James McGee - Rapscallion

Pepper stalked over. Morgan passed out the drinks and raised his glass. "Here's to profit!"

The four men drank. Hawkwood took stock of the room. There was a marked lack of frills, making it undeniably masculine in style. Apart from a comfortable-looking settee facing the fireplace, it was more of an office than a sitting room. On first impression, it reminded Hawkwood a little of Hellard's quarters back on Rapacious. On closer inspection, however, he saw that the furnishings, although plain, were of a superior quality. And in contrast to Hellard's cabin, there were a clutch of paintings on the walls, mostly equine in character. He wondered if Morgan had a family. With the goblet in his hand, the smuggler looked every inch the prosperous gentleman farmer, while Pepper, dressed in grey, had the veneer of an efficient, albeit intimidating, estate manager.

Morgan addressed Lasseur. "You slept well, Captain? Captain Hooper tells me that new surroundings make it hard for him to settle."

"Not me," Lasseur said. "Though I'm more used to beds that sway."

"Ah, of course. And they have hammocks on the hulks, don't they? By the way, did I mention that you and Cephus here have something in common? Cephus was at sea, too, before we joined forces. Weren't you, old friend?"

Lasseur regarded Pepper with renewed interest. "You were in the navy, Mr Pepper?"

"It was a long time ago," Pepper said.

There was no attempt to elaborate. Lasseur glanced at the remains of Pepper's left arm but made no comment. Whether it was out of politeness or in deference to Pepper's demeanour, Hawkwood couldn't tell.

"That was before he found a more lucrative line of work," Morgan added.

"The Trade?" Lasseur said.

"That's right." Morgan smiled. "The wine's to your liking, Captain?"

"I'm happy to report that His Majesty has excellent taste," Lasseur said.

"And what's the point of being in the business if you can't sample the goods, eh?" Morgan took a sip from his glass and compressed his lips in appreciation. "Find a seat. Make yourselves comfortable."

Hawkwood took a chair. Lasseur moved to the settee.

Morgan put down his glass and held open a veneered wooden box. "Manila?"

Lasseur, with an exclamation of pleasure, helped himself to a cheroot. He held the roll of tightly wrapped tobacco leaf under his nose and sniffed appreciatively.

Hawkwood declined. Morgan took a cheroot for himself and offered the box to Pepper, who shook his head.

This is all very civilized, Hawkwood thought warily, and wondered what it was leading up to. Morgan didn't seem the sort to indulge in social chitchat, and Pepper looked as if he'd rather chew his good arm off than engage in conversation, polite or otherwise.

As Lasseur lit up and drew on his cheroot, Morgan said, "That was an interesting stroke you pulled back there, Captain."

Lasseur leant back on the cushions and expelled smoke. "But fair, I think, considering the return, especially when you're expecting men to risk their lives." Lasseur raised his goblet, flicking a glance towards Hawkwood as he took a sip. "In any case, I think you would have gone to twenty-five."

Morgan's eyes widened. Then the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as he jabbed his unlit cheroot towards Lasseur's face. "I might have, at that." He turned to Hawkwood. "What about you, Captain Hooper? You haven't had much to say for yourself so far. Something tells me there's more going on in here than you let on." Morgan tapped the side of his head. "I'll wager those scars of yours could tell some tales. Am I right?"

"They just mean I was slow getting out of the way," Hawkwood said. "And all soldiers carry scars."

He took a sip of wine. Lasseur was right. The taste was exceptional.

"That's true, but some run deeper than others, eh?" Morgan said.

Hawkwood did not reply and watched as a shadow moved across Morgan's face.

"We have a situation, gentlemen."

"Situation?" Hawkwood said guardedly.

Morgan paused to light his cheroot. Hawkwood suspected it was to give him time to think.

When the leaf was glowing to his satisfaction, Morgan continued. "We've been having some problems with the Revenue. An occupational hazard, I know, but there's a particular Riding Officer who's been sniffing at our heels. He's developing into something of a nuisance."

Hawkwood wondered how Morgan was expecting them to respond. It didn't seem the moment for platitudes. He took another sip of wine, and waited. Lasseur was obviously of the same mind. The privateer expelled a thin plume of tobacco smoke and made a play of looking unconcerned while picking a shred of leaf from his bottom lip.

Morgan continued. "He was only appointed a few months back and he's been trying to make a name for himself ever since. Probably thinks we haven't been taking inventory, but we have.

Thing is, he's not from round here. Usually, the Revenue recruits from the local area. It's not like the militia: that lot reckon there's less chance of someone perverting the course of justice if there are no family connections to the immediate district. That's why Kent lads have been freezing their balls off in Dumfries, poor sods, and Dungeness had to put up with a company from Flintshire."

Morgan took a pull on his cheroot before removing it from his lips and rolling it between his fingers. He studied the end and looked up.

"As I was saying, he was brought in from another county. His name's Jilks, by the way, and he's proving rather more… conscientious than we were led to expect."

"I take it you've tried inducements?" Hawkwood said.

Morgan nodded. "They haven't worked. Prides himself on keeping to the straight and narrow. Anyway, over the last month or so, a number of our runs have been intercepted. There was a landing at Sandwich a couple of weeks back; we lost a hundred kegs and two men wounded. We've discovered he was behind the Warden ambush. The last thing we need is for him to find out about the Deal job and pass the word. That happens and we're all buggered. That means you, me, Bonaparte's ability to pay his troops, future landings — the whole damned trade. We can't risk that." Morgan paused. "We need to neuter the son of a bitch before it's too late."

"Neuter?" Lasseur said.

Hawkwood felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation worm its way down his spine.

"Remove," Morgan said, taking a long draw on his cheroot and letting the smoke fill his lungs.

The word hung ominously in the air.

"You want him dead," Lasseur said flatly.

"That would be the preferred option."

Lasseur sat up slowly as the light dawned.

The pins and needles invading Hawkwood's spine suddenly felt more like chips of ice.

There'll be a price to pay.

"And you want us to take care of it," Hawkwood said.

Morgan jabbed towards Hawkwood with the now glowing tip of his cheroot. "You, sir, are as perceptive as your friend here." He turned to Pepper. "Didn't I say they'd be a pair to be reckoned with?"

Lasseur lowered his glass. "Why us?"

Morgan put his head on one side. "Delivering the gold to Bonaparte is my gesture of good faith. This would be yours."

"I don't follow," Lasseur said. Unseen by Morgan, he threw Hawkwood another sideways glance.

"No?" Morgan sucked on his cheroot stem, making a play of savouring the taste. "Well, y'see, back in the refectory, when I was outlining my little plan, I got it into my head that somehow you and Captain Hooper weren't warming to the notion quite as quickly as the others. Which is a pity, because Cephus and I took the two of you for a cut above the rest and we'd hate to think we might have made a mistake in judgement.

"That's not to say it hasn't happened before, mind. You know how it is; you hold out the hand of friendship to someone, only to find they don't quite measure up to expectations. Creates all sorts of regrets and recriminations. Bottom line is, Cephus and I need to know who we can depend on. Which is why I don't think it's unreasonable to ask for proof of your commitment, do you?"