Rapscallion

by James McGee

  "Where was the army?" Hawkwood demanded. "What the devil were you doing while all this was going on?"

  The army, Burden told him miserably, had been outmanoeuvred.

  Following a tip-off that two major contraband runs involving hundreds of men and ponies were planned for that evening - one to the north at Sandwich Flats, the other to the south at Margaret's Bay - the Revenue had turned to the town's regular contingent of troops, modest at the best of times, for assistance. Only a handful of soldiers had been left in Deal.

  Hawkwood realized then how well Morgan had played his cards. He had obviously started the rumours himself, instructing his agents to spread the word the runs were taking place. With the troops out of the way, his men had soon sealed off the town's three major access roads: the Dover Road to the south, Five Bell Lane in the west and the turnpike road to the north.

  Burden coloured. "And we were stuck in the bloody castle. We were able to return fire, but I'm still not sure if we hit any of them."

  Deal Castle lay at the southern edge of the town, close to the Dover Road toll gate. It had been besieged once before, during the Civil War. Since then it had remained inviolate, its massive circular bastions standing guard over the town and the coast, a monument to Tudor engineering.

  Like the carronade, however, the fortress had its flaws. Its primary use was as a defence against attack from the water, not from the land. Its guns faced the sea. The second major flaw was that, like all castles, it had only one main entrance: the gatehouse.

  Access to the gatehouse was by a narrow stone causeway. Morgan's men had turned the causeway into a killing ground, blockading it with another of their heavy wagons and a pair of mounted swivel guns opposite the entrance.

  When the carronade opened fire on the Admiral's residency, a patrol had immediately set out from the castle to investigate. The soldiers made it only as far as the causeway before Morgan's men, dressed in their French infantry uniforms, opened fire to lethal effect. Four men dead, six injured, out of a force that hadn't been large to begin with.

  "We couldn't get at the bastards," Burden said. "And all they had to do was keep us confined. We couldn't get out by the moat either. They had the postern gate under their guns, too."

  "What about the Naval Yard; aren't there any troops there?"

  Burden shook his head. The Yard lay next to the castle. It was small by Admiralty standards and its main role was to victual ships with bread and beer and ballast from the local beach. Enclosed by high walls and with only three entrances, it had been easy to seal off. In any case there were no troops stationed there beyond a couple of sentries manning the gates.

  With his wagon crews effectively in control of the town, Morgan and his raiders had driven the gold straight down to the beach where his ship had been waiting. They had used a fleet of small boats to ferry the bullion boxes from the shingle beach out to the ship.

  "She was flying the ensign," Burden said heavily. "In the dark, we thought she was one of ours."

  With the gold on board, the ship had weighed anchor and Morgan's wagon crews had melted away in the night, leaving the strong room bare and the town in a state of shock.

  That had been nearly two hours ago, Burden told them.

  Morgan had put the army to shame. And he had done it with a precision the army would have been proud of. Even down to executing the robbery at night so that the Deal telegraph station would not be able to send a shutter message alerting the next station down the line that the residency was under attack.

  The time had come for Hawkwood to add to the lieutenant's suffering.

  It wasn't the French, he told Burden, at which the man seemed to age a thousand years in front of their eyes.

  Leaving the shattered lieutenant in the empty strong room to contemplate what remained of his career, Hawkwood and Lasseur made their way to rejoin Jago and Micah.

  "Perhaps he'll shoot himself," Lasseur said. "It would be the honourable thing."

  "I think someone will probably do it for him," Hawkwood said.

  Outside, the bodies of the dead were being lifted on to a cart.

  Jago nodded towards the soldiers guarding the overturned carronade. "There are some bodies on the beach and the corporal told us there are more up by the castle," he said, then paused and looked at Lasseur. "They're French." Jago turned back to Hawkwood: "I thought you said Morgan and his men were behind this?"

  "It's only the uniforms that are French," Hawkwood said. "It was Morgan's crew."

  Jago shook his head. "The ones I saw were definitely French. They had tattoos. I'd know that eagle anywhere."

  "You've seen them?"

  "Beach is that way -" Jago pointed. "And you won't even get your feet wet."

  "Show me," Hawkwood said.

  The bodies had been laid side by side, face up, on the shingle, ready for disposal. In the moonlight, in their dark tunics, shakos and dirty breeches, and with their faces already grey and misshapen by death, they looked like bloodstained ragdolls left by the tide.

  Le Jeune looked about a hundred years old. The tattoo was visible just below the crook of his arm. The tunic was too short for him and the sleeve had ridden up. Next to him, in complete contrast, Louis Beaudouin looked about twelve. Souville resembled a skeleton already; Rousseau wasn't much better.

  Jago had referred to another lot of bodies found by the castle. Hawkwood was willing to wager he knew the identities.

  "He killed them," Lasseur breathed. "He killed them all." The breeze ruffled his hair as he gazed down at the corpses in disbelief.

  "They'd served their purpose," Hawkwood said, and then wished that he could take the words back, even though he knew it was the truth. Morgan had used Frenchmen in French uniforms; hearing them conversing and giving orders and probably exhorting their comrades to greater effort in their own language, any witnesses present would have been left in no doubt that the gold had been stolen by a French raiding party.

  And dead men in French infantry uniforms gave added credence to the lie. In the confusion, it would have been assumed that some of Burden's beleaguered troops had managed to fight back.

  Leaving Morgan's men to steal away scot-free.

  Sooner or later the truth would have come out. Morgan kept his people on a tight leash and the hardened members of his crew knew how to keep secrets, but this was huge. Eventually, over a glass of grog or a pipe of tobacco, the story would be told. But by then it would be too late.

  Wearily, Hawkwood lowered himself to the pebbles and rested his hands on his knees.

  What had it all been for?

  Jago sat down next to him and let out a sigh. "Don't know about you, but I'm getting too old for all this runnin' about. A man of my age, it ain't good for my health."

  Hawkwood could hear cries behind him and the sound of tramping feet. Pretty soon the army, having learned that its pay chests had been stolen not by the French but by someone much closer to home, would begin hammering on doors.

  To what degree, Hawkwood wondered, had the town's inhabitants been involved? Morgan could not have deployed his crew or distributed the weapons - especially the carronade - without reconnoitre or support. And there were the wagons and the horses to consider, too. Morgan had once boasted that there would never be a shortage of men willing to do his bidding. Did that mean he could recruit an entire town? Deal folk were a close-knit community, and they had seen their livelihoods overturned by the authorities on more than one occasion. They didn't like the government or the army, and a share of Morgan's profit from the gold would keep families housed and fed for a long time to come, ensuring their loyalty. He even had the bloody judges in his pocket, and half a million pounds bought a lot of protection. The authorities - and that included the army - would have their work cut out.

  "Now what?" Jago asked.

  Hawkwood looked back at the town. Lights were flickering on. He could hear shouts, more running feet. "See if we can find ourselves beds for what's left of the night. Leave someone el
se to clear up this damned mess."

  "I could use a wet," Jago said, getting to his feet. "I've got a throat like a tinker's crotch. Let's go find ourselves an inn."

  Lasseur, standing to one side, continued to gaze out over the water. His expression was as black as the waves.

  Hawkwood stood. "Looks like you got what you wanted."

  Lasseur looked at the line of bodies. "Not like this."

  "But your Emperor will get his gold."

  Lasseur shook his head, saying nothing. He looked deep in thought. Then he said, "They can still be caught."

  "What?" Hawkwood said, not quite hearing.

  "I said they can still be caught."

  Hawkwood laughed. He couldn't help it. "I don't think so. Captain. It's the navy's task now, and it'll take them the rest of the night just to get their bloody breeches on. The bastards are long gone. Besides, no one knows what port they're heading to."

  "I do," Lasseur said. "I know exactly where they're going. We might be able to catch them."

  "It's too damned late. They'll be across the water before anyone can raise a sail."

  "Not necessarily," Lasseur said. "Not if this breeze stays on the same heading."

  Hawkwood fixed him with a stare. "What do you mean, 'We'?"

  Lasseur turned slowly. "I mean my ship, the Scorpion.'"

  "Your ship?" Hawkwood said. "What the devil's your ship got to do with it?"

  And Lasseur smiled.

  CHAPTER 22

  Hawkwood's warrant got them out of town, through the army- manned toll gate and south, on to the Walmer Road.

  The horses were flagging, despite having been rested, and Hawkwood knew they would not be able to go much further. It came as some relief when, after only a couple of miles, Lasseur led them off the road, turning east towards the sea. A signpost, standing crooked in a hedge, read Kingsdown.

  They walked the horses through the sleeping village and on to a shingle beach lying at the foot of a tall, grey rock face. Hawkwood could see the raked outline of an even higher slab of headland beyond it and another beyond that, and he knew this was the beginning of the long line of pale cliffs that stretched all the way along the coast to Dover.

  Just discernible against the night sky, some three hundred yards from the shore, a dark-painted, three-masted schooner lay at anchor. No lights showed upon her deck or from within her hull. It was possible, Hawkwood thought, that if they had not been looking for the vessel, it would have taken them some time to realize it was there.

  "I need a pistol," Lasseur said.

  Jago reached into his saddlebag. "It's loaded," he warned.

  Lasseur took a long breath, pointed the pistol into the air, and pulled the trigger. The powder flared and the report rebounded from the cliff above them. As Micah calmed the horses, Lasseur handed the pistol back and Jago stuck it in his belt.

  The water looked dark and cold and deep. Hawkwood was reminded of the night they had sailed from Warden. He could see the lights of two vessels far out in the Channel beyond the black-hulled ship and he wondered if one of them was Morgan's Sea Witch.

  The privateer had employed Tom Gadd as his messenger. On their first day back at the farm, while the widow attended to Hawkwood's fever, Lasseur had sent Gadd to visit his agent in Ramsgate; the same man Lasseur had been trying to reach when he'd made his dash for freedom prior to his arrival at Maidstone Gaol.

  The agent had dispatched Lasseur's message to his crew in Dunkerque by carrier pigeon; informing them their captain was free and awaiting their arrival. They were to sail Scorpion to the Kent coast, and lie at anchor in the waters off Kingsdown for two hours either side of midnight. They would do this for five nights, from the time of the message's receipt, and look for Lasseur's signal.

  "It all depends," Lasseur had said, "whether my men got the message in time."

  It seemed they had.

  Hawkwood looked towards the ship. A small object had detached itself from the hull and was heading towards them. Slowly, it drew closer and Hawkwood saw the hunched backs of the rowers and heard the light splash of the oars.

  Lasseur came to life. He stepped towards the water.

  A soft cry came out of the darkness."Scorpion!"

  Lasseur waded into the water. "C'est moi!"

  "More bloody Frogs!" Hawkwood heard Jago mutter under his breath.

  The rowboat continued its steady approach. Finally, it grounded against the shingle. The dark-haired man who leapt from the boat was about Micah's age, and of similar build. He was not wearing a uniform but was dressed from head to toe in black, as was the seaman manning the oars at the stern

  of the boat. Eyes laughing and smiling broadly, the dark-haired man clasped Lasseur's arm in a firm grip.

  Lasseur grinned. "This is my first officer, Lieutenant Marc Delon."

  The young lieutenant nodded a greeting, though he couldn't disguise his curiosity at the presence of three strangers. Hawkwood wondered if Delon thought they were all fellow escapees.

  Lasseur nodded towards the man seated in the stern. "Henri, Comment va cela?"

  The oarsman grunted an inaudible reply.

  Lasseur clapped his lieutenant on the back."D'accord, allons!"

  Delon scrambled back on to the boat.

  "Let's go, my friends!" Lasseur urged. "Hurry!"

  "Anything left in your saddlebags?" Hawkwood asked Jago.

  "Nothing that I'll miss," Jago said.

  Lasseur climbed into the boat. Hawkwood and Jago followed him. Micah remained on shore. The smiling lieutenant picked up his oars and the boat pulled slowly away from the beach.

  Micah remained standing motionless at the edge of the water. Jago raised his hand. Micah nodded once, then turned and walked up the shingle towards the horses. He did not look back.

  Hawkwood caught Lasseur's eye. "Does Jess know?"

  "No," Lasseur said. He looked over the bow towards the open sea, and lapsed into silence.

  Lasseur's crew made no secret of their joy at his return, lining the rail to welcome him. Once on board Scorpion, however, Lasseur wasted no time in giving his lieutenant the order to depart as quickly as possible.

  As the crew sprang into action, Hawkwood looked out over the rail. He could see the long line of chalk bluffs extending into the darkness behind them. They looked close enough to touch. Of Micah and the horses, there was no sign. He looked over the bow towards the line of the horizon, but there was nothing to see except the dark curtain of night. The lights of the vessels he had seen earlier had disappeared.

  Her anchor stowed, the ship began to swing round. Sails were being raised as Lasseur led them below. In the chart room, a lantern swayed from a beam as Lasseur pulled a chart from a nearby locker and opened it out upon the table.

  "Morgan will be heading here -" he said, pointing with a pair of compasses. "Gravelines."

  Hawkwood looked over the end of the compass points at the lines and squiggles. The name sat halfway between Dunkerque and Calais on the northern coast.

  "Why there?"

  "They call it la ville des Smoglers. The port was chosen by Bonaparte to accommodate free traders and their ships. They've built a special enclosure with stores, warehouses and lodgings. The whole place is protected by gun batteries. There's even an English quarter. They say that up to three hundred English free traders use it at any one time. The Emperor has granted merchants special licences to import and export goods using the smugglers. Any contraband landed along your southern coast will have started its journey here."

  Lasseur tapped the chart table with his knuckle. "This is where the guinea boats deliver their cargoes. The trade is controlled by the Rothschild family. Head of operations is Nathan Rothschild, the banker; he's based in London. His brother, James, arranges for the transfer of the gold from Gravelines to Paris, where it is changed back into English bank notes. It's then that the smugglers and their backers make their profit. Morgan's heading for Gravelines, I'll stake my life on it."

  "And
you still think we can catch him?" Hawkwood asked.

  "If any ship can, it's this one."

  "Back in Deal, you said something about the breeze. What did you mean?"

  "The wind's from the east."

  "I don't understand," Hawkwood said.

  "One of the reasons Morgan chose to carry out the raid when he did was to take advantage of the tide. Cutters have deep draughts and are not usually good for close inshore work, so he needed a high tide to enable him to load the gold on to his ship and then make his escape.

  "To get to Gravelines, however, he would first have to steer south to avoid Les Sables - what you call the Goodwin Sands." Lasseur tapped the chart. "During that part of his journey, the tide would have been against him; with the wind driving him against the shore, his progress would have been very slow. Once he cleared the Downs and reached the southern end of the Sands, the tide would have been more in his favour, but so long as this wind holds, he'll find it hard to make headway. Even if the breeze remains gentle, he will have to tack constantly. Cutters are fast; that's why the free traders use them. Ordinarily, a cutter could probably outrun a schooner, but in a headwind he will not have got very far. Scorpion will be faster –she can defeat the wind. I believe we can catch him."

  "I thought ships couldn't sail into the wind," Hawkwood said.

  "Scorpion can," Lasseur said confidently.

  "How?"

  "She has a special type of sailing rig. I designed it myself. It's based on the rigs of the xebecs, the ships used by Barbary pirates. They robbed European vessels and escaped by sailing into the wind, leaving escorts unable to chase them. I studied the design when I was in the Mediterranean. Scorpion's rig has been adapted so that she can use the same tactic. You saw how her main mast is square rigged? Those sails provide the forward motion, thrusting her through the waves. The xebec sails were triangular and set between bowsprit and foremast. I use the same principle, but instead of one large sail I use two, between my fore and main masts. With the jibs, they create a lifting motion; soon as they're raised, you'll see that they are cut flatter than normal. That allows her to go to windward and to glide over the waves with ease."