by James McGee
She took a breath, gathered herself and said, "Forgive me, Captain Lasseur. I neglected to thank you for your intervention; you, too, Captain Hooper."
"You're most welcome, madame," Lasseur gave a small bow.
"I did not want you to think I was ungrateful."
The redness she had sustained from the slap to her cheek was fading.
"Nothing was further from our minds," Lasseur said. "You are safe. That is all that matters."
She nodded. "Nevertheless, it was remiss of me. You put yourselves at risk."
"You called him by his name," Lasseur said. "You knew him?"
There was a pause. "He is my sister's husband."
Lasseur hesitated, taken aback by the response. "This has happened before?"
She pulled Lasseur's coat about her and shook her head. "No."
There was an awkward silence.
"We should leave you to recover," Lasseur said gently. "Unless there is anything we can do . . . ?"
She drew herself up with an effort. "Thank you, no. You have been very kind."
"It was nothing, madame. Anyone would have done the same."
She looked at him. "It was notnothing, Captain. And no, they would not."
Turning, she stepped inside the house, called the dog, and closed the door behind her.
Finding themselves left on the step, there seemed little else to do except leave.
Heading back to the barn, Lasseur said, "I think I might have killed him if you hadn't taken the axe from me."
"I think you would have, too," Hawkwood said.
Lasseur shook his head. "But you were right. It would have been madness."
"Yes it would."
"Even though he might yet tell someone he saw us here?"
"You think so? He tried to rape a woman. I'd say he has as much to hide as we do."
"He might see it as a way of getting his own back on her for refusing his advances and on us for intervening."
"It's possible," Hawkwood said. "Though with those scratches on his face, I suspect he may want to lie low for a while, by which time we'll likely be on our way."
"It won't hurt to keep an eye out though," Lasseur said.
"No," Hawkwood agreed. "It won't."
They entered the barn.
"Ah," Lasseur said. "It's good to be home."
It was dusk when the dog came to them. It went to Lasseur first, wagging its tail. Then it moved to Hawkwood. It was the first time the animal had shown itself to be comfortable in his company. Hawkwood felt curiously honoured.
The dog had not come alone. A shadow fell across the straw. Hawkwood and Lasseur stood.
She had changed clothes and was looking more composed than when they had left her at the house, though she had still not found a way of keeping the wayward lock of hair in place. She carried a basket in one hand and a cloth bundle in the other. She set the basket down.
"Your coat, Captain," she said, holding out the neatly folded bundle. A nerve moved in her cheek. "I noticed there was a tear in the sleeve. I've darned it for you. I would not call myself a seamstress, but it is an improvement, I think."
Lasseur took the proffered garment. "That was most thoughtful, madame. Thank you."
She nodded. "Yes, well, it was the least I could do." She brushed the errant hair behind her ear.
"You are recovered?" Lasseur asked gently.
"Yes, thank you." Self-consciously, she smoothed down the front of her skirt and indicated the basket. "I've brought your supper. There's bread and some sausage, and a gooseberry pie. I hope it is to your taste."
She turned as if to leave, then hesitated. "I brought you this. I thought that you and Captain Hooper might make use of it . . . that is, if you do not think it impertinent of me." She reached into the pocket of her dress and took out a small item wrapped in a square of towel. She passed it to Lasseur and stepped back. Lasseur unfolded the towel and a smile lit up his face. He held up the razor and ran a palm over his dark stubble. "Thank you, madame. We shall put it to excellent use." He showed it to Hawkwood and, unseen by the woman, lifted one eyebrow in a laconic slant.
"It belonged to my late husband. I had quite forgotten I had it. You have the soap still?"
"Forgive me," Lasseur said. "I meant to return it to you."
"That will not be necessary. Please keep it."
"Thank you."
She nodded, hesitated, and then, as if coming to a decision, said, "Seth Tyler . . . the man who was here earlier ..." She took a deep breath. "Since my husband passed away, he has made known his . . . feelings . . . towards me. At no time, despite what he said, have I ever given him cause to think that I might be receptive to his advances ..."
A faint flush had crept across her neck.
She brushed an imaginary hair from her cheek. "And so you should know, I am called Jess. My husband's name was Jack - Jack Flynn. I have been widowed for three years. I have worked this farm on my own since my husband died and, as may have become apparent, I am unused to company. There, it is said."
Her hands formed themselves into fists.
"We are pleased to meet you, Jess Flynn," Lasseur said.
Her jaw tightened. "Thank you, Captain. I hope the supper is to your satisfaction. You'll find wine in the jug. It is French, I believe." She unclenched her fists and spun abruptly. "Come, Rab!"
With the dog by her side, she headed for the door.
"Madame Flynn?" Lasseur called.
She paused, and turned back to face him. "Captain?"
"If this man, Seth, were to return; what then?"
Hawkwood knew what Lasseur was getting at. He knew the woman did too. Next time, there might not be anyone around to help. A nerve pulsed in her throat.
"He will not return."
"He heard Captain Lasseur speak," Hawkwood said. "He'll guess what we are. He may tell someone."
"He won't do that either."
"How can you be so sure?"
"When he's sober, he'll remember that I have protection. He'll know what will happen to him next time."
Hawkwood remembered her threat to use the gun.
"You mean you'd arm yourself?"
"That, too."
She turned away, leaving the words hanging in the air.
Lasseur stared after her. He recovered his wits as she reached the door.
"There is one other thing, madame. Before, I could not help noticing that parts of the farm are in need of repair. Captain Hooper and I would like to offer our services in exchange for your hospitality. If you have the tools to hand, we could make ourselves useful and it will help us pass the time. That is, if you find the idea . . . acceptable."
She halted and looked back, surprise crossing her face. "Thank you, Captain. That is a most generous offer. However, as I told you, I have a man who comes ..."
"Yes . . . well, as we have not seen him, we thought perhaps .. ." Lasseur's voice trailed off.
Her head lifted. "You thought that he was an invention . . . to deter you from trespass?" There was an edge to her voice.
"We thought that a possibility, yes."
"I see. Well, I assure you Thomas does exist. Though his visits can be . . ." the corners of her mouth lifted "... infrequent."
"Ah ..." Lasseur said, nodding.
"However . . ." She held his gaze.
Lasseur waited.
"I expect him here tomorrow. He can show you where things are kept. He will, I think, welcome your help." With a final nod, she turned away. "He keeps telling me he's not getting any younger."
The two men watched her go. Registering the expression on the privateer's face, Hawkwood hoped Lasseur wasn't about to make a fool of himself.
CHAPTER 14
"This is Thomas . . . Tom," Jess Flynn said. "As you can see, he is flesh and blood."
Thomas Gadd was sixty if he was a day; a short, wiry man with powdery grey hair secured in a plait at the nape of his neck. His leathery brown complexion and labourer's hands spoke of a life spe
nt outdoors. His limp was noticeable but not severe and despite the injury he appeared sprightly for his age. The scar, on the other hand, was a lot more livid than Hawkwood had envisaged from Jess's description. It looked as if it had been made by a blade. It was a miracle the man had not lost his eye.
Gadd had seaman written all over him. His grizzled countenance and braided queue were a dead giveaway, as was the tattoo of an anchor emblazoned on his right forearm.
"Tom, this is Captain Hooper, and Captain Lasseur."
Gadd's face betrayed no surprise, as if being confronted by prisoners of war on the run was an everyday occurrence.
"These gentlemen would like to earn their keep, Tom," Jess Flynn said.
Hawkwood and Lasseur felt themselves perused in turn.
"Been tellin' you I could do with some help," Gadd said. He stared hard at Hawkwood. "Jessie tells me you're a Yankee, Captain."
"That's right."
Gadd nodded. "Won't hold that against you. Met a fair few in my time. Liked most of 'em." In the same breath, Gadd said, "You'll be a soldier, too, Captain Hooper, and your friend's a seafaring man, I'm thinking."
Lasseur blinked in surprise.
Gadd sniffed. He regarded Hawkwood levelly. "You walk straighten I saw you and I said to myself, now there's a man who's done some marching and carried a pack or two in his time." He turned to Lasseur. "You, though, Captain, you've the mark of a man who's used to the wind and spray on his face. You only get that look on the deck of a ship. Am I right?"
"You are right, my friend," Lasseur replied, impressed and not a little bemused.
"Then you and me have got something in common. Reckon I've sailed on just about every kind of rig there is, and then some. Did time with John Company and the Dutch navy before I joined the King's service. Got the wounds at the Nile, in case you were wondering, but don't worry, I ain't a man who holds a grudge; leastways, not for that long."
"I'm very glad," Lasseur said.
"Speak your lingo, an' all." He favoured Hawkwood with a grin. "Enough to get by, anyways. Picked up a bit of Spanish, too; an' I can curse in Portuguese if I've a mind."
"Tom was in the navy with my husband," Jess Flynn said.
"Served together on Orion," Gadd said. "Jack was an able seaman. I was a quartergunner. Got paid off in '02."
When the peace had been signed at Amiens, Hawkwood recalled. Though it had not lasted long. Hostilities had broken out again just over a year later. He wondered why Gadd and his friend Jack Flynn had not returned to sea. Gadd's wounds wouldn't have prevented him from joining a ship. Maybe he'd just had enough of the life. As for Flynn, perhaps it had been because he'd acquired a wife. He wondered when the Flynns had taken their vows.
"Crew mates look after each other," Gadd said. "That's how it works. They see their mates' families are all right, too. Isn't that so, Captain?" He looked to Lasseur.
Lasseur nodded soberly. Hawkwood wondered if he was thinking of his dead wife and son.
"Right then," Gadd said briskly. "Can't stand here chin- wagging all day. Why don't you leave these gentlemen to me, Jessie? I'll find something for them to do. Reckon we'll have this place lookin' shipshape in no time!"
They rested at midday when the woman took them a basket of food and a jug of cider, which they placed in the stream to keep cool. By that time the gate to the sheep pasture had been mended, the meadow grass had been cut back and the slats on the barn nailed into place. The woman had left the food and returned to the house, leaving the three men to fend for themselves.
Hawkwood took a sip of cider and passed Gadd the jug. The seaman was puffing contentedly at a short-stemmed clay pipe. He put the pipe down and raised the jug to his lips. When he had drunk he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, put the jug to one side, leant back on his elbow and took up his pipe once more. With his eyes half closed against the sun he looked like a man satisfied with his lot.
"Is Madame Flynn a smuggler?" Lasseur asked.
Gadd opened his eyes at the unexpected question. Then he removed the pipe from his mouth and tapped the bowl against his boot. "Not everyone in the trade works the boats. There's some folk who just store the goods till they can be moved up the line to the buyer."
Shepherds, innkeepers and widows, Hawkwood thought. "Are there many like that?"
"A whole army. Someone offers you a keg for the use of your byre for a few nights or they need a couple of ponies for a run; you're not going to turn them down. You take someone like Morgan, for instance; he's got people all over the county."
"Who's Morgan?"
It was the second time the name had cropped up.
"Ezekiel Morgan. He controls most of the coast around here. Took over when the old gangs died out. There's not much goes on that he doesn't know about."
"Did he arrange our stay here?"
Gadd nodded.
"Will we get to shake his hand?" Lasseur asked.
"If you do, best count your fingers afterwards."
Gadd paused as if suddenly aware that he might have given out a little too much information. He reached over and placed the stopper back in the jug. "Anyways, you don't need to bother your heads about that. We've chores to finish. And we'd best get a move on. Jessie'll have our hides if she sees us sitting here gossiping like three old fishwives."
Hawkwood wondered if Morgan was the other form of protection Jess Flynn had mentioned the previous evening. He mulled over the possibility as they returned to work.
It was late afternoon when they halted for the day, by which time a pleasant ache had settled across Hawkwood's back and shoulders.
Lasseur drew a hand across his brow. "I shall sleep well tonight, I think."
"You'll eat first," Jess Flynn told them.
She had prepared food, which they ate seated at the table in the kitchen, while the dog kept watch outside the open door.
"How many others have there been before us?" Hawkwood asked.
"A few," Jess Flynn acknowledged. "But not for a while."
"This man, Morgan; did he arrange their passage, too?"
"Morgan?" Jess Flynn looked up, her face suddenly still.
"Thomas mentioned the name. He told us Morgan rules the free-trade business and that he'll have been the one who arranged our escape."
Jess Flynn looked towards Gadd, who returned her stare with an apologetic shrug before tearing off a hunk of bread and using it to mop the gravy from his plate.
"We were just curious, that's all," Hawkwood said. "We wanted to know who to thank for our freedom."
"I doubt your thanks would interest Ezekiel Morgan," Jess Flynn said tartly. "His only interest will have been in counting the money he's been paid for your passage."
"Sounds as if you don't care for him much," Hawkwood said.
"Can you blame her?" Gadd said.
"Tom," Jess Flynn said warningly.
Gadd threw her a look that said,You might as well tell them.
Jess Flynn hesitated, then said, "My husband worked for Morgan. It was after we were wed, when Jack was signed off the Orion. There wasn't much work around."
"Lots of ships lying in ordinary," Gadd cut in. "Too many men; too few jobs."
The price of peace, Hawkwood thought. It was ever thus. An end to hostilities meant ships were placed on reserve and their crews laid off, creating a glut of idle bodies in search of employment.
"He was always good with his hands, though." She smiled at the memory. "He could make anything."
"Built the barn out there." Gadd jerked a thumb and his lips tightened. "For Morgan."
"Ezekiel Morgan's my landlord," Jess Flynn explained. "He owns a lot of land hereabouts. That's the honest side of his business. Well, honest in comparison to his other interests. When we came here, the farm didn't pay for itself. We'd sell eggs and milk, but it wasn't enough. Jack would do all sorts of odd jobs to make ends meet: mending carts, shoeing horses, fixing gates - everything. He even made coffins. It was hard, but we got by. Then Morgan increased the re
nt. The first time we were unable to pay, he asked for the use of our horses for one of his runs. The next time, he needed some tubs stored for a few days. Then it was tobacco. Before long, we were hiding something away every week."
"You don't say no to Morgan," Gadd interjected. "Not if you know what's good for you. Anyone who does is soon put right. You'll find a couple of your pigs have died overnight or a hay rick's caught fire or a dead lamb's been tossed down your well. It's a lot safer to go along with whatever it is Morgan wants. If you're lucky and it all goes well, there'll be a keg of brandy on your doorstep the next morning."
Jess Flynn continued. "After a while, Jack began going out on runs. It was good money. He started off as a tub carrier, then a bat man and lookout. Eventually, he became one of Morgan's lieutenants." She stopped and her voice faltered. "And then one night he didn't come back." She fell silent.
Gadd took up the story. "There was a landing up at White Ness; a big consignment, two hundred tubs plus tobacco; seventy ponies. They were carrying the kegs up from the beach. A Revenue patrol was waiting for them at the top of Kemp's Stairs. Ten of Morgan's men were taken; six were injured; three were shot, including Jack, but he and a couple of men managed to get away. They made it as far as Reading Street. The Revenue searched the houses. The others were found. Jack managed to hide out. Morgan got the doctor to him, but it was too late; he was gone."
Jess Flynn said, "I thought I'd have to leave the farm, but Morgan let me stay on. In return, he has the use of the horses when he wants and I still hide tubs from the Revenue. Once in a while I'll get a message that he needs a special favour, and I end up taking in strays like you."
"What would happen if you told him about Seth?" Hawkwood asked.
"Seth?" Tom Gadd said, puzzled. "What's that bugger got to do with anything?"