Rapscallion (28 page)

Hawkwood tucked
in the end of the bandage.

An expression of
disquiet moved across Lasseur's face. He shook his head sorrowfully. "I
see
a darkness
in you, my friend. I saw it in your
eyes in the hold when we were fighting. I think I see a measure of it now. It
saddens me greatly. I'm glad we're on the same side."

Hawkwood
buttoned his shirt over his wounds. "You take advantage of an opponent
when you can. You might only get the one chance. Nine times out of ten, it's
not pretty."

Lasseur put his
head on one side and said, "There was a Malay I sailed with many years ago
who got into a fight with a fellow crew member, a Sicilian. The Sicilian had a
knife and yet the Malay disarmed him using only his bare hands. It was one of
the strangest things I ever saw. The Malay moved as if he were dancing. It was
like watching water flow. There was something similar in the way you broke the
Mameluke's arm after you lost your razor. It was as if you had anticipated what
you were going to do even before you struck him. Where did you learn such
skills? Or did I imagine it?"

Hawkwood rinsed
his hands in the rest of the water from the kettle. "I knew a soldier
once. He'd travelled in the east, selling his services to any army that would
pay him. There was a nawab he fought for, a prince of the Mogul empire who had
a Chinoise bodyguard. The soldier said that the Chinoise used to be a priest
and that there was a rebellion and priests were forbidden to carry swords and
knives. So they learned to make their own weapons from farm tools and to fight
with their hands and feet. He said it took years of training. He learnt a few
of the skills from the bodyguard. He taught some of them to me. It isn't always
effective. I'd rather use a pistol."

Or a rifle
, Hawkwood thought.

The soldier in
question had in fact been a Portuguese guerrilla named Rodriguez, a small but
energetic man who looked as though a stiff breeze would have knocked him off
his feet. Hawkwood had taught him how to fire a Baker rifle. In turn, Rodriguez
had taught Hawkwood how to defend himself, unarmed, against knife and sword
attacks. The guerrilla had been quick to tell Hawkwood the techniques didn't
always work. If in doubt, and if you had one, use a pistol. It was a lot more
effective.

"These men bringing
the brandy and tobacco," Lasseur said. "You think they'll take us all
the way to France?"

Hawkwood
considered the question. "They're more likely to ferry us to the mainland
and send us overland to one of their southern ports, then across to Ostend, or
Flushing. We'll find out soon enough."

As if on cue,
the cellar door opened. Isaac stepped through. "Time to go," he said
briskly. "Abraham's just received word. Boat's on its way in."

They left the
cellar and made their way upstairs to the taproom to find they had acquired
company. Hawkwood counted at least fifteen men; all dressed in dark clothing,
seated around the candlelit tables. They looked up, but no one spoke. Hawkwood
recognized their kind immediately. The London rookeries were full of them: hard
men with no allegiance to the law, loyal to their own kind and instantly
suspicious of any stranger who wandered uninvited into their protectorate.

Abraham, minus
his apron, emerged from a door at the back of the counter, tucking a pistol
into his belt. "All right, let's do it." He moved to a table and
picked up an unlit lantern. Three sides of the lantern, Hawkwood noticed, were
blacked out.

The
landlord
looked towards Hawkwood and Lasseur. "Keep
close and keep quiet. Once we get the goods ashore, you'll be shipping
out."

The men at the
tables rose to their feet. They were well armed, Hawkwood saw as he followed
them out of the door. Every man carried a pistol in his belt, and some had
wooden clubs. Curiously, they were also wearing what appeared to be a leather
harness across their chests and shoulders.

Down in the
cellar, Hawkwood had lost all track of time and, although Isaac had warned
them, it was still an odd sensation walking outside and finding it was night.

Abraham led them
in single file past the church and towards the end of the village. Isaac had
talked about parading down the high street. Once again the description was a
misnomer. The Strand and the Haymarket were high streets. Warden's main
thoroughfare was a country lane bordered by darkened cottages, woods and
brambles. Aside from the men emerging from the pub there were no other signs of
life.

When they
reached the edge of the cliff, the view in the moonlight was extraordinary. It
was like standing on the edge of the world. To the north, isolated points of
light that might have been taken for stars had they been at a higher elevation
twinkled distantly along a dark finger of coastline. Hawkwood tried to recall
his geography and decided it was Foulness. Further west, but not as far, another
faint, bobbing speck indicated the Nore Light, moored at the mouth of the
Thames estuary. Hawkwood followed the panorama around. As far as the horizon,
the masthead and deck lanterns of ships scattered across the water shone like
tiny fireflies. To the south, on the mainland, some lights glowed with a
greater intensity. One cluster indicated a substantial number of dwellings.
Hawkwood guessed it was probably Whitstable, six miles across the bay.

"There!"
one of the men whispered. An arm pointed.

Hawkwood saw it
at the same time. Half a second later and the sight would not have registered.
It was a blue powder flash. Hawkwood recognized what it was. He'd employed the
same signalling method himself in the field, using a barrel-less flintlock
pistol. Charging the pan with powder and pulling the trigger produced the vivid
blue light - highly visible, if you knew where to look.

Hawkwood
concentrated his attention on the area where the flash had originated and
caught sight of a blunted shape heading towards the shore. Out beyond it, he
thought he could see another, larger, shadow but as there were no lights
showing he couldn't be sure if it was a vessel or not. It could just as easily
have been a trick of the eye or the movement of the waves, though there
didn't
appear to be much of a swell.

Swiftly, Abraham
raised the lantern. Turning the open side towards the direction of the powder
flash, he lit the candle. He was rewarded with another blue spark.

He extinguished
the lantern quickly. "Let's go."

With the moon
guiding their steps, the
landlord
led the way down the
cliff. The path was steep and in parts crumbly underfoot. Three minutes later
they were on the beach, the shingle crackling under their boot heels. The wash
of the waves against the shore sounded like distant applause.

The men stood
still and listened. From the darkness beyond the surf came the rhythmic
scraping of oars. Hawkwood's eyes caught a ripple of quicksilver as water broke
against a half-turned blade. Suddenly, the scraping ceased, and as the rowing
boat scudded towards them the men on the beach stepped back. The oarsmen were
out of the boat before it had grounded. Whispered greetings were exchanged and
the unloading got under way.

The men worked
without speaking. Moonglow played over their tense faces. Hawkwood and Lasseur
stood well back up the beach so as not to impede the operation, watching as the
tubs were taken off the boat and placed on the shingle. The reason for the
leather harnesses soon became clear. They were for carrying the tubs; one on
the chest, a second slung between the shoulder blades. Hawkwood was impressed
by the weight each man was carrying: it had to be close to one hundred pounds.
Lugging the contraband back up to the inn was going to be hard on the legs and
lungs.

The moment the
tubs were secured in the rigs, the men set off across the shingle towards the
cliff path. It took a while to get all the tubs out of the boat and pile them
on the beach. When the last one had been unloaded, the boat crew began to pass
out large oilskin bags. Hawkwood assumed it was tobacco.

When the line of
weighted men was strung across the width of the beach, the tiller man waved
urgently.

Isaac grabbed
Hawkwood's sleeve.
"Right, on your way."

At that moment,
from the direction of the church, there came the plaintive cry of an owl.

Isaac went
rigid.
"Aw, Christ!"

And the night
erupted in a rattle of musket fire.

Powder flashes
and lights bloomed along the clifftop, sending the men on the shingle
scattering for cover.

Isaac dragged a
brace of pistols from his belt and drew back the hammers with his thumbs.

From both ends
of the beach came the crunching clatter of hooves and Hawkwood turned and saw
the swiftly moving shapes of
horsemen
outlined against
the surf.

"Head for
the boat!"
Isaac yelled. A pistol cracked in his hand.

Hawkwood looked
towards the edge of the beach, where the oarsmen were pushing the boat off the
shingle and into the water.

"Move
yourselves!"
Isaac's voice again.

Hawkwood could
see Abraham's men trying to run, their gait hampered by the weight of the tubs
at front and back. They looked like drunken turkey cocks waddling in the
darkness.

Shots rang out.

Hawkwood heard a
grunt and saw Isaac stagger and go down.

Instinctively,
Hawkwood reached towards Isaac's unfired pistol and felt his arm grabbed.

"Leave
it!" Lasseur cried, pulling him back. "They're not going to
wait!"

The horses were drawing
closer. Riding officers, Hawkwood guessed, or possibly cavalry, brought in to
assist. He could see
them clearly now, silhouetted against the sky. Some of the
headgear looked like dragoon helmets. He ducked as a ball whickered past his
ear, looked for Lasseur, who had let go of his arm, and saw the Frenchman
ducking as he ran for the retreating boat.

Isaac's body
showed no sign of movement. Across the beach, more bright flashes and
explosions showed where gunfire was being exchanged.

Following Lasseur's
lead, Hawkwood abandoned the unused pistol and stumbled towards the water. In
front of him, the privateer had almost reached the surf. Hawkwood picked up
speed. The clatter of hooves was growing louder. He could hear jangling bridle
sounds, too. The
horsemen
were gaining, rapidly.

Then Lasseur
went down.

Hawkwood's first
thought was that the privateer had been hit, and then he saw that the culprit
had not been a pistol ball but one of the oilskin bundles that had been
inadvertently left behind in the panic by both the boat crew and the shore
party. Lasseur had fallen over it.

Hawkwood heard a
sharp cry, thought it was Lasseur and then realized it was one of the
horsemen
who had seen the Frenchman go sprawling.

Lasseur got to
his knees with a curse and looked for the boat. There was another yell, a
warning this time, from one of the boat crew. The noise of hooves on the beach
sounded like rolling thunder. Shouts and gunshots continued to ring out behind
them.

Hawkwood glanced
to the side and saw a silver glint. One of the riders had drawn his sabre; a
dragoon. Moonlight flickered along the blade.

Lasseur was
getting to his feet but the
horsemen
were coming in
fast. The leader was closing at a remarkable speed, sabre raised high. Hawkwood
threw himself towards the sea.

Lasseur was
still floundering as the
horseman
put spurs to his
horse. Hawkwood knew the Frenchman was never going to make it. The boat was
still out of reach and the
horseman
was almost on top
of him. As if hearing the hoofbeats for the first time, Lasseur turned and saw
death bearing down.

Hawkwood reached
the edge of the shingle less than ten yards ahead of the horse and rider. He
had a vision of a dark mass blotting out the moon, as he hooked his arm around
Lasseur's shoulder and hauled the Frenchman towards the water, knowing they
didn't stand a hope in hell of reaching the boat alive.

He felt the
pressure of displaced air pushing against his spine as the horse reared and he
braced himself for the blow.

Then there was a
crisp report from the boat and a cry from over Hawkwood's shoulder as the ball
took the dragoon in the chest. A second shot rang out. Hawkwood heard the horse
whinny, followed by the colossal crash of a huge and heavy body slamming down
into the surf. A tidal wave surged over him. He did not dare to look around but
continued to propel himself onward, pushing Lasseur ahead of him.

Sensing more
mayhem, he looked over his shoulder; both mount
and
rider had gone
down, forming a barrier between
himself
and the other
horsemen. It was the last chance he was going to get. He turned again and saw
that the water was up to Lasseur's thighs but that he had made it to the boat.
Arms were already reaching for him. Hawkwood struck out into the waves and
threw himself forward. As his feet lifted off the bottom he felt a hand grab
his collar and made a desperate lunge. His fingers curled around the gunwale.
Feet kicking, he hauled himself aboard. Another shot rang out, closer to his
ear, and he felt the heat of the ignited powder, abrasive against his cheek. He
turned, gasping for breath, and watched as another of the riders tumbled back
over the rump of his horse.