James McGee - Rapscallion

Sark stopped, sank to his knees and listened, but the only sounds he could hear were the pounding of his own heartbeat and the rasping wheeze at the back of his throat as he fought desperately to draw air into his burning lungs. He tried to delay his inhalations in an attempt to slow down his breathing, but the effect was marginal. Moisture from the soggy ground had begun to soak into his breeches, adding to his discomfort. He raised himself into a squat and took stock of his surroundings, eyes probing the darkness for a familiar landmark, but to his untutored eye one stretch of featureless marshland looked much like any other.

A hooting cry came from behind and he stiffened. Owls hunted across the levels at night. Sometimes you could hear the beat of their wings if you were quiet enough. Sark remained where he was, crouched low. It had probably been an owl, but there were other creatures abroad, Sark knew, and they were hunting too.

There was movement to his left, accompanied by a soft grunt. The short hairs rose across the back of Sark's neck and along his forearms. He turned slowly, not daring to exhale, and found himself under close scrutiny from a large sheep. For several seconds, man and beast regarded each other in eerie silence. The animal was not alone. Sark could make out at least a dozen more, huddled behind.

The ewe was the first to break eye contact. Backing off, it ambled away and began to herd its companions towards a clump of bushes. Sark breathed a sigh of relief.

Then he heard the distant baying and the bile rose into his mouth.

They were using dogs.

Sark glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw the sheep pause in their tracks as their ears picked up the unearthly ululation. Then, as if with one mind, the animals broke into a brisk trot. Within seconds they had vanished into the deepening gloom.

Sark turned and tried to locate the direction of the sound, but the darkness, allied to the dips and folds in the ground, made it difficult to pinpoint the exact bearing.

Ahead of him, the land had begun to rise. Sark inched forward, hoping the slope would provide the advantage of height and enable him to see further than his current position. Reaching the top of the bank, he elevated himself cautiously and stared back the way he had come. The first thing he saw was the bright flickering glow of a torch flame, then another, and another beyond that. From his vantage point he could see that the torch- bearers were still some way off and that they were proceeding haphazardly. He suspected they were following the creek lines, but there was no doubt they were moving towards him, drawing inexorably closer with each passing second.

There were more lights in the far distance. They were no more than pinpricks, and stationary, and he guessed these were the masthead lanterns of ships moored in the estuary. He wondered briefly if he shouldn't have been heading towards rather than away from them, but he knew that hadn't been an option. His pursuers were sure to have cut off that line of escape.

He looked around and found he was at the edge of a dyke. The ditch stretched away from him, merging into the moonlit wetlands like a snake into the undergrowth. The smell from the bottom of the dyke was foul; a pungent, nostril-pinching mix of peat and stagnant water. There was another strong odour, too. He could see a heaped shape lying close to the water's edge; the remains of a dead sheep. Presumably the animal had placed its foot in a rabbit-hole or some similar burrow, stumbled down the bank and become stuck in the bog, unable to extricate itself.

Sark wondered how long it had taken the beast to die. He tried to ignore the mosquitoes whining about his ears, knowing even though he could not feel their bite that they had already begun to feast upon his blood.

Another drawn-out howl came looping out of the night. Sark felt the cold hand of fear clutch his heart and he cursed his inactivity. He shouldn't have remained so long in one place. He got to his feet and began to run.

He had a rough idea of where he was and the direction in which he was travelling. He had the vague notion that the King's Ferry House wasn't much more than half a mile away. If his navigation was correct and he could reach the landing and find a boat, there was a possibility that he'd be able to cross the river and hide out on the opposite shore and thus give his pursuers the slip.

Keeping low, he continued to follow the dyke's path, ignoring the stitch in his side, which was beginning to stab at him with all the tenacity of a red-hot rapier.

Another cry sounded; human this time, not more than a few hundred yards off. Sark was uncomfortably aware that the men on his trail knew the ground far better than he did. Despite the unevenness of the terrain and the latticework of waterways that crisscrossed the island, they were catching up fast.

His foot slipped and he swore as he started to slide down the side of the gulley. The desire to enter and wade through the murky water in a bid to confuse the hounds was tempting, but he knew it would hamper his progress. All they had to do was steer the dogs along each bank and they'd soon discover where he had left the stream, and they'd pick up his trail again in no time. It was best to keep moving and try to reach the ferry landing; as dry as possible, preferably. He slithered to his feet and scrambled back up the slope.

He could hear his pursuers calling to each other now, driven by the excitement of the chase. In his mind's eye he saw the hounds, eyes bright, tongues slavering, straining at their leashes as they followed his scent. Sark quickened his pace.

The dyke began to widen. Sark hoped it was a sign he was close to its joining with the main channel. Pressing down on the edges of his boot heels to give himself purchase, he pushed his weary, mud-splattered body towards what he hoped was his route to salvation.

There was a shout. Glancing over his shoulder, Sark's stomach lurched when he saw how quickly the gap had shortened. The torches were a lot closer. Beneath the fiery brands, he could make out the dark figures of men running, perhaps half a dozen in all, and the sleeker, four-legged, shapes moving swiftly across the uneven ground before them.

Another urgent cry went up and Sark knew that they had probably seen his fleeing form outlined against the sky. He ducked down, knowing it was far too late to do any good. He drew the pistol from his belt.

Then the ground gave way and he was falling.

As his feet shot from beneath him, he managed to twist his body and discovered that he had almost reached his destination. It was the edge of the river bank that had collapsed beneath his weight. He barely had time to raise the pistol above his head to avoid mud clogging the barrel, before he landed on his back in the ooze.

He struggled to his knees and pushed himself upright, and then saw the light. It was less than one hundred and fifty yards away, at the edge of the reeds. He strained his eyes. A small building began to take shape and he realized it was the ferry keeper's cottage. His gaze shifted to the landing stage jutting out into the water; in its lee, a small rowboat resting on the mud and held fast to a thin wooden post. His spirits lifted. There was still a chance he could make it.

With the mud sucking greedily at his boots, Sark struck out for the landing stage. He had gone but a few paces when the consistency of the mud changed. It was less firm now and his boots were sinking deeper with each step. It was like wading through molasses. He looked out at the river. This was one of the narrower stretches, hence the ferry crossing, but the tide was out and there was a wide expanse of foreshore separating the jetty from the water. He would have to drag the boat a good few yards before he could float it. But he could make out the horizontal black shadow that was the opposite shore and that spurred him on. He pushed himself forward.