Rapscallion (51 page)

Hawkwood
realized he had felt no residual pain when he moved. Encouraged by the
discovery, he tried to sit up. His effort was rewarded with only minor
discomfort. He looked around. The room was small with a sloped ceiling. There
was a half-open window, through which he could just see the underside of the
eaves. There was a simple mirrored dressing table upon which sat another bowl
and a pitcher. A chair stood in front of the dressing table. A narrow wardrobe
rested against one wall.

He
looked down. He appeared to be wearing someone's nightshirt. There was no sign
of his clothes, though he could see his boots propped on the floor beside the
wardrobe.

"It
was my husband's," Jess Flynn said, indicating the nightshirt. She
exchanged glances with Lasseur and smiled. "I'll leave you to talk."
She squeezed the cloth out into the bowl and stood up. Her hand brushed
Lasseur's as she walked towards the door. Lasseur watched her go before pulling
the chair to the side of the bed and sitting down.

Hawkwood
still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "How in the name of God
did we get
here?"

Lasseur
grinned.
"By boat."

" What
?" Hawkwood
felt another brief twinge.

Lasseur
laid his hand on Hawkwood's arm. His face was full of concern. "How much
do you remember?"

"I
saw you shoot Del. After
that.
. . not a damned thing.
What do you mean, 'by boat'?"

"It's
a long story. Do you remember me carrying you to the river?"

"No."

Lasseur
had left him on the bank while he returned for Del's body, hauling it to the
edge of the water in the hope of putting the hounds off the scent. The ruse had
worked, but it had been a close thing. Daubing their faces with mud, Lasseur
had dragged Hawkwood into the reeds moments before the dogs burst from the
trees.

Lasseur
frowned at the memory. "I could hear them baying and the men searching. I
didn't know if you were alive or dead beside me. I waited until the searchers
moved off, then pulled you ashore; still breathing, thank God. And that's when
I saw the boat. It was almost submerged. When I found the oars beneath it I
thought I was seeing things, and when I examined the hull and realized it was
sound, I couldn't believe it. I think the owner must have sunk it deliberately
so people wouldn't think it was worth stealing. Fortunately for us, it was.

"I
could still hear the dogs, but they were heading downriver. Morgan's men must
have assumed we'd try to get to the coast. I knew we needed to go in the
opposite direction, so I raised the boat and took us upstream. It was easier
than carrying you across country. Del's body was still there when we left. I
heard them say they were going to send the gravedigger to pick it up
later." He looked at the expression on Hawkwood's face. "What is
it?"

"I
was going to ask you why we came
here,
but something
tells
me that would be a stupid
question."

"We
were close; I knew we would be safe here and the Widow Flynn might have some
means of treating your wound. I was right. She's the one who's been looking
after you with her medicines and broth."

Which explained the bitter taste on my tongue,
Hawkwood thought.
To Lasseur, he
said, "Don't think I'm not grateful, but are you sure those were the
only
reasons?"
Then, for the first time, he noticed the privateer's clothes. "I don't
recall you wearing that shirt before."

Lasseur
smiled. "I'm happy to see your head wound has not robbed you of your
powers of deduction. You're right; like you, I am the happy beneficiary of the
Flynn family slop chest."

"It's
a good fit," Hawkwood observed laconically. "You know, our being here
places her at serious risk. If Morgan finds out she's harbouring us, it will go
badly for her."

Lasseur's
face grew immediately serious. "I know that, my friend. Believe me; I know
that only too well."

Hawkwood
watched the worry lines on Lasseur's face deepen. "And how the devil did
you find your way back here? Higgs transported us at night."

Lasseur's
features lightened. "I'm a sailor, Matthew. Did you think I was sleeping
when the gravedigger took us to the Haunt? I was reading the stars. It was a
clear night, remember? I knew the course we were taking. I knew where and when
we crossed the river, and I knew the farm was upstream. In daylight, it was
simple. Some day, you must let me teach you the finer points of celestial
navigation!"

"And
no one saw us?"

"Not
to my knowledge. Though, if our pursuers hadn't had the dogs it might have been
different. I might not have heard them coming. All I can say is that the gods
must have been with us." Lasseur straightened. "Thomas Gadd knows
Jess has taken us in, by the way. He helped me get you upstairs. 1 le also took
the boat back downstream. We've been here ever since."

The
room was warm but Hawkwood suddenly felt a cold chill on his back. "What
do you mean;
ever since
?
How long have we been here?"

Lasseur
hesitated. Something moved behind his eyes. "You've been confined to your
bed for just over twenty-four hours."

It
took a moment for Hawkwood to absorb the shock. "What?" Then his mind
did the calculation and he started to push the sheet back. "Jesus!"

Lasseur's
eyes widened in alarm.
He placed a
hand on Hawkwood's chest. "What are you doing?"

Hawkwood
thrust Lasseur's hand aside. "I have to get a message to the authorities!
I've got to warn them about the attack on the Admiral's residency! It's tomorrow
night!"

Lasseur
grasped his arm. "Wait! Tom Gadd told me that Morgan's men are still
searching for us. There's a price on our heads. If either of us sets foot off
the farm there's a risk we'll be seen. Besides," Lasseur added urgently,
"look at you! You're in no fit state to go anywhere."

"I'll
take my chances." Hawkwood pushed Lasseur's hand away once more, swung his
legs round and placed his feet on the floor. "Where are my bloody
clothes?"

Lasseur's
eyes flickered to the wardrobe.

Hawkwood
stood up. The room swam before his eyes. 1 le sat down again, quickly.

Lasseur
threw up his hands in despair. "You see? You can hardly walk. You need to
recover your strength."

"There's
no time for that!" Hawkwood looked towards the window. It was like looking
through a gauze veil. "What the hell
is
the time?"

"No,
I'm not bloody hungry!" Hawkwood pushed himself off the bed again. The room
tilted dramatically, but only for a moment or two before returning to its true
axis. He took a deep breath, crossed unevenly to the wardrobe and discovered
his jacket, shirt, breeches and underclothes suspended from hooks and hangers.
He leant on the wardrobe door and studied them. They were suspiciously clean,
considering they'd been immersed in a river, and certainly when compared to how
he remembered them from the day before, following their breakneck run through
the woods.

He
pulled the clothes out, took off the nightshirt, and began to dress. He bent
down and picked up his boots. Light-headed, he sat on the end of the bed and
attempted to pull on his right boot. The knife, he saw, was still in place. He
caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and almost didn't recognize the
unshaven individual staring back at him. He had to admit he'd looked in better
health. He turned away and found that Lasseur was watching him with a look of
worry on his face. When he made no offer to help, Hawkwood guessed the
privateer was trying to make a point.

Lasseur
tried again. "Matthew, listen to me. You're not thinking properly. Morgan
won't go through with the raid on the gold anyway. Not at this late stage. He
daren't. If he hasn't tracked us down, he has no way of knowing if you were
able to get word to your people. For all he knows, the army's going to be there
waiting for him. He'll only go ahead with the theft if he can silence us first,
and then only if he has time to spare. You're more likely to prevent the attack
by remaining here and keeping him guessing. That way we'll all be safe."

 
"We
won't ever be safe! Not from Morgan. We've damaged him too deeply. He'll be
angry at losing face." Hawkwood reached for his other boot. "I have
to do this. The bastard's that bloody cocky, I wouldn't put it past him to
still go through with it. In which case, I've no choice. It's my duty to try
and stop him."

Hawkwood
shook his head. "I can't do that. I'll be careful, but I can't wait until
dark. I have to get to Barham while it's still light."

"Barham?"
Lasseur frowned. "What is Barham? And why do you need to be there before
dark? I don't understand."

"It's
an Admiralty telegraph station."

Hawkwood
had been briefed on the telegraph by Ludd, in case he needed to take advantage of
it. The Admiralty had devised the system to allow it to communicate directly
with its bases around the south coast. It consisted of a line of shutter
stations placed on high ground across the country. Each station consisted of a
large rectangular frame comprised of six shutters arranged vertically in two
columns of three. The shutters could be opened and closed at will, with the
positions of the shutters representing letters of the alphabet. Ludd had taken
Hawkwood up to the roof of the Admiralty building to show him the signalling
mechanism in action. It was an ingenious contraption. Ludd had boasted that,
given good visibility, a message could be relayed from Portsmouth to Whitehall
in less than ten minutes. Preparatory signals could be acknowledged in a
quarter of that time, which was impressive, given that it had taken almost five
minutes for Hawkwood and Ludd just to reach the roof.

There
were two lines of shutter stations in Kent. One ran from Sheerness to Faversham
- Hawkwood assumed notification of his and Lasseur's escape had been sent down
that route. The other line ran from the roof at Whitehall via a dozen stations,
including Chatham and Faversham, all the way to Deal.

Given
the farm's location in relation to the coast, Hawkwood estimated the Shottenden
telegraph was the nearest. It was probably no more than seven or eight miles
away, but it lay across country. Barham, the next station down the line, sat on
the main Canterbury to Dover Road. The distance was perhaps a mile or so
longer, and it was a route Morgan was probably monitoring, but the journey
would be quicker. Hawkwood knew if he could get to Barham, he could alert both
the Admiralty and the Deal authorities at the same time.

"Then
wait until morning," Lasseur argued. "That's still more than enough
time for the signal to be seen. You need to eat and you'll be fully rested. If
you leave at first light, you're less likely to find Morgan's men on the road,
and you'll be in better shape should you need to take evasive
action.
"

Hawkwood
pulled on his left boot and reached for his jacket, which he had laid on the
bed. It was more of a struggle than he had anticipated. He felt slightly
nauseous and the bitter aftertaste of the Widow Flynn's tincture was suddenly
strong at the back of his tongue. His clothes were beginning to feel tight
around him, too, after the looseness of the nightshirt. He had the sudden,
intense desire to rest his head on the nearest pillow.

In
his heart, he knew there was sense in what Lasseur was telling him. His body was
warning him that it needed rest. He hadn't eaten in a long time. He was in no
condition to sit astride a horse and endure a nine-mile ride or deal with any
threat that came at him.

He
nodded reluctantly. "All right - you win. I'll leave at dawn."

When
Pepper walked into the room, Morgan was at his desk, going through the accounts
ledger. He was not having a good day. Despite the upheaval - in particular, the
threat posed by the disappearance of the Runner and the Frenchman - work had to
go on. There were still things that required his attention: runs and meetings
to arrange, people to manage, deliveries to supervise, accounts to be
maintained, both the legitimate ones and those "off the books". He
looked up. There was no warmth in his gaze.
"Cephus."