James McGee - Rapscallion

"Captain Hooper!" Ezekiel Morgan called cheerily. "Good morning to you. You're out and about early. I trust the accommodation is to your satisfaction?"

Hawkwood realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it out slowly. He made a point not to look at the dogs, which wasn't easy, given the way they were eyeing him and the size of their teeth.

"New billet, strange bed. It takes a while to settle. Thought I'd get some fresh air. You know how it is."

He hadn't had to lie. His sleep had been intermittent for the reasons he had given. Lasseur's heavy breathing hadn't helped much either.

Morgan stretched out his arms and inhaled a lungful of air. "A morning constitutional? Splendid idea! Who could blame you on a day like this? Makes a man glad to be alive. Captain Lasseur's not with you?"

Hawkwood wondered if the man standing at Morgan's shoulder was glad to be alive. It was difficult to tell. Cephus Pepper's face was a model of taciturnity.

"Still in his pit. How's the new arrival?"

Morgan lowered his arms and tapped the stick against the side of his boot. "The foal? He's in fine fettle. The mare's a good mother. They'll do very nicely, I think."

Morgan was making no attempt to call the dogs to heel. Hawkwood knew the man was confirming who was in charge: Morgan's house, Morgan's rules.

"Fine-looking animals," Hawkwood said, conscious that it was probably wise to remain still and not make any sudden moves.

"Thor and Odin," Morgan said. "Thor's the brindle." He regarded the dogs with affection. "It was the Phoenicians who brought mastiffs to Europe. Did you know that?"

At the mention of their names, the dogs' ears pricked up. They switched their gaze to Morgan, as if awaiting instructions. It was the first time they'd taken their eyes off Hawkwood.

"Can't say I've given it a lot of thought," Hawkwood said.

"They were here before Julius Caesar," Morgan went on, unconcerned by Hawkwood's less than ecstatic response. "The Romans took them home and trained them to fight in the arenas. They used to match them against bears. Used them in battle, too. They say there was a mastiff on the first ship to make landfall in the New World. Interesting it was the Phoenicians, though, don't you think? They were traders too, like me. Could be I've inherited some of their blood along the way. That'd be something, eh?"

Hawkwood looked at the dogs. The mastiffs gazed back at him, unflinching, eyes bright, tongues hanging from their impressive jaws.

Morgan smiled. "Would you care to walk with us, Captain? Cephus and I often take a stroll around the grounds at this time. It gives us a chance to exercise the dogs and put the world to rights."

Hawkwood nodded and wondered briefly if Morgan had extended the invitation to prevent him wandering around on his own.

Morgan snapped his fingers and, with a wave of his arm, sent the dogs running effortlessly ahead, noses pressed to the ground. Hawkwood fell into step alongside him. Pepper walked several paces ahead, as if on point.

"We were told you control all the Trade along the coast," Hawkwood said. He thought he saw the back of Pepper's head twitch.

Morgan did not alter his stride but kept walking, hands behind him, holding the stick horizontally across the base of his spine. "Were you now?"

"Is it true?"

Morgan smiled. "Take a look around, Captain. What do you think?"

"I think that I'm in the wrong business."

Morgan maintained his smile. "Then I'd say you've just answered your own question. It's all a matter of supply and demand. If the bloody government wasn't so determined to tax us all to within an inch of our lives, do you think we'd be having this conversation? "Governments use taxes to pay for their wars," Hawkwood said. "It's the only way they can raise the money. Doesn't make any difference if you're English, French or American, you have to pay to make your country safe. It's why taxes were invented in the first place."

Morgan shook his head. "It's not the principle I object to, it's the percentage and the fact they only tax the pleasures, never the pain. Damn it, they even tax playing cards! Can you believe that? That's almost as stupid as the tax on bloody windows! A man works hard in the fields all day; it strikes me he's a right to enjoy a pipe, a hand of whist and a swig of brandy without having to pay the bloody exchequer over the odds for the privilege. The way I see it, if I can make his life a bit more bearable, then that's no crime. And if it means I can shove two fingers up to the government at the same time, that's all right, too."

Morgan kicked aside a stone. "Don't get me wrong, Captain. I'm not running a charity here. You said earlier that you thought you were in the wrong business. Well, that's exactly what this is — a business. I saw an opportunity to invest and I seized it. I've been in it a long time now, and the returns have been excel lent — like most of my other enterprises, I'm happy to say."

"You must have substantial outlays," Hawkwood said.

Without breaking stride, Morgan shrugged. "Wages, transport and distribution, warehousing; no different to any other business. I've got a few more palms to grease, that's all."

More than a few, Hawkwood thought. He turned and found Morgan was giving him a quizzical look.

"What were you expecting, Captain? This is the nineteenth century; or had you forgotten? If you thought the Trade was made up of a couple of fishermen and a rowboat, you can think again. Those days are long gone. Oh, I'll not deny that still goes on, but it's not where the big money comes from. Buy in bulk and make sure you've got a good accountant — that's where the profit lies."

"You mean like the other night at…" Hawkwood feigned memory loss "… where was it?"

"Warden." Morgan called out to Pepper: "How many tubs was that, Cephus?"

"Twenty-five," Pepper said, without looking back. "Plus six bales of tobacco."

Morgan nodded. "Twenty-five tubs. That's not bulk, Captain Hooper. That's small change. I've had runs where we needed eighty ponies to transport the goods. A week ago I had two hundred and fifty men on a job; fifty to carry the goods ashore, the rest to guard the flanks."

"You're not telling me you've got that many men here?" Hawkwood nodded towards the house and outbuildings and the cloisters, where he and Lasseur had spent the night.

Morgan shook his head. "I hire in. If there's one thing I'm not short of, it's manpower. And I pay well. A labouring man'll earn a shilling a day, if he's lucky. I pay tub carriers four times that for one night's work. I pay my scouts ten times that amount. They know I'll look after them. I've a surgeon on call in case of mishap and, if the worst happens, I make sure their families are taken care of. I've got a firm of lawyers who'll arrange bail if they're picked up and brought before a magistrate. No one serves gaol time working for me, Captain. You can take that as gospel."

"Accountants, surgeons and lawyers?" Hawkwood said. "I'm impressed."

"So you should be." Morgan stopped walking, leant on his stick, and gazed towards the house and the priory ruins, as if admiring their worth for the first time.

"Well, you can't argue with the evidence, I'll grant you that," Hawkwood said, following Morgan's stare. "It's a fine place."

Morgan turned and gave a mock bow. "Why, thank you, Captain. Though, I'm afraid I can't claim all the credit. Most of the hard work was done for me. I did think about having all the ruins pulled down and clearing the rest of the land, but the local vicar objected. Said I'd be consigned to everlasting damnation if I removed a single stone. Mind you, he was in his cups at the time, courtesy of a keg of my best brandy, so he might not have meant it."

"But you decided not to risk it, just in case?" Hawkwood said.