James McGee - Rapscallion

Brain spinning, he turned to Morgan and grinned.

"Wouldn't miss it. I'm in."

Hawkwood and Lasseur were in the cloisters.

Morgan and Pepper had departed the refectory leaving the room abuzz with excitement. Any despondency at the lack of home comforts had evaporated as quickly as the early morning haze. Uppermost in everyone's mind was the final instalment of Morgan's plan, which he had promised would soon be forthcoming.

Hawkwood had tried to imagine what?500,000 would look like accumulated in one place and had given up. The idea of four tons of bullion heaped on to the back of a wagon — most of which, according to Morgan, would probably be in ingots — hadn't proved any easier to digest. His head was spinning with the enormity of it. He needed to think. After a suitable period of listening to the others planning their futures — which seemed to consist entirely of country estates, fine wines and, for the ones who weren't married, and even for a couple who were, a supply of pliant women — he had left the refectory and walked into the open air.

Footsteps sounded behind him and he cursed under his breath.

"You have to admit," Lasseur murmured, "it's a devil of a proposition."

"There'll be a price to pay," Hawkwood said.

"Undoubtedly. Though I notice it didn't prevent you from accepting our host's offer," Lasseur commented wryly. He patted his pockets, as if looking for the last of his cheroots.

"Four tons of gold's a fearsome incentive," Hawkwood said.

"You think it's possible?" Lasseur asked. His hands gave up their search.

"Anything's possible," Hawkwood said and then thought, Well, maybe not anything, because alerting the authorities was now his first priority and so far he hadn't come up with a single feasible idea on how to do that. In the meantime, he reasoned, there was more chance of his foiling Morgan's insane plan by remaining inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in.

"Our host seems to have addressed all the likely hindrances."

"He thinks he has."

"You don't agree with his strategy?"

"He was a little short on specifics. I don't have enough information to hand to make a judgement."

Lasseur looked sceptical.

"I'm just weighing the odds," Hawkwood said. "The moment you put a plan into action, what's the first thing that usually goes wrong?"

Lasseur thought about it. The corners of his mouth lifted. "The rest of the plan. So?"

Hawkwood nodded. "So remember what Tom Gadd told us? If we ever shook hands with Morgan we were to count our fingers afterwards."

"In other words, we watch our backs."

"And everything else," Hawkwood said.

"The others don't seem to share our concerns," Lasseur pointed out.

"They haven't had the benefit of Tom Gadd's opinion or the Widow Flynn's experience of dealing with the man. All they see is the gold at the end of the rainbow and the thanks of a grateful Emperor."

"Some might think that was sufficient," Lasseur said.

"Not me," Hawkwood said. "But, as you once pointed out, I'm a suspicious bastard. I've been around long enough to know that you don't get anything for nothing."

Morgan's warning about keeping within the grounds and the presence of pickets had suddenly taken on a new meaning. Now that Morgan had revealed his grand plan, it was clear those precautions were intended not only to keep unwanted visitors at bay, but to ensure that information did not escape from the compound. It occurred to Hawkwood that one form of prison had been replaced with another. Admittedly, as Denard had stated, there was a deal more comfort, but it was still a gaol of sorts. And one from which Hawkwood had to find a way out.

"You seem well informed about Deal," he said to Lasseur.

The privateer laughed. "Never walked the streets, but British merchantmen use the Downs as an anchorage and there are rich pickings along that stretch of coast for a crew with enough nerve and a fast ship."

"And the Scorpion's a fast ship," Hawkwood said.

"That she is, and the fortress makes a good landmark for navigation. Mind you, I've felt the breeze from those thirty-sixpounders a few times, too. Had my run-ins with the locals as well. They're fine seamen. There's more than one privateer that's been chased away from its target by a pack of sharp-sighted Deal boatmen."

"They're well armed?"

"Pistols and swords, usually, but their boats are… were… so damned fast. They'd be on you and under your guns before you'd have a chance to disengage. They've no shortage of courage, I'll give them that."

"That's what makes them such good free traders," Hawkwood said. "It'll be a family business for most, I expect, and there's no greater bond than family."

Save a man's regiment, where comrades in arms were often as close as brothers; closer, sometimes, Hawkwood thought, remembering.

"Stealing a wagonload of gold isn't the same as hefting two dozen tubs of brandy up a beach," Lasseur pointed out.

"No, it isn't," Hawkwood agreed. "But it's a bloody sight more profitable."

"Damned right!" Lasseur said, his eyes lighting up. "I've taken some prizes in my time, but nothing like this. By God, Matthew, say what you like about Morgan, he doesn't do things by halves!"

Lasseur was right about that, Hawkwood conceded. It sounded as though the privateer was warming to the man. But then, why wouldn't he be? Morgan was providing him with a roof over his head, victuals and a passage home, not to mention a share of the profit from a strike against a hated enemy, something at which Lasseur excelled anyway. From Lasseur's point of view, and indeed from that of Masson and Le Jeune and the rest of them, it was their sworn duty to harass and inflict damage on the enemies of France. For them, Morgan's mission was a golden opportunity.

Literally.

Watching the thrill of the chase expand across Lasseur's face and hearing the excitement in his voice, Hawkwood knew a primeval change was taking place. He was reminded of a wolf scenting blood and knew that Lasseur was reverting from prisoner back to privateer, his true character. Hawkwood recalled the story of the scorpion that asked the frog to carry him across a stream, promising the frog it would not be stung. And yet when they were halfway across, the scorpion reneged on its promise and stung the frog to death, thus precipitating its own demise. When the frog had asked why, the scorpion replied, "Because I'm a scorpion. It's my nature."

Lasseur's nature was to sail the oceans in search of prey, using every means at his disposal. Perhaps the name of his ship was just a coincidence, Hawkwood thought. With a growing sense of disquiet, he realized that once again Lasseur had become his enemy.

Which meant he was on his own.

He saw that Lasseur was looking over his shoulder.

Hawkwood tensed as he turned. It was the groom, Thaddeus.

The groom jerked a thumb in the direction of the main house.

"Mr Morgan wants to see you," he said.

Morgan was seated at his desk when Hawkwood and Lasseur entered the room. He was dressed as he had been during his morning walk, in dark breeches and jacket and a navy waistcoat. Hawkwood looked for the two mastiffs and was relieved to see they were nowhere in sight. The blackthorn stick, however, was propped against the side of the desk.

Morgan nodded at the groom, who backed away and closed the door behind him. Pepper, who was standing behind Morgan, looking out of the window, turned, his good arm held behind his back.

Morgan moved out from the desk and walked to a circular table upon which stood a bottle and four glass goblets. "Drink, gentlemen?" He did not wait for a reply but reached for the bottle.

"I think this will be to Captain Lasseur's liking. It's from the Bertin vineyard. I'm told it's Emperor Bonaparte's favourite tipple." He glanced towards his lieutenant. "Cephus?"