Rapscallion

Higgs shook his head hurriedly. 'Lord, no. More than my life's worth. I do that an' she'd never let me leave the 'ouse.' He grinned.

A smile touched the woman's face. All at once her features were transformed. She was beautiful, Hawkwood thought. 'I've some elderflower cordial. You could take Megan some.'

'If you're offerin'.'

'Wait here.' The woman set down the pail and walked into the house.

The dog tracked her progress through its fringe, trying to decide whether to follow or remain on guard, eventually concluding that vigilance in the face of strangers required marginally less effort.

The woman returned with a small earthenware jug, which she handed to the gravedigger. Placing the jug between his feet, Higgs picked up the reins, nodded briefly to Hawkwood and Lasseur, and set the cart in motion with a click of his tongue.

They watched as it trundled back towards the woods.

The woman turned. 'This way. Come with me.' She led the way to the barn. The dog got up and followed in a slow, lumbering jog.

It was cool in the barn. There was a corn bin and two stalls, one of which contained a milking cow. The place smelled of fresh manure and chickens. Several hens were pecking around for food.

'It's dry and there's plenty of room. I will provide you with blankets. You'll be comfortable enough, I think.'

She led them to a corner. Several straw bales were stacked against the wall. Taking hold of one of the bottom bales, she pulled it out to reveal a dark opening. In the space behind, Hawkwood made out a bucket and some tubs stacked against the barn wall. 'If anyone comes, you are to hide in here.' She indicated the dog. 'This is Rab. He's getting on in years, but he is a good dog and he will warn me of strangers.'

Hearing his name, the dog looked up. His tail wagged.

'There is a man who comes in to help me. His name is Thomas. You will know him for he has a bad leg and a scar here.' The woman ran the point of her finger across her right eye and cheek. 'You do not have to hide from him.' As she spoke, she glanced at the scars on Hawkwood's face. 'Hooper, did you say?'

'That's right,' Hawkwood said.

'You're English?'

'American.'

She studied him for several seconds before nodding silently. Then she said, 'When it's time, I will bring you something to eat and drink.'

'Thank you,' Lasseur said, subdued by the uncompromising gaze. 'What do we call you?'

'Madame.'

She turned before they could reply, heading for the farmhouse

in purposeful strides, the dog following closely in her wake. She picked up the pail as she passed. Both men watched her go.

Lasseur turned to Hawkwood and grinned. 'I think she likes me.

CHAPTER 13

Hawkwood's eyes were closed. It was odd, he thought, how he could still smell the hulk. Common sense told him it was impossible for the reek from the prison ships to have carried all the way to the farm, and yet he could swear the odour was there, coagulating at the back of his nostrils.

Though he knew it was ridiculous, he opened his eyes to reassure himself he wasn't back on the gun deck. An irrational wave of relief rushed through him at the sight of the meadow and the stream and the surrounding woods. He was seated on a log, his back against the wall of the barn.

He sniffed and the hairs along the back of his neck lifted. It was then he realized it wasn't his imagination. The smell was there, and the source was a lot closer to home. It was his own odour he could smell. He was carrying the taint of the hulk with him. It was in his clothes and it was in his sweat. He sat up, held his sleeve to his nose, and reeled. He could even smell the mackerel. No wonder the gravedigger had made them sit at the back of the cart and no wonder the woman had regarded them with disdain and told them to stay clear of the house. A wild thought crossed his mind. Was that why everyone had been so eager to pass them down the line? Was it because each participant in the escape route had only been able to stand the smell for so long? He sat up quickly.

Lasseur, who had been dozing beside him, sensed movement and snapped awake fast. 'What is it?' The privateer's eyes flicked towards the tree line.

Hawkwood stood. 'I'm going to take a bath.' He walked into the barn and retrieved his blanket and headed for the stream.

Lasseur watched him go, a look of bewilderment on his face. He raised his sleeve to expose his own armpit, inhaled, and recoiled.

The privateer had always considered himself to be a fastidious man. Maintaining personal cleanliness at sea wasn't difficult when one was surrounded by water. Taking care of one's laundry in those circumstances was no great hardship either. The facilities were certainly better than those of a soldier on the battlefield. Since his capture by the British, however, all that had changed.

There had been washing facilities on the hulk but they had been totally inadequate given the number of prisoners there had been on board. Soap had never been in great supply. Often there had been none at all. Lasseur's last immersion had been on the day of his registration, when he and Hawkwood and the rest of them had been forced into the water barrels on the quarterdeck. Since then soap had been as much a rarity as fresh fruit.

It was curious and not a little disturbing how easy it had been to let his standards slip, to the point that both he and Hooper had become so immune to the smell of the ships, as prophesied by Murat, that neither of them had noticed their own rank state.

Lasseur looked down at his clothes. There was no denying they were filthy and in need of a scrubbing, too. Deciding that just rinsing them in water wouldn't do, he got up and made his way towards the farmhouse.

The dog was lying by the door. It stood as Lasseur approached and barked once.

The woman came around the side of the house, a wicker basket in her arms. There were clothes in the basket and, behind her, Lasseur could see a washing line strung between two of the apple trees.

The dog, its guard duty performed, moved to the woman's side and sat down. Lasseur assumed it was watching him. It was difficult to make out the animal's eyes behind all the hair.

The woman's eyes, in contrast, were perfectly visible. They reflected neither fear nor friendliness at his presence. She did not speak, but looked at him, one hand holding the basket, the other resting lightly, almost protectively, on the dog's head.

Lasseur stopped ten paces from her. The hair was again hanging loose alongside her cheek, he noticed. He wondered about her age. There were lines around her eyes. They were not deeply etched but, without them, Lasseur decided, her face would not have possessed the same strength of character. She was about thirty, he guessed, and it occurred to him that his late wife, Marie, had she lived, would have been the same age. Lasseur was suddenly struck by an overwhelming sense of loss and longing. He swallowed quickly, wondering if the woman had sensed his momentary waver.

'Forgive me, madame. I wonder if you might have some soap. My friend and I would like to bathe and wash the dirt from our clothes.'

He tugged at his shirt as if to hold it to his nose, and decided to risk a smile.

She did not respond but continued to gaze at him without speaking. Lasseur was surprised by how intimidated he felt. Self-consciously, he buttoned his jacket and ran a hand through his unkempt hair. He wondered just how bad he smelled. He was glad he hadn't drawn closer.

'Wait here,' she said abruptly. She put down the basket and went into the house.

Lasseur and the dog regarded each other in silence. All Lasseur could see was a pink tongue protruding through brown foliage.

Lasseur squatted. 'Hello, Rab. Good dog.'