Rapscallion (29 page)

"Glad you
could join us," a voice said, as the tiller man let fly with a stream of
profanity and threw his weight against the rudder.

As the bow
churned towards the open sea, the crew slammed their oars into the water and
the vessel started to pick up momentum.

"Pull, you
buggers,
pull
!"

On shore, the
beach reverberated with the sound of conflict. Lights dipped as the lantern
bearers continued their descent of the cliff path, still firing. On the beach
below, dark shapes were running in all directions. Hawkwood thought about the
odds of any of the smugglers making an escape while carrying kegs two-thirds
the weight of a man strapped over their shoulders. Abraham and his men would
have to dump the contraband in order to avoid capture. They wouldn't have a
choice.

There was still
a danger, Hawkwood knew, of someone on the boat being hit, but the odds were
lengthening with each stroke of the oars. Even so, the men kept their heads
down.

And then, from
the direction of the cliff path, there came more reports. Not muskets this
time, Hawkwood could tell, but pistols. Reinforcements had come to Abraham's
aid. The sounds of battle intensified.

"Bastards!"
someone behind Hawkwood hissed.

Gunshots
continued to echo along the foreshore. Hawkwood could see from the convergence
of the lights that the lantern bearers were now congregated in one spot and
seemed not to have progressed beyond the base of the cliff. It looked as if
they were pinned down between Abraham's men and the reinforcements. Gradually,
the rate of fire began to diminish.

Finally, the
reports ceased altogether. Hawkwood continued to stare shoreward and watched
as, one by one, the lights at the base of the cliff blinked out. He strained
his ears. Another sound reached him that might have been the faint ring of
sword blades and the scream of a horse, but they were deeply muted. Eventually,
the noises faded away completely and the only sound was the splash of the oars.

Hawkwood found
his heart was beating fast.

"Jesus!"
someone muttered in relief at having survived.

"After us,
you think?" Lasseur said softly.

Hawkwood shook
his head. "More likely the Revenue Service, but from the look of things
they were outnumbered."

"We live to
fight again," Lasseur murmured.

Only just,
Hawkwood thought. He turned away in time to see a hull
materializing out of the darkness ahead of them. The larger craft's appearance did
not come as a shock. The surprise was its proximity. It wasn't hard to work out
why the craft had remained invisible for so long. Dark painted and with no
running lights, even in the moonlight the vessel had been just another patch of
shadow on the sea.

The rowing boat
bumped against the pitch-black hull and a line of pale faces appeared at the
rail. Helping hands reached down. At a signal from the tiller man, Hawkwood and
Lasseur climbed aboard. It took only a matter of minutes for the boat to be
winched up after them and for its crew to take up their stations.

"Welcome
aboard the
Starling,
gentlemen." The greeting was voiced in passable
but poorly accented French. "If you'd both
stand
aside while we get under way, I'd be obliged."

Hawkwood and
Lasseur turned. Facing them was a stocky man with a wind-weathered face, a
flattened nose and jowls in need of a shave.

"Captain?"
Lasseur said.

"At your
service, sir.
You can call me Gideon."

Giving Hawkwood
and Lasseur no time to respond, the seaman turned away and gave the signal to
raise sail.

Within minutes,
the main was up, the bowsprit was pointing towards open water and the jib was
unfurling. It had been a very smooth transition; no berating, no barked orders.
Lasseur, watching the crew in action, nodded his head in appreciation, a
gesture that did not go unnoticed by
Starling's
skipper.

"You're men
of the sea, gentlemen?"

"7
am
," Lasseur said. "My friend is more at home on
dry land."

"I'll not
hold that against you, sir; each to his own."

"I am
Captain Lasseur. My friend is Captain Hooper."

"Is that
right? Well everyone needs a name. Now, may I offer you something to ease the
chill? I've some fine brandy on board."

"I'd be
sorely disappointed if you hadn't, Captain." Lasseur grinned as he and Hawkwood
followed the vessel's skipper down below. The cabin was small and cramped and
smelled of damp clothing, sweat and tobacco. Not as confining as the hulk, but
still claustrophobic after the rolling fields and the open boat and the endless
expanse of the night sky.

The bottle
uncorked and the brandy poured, Lasseur raised his mug.
"Your
very good health, Captain."

Gideon gave a
nod of acknowledgement. "And confusion to the enemy . . . whoever they may
be."

They drank.

The
world's gone raving mad,
Hawkwood
thought.
I'm in the middle of a bloody war, and I've a French
privateer and an English smuggler, who've never clapped eyes on each other
before tonight, toasting each other's health as if they hadn't a care in the
world. Why the hell do we bother to even listen to the politicians and the
generals?

And Gideon
hadn't lied about the quality of the spirit.

"My
compliments, sir."
Lasseur licked his lips in appreciation. "You have
excellent taste."

Taking another
swig, Gideon smacked his lips and winked.
"Perks of the
job.
That and putting one over on the Revenue."
The weather-worn face suddenly clouded.

"What do
you think happened back there?" Hawkwood asked, reading the captain's
mind.

The question was
met with a shrug.
"Looks as if some bugger tipped them
off.
We can count ourselves lucky there wasn't a cutter around, too. If
they did for the goods, we'll make it up on the next run. The advantage is with
our side.
So much coastline and not enough Revenue
men."

"You think
Abraham and his men got away?"

"Probably.
Abraham's a
smart one. If anyone was done for, it was the Revenue. My experience, they
couldn't hit a barn door if it was six inches in front of them. And even if
Abraham and his crew were arrested, naught'll come of it. Never does."

"Why
not?"
Hawkwood asked.

"Because
the local magistrate's one of us."

Lasseur blinked.

"How do you
think Abraham knew we were on our way?" Gideon said.

"We saw you
signal," Hawkwood said.

Gideon shook his
head. "That was to let him know our position. He knew we were coming
before that. A little bird told him."

Hawkwood and
Lasseur waited.

"The local
squire's house is just along the lane from the inn. He's got a pigeon loft in
his smoking room. We release the bird a couple of miles off shore. Soon as it
arrives, he knows we've got the goods aboard. He passes Abraham the word."

"And the
squire just happens to be -"

"The
magistrate.
A sweet arrangement all round."

Bloody bell,
Hawkwood thought. No wonder the free traders ruled the
coast.

Lasseur was
grinning like a loon. Hawkwood wasn't at all surprised. As the captain of a
privateer, a breed of men not exactly renowned for staying within the law -
maritime or otherwise - the Frenchman was clearly of the opinion he was
sharing drinks with a kindred spirit.

"Where did
you learn your French?" Lasseur asked.

"Whoring
and trading, mostly," Gideon chuckled. "It's amazing the vocabulary
you can pick up.
Nothing like commerce and copulation for
broadening the mind."

"You've no
qualms about helping people like us? Our countries are at war."

Gideon shook his
head dismissively. "Men have been running goods around these shores for
the past five hundred years; a lot earlier, probably. War's never stopped it
before. It won't do now. And this war won't last for ever. My apologies,
Captain, but a blind man can see your Emperor's losing the fight. I'm not a
betting man, but even I'd wager a year's cargo of tubs that there'll be another
war along after this one and likely more after that. There'll still be men like
me doing business long after I'm cold in my grave.
Fact of
life.
Might as well try and stop breathing. You two are just another
cargo, far as I'm concerned."

"A friend
once told me the first rule of commerce was never to let political differences
get in the way of business," Hawkwood said.

"Did he?
Well, he's a wise man, your friend," Gideon said. "In the Trade, is
he?"

If you only knew,
Hawkwood thought. "He's dabbled a time or two."

"Then I
raise my glass to him."

"I,
too," Lasseur said. He threw Hawkwood a sideways glance. "Well, it is
uncommonly fine brandy and I haven't had a decent drink since I don't know how
long."

Lasseur
proffered Hawkwood a silent toast and drained his glass.

"How far
are you taking us?" Hawkwood asked.

Gideon helped
himself to another drink. "Not far."

A noncommittal
answer if ever there was one, Hawkwood thought, and wondered if that was a half
smile he'd seen touch the edge of the captain's lips.

The deck tilted.
Lasseur frowned. He put his drink down and gave Gideon a wary look. "We're
coming about?"

"That we
are. Time I was on deck." The captain placed the stopper back in the
bottle. "Here, you might want to keep a hold of this. It'll be a while
before you can get ashore and the sun isn't due to show for a while. I'll see
to it you've a couple of warm jackets to hand.
Sharply
now."

The captain
vacated his berth and led the way topsides. Mystified, Hawkwood and Lasseur had
no option but to follow.

On deck, Gideon
called to a
crewman
: "Couple of coats out of the
slop chest, Willy. Smartly does it!"

Frowning,
Lasseur made his way to the rail. The breeze had freshened and the boat was
running under full sail but there was little lateral movement as the keel cut
through the water. Hawkwood hung on to a rope and stared over the Frenchman's
shoulder at two light clusters an arm's span apart. The collection of lights
over the port bow was noticeably brighter than the group over the starboard
rail, indicating a larger number of buildings.

"Chandelier's
Whitstable; the candle's Seasalter," Gideon said from behind them. He held
out two pea-jackets. "Well, you didn't think we were taking you all the
way up the Seine, did you?"

Hawkwood looked back
over the stern, recalling the view from the clifftop.

"I don't
understand," Lasseur said.

Hawkwood didn't,
either.

"We don't
have a choice," Gideon grunted. "Tide's on the ebb. I haven't enough
draught under the keel to take you on to the beach, not even with the rowboat,
and we can't stay; we've more deliveries to make. There's a platform offshore.
Fishing boats use it to unload and pack their catches. We'll be leaving you
there. While the
tide's
out, the mud's firm enough.
You'll be able to walk ashore."

Lasseur stared
at him.

"Don't
worry. You'll be safe. There'll be a mess of people conducting business. It'll
be like Billingsgate Market: fisher folk, gutters, shrimpers and the like. No
one'll pay you heed. Once ashore, you make for the church. There'll be a
gravedigger plying his trade; name of Asa Higgs. He'll be there from sun up.
He'll see you right. You can't miss him. He's lacking the middle finger on his
right hand." Gideon held up his own digit to demonstrate. "You got
that?"

Lasseur nodded hesitantly.

"Yes,"
Hawkwood said.

"Grand."
Gideon rubbed his hands together. "It's a fine night. Bit of a breeze, but
you've got coats and my best brandy. You won't freeze."

"And the
exercise will do us good," Hawkwood said.

Gideon grinned.
"That's the spirit!"

It took another
two hours. When they reached the platform it was bigger than Hawkwood had
expected; with a jetty long enough to accommodate several boats. The timber
pilings were encrusted with barnacles and seaweed, and the structure looked as
if it had been there for centuries - which it probably had, give or take a
replacement strut or two, though it seemed solid enough when they stepped on to
it. There were open-sided shelters and lines of wooden tables, with baskets
stacked alongside.