James McGee - Rapscallion

"You might want to check inside his breeches, an' all," Jago said. "They used to carry thigh pieces, back in the old days."

"We get the picture," Hawkwood said. "Check Pepper."

Lasseur did so.

"The same," he announced, realizing that the weight had contributed to Pepper's sluggishness and inability to repel his attack.

"The old tea waistcoats used to hold about thirty pounds weight," Jago said.

"Judas got silver. You got gold," Hawkwood said. "You go to all that trouble and all you end up with is a bloody waist coat. Hardly worth the effort."

"What do you want to do with him?" Lasseur asked. "I give him to you. My gift."

"Let him have the gold," Hawkwood said.

"What?" Lasseur's jaw dropped.

Hawkwood shrugged. "Let him take his chances."

"You ain't bloody serious?" Jago said. "After all you said?"

Morgan's head came up. "You're not arresting me?"

"Arrest you?" Hawkwood laughed. "You've a bloody high opinion of yourself. No, I've a mind to let you keep your waistcoat. I don't think the army will miss thirty pounds of gold, do you? Far as I'm concerned, you make it to the coast, you damn well deserve to keep it. There's only one condition…"

"What's that?" A tiny light flared in the dark eyes. Hope springing eternal.

"You have to swim."

Hawkwood half turned and slammed his boot into Morgan's belly.

The kick rocked Morgan on to his heels. The edge of the bulwark caught him across the back of his legs and momentum did the rest, sending him backwards over the cutter's side. He hit the water with the look of incredulity still glued to his face. He was still trying to recover his breath as the sea closed over him, taking his encumbered body down into its cold and lasting embrace.

It was over so quickly, there was no trace of his passing.

Hawkwood stepped back.

"That's taken the weight off his mind," Jago observed. "Though you had me worried for a while. Thought you'd gone soft."

There were more splashes from behind. Under the supervision of Lieutenant Delon and his men, the remnants of Morgan's crew were tipping the bodies of their dead comrades into the water.

"Time to go, I think," Lasseur said, turning on his heel and sheathing his sword. He called his lieutenant to him.

"When they've disposed of their dead, lock them below. Get our men back on Scorpion; including casualties. Keep a small crew behind to clear the deck, then rig a sail. We'll escort you in. She's not much of a prize by herself, but her cargo's worth more than a king's ransom." Lasseur looked at Hawkwood and grinned.

And Hawkwood said, "You'll have to be sharp about it."

He wasn't looking at Lasseur. He was looking over the bow

At the same moment Lasseur's man yelled, "Sail to the north east!"

"British frigate," Hawkwood said. "But that's just my guess. Probably on blockade patrol. She's damned close, too. I were you, I'd shoot your lookout."

Lasseur sprang to the rail.

The frigate was bearing down fast. She was closer to the French coast than Scorpion. Yards braced, with a full spread of sail, she was running before the wind. Lasseur could even see the water creaming at her bow.

"Save yourself or the gold," Hawkwood said. "Don't think there's time for you to do both. If they catch you, it'll be the black hole for sure. They'll likely throw away the key this time, the mayhem you've caused. Interesting dilemma."

"It's a bugger, right enough," Jago said.

Lasseur stared hard at the approaching man-of-war.

He turned and looked at the wreckage that was strewn across the cutter's deck; at the bodies that were still being lowered over the side, at his own ship and at the exhaustion on the faces of his men, who would be unable to withstand another pitched skirmish.

He gnawed the inside of his cheek and came to a decision.

"Merde," he said.

"Nice night," Jago said.

Hawkwood couldn't disagree. There were no clouds. The sky was dotted with a thousand stars and moonlight speckled the blue-black water. The only sound to be heard was the soft wash of the waves along the shore and the steady creak of oars. It was a sound Hawkwood had become used to.

But he'd had his fill of midnight meetings on moonlit beaches. He'd had enough, he decided, to last him a lifetime; several lifetimes.

But maybe this one was different.

The two men walked down to the water's edge, their boots crunching into the pebbles. They waited for the black-hulled rowboat to draw closer, stepping aside at the last minute as the bow glided out of the darkness and on to the beach.

Lasseur stepped ashore.

He smiled and held out his hand. "Captain." He shook hands with Jago. "I'm happy to see that you both made a safe return. You'll have forgiven me for my hasty departure, I hope."

"Couldn't be helped," Hawkwood said. "Business called."

"Indeed. I trust the army was suitably generous in its gratitude?"

"That'll be the bloody day," Jago said.

"No reward?"

"Just the thanks of a grateful nation," Hawkwood said. "I'm inclined to think you came out of it better than we did."

Lasseur grinned.

"I hope you gave Pepper a decent burial," Hawkwood said as they left the boat and walked towards the top of the beach where a wall of grey rock rose from the shingle and a line of tall cliffs stretched away into the darkness.

Lasseur nodded. "Wrapped in sailcloth with a six-pound ball at his feet."

"More than the bastard deserved," Jago muttered. "Mind you, it'll give Morgan someone to talk to."

"I'm assuming he wasn't wearing his waistcoat," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur shook his head. "On the contrary, we let him keep it. Without the contents, naturally."

"Spend them wisely," Hawkwood said. "That might be all you'll get for a while. I hear deliveries may be curtailed."

Lasseur had left them the rest of the gold. The British warship had been too close and coming in too fast for Scorpion's crew to pilot the damaged Sea Witch to a safe harbour or transfer the bullion before being apprehended. Even Lasseur's Barbary rig wouldn't have saved them, not given the frigate's heading and speed and the proximity of her eighteen- pounders.

Leaving the frigate to salvage the cutter and what remained of her decimated crew, along with the two individuals who'd been left on her bloodstained deck, Scorpion had reset her canvas and made for the nearest French port.

When the frigate's captain dispatched his second lieutenant to investigate the crippled cutter, he had little idea what his officer would discover in the vessel's hold. He had been forced to admit it had been the biggest prize he'd taken in his career. Though prize wasn't strictly the word for the army's own missing bullion.

They recouped all of it save for the ingots that Morgan and Pepper had attempted to carry ashore. The recovery of the bullion, Hawkwood learned, had not resurrected the career of Lieutenant Burden, for whom the stores depot at Fort Amherst beckoned unenticingly.

"Will they hang them all?" Lasseur asked, referring to the cutter's crew.

"They're up before Maidstone Assizes in two weeks' time. Morgan's not around. His lawyer won't be able to save them. It'll be a meeting with Jack Ketch or else transportation."

"So Morgan's organization is starting to unravel. Cut off the head and the beast withers?"

"I wouldn't say that. More arrests are being made, including the admiral's cook — she was the one passing Morgan information about the layout and people in the house. But the Trade's like a spider: you break its web and it spins another one just as fast. Someone will be along to take Morgan's place."

"The king is dead, long live the king?"

"Something like that," Hawkwood said.

A low whistle came from the darkness.