The dog's tail twitched.
Lasseur snapped his fingers softly.
A definite wag this time and what might have been a slight rising of the ears.
Two more snaps.
The dog walked forward and licked the back of Lasseur's proffered hand. The animal was obviously not offended by the smell.
Lasseur stood as the woman came out of the house.
'Here -' She held out a small bar of soap at arm's length. There was a short pause. 'It's about time.'
She stepped away and picked up the basket.
Lasseur felt himself redden. 'Thank you, madame. I will see it is returned.' Lasseur took the soap and attempted another smile. 'He is a fine dog.'
'And easily distracted.' The woman looked down. What could have been taken as a flicker of affection passed briefly across her face, or it could have been Lasseur's imagination.
The dog looked up at her.
'I have often found dogs to be excellent judges of character,' Lasseur said.
'He's old. Sometimes he gets confused.'
'I know the feeling,' Lasseur said. He gave a brief bow. 'Thank you again for the soap.'
The woman nodded but her gaze remained neutral. Deflated, Lasseur turned away.
The woman and the dog watched him go. She walked towards the apple trees. Suddenly, she stopped and looked over her shoulder at the dog, which had not moved. It was still staring after Lasseur.
'Rab.'
The dog wagged its tail and padded towards her.
'Come on, you,' she said.
She looked beyond the dog and her eyes followed Lasseur as he disappeared around the back of the barn.
Hawkwood was checking his dressings when Lasseur reappeared.
Lasseur grinned and tossed him the soap.
Hawkwood stared at him.
'She definitely likes me,' Lasseur said.
'I could pass away now and die a happy man,' Lasseur announced contentedly.
Both men, blankets around their waists, shirts, undergarments and breeches drying in the sun, were seated on the bank, ankles submerged in the cool water.
Lasseur reached over into his jacket and with an exhalation of pleasure drew out his last cheroot. 'I was saving this for a special occasion. I'd say cleaning the stench of the hulk from my clothes qualifies. What do you think?'
'I think you should cover yourself up,' Hawkwood said. 'Your blanket's slipping.'
Lasseur adjusted the offending item. 'I feel as if I'm wearing one of those damned togas.' Realizing he had no means of lighting the cheroot, he stuck it between his lips and sucked on it pensively. 'I wonder how her husband died. The war, perhaps?' He looked back towards the house, but the barn was blocking the view.
'If that was the case,' Hawkwood said, 'I'd have thought the last people she'd want around the place would be enemy prisoners of war.'
Lasseur took the cheroot out of his mouth. 'You're right. I am an idiot.' He looked around at the barn behind them and the other buildings.
'You could always ask her,' Hawkwood said. 'Seeing as she likes you so much.'
'I might have exaggerated slightly on that score,' Lasseur said. He stuck the cheroot back in his mouth, sucked on it for several seconds before removing it and rolling it contemplatively between his fingers. 'I was thinking, this farm is not large. It's smaller than the one my wife was brought up on. Nevertheless, a place like this takes work. It cannot be an easy life for a woman alone.'
It never was, Hawkwood thought, though, from what he'd seen, things could have been a lot worse. She could have been alone in the city, for one thing. Here, it appeared she had the essentials to hand, a roof over her head and, with the animals and the produce in the garden, a means of feeding herself that didn't involve stealing or selling her body on the nearest street corner, wherever that was.
There had been no sign of the man called Thomas. Hawkwood wondered about that.
In the time they had been on the farm, she had barely spoken to them, even when delivering their meals, which she carried to the barn in a basket. He considered her attitude. From the beginning, it had not been exactly welcoming. She'd treated their arrival as an imposition. He had the impression that would have been the case even if she'd taken the two of them for Englishmen. The others who had helped them - the shepherd, the innkeeper, the sea captain and the gravedigger - had been considerably less reticent; probably because all of them earned a living from operating outside the law and had, if not a hatred for authority, then certainly ambivalence towards it. As the seaman, Gideon, had said, they were just another unlawful cargo.
But why would a woman involve herself in the business of helping repatriate enemies of her country? She had sounded a reluctant hoarder of contraband, too, judging by her exchange with the gravedigger.
He wondered who Morgan was. Mention of the tubs implied he was part of the smuggling fraternity, but of what rank? Was he someone of importance or merely the next man down the line?
Either way, Ludd's conviction that free traders were aiding escaped prisoners had been proved correct, but even Ludd couldn't have envisaged the degree of planning that must be involved. There were obviously keen brains working behind the scenes. But whose?
Hawkwood reached for his shirt and breeches. They were already dry. He put them on. Lasseur followed suit.
'I wonder what happens next,' Lasseur said as he pulled on his boots. 'How long are we likely to be here, do you think?'
'It might be for some time. The British have the Sleeve sewn up pretty tight with their blockade.' The nickname had come easily to him though Hawkwood had never understood why the French name for the Channel had come from an article of clothing.
'But the smugglers come and go,' Lasseur pointed out.
'The penalty for helping escapers is probably greater,'
Hawkwood said. 'It's close to treason. They wouldn't want to risk it unless they were sure.'
Hawkwood knew that a physically fit seaman caught during the seizure of a smuggling vessel faced impressment into the navy. The penalty for helping prisoners to escape was transportation, possibly for life. No smuggler would risk a dash across the Channel with escaped prisoners in tow unless he was confident of success.
Lasseur nodded glumly.
'Don't look so downhearted,' Hawkwood said. 'It's only been a couple of days and anywhere's better than that stinking ship.'
Lasseur sucked on his cheroot. Then he clapped Hawkwood on the shoulder. 'You're right, my friend. We have the fresh air, the sky above our heads and moderately clean shirts on our backs. If I was on the deck of my ship, life would almost be perfect.'
Hawkwood closed his eyes and let the afternoon sun play across his face.
'I dreamt about Lucien,' Lasseur said.
Hawkwood opened his eyes.
He'd known there was something preying on Lasseur's mind. The Frenchman had been restless all night. Hawkwood knew that because his own sleep had been fitful and, in the silence of the barn, in the gaps between waking and sleeping he had listened to Lasseur toss and turn through most of the early hours.
'He saw his father die,' Lasseur said. 'It was why he was on his own. He was a cabin boy on his father's fishing boat. They were surprised by an English cutter. They lowered sail, but for some reason the cutter captain decided to have some sport. He turned his guns on them and blew them out of the water. Lucien's father was killed by a flying splinter. One crew member went down with the boat, the other man was taken, but they got separated. I suspect he was transferred to a different prison ship.' Lasseur fell silent and then said, 'If we hadn't interfered, he'd still be alive.'
