James McGee - Rapscallion

Hawkwood's warrant got them out of town, through the army- manned toll gate and south, on to the Walmer Road.

The horses were flagging, despite having been rested, and Hawkwood knew they would not be able to go much further. It came as some relief when, after only a couple of miles, Lasseur led them off the road, turning east towards the sea. A signpost, standing crooked in a hedge, read Kingsdown.

They walked the horses through the sleeping village and on to a shingle beach lying at the foot of a tall, grey rock face. Hawkwood could see the raked outline of an even higher slab of headland beyond it and another beyond that, and he knew this was the beginning of the long line of pale cliffs that stretched all the way along the coast to Dover.

Just discernible against the night sky, some three hundred yards from the shore, a dark-painted, three-masted schooner lay at anchor. No lights showed upon her deck or from within her hull. It was possible, Hawkwood thought, that if they had not been looking for the vessel, it would have taken them some time to realize it was there.

"I need a pistol," Lasseur said.

Jago reached into his saddlebag. "It's loaded," he warned.

Lasseur took a long breath, pointed the pistol into the air, and pulled the trigger. The powder flared and the report rebounded from the cliff above them. As Micah calmed the horses, Lasseur handed the pistol back and Jago stuck it in his belt.

The water looked dark and cold and deep. Hawkwood was reminded of the night they had sailed from Warden. He could see the lights of two vessels far out in the Channel beyond the black-hulled ship and he wondered if one of them was Morgan's Sea Witch.

The privateer had employed Tom Gadd as his messenger. On their first day back at the farm, while the widow attended to Hawkwood's fever, Lasseur had sent Gadd to visit his agent in Ramsgate; the same man Lasseur had been trying to reach when he'd made his dash for freedom prior to his arrival at Maidstone Gaol.

The agent had dispatched Lasseur's message to his crew in Dunkerque by carrier pigeon; informing them their captain was free and awaiting their arrival. They were to sail Scorpion to the Kent coast, and lie at anchor in the waters off Kingsdown for two hours either side of midnight. They would do this for five nights, from the time of the message's receipt, and look for Lasseur's signal.

"It all depends," Lasseur had said, "whether my men got the message in time."

It seemed they had.

Hawkwood looked towards the ship. A small object had detached itself from the hull and was heading towards them. Slowly, it drew closer and Hawkwood saw the hunched backs of the rowers and heard the light splash of the oars.

Lasseur came to life. He stepped towards the water.

A soft cry came out of the darkness. "Scorpion!"

Lasseur waded into the water. " C'est moi!"

"More bloody Frogs!" Hawkwood heard Jago mutter under his breath.

The rowboat continued its steady approach. Finally, it grounded against the shingle. The dark-haired man who leapt from the boat was about Micah's age, and of similar build. He was not wearing a uniform but was dressed from head to toe in black, as was the seaman manning the oars at the stern of the boat. Eyes laughing and smiling broadly, the dark-haired man clasped Lasseur's arm in a firm grip.

Lasseur grinned. "This is my first officer, Lieutenant Marc Delon."

The young lieutenant nodded a greeting, though he couldn't disguise his curiosity at the presence of three strangers. Hawkwood wondered if Delon thought they were all fellow escapees.

Lasseur nodded towards the man seated in the stern. "Henri, Comment va cela? "

The oarsman grunted an inaudible reply.

Lasseur clapped his lieutenant on the back. "D'accord, allons!"

Delon scrambled back on to the boat.

"Let's go, my friends!" Lasseur urged. "Hurry!"

"Anything left in your saddlebags?" Hawkwood asked Jago.

"Nothing that I'll miss," Jago said.

Lasseur climbed into the boat. Hawkwood and Jago followed him. Micah remained on shore. The smiling lieutenant picked up his oars and the boat pulled slowly away from the beach.

Micah remained standing motionless at the edge of the water. Jago raised his hand. Micah nodded once, then turned and walked up the shingle towards the horses. He did not look back.

Hawkwood caught Lasseur's eye. "Does Jess know?"

"No," Lasseur said. He looked over the bow towards the open sea, and lapsed into silence.

Lasseur's crew made no secret of their joy at his return, lining the rail to welcome him. Once on board Scorpion, however, Lasseur wasted no time in giving his lieutenant the order to depart as quickly as possible.

As the crew sprang into action, Hawkwood looked out over the rail. He could see the long line of chalk bluffs extending into the darkness behind them. They looked close enough to touch. Of Micah and the horses, there was no sign. He looked over the bow towards the line of the horizon, but there was nothing to see except the dark curtain of night. The lights of the vessels he had seen earlier had disappeared.

Her anchor stowed, the ship began to swing round. Sails were being raised as Lasseur led them below. In the chart room, a lantern swayed from a beam as Lasseur pulled a chart from a nearby locker and opened it out upon the table.

"Morgan will be heading here — " he said, pointing with a pair of compasses. "Gravelines."

Hawkwood looked over the end of the compass points at the lines and squiggles. The name sat halfway between Dunkerque and Calais on the northern coast.

"Why there?"

"They call it la ville des Smoglers. The port was chosen by Bonaparte to accommodate free traders and their ships. They've built a special enclosure with stores, warehouses and lodgings. The whole place is protected by gun batteries. There's even an English quarter. They say that up to three hundred English free traders use it at any one time. The Emperor has granted merchants special licences to import and export goods using the smugglers. Any contraband landed along your southern coast will have started its journey here."

Lasseur tapped the chart table with his knuckle. "This is where the guinea boats deliver their cargoes. The trade is controlled by the Rothschild family. Head of operations is Nathan Rothschild, the banker; he's based in London. His brother, James, arranges for the transfer of the gold from Gravelines to Paris, where it is changed back into English bank notes. It's then that the smugglers and their backers make their profit. Morgan's heading for Gravelines, I'll stake my life on it."

"And you still think we can catch him?" Hawkwood asked.

"If any ship can, it's this one."

"Back in Deal, you said something about the breeze. What did you mean?"

"The wind's from the east."

"I don't understand," Hawkwood said.

"One of the reasons Morgan chose to carry out the raid when he did was to take advantage of the tide. Cutters have deep draughts and are not usually good for close inshore work, so he needed a high tide to enable him to load the gold on to his ship and then make his escape.

"To get to Gravelines, however, he would first have to steer south to avoid Les Sables — what you call the Goodwin Sands." Lasseur tapped the chart. "During that part of his journey, the tide would have been against him; with the wind driving him against the shore, his progress would have been very slow. Once he cleared the Downs and reached the southern end of the Sands, the tide would have been more in his favour, but so long as this wind holds, he'll find it hard to make headway. Even if the breeze remains gentle, he will have to tack constantly. Cutters are fast; that's why the free traders use them. Ordinarily, a cutter could probably outrun a schooner, but in a headwind he will not have got very far. Scorpion will be faster — she can defeat the wind. I believe we can catch him."