Rapscallion

scuppers were slick with blood.

'Reckon this is what they mean when they talk about rats tryin' to leave a sinkin' ship,' Jago said.

Morgan let the sword slip from his grasp. His chest rose and fell.

'We're still fifteen miles off the coast,' Hawkwood said. 'Did you really think you'd make it?'

'The Lord loves an optimist,' Lasseur murmured.

'Can't blame a man for trying,' Morgan said.

Hawkwood stuck the pistol in his belt, tossed the tomahawk aside and drew the knife from his boot.

A flicker of doubt crossed Morgan's face. His jaw tightened.

The man looked strange without the beard, Hawkwood had decided. His face looked rounder and at least five years younger, and not so aggressive. In fact, Hawkwood thought, there was something else about Morgan that was different. He looked more portly round the chest, which was a bit odd, and his movements looked . . . ponderous.

Before Morgan could react, Hawkwood jabbed the knife point beneath the front hem of Morgan's tunic and with effortless ease sliced the blade towards Morgan's chin like a surgeon opening up a cadaver. The tunic cloth parted like grape skin.

'Well, would you look at that!' Jago said in wonderment. 'Haven't seen one of them since the old king died.'

It was a waistcoat, but it wasn't like any Hawk wood had seen before. It was lined with pockets and every one of them was bulging.

Hawkwood reached out and with another flick of his wrist performed a second filleting along one of the pocket seams. The cloth split and the weight of the contents did the rest. A gold ingot clattered to the deck.

Hawkwood slid the knife back in his boot and picked the ingot up. It wasn't very big, about half the size of a tinder box, but it was heavy nonetheless. Impressed into the dull metal were some numbers and a round stamp bearing the words Rothschild Sons.

From the size of him, Hawkwood guessed there were pockets in the back of Morgan's waistcoat, too, and there was a suspicious bulge across his lower back. Lasseur used his sword point to lift the back of the blue tunic. A bustle-like garment was tied around Morgan's waist.

'You might want to check inside his breeches, an' all,' Jago said. 'They used to carry thigh pieces, back in the old days.'

'We get the picture,' Hawkwood said. 'Check Pepper.'

Lasseur did so.

'The same,' he announced, realizing that the weight had contributed to Pepper's sluggishness and inability to repel his attack.

'The old tea waistcoats used to hold about thirty pounds weight,' Jago said.

'Judas got silver. You got gold,' Hawkwood said. 'You go to all that trouble and all you end up with is a bloody waist coat. Hardly worth the effort.'

'What do you want to do with him?' Lasseur asked. 'I give him to you. My gift.'

'Let him have the gold,' Hawkwood said.

'What?' Lasseur's jaw dropped.

Hawkwood shrugged. 'Let him take his chances.'

'You ain't bloody serious?' Jago said. 'After all you said?'

Morgan's head came up. 'You're not arresting me?'

'Arrest you?' Hawkwood laughed. 'You've a bloody high opinion of yourself. No, I've a mind to let you keep your waistcoat. I don't think the army will miss thirty pounds of gold, do you? Far as I'm concerned, you make it to the coast, you damn well deserve to keep it. There's only one condition ...'

'What's that?' A tiny light flared in the dark eyes. Hope springing eternal.

'You have to swim.'

Hawkwood half turned and slammed his boot into Morgan's belly.

The kick rocked Morgan on to his heels. The edge of the bulwark caught him across the back of his legs and momentum did the rest, sending him backwards over the cutter's side. He hit the water with the look of incredulity still glued to his face. He was still trying to recover his breath as the sea closed over him, taking his encumbered body down into its cold and lasting embrace.

It was over so quickly, there was no trace of his passing.

Hawkwood stepped back.

'That's taken the weight off his mind,' Jago observed. 'Though you had me worried for a while. Thought you'd gone soft.'

There were more splashes from behind. Under the supervision of Lieutenant Delon and his men, the remnants of Morgan's crew were tipping the bodies of their dead comrades into the water.

'Time to go, I think,' Lasseur said, turning on his heel and sheathing his sword. He called his lieutenant to him.

'When they've disposed of their dead, lock them below. Get our men back on Scorpion; including casualties. Keep a small crew behind to clear the deck, then rig a sail. We'll escort you in. She's not much of a prize by herself, but her cargo's worth more than a king's ransom.' Lasseur looked at Hawkwood and grinned.

And Hawkwood said, 'You'll have to be sharp about it.'

He wasn't looking at Lasseur. He was looking over the bow

At the same moment Lasseur's man yelled, 'Sail to the north east!'

'British frigate,' Hawkwood said. 'But that's just my guess. Probably on blockade patrol. She's damned close, too. I were you, I'd shoot your lookout.'

Lasseur sprang to the rail.

The frigate was bearing down fast. She was closer to the French coast than Scorpion. Yards braced, with a full spread of sail, she was running before the wind. Lasseur could even see the water creaming at her bow.

'Save yourself or the gold,' Hawkwood said. 'Don't think there's time for you to do both. If they catch you, it'll be the black hole for sure. They'll likely throw away the key this time, the mayhem you've caused. Interesting dilemma.'

'It's a bugger, right enough,' Jago said.

Lasseur stared hard at the approaching man-of-war.

He turned and looked at the wreckage that was strewn across the cutter's deck; at the bodies that were still being lowered over the side, at his own ship and at the exhaustion on the faces of his men, who would be unable to withstand another pitched skirmish.

He gnawed the inside of his cheek and came to a decision.

'Merde,' he said.

EPILOGUE

'Nice night,' Jago said.

Hawkwood couldn't disagree. There were no clouds. The sky was dotted with a thousand stars and moonlight speckled the blue-black water. The only sound to be heard was the soft wash of the waves along the shore and the steady creak of oars. It was a sound Hawkwood had become used to.

But he'd had his fill of midnight meetings on moonlit beaches. He'd had enough, he decided, to last him a lifetime; several lifetimes.

But maybe this one was different.

The two men walked down to the water's edge, their boots crunching into the pebbles. They waited for the black-hulled rowboat to draw closer, stepping aside at the last minute as the bow glided out of the darkness and on to the beach.

Lasseur stepped ashore.

He smiled and held out his hand. 'Captain.' He shook hands with Jago. 'I'm happy to see that you both made