Rapscallion (48 page)

"Ignore
him, Del," Morgan said wearily. "He thinks he's being funny."

"Ain't
me," Del said, looking pained. "It's the bloody paint. How many times
do I have to tell you?"

"You're
not wearing any paint," Hawkwood said.

"Ha,
bleedin' ha," Del said, though he still looked doubtful. He turned to
Morgan for instructions. "Where d'you want them?"

"Out
of my sight.
Take Sol; put them in one of the
cellars. Let them stew for a while. Jack, you go with them. There's safety in
numbers. Don't give either of them an inch - I mean it. Soon as they're locked
away, Del, I want you back watching the road. Better send word to Asa Higgs,
too. Use one of the carrier birds. Tell him there's a burial that needs
arranging." He looked at Hawkwood and Lasseur.
"Possibly
three."

Morgan
tossed Pepper his spent pistol and turned to the girl. "Esther, you get
Jilks's bay back in her stable before it gets light. Make sure you rub her
down. We don't want her looking like she's been ridden hard. Once you've done
that, give it till morning, then make out you just found him. Not too tearful;
just enough to make it look good. You know the drill. If you go now, you should
just make it. Thaddeus'll give you a hand to saddle up."

The
girl nodded.

"Good,"
Morgan said. "You all know what to do."

Croker
picked up a lantern. "All right; move your arses." He pointed the
muzzle of his pistol at Hawkwood's cheek. "Just give me an excuse."

"Enough,
Jack," Morgan said. "You'll get your chance."

Croker
looked as if he couldn't wait that long.

Sol,
carrying a lantern of his own, led the way out of the stables, across the yard
and down a series of steps into a dank, vault-like passage beneath the
foundations of yet another outbuilding from the ancient priory complex.

Croker
halted them outside a closed door and withdrew the bolt. He pulled the door
open and gestured Hawkwood into the room. Hawkwood was halfway through the
doorway when Croker's boot slammed into the back of his calf, folding his leg
and pitching him on to the hard stone floor.

"Watch
the Frog," Croker snarled and launched his boot towards Hawkwood's groin.
Hawkwood twisted aside, leaving his thigh to catch the brunt of the strike. It
was still hard enough to make him cry out with the pain. Two more kicks in
quick succession found their mark before Croker stepped away; finally heeding
Sol's warning that their employer was unlikely to be happy if the bastard
pegged out before he'd been questioned.

Holding
up the light, he gazed down at Hawkwood, his eyes black with hate. "You're
a dead man," he said.

He
turned. "Get the other one in here."

Del
pushed Lasseur forward and Croker exited the cellar. Lasseur had barely enough
time to move to Hawkwood's side before the door was slammed shut behind him,
leaving him cocooned in darkness, with only Hawkwood's ragged breathing for
company.

It
was several minutes before the pain subsided and Hawkwood was able to sit up.
He did so gingerly, thankful that Croker had aimed for his lower torso. None of
the kicks had landed on the previous wounds sustained from the duel in the
hulk.

He
couldn't see a thing. The interior of the cellar was as dark as a tomb.

"Matthew?"
Lasseur's disembodied voice came out of the blackness.

"Still
here," Hawkwood said.

He
felt a hand on his arm. "Are you hurt?"

"I'll
live."

"I
should quote Charbonneau. What was it he used to say? 'The Lord loves an
optimist'?"

Ignoring
the pain in his belly and his thigh, Hawkwood got
to
his feet and heard Lasseur do the same. He reached out and took hold of
Lasseur's sleeve. "The door's to our left, yes?"

Lasseur
thought for a second. "Yes."

"Let's
make sure," Hawkwood said.
"Back up until we reach
the wall."

It
took five paces before their spines touched the cold stone.

"Now,
what?"
Lasseur asked, intrigued.

Leaning
flat against the wall, Hawkwood took his bearings, picturing in his mind the
things he'd seen in the cellar before the door closed and the light vanished.
Croker's keen desire to inflict punishment had provided him with valuable
seconds in which to take stock of his surroundings, the dimensions of the room
and some of the objects immediately to hand.

Uppermost
were the position of the door and a shelf to the left of it bearing a candle
stub and what had looked like a tinder box.

"Don't
move," Hawkwood said.

Holding
his hands out in front of him, moving painfully, he set off towards the
opposite wall. A vision struck him of soldiers blinded in action and reduced to
begging on street corners, enclosed in perpetual darkness. I'd rather be dead
than blind, he thought.

When
his hands finally touched stone, he paused. Knowing the dark would have caused
some disorientation he debated whether to move left or right. He chose left.
The shelf had been set low, he recalled, and at waist height. Tentatively, he
began to edge along the wall. After a few side steps his fingers encountered
wood; moved on, and found metal. It was the tin. Hawkwood fumbled awkwardly
with the lid, eased it open and probed the interior. Yes! He breathed a sigh of
relief and ran his fingers over a flint and steel, and something with the
consistency of thistledown. He heard Lasseur's exclamation at seeing the spark
as he struck the flint. Looking down, he saw not only the tinder but two short
lengths of taper lying on the shelf next to the candle stub.

A
few seconds later, they had light.

Extinguishing
the tinder, Hawkwood placed the fire-starting tools back in the tin and slipped
it into his pocket. "We need a way out or something to fight with.
Preferably both."

"You
still have your knife?" Lasseur said, remembering.

"It
won't be enough," Hawkwood said. He looked at Lasseur. "Why didn't
you try and shoot me? You had the chance to save yourself."

Lasseur,
trapped by the candlelight, looked surprised by the question. "You still
owe me four thousand francs, remember? I was protecting my investment."

"Now,
who's the optimist?" Hawkwood said, and winced.

His
discomfort did not go unnoticed. Lasseur frowned. "I thought you said you
weren't hurt."

"No,
I said I'd live. I hurt like hell."

"You
can't blame Croker. You killed his friend."

"I
might just kill Croker as well," Hawkwood growled. He paused. "Why
are
you doing this,
Captain? What's the real reason?"

Lasseur
smiled and then his face grew serious. "I said you were an honourable man.
I also said there was
a darkness
within you. I believe
both statements to be true. You proved it by fighting by my side to protect the
boy and when you saved my life on the beach. For those acts alone, I will
always count you as my friend. As a general rule, I do not kill my friends. Did
Morgan speak the truth? You really are a police officer?"

Hawkwood
nodded.

"You
had me fooled."

"But
I didn't
take
you for a
fool," Hawkwood said. "It's not the same thing."

"No,"
Lasseur said. He looked thoughtful. "I don't believe it is."

The
candlelight confirmed there was only the one door and that the cellar held
nothing lethal enough to use as a weapon. A dozen half-anker tubs were stacked
against the far end of the room. Six bigger barrels rested on their sides next
to them. Adjacent to the large barrels were several glass demijohns containing
what appeared to be, in the dull candle glow, a coloured liquid. Next to the
demijohns were some wooden crates containing dozens of glass bottles, all of
them empty. The smell was enough to tell them what the barrels contained.
Hawkwood nudged the small kegs. Their weight told him they were full. He
presumed the six tubs Asa Higgs had transported from Jess Flynn's farm were
among them, though there was no way to know for sure as they all looked the
same. Morgan was taking a risk keeping them on his property, Hawkwood
reflected, if the Haunt was ever raided by the Revenue, though that seemed an
unlikely prospect given the pickets and the representatives of officialdom
Morgan supposedly had on his payroll.

There
was a spigot in each of the large barrels. Hawkwood held his hand under one and
turned the tap. He let the clear liquid run and took a sip. He had taken it for
gin, but it was water he could taste.

"At
least we won't die of thirst," Lasseur said.

"
Depends
which barrel you sup from," Hawkwood said.
"Pick the wrong one and you're more likely to die of alcohol
poisoning."

"What?"
Lasseur's eyebrows lifted.

"Not
all the brandy that's brought in is drinkable.
A lot of its
seventy per cent over proof.
They have to add water. Some of it comes in
clear, so they add caramel syrup to darken it. I'm guessing that's what's in
those." Hawkwood indicated the demijohns and then the kegs. "You
drink that stuff undiluted, it'll likely kill you."

"There
might be worse ways of going," Lasseur said. He stared wistfully at the
kegs. Then his eyes shifted to a large wooden tea chest. "What do you
suppose is in there?"

More
smuggled goods, Hawkwood guessed, though it was unlikely to hold tea, as the
duty on tea had been heavily reduced decades ago. It was more likely to be
lace, or gloves, or rolls of silk. There was no lock. He undid the clasps and
opened the lid.

Nothing
to get excited about; bundles of material, though none of them were of lace or
silk. Hawkwood was reaching down to feel if there was anything concealed
beneath the layers when something about the material struck him as vaguely
familiar. He held the candle close then placed it to the side and lifted one of
the bundles out. When he unrolled it, he was holding a jacket and a pair of
breeches. The jacket was dark blue with a red collar and cuffs. The trousers
were a grubby white.

He
heard Lasseur give a grunt of surprise. "That's a French infantry
uniform."

Hawkwood
nodded.
"Company of Fusiliers."

"You're
familiar with French army uniforms?"

"It's
a long story," Hawkwood said.

"These
aren't new." Lasseur pointed to a hole in the tunic. "That was made
by a musket ball."

Or maybe even a bullet from a Baker rifle,
Hawkwood thought.

There
were upwards of two dozen more uniforms in the chest. What was Morgan doing
with them? He couldn't begin to guess, but he wasn't going to lose sleep over
it. He tossed the uniform back in the chest and closed the lid.

"I
think we've exhausted our possibilities," Lasseur said. "It looks as
if your knife's the only weapon we've got."

Hawkwood
looked around.

"Not
necessarily," he said.

Lasseur
frowned. "What did you have in mind?"

Hawkwood
told him.

Lasseur
considered Hawkwood's idea.

"The darkness returns," he said grimly.

Footsteps,
followed by the rasp of metal catching on metal.

Hawkwood,
senses alert, opened his eyes. It didn't make any difference. He still couldn't
see a damned thing. He wondered if it was morning already. Had he slept? It
didn't seem as if five minutes had passed since they had been locked in.

He
heard voices behind the door but the words were indistinct. He assumed Lasseur
had heard them, too. Acting quickly, using the flint and steel, he set light to
the tinder and transferred the flame to the candle. Slipping the tin into his
pocket, he squatted down with his back to the wall, the flickering candle on
the floor by his hand. He glanced across the room to where Lasseur was
crouching. The privateer nodded.