James McGee - Rapscallion

"You're men of the sea, gentlemen?"

"7 am," Lasseur said. "My friend is more at home on dry land."

"I'll not hold that against you, sir; each to his own."

"I am Captain Lasseur. My friend is Captain Hooper."

"Is that right? Well everyone needs a name. Now, may I offer you something to ease the chill? I've some fine brandy on board."

"I'd be sorely disappointed if you hadn't, Captain." Lasseur grinned as he and Hawkwood followed the vessel's skipper down below. The cabin was small and cramped and smelled of damp clothing, sweat and tobacco. Not as confining as the hulk, but still claustrophobic after the rolling fields and the open boat and the endless expanse of the night sky.

The bottle uncorked and the brandy poured, Lasseur raised his mug. "Your very good health, Captain."

Gideon gave a nod of acknowledgement. "And confusion to the enemy

… whoever they may be."

They drank.

The world's gone raving mad, Hawkwood thought. I'm in the middle of a bloody war, and I've a French privateer and an English smuggler, who've never clapped eyes on each other before tonight, toasting each other's health as if they hadn't a care in the world. Why the hell do we bother to even listen to the politicians and the generals?

And Gideon hadn't lied about the quality of the spirit.

"My compliments, sir." Lasseur licked his lips in appreciation. "You have excellent taste."

Taking another swig, Gideon smacked his lips and winked. "Perks of the job. That and putting one over on the Revenue." The weather-worn face suddenly clouded.

"What do you think happened back there?" Hawkwood asked, reading the captain's mind.

The question was met with a shrug. "Looks as if some bugger tipped them off. We can count ourselves lucky there wasn't a cutter around, too. If they did for the goods, we'll make it up on the next run. The advantage is with our side. So much coastline and not enough Revenue men."

"You think Abraham and his men got away?"

"Probably. Abraham's a smart one. If anyone was done for, it was the Revenue. My experience, they couldn't hit a barn door if it was six inches in front of them. And even if Abraham and his crew were arrested, naught'll come of it. Never does."

"Why not?" Hawkwood asked.

"Because the local magistrate's one of us."

Lasseur blinked.

"How do you think Abraham knew we were on our way?" Gideon said.

"We saw you signal," Hawkwood said.

Gideon shook his head. "That was to let him know our position. He knew we were coming before that. A little bird told him."

Hawkwood and Lasseur waited.

"The local squire's house is just along the lane from the inn. He's got a pigeon loft in his smoking room. We release the bird a couple of miles off shore. Soon as it arrives, he knows we've got the goods aboard. He passes Abraham the word."

"And the squire just happens to be — "

"The magistrate. A sweet arrangement all round."

Bloody bell, Hawkwood thought. No wonder the free traders ruled the coast.

Lasseur was grinning like a loon. Hawkwood wasn't at all surprised. As the captain of a privateer, a breed of men not exactly renowned for staying within the law — maritime or otherwise — the Frenchman was clearly of the opinion he was sharing drinks with a kindred spirit.

"Where did you learn your French?" Lasseur asked.

"Whoring and trading, mostly," Gideon chuckled. "It's amazing the vocabulary you can pick up. Nothing like commerce and copulation for broadening the mind."

"You've no qualms about helping people like us? Our countries are at war."

Gideon shook his head dismissively. "Men have been running goods around these shores for the past five hundred years; a lot earlier, probably. War's never stopped it before. It won't do now. And this war won't last for ever. My apologies, Captain, but a blind man can see your Emperor's losing the fight. I'm not a betting man, but even I'd wager a year's cargo of tubs that there'll be another war along after this one and likely more after that. There'll still be men like me doing business long after I'm cold in my grave. Fact of life. Might as well try and stop breathing. You two are just another cargo, far as I'm concerned."

"A friend once told me the first rule of commerce was never to let political differences get in the way of business," Hawkwood said.

"Did he? Well, he's a wise man, your friend," Gideon said. "In the Trade, is he?"

If you only knew, Hawkwood thought. "He's dabbled a time or two."

"Then I raise my glass to him."

"I, too," Lasseur said. He threw Hawkwood a sideways glance. "Well, it is uncommonly fine brandy and I haven't had a decent drink since I don't know how long."

Lasseur proffered Hawkwood a silent toast and drained his glass.

"How far are you taking us?" Hawkwood asked.

Gideon helped himself to another drink. "Not far."

A noncommittal answer if ever there was one, Hawkwood thought, and wondered if that was a half smile he'd seen touch the edge of the captain's lips.

The deck tilted. Lasseur frowned. He put his drink down and gave Gideon a wary look. "We're coming about?"

"That we are. Time I was on deck." The captain placed the stopper back in the bottle. "Here, you might want to keep a hold of this. It'll be a while before you can get ashore and the sun isn't due to show for a while. I'll see to it you've a couple of warm jackets to hand. Sharply now."

The captain vacated his berth and led the way topsides. Mystified, Hawkwood and Lasseur had no option but to follow.

On deck, Gideon called to a crewman: "Couple of coats out of the slop chest, Willy. Smartly does it!"

Frowning, Lasseur made his way to the rail. The breeze had freshened and the boat was running under full sail but there was little lateral movement as the keel cut through the water. Hawkwood hung on to a rope and stared over the Frenchman's shoulder at two light clusters an arm's span apart. The collection of lights over the port bow was noticeably brighter than the group over the starboard rail, indicating a larger number of buildings.

"Chandelier's Whitstable; the candle's Seasalter," Gideon said from behind them. He held out two pea-jackets. "Well, you didn't think we were taking you all the way up the Seine, did you?"

Hawkwood looked back over the stern, recalling the view from the clifftop.

"I don't understand," Lasseur said.

Hawkwood didn't, either.

"We don't have a choice," Gideon grunted. "Tide's on the ebb. I haven't enough draught under the keel to take you on to the beach, not even with the rowboat, and we can't stay; we've more deliveries to make. There's a platform offshore. Fishing boats use it to unload and pack their catches. We'll be leaving you there. While the tide's out, the mud's firm enough. You'll be able to walk ashore."

Lasseur stared at him.

"Don't worry. You'll be safe. There'll be a mess of people conducting business. It'll be like Billingsgate Market: fisher folk, gutters, shrimpers and the like. No one'll pay you heed. Once ashore, you make for the church. There'll be a gravedigger plying his trade; name of Asa Higgs. He'll be there from sun up. He'll see you right. You can't miss him. He's lacking the middle finger on his right hand." Gideon held up his own digit to demonstrate. "You got that?"

Lasseur nodded hesitantly.

"Yes," Hawkwood said.

"Grand." Gideon rubbed his hands together. "It's a fine night. Bit of a breeze, but you've got coats and my best brandy. You won't freeze."

"And the exercise will do us good," Hawkwood said.

Gideon grinned. "That's the spirit!"

It took another two hours. When they reached the platform it was bigger than Hawkwood had expected; with a jetty long enough to accommodate several boats. The timber pilings were encrusted with barnacles and seaweed, and the structure looked as if it had been there for centuries — which it probably had, give or take a replacement strut or two, though it seemed solid enough when they stepped on to it. There were open-sided shelters and lines of wooden tables, with baskets stacked alongside.