Rapscallion (56 page)

"Stay
where you are, Jessie!" Gadd called back. "We're all right."

At
the sound of Jess Flynn's voice, Lasseur turned away from the rear window. As
he did so, he saw Gadd's eyes widen in alarm at something behind him. Lasseur
swivelled just in time to see the cutlass blade hammer the pane into a thousand
shards and a pistol muzzle appear in the opening. Lasseur swung his arm up and
fired in the same instant as the attacker. The room was lit by simultaneous
flashes and two thunderclaps. A shriek of pain sounded outside the window and a
body dropped away. "THOMAS!"

Lasseur
spun back at the sound of Jess Flynn's cry of horror.

The
fowling piece had dropped from Gadd's hands. The
seaman
was slumped back against the wall, clutching his shoulder. The blood on his
shirt looked almost black in the half- lit room. Jess Flynn was scrambling
towards him on her knees.

Lasseur
sprang across the room.
Shouts sounded from outside.
The attackers had heard Jess Flynn's cry. From the anguish in her voice they
had guessed someone inside had been hurt.

"Quick!"
Lasseur looped his arm under Gadd's shoulder, ignoring the wounded man's wail
of agony. Between them, they half-pulled, half-carried Gadd back into the
kitchen.

"Tom's
hurt!" Jess Flynn cried. She opened the pantry door. The dog leapt up at
her.

"Down,
Rab!"

Hawkwood
turned to see Jess Flynn lift the flap to the cellar and push the dog down into
it. Closing the trap she reached out to support Gadd as Lasseur lifted the
seaman over the table and into the pantry.

Then
Lasseur yelled.

Hawkwood
turned and his throat went dry at the sight of Pepper, teeth bared in anger,
curving the axe blade towards the window.

Hawkwood
hurled himself backwards. The heavy blade demolished what was left of the glass
and a good portion of the lattice. As Hawkwood's spine hit the floor, Pepper
threw the axe to one side, pulled the pistol from the holster at his chest and
fired through the open window. Hawkwood rolled and felt the wind from the ball
as it struck the floor by his head. Pepper let out a roar of frustration.
Hawkwood brought his pistol up and fired, but he was too late, Pepper had gone.

From
the parlour came the sound of a window frame being turned to matchwood and from
the upper floor the breaking of glass.

And
then the back door reverberated to the sound of axe blows.

Hawkwood
backed away from the door and joined the others behind the table. "How bad
is he hit?"

The
back door was shaking under the onslaught.

"The
ball went through his shoulder," Jess Flynn said.

Lasseur
reversed the pistol in his hand. "I'm out of powder."

Hawkwood
looked towards the powder flask he'd left by the sink. Maybe he could still
retrieve it.

The
wood around the door lock was splitting. Suddenly the axe head appeared in the opening,
then withdrew, tearing a great chunk of wood away with it.

Maybe
not.

"Me,
too," Hawkwood said. "But they don't know that."

Lasseur
smiled.

"Stay
down, Jess," Hawkwood said.

Then,
suddenly, as if time had come to a halt, it went quiet. The blows on the door
ceased. There was no sound from the front of the house either, except for a
faint crackling.

"I
smell burning," Lasseur said.

With
a crash, the back door swung inwards.

The
straw bundles were well ablaze. Three came through the doorway in quick succession,
landing in a fiery cascade of sparks. One broke apart, scattering tendrils of
fire in all directions. The noises in the parlour intensified as more burning
straw was tossed in through the broken windows. Flames reached for the curtains
and the furnishings, running up towards the roof beams in ribbons of fire.
Smoke began to weave across the floor.

"Out!"
Hawkwood yelled. He ran to the door and felt the breeze from the pistol ball as
it thudded into the wall. A second gun cracked and he knew then that Pepper did
not intend to let them leave the burning building.

Another
plate tipped off the dresser and smashed behind him. In the other half of the
house, the parlour was well alight and flames had begun to devour the underside
of the ceiling. Plaster was splitting from the wall. The smoke was getting
thicker and more acrid.

"The
cellar!"
Hawkwood yelled.

Lasseur
pushed the table out of the way. Jess Flynn flung open the trapdoor and as the
dog came out like a shaggy brown missile shot from a cannon, she grabbed a
handful of fur and hung on tight. The dog yelped and tried to pull free, but
with grim determination she strengthened her hold and bundled the protesting
animal, claws skittering, back down into the cellar with her. Lasseur bent and
scooped Tom Gadd up in his arms. The wounded man groaned as Lasseur carried him
down into the darkness.

Hawkwood
was about to follow Lasseur down the stairs when his eyes fell on the pail
beneath the sink. He guessed it was used to carry water from the stream and as
a reservoir for the sink, but he couldn't recall if he'd actually seen water in
it. For a split second he hesitated as he heard Lasseur call his name. Then,
the decision made, he crossed to the pail. It was half full. Grabbing it,
Hawkwood retreated to the pantry. He thought he heard the sound of a shot
behind him. Pepper or one of his men must have seen movement within the smoke.
Eyes watering, with the heat of the flames lapping at his back, he descended
the cellar steps and shut the trapdoor behind him.

"We
thought Pepper had got you," Lasseur said. He sounded angry. "What
were you doing? What's that you've got?" His expression changed when he
saw what was in the pail.

Jess
Flynn had lit a candle. She handed it to Lasseur, who held it over Gadd's wound.
"Keep it still," she said.

Gently,
she lifted the blood-soaked shirt off the wound and examined closely the rent
the pistol ball had made in the material. She pressed the torn edges of the
cloth together. Hawkwood knew from experience that she was checking to see if
any of the material had travelled into the wound. If it had, there w is more
risk of Gadd dying of infection from the dirty cloth than of expiring through
trauma and blood loss. The bloody edges of the tear fitted together perfectly.
She breathed a sigh of relief.

Hawkwood
took out his knife and cut a flannel-sized strip of material from the hem of
Gadd's shirt. Jess took it from him and dipped it in the pail then began to
clean the blood from Gadd's shoulder. Gadd groaned and his eyes flickered open.

"It
was Jed Cooper who shot me," he murmured. He peered at Lasseur. "Hope
you got the bastard."

"Take
it easy, Tom," Hawkwood said. "Don't speak."

Gadd
lapsed into silence, flinching as the cloth skirted the edges of the wound.

Hawkwood
looked around. The cellar wasn't large; about the size of the kitchen above it.
Punnets containing fruit and vegetables rested on shelves around the walls.

"I
don't know if we're that safe from the fire. This cellar's stone-built, so it
won't burn; but if too much smoke gets in here, we're dead. We'll run out of
air, which means we'd have been better off letting Pepper shoot us. If you've
got any petticoats under there, Jess, we can cut them into scarves to soak in
the water and cover our faces. I'm told it's what heroines are supposed to
do."

She
dabbed the last of the blood from Gadd's shoulder, wetted the cloth again and
squeezed out the moisture. Then she held out her hand.
"Knife."

She
cut four strips of material from her underskirt and dropped them in the pail.

Hawkwood
got up and examined the underside of the trapdoor. It was heavy wood banded
with iron. Though a snug fit, it would not keep out a determined fire. If the
flames grew hot enough, the metal would warp and the wood would burn and smoke
would infiltrate the cellar and kill them where they lay. There was no sign of
the grey demon yet, but it was up there, searching, and eventually it would
find them.

A
crash came from above. Hawkwood wondered if part of the ceiling had come down.
He returned to the others. The dog was pacing back and forth, whining and
uttering plaintive yips of distress. It looked at Hawkwood and gave a tentative
wag of its tail before lying down next to Jess Flynn with its head on its paws.
It did not remain still, however, but kept raising its head and staring
dolefully towards the cellar roof.

More
noises came from within the burning house. The dog's ears twitched.

They
stubbed out the candle to conserve air and their one source of light. And then,
in the darkness, in silence, they waited.

Hawkwood
wasn't sure whether he had been sleeping or not. He hadn't been conscious of
closing his eyes, and in the absolute blackness of the cellar it wouldn't have
made any difference, but it occurred to him that he felt curiously rested. He
knew that in the absence of light the mind could play strange tricks. Once the
candle was extinguished, his thoughts had been full of random images; all of
them, without exception, violent and bloody and fearful. But then, as the time
passed, the darkness had begun to have a palliative effect. His body ached, but
there was no pain. He wondered if it was because his mind had accepted the
inevitability of death. His fate had been ordained, so why fight it?

But
so long as he was thinking, he was still the master of his own fate and nothing
was inevitable.

He
was conscious of movement close by and of a panting sound. It was the dog,
suddenly on its feet and making faint gruffling noises at the back of its
throat. Then it let out a bark. Hawkwood heard a flint strike and then there
was a spark and the candle flickered into life. Jess Flynn's face materialized
out of the shadows.

Lasseur
said uneasily, "I smell smoke."

Hawkwood
could smell it, too. He wondered why he hadn't been aware of it sooner. He
looked up, but couldn't see anything untoward. The stone at his back was still
cool to the touch. Retrieving one of the strips of cloth that had been soaking
in the pail, he tied it around his nose and face,
then
he picked up the candle.

The
dog broke into a fit of frantic barking. In the confines of the cellar, the
cacophony was so intense that Hawkwood thought his eardrums might burst.

As
he approached the trapdoor, despite Jess Flynn's soothing words, the noise
behind him grew more abrasive.

The
smell of smoke was stronger now. He suspected it was because it had been
building up steadily over the time they'd been down there, which indicated
they'd been underground for a while.

There
was no sign of burning on the underside of the trapdoor, but the smell of
charcoal was pervasive. As he reached out to touch the iron banding, he heard a
scraping noise above him followed by a heavy thud.

Instantly,
he paused.

Pepper!
Returning to finish the job.

He
realized he had no weapon, save for the knife and that was behind him, with the
woman.

But
then he thought wearily, what did it matter? They were dead anyway.

The
trapdoor swung open. A large shadow filled the opening. Hawkwood tensed.

"Well,
you look like seven miles of shit," Jago said.

"I'd
lose the beard," Jago said. "It puts years on."

They
had emerged to find that dusk had fallen. They had been in the cellar for
nearly three hours. All four of them must have fallen asleep for some of the
time. The smoke had not infiltrated the space because the outer wall of the
pantry had collapsed in on itself, leaving that side of the house exposed, so
that the smoke was allowed to dissipate in the air.

The
rest of the house was in a similar state of ruin; a shell of scorched brick and
blackened timber. None of the furniture had survived. Most items had been
reduced to charcoal and ash. The stench of smoke was overpowering.