud-stained and still damp from their recent soaking.
"Madame," Lasseur said, inclining his head.
She bestowed Lasseur with a frank look but did not acknowledge his gesture. Her gaze moved to Hawkwood, settled for a second and then moved
on back to the gravedigger. Then she nodded.
"How long is it for?"
"They didn't say."
A flash of irritation touched the woman's eyes and then died. She gave a resigned nod. "Do they speak English?"
"We both do, madame." Lasseur smiled. "My name is Lasseur; Captain Paul Lasseur. This is my friend, Captain Matthew Hooper."
The woman looked at him but did not return the smile. She stared at Hawkwood then turned to the gravedigger, who was giving Hawkwood a funny look. "Tell Morgan I'm still holding those tubs. I'd prefer it if they were gone."
"He knows. I'll be along to pick them up in a day or two."
"Good."
The gravedigger nodded. "Right, then, they're all yours. I'll be off."
"How's Megan?" the woman asked.
Higgs climbed back on the cart. "She's doin' well. That magic potion you gave me 'as done wonders."
The woman gave an exasperated sigh. "It wasn't magic, Asa. Just an infusion of herbs. You could grow them in your own garden, if you'd a mind to."
Higgs shook his head hurriedly. "Lord, no. More than my life's worth. I do that an' she'd never let me leave the 'ouse." He grinned.
A smile touched the woman's face. All at once her features were transformed. She was beautiful, Hawkwood thought. "I've some elderflower cordial. You could take Megan some."
"If you're offerin'."
"Wait here." The woman set down the pail and walked into the house.
The dog tracked her progress through its fringe, trying to decide whether to follow or remain on guard, eventually concluding that vigilance in the face of strangers required marginally less effort.
The woman returned with a small earthenware jug, which she handed to the gravedigger. Placing the jug between his feet, Higgs picked up the reins, nodded briefly to Hawkwood and Lasseur, and set the cart in motion with a click of his tongue.
They watched as it trundled back towards the woods.
The woman turned. "This way. Come with me." She led the way to the barn. The dog got up and followed in a slow, lumbering jog.
It was cool in the barn. There was a corn bin and two stalls, one of which contained a milking cow. The place smelled of fresh manure and chickens. Several hens were pecking around for food.
"It's dry and there's plenty of room. I will provide you with blankets. You'll be comfortable enough, I think."
She led them to a corner. Several straw bales were stacked against the wall. Taking hold of one of the bottom bales, she pulled it out to reveal a dark opening. In the space behind, Hawkwood made out a bucket and some tubs stacked against the barn wall. "If anyone comes, you are to hide in here." She indicated the dog. "This is Rab. He's getting on in years, but he is a good dog and he will warn me of strangers."
Hearing his name, the dog looked up. His tail wagged.
"There is a man who comes in to help me. His name is Thomas. You will know him for he has a bad leg and a scar here." The woman ran the point of her finger across her right eye and cheek. "You do not have to hide from him." As she spoke, she glanced at the scars on Hawkwood's face. "Hooper, did you say?"
"That's right," Hawkwood said.
"You're English?"
"American."
She studied him for several seconds before nodding silently. Then she said, "When it's time, I will bring you something to eat and drink."
"Thank you," Lasseur said, subdued by the uncompromising gaze. "What do we call you?"
"Madame."
She turned before they could reply, heading for the farmhouse
in purposeful strides, the dog following closely in her wake. She picked up the pail as she passed. Both men watched her go.
Lasseur turned to Hawkwood and grinned. "I think she likes me.
CHAPTER 13
Hawkwood's eyes were closed. It was odd, he thought, how he could still smell the hulk. Common sense told him it was impossible for the reek from the prison ships to have carried all the way to the farm, and yet he could swear the odour was there, coagulating at the back of his nostrils.
Though he knew it was ridiculous, he opened his eyes to reassure himself he wasn't back on the gun deck. An irrational wave of relief rushed through him at the sight of the meadow and the stream and the surrounding woods. He was seated on a log, his back against the wall of the barn.
He sniffed and the hairs along the back of his neck lifted. It was then he realized it wasn't his imagination. The smell was there, and the source was a lot closer to home. It was his own odour he could smell. He was carrying the taint of the hulk with him. It was in his clothes and it was in his sweat. He sat up, held his sleeve to his nose, and reeled. He could even smell the mackerel. No wonder the gravedigger had made them sit at the back of the cart and no wonder the woman had regarded them with disdain and told them to stay clear of the house. A wild thought crossed his mind. Was that why everyone had been so eager to pass them down the line? Was it because each participant in the escape route had only been able to stand the smell for so long? He sat up quickly.
Lasseur, who had been dozing beside him, sensed movement and snapped awake fast. "What is it?" The privateer's eyes flicked towards the tree line.
Hawkwood stood. "I'm going to take a bath." He walked into the barn and retrieved his blanket and headed for the stream.
Lasseur watched him go, a look of bewilderment on his face. He raised his sleeve to expose his own armpit, inhaled, and recoiled.
The privateer had always considered himself to be a fastidious man. Maintaining personal cleanliness at sea wasn't difficult when one was surrounded by water. Taking care of one's laundry in those circumstances was no great hardship either. The facilities were certainly better than those of a soldier on the battlefield. Since his capture by the British, however, all that had changed.
There had been washing facilities on the hulk but they had been totally inadequate given the number of prisoners there had been on board. Soap had never been in great supply. Often there had been none at all. Lasseur's last immersion had been on the day of his registration, when he and Hawkwood and the rest of them had been forced into the water barrels on the quarterdeck. Since then soap had been as much a rarity as fresh fruit.
It was curious and not a little disturbing how easy it had been to let his standards slip, to the point that both he and Hooper had become so immune to the smell of the ships, as prophesied by Murat, that neither of them had noticed their own rank state.
Lasseur looked down at his clothes. There was no denying they were filthy and in need of a scrubbing, too. Deciding that just rinsing them in water wouldn't do, he got up and made his way towards the farmhouse.
The dog was lying by the door. It stood as Lasseur approached and barked once.
The woman came around the side of the house, a wicker basket in her arms. There were clothes in the basket and, behind her, Lasseur could see a washing line strung between two of the apple trees.
The dog, its guard duty performed, moved to the woman's side and sat down. Lasseur assumed it was watching him. It was difficult to make out the animal's eyes behind all the hair.
The woman's eyes, in contrast, were perfectly visible. They reflected neither fear nor friendliness at his presence. She did not speak, but looked at him, one hand holding the basket, the other resting lightly, almost protectively, on the dog's head.
Lasseur stopped ten paces from her. The hair was again hanging loose alongside her cheek, he noticed. He wondered about her age. There were lines around her eyes. They were not deeply etched but, without them, Lasseur decided, her face would not have possessed the same strength of character. She was about thirty, he guessed, and it occurred to him that his late wife, Marie, had she lived, would have been the same age. Lasseur was suddenly struck by an overwhelming sense of loss and longing. He swallowed quickly, wondering if the woman had sensed his momentary waver.
"Forgive me, madame. I wonder if you might have some soap. My friend and I would like to bathe and wash the dirt f
rom our clothes."
He tugged at his shirt as if to hold it to his nose, and decided to risk a smile.
She did not respond but continued to gaze at him without speaking. Lasseur was surprised by how intimidated he felt. Self-consciously, he buttoned his jacket and ran a hand through his unkempt hair. He wondered just how bad he smelled. He was glad he hadn't drawn closer.
"Wait here," she said abruptly. She put down the basket and went into the house.
Lasseur and the dog regarded each other in silence. All Lasseur could see was a pink tongue protruding through brown foliage.
Lasseur squatted. "Hello, Rab. Good dog."
The dog's tail twitched.
Lasseur snapped his fingers softly.
A definite wag this time and what might have been a slight rising of the ears.
Two more snaps.
The dog walked forward and licked the back of Lasseur's proffered hand. The animal was obviously not offended by the smell.
Lasseur stood as the woman came out of the house.
"Here -" She held out a small bar of soap at arm's length. There was a short pause. "It's about time."
She stepped away and picked up the basket.
Lasseur felt himself redden. "Thank you, madame. I will see it is returned." Lasseur took the soap and attempted another smile. "He is a fine dog."
"And easily distracted." The woman looked down. What could have been taken as a flicker of affection passed briefly across her face, or it could have been Lasseur's imagination.
The dog looked up at her.
"I have often found dogs to be excellent judges of character," Lasseur said.
"He's old. Sometimes he gets confused."
"I know the feeling," Lasseur said. He gave a brief bow. "Thank you again for the soap."
The woman nodded but her gaze remained neutral. Deflated, Lasseur turned away.
The woman and the dog watched him go. She walked towards the apple trees. Suddenly, she stopped and looked over her shoulder at the dog, which had not moved. It was still staring after Lasseur.
"Rab."
The dog wagged its tail and padded towards her.