Rapscallion

Hawkwood heard a sharp cry, thought it was Lasseur and then realized it was one of the horsemen who had seen the Frenchman go sprawling.

Lasseur got to his knees with a curse and looked for the boat. There was another yell, a warning this time, from one of the boat crew. The noise of hooves on the beach sounded like rolling thunder. Shouts and gunshots continued to ring out behind them.

Hawkwood glanced to the side and saw a silver glint. One of the riders had drawn his sabre; a dragoon. Moonlight flickered along the blade.

Lasseur was getting to his feet but the horsemen were coming in fast. The leader was closing at a remarkable speed, sabre raised high. Hawkwood threw himself towards the sea.

Lasseur was still floundering as the horseman put spurs to his horse. Hawkwood knew the Frenchman was never going to make it. The boat was still out of reach and the horseman was almost on top of him. As if hearing the hoofbeats for the first time, Lasseur turned and saw death bearing down.

Hawkwood reached the edge of the shingle less than ten yards ahead of the horse and rider. He had a vision of a dark mass blotting out the moon, as he hooked his arm around Lasseur's shoulder and hauled the Frenchman towards the water, knowing they didn't stand a hope in hell of reaching the boat alive.

He felt the pressure of displaced air pushing against his spine as the horse reared and he braced himself for the blow.

Then there was a crisp report from the boat and a cry from over Hawkwood's shoulder as the ball took the dragoon in the chest. A second shot rang out. Hawkwood heard the horse whinny, followed by the colossal crash of a huge and heavy body slamming down into the surf. A tidal wave surged over him. He did not dare to look around but continued to propel himself onward, pushing Lasseur ahead of him.

Sensing more mayhem, he looked over his shoulder; both mount and rider had gone down, forming a barrier between himself and the other horsemen. It was the last chance he was going to get. He turned again and saw that the water was up to Lasseur's thighs but that he had made it to the boat. Arms were already reaching for him. Hawkwood struck out into the waves and threw himself forward. As his feet lifted off the bottom he felt a hand grab his collar and made a desperate lunge. His fingers curled around the gunwale. Feet kicking, he hauled himself aboard. Another shot rang out, closer to his ear, and he felt the heat of the ignited powder, abrasive against his cheek. He turned, gasping for breath, and watched as another of the riders tumbled back over the rump of his horse.

'Glad you could join us,' a voice said, as the tiller man let fly with a stream of profanity and threw his weight against the rudder.

As the bow churned towards the open sea, the crew slammed their oars into the water and the vessel started to pick up momentum.

'Pull, you buggers, pull!'

On shore, the beach reverberated with the sound of conflict. Lights dipped as the lantern bearers continued their descent of the cliff path, still firing. On the beach below, dark shapes were running in all directions. Hawkwood thought about the odds of any of the smugglers making an escape while carrying kegs two-thirds the weight of a man strapped over their shoulders. Abraham and his men would have to dump the contraband in order to avoid capture. They wouldn't have a choice.

There was still a danger, Hawkwood knew, of someone on the boat being hit, but the odds were lengthening with each stroke of the oars. Even so, the men kept their heads down.

And then, from the direction of the cliff path, there came more reports. Not muskets this time, Hawkwood could tell, but pistols. Reinforcements had come to Abraham's aid. The sounds of battle intensified.

'Bastards!' someone behind Hawkwood hissed.

Gunshots continued to echo along the foreshore. Hawkwood could see from the convergence of the lights that the lantern bearers were now congregated in one spot and seemed not to have progressed beyond the base of the cliff. It looked as if they were pinned down between Abraham's men and the reinforcements. Gradually, the rate of fire began to diminish.

Finally, the reports ceased altogether. Hawkwood continued to stare shoreward and watched as, one by one, the lights at the base of the cliff blinked out. He strained his ears. Another sound reached him that might have been the faint ring of sword blades and the scream of a horse, but they were deeply muted. Eventually, the noises faded away completely and the only sound was the splash of the oars.

Hawkwood found his heart was beating fast.

'Jesus!' someone muttered in relief at having survived.

'After us, you think?' Lasseur said softly.

Hawkwood shook his head. 'More likely the Revenue Service, but from the look of things they were outnumbered.'

'We live to fight again,' Lasseur murmured.

Only just, Hawkwood thought. He turned away in time to see a hull materializing out of the darkness ahead of them. The larger craft's appearance did not come as a shock. The surprise was its proximity. It wasn't hard to work out why the craft had remained invisible for so long. Dark painted and with no running lights, even in the moonlight the vessel had been just another patch of shadow on the sea.

The rowing boat bumped against the pitch-black hull and a line of pale faces appeared at the rail. Helping hands reached down. At a signal from the tiller man, Hawkwood and Lasseur climbed aboard. It took only a matter of minutes for the boat to be winched up after them and for its crew to take up their stations.

'Welcome aboard the Starling, gentlemen.' The greeting was voiced in passable but poorly accented French. 'If you'd both stand aside while we get under way, I'd be obliged.'

Hawkwood and Lasseur turned. Facing them was a stocky man with a wind-weathered face, a flattened nose and jowls in need of a shave.

'Captain?' Lasseur said.

'At your service, sir. You can call me Gideon.'

Giving Hawkwood and Lasseur no time to respond, the seaman turned away and gave the signal to raise sail.

Within minutes, the main was up, the bowsprit was pointing towards open water and the jib was unfurling. It had been a very smooth transition; no berating, no barked orders. Lasseur, watching the crew in action, nodded his head in appreciation, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Starling's skipper.

'You're men of the sea, gentlemen?'

'7 am,' Lasseur said. 'My friend is more at home on dry land.'

'I'll not hold that against you, sir; each to his own.'

'I am Captain Lasseur. My friend is Captain Hooper.'

'Is that right? Well everyone needs a name. Now, may I offer you something to ease the chill? I've some fine brandy on board.'

'I'd be sorely disappointed if you hadn't, Captain.' Lasseur grinned as he and Hawkwood followed the vessel's skipper down below. The cabin was small and cramped and smelled of damp clothing, sweat and tobacco. Not as confining as the hulk, but still claustrophobic after the rolling fields and the open boat and the endless expanse of the night sky.

The bottle uncorked and the brandy poured, Lasseur raised his mug. 'Your very good health, Captain.'

Gideon gave a nod of acknowledgement. 'And confusion to the enemy . . . whoever they may be.'

They drank.

The world's gone raving mad, Hawkwood thought. I'm in the middle of a bloody war, and I've a French privateer and an English smuggler, who've never clapped eyes on each other before tonight, toasting each other's health as if they hadn't a care in the world. Why the hell do we bother to even listen to the politicians and the generals?

And Gideon hadn't lied about the quality of the spirit.

'My compliments, sir.' Lasseur licked his lips in appreciation. 'You have excellent taste.'

Taking another swig, Gideon smacked his lips and winked. 'Perks of the job. That and putting one over on the Revenue.' The weather-worn face suddenly clouded.

'What do you think happened back there?' Hawkwood asked, reading the captain's mind.

The question was met with a shrug. 'Looks as if some bugger tipped them off. We can count ourselves lucky