Rapscallion

objects immediately to hand.

Uppermost were the position of the door and a shelf to the left of it bearing a candle stub and what had looked like a tinder box.

'Don't move,' Hawkwood said.

Holding his hands out in front of him, moving painfully, he set off towards the opposite wall. A vision struck him of soldiers blinded in action and reduced to begging on street corners, enclosed in perpetual darkness. I'd rather be dead than blind, he thought.

When his hands finally touched stone, he paused. Knowing the dark would have caused some disorientation he debated whether to move left or right. He chose left. The shelf had been set low, he recalled, and at waist height. Tentatively, he began to edge along the wall. After a few side steps his fingers encountered wood; moved on, and found metal. It was the tin. Hawkwood fumbled awkwardly with the lid, eased it open and probed the interior. Yes! He breathed a sigh of relief and ran his fingers over a flint and steel, and something with the consistency of thistledown. He heard Lasseur's exclamation at seeing the spark as he struck the flint. Looking down, he saw not only the tinder but two short lengths of taper lying on the shelf next to the candle stub.

A few seconds later, they had light.

Extinguishing the tinder, Hawkwood placed the fire-starting tools back in the tin and slipped it into his pocket. 'We need a way out or something to fight with. Preferably both.'

'You still have your knife?' Lasseur said, remembering.

'It won't be enough,' Hawkwood said. He looked at Lasseur. 'Why didn't you try and shoot me? You had the chance to save yourself.'

Lasseur, trapped by the candlelight, looked surprised by the question. 'You still owe me four thousand francs, remember? I was protecting my investment.'

'Now, who's the optimist?' Hawkwood said, and winced.

His discomfort did not go unnoticed. Lasseur frowned. 'I thought you said you weren't hurt.'

'No, I said I'd live. I hurt like hell.'

'You can't blame Croker. You killed his friend.'

'I might just kill Croker as well,' Hawkwood growled. He paused. 'Why are you doing this, Captain? What's the real reason?'

Lasseur smiled and then his face grew serious. 'I said you were an honourable man. I also said there was a darkness within you. I believe both statements to be true. You proved it by fighting by my side to protect the boy and when you saved my life on the beach. For those acts alone, I will always count you as my friend. As a general rule, I do not kill my friends. Did Morgan speak the truth? You really are a police officer?'

Hawkwood nodded.

'You had me fooled.'

'But I didn't take you for a fool,' Hawkwood said. 'It's not the same thing.'

'No,' Lasseur said. He looked thoughtful. 'I don't believe it is.'

The candlelight confirmed there was only the one door and that the cellar held nothing lethal enough to use as a weapon. A dozen half-anker tubs were stacked against the far end of the room. Six bigger barrels rested on their sides next to them. Adjacent to the large barrels were several glass demijohns containing what appeared to be, in the dull candle glow, a coloured liquid. Next to the demijohns were some wooden crates containing dozens of glass bottles, all of them empty. The smell was enough to tell them what the barrels contained. Hawkwood nudged the small kegs. Their weight told him they were full. He presumed the six tubs Asa Higgs had transported from Jess Flynn's farm were among them, though there was no way to know for sure as they all looked the same. Morgan was taking a risk keeping them on his property, Hawkwood reflected, if the Haunt was ever raided by the Revenue, though that seemed an unlikely prospect given the pickets and the representatives of officialdom Morgan supposedly had on his payroll.

There was a spigot in each of the large barrels. Hawkwood held his hand under one and turned the tap. He let the clear liquid run and took a sip. He had taken it for gin, but it was water he could taste.

'At least we won't die of thirst,' Lasseur said.

'Depends which barrel you sup from,' Hawkwood said. 'Pick the wrong one and you're more likely to die of alcohol poisoning.'

'What?' Lasseur's eyebrows lifted.

'Not all the brandy that's brought in is drinkable. A lot of its seventy per cent over proof. They have to add water. Some of it comes in clear, so they add caramel syrup to darken it. I'm guessing that's what's in those.' Hawkwood indicated the demijohns and then the kegs. 'You drink that stuff undiluted, it'll likely kill you.'

'There might be worse ways of going,' Lasseur said. He stared wistfully at the kegs. Then his eyes shifted to a large wooden tea chest. 'What do you suppose is in there?'

More smuggled goods, Hawkwood guessed, though it was unlikely to hold tea, as the duty on tea had been heavily reduced decades ago. It was more likely to be lace, or gloves, or rolls of silk. There was no lock. He undid the clasps and opened the lid.

Nothing to get excited about; bundles of material, though none of them were of lace or silk. Hawkwood was reaching down to feel if there was anything concealed beneath the layers when something about the material struck him as vaguely familiar. He held the candle close then placed it to the side and lifted one of the bundles out. When he unrolled it, he was holding a jacket and a pair of breeches. The jacket was dark blue with a red collar and cuffs. The trousers were a grubby white.

He heard Lasseur give a grunt of surprise. 'That's a French infantry uniform.'

Hawkwood nodded. 'Company of Fusiliers.'

'You're familiar with French army uniforms?'

'It's a long story,' Hawkwood said.

'These aren't new.' Lasseur pointed to a hole in the tunic. 'That was made by a musket ball.'

Or maybe even a bullet from a Baker rifle, Hawkwood thought.

There were upwards of two dozen more uniforms in the chest. What was Morgan doing with them? He couldn't begin to guess, but he wasn't going to lose sleep over it. He tossed the uniform back in the chest and closed the lid.

'I think we've exhausted our possibilities,' Lasseur said. 'It looks as if your knife's the only weapon we've got.'

Hawkwood looked around.

'Not necessarily,' he said.

Lasseur frowned. 'What did you have in mind?'

Hawkwood told him.

Lasseur considered Hawkwood's idea.

'The darkness returns,' he said grimly.

Footsteps, followed by the rasp of metal catching on metal.

Hawkwood, senses alert, opened his eyes. It didn't make any difference. He still couldn't see a damned thing. He wondered if it was morning already. Had he slept? It didn't seem as if five minutes had passed since they had been locked in.

He heard voices behind the door but the words were indistinct. He assumed Lasseur had heard them, too. Acting quickly, using the flint and steel, he set light to the tinder and transferred the flame to the candle. Slipping the tin into his pocket, he squatted down with his back to the wall, the flickering candle on the floor by his hand. He glanced across the room to where Lasseur was crouching. The privateer nodded.

The sound came again; a door bolt being released. The door swung open. Croker stood on the threshold, a pistol in his hand. Sol, also armed, was behind him with the lantern.

Hawkwood saw it was morning. Beyond the doorway, grey light from outside was filtering along the passageway.

Croker jerked his head. 'You - lawman - on your feet, now! The Frog stays put.'

Hawkwood remained where he was.

Croker raised the pistol. 'You bleedin' deaf? I said outside! Mr Morgan wants to see you.'

'I don't think so,' Hawkwood said. 'I prefer it here.'

Croker moved forward. For the first time, he appeared to notice the candle flame. 'Would you look at that,