James McGee - Rapscallion

Placing the tray on the table, the cook departed.

Jago poured the coffee and added a generous measure of brandy to each mug before passing one of them across tin- table. "Get that down you."

Hawkwood took a swallow. The liquid was scalding. He waited for his throat to cool and then said, "Tell me about Cephus Pepper."

Jago grimaced. "He's Morgan's right-hand man, though you already knew that. I heard he used to be first mate on a blackbirder, runnin' slaves to the West Indies. Ran foul of a rival ship off Havana — back in '02, I think it was. Lost his arm in a deck fight. They say he escaped by going over the side. Not a man you'd want to cross in a hurry, as you found out."

"How long's he been with Morgan?"

"Eight years, or thereabouts. You think he was there with Morgan tonight?"

"You can count on it. You know Morgan, don't you?"

"We've never met, though I reckon I know enough about him not to turn my back. He likes to tell folk he's a descendant of Henry Morgan, the buccaneer, which I bloody doubt. Far as I know, he's the son of a farmer from over Ruckinge way. Family was in the Trade for years. Morgan's father used to run with the Callis Court mob. Morgan quit the farm when he was a lad. Rumour was he ran off to sea to escape the law, but that could be a story he put around. Same way he's supposed to have been a bo's'n on the Britannia; though that'd explain why he's so good at runnin' things and why a lot of his crew are former navy men. It's probably why he and Pepper make a good team. He came back and took over the business when his old man died; built it up from there. Got no Welsh blood in him at all, unless his great-grandfather was caught buggering a ewe. He say anything about that to you?"

"He must have forgotten to mention it," Hawkwood said. "Ever taken advantage of his services?"

" You referring to my business interests?"

Hawkwood smiled.

Jago shrugged. "Probably have, indirectly, given the control he's got. My line of work, you don't always know the provenance of the goods. Mostly I try and deal with the Sussex branch of the Trade."

"Don't think I care to know too much," Hawkwood said.

"Just as well."

"And Garvey, does he work for Morgan?"

"No flies on you, are there?" Jago said, taking a sip from his drink and smacking his lips in appreciation.

"Local representative?" Hawkwood said. "Come on! He knows Pepper, he recognized the bodies in the barn, and he obviously knows his way around that neck of the woods. It doesn't take a genius."

Hawkwood leant back against the bulkhead. His limbs, for some reason, had started to feel as heavy as lead. Added to which, he had the sudden overwhelming desire to close his eyes. He knew he mustn't fall asleep, for that would be fatal. If he nodded off, there was a very good chance he'd never wake up. He tried to fight the rising tide of weariness that was creeping over him.

"Aye, well," Jago said. "Not that it matters. He's one of Morgan's errand boys; delivers messages about upcoming runs and the like. Morgan also uses him to pay people off, so he knows where some of the bones are buried. We go back a ways; if ever I've a mind to visit my old hunting grounds, I get in touch. Just as well, too." He paused and took a sip of coffee and glanced across the table in time to see Hawkwood's eyes droop and the mug begin to slip from his hand.

Jago sighed. He put down his own drink and, reaching across swiftly, rescued the falling mug. "'Bout bloody time," he murmured. He placed the mug on the table, grabbed the blanket from his bunk and draped it across Hawkwood's sleeping form. He stared down at the scarred and unshaven face, his brow creasing as his eyes took in the new wounds and the state of Hawkwood's clothes. He shook his head, returned to his seat and picked up his drink. "No bloody stamina, some people," he muttered softly.

The touch of a hand on Hawkwood's arm brought him jerking awake. For a moment he wondered where he was. Then his ears picked up the creaks and groans and the cry of a crewman from somewhere on the deck above and his brain began to function. He looked up to find Jago's craggy countenance looming over him. He sat up quickly, nearly crowning himself on the underside of a deckhead beam in the process.

"Captain wants us up on deck. There's a sail off the larboard bow, whatever the hell that is."

Hawkwood scrambled to his feet and almost lost his footing as the deck pitched unexpectedly. He cursed, grabbed the edge of the table and felt his stomach turn.

He followed Jago up the canted stairway on to the schooner's deck and immediately felt the bite of the wind and the lash of spindrift on his cheek. The hiss of the waves against the ship's hull and the crack of canvas filled his ears. It was not yet light, but beyond the bowsprit a band of sienna-coloured sky was slowly widening across the horizon. Running along the lower edge of it was a long uneven smear which Hawkwood knew was land. It was too far away to pick out details.

Lasseur was braced against the port rail, peering through a telescope, shoulders thrust forward. A cheroot was clenched between his teeth. He looked like a wolf scenting prey; a man in his element.

"Home," he said, following Hawkwood's gaze. "Mine," he added. "Not yours." He gave a lupine grin.

"How far?"

"Twenty miles, maybe a little less."

Hawkwood looked over his shoulder. Beyond the stern, the sky was much darker and it was harder to differentiate between sea and land, if there was any land out there.

"There's a sail?" Hawkwood said.

Lasseur nodded. He handed Hawkwood the spyglass and pointed ahead, towards the distant smudge of coast.

"Two miles off the bow."

Hawkwood wedged his hip against the rail, tried to ignore the water sluicing over his boots, and jabbed the glass to his eye. At first, all he could see was a dark swell of blue-black waves. He lowered the glass, took his bearings, aimed at the band of light coming up over the bow and tried again. He bit back a curse as the eyeglass slipped once more, but his perseverance was rewarded when suddenly a dark, angular silhouette slid across his line of sight. The vessel was low down, running close-hauled on a port tack, her foreand aft-rigged canvas braced tight.

"I see it!" He felt a surge of excitement move through him. "Morgan?" He passed the telescope to Jago.

"She's a cutter," Lasseur announced confidently. "And Gravelines lies almost dead ahead of us. It will be dawn in an hour. We'll know for certain then."

"She's not showing any colours," Jago muttered, peering through the glass. The telescope looked very small in his hands.

"Neither are we," Lasseur pointed out, taking the glass back and stealing another look. "If they've seen us, which they may not have done, they'll be wondering who we are, though they might guess from our rig that we're not a British ship. The British don't have many schooners. Some of the ones they do have were captured from us, but they're nothing like Scorpion, so he's probably not too concerned at the moment. That gives us the edge."

Hawkwood looked up. The schooner, like the cutter, seemed to be carrying a huge amount of sail for her size; Lasseur's Barbary rig. He peered over the side at the water rushing past the hull. The ship was slicing through the swells like a knife. Spray burst over the bow. The sense of speed was exhilarating, and as the eastern sky turned from reddish-brown to golden orange, and as the coastline drew ever nearer, Scorpion continued to overhaul her quarry.

The three men remained at the rail. Hawkwood was impressed at the speed with which the schooner was bridging the gap. In no time at all, it seemed, the cutter was barely three cables ahead of them. The sky had grown considerably lighter and he could see figures moving about her deck.