by James McGee
They’d secured passage on a merchantman bound for Tilbury. They had been passing the Kent coast, close to the mouth of the Medway, when Jago had jumped ship in the early hours of a chilly dawn. Officially, Jago was still listed as a deserter and it was not unheard of for ships to be met by provost sergeants on the lookout for such individuals. By leaving the vessel before it docked, Jago had pre-empted that possibility. Hawkwood, watching Jago tread water as he made his way ashore, had felt the loss hard but, in retrospect, the sergeant’s actions had been understandable.
Given the sergeant’s background, Hawkwood had assumed Jago would head for familiar territory, the Kent marshes, there to rekindle his skills in smuggling and other diverse activities. He’d had no fear that Jago would suffer arrest. The sergeant was too cunning for that. By the same token he had not taken it for granted that Jago would try and seek him out. He knew that if Jago felt the need to do so he would.
And that’s how it had been. Hawkwood had heard nothing of Nathaniel Jago until, during his first few months as a Runner, he had begun to pick up vague rumours which suggested that Sergeant Jago might well have left the safety of the salt marshes behind him and embarked upon more urban pursuits.
The capital’s criminal fraternity was close knit. When Hawkwood’s informers began to let slip snippets of information pertaining to the exploits and growing reputation of an ex-soldier who, deep in the rookery, ran a small band of ruffians with what amounted to military precision, he began to pay very close attention.
Not that he should have been that surprised. Jago’s childhood, in the company of tinkers and horse thieves, had served as a fine apprenticeship for his life in the army, where he had gained a name for himself, not only as a first-class soldier but as a scavenger and protector to the men under his command. Twenty years in the military had only served to sharpen those skills. So it was hardly unexpected that he should have continued to utilize the same degree of artistry in his current, albeit dubious, means of employment.
In fact, as Hawkwood had subsequently discovered, Jago had infiltrated the London underworld with considerable success. It was hinted that the sergeant had his fingers in several pies, most of them lucrative; from protection and pilfery to piracy and prostitution, though how much was fact and how much fiction, Hawkwood had been unable to determine. Where rumour led, a grain of truth was generally not far behind. What was certain was that in the short time since his arrival in the rookery Jago had won himself a position of some influence. Whether through the use of brain or brawn, one could only surmise. Knowing Jago as he did, Hawkwood presumed it was a combination of the two. Either way, it placed the ex-soldier in the position of being able to provide Hawkwood with the kind of information he sometimes sought.
There had been occasional meetings over the intervening months, always on Jago’s home territory. Nothing personal, Jago had told Hawkwood. Only you could never tell when the provosts were likely to walk round the bloody corner. As Jago had chided softly, “Don’t want to be caught with my breeches down, do I, sir?”
And so the partnership had endured, albeit in a somewhat circumspect capacity. A snippet of criminal information here, in exchange for a warning of impending interference from the authorities there. So far, both parties to the agreement had profited.
Jago placed his tankard on the table and leaned forward. “Right, Cap’n, now don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I ain’t pleased to see you, but these old bones tell me this ain’t no social visit. I doubt you’re here to chat about old times. Strikes me there’s something on your mind. You care to tell old Nathaniel what that might be?” The candle flame flickered in a draught. Jago’s shadow, cast on the wall behind him, ebbed and flowed, one moment nothing more than a vague shapeless blob, the next a crook-backed goblin about to spring out of the corner of the room.
There was a sudden commotion on the lower floor. The dog fight had resumed. Two animals had been dropped into the straw-littered pit. Snarling and yelping, their smooth-pelted bodies erupted into a frenzy of snapping teeth and gouging claws. Hawkwood turned his head away. “Information.”
Jago raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You buyin’, or sellin’?”
Hawkwood did not waste time in preamble. “Two nights ago, a coach was held up and robbed on the Kent Road. Two men were killed: the driver’s mate and a passenger.”
Jago frowned. “And you thought I might have had something to do with it?”
Hawkwood looked at his former sergeant long and hard. “No, but I’m guessing the incident might not have gone unnoticed. Am I right?”
Jago tipped his head to one side. “Could be I did hear something.”
“Like what?”
Jago fixed Hawkwood with a steadfast gaze. “You aimin’ to bring ’em to justice, Cap’n?”
“Them?” Hawkwood said quickly.
Jago took a sip of brandy and wiped his lips. Hawkwood knew the sergeant was giving himself time to think, weighing his options.
“Two men. Old ’un and young ’un, so I ’eard.”
“What else did you hear?”
Jago sighed. “Not much. Only that they ran foul of the Redbreasts and got away with naught but a few trinkets.” Jago shook his head. “Hardly worth the bleedin’ effort! Bloody amateurs!”
“The passenger was an admiralty courier,” Hawkwood said.
“Was he now?” Jago replied, eyes narrowing. “I was wondering why you was so interested. Tell me, what if it had only been the driver’s mate that was shot, would you and me be ’avin’ this conversation?”
“Murder’s a serious business,” Hawkwood said. “Doesn’t matter if the victim’s a prince or pauper. It’s not the same as stealing a loaf of bread.”
“Try tellin’ that to the magistrate,” Jago grunted. “It’s an ’anging offence, either way.”
Hawkwood shook his head. “I’d not begrudge any man who’d steal a loaf to feed his family.”
“In that case,” Jago murmured, “I’d say you was definitely in the minority.” He stared at Hawkwood. “Y’know, Cap’n, strikes me, this is becoming too much of a bleedin’ ’abit.”
“What is?”
“You comin’ and askin’ me for favours, Just because you an’ me were former comrades in arms don’t mean I can be taken for granted.”
“I thought you said it was always a pleasure to see me?” Hawkwood grinned.
Jago stared back at him. “Christ, I’ll say one thing, you sure ain’t lost your sense of humour.”
Hawkwood smiled. “I’ll not deny that you and me knowing each other makes it easier to ask for favours. You have to use what you’ve got.”
“And right now,” Jago said, “all you got is me.”
Hawkwood smiled again.
Jago listened as Hawkwood explained how Lomax and his patrol had failed to pick up the highwaymen’s trail.
“Bleedin’ cavalry!” Jago retorted. “What did you expect? Couldn’t find their own arses if they were sitting on ’em!”
An image came to Hawkwood: the face of Lomax, the ex-major of dragoons, mutilated almost beyond recognition. Had Jago seen those ruined features, Hawkwood knew the sergeant would not have been so ready with the slander.
“I’m no informer, Cap’n,” Jago said.
“I know that,” Hawkwood replied softly.
“So, what we’re talking about is our usual arrangement. I scratch your back an’ you scratch mine.”
There was a moment’s pause, followed by a theatrical sigh from Jago. “All right, I’ll bite. What do you want me to do?”
“Just keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know if anyone tries to fence the goods.”
“That’s all?” Jago asked doubtfully.
“That’s all.”
“You do realize it’ll play ’avoc with my reputation? Me consortin’ with an officer of the law.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive,” Hawkwood said.
A blood-curdling howl rose suddenly from the pit below, followed by a col
lective groan from the spectators. Jago curled his lip in disgust. “Bloodthirsty sods.” He looked on as the defeated dog was hauled out of the pit by its disappointed owner. The dog’s flanks were heaving. Blood streamed from more than a dozen bite wounds.
Hawkwood was watching Jago’s face so he noticed the shift in eye direction and change in expression. Jago’s gaze was centred on the occupants of a nearby table. One man in particular caught his attention. Heavy set, shaven-headed with a dark scowl on a face pitted with smallpox scars, he was staring back with undisguised hostility. A brindle dog lay across his feet; a huge, savage-looking beast, heavy at the shoulder, with a broad muzzle. It appeared to be dozing but, as if sensing the mood in the air, it opened its eyes and raised its massive head. Razor-sharp teeth gleamed brightly.
“You got something to say, Tom Scully?” Jago enquired. “ ’Cause if you do, best not to keep it bottled up. Best to spit it out, so’s it’s over and done with.”
The big man stiffened. Judging from the uneasy looks he was getting from his companions, he had elected himself spokesman for the group. “ ’Pears to us you’re keepin’ bad company, Jago.”
“Is that a fact?” Jago responded. “An’ what makes you think I give a toss?”
The man’s face clouded. He jerked his chin towards Hawkwood. “All of us ’eard Dick Brewer say how he recognized your man. He’s the law. A bloody Ratcatcher! So we were curious to know how come you and him are sharing a bottle. Looks from where I’m sitting as if you two are just a mite too close for comfort.”
Jago’s jaw tightened. “Who I drinks with is my affair, Scully, not yours—nor that of any other man in this room.”
“ ’Tis if’n he brings the law down on our ’eads.”
“That ain’t going to happen.”
“Who says?”
“I do.”
“You?”
“That’s right, Scully. Me. You doubting my word?”
Scully, realizing he had backed himself into a corner, looked to his cronies for support. When he discovered none was forthcoming, he turned back and ran a nervous tongue along bloodless lips.
“All I’m sayin’ is that it ain’t right.”
Jago rolled his eyes. “Ain’t right? Jesus, Scully! There’s lots of things ain’t right. Ain’t right there’s people dying in the streets, ain’t right that I ’as to listen to you witter on like a bloody fishwife! Now, less’n you got something constructive to say, I suggest you shut your trap, otherwise you an’ me’ll be continuing this conversation in that bloody dog pit. You hear what I’m saying?”
There was a tense silence.
“I’m waiting,” Jago said.
Scully’s jaw twitched. A spark of anger flared in his eyes. “I hear you,” he said softly.
“Good,” Jago said. “Now, anyone else got anything to say?” He glared at Scully’s companions. “No? Well, that’s a relief.” He turned back to Hawkwood, muttering darkly. “Stupid buggers! Now, where was I?” He raised his mug.
“Who’s he?” Hawkwood asked.
“Scully?” Jago spat out the name with contempt and lowered his drink. “He’s naught but a lower-deck lawyer. You don’t want to pay him no heed.”
“Seaman?”
“Aye, and he’s a fine one to talk. When it comes to keeping bad company, Scully could write a bleedin’ book. That’s if the bastard could write in the first place, mind,” Jago added with grim humour.
“What’s his story?”
Jago stared into his mug before looking up and shrugging dismissively. “Ex-navy. Claims he was a gun captain on the old Inflexible.” Jago smiled thinly. “One of Parker’s bully boys.”
“Parker?”
“Aye, you remember. Delegates of the Whole Fleet at the Nore, they called themselves. A right bloody mouthful. Though I knows a better word for ’em.”
It came to Hawkwood then. “Mutineer?”
Jago nodded. “One of the ringleaders, so it’s said.”
It may have seemed ironic that Jago, a deserter, should have cast a mutineer in such a dark light, but Hawkwood knew that in Jago’s eyes there was a world of difference between the two.
“So, how come he slipped through the net?” Hawkwood asked.
“Ah, now there’s a tale, right enough,” Jago said. “You recall how I said he was a gunner on the Inflexible?”
Hawkwood nodded.
“Well, it were the Inflexible’s crew who was last to surrender, all except a dozen or so, Scully included, who wanted to fight on. The rest of the crew, though, had had enough and they locked Scully and his diehards down below. It was while the rest of ’em were waitin’ to surrender that Scully and his men climbed out of a gunport and made off in a couple of longboats.”
Hawkwood listened as Jago told him how the escapees had made it as far as Faversham, where they had stolen a sloop and set sail for Calais, in the hope of joining the French.
“Reckoned they’d be welcomed with open arms,” Jago continued, sitting back in his chair. “Stupid bastards! Soon as they landed, the Frenchies threw them in prison. Probably planned to exchange them for prisoners of war we was holding.”
“Is that what happened?”
“Nah, they were freed after a time. Most of ’em were allowed to sign on with Frog privateers.”
“Including Scully?”
“That’s the way he tells it. Served for eight years before he made a run for it. Jumped ship off Martinique, made his way back ’ome and took up the smuggling game. He’s from my neck of the woods—Sheerness. Knows the coast like the back of his hand, the best places for offloading and lying up to avoid the Revenue. Mind you, you got to admire the bugger’s application. Can’t be too many who’ve gone over the side from two navies!” Jago snorted with contempt.
“He’s a fair way from home,” Hawkwood said.
“Ain’t we all,” Jago murmured. His eyes roamed the cellar, missing nothing. “Fact is, Spiker’s one o’ the best light horsemen on the river.”
There were two kinds of horsemen. Heavy horsemen was the name given to thieves who operated during daylight hours. Light horsemen plied their trade under cover of darkness: professionals who worked in gangs, usually with the aid of copemen, who received and distributed the stolen goods. Their hunting ground was the river and the vessels that sailed upon it. Their knowledge of the moon and tides enabled them to prey on the barges and lighters. Their method was to cut the chosen vessel adrift, allowing it to drift downstream to a chosen spot where they would run it aground and strip it of its cargo. It was a good living for those with nerve and the right connections.
“Why ’Spiker’?” Hawkwood asked.
Jago gave a grim little smile. “We call ’im that on account of he’s got an interestin’ way of dealing with people who cross him. What you might call ’is trademark…”
Hawkwood waited.
“Most men’ll use their fists to settle an argument, or a blade, like as not.” Jago indicated the table over Hawkwood’s shoulder. “Your man Scully uses a marlinespike. Fearsome weapon in the wrong ’ands,” Jago commented reflectively.
Not that the disclosure needed embellishment, certainly not as far as Hawkwood was concerned. He had ceased to be surprised at the variety of means by which the more murderously inclined members of society were prepared to perform grievous bodily harm upon their fellow men—or women and children, come to that. The ex-seaman, Scully, was just another piece of human jetsam to have drifted in with the tide. The capital’s rookeries were full of men like Scully. Rootless, violent types, willing to use any means of intimidation to further their own ends.
“As an abidin’ ’atred of authority, does our Spiker,” Jago went on, warming to his subject. “Wanted to string the Inflexible’s officers from the nearest yardarm, so I ’eard. Funnily enough, it was Parker who stopped him. Though I did ’ear he killed an officer before he went over the side o’ that Frog ship he was on. Stove his ’ead in, poor bugger, an’ speared his ’ands to the deck.�
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A cackle of laughter erupted from the table behind and Jago’s face darkened. He drained his mug. “You want toppin’ up?”
Hawkwood shook his head. “Time I was going. My guess is I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“Then you’ll need someone to guide you back,” Jago advised. “It’s getting dark out. We don’t want you roamin’ the streets and getting into trouble, not with this lot around. You never know who you’re likely to run into. Why, I’d never live with myself if you was robbed on your way home.” The ex-sergeant winked broadly.
Jago beckoned with his finger. A small figure detached itself from the cluster of bodies around the dog pit and scampered up to the table. Hawkwood assumed the girl, Jenny, had been pressed into service once more, but he was mistaken. The small, tousle-haired, stick-thin figure who answered Jago’s summons was male and instantly familiar. It was the boy he had last seen fleeing Mother Gant’s lodging house, the one who had so deftly relieved Major Lawrence of his watch and chain. Somehow, somewhere between the Widow Gant’s and the Bridewell House of Correction, young Tooler the pickpocket had managed to do a runner.
Tooler favoured Hawkwood with a cheeky grin and a mock salute and looked to Jago for orders, while Hawkwood promised himself a serious talk with Constable Rafferty.
Jago placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re to see him safely home, Tooler. And that means all the way, mind. I don’t want you runnin’ off and leavin’ him at the mercy of footpads and ne’er-do-wells. You got that?”
Tooler nodded obligingly.
“And I want you to come straight here afterwards. No dilly-dallying along the way. No puttin’ your sticky fingers where they don’t belong, like in other people’s pockets, f’r instance. Understood?”
Hawkwood could see that Jago was enjoying himself, but he had to concede that had he been in Jago’s position he’d probably have milked the situation for all it was worth too.
Jago held out his hand. “Mind how you go, Cap’n.”
“You, too, Nathaniel.”