Rapscallion

has friends there. There's also a good chance the French will protect him. He delivers Bonaparte twelve million francs and they'll probably think he's someone worth protecting. Maybe they'll think if he can do it once, he can do it again.'

'He killed eight Frenchmen. You telling me they won't hold that against him?'

'Morgan gets to Gravelines first, his story is going to be that they died in the execution of their patriotic duty - that's assuming he even bothers to mention them. By the time Lasseur gives his version, Morgan will have become the Emperor's blue-eyed boy. Twelve million francs buys a lot of favours. And there's no proof he killed them. Who's to say they weren't shot by redcoats? It'll be Lasseur's word against his and Lasseur wasn't there.'

'So Lasseur's planning to catch up with Morgan on the high seas?'

'That's the way of it.'

'And mete out some justice of his own?'

Hawkwood said nothing.

'And we're going to help him?' Jago pressed.

'You didn't have to come along,' Hawkwood said.

''Course I had to come along! Christ, you get these Tomfool ideas into your head, someone has to watch your back!'

'And that's you?'

'Yes, it's me! It's always bloody me! And, might I say, you've come up with some crack-brained ideas in your time, but this one takes some beating. You're willin' to go to all this trouble just so's you can serve notice on a bloody smuggler?'

'The damned gold's lost anyway. This way at least I've a chance of making sure Morgan doesn't profit from it.'

'Any likelihood we can steal it back from Lasseur's clutches?'

'Just the two of us?' Hawkwood said drily. 'I doubt it.'

'Worth considerin'. So Lasseur and his Emperor get twelve million francs while you get one murdering bastard free trader?' 'Some might call that a bargain.'

'Only if they've lost their bloody wits. And have you given any thought to how we'll get home?'

'Lasseur will see we get back.'

'You're settin' an awful lot of store in the man.'

'I told you, he's worried he'll lose the money I owe him.'

Jago shook his head in exasperation. 'You can joke, but you realize if anything happens to Lasseur and we end up in bloody Verdun or one of those other Frog prisons, we're well and truly buggered.'

'That why you sent Micah home?'

'I thought it best that someone back there knows where we are.'

'You're saying he'll come looking if he doesn't hear from us?'

'If he doesn't hear from me, he will.' Jago fell silent, then said, 'Jesus, this is a rum business. You must really want the bastard.'

'I do,' Hawkwood said. 'But it's not business. With Morgan, it's personal.'

There was a rap on the door, then a seaman entered bearing a tray loaded with bread and cold beef, two mugs, a pot of coffee and a bottle of brandy.

'Avec les compliments de Capitaine Lasseur, messieurs.'

Placing the tray on the table, the cook departed.

Jago poured the coffee and added a generous measure of brandy to each mug before passing one of them across tin- table. 'Get that down you.'

Hawkwood took a swallow. The liquid was scalding. He waited for his throat to cool and then said, 'Tell me about Cephus Pepper.'

Jago grimaced. 'He's Morgan's right-hand man, though you already knew that. I heard he used to be first mate on a blackbirder, runnin' slaves to the West Indies. Ran foul of a rival ship off Havana - back in '02, I think it was. Lost his arm in a deck fight. They say he escaped by going over the side. Not a man you'd want to cross in a hurry, as you found out.'

'How long's he been with Morgan?'

'Eight years, or thereabouts. You think he was there with Morgan tonight?'

'You can count on it. You know Morgan, don't you?'

'We've never met, though I reckon I know enough about him not to turn my back. He likes to tell folk he's a descendant of Henry Morgan, the buccaneer, which I bloody doubt. Far as I know, he's the son of a farmer from over Ruckinge way. Family was in the Trade for years. Morgan's father used to run with the Callis Court mob. Morgan quit the farm when he was a lad. Rumour was he ran off to sea to escape the law, but that could be a story he put around. Same way he's supposed to have been a bo's'n on the Britannia; though that'd explain why he's so good at runnin' things and why a lot of his crew are former navy men. It's probably why he and Pepper make a good team. He came back and took over the business when his old man died; built it up from there. Got no Welsh blood in him at all, unless his great-grandfather was caught buggering a ewe. He say anything about that to you?'

'He must have forgotten to mention it,' Hawkwood said. 'Ever taken advantage of his services?'

'You referring to my business interests?'

Hawkwood smiled.

Jago shrugged. 'Probably have, indirectly, given the control he's got. My line of work, you don't always know the provenance of the goods. Mostly I try and deal with the Sussex branch of the Trade.'

'Don't think I care to know too much,' Hawkwood said.

'Just as well.'

'And Garvey, does he work for Morgan?'

'No flies on you, are there?' Jago said, taking a sip from his drink and smacking his lips in appreciation.

'Local representative?' Hawkwood said. 'Come on! He knows Pepper, he recognized the bodies in the barn, and he obviously knows his way around that neck of the woods. It doesn't take a genius.'

Hawkwood leant back against the bulkhead. His limbs, for some reason, had started to feel as heavy as lead. Added to which, he had the sudden overwhelming desire to close his eyes. He knew he mustn't fall asleep, for that would be fatal. If he nodded off, there was a very good chance he'd never wake up. He tried to fight the rising tide of weariness that was creeping over him.

'Aye, well,' Jago said. 'Not that it matters. He's one of Morgan's errand boys; delivers messages about upcoming runs and the like. Morgan also uses him to pay people off, so he knows where some of the bones are buried. We go back a ways; if ever I've a mind to visit my old hunting grounds, I get in touch. Just as well, too.' He paused and took a sip of coffee and glanced across the table in time to see Hawkwood's eyes droop and the mug begin to slip from his hand.

Jago sighed. He put down his own drink and, reaching across swiftly, rescued the falling mug. ''Bout bloody time,' he murmured. He placed the mug on the table, grabbed the blanket from his bunk and draped it across Hawkwood's sleeping form. He stared down at the scarred and unshaven face, his brow creasing as his eyes took in the new wounds and the state of Hawkwood's clothes. He shook his head, returned to his seat and picked up his drink. 'No bloody stamina, some people,' he muttered softly.

The touch of a hand on Hawkwood's arm brought him jerking awake. For a moment he wondered where he was. Then his ears picked up the creaks and groans and the cry of a crewman from somewhere on the deck above and his brain began to function. He looked up to find Jago's craggy countenance looming over him. He sat up quickly, nearly crowning himself on the underside of a deckhead beam in the process.

'Captain wants us up on deck. There's a sail off the larboard bow, whatever the hell that is.'

Hawkwood scrambled to his feet and almost lost his footing as the deck pitched unexpectedly. He cursed, grabbed the edge of the table and felt his stomach turn.

He followed Jago up the canted stairway on to the schooner's deck and immediately felt the bite of the wind and the lash of spindrift on his cheek. The hiss of the waves against the ship's hull and the crack of canvas filled his ears. It was not yet light, but beyond the bowsprit a band of sienna-coloured sky was slowly widening across the horizon. Running along the lower edge of it was a long uneven smear which Hawkwood knew was land. It was too