James McGee - Rapscallion

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.