James McGee - Rebellion

“Better”, Hawkwood had learned, was the closest Chen ever got to awarding high praise.

They’d been in the cellar for two hours. Hawkwood’s shirt was soaked. Perspiration coated his skin and his arms and legs ached. He felt a perverse pleasure, however, at seeing for the first time the thin line of perspiration that beaded Chen’s temple. It meant he was probably doing something right.

In the lull, his ears picked up the faint sound of a tolling bell, signalling the change of shift at the timber yard over on Narrow Street. Chen’s ears had caught it, too. He straightened, faced Hawkwood and inclined his head. Some might have looked upon it as a bow of deference but Hawkwood knew it was Chen’s way of announcing that training was over for the day.

“We finish now,” Chen said.

Hawkwood hoped the relief wasn’t showing on his face; or the pain, for that matter. It had occurred to him during the sessions in the cellar that over the years he’d suffered enough hurt in the service of king and country and latterly as a police officer, without it seeming necessary to risk further injury to life and limb trying to master some obscure fighting technique. But then, it had also struck him that, had he mastered the techniques before he’d taken up soldiering and policing he might well have avoided some of the injuries in the first place. Life, he thought, as he wiped his face and neck with a drying cloth, probably wasn’t meant to be that complicated.

Though he couldn’t deny the exhilaration he felt every time he staunched one of Chen’s attacks, which more than made up for any discomfort suffered in the acquisition of bruised bones, scraped knuckles and the occasional bloody nose.

His thoughts were jolted by a hesitant knock on the cellar door; an unusual occurrence. Tully, true to his agreement with Jago, had rarely encroached upon his and Chen’s privacy before. Even Chen, a master of stoicism, turned his head at the interruption. He looked at Hawkwood for direction. Hawkwood nodded and reached for his coat. Chen opened the door.

Tully Robinson stood on the threshold. He was a heavily built man, with thinning hair and a hangdog look.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Captain. Told to give you this.” He threw Chen a wary glance and held out a folded note.

Hawkwood took the paper, broke the seal and read the contents.

“Who delivered it?”

“Didn’t catch the name. Small fella; bow legs and spectacles; wore a wig, dressed like a pox doctor’s clerk.”

Hawkwood didn’t react. “How long ago?”

“’Bout ’alf an hour. I knows you likes your privacy, so I waited. Then I got to figuring it might be important after all. You know ’im?”

Hawkwood nodded. “For my sins.”

Tully regarded Hawkwood’s tall frame with some apprehension, taking in the dark hair tied off at the nape of the neck, the scarred features and the blue-grey eyes. Tully had worked on the river most of his life and had known hard men, but this one, even if he hadn’t been a friend of Jago’s, was a man he knew he wouldn’t want to cross. He’d called him “Captain” because that’s how Jago had addressed him, but as to Hawkwood’s profession, he wasn’t prepared to hazard a guess. The small, bespectacled messenger had provided no clue. He’d simply described Hawkwood and asked that the message be passed on.

Tully stared at the Chinaman. He still couldn’t put his finger on what the two of them got up to in the cellar. The walls and door were thick enough to deaden most of the noise from within. All he’d ever heard in passing were dull thumps and grunts and clunks that might have been wood striking metal. He’d never plucked up the nerve to ask either Jago or his friend the captain what they used the room for; indeed, that was part of the arrangement. It hadn’t stopped him wondering, though. And as for the presence of a Chinaman, God alone knew what he was doing there. Tully didn’t like to think. Message delivered, he departed, no wiser than he’d been before he knocked on the door.

Hawkwood considered the note, imagining the look on Twigg’s face had he heard Tully’s description of him. He did not wonder how Ezra Twigg had tracked him down but accepted the fact with weary resignation. Twigg’s resources were both extensive and bordering on the mystical. Speculation would have been a waste of time.

Chen collected a hessian sack from a hook on the wall and slipped it over his shoulder. He did so in silence, his movements controlled and precise. Hawkwood suspected that Chen had very few possessions; a leftover, he assumed, from Chen’s former vocation as a monk, where a vow of poverty would have been a prerequisite. He had a feeling Chen also travelled without baggage for another reason; a man on the run, even so far from home, would not want to be weighed down by unnecessary encumbrances.

They let themselves out of the cellar. At the end of the alley, Chen bowed again and without pausing turned and walked away; a small, slight and innocuous figure among the grime of his surroundings. Hawkwood watched him go. Chen did not look back. He never did. Hawkwood guessed he’d be heading for the East India Company mission on Fore Street, which catered for Lascar and Chinese seafarers who found themselves in extremis. In exchange for a roof and a bed, Chen carried out odd jobs, most of them menial, such as cleaning and preparing meals. In all likelihood, given his history, he probably provided spiritual guidance as well. As foreigners on a foreign shore, the Asian seamen had learned early on that there was safety in numbers. Hawkwood wondered if Chen taught them how to defend themselves, as well. Still wondering, he turned. Leaving Queen Street behind, he strode west, towards Sun Tavern Fields and on to the city. If Tully Robinson’s laconic observation was accurate, he had an appointment with a pox doctor.

And it wouldn’t do to be late.

Arriving at Bow Street, Hawkwood made his way to the first floor. Halfway up the stairs, his ears picked up the harsh scratch of nib on paper. In the ante-room, Ezra Twigg was bent low over his desk, his small mouth pursed in concentration. A tatty grey wig hung on a stand behind him. From a distance it looked like some kind of dead animal. It wasn’t often the wig was discarded. Hawkwood could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d seen the clerk without it. Hanging alongside the wig was a black tricorne hat that had also seen better days.

“Why, Mr Twigg!” Hawkwood said breezily. “And how are we this fine morning? Enjoy your constitutional?”

Ezra Twigg did not look up, though the pen in his hand may have paused momentarily. “Most efficacious, Officer Hawkwood. Thank you for asking.” Light from the window behind the desk reflected off Twigg’s spectacles. He looked like a diminutive, slightly disgruntled owl awoken upon his nest.

The pen resumed its pedantic scroll across the document. The little man’s flaking scalp showed palely through his receding hair. The hunched shoulders of his coat were liberally sprinkled with flecks of fine grey powder. As well as the wig, the clerk had also forsaken his ink guards. The cuffs of his shirt were edged with dark, uneven stains.

“Should have waited for me, Ezra,” Hawkwood continued cheerfully. “It’s a nice day. We could have strolled back together.”

The clerk muttered under his breath.

Hawkwood cupped an ear. “Sorry, Ezra; didn’t catch that. Did you say something?”

Twigg sniffed. “Only that some of us have work to do.” Again, the clerk did not bother to look up, but added dolefully, “He said you were to go straight in.”

Hawkwood grinned and crossed the room. He took off his riding coat, draped it over a chair back and tapped on the door. Behind him, Twigg gave the coat a pained look and shook his head in resignation.