Rapscallion (42 page)

Pepper's
head swivelled.

The
chatter ceased.

Morgan
stared at Lasseur. His expression was impenetrable.

The
world revolved slowly.

Then
Morgan nodded.
"Agreed."
He turned to
Hawkwood. "Looks like you're the only one left, Captain Hooper. Are you in
or out?"

This is bloody madness,
Hawkwood
thought. This went way beyond anything foreseen by Ludd or James Read. He
looked at Lasseur. The privateer winked back at him.

Christ,
Hawkwood
thought.

Brain
spinning, he turned to Morgan and grinned.

"Wouldn't
miss it.
I'm in."

Hawkwood
and Lasseur were in the cloisters.

Morgan
and Pepper had departed the refectory leaving the room abuzz with excitement. Any
despondency at the lack of home comforts had evaporated as quickly as the early
morning haze. Uppermost in everyone's mind was the final instalment of Morgan's
plan, which he had promised would soon be forthcoming.

Hawkwood
had tried to imagine what £500,000 would look like accumulated in one place and
had given up. The idea of four tons of bullion heaped on to the back of a wagon
- most of which, according to Morgan, would probably be in ingots - hadn't
proved any easier to digest. His head was spinning with the enormity of it. He
needed to think. After a suitable period of listening to the others planning
their futures - which seemed to consist entirely of country estates, fine wines
and, for the ones who weren't married, and even for a couple who were, a supply
of pliant women - he had left the refectory and walked into the open air.

Footsteps
sounded behind him and he cursed under his breath.

"You
have to admit," Lasseur murmured, "it's a devil of a
proposition."

"There'll
be a price to pay," Hawkwood said.

"Undoubtedly.
Though I notice it didn't prevent
you
from accepting our host's offer," Lasseur commented wryly. He patted his
pockets, as if looking for the last of his cheroots.

           
"Four
tons of gold's a fearsome incentive," Hawkwood said.

"You
think it's possible?" Lasseur asked. His hands gave up their search.

"Anything's
possible," Hawkwood said and then thought,
Well
, maybe not
anything,
because alerting the authorities was now his first priority
and so far he hadn't come up with a single feasible idea on how to do that. In
the meantime, he reasoned, there was more chance of his foiling Morgan's insane
plan by remaining inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in.

"Our
host seems to have addressed all the likely hindrances."

"He
thinks he has."

"You
don't agree with his strategy?"

"He
was a little short on specifics. I don't have enough information to hand to
make a judgement."

Lasseur
looked sceptical.

"I'm
just weighing the odds," Hawkwood said. "The moment you put a plan
into action, what's the first thing that usually goes wrong?"

Lasseur
thought about it. The corners of his mouth lifted.
"The
rest of the plan.
So?"

Hawkwood
nodded. "So remember what Tom Gadd told us? If we ever shook hands with
Morgan we were to count our fingers afterwards."

"In
other words, we watch our backs."

"And
everything else," Hawkwood said.

"The
others don't seem to share our concerns," Lasseur pointed out.

"They
haven't had the benefit of Tom Gadd's opinion or the Widow Flynn's experience of
dealing with the man. All they see is the gold at the end of the rainbow and
the thanks of a grateful Emperor."

"Some
might think that was sufficient," Lasseur said.

"Not
me," Hawkwood said. "But, as you once pointed out, I'm a suspicious
bastard. I've been around long enough to know that you don't get anything for
nothing."

Morgan's
warning about keeping within the grounds and
the
presence of pickets had suddenly taken on a new meaning. Now that Morgan had revealed
his grand plan, it was clear those precautions were intended not only to keep
unwanted visitors at bay, but to ensure that information did not escape from
the compound. It occurred to Hawkwood that one form of prison had been replaced
with another. Admittedly, as Denard had stated, there was a deal more comfort,
but it was still a gaol of sorts. And one from which Hawkwood had to find a way
out.

"You
seem well informed about Deal," he said to Lasseur.

The
privateer laughed. "Never walked the streets, but British merchantmen use
the Downs as an anchorage and there are rich pickings along that stretch of
coast for a crew with enough nerve and a fast ship."

"And
the
Scorpion's
a fast
ship," Hawkwood said.

"That
she is, and the fortress makes a good landmark for navigation. Mind you, I've
felt the breeze from those thirty-six- pounders a few times, too.
Had my run-ins with the locals as well.
They're fine seamen.
There's more than one privateer that's been chased away from its target by a
pack of sharp-sighted Deal boatmen."

"They're
well armed?"

"Pistols
and swords, usually, but their boats are . . . were . . . so damned fast.
They'd be on you and under your guns before you'd have a chance to disengage.
They've no shortage of courage, I'll give them that."

"That's
what makes them such good free traders," Hawkwood said. "It'll be a
family business for most, I expect, and there's no greater bond than
family."

Save a man's
regiment, where comrades in arms were often as close as brothers; closer,
sometimes,
Hawkwood thought, remembering.

"Stealing
a wagonload of gold isn't the same as hefting two dozen tubs of brandy up a
beach," Lasseur pointed out.

"No,
it isn't," Hawkwood agreed. "But it's a bloody sight more
profitable."

"Damned
right!"
Lasseur said, his eyes lighting
up. "I've taken some prizes in my time, but nothing like this. By God,
Matthew, say what you like about Morgan, he doesn't do things by halves!"

Lasseur
was right about that, Hawkwood conceded. It sounded as though the privateer was
warming to the man. But then, why wouldn't he be? Morgan was providing him with
a roof over his head, victuals and a passage home, not to mention a share of
the profit from a strike against a hated enemy, something at which Lasseur
excelled anyway. From Lasseur's point of view, and indeed from that of Masson
and Le Jeune and the rest of them, it was their sworn duty to harass and
inflict damage on the enemies of France. For them, Morgan's mission was a
golden opportunity.

Literally.

Watching
the thrill of the chase expand across Lasseur's face and hearing the excitement
in his voice, Hawkwood knew a primeval change was taking place. He was reminded
of a wolf scenting blood and knew that Lasseur was reverting from prisoner
back to privateer, his true character. Hawkwood recalled the story of the
scorpion that asked the frog to carry him across a stream, promising the frog
it would not be stung. And yet when they were halfway across, the scorpion
reneged on its promise and stung the frog to death, thus precipitating its own
demise. When the frog had asked why, the scorpion replied, "Because I'm a
scorpion. It's my nature."

Lasseur's
nature was to sail the oceans in search of prey, using every means at his
disposal. Perhaps the name of his ship was just a coincidence, Hawkwood
thought. With a growing sense of disquiet, he realized that once again Lasseur
had become his enemy.

Which
meant he was on his own.

He
saw that Lasseur was looking over his shoulder.

Hawkwood
tensed as he turned. It was the groom, Thaddeus.

The
groom jerked a thumb in the direction of the main house.

"Mr
Morgan wants to see you," he said.

Morgan
was seated at his desk when Hawkwood and Lasseur entered the room. He was
dressed as he had been during his morning walk, in dark breeches and jacket and
a navy waistcoat. Hawkwood looked for the two mastiffs and was relieved to see
they were nowhere in sight. The blackthorn stick, however, was propped against
the side of the desk.

Morgan
nodded at the groom, who backed away and closed the door behind him. Pepper,
who was standing behind Morgan, looking out of the window, turned, his good arm
held behind his back.

Morgan
moved out from the desk and walked to a circular table upon which stood a
bottle and four glass goblets. "Drink, gentlemen?" He did not wait for
a reply but reached for the bottle.

"I
think this will be to Captain Lasseur's liking. It's from the Bertin vineyard.
I'm told
it's
Emperor Bonaparte's favourite
tipple." He glanced towards his lieutenant.
"Cephus?"

Pepper
stalked over. Morgan passed out the drinks and raised his glass. "Here's
to profit!"

The
four men drank. Hawkwood took stock of the room. There was a marked lack of
frills, making it undeniably masculine in style. Apart from a
comfortable-looking settee facing the fireplace, it was more of an office than
a sitting room. On first impression, it reminded Hawkwood a little of Hellard's
quarters back on
Rapacious.
On closer inspection, however, he saw that the furnishings, although plain,
were of a superior quality. And in contrast to Hellard's cabin, there were a
clutch of paintings on the walls, mostly equine in character. He wondered if
Morgan had a family. With the goblet in his hand, the smuggler looked every
inch the prosperous gentleman farmer, while Pepper, dressed in grey, had the
veneer of an efficient, albeit intimidating, estate manager.

Morgan
addressed Lasseur. "You slept well, Captain? Captain Hooper tells me that
new surroundings make it hard for him to settle."

"Not
me," Lasseur said. "Though I'm more used to beds that
sway."

"Ah,
of course.
And they have hammocks on the
hulks, don't they? By the way, did I mention that you and Cephus here have
something in common? Cephus was at sea, too, before we joined
forces. Weren't you, old friend?"

Lasseur
regarded Pepper with renewed interest. "You were in the navy, Mr
Pepper?"

"It
was a long time ago," Pepper said.

There
was no attempt to elaborate. Lasseur glanced at the remains of Pepper's left
arm but made no comment. Whether it was out of politeness or in deference to
Pepper's demeanour, Hawkwood couldn't tell.

"That
was before he found a more lucrative line of work," Morgan added.

"The
Trade?"
Lasseur said.

"That's
right." Morgan smiled. "The wine's to your liking, Captain?"

"I'm
happy to report that His Majesty has excellent taste," Lasseur said.

"And
what's the point of being in the business if you can't sample the goods,
eh?" Morgan took a sip from his glass and compressed his lips in
appreciation. "Find a seat. Make yourselves comfortable."

Hawkwood
took a chair. Lasseur moved to the settee.

Morgan
put down his glass and held open a veneered wooden box. "Manila?"

Lasseur,
with an exclamation of pleasure, helped himself to a cheroot. He held the roll
of tightly wrapped tobacco leaf under his nose and sniffed appreciatively.

Hawkwood
declined. Morgan took a cheroot for
himself
and
offered the box to Pepper, who shook his head.