Rapscallion (30 page)

"You'd best
take these, too," Gideon said. "You know how to gut fish?"

Before either
Hawkwood or Lasseur could reply, two baskets of mackerel were passed over the
boat's rail, along with two gutting knives.

"They're
not the freshest catch of the day, but when the first folk start arriving, be
they on the boats or from over the sand, it'd be best if you were looking busy.
They'll just think you were early risers, which you are. That way, you won't
have to talk to anyone. It'll help you blend in, make it look like you're part
of the scenery. Anyone does try and strike up a conversation, say you're
Belgian
fishermen
. We get them here looking for
oysters. And don't forget," Gideon called as the boat slid away, "Asa
Higgs; missing a finger!" He gave a final wave.

They watched the
boat disappear into the night. Then Hawkwood took stock. The lights from the
towns beckoned invitingly. They still seemed a long way off. The moon showed
the tide had a way to travel before it would recede as far as the platform.
Hawkwood wondered when the first fishing boats would show up to offload. Not
until first light, he suspected, though that was likely to be early.

There was indeed
a cool breeze coming off the sea, and he was thankful for the coat. He gave
silent thanks, too, that Ludd hadn't asked for Bow Street's help in the dead of
winter.

Lasseur passed
him the brandy bottle after taking a swig. "That's another thing that'll
have my crew pissing themselves," he said mournfully.

"What's
that?" Hawkwood asked.

"Me having
to tell them I was marooned."

Hawkwood shook
his head and raised the bottle to his lips. "There's a difference."

"There
is?"

"I heard
marooned men were given a loaded pistol for when it got too bad to bear."

"Damn,"
Lasseur said. "We should have asked."

"We'll have
to make do with this," Hawkwood said, passing the bottle.

"Better
make it last," Lasseur said, eyeing the fish and the knives. "It
could be a long night."

The farm was
bounded by woods. There wasn't a great deal to it; a half-stone, half-brick
farmhouse, a couple of outhouses, a barn, a henhouse, a sty, a wooden-fenced
sheep enclosure similar to the one back on Sheppey and containing six sheep,
and a small paddock, in which a pair of horses grazed contentedly. An apple
orchard framed one side of the house. At the rear there was a well-tended
garden containing vegetables and herbs. To the front lay a meadow of short
grass, dotted with wild flowers, through which ran a small, gently flowing
stream.

Approaching the
farm, Hawkwood thought it one of the most tranquil places he'd ever seen. It
was also one of the best concealed. The locals obviously knew the location, but
anyone not of the district would only have happened upon the valley by chance.
He presumed that was why it had been chosen. As a place to hide, it was ideal.

They had left
the fishing platform shortly after dawn, carrying their baskets of mackerel,
just as the first of the boats and the early rising townsfolk had begun to
arrive. Many of the latter had been women, who weren't averse to calling out
lewd suggestions to any male within hailing distance. Other than suffering the
crude but good-natured banter, Hawkwood and Lasseur had negotiated the mile and
a half tramp across the mud without incident.

The church had
been a five-minute walk from the shingle beach. They had found the gravedigger,
a small man with a nut- brown complexion, bow legs and three fingers and a
thumb on his right hand, contemplating a newly filled clay pipe and a freshly
dug example of his handiwork.

He had looked
up, viewing Hawkwood and Lasseur's unshaven faces and mud-caked boots with a
wry eye. "You'll be the two Frenchies I'm expectin'."

Lasseur nodded.
Hawkwood didn't bother to contradict him. It seemed easier than having someone
else tell him he was a long way from home.

"Speak
English? All right, best come with me. Leave the fish."

Leading them out
of the graveyard to where a horse and cart were tethered, the gravedigger
pointed to the back of the cart and the two cheap wooden coffins, partially
covered with sacking.

"We'd normally
be travellin' at night when there's less folk about, but I don't reckon it's
wise to have the both of you hangin' round here all day. We'd best be on our
way. You'll be comfortable enough and I ain't goin' to nail you in. We don't
have far to go. I'll let you out soon as we're off the road." He jerked
his head. "In you get."

Hawkwood and
Lasseur exchanged disbelieving looks and Hawkwood wondered if Lasseur had
understood all that the gravedigger had told them. Not that it mattered. Both
of them had been too weary to argue. And the gravedigger had been proved right.
It was a comfortable way to travel. Hawkwood had come close to dozing off a
couple of times.

They were out of
the coffins and sitting on the back of the cart, feet dangling over the tail
board, when they emerged from the trees to find the farmhouse nestling in the
dip before them.

The gravedigger
clicked his tongue and coaxed the horse down the track. "Welcome to the
widow's."

Lasseur frowned
while Hawkwood stared at the house and the wispy tendrils of wood smoke
drifting from the chimney. Whoever had lit the fire had used apple logs. The
smell was unmistakable and strangely comforting and reminded Hawkwood of autumn
rather than summer.

"It's what
folks call her." There was a slight pause.
"Among
other things."

"Other
things?"
Lasseur said.

"There's
some folk round about think she's a witch."

Lasseur looked
at Hawkwood and said in French, "He says it is the house of a witch."

"Perhaps
she'll make us disappear," Hawkwood replied in the same language.
"And we'll wake up in France."

He wondered how
he'd explain that to James Read.

I've
found out how they do it, sir. They smuggle them
off
the ships in
body bags and then they deliver them to this old woman who has warts and a cat,
and she turns them into blackbirds and they fly away home.

There was no
cat, but there was a dog. It was lying by the open door of the barn. It raised
itself as the cart drew near and looked over its shoulder. Then it padded
forward hesitantly.

It was a big
dog, with shaggy brown hair and eyes hidden behind a fringe. It wasn't young,
Hawkwood saw. There was grey around its muzzle and it was walking like an old
man suffering the first stages of arthritis. Giving a brief wag of its tail, it
emitted a single bark and then lay down as if exhausted by its efforts.

The bark had
been not so much a warning as a summons.

A woman walked
out of the barn, a pail in her hands. Hawkwood's first thought was that she
didn't look like any witch he might have imagined.

Hawkwood heard
Lasseur catch his breath.

Thick black
hair, drawn back and tied with a ribbon at the base of her neck, framed a pair
of deep brown eyes and a strong face warmed by the sun. She was dressed in a
long grey skirt, a white blouse open at the throat and a faded blue waistcoat.
The clothes that covered her slender figure showed evidence of repair, with
patches at knee and hem. The opening at the top of the blouse showed a V of
freckled skin. A smudge of dirt marked her right jaw. A strand of hair hung
down her left cheek and flirted with the corner of her mouth. She brushed it
away and tucked it behind her ear. A bright sheen of perspiration lay along her
top lip.

She watched the
cart's approach.

The cart halted.
The horse lowered its head to crop the grass.

"Morning,
Jess." The gravedigger touched his cap.

"Asa."

The woman
shielded her eyes from the sun and made no attempt to approach.

"You were
expectin' us." The gravedigger gestured to Hawkwood and Lasseur to get
down from the cart.

The woman looked
Hawkwood and Lasseur up and down and said nothing.

Hawkwood knew
what both of them must have looked like: bedraggled and unshaven, breeches and
boots mud-stained and still damp from their recent soaking.

"Madame,"
Lasseur said, inclining his head.

She bestowed
Lasseur with a frank look but did not acknowledge his gesture. Her gaze moved
to Hawkwood, settled for a second and then moved on back to the gravedigger.
Then she nodded.

"How long
is it for?"

"They
didn't say."

A flash of
irritation touched the woman's eyes and then died. She gave a resigned nod.
"Do they speak English?"

"We both
do,
madame." Lasseur smiled. "My name is Lasseur;
Captain Paul Lasseur. This is my friend, Captain Matthew Hooper."

The woman looked
at him but did not return the smile. She stared at Hawkwood then turned to the
gravedigger, who was giving Hawkwood a funny look. "Tell Morgan I'm still
holding those tubs. I'd prefer it if they were gone."

"He knows.
I'll be along to pick them up in a day or two."

"Good."

The gravedigger
nodded. "Right, then, they're all yours. I'll be off."

"How's
Megan?" the woman asked.

Higgs climbed
back on the cart. "She's doin' well. That magic potion you gave me 'as
done wonders."

The woman gave
an exasperated sigh. "It wasn't magic, Asa.
Just an
infusion of herbs.
You could grow them in your own garden, if you'd a
mind to."

Higgs shook his
head hurriedly. "Lord, no. More than my life's worth. I do that an' she'd
never let me leave the 'ouse." He grinned.

A smile touched
the woman's face. All at once her features were transformed. She was beautiful,
Hawkwood thought. "I've some elderflower cordial. You could take Megan
some."

"If you're
offerin'."

"Wait
here." The woman set down the pail and walked into the house.

The dog tracked
her progress through its fringe, trying to decide whether to follow or remain
on guard, eventually concluding that vigilance in the face of strangers
required marginally less effort.

The woman
returned with a small earthenware jug, which she handed to the gravedigger.
Placing the jug between his feet, Higgs picked up the reins, nodded briefly to
Hawkwood and Lasseur, and set the cart in motion with a click of his tongue.

They watched as
it trundled back towards the woods.

The woman
turned.
"This way.
Come with me." She led
the way to the barn. The dog got up and followed in a slow, lumbering jog.

It was cool in
the barn. There was a corn bin and two stalls, one of which contained a milking
cow. The place smelled of fresh manure and chickens. Several hens were pecking
around for food.

"It's dry
and there's plenty of room. I will provide you with blankets. You'll be
comfortable enough, I think."

She led them to
a corner. Several straw bales were stacked against the wall. Taking hold of one
of the bottom bales, she pulled it out to reveal a dark opening. In the space
behind, Hawkwood made out a bucket and some tubs stacked against the barn wall.
"If anyone comes, you are to hide in here." She indicated the dog.
"This is Rab. He's getting on in years, but he is a good dog and he will
warn me of strangers."

Hearing his
name, the dog looked up. His tail wagged.

"There is a
man who comes in to help me. His name is Thomas. You will know him for he has a
bad leg and a scar here." The woman ran the point of her finger across her
right eye and cheek. "You do not have to hide from him." As she
spoke, she glanced at the scars on Hawkwood's face. "Hooper, did you
say?"

"That's
right," Hawkwood said.

"You're
English?"

"American."

She studied him
for several seconds before nodding silently. Then she said, "When it's
time, I will bring you something to eat and drink."

"Thank
you," Lasseur said, subdued by the uncompromising gaze. "What do we
call you?"

"Madame."

She turned
before they could reply, heading for the farmhouse

in
purposeful strides,
the dog following closely in her wake. She picked up the pail as she passed.
Both men watched her go.

Lasseur turned
to Hawkwood and grinned. "I think she likes me.

Hawkwood's eyes
were closed. It was odd, he thought, how he could still smell the hulk. Common
sense told him it was impossible for the reek from the prison ships to have
carried all the way to the farm, and yet he could swear the odour was there,
coagulating at the back of his nostrils.