Rapscallion (26 page)

He turned back.
"
Your
bleedin' washing lines, of course! What did
you think it was?"

"Washing
lines?"
Lasseur said, mystified. Suddenly he glanced down at the rag
in his hand and his eyes opened wide.
"Flags!
My
God, they used the laundry as signalling flags!" He swung back to Hawkwood
and grinned wildly.

"All right,
that's enough," Isaac said impatiently. He stared hard at the blood spots
on Hawkwood's shirt and at the marks on Lasseur's face and waved the scarf away
when Lasseur tried to return it. "Let's go.
Allez!"

Without waiting
for a reply, their guide broke into a run along the edge of the watercourse.
Still carrying their sailcloth burial bags, Hawkwood and Lasseur set off in
stumbling pursuit.

Hawkwood watched
Lasseur stuff the piece of rag into his pocket and had a mental image of shirts
and breeches twitching in the breeze like lines of bunting. He wondered how the
system worked and guessed the messages were hidden in the sequence of the
washed garments. A shirt followed by a pair of stockings followed by two sets
of breeches and so on. It was, he was forced to admit, brilliant in its
simplicity and - unless you were privy to the secret - totally undetectable.

The land around
them was flat and featureless; a mixture of bog and clumpy pasture,
crisscrossed with ditches that twisted through the marshland like drunken
adders. There were no trees in the immediate vicinity, though further east the
land rose towards a series of copse-dotted hills that rolled away gently
towards the centre of the island.

Trailing Isaac
along the ditch was like following a hound. Every twenty paces or so, their
guide would lift his nose in the air as though searching for a scent, before
turning to make sure they were still following.

They had
travelled a further half-mile before they halted for
the second time.
They were still only a little over a mile from the ship, Hawkwood estimated.
Slightly less as the crow flew; and not nearly far enough away for comfort.
Their guide was evidently of the same opinion, for he peered over the rim of
the dyke, back towards the way they had come, as if searching for pursuers.
Satisfied that the coast was clear, he ducked back down and they set off once
more.

Even though it
was not the most direct path to safety, Hawkwood knew that using the ditch as
cover was the sensible thing to do. The land along this stretch of coast was so
low lying that if they stood up they risked being seen by anyone aboard the
hulks with a half-decent spyglass. Isaac's strategy prevented their heads from
breaking the skyline. Better to be safe than sorry, Hawkwood reasoned. With
good fortune looking over their shoulders, they'd be able to make up the time
before too long.

The day was
turning warm. He could hear Lasseur breathing hard and wondered how fit the man
was and whether he could keep up the pace. In the army, Hawkwood had been used
to route marches; and as a Rifleman he'd led his men on skirmishes over moor
and mountain trails that would have defeated regular troops. Since returning to
England and joining Bow Street, however, he was the first to admit that some
muscles had grown soft through disuse. Runner by name, perhaps, but the number
of times he'd had to pursue criminals for long distances over heath and
hedgerow had been few and far between, which was to say never at all, as far as
he could remember.

Ten paces ahead
of them, Isaac held up his hand and laid a finger to his lips. When Hawkwood
and Lasseur caught up with him, their guide raised his eyes above the edge of
the dyke. Hawkwood and Lasseur followed suit.

"Merde!
"
Lasseur whispered.

The sheep were
less than twenty paces away, hemmed inside a wicker pen. It was a small flock;
perhaps thirty animals in total, black faced and long tailed. Some had small
curved horns. It wasn't the sheep, however, that had caused Lasseur alarm.

Tied to the
pen's gatepost were two wire-haired black-and-white dogs. At the sight of the
men, both dogs stood, tongues lolling. Their ears were pricked. Their eyes were
bright and alert.

Lasseur laid a
warning hand on Hawkwood's arm.

"It's all
right," Isaac said. "They know better than to bark. They do and
they'll get a taste of my belt."

Isaac climbed
out of the ditch and trotted towards the dogs. He gave a curt word of command
and the animals dropped to their bellies.

"You can
come out now," he said and waited for Hawkwood and Lasseur to join him.
The dogs watched their approach with interest.

Isaac unhitched
the dogs and swung the gate open. Immediately the dogs raced round to the back
of the flock and began herding the sheep out of the gate into the open pasture.

Walking into the
pen, Isaac dropped to his knees and used the edge of the spade to lift out a
section of turf, exposing a knotted rope handle. Hooking his fingers under the
rope, he leaned back and pulled. A larger section of turf came with him. The
turf was bedded on top of a wooden trapdoor. Isaac pulled the trapdoor aside
and Hawkwood found himself staring down into another pit.

The chamber had
been well constructed. The floor was clay. The walls were lined with wooden
slats. Half a dozen wooden kegs - half-ankers, Hawkwood guessed; each one
capable of holding four gallons of spirits - were stacked against the wall. On
the floor next to the kegs were several oilskin bags and a muslin sack. Isaac
climbed into the hole and passed the sack out. "There's some bread and
cheese and apples and a little something to wet the whistle." He mimed a
drinking motion when Lasseur frowned. Then he held out his hand. "Give me
the body sacks. Take these and put them on." He deposited the spade and
the body sacks into the pit and passed out two coarse linen bundles.

Hawkwood and
Lasseur opened them up. They were shepherds' smocks folded around two soft,
wide-brimmed hats.

"These,
too," Isaac said and held out two short hazelwood crooks. Retrieving a
third, longer, crook for
himself
, he closed the trap
and replaced the turf over the rope handle. Then he tamped down the edges of
the turf and, collecting up a handful of sheep droppings, scattered them over
the area. Satisfied that the entrance to the underground chamber was again
concealed, he looked up and indicated the smocks. "I said put them on.
Time we were leavin'."

Hawkwood and
Lasseur stared at him.

Even the dogs,
who had returned to Isaac's side, looked doubtful.

Isaac gave an
exasperated sigh. "They'll be lookin' for two men on the run, not three
shepherds movin' their flock to fresh pasture. But if you think you know
better,
then
be my guest. Ferry's that way."
Isaac pointed a stubby finger towards the south. "Make your bloody minds
up."

At that moment,
a sharp report, not unlike a distant roll of thunder cut short, came from the
direction of the estuary. It was followed by the faint ringing of a bell. The
dogs' ears and muzzles flicked towards the sounds. Isaac's head swivelled.
"Shite!"

"That doesn't
sound good," Lasseur said.

Hawkwood laid
the walking stick down, slipped his arms through the smock's sleeves and pulled
the garment over his head. It occurred to him that it was like climbing into
the burial sack from the opposite direction. He jammed the hat on his head and
picked up the stick.

Isaac nodded his
approval. Hawkwood had the feeling he'd just transformed himself into the
village idiot.

Lasseur put on
his smock and hat and threw Hawkwood a lop-sided grin.

The grin made it
worse. Hawkwood wondered what the chances were of one village having two
idiots. He picked up the muslin sack and slung it over his shoulder.

Isaac let out a
series of short, sharp whistles. Obediently, the dogs hurtled off and in a
pincer movement began to drive the sheep towards a wooden gate at the far
corner of the field. Isaac pointed towards the nearest tree-topped crest.
"We'll take them round Furze Hill towards the East Church Road."

 Lasseur
followed the pointing stick and then stared back towards the coast. Hawkwood
knew the privateer was gauging the time factor.

"If they've
let off the cannon it means they've searched the ship and found us gone,"
Hawkwood said. "They're bound to send a detail to check the burial pit.
That'll take them a while."

Retaining the burial
sacks and filling in the pit had been a shrewd ploy. With obvious signs of
disinterment removed, the only way to prove Hawkwood and Lasseur had been
carried ashore would be to open the pit, exhume the full body bags and count
the corpses, all of which would, hopefully, add to the confusion. Hawkwood
didn't envy any of the men assigned to
that
task.

The dogs were
enjoying themselves; zig-zagging back and forth under Isaac's watchful eye. The
sheep were obviously well used to the imposition, so much so that it looked as
if they were the ones who were obeying Isaac's short sharp whistles rather than
the dogs. Reaching the gate, the animals waited patiently for the men to catch
up. Isaac pointed past the gate to a small wooden bridge that lay beyond it. "The
road's yonder."

When they got
there, it wasn't much of a road; more like a fifteen-foot-wide bridle path;
narrow and pitted and rutted with cart and animal tracks. On the other side of
the path, the land lifted in a gentle incline.

"This here's
the Minster Road," Isaac said. "We want the one over the 'ill - it
runs right the way across the Isle. We'll stay off it, but if we follow
alongside it'll take us where we want to go. As long as we keep our eyes
peeled, the dogs'll do all the work. You spot anyone comin', you sing out.
Remember, all they'll see is three locals drivin' sheep, so no need to go
runnin' off. Keep your 'ats on and your '
eads
down
and, whatever you do, don't open your bloody mouths. You can spit on their
boots if you like. Militia are used to that. They
stands
for authority an' Sheppey folk ain't too partial to folk in authority - don't
like being told what to do; goes against the grain." Isaac grinned. He
looked at Lasseur. "You understand, Monsewer?"

Lasseur nodded.
"I think so."

"Right
then, gentlemen," Isaac said. "Let's take a walk, shall we?"

Sheep were not
fast walkers, especially up hills, and as a disguise and an aid to flight,
their steady perambulations didn't exactly instil confidence. Though it was,
Hawkwood conceded inwardly, a pleasant enough way to travel if you didn't have
a care in the world or the possibility of armed militia snapping at your heels.

Even allowing
for the fact that pursuit could be drawing ever nearer, the sheer joy of being
anywhere other than on board the hulk was a wondrous feeling. No wooden walls,
no men crammed on top of one another in stinking darkness. There was only the
wide blue sky and grass beneath their feet. The smell of the marshes didn't
seem so pervasive out here in the fields. And there was, of course, a birdsong
accompaniment; not the raucous, incessant complaining of gulls, but the
melodious twittering of song thrush, blackbird and hedge sparrow. Hawkwood had
followed the drum through Spain, Portugal, South America and a host of foreign
climes, but there was nothing he'd seen that could compare to the English
countryside on a bright summer morning.

Even Lasseur
looked entranced. Hawkwood had caught the privateer lifting his face to the sun
on several occasions. For the Frenchman it was probably the next best thing to
being on the deck of his ship.

They were moving
steadily and were on the brow of a hill, about to descend into the valley, when
Hawkwood saw Isaac stiffen. The guide was peering over Hawkwood's shoulder,
down towards the west.

Hawkwood turned.

There were
horsemen
in the distance. At first glance they appeared to
be heading towards them. Hawkwood's heart skipped several beats but, as he
continued to watch, the riders suddenly veered away to the south.

"They'll be
headin' for the Swale," Isaac said confidently. "Probably come from
the Queenborough Road or Mile Town. They ain't
no
threat. They've likely enlisted the garrison's help, but it'll take them a
while to get organized. They don't 'ave too many mounted troopers out here.
Long as we take it nice an' easy and keep movin', we'll be fine. Better than
runnin' around lookin' like chickens with our 'eads chopped off. And we don't
'ave that far to go. Be like strollin' to church for Sunday sermon."

They dined while
they walked. The simple pleasure of biting into a hunk of bread they hadn't had
to soak first in order to swallow was impossible to put into words. The cheese
was full of flavour, the apples sharp and crisp. The cider, kept cool in the
underground chamber and sipped straight from the jug, was as refreshing on the
palate as water from a mountain spring.

They'd been
going for more than two hours, resting the flock at intervals, when it occurred
to Hawkwood that, with the exception of the mounted patrol glimpsed earlier,
they hadn't spied another soul all morning. The same thing had struck Lasseur.