Rapscallion

by James McGee

  "They're well armed?"

  "Pistols and swords, usually, but their boats are . . . were . . . so damned fast. They'd be on you and under your guns before you'd have a chance to disengage. They've no shortage of courage, I'll give them that."

  "That's what makes them such good free traders," Hawkwood said. "It'll be a family business for most, I expect, and there's no greater bond than family."

  Save a man's regiment, where comrades in arms were often as close as brothers; closer, sometimes, Hawkwood thought, remembering.

  "Stealing a wagonload of gold isn't the same as hefting two dozen tubs of brandy up a beach," Lasseur pointed out.

  "No, it isn't," Hawkwood agreed. "But it's a bloody sight more profitable."

  "Damned right!" Lasseur said, his eyes lighting up. "I've taken some prizes in my time, but nothing like this. By God, Matthew, say what you like about Morgan, he doesn't do things by halves!"

  Lasseur was right about that, Hawkwood conceded. It sounded as though the privateer was warming to the man. But then, why wouldn't he be? Morgan was providing him with a roof over his head, victuals and a passage home, not to mention a share of the profit from a strike against a hated enemy, something at which Lasseur excelled anyway. From Lasseur's point of view, and indeed from that of Masson and Le Jeune and the rest of them, it was their sworn duty to harass and inflict damage on the enemies of France. For them, Morgan's mission was a golden opportunity.

  Literally.

  Watching the thrill of the chase expand across Lasseur's face and hearing the excitement in his voice, Hawkwood knew a primeval change was taking place. He was reminded of a wolf scenting blood and knew that Lasseur was reverting from prisoner back to privateer, his true character. Hawkwood recalled the story of the scorpion that asked the frog to carry him across a stream, promising the frog it would not be stung. And yet when they were halfway across, the scorpion reneged on its promise and stung the frog to death, thus precipitating its own demise. When the frog had asked why, the scorpion replied, "Because I'm a scorpion. It's my nature."

  Lasseur's nature was to sail the oceans in search of prey, using every means at his disposal. Perhaps the name of his ship was just a coincidence, Hawkwood thought. With a growing sense of disquiet, he realized that once again Lasseur had become his enemy.

  Which meant he was on his own.

  He saw that Lasseur was looking over his shoulder.

  Hawkwood tensed as he turned. It was the groom, Thaddeus.

  The groom jerked a thumb in the direction of the main house.

  "Mr Morgan wants to see you," he said.

  Morgan was seated at his desk when Hawkwood and Lasseur entered the room. He was dressed as he had been during his morning walk, in dark breeches and jacket and a navy waistcoat. Hawkwood looked for the two mastiffs and was relieved to see they were nowhere in sight. The blackthorn stick, however, was propped against the side of the desk.

  Morgan nodded at the groom, who backed away and closed the door behind him. Pepper, who was standing behind Morgan, looking out of the window, turned, his good arm held behind his back.

  Morgan moved out from the desk and walked to a circular table upon which stood a bottle and four glass goblets. "Drink, gentlemen?" He did not wait for a reply but reached for the bottle.

  "I think this will be to Captain Lasseur's liking. It's from the Bertin vineyard. I'm told it's Emperor Bonaparte's favourite tipple." He glanced towards his lieutenant. "Cephus?"

  Pepper stalked over. Morgan passed out the drinks and raised his glass. "Here's to profit!"

  The four men drank. Hawkwood took stock of the room. There was a marked lack of frills, making it undeniably masculine in style. Apart from a comfortable-looking settee facing the fireplace, it was more of an office than a sitting room. On first impression, it reminded Hawkwood a little of Hellard's quarters back on Rapacious. On closer inspection, however, he saw that the furnishings, although plain, were of a superior quality. And in contrast to Hellard's cabin, there were a clutch of paintings on the walls, mostly equine in character. He wondered if Morgan had a family. With the goblet in his hand, the smuggler looked every inch the prosperous gentleman farmer, while Pepper, dressed in grey, had the veneer of an efficient, albeit intimidating, estate manager.

  Morgan addressed Lasseur. "You slept well, Captain? Captain Hooper tells me that new surroundings make it hard for him to settle."

  "Not me," Lasseur said. "Though I'm more used to beds that sway."

  "Ah, of course. And they have hammocks on the hulks, don't they? By the way, did I mention that you and Cephus here have something in common? Cephus was at sea, too, before we joined forces. Weren't you, old friend?"

  Lasseur regarded Pepper with renewed interest. "You were in the navy, Mr Pepper?"

  "It was a long time ago," Pepper said.

  There was no attempt to elaborate. Lasseur glanced at the remains of Pepper's left arm but made no comment. Whether it was out of politeness or in deference to Pepper's demeanour, Hawkwood couldn't tell.

  "That was before he found a more lucrative line of work," Morgan added.

  "The Trade?" Lasseur said.

  "That's right." Morgan smiled. "The wine's to your liking, Captain?"

  "I'm happy to report that His Majesty has excellent taste," Lasseur said.

  "And what's the point of being in the business if you can't sample the goods, eh?" Morgan took a sip from his glass and compressed his lips in appreciation. "Find a seat. Make yourselves comfortable."

  Hawkwood took a chair. Lasseur moved to the settee.

  Morgan put down his glass and held open a veneered wooden box. "Manila?"

  Lasseur, with an exclamation of pleasure, helped himself to a cheroot. He held the roll of tightly wrapped tobacco leaf under his nose and sniffed appreciatively.

  Hawkwood declined. Morgan took a cheroot for himself and offered the box to Pepper, who shook his head.

  This is all very civilized, Hawkwood thought warily, and wondered what it was leading up to. Morgan didn't seem the sort to indulge in social chitchat, and Pepper looked as if he'd rather chew his good arm off than engage in conversation, polite or otherwise.

  As Lasseur lit up and drew on his cheroot, Morgan said, "That was an interesting stroke you pulled back there, Captain."

  Lasseur leant back on the cushions and expelled smoke. "But fair, I think, considering the return, especially when you're expecting men to risk their lives." Lasseur raised his goblet, flicking a glance towards Hawkwood as he took a sip. "In any case, I think you would have gone to twenty-five."

  Morgan's eyes widened. Then the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as he jabbed his unlit cheroot towards Lasseur's face. "I might have, at that." He turned to Hawkwood. "What about you, Captain Hooper? You haven't had much to say for yourself so far. Something tells me there's more going on in here than you let on." Morgan tapped the side of his head. "I'll wager those scars of yours could tell some tales. Am I right?"

  "They just mean I was slow getting out of the way," Hawkwood said. "And all soldiers carry scars."

  He took a sip of wine. Lasseur was right. The taste was exceptional.

  "That's true, but some run deeper than others, eh?" Morgan said.

  Hawkwood did not reply and watched as a shadow moved across Morgan's face.

  "We have a situation, gentlemen."

  "Situation?" Hawkwood said guardedly.

  Morgan paused to light his cheroot. Hawkwood suspected it was to give him time to think.

  When the leaf was glowing to his satisfaction, Morgan continued. "We've been having some problems with the Revenue. An occupational hazard, I know, but there's a particular Riding Officer who's been sniffing at our heels. He's developing into something of a nuisance."

  Hawkwood wondered how Morgan was expecting them to respond. It didn't seem the moment for platitudes. He took another sip of wine, and waited. Lasseur was obviously of the same mind. The privateer expelled a thin plume of tobacco smoke a
nd made a play of looking unconcerned while picking a shred of leaf from his bottom lip.

  Morgan continued. "He was only appointed a few months back and he's been trying to make a name for himself ever since. Probably thinks we haven't been taking inventory, but we have.

  Thing is, he's not from round here. Usually, the Revenue recruits from the local area. It's not like the militia: that lot reckon there's less chance of someone perverting the course of justice if there are no family connections to the immediate district. That's why Kent lads have been freezing their balls off in Dumfries, poor sods, and Dungeness had to put up with a company from Flintshire."

  Morgan took a pull on his cheroot before removing it from his lips and rolling it between his fingers. He studied the end and looked up.

  "As I was saying, he was brought in from another county. His name's Jilks, by the way, and he's proving rather more . . . conscientious than we were led to expect."

  "I take it you've tried inducements?" Hawkwood said.

  Morgan nodded. "They haven't worked. Prides himself on keeping to the straight and narrow. Anyway, over the last month or so, a number of our runs have been intercepted. There was a landing at Sandwich a couple of weeks back; we lost a hundred kegs and two men wounded. We've discovered he was behind the Warden ambush. The last thing we need is for him to find out about the Deal job and pass the word. That happens and we're all buggered. That means you, me, Bonaparte's ability to pay his troops, future landings - the whole damned trade. We can't risk that." Morgan paused. "We need to neuter the son of a bitch before it's too late."

  "Neuter?" Lasseur said.

  Hawkwood felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation worm its way down his spine.

  "Remove," Morgan said, taking a long draw on his cheroot and letting the smoke fill his lungs.

  The word hung ominously in the air.

  "You want him dead," Lasseur said flatly.

  "That would be the preferred option."

  Lasseur sat up slowly as the light dawned.

  The pins and needles invading Hawkwood's spine suddenly felt more like chips of ice.

  There'll be a price to pay.

  "And you want us to take care of it," Hawkwood said.

  Morgan jabbed towards Hawkwood with the now glowing tip of his cheroot. "You, sir, are as perceptive as your friend here." He turned to Pepper. "Didn't I say they'd be a pair to be reckoned with?"

  Lasseur lowered his glass. "Why us?"

  Morgan put his head on one side. "Delivering the gold to Bonaparte is my gesture of good faith. This would be yours."

  "I don't follow," Lasseur said. Unseen by Morgan, he threw Hawkwood another sideways glance.

  "No?" Morgan sucked on his cheroot stem, making a play of savouring the taste. "Well, y'see, back in the refectory, when I was outlining my little plan, I got it into my head that somehow you and Captain Hooper weren't warming to the notion quite as quickly as the others. Which is a pity, because Cephus and I took the two of you for a cut above the rest and we'd hate to think we might have made a mistake in judgement.

  "That's not to say it hasn't happened before, mind. You know how it is; you hold out the hand of friendship to someone, only to find they don't quite measure up to expectations. Creates all sorts of regrets and recriminations. Bottom line is, Cephus and I need to know who we can depend on. Which is why I don't think it's unreasonable to ask for proof of your commitment, do you?"

  "By asking us to kill a Revenue man?"

  "To prove you're fully on board." Morgan smiled engagingly. "I mean, it's not as though the pair of you are choirboys, is it? There's the matter of that incident back on the hulk. How many were killed? Five, wasn't it? That's a very impressive total. One might even say excessive. That drew our attention right away, didn't it, Cephus?"

  "Certainly did," Pepper said. It was the first time Morgan's lieutenant had employed emphasis.

  "All we're asking is that you put your expertise to good use," Morgan said.

  "You take us for assassins?" Lasseur said.

  Morgan shook his head. "The thought never entered my head.

  But you are still at war, aren't you? Which means Riding Officer Jilks is the enemy and, given what's at stake, I'd say that makes him as much a threat as a Royal Navy frigate or a regiment of dragoons. Wouldn't you?"

  "The man's got a point," Hawkwood said.

  "And there's nothing to connect him with either you or Captain Hooper," Morgan said. "Complete the job and in a few days you'll be on your way home, considerably richer."

  "You're implying that we have an obligation?" Lasseur said.

  "I'm suggesting you're both supremely practical men who are about to embark on a vital mission. What's the life of one man when weighed against the future of France?"

  "And your investments." Lasseur played with the stem of his glass. "Let's not forget those."

  "Without which your Emperor will be considerably poorer and your army less well equipped." If Morgan felt any rancour at Lasseur's reply, he gave no sign. "It's your duty to turn that fortune around, Captain."

  Lasseur looked at Hawkwood.

  "He's right, my friend," Hawkwood sighed. "If we were on the Scorpion and we spied a fat merchantman lying at anchor off the Downs, we wouldn't be having this conversation. We'd be sanding the decks and running out the guns and Devil take the hindmost. I say if this Jilks is the only thing standing between me and a Goddamned fortune, the bastard's fair game." Hawkwood lifted his glass. "And you know it."

  He turned to Morgan. "You want him taken care of? Consider it done."

  Chief Magistrate James Read stood by his window, looking down on to the scene below. Bow Street echoed with the sounds of a city going about its daily toil. The clatter of hooves mingled with the rumble of carriage wheels while the wavering cries of the street vendors rose into the air in a discordant chorus of strangulated vowels.

  Read's eyes were drawn to the opposite side of the road and the exterior of the Brown Bear public house. A small boy, one of the countless street urchins that roamed the area, had just attempted to fleece a passing pedestrian of his pocket watch and was being beaten roundly about the head by his intended victim. The boy was struggling like a minnow on a hook. Read couldn't help but admire the young pickpocket's nerve, plying his trade only strides from the entrance to the Public Office. He shook his head despairingly as the boy kicked his aggressor in the shins and ran off through the crowds. It took only a matter of yards before he had vanished from view. It was interesting, Read thought, that no one from downstairs had seen the altercation and thought to intervene. He would have to make enquiries. Perhaps a constable stationed permanently by the front entrance would rectify the situation.

  Read made a mental note and returned to his desk. As he sat down, there was a knock at the door. It opened and Ezra Twigg entered.

  "A communication from the Admiralty, sir.Just delivered by courier. I've told him to wait in case there's a reply."

  "Thank you, Mr Twigg."

  Read slit open the seal while Twigg hovered. His eyes skipped unerringly to the signature at the bottom of the page. The message was from Ludd.

  Ezra Twigg watched as the magistrate's brow darkened.

  "I take it there's been no word, sir?" Twigg said.

  Read did not reply. He laid the letter on his desk and said in a subdued tone, "You may tell the courier he can go. There is no reply."

  Twigg nodded and headed for the door. He hesitated and turned. "Is everything in order, sir?"

  Read looked at his clerk. "You were correct in your assumption, Mr Twigg. Captain Ludd informs me that there has been no word from Officer Hawkwood since he escaped from his confinement. Nor has there been any word of him."

  Twigg blinked behind his spectacles as he regarded the Chief Magistrate's solemn expression. The clerk had worked for James Read long enough to know that look. Read's appearance, from the swept-back silver hair and aquiline face to his dark conservative dress, was everything one might expect
from a senior public servant. It led those who did not know him to suppose he was an official who performed his duties with a puritanical zeal and a man who had no personal regard for anyone who did not adhere to his own exacting standards. Ezra Twigg knew differently.

  Behind the prim facade there resided a man who was fully and often painfully aware of the responsibilities he carried on his slim and elegantly clad shoulders. Read was indeed dedicated to his job. He was also dedicated to the men who worked for him. The Chief Magistrate knew the dangers facing his officers. The Runners were an elite band and few in number. They were thinly stretched and, by the nature of their assignments around the country, often placed in harm's way. Read knew them to be highly competent, resourceful and sometimes ruthless. It wasn't unusual for an officer to remain out of contact for a time. But that didn't stop Read from feeling concern for their welfare or their safety.

  And Read's pensive look told Ezra Twigg all he needed to know.

  The Chief Magistrate was worried.

  "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?"

  Read looked up. His face remained serious and thoughtful.

  "Yes, Mr Twigg, there is. I'd be obliged if you could deliver a message for me."

  "Very good, sir." Twigg waited expectantly. After a pause, he said, "And to whom am I delivering this message, sir?"

  Read told him.

  Twigg's eyebrows rose. "Do you think he'll come?"

  Read nodded. "He'll come."

  "I'll leave right away." Twigg made for the door.

  "Mr Twigg?"

  The clerk turned. "Your Honour?"

  "Please tread carefully," Read said.

  Twigg permitted himself a small smile. "I always do, sir."

  Read nodded. The clerk closed the door behind him. Read looked at the clock in the corner of the room. He took a watch from his pocket and consulted the dial. Walking to the clock he reached up and moved the minute hand to a quarter past the hour.

  Perhaps it was an omen, he thought. Time was ticking away.

  In the outer office, Ezra Twigg sent the waiting courier on his way and reached for his hat.