by James McGee
There was a distant bang and a puff of smoke appeared on the cutter's deck, then a waterspout erupted five yards off the schooner's starboard quarter.
Someone cheered derisively.
Lasseur snorted contemptuously and yelled at his first officer to fire on the up roll.
Hawkwood remembered being told that English gunners generally fired on the down roll so that any delay would cause the ball to bounce off the water and ricochet into the enemy's hull. French gun crews usually aimed for the rigging. As a consequence, the French tended to suffer greater casualties. Hawkwood knew the last thing Lasseur wanted was to sink the cutter, especially given the cargo she was carrying, so in aiming at the cutter's rig the privateer was following tradition. Hawkwood tried not to think about the rest of it.
As Scorpion's starboard rail swept past the cutter's tapered stern, Delon dropped his arm.
The gunner hauled back on the lanyard and the explosion took Hawkwood by surprise. It was sharper and louder than he had expected, more an ear-splitting crack than a roar. The sound pierced his brain like a skewer and he saw Jago flinch beside him.
Hawkwood looked for the fall of the shot and saw nothing.
They bloody missed!he thought angrily, and then he watched as the top quarter of the cutter's mast began to topple sideways in a jumble of rigging.
A loud whoop rang out from the gun crew, who were already sponging down the barrel in preparation for the next firing. The cry was taken up by the rest of the men on deck as the mast collapsed upon itself in a tangle of ropes and spars.
Lasseur had used chain shot. He yelled again. "Feu!"
Another detonation. This time Hawkwood saw the shot hit, tearing away the gaff, ripping into the sail and shattering what remained of the mast. Halyards gone, main sail shredded, the cutter's rig lost all integrity. As the man in the stern wrestled with the tiller, the vessel began to wallow.
But her crew were fighting back.
A double report sounded from across the water. Hawkwood saw the twin billows of smoke dispersing along the cutter's deck - one from the swivel gun. He hunkered down instinctively as a section of the schooner's starboard rail disintegrated under the impact, heard a whimper as the ball went past his ear and ducked again as splinters pierced the air like arrows. Screams rang out. Hawkwood saw one man spin away, hand clamped around his throat, blood pumping from between his fingers.
A roar of defiance erupted from Scorpion's crew.
"Au tribord!" Lasseur screamed at his helmsman.
The helmsman hauled down on the wheel and Scorpion obeyed the command. Her bow dipped. Water boiled along her length and foamed across her steeply sloping deck as she swung towards the cutter's hull. Her stern lifted as she slewed to starboard. There was another blast of cannon fire and Hawkwood saw one of the cutter's gun crews split asunder in a welter of blood and smoke and splinters and tumbling bodies. And Scorpion was beam on to the cutter's port side. Only yards separated them.
Lasseur screamed at his men to steady themselves. The hulls were less than two cannon lengths apart when the first grappling hook curved over the cutter's gunwale. A rain of metal claws followed. With their comrades providing covering fire, the men on the ropes began to haul in. Hawkwood felt Jago's strong hand on his shoulder, held on to a shroud and braced for impact. It wasn't dissimilar to an attack on a breach in a wall, he thought, as the distance between the vessels closed. The principle was the same: people were trying to kill you. So, eyes forward, keep your wits, don't bloody fall over.
"It's possible they'll match us in numbers," Lasseur had told them. "But my men have done this before. Watch your flanks."
Powder flashes lit up the faces lining the cutter's rail. A seaman to Hawkwood's left gave an explosive grunt and fell back, a red orchid blossoming across his front.
The hulls met with a shuddering crash and a groan of timber, and Scorpion's crew, screaming like banshees, leapt over the schooner's side and hurled themselves towards the cutter's deck.
Where they were met head on with ball and steel.
As Hawkwood jumped, he caught a glimpse of grey-green water swirling in the gap below his feet. Then he was over and the deck was rushing up to meet him. He landed hard, slithered in a pool of dark blood, brought the pistol round and fired point-blank at a body coming in, sword held high. He saw a red mist envelop the attacker's skull and then tin- corpse was falling away into the melee. Hawkwood reversed the pistol and drew the tomahawk from his belt. The air rang with the clash of steel and the crack of small-arms fire.
He looked for Morgan but couldn't see either him or Pepper. In the uproar and the noise and with powder smoke roiling across the deck, all he could see was a confused mass of struggling bodies. Hawkwood searched for anyone not wearing a neckcloth on their bicep. He saw Lasseur, fighting with knife and sword, turn his blades towards a blue-jacketed man, his face a mask of fury. A good number of Morgan's men were still wearing their French uniforms. Lasseur had briefed his crew. They were making good use of the information. The blue tunics made easy targets.
A huge figure - one of the cutter's crew, from his lack of an arm band - appeared on Hawkwood's right, in his hands a musketoon designed for close-quarter work. The gun's maw looked about a foot wide. Hawkwood saw death staring at him and then Jago was there, cutlass hacking down through the man's wrist before he could pull the trigger. Hawkwood followed through with the tomahawk, felt the blade bite into muscle, tugged the weapon free and scrambled on.
The battle raged. It was brutal and bloody, and it was becoming increasingly perilous underfoot. Detritus from the vessel's broken rig had turned the deck into a morass of cordage, black rigging, torn sailcloth and broken spars. The bodies of the dead and wounded were adding to the debris.
Then, through a gap in the fighting, Hawkwood saw Pepper. Morgan's lieutenant was at the cutter's stern, hacking a cutlass at a knot of rope wrapped around an arm of the jolly boat hoist. The tiller man lay dead by Pepper's feet.
Bastard's trying to go over the side again, Hawkwood thought. But Pepper wasn't alone. Another man was attempting to free the ropes on the hoist's other arm. Hawkwood didn't recognize Morgan immediately. His black beard was gone, but his shape gave him away. He looked up, saw Hawkwood, swallowed his shock and redoubled his efforts. Like some of his men, he was still wearing the blue tunic and white breeches. Hawkwood saw diagonal stripes low down on the tunic sleeve as Morgan raised his arm and in a moment of clarity heard Lieutenant Burden's voice in his ear describing the broad- shouldered sergeant who had shot Corporal Jefford stone dead in the residency lobby.
His eyes swept the deck, trying to pierce the smoke. He saw
Lasseur, caught the privateer's eye and pointed. Lasseur followed his gaze and his eyes took on a new intensity. Sidestepping over the mess of fallen canvas and ignoring the press about him, the privateer, teeth bared, clambered towards the jolly boat.
Hawkwood saw Pepper look up. Morgan's lieutenant had spotted Lasseur moving towards him. Beneath his beard, Pepper's cheeks hardened. He edged away from the hoist, cutlass in his hand. Behind Pepper's back, Morgan continued to attack the rope. Suddenly the strands parted and the jolly boat's bow dropped. Morgan transferred his energy to the second hoist.
Hawkwood heard Jago bellow. Another of Morgan's men chancing his arm. He turned and whipped the pistol butt into a startled face. Regaining his balance and with the fighting raging about him, he headed for the stern.
Pepper gripped the cutlass and waited for Lasseur's attack. He looked unconcerned, confident. The cutlass was his weapon.
Lasseur ran in, Pepper scythed the cutlass towards Lasseur's sword arm. Lasseur parried, driving the strike away with the side of his blade. As Pepper's weight carried him round, Lasseur went low and ripped his knife through the tendons behind Pepper's right knee. His hamstrings severed, Pepper collapsed on to the deck, his expression one of bewilderment, shock and pain. Head thrown back, his mouth opened, but the scream was cut short as Lasseur rammed
his sword point down and through the exposed throat.
Lasseur placed his boot on Pepper's unmoving chest and tugged the blade free.
"Cretin!" he hissed.
Morgan was almost through the last rope when he saw Pepper fall. The sight of Lasseur and the Runner on the bow of the schooner had been shocking enough. Seeing his lieutenant killed so suddenly and with such ruthless efficiency was even worse. One second Cephus was there, guarding his back, the next he was on the deck with a gaping wound in his throat, leaking blood. It didn't seem possible things could happen that quickly.
But they had and Morgan had seen the look in Lasseur's eye and he knew what it meant. So, ignoring the dead tiller man and the pool of blood that was seeping into the deck, he continued with his frantic attempt to free the jolly boat from its cradle, knowing it was futile.
He heard a voice say, "It's over, Morgan," and turned, breathing heavily.
Lasseur and Hawkwood were standing shoulder to shoulder. Beside them stood a stocky, hard-faced man with gun-metal hair, carrying a bloodstained cutlass.
"It's over, Morgan," Hawkwood said again. "You lost. Your men are finished."
Morgan saw that Hawkwood spoke the truth. Those members of his crew that were still standing were laying down their arms in surrender and lowering themselves to the deck, hands on their heads. Lasseur's men were moving among them, collecting weapons. It was clear from the lack of cloth bands on the bodies littering the deck that the cutter's crew had been overwhelmed by sheer force of arms. The Sea Witch's scuppers were slick with blood.
"Reckon this is what they mean when they talk about rats tryin' to leave a sinkin' ship," Jago said.
Morgan let the sword slip from his grasp. His chest rose and fell.
"We're still fifteen miles off the coast," Hawkwood said. "Did you really think you'd make it?"
"The Lord loves an optimist," Lasseur murmured.
"Can't blame a man for trying," Morgan said.
Hawkwood stuck the pistol in his belt, tossed the tomahawk aside and drew the knife from his boot.
A flicker of doubt crossed Morgan's face. His jaw tightened.
The man looked strange without the beard, Hawkwood had decided. His face looked rounder and at least five years younger, and not so aggressive. In fact, Hawkwood thought, there was something else about Morgan that was different. He looked more portly round the chest, which was a bit odd, and his movements looked . . . ponderous.
Before Morgan could react, Hawkwood jabbed the knife point beneath the front hem of Morgan's tunic and with effortless ease sliced the blade towards Morgan's chin like a surgeon opening up a cadaver. The tunic cloth parted like grape skin.
"Well, would you look at that!" Jago said in wonderment. "Haven't seen one of them since the old king died."
It was a waistcoat, but it wasn't like any Hawk wood had seen before. It was lined with pockets and every one of them was bulging.
Hawkwood reached out and with another flick of his wrist performed a second filleting along one of the pocket seams. The cloth split and the weight of the contents did the rest. A gold ingot clattered to the deck.
Hawkwood slid the knife back in his boot and picked the ingot up. It wasn't very big, about half the size of a tinder box, but it was heavy nonetheless. Impressed into the dull metal were some numbers and a round stamp bearing the words Rothschild Sons.
From the size of him, Hawkwood guessed there were pockets in the back of Morgan's waistcoat, too, and there was a suspicious bulge across his lower back. Lasseur used his sword point to lift the back of the blue tunic. A bustle-like garment was tied around Morgan's waist.
"You might want to check inside his breeches, an' all," Jago said. "They used to carry thigh pieces, back in the old days."
"We get the picture," Hawkwood said. "Check Pepper."
Lasseur did so.
"The same," he announced, realizing that the weight had contributed to Pepper's sluggishness and inability to repel his attack.
"The old tea waistcoats used to hold about thirty pounds weight," Jago said.
"Judas got silver. You got gold," Hawkwood said. "You go to all that trouble and all you end up with is a bloody waist coat. Hardly worth the effort."
"What do you want to do with him?" Lasseur asked. "I give him to you. My gift."
"Let him have the gold," Hawkwood said.
"What?" Lasseur's jaw dropped.
Hawkwood shrugged. "Let him take his chances."
"You ain't bloody serious?" Jago said. "After all you said?"
Morgan's head came up. "You're not arresting me?"
"Arrest you?" Hawkwood laughed. "You've a bloody high opinion of yourself. No, I've a mind to let you keep your waistcoat. I don't think the army will miss thirty pounds of gold, do you? Far as I'm concerned, you make it to the coast, you damn well deserve to keep it. There's only one condition ..."
"What's that?" A tiny light flared in the dark eyes. Hope springing eternal.
"You have to swim."
Hawkwood half turned and slammed his boot into Morgan's belly.
The kick rocked Morgan on to his heels. The edge of the bulwark caught him across the back of his legs and momentum did the rest, sending him backwards over the cutter's side. He hit the water with the look of incredulity still glued to his face. He was still trying to recover his breath as the sea closed over him, taking his encumbered body down into its cold and lasting embrace.
It was over so quickly, there was no trace of his passing.
Hawkwood stepped back.
"That's taken the weight off his mind," Jago observed. "Though you had me worried for a while. Thought you'd gone soft."
There were more splashes from behind. Under the supervision of Lieutenant Delon and his men, the remnants of Morgan's crew were tipping the bodies of their dead comrades into the water.
"Time to go, I think," Lasseur said, turning on his heel and sheathing his sword. He called his lieutenant to him.
"When they've disposed of their dead, lock them below. Get our men back on Scorpion; including casualties. Keep a small crew behind to clear the deck, then rig a sail. We'll escort you in. She's not much of a prize by herself, but her cargo's worth more than a king's ransom." Lasseur looked at Hawkwood and grinned.
And Hawkwood said, "You'll have to be sharp about it."
He wasn't looking at Lasseur. He was looking over the bow
At the same moment Lasseur's man yelled, "Sail to the north east!"
"British frigate," Hawkwood said. "But that's just my guess. Probably on blockade patrol. She's damned close, too. I were you, I'd shoot your lookout."
Lasseur sprang to the rail.
The frigate was bearing down fast. She was closer to the French coast than Scorpion. Yards braced, with a full spread of sail, she was running before the wind. Lasseur could even see the water creaming at her bow.
"Save yourself or the gold," Hawkwood said. "Don't think there's time for you to do both. If they catch you, it'll be the black hole for sure. They'll likely throw away the key this time, the mayhem you've caused. Interesting dilemma."
"It's a bugger, right enough," Jago said.
Lasseur stared hard at the approaching man-of-war.
He turned and looked at the wreckage that was strewn across the cutter's deck; at the bodies that were still being lowered over the side, at his own ship and at the exhaustion on the faces of his men, who would be unable to withstand another pitched skirmish.
He gnawed the inside of his cheek and came to a decision.
"Merde," he said.
EPILOGUE
"Nice night," Jago said.
Hawkwood couldn't disagree. There were no clouds. The sky was dotted with a thousand stars and moonlight speckled the blue-black water. The only sound to be heard was the soft wash of the waves along the shore and the steady creak of oars. It was a sound Hawkwood had become used to.
But he'd had his fill of midnight meetings on moonlit beaches. He'd had enough, he decide
d, to last him a lifetime; several lifetimes.
But maybe this one was different.
The two men walked down to the water's edge, their boots crunching into the pebbles. They waited for the black-hulled rowboat to draw closer, stepping aside at the last minute as the bow glided out of the darkness and on to the beach.
Lasseur stepped ashore.
He smiled and held out his hand. "Captain." He shook hands with Jago. "I'm happy to see that you both made a safe return. You'll have forgiven me for my hasty departure, I hope."
"Couldn't be helped," Hawkwood said. "Business called."
"Indeed. I trust the army was suitably generous in its gratitude?"
"That'll be the bloody day," Jago said.
"No reward?"
"Just the thanks of a grateful nation," Hawkwood said. "I'm inclined to think you came out of it better than we did."
Lasseur grinned.
"I hope you gave Pepper a decent burial," Hawkwood said as they left the boat and walked towards the top of the beach where a wall of grey rock rose from the shingle and a line of tall cliffs stretched away into the darkness.
Lasseur nodded. "Wrapped in sailcloth with a six-pound ball at his feet."
"More than the bastard deserved," Jago muttered. "Mind you, it'll give Morgan someone to talk to."
"I'm assuming he wasn't wearing his waistcoat," Hawkwood said.
Lasseur shook his head. "On the contrary, we let him keep it. Without the contents, naturally."
"Spend them wisely," Hawkwood said. "That might be all you'll get for a while. I hear deliveries may be curtailed."
Lasseur had left them the rest of the gold. The British warship had been too close and coming in too fast for Scorpion's crew to pilot the damaged Sea Witch to a safe harbour or transfer the bullion before being apprehended. Even Lasseur's Barbary rig wouldn't have saved them, not given the frigate's heading and speed and the proximity of her eighteen- pounders.
Leaving the frigate to salvage the cutter and what remained of her decimated crew, along with the two individuals who'd been left on her bloodstained deck, Scorpion had reset her canvas and made for the nearest French port.