Secrets of the Fearless

by Elizabeth Laird

  The sand was soft and warm under their bare feet. John set off at a run, horribly aware that even in the dark a watcher might be able to make out their shapes against the whiteness of the beach. He looked back, expecting to have to wait for Kit, but she was just behind him, holding her long skirt bunched in her hands.

  They reached the dunes and swiftly climbed them.

  ‘We’ve lost Mr Higgins,’ John whispered. ‘We’ll never find him in the dark.’

  ‘Shh.’ She touched his arm. ‘Look. Over there.’

  He too could see it now. The flicker of a light. It burned still and steadily. Not a lantern, then, swinging from someone’s hand out in the open, but a candle, perhaps, shining out through a door or window.

  ‘It might just be a fisherman’s cottage,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘No one could live in these dunes. Anyway, fishermen would be asleep at this hour. Come on. Let’s see.’

  The sharp rough seagrass spiked their feet as they stumbled across the dunes towards the light. It was closer than they had thought. They could see now that it was streaming out through the open door of a hut. Cautiously, they tiptoed up the last short slope towards it.

  Voices reached them before they were at the top.

  ‘Stop playing us along, Higgins. You have the book? Hand it over.’

  A chill ran through John as he recognized Mr Creech’s grating voice.

  ‘I might have it or I might not.’ Mr Higgins sounded mulish. ‘Depends, don’t it, on the colour of your money.’

  Someone else snorted impatiently.

  ‘How can we pay you for it if we don’t know whether or not you have the thing?’ demanded Mr Creech.

  ‘Risks I’ve taken for this, ’orrible risks,’ grumbled Mr Higgins. ‘Give me ’alf now, and ’alf when you sees it, or you don’t get a look at it at all.’

  ‘Och, pay the fellow, Creech,’ said someone else, his Scottish voice sharp with exasperation. ‘Let’s be done with it and return to Bordeaux. The stench of fish in this hellhole will cling to my clothes for weeks.’

  John frowned. He was almost sure that the voice belonged to Mr Halkett, but the afternoon in the lawyer’s office in Edinburgh was so long ago, and his memory of it was now so dim that he could not be sure. He edged forwards, circling round the side of the hut so that he could see in through the door. He sensed that Kit had tensed, as nervous as he was of being seen, but she crept after him, keeping close.

  There was the rattle of coins from inside the hut, and an exclamation of satisfaction.

  ‘It is the code book,’ Mr Creech said, not bothering to conceal his triumph. ‘Good man, Higgins. Now listen, this is important. Is anyone else on the Fearless aware of the existence of this book and what it contains?’

  Mr Higgins laughed.

  ‘No, the fools. The boy, John Barr, ’e ’ad no idea. Thought I was just followin’ a tip-off to recover stolen goods. Stupid lad ’e is, an’ all. I’d beat some sense into ’im if I could get ’im off that scurvy gunner.’

  Someone else spoke, this time in French. Kit took the lead now, inching further forward. Directly facing the door of the cabin there was a clump of small, stunted pine trees, bent by the sea wind, on the slope behind the dunes. Exchanging no more than a brief nudge of their elbows, John and Kit understood each other. If they could reach the trees and hide among them, they would see right into the hut and be able to take cover easily.

  John gained the trees first. He stood behind one and leaned round the trunk to peer into the little cabin. It was clearly a fisherman’s place. A tangle of nets and floats lay about on the floor and in one corner was a pile of wickerwork traps, while a broken oar was propped against the far wall. There were four men inside. Mr Higgins and Mr Creech he recognized at once, and one he’d never seen before, a dandified fellow in a green coat and brilliantly polished riding boots. The fourth man had his back to the door, and it was only when he turned his head to pass the code book back to Mr Creech that John recognized him. It was definitely Mr Halkett. So the Edinburgh lawyer really was a French spy too.

  Mr Creech was speaking now. ‘You’d beat some sense into the boy, you say? I think, Mr Higgins, we would like you to do more than that.’

  ‘What do you mean, more?’ growled Mr Higgins suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, use your imagination! Or has the navy flogged it out of you? John Barr no doubt looked many times through his satchel and puzzled over the meaning of the code book. He is certainly young, and may be stupid, as you say, but I doubt it. At present, with the Fearless at sea, there is probably no one with whom he can discuss the book, but if he meets with his father again, they are certain to talk of the matter. Now Mr Barr, though a fool when it comes to business, is a man of education and intelligence. If his suspicions were aroused, and he were to alert the authorities . . .’

  ‘I understand you, Mr Creech. You want me to kill the little gutter rat,’ Mr Higgins interrupted brutally.

  ‘In a word, yes.’

  John grasped at a low branch of the tree and held it tight, not noticing that pine needles were sticking into his palm.

  ‘’Ow?’ demanded Mr Higgins. ‘Six hundred men there are on board that man-o’-war, and every step a man takes is seen and ’eard. Beatin’ a boy, makin’ a boy’s life a misery, floggin’ a boy, starvin’ a boy, general persecution, that’s easy, but killin’ – very risky. Considerable rewards would ’ave to be offered. Very considerable. And even then I don’t see ’ow such a thing could be done.’

  ‘But that is absurd! Hundreds of opportunities must present themselves every day!’ Mr Creech spoke with horrible eagerness. ‘A fall from the rigging, a quiet heave overboard, an accident with a musket! Surely . . .’

  ‘Considerable rewards,’ Mr Higgins repeated, shaking his head.

  Kit’s hand, trembling with indignation, was clutching at John’s sleeve.

  ‘Evil. Evil!’ she whispered. John hardly noticed. He was frozen in horror.

  The Frenchman was speaking again. Kit breathed in sharply and leaned forward, craning her neck to see behind the door of the hut which half concealed him. In her eagerness, she nearly overbalanced, and had to take a sideways step to right herself. Under her foot, a twig snapped loudly.

  ‘What was that?’ Mr Creech’s head had shot round, and he peered out into the night. ‘Is someone there?’

  Mr Halkett laughed.

  ‘Man, you’re as edgy as a cat. This is France we’re in, not Britain. Even if there’s some peasant passing by, they won’t understand a word we say, and if they do, we’re on business for the government of France, under the protection of our good friend here, the comte de St Voir.’

  John heard Kit’s small grunt of surprise.

  ‘But,’ Mr Halkett went on, ‘to return to the matter of the boy. I have not yet had my say, and I wish to state that murdering children is something I cannot agree to. I will not put my hand to any such resolution, and I strongly urge you, Mr Higgins, to leave the boy alone.’

  ‘And put all our lives in danger,’ sneered Mr Creech.

  ‘I’ll take Mr Creech’s word for it, rather than the lawyer’s here,’ said Mr Higgins, with what seemed to John a horrible degree of relish. ‘Meek and mild I am, as a general rule, but if the reward is considerable, I believe I could bring myself to do the deed. Twenty gold guineas would persuade me. I won’t take less.’

  ‘Twenty guineas?’ Mr Halkett almost squeaked in horror. ‘That’s pure extortion.’

  The Frenchman spoke softly again.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mr Creech. ‘As you so aptly point out, the government of France will pay the money, so we need not concern ourselves unduly. Do it soon, Mr Higgins, as soon as you can.’

  ‘Aye, and I must return to my lads and fetch the water back to the Fearless as soon as I can,’ said Mr Higgins. ‘As soon as I have ten guineas down, the rest to be paid to me when the deed is done.’

  ‘Five, no more. It is all I have about me,’ said Mr Creech, and John
heard the clink of money again. ‘Now take yourself off, you greedy brute, before that nosy first lieutenant of yours comes after you on the hunt.’

  The light was blocked out for a moment as Mr Higgins left the hut. John shrank away from his shadow as he passed.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ Kit whispered. ‘We can’t get back to Mr Erskine before Mr Higgins does.’

  ‘I don’t know. I . . . I can’t think.’

  The knowledge that Mr Higgins was now set to kill him had sent John’s mind reeling.

  ‘We’ll have to hide and wait for Mr Erskine till tomorrow,’ Kit said.

  ‘Yes . . . I suppose so. Listen, they’re still talking.’

  ‘I don’t like it, Creech. Not at all. I’m not in this business to condone murder,’ Mr Halkett was saying.

  ‘No, you’re in it for the money, as I am,’ said Mr Creech crudely.

  ‘On the contrary.’ Mr Halkett’s voice had taken on a dry, lawyer-like tone. ‘I happen to be an admirer of Napoleon Bonaparte, and I have no love for the corrupt government of Britain and her half-crazed German monarch. Bonaparte is a great man, a man of large, nay, brilliant ideas, a reformer of genius, a—’

  ‘For the Lord’s sake, Halkett,’ interrupted Mr Creech. ‘Stop prating like a minister. You can’t turn squeamish now. And don’t try to tell me that you’re selling your country for your ideals. I haven’t noticed you hanging back when it comes to the question of payment from the French secret service.’

  ‘Aye, well, a matter of insurance. That is how I view the money,’ Mr Halkett said primly. ‘I have been obliged to act unlawfully, to practise deceit, to connive at an act of gross fraudulence, which, if it was ever discovered, would ruin me and my legal practice forever.’

  ‘Fraud? You mean the business over Luckstone, I presume.’

  At the word ‘Luckstone’ John’s fear was forgotten. He leaned forward to hear more clearly.

  ‘The illegal acquisition of Luckstone, aye,’ Mr Halkett went on. ‘And why you dragged me into that that business, or involved that clumsy, drunken oaf Nasmyth . . .’

  ‘You know very well why Luckstone is important to us,’ Mr Creech said crisply. ‘Of all the places in Scotland, that little inlet off the Firth of Forth, just across the water from Edinburgh, is the perfect vantage point from which to monitor incoming and outgoing ships, and the fortified house would make a perfect signal tower in the event of a French invasion. When Nasmyth drew it to our attention it was a chance too good to be missed.’

  ‘So you say, so you say.’ Mr Halkett was shaking his head. ‘But it was a bad business, and I – what was that?’

  ‘Ce n’est rien,’ the Frenchman said. ‘The ’orses, my groom is returning with them.’

  ‘The horses, yes. Our business here is concluded most satisfactorily,’ said Mr Creech. ‘Higgins may be a rogue, but he has done well for us. Come, Mr Halkett, after you. We shall ride back to Bordeaux for a late supper and a game of cards before bed.’

  They were both at the door now. Mr Halkett was the first to step out of the hut, with Mr Creech close behind him. John and Kit turned to slip away through the trees, but before they had taken more than a few steps, the huge shapes of horses, padding silently over the sand, loomed up in front of them. The first horse took fright at Kit’s white dress, snickered in alarm and reared back, startling the second, which was following close behind.

  John grabbed Kit’s hand, pulling her away.

  ‘Quick! Run!’ he hissed.

  But they were too late. The groom had seen them.

  ‘Eh, vous! Arrêtez!’ he shouted.

  ‘Who’s there? What’s going on?’

  The three men from the hut came running. Desperate to get away, John and Kit gave up the attempt to remain hidden and bolted through the trees, but the roots of the pines, snaking across the sand, took John unawares and he tripped and fell headlong.

  ‘Go on! Run!’ he called to Kit.

  ‘They’re English, by God,’ he heard Mr Creech’s shout behind him. ‘Spies! Your pistol, chevalier, quick!’

  John had scrambled back to his feet, but before he could run more than a few yards more, he felt a stinging blow as a bullet hit his side. He staggered and would have fallen again if Kit had not caught hold of him.

  ‘A horse!’ he called out thickly. ‘Take a horse!’

  Kit had already had the same idea and had snatched one of the bridles from the groom’s astonished grip. She leaped into the saddle, bent down and hauled John up after her.

  A moment later they were flying through the trees away from the men, the hut, the beach and the sea, into the forest, which stretched for miles inland from the coast, deep into France.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  It was merciful that John had felt nothing for the first few moments after the bullet had struck him, or he would not have been able to scramble up on to the horse, even with Kit’s helping hand. But the respite didn’t last long. With every jolt and lurch, jagged pains, as searing as lightning strikes, shot through his side. It was all he could do to cling to Kit, propping himself up against her back. His whole being was concentrated in the determination not to fall.

  Kit was leaning forward over the reins, urging the horse onwards, her feet pummelling its sides. The creature seemed panic-stricken by the strange pair on its back, and Kit’s flapping skirts filled it with added terror. It was careering through the trees, plunging recklessly through the darkness. Several times a low-hanging branch almost swept the riders off the saddle and only Kit’s quickness saved them from disaster.

  John was so focused on staying on the horse’s back that he hardly thought of the enemies behind them. He heard confused shouts, and another two shots rang out, which panicked the horse even more, but there was no sound of pursuit. Their own horse’s hoofs made only soft thuds on the sandy forest floor. He vaguely supposed, through the waves of pain engulfing him, that the pursuers must be close behind, but he almost didn’t care. He simply wanted this jolting agony to stop. He wanted to be set down somewhere quiet, where he could shut his eyes and curl into a ball until the pain went away.

  It seemed as if hours had passed when Kit finally pulled the sweating, trembling horse to a halt. She slid off its back, went quickly to its head and soothed it with expert crooning. Then she led it behind a patch of scrubby undergrowth where the darkness was even more impenetrable, hitched the reins round a low branch and looked up at John. He was bent, limp, over the horse’s neck.

  ‘John, are you very badly hurt?’ she said in a whisper.

  ‘I don’t know. It hurts. There’s a lot of blood, I think.’

  ‘Where did it hit you?’

  ‘In my side. Help me off. I want to lie down.’

  She shook the hair out of her eyes.

  ‘No, we can’t stay here. We must get help for you soon.’

  ‘Mr Erskine . . .’ John said faintly.

  ‘He’ll have rowed back to the Fearless by now. You must face it, John, we have left the Fearless. We can’t hope to get back to her now.’

  He barely took in what she was saying.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  His voice was a thread.

  ‘Listen.’ She was still distractedly patting the horse’s neck as she spoke. ‘I don’t know exactly where we are, and this forest is so vast it is always easy to get lost, but soon, if we go on, we must come to a road. And then I will know, because my old home, Jalignac, is very close to here. Betsy is there. She is a wonderful nurse. She will know how to look after you.’

  ‘Tomorrow night,’ John managed to say. ‘We must be at the beach tomorrow night.’

  ‘No, John. Didn’t you hear me? We can’t go back. You will never recover if you are in the hands of Mr Catskill. You do not know, John, what butchery he . . . Shh! Listen!’

  A breeze had blown up from the sea and was ruffling through the pines, making a faint shirring sound, almost like a wave dragging back down a distant beach, but it hardly disturbed the
deep silence of the forest. There had never been silence on board the Fearless, where the creaking of timbers, the slap of water, the flapping of sails and rigging, the shouts, curses, songs, grunts and quarrels of six hundred men had made an endless background of sound. Here, only the croak of a frog in a distant pond and the hoot of a night owl could be heard.

  ‘There! Did you hear that?’ whispered Kit.

  John tried to focus his ears, but he was swaying in the saddle and had to concentrate in order to stop himself falling.

  ‘Horses, but far. They are moving away from us now. We’ve shaken them off.’

  Her voice was triumphant. John hardly heard what she was saying.

  ‘Help me off,’ he repeated. ‘I must lie down.’

  ‘No!’ She was already unhitching the horse’s reins. ‘If you get down you will never be able to mount again. You cannot stay here. There is not even any water. Please, John, just hold on. We must go on. I will ride in front of you like before. You can lean on me.’

  By the time the dawn was lightening the sky, turning the forest from a mass of black smudged shapes into a ghostly, endless tract of grey-trunked trees, John was so weak from the loss of blood that he was drifting in and out of consciousness, and only Kit’s slender, supple back, to which he clung with the last of his strength, prevented him from crashing to the ground.

  It was the creaking of wagon wheels that first told Kit the road was near. She gave a shuddering sigh of relief. For the past hour she had been increasingly certain that they were lost, going around in circles, that she would never find a way out of the maze of trees, and that John would be dead long before she could reach help.

  The road, long and straight, was no more than a strip cut through the forest, and the wagon, pulled by a pair of cows and driven by a weather-beaten old woman, threatened to bog down into the soft sand with every turn of the wheels. Kit, who had looked up and down the long straight road carefully before stepping out from the cover of the trees, slid off the horse’s back and ran out in front of the wagon.

  ‘Bonjour, ma mère,’ she called out.