Bernard Cornwell - Gallows Thief

He went back to the Wheatsheaf where, in the inn's back room among the beer barrels and the broken furniture waiting for repair, he blacked and polished his newly mended boots. It was a dark and malodorous space, haunted by rats and by Dodds, the inn's errand boy and Sandman, seated on a barrel in a dark corner, heard Dodds's tuneless whistle and was about to call out a greeting when he heard a stranger's voice. 'Sandman ain't upstairs.'

'I saw him come in,' Dodds said in his usual truculent manner.

Sandman, very quietly, pulled on his boots. The stranger's voice had been harsh, not one inviting Sandman to call out and identify himself, but rather to persuade him to look for a weapon — the only thing to hand was a barrel stave. It was not much, but he held it like a sword as he edged towards the door.

'You find anything?' the stranger asked.

'This tail and a cricket bat,' another man answered and Sandman, still in the shadows, swayed forward and saw a young man holding his bat and his army sword. The two men must have gone upstairs and found Sandman absent, so the one had come down to look for him while the other had stayed to search his room and found the only two things of any value. Sandman could ill afford to lose either and his task now was to retrieve the bat and sword, and to discover who the two men were.

'I'll look in the taproom,' the first man said.

'Bring him back here,' the second said, and so delivered himself into Sandman's mercy.

Because all Sandman needed to do was wait. The first man followed Dodds through the service door and left the second man in the passage, where he half drew Sandman's sword and peered at the inscription on the blade. He was still peering when Sandman stepped from the back room and rammed the stave like a truncheon into the man's kidneys. The wood splintered with the impact and the man lurched forward, gasping, and Sandman let go of the stave, seized the man's hair and pulled him backwards. The man flailed for balance, but Sandman tripped him so that he crashed back onto the floor, where Sandman stamped hard on his groin. The man shrieked and curled around his agony.

Sandman retrieved the bat and sword that had fallen in the passageway. The fight had not taken more than a few seconds and the man was moaning and twitching, incapacitated by sheer pain, but that did not mean he would not recover quickly. Sandman feared he might be carrying a pistol, so he used the sword scabbard to tweak the man's coat aside.

And saw yellow and black livery. 'You're from the Seraphim Club?' Sandman asked, and the man gasped through his pain, but the answer was not informative and Sandman was not minded to obey the injunction. He stooped by the man, felt in his coat pockets and found a pistol which he tugged out, though in his haste he ripped the pocket's lining with the pistol's doghead. 'Is it loaded?' he asked.

The man repeated his injunction, so Sandman put the barrel by his head and cocked the gun. 'I'll ask again,' he said, 'is it loaded?'

'Yes!'

'So why are you here?'

'They wanted you fetched back to the club.'

'Why?'

'I don't know! They just sent us.'

It made sense that the man knew little more than that, so Sandman stepped back. 'Just get out,' he said. 'Collect your friend in the taproom and tell him that if he wants to make trouble for a soldier then he should bring an army.'

The man twisted on the floor and looked up incredulously. 'I can go?'

'Get out,' Sandman said, and he watched the man climb to his feet and limp out of the passage. So why, he wondered, would the Seraphim Club want him? And why send two bullies to fetch him? Why not just send an invitation?

He followed the limping man into the taproom where a score of customers were seated at the tables. A blind fiddler was tuning his instrument in the chimney corner and he looked up sharply, white eyes blank, as Sally Hood uttered a squeak of alarm. She was staring at the gun in Sandman's hand. He raised it, pointing the blackened muzzle at the ceiling, and the two men took the hint and fled. Sandman carefully lowered the flint and pushed the weapon into his belt as Sally ran across the room. 'What's happening?' she asked, and in her anxiety she clutched Sandman's arm.

'It's all right, Sally,' Sandman said.

'Oh bleeding hell, it's not,' she said, and now she was looking past him, her eyes huge, and Sandman heard the sound of a gun being cocked.

He eased his arm from Sally's grip and turned to see a long-barrelled pistol pointing between his eyes. The Seraphim Club had not sent two men to fetch him, but three, and the third, Sandman suspected, was the most dangerous of all, for it was Sergeant Berrigan, once of His Majesty's First Foot Guards. He was sitting in a booth, grinning, and Sally took hold of Sandman's arm again and uttered a small moan of fear.

'It's like French dragoons, Captain,' Sergeant Berrigan said. 'If you don't see the bastards off properly the first time, then sure as eggs they'll be back to trap you.'

And Sandman was trapped.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sergeant Berrigan kept the pistol pointed at Sandman for a heartbeat, then he lowered the flint, put the weapon on the table and nodded at the bench opposite. 'You just won me a pound, Captain.'

'You bastard!' Sally spat at Berrigan.

'Sally! Sally!' Sandman calmed her.

'He's got no bleeding right to point a stick at you,' she protested, then turned on Berrigan. 'Who do you bleeding think you are?'

Sandman eased her onto the bench, then sat beside her. 'Allow me to name Sergeant Berrigan,' he told her, 'once of His Majesty's First Foot Guards. This is Miss Sally Hood.'

'Sam Berrigan,' the Sergeant said, plainly amused by Sally's fury, 'and I'm honoured, miss.'

'I'm bleeding not honoured.' She glared at him.

'A pound?' Sandman asked Berrigan.

'I said those two dozy bastards wouldn't take you, sir. Not Captain Sandman of the 52nd.'

Sandman half smiled. 'Lord Skavadale seemed to know me as a cricketer, not as a soldier.'

'I was the one what knew the regiment you served in,' Berrigan said, then snapped his fingers and one of the serving girls came running. Sandman was not particularly impressed that Berrigan knew his old regiment, but he was very impressed by a stranger who could command such instant service in the Wheatsheaf. There was something very competent about Sam Berrigan. 'I'll have an ale, miss,' the Sergeant told the girl, then he looked at Sally. 'Your pleasure, Miss Hood?'

Sally debated with herself for a second, deciding whether her pleasure was to reject Sam Berrigan's offer, then she decided life was too short to turn down a drink. 'I'll have a gin punch, Molly,' she said sulkily.

'Ale,' Sandman said.

Berrigan put a coin in Molly's palm, folded her fingers over it and then held on to her hand. 'A jug of ale, Molly,' he said, 'and make sure the gin punch is as fine as any we'd get at Limmer's.'

Molly, entranced by the Sergeant, dropped a curtsey to him. 'Mister Jenks, sir,' she whispered, 'he don't like sticks on his tables.'

Berrigan smiled, let go of her hand and put the pistol in a deep pocket of his jacket. He looked at Sandman. 'Lord Robin Holloway sent those two,' he said dismissively, 'and the Marquess sent me.'

'Marquess?'

'Skavadale, Captain. He didn't want you to come to any harm.'

'His lordship is very generous suddenly.'

'No, sir,' Berrigan said. 'The Marquess doesn't want to stir up trouble, but Lord Robin? He don't care. He's a halfwit is what he is. He sent those two to persuade you back to the club where he planned to challenge you.'

'To a duel?' Sandman was amused.

'Pistols, I imagine,' Berrigan was equally amused. 'I can't see him wanting to take you on with a blade again. But I told the Marquess those two would never force you. You were too good a soldier.'