Rapscallion (59 page)

"He
killed them," Lasseur breathed. "He killed them all." The breeze
ruffled his hair as he gazed down at the corpses in disbelief.

"They'd
served their purpose," Hawkwood said, and then wished that he could take the
words back, even though he knew it was the truth. Morgan had used Frenchmen in
French uniforms; hearing them conversing and giving orders and probably
exhorting their comrades to greater effort in their own language, any witnesses
present would have been left in no doubt that the gold had been stolen by a
French raiding party.

And
dead men in French infantry uniforms gave added credence to the lie. In the
confusion, it would have been assumed that some of Burden's beleaguered troops
had managed to fight back.

Leaving
Morgan's men to steal away scot-free.

Sooner
or later the truth would have come out. Morgan kept his people on a tight leash
and the hardened members of his crew knew how to keep secrets, but this was
huge. Eventually, over a glass of grog or a pipe of tobacco, the story would be
told. But by then it would be too late.

Wearily,
Hawkwood lowered himself to the pebbles and rested his hands on his knees.

What
had it all been for?

Jago
sat down next to him and let out a sigh. "Don't know about you, but I'm
getting too old for all this runnin' about. A man of my age, it ain't good for
my health."

Hawkwood
could hear cries behind him and the sound of tramping feet.
Pretty
soon the army, having learned that its pay chests had been stolen not by the French
but by someone much closer to home, would begin hammering on doors.

To
what degree, Hawkwood wondered, had the town's inhabitants been involved?
Morgan could not have deployed his crew or distributed the weapons - especially
the carronade - without reconnoitre or support. And there were the wagons and
the horses to consider, too. Morgan had once boasted that there would never be
a shortage of men willing to do his bidding. Did that mean he could recruit an
entire town? Deal folk were a close-knit community, and they had seen their
livelihoods overturned by the authorities on more than one occasion. They
didn't like the government or the army, and a share of Morgan's profit from the
gold would keep families housed and fed for a long time to come, ensuring their
loyalty. He even had the bloody judges in his pocket, and half a million pounds
bought a lot of protection. The authorities - and that included the army -
would have their work cut out.

"Now
what?"
Jago asked.

Hawkwood
looked back at the town. Lights were flickering on. He could hear shouts, more
running feet. "See if we can find ourselves beds for what's left of the
night. Leave someone else to clear up this damned mess."

"I
could use a wet," Jago said, getting to his feet. "I've got a throat like
a tinker's crotch. Let's go find ourselves an inn."

Lasseur,
standing to one side, continued to gaze out over the water. His expression was
as black as the waves.

Hawkwood
stood. "Looks like you got what you wanted."

Lasseur
looked at the line of bodies. "Not like this."

"But
your Emperor will get his gold."

Lasseur
shook his head, saying nothing. He looked deep in thought. Then he said,
"They can still be caught."

"What?"
Hawkwood said, not quite hearing.

"I
said they can still be caught."

Hawkwood
laughed. He couldn't help it. "I don't think so.
Captain.
It's the navy's task now, and it'll take them the rest of the night just to get
their bloody breeches on. The bastards are long gone. Besides, no one knows
what port they're heading to."

"I
do," Lasseur said. "I know exactly where they're going. We might be
able to catch them."

"It's
too damned late. They'll be across the water before anyone can raise a
sail."

"Not
necessarily," Lasseur said. "Not if this breeze stays on the same
heading."

Hawkwood
fixed him with a stare. "What do you mean, 'We'?"

Lasseur
turned slowly. "I mean my ship, the
Scorpion.'"

"Your
ship?"
Hawkwood said. "What the
devil's
your ship got to do with it?"

And
Lasseur smiled.

Hawkwood's
warrant got them out of town, through the army-
manned
toll gate and south, on to the Walmer Road.

The
horses were flagging, despite having been rested, and Hawkwood knew they would
not be able to go much further. It came as some relief when, after only a couple
of miles, Lasseur led them off the road, turning east towards the sea. A
signpost, standing crooked in a hedge, read
Kingsdown.

They
walked the horses through the sleeping village and on to a shingle beach lying
at the foot of a tall, grey rock face. Hawkwood could see the raked outline of
an even higher slab of headland beyond it and another beyond that, and he knew
this was the beginning of the long line of pale cliffs that stretched all the
way along the coast to Dover.

Just
discernible against the night sky, some three hundred yards from the shore, a
dark-painted, three-masted schooner lay at anchor. No lights showed upon her
deck or from within her hull. It was possible, Hawkwood thought, that if they
had not been looking for the vessel, it would have taken them some time to
realize it was there.

"I
need a pistol," Lasseur said.

Jago
reached into his saddlebag. "It's loaded," he warned.

Lasseur
took a long breath, pointed the pistol into the air, and pulled the trigger. The
powder flared and the report rebounded from the cliff above them. As Micah
calmed the
horses, Lasseur handed the pistol back and Jago stuck it in
his belt.

The
water looked dark and cold and deep. Hawkwood was reminded of the night they
had sailed from Warden. He could see the lights of two vessels far out in the
Channel beyond the black-hulled ship and he wondered if one of them was
Morgan's
Sea Witch.

The
privateer had employed Tom Gadd as his messenger. On their first day back at
the farm, while the widow attended to Hawkwood's fever, Lasseur had sent Gadd
to visit his agent in Ramsgate; the same man Lasseur had been trying to reach
when he'd made his dash for freedom prior to his arrival at Maidstone Gaol.

The
agent had dispatched Lasseur's message to his crew in Dunkerque by carrier
pigeon; informing them their captain was free and awaiting their arrival. They
were to sail
Scorpion
to
the Kent coast, and
lie
at anchor in the waters off
Kingsdown for two hours either side of midnight. They would do this for five
nights, from the time of the message's receipt, and look for Lasseur's signal.

"It
all depends," Lasseur had said, "whether my men got the message in
time."

It
seemed they had.

Hawkwood
looked towards the ship. A small object had detached itself from the hull and
was heading towards them. Slowly, it drew closer and Hawkwood saw the hunched
backs of the rowers and heard the light splash of the oars.

Lasseur
came to life. He stepped towards the water.

A
soft cry came out of the darkness.
"Scorpion!"

Lasseur
waded into the water.
"
C'est moi!"

"More
bloody Frogs!" Hawkwood heard Jago mutter under his breath.

The
rowboat continued its steady approach. Finally, it grounded against the
shingle. The dark-haired man who leapt from the boat was about Micah's age, and
of similar build. He was not wearing a uniform but was dressed from head to toe
in black, as was the seaman
manning
the oars at the
stern

of
the boat. Eyes laughing and smiling broadly, the dark-haired man clasped
Lasseur's arm in a firm grip.

Lasseur
grinned. "This is my first officer, Lieutenant Marc Delon."

The
young lieutenant nodded a greeting, though he couldn't disguise his curiosity
at the presence of three strangers. Hawkwood wondered if Delon thought they
were all fellow escapees.

Lasseur
nodded towards the man seated in the stern.
"Henri,
Comment
va cela?
"

The
oarsman grunted an inaudible reply.

Lasseur
clapped his lieutenant on the back.
"D'accord, allons!"

Delon
scrambled back on to the boat.

"Let's
go, my friends!" Lasseur urged.
"Hurry!"

"Anything
left in your saddlebags?" Hawkwood asked Jago.

"Nothing
that I'll miss," Jago said.

Lasseur
climbed into the boat. Hawkwood and Jago followed him. Micah remained on shore.
The smiling lieutenant picked up his oars and the boat pulled slowly away from
the beach.

Micah
remained standing motionless at the edge of the water. Jago raised his hand.
Micah nodded once, then turned and walked up the shingle towards the horses. He
did not look back.

Hawkwood
caught Lasseur's eye. "Does Jess know?"

"No,"
Lasseur said. He looked over the bow towards the open sea, and lapsed into
silence.

Lasseur's
crew made no secret of their joy at his return, lining the rail to welcome him.
Once on board
Scorpion,
however, Lasseur wasted no time in giving his lieutenant the order to depart as
quickly as possible.

As
the crew sprang into action, Hawkwood looked out over the rail. He could see
the long line of chalk bluffs extending into the darkness behind them. They
looked close enough to touch. Of Micah and the horses, there was no sign. He
looked over the bow towards the line of the horizon, but there was
nothing to see except the dark curtain of night. The lights
of the vessels he had seen earlier had disappeared.

Her
anchor stowed, the ship began to swing round. Sails were being raised as
Lasseur led them below. In the chart room, a lantern swayed from a beam as
Lasseur pulled a chart from a nearby locker and opened it out upon the table.

"Morgan
will be heading here -" he said, pointing with a pair of compasses.
"Gravelines."

Hawkwood
looked over the end of the compass points at the lines and squiggles. The name
sat halfway between Dunkerque and Calais on the northern coast.

"Why
there?"

"They
call it
la ville des Smoglers.
The port was
chosen by Bonaparte to accommodate free traders and their ships. They've built
a special enclosure with stores, warehouses and lodgings. The whole place is
protected by gun batteries. There's even an English quarter. They say that up
to three hundred English free traders use it at any one time. The Emperor has
granted merchants special licences to import and export goods using the
smugglers. Any contraband landed along your southern coast will have started
its journey here."

Lasseur
tapped the chart table with his knuckle. "This is where the guinea boats
deliver their cargoes. The trade is controlled by the Rothschild family. Head
of operations is Nathan Rothschild, the banker; he's based in London. His
brother, James, arranges for the transfer of the gold from Gravelines to Paris,
where it is changed back into English bank notes. It's then that the smugglers
and their backers make their profit. Morgan's heading for
Gravelines,
I'll stake my life on it."

"And
you still think we can catch him?" Hawkwood asked.

"If
any ship can, it's this one."

"Back
in Deal, you said something about the breeze. What did you mean?"

"The
wind's from the east."