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Both fighters had taken severe punishment. Benbow, his face a mask of blood and nursing two broken ribs, waited for his opponent to come within range.
Figg, rendered almost deaf and blind by the injuries he had received, his wrists and hands swollen to twice normal size, wits scrambled by a barrage of punches to the face and leaking sweat from every pore, spat out a gobbet of blood, and circled unsteadily.
Both men could barely stand.
The end, when it came, proved to be something of an anti-climax. Benbow, swaying precariously, hooked a punch towards his opponent’s belly. The blow landed hard. Figg collapsed. Blood gushed from his mouth, and the crowd groaned. It was a certain indication that Figg’s lungs had been damaged. The sight was sufficient cause for the referee, in a rare display of compassion, to end the contest and award the bout to the Cornishman.
So suddenly was the decision announced that a hush fell over the spectators. But then, like ripples spreading across a pond, an excited chatter began to spread through the assembled gathering. Benbow sat down on a low stool, probed his mouth with a finger, spat out a tooth, took a swig from a proffered brandy bottle, and looked on without pity as the defeated Figg was helped away by his seconds.
Beneath the stable arch, the red-haired major clapped his companion on the back and shook his head in admiration. “By God, Fitz, that was as fine a contest as I’ve witnessed, and I’m ten guineas better off than I was before the bout, thanks to the Cornishman. Damn me, if winning hasn’t given me a raging thirst. What say we wet our whistles before we meet the ladies? I do believe we’ve an hour or two to kill before we’re expected.”
The major reached into his sash and his face froze with concern. “Hell’s teeth, Fitz! My watch and chain! Gone! I’ve been robbed!”
The two men looked about them. A futile gesture, as both were fully aware. Whoever the thief was, he or she was long gone, swallowed up by the rapidly dispersing crowd.
“Damn and blast the thieving buggers!” The major swore vehemently and gritted his teeth in anger and frustration.
It was the sense of someone at their shoulder that caused them both to turn. The red-haired officer’s first impression was that the stranger was a man of the cloth. The dark apparel hinted as much, but as the major took in the expression in the smoke-grey eyes he knew that the man was certainly no priest. It was then the major saw the object held in the stranger’s open hand.
“I’ll be damned, Fitz! Will you look at this! The fellow has my watch! May I enquire how the devil you came by it, sir?”
Hawkwood held the watch out. “Sorry to disappoint you, Major, but sorcery had nothing to do with it. I spotted the boy making the snatch. As for the rest, let’s just say that I persuaded him to see the error of his ways.”
Reunited with his property, the major could not disguise his joy. Clasping the watch in his fist, he smiled gratefully. “Well, I’m obliged to you, sir, I truly am. It’s fortunate for me you’ve good eyesight. But here, I’m forgetting my manners. Permit me to introduce myself. The name’s Lawrence, 1st Battalion, 40th Light Infantry. My companion, Lieutenant Duncan Fitzhugh.”
The younger officer gave a ready smile and touched the peak of his shako. “Honoured, sir.”
Hawkwood did not reciprocate. Instead, to the surprise of the two officers, he merely gave a curt nod of acknowledgement and turned away.
The major was first to protest. “Why, no! Stand fast, sir! You’ll allow me the opportunity to express my gratitude. The watch means a great deal to me. The lieutenant and I were about to partake of a small libation. You’ll join us, of course?”
“Thank you, no.” Hawkwood’s reply was abrupt.
“But, sir!” the major remonstrated. “I insist –”
Skilfully interpreting the expression on Hawkwood’s face, the lieutenant took his companion’s arm. “You’d best let him go, sir. You’re embarrassing the poor fellow.”
The major made as if to argue, but then changed his mind and shrugged in acceptance. “Oh, very well, but it don’t alter the fact that I’m indebted to you. If I can repay the favour in any way …” The major’s voice trailed off. Putting his head on one side, he frowned. “Forgive me, sir, this may seem an odd question, but have we met before?”
Hawkwood shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, Major.”
“You’re certain? Your face seems familiar.” The major narrowed his eyes.
“Quite certain.” Hawkwood inclined his head. “Good day, Major … Lieutenant.” Then he turned on his heel and strode away without a backward glance.
“Damned odd,” the major murmured. He paused, looked around quickly, caught the eye of a hovering street vendor and crooked a finger. The hawker, scenting custom, touched his cap. The wooden tray suspended from a cord around his neck offered a variety of sweetmeats. Several bloated flies arose lazily from the tray. Fitzhugh wrinkled his nose in disgust.
The hawker grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Yes, your honour, what’s your pleasure?”
The major dismissed the proffered titbits with an impatient wave of his hand. Instead, he nodded across the yard. “The severely dressed fellow with the long dark hair, disappearing yonder. Do you know him?”
The man peered in the direction the major indicated. To the officers’ surprise, the hawker’s face appeared to lose colour. He eyed them suspiciously. “What’s it to you?”
Lawrence smiled easily and retrieved a coin from his pocket. “Curiosity, my friend, nothing more. His face looked familiar to me, that’s all.”
The hawker eyed the coin furtively, but only for a second before his thin fingers closed around it. Biting into the coin, he muttered darkly, “If I was you, your honour, where that one’s concerned, you’d best turn and walk the other way.”
Lawrence and Fitzhugh exchanged startled glances. “How so?”
“Because he’s the law, that’s why.”
Lawrence’s eyebrows rose. “The law?”
“Works out of Bow Street, don’t he? One of them special constables. Runners, we calls ‘em. Mean bastards every one.”
The two officers stared across the yard. The hawker spat on to the cobbles. “You take heed, friend. You ever find yourself in trouble, you’d best pray they don’t put him on your trail.”
“Well, I’m damned,” Lawrence said, adding, “but his name, man! Do you know his name?”
The pieman’s expression hardened. “Name? Oh, yes, I know his name, right enough. It’s Hawkwood, may God rot him. Now …” the hawker lifted his tray pointedly “… if you gentlemen ‘ave no intention of buyin’ …”
But the major wasn’t listening. He was staring off in the direction the dark-haired man had taken. He looked like a man in shock. It was Fitzhugh who finally dismissed the waiting pieman. Muttering under his breath, the vendor limped away.
Fitzhugh regarded his companion with concern. “Are you all right, sir? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Lawrence remained motionless and said softly, “Maybe I have.” He turned and favoured the lieutenant with a rueful smile. “By God, Fitz, memory’s a fickle mistress!”
“You do know him, then? You’ve met before?”
“We have indeed,” Lawrence said softly, adding almost abstractedly, “and both of us a damned long way from home.”
Fitzhugh waited for the major to elaborate, but on this occasion Lawrence did not oblige. Instead, the major nodded towards the door of the tavern. “I think I’m in need of a stiff brandy, young Fitz. What say you and I adjourn to yon hostelry and I’ll treat you to a wee dram out of my winnings?” Lawrence clapped his companion on the shoulder. “Who knows? I may even have an interesting tale to tell along with it.”
From the shadow of an archway, Hawkwood watched the major and his companion enter the inn. It had been a strange sensation seeing Lawrence again. In Hawkwood’s case, recognition had been immediate, confirmed by the engraving on the watch casing:
Lieutenant D.C. Lawrence, 40th Regiment.A gallant officer.
With grateful thanks, Auchmuty.February 1807
An inscription which could not be ignored. The watch was not merely an instrument for keeping time but a reward for services rendered; an act of outstanding bravery. The words alone indicated, to the recipient at least, that it was worth far more than gold. Hawkwood had seen the anguish on the major’s face when he’d discovered the loss.
It would have been an even greater crime had the watch remained in Constable Rafferty’s thieving clutches. Despite his warning to Rafferty, Hawkwood wondered just how many of the other stolen items would find their way back to their rightful owners. Precious few, he suspected. Sadly, men like Rafferty, guardians of the public trust with a tendency to pilfer on the side, were only too common.
Hawkwood’s thoughts returned to the major. His intention to return the watch had been instinctive. Call it duty, a debt of honour to a former comrade in arms, albeit one whose companionship had been fleeting in the extreme. There had been little hesitation on his part.
So, why deny recognition? The answer to that question was easy. Old wounds ran deep. Reopening them served no useful purpose. He shook his head at the thought of it. A chance encounter and it was as if the years had been rolled away. But sour memories were apt to leave a bitter aftertaste. What was done was done. He’d performed a service for which thanks had been given; a public servant performing a civic duty. That’s all it had been. Now it was over. Finished.
Hawkwood was about to step away when a discreet cough sounded at his elbow.
Shaken out of his reverie, he looked down and found himself confronted by a small, bow-legged, sharp-nosed man dressed in funereal black coat and breeches. An unfashionable powdered wig peeked from below the brim of an equally outmoded three-cornered black hat. Eyes blinked owlishly behind a pair of half-moon spectacles.
Hawkwood gave a wintry smile. “Well, well, Mr Twigg. And to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” As if he didn’t know.
The little man deflected the sarcasm with an exaggerated sigh of sufferance. “A message for you. Magistrate Read sends his compliments and requests that you attend him directly.”
Hawkwood’s eyebrows rose. “‘Requests’, Mr Twigg? I doubt that. And where am I to attend him, directly?”
“Bow Street. In his chambers.”
As he spoke, Ezra Twigg allowed his gaze to roam the stable yard. By now the crowd had all but disappeared. The God-botherer, sermon concluded, had dismantled his home-made pulpit and was steering a course for the tavern door. A handful of pedlars remained, ever hopeful of attracting late custom. Close by the ringside, a small knot of people had gathered. In their midst, Reuben Benbow, nursing cracked ribs, joked with his seconds and celebrated his hard-fought victory.
The bewigged clerk’s eyes took on a calculated glint. Removing his spectacles, he breathed on the lenses and polished them vigorously on the sleeve of his coat.
Hawkwood grinned. “You were right, Ezra. The Cornishman was the better man.”
Ezra Twigg replaced his spectacles, looked up at Hawkwood and blinked myopically. His gaze turned towards the open door of the tavern and the corner of his mouth twitched.
Hawkwood patted the little man’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Ezra. I’ll see you back at the Shop.”
Without waiting for a response, Hawkwood turned and walked away. He did not look back. Had he done so, he would have seen the bowed figure of Ezra Twigg hurrying briskly towards the tavern door, the spring in the clerk’s step matched only by the broad smile on his lips and the twinkle in his eye.
Shadows were lengthening as Hawkwood picked his way through the chain of courts and alleyways.
The few street lamps that did exist were barely adequate, and small deterrent to footpads who continued to stalk the darkened thoroughfares with impunity. Even in broad daylight, it was almost impossible to walk the streets without being propositioned or relieved of one’s belongings. For the unwary pedestrian, dusk only brought added risk. A few gas lamps had been installed in the West End but they were the exception, not the rule. For the most part, night-time London was a world of near impenetrable darkness, fraught with hidden dangers, where even police foot patrols and watchmen feared to tread.
Hawkwood, however, walked with confidence. His presence was acknowledged, but there were no attempts to impede his progress. There was something about the way he carried himself that caused other men to step aside. The scar on his face only added to the aura of menace that emanated from his purposeful stride.
Not that Hawkwood was immune to his surroundings. It was merely that he was hardened to them. He could not afford to be otherwise. London was a fertile breeding ground for every vice known to man. As a Bow Street Runner, Hawkwood had seen more of the city’s dark underbelly than he cared to recall. The shadowy, refuse-strewn byways held precious few surprises, but nevertheless he remained alert as he continued on towards his appointment.
3 (#ulink_179358ea-fb3e-5272-a96d-4467db8d4129)
“So,” Fitzhugh said, “our Samaritan – who was he?”
The two officers were seated in a candlelit alcove in the Blind Fiddler. The fight had attracted a lot of extra custom and the tavern was doing brisk business. Both men were drinking Spanish brandy.
Lawrence pursed his lips. “Well, the pedlar was right, Fitz. Our friend Hawkwood’s certainly not a man to be trifled with.”
Lawrence gazed into his drink, remembering. “Four years ago, it’d be … The Americas. We were part of Sam Auchmuty’s expedition, sent to reinforce Beresford.” Lawrence smiled grimly. “We were fighting the damned Spaniards then. Now they’re our allies. Who’d have thought it?”
It had been before Fitzhugh’s time. A misconceived and ill-fated attempt to liberate South American colonies from Spanish rule. The first wave of troops under the command of Brigadier-General William Carr Beresford had achieved some initial success by taking Buenos Aires, at which point disaster had struck.
Lawrence winced at the memory. “Turned out we weren’t reinforcing Beresford, we were rescuing the silly sod! By the time we got there, the Spanish had regrouped and recaptured the city, and Beresford along with it!”
Lawrence leaned forward, warming to his story. “Now, old Sam knew that if we were to stand any chance of getting to Beresford we’d have to take Montevideo first, as a bargaining tool. Which we did, but by God they gave us a fight! The bastards were waiting for us on the beach. We forced ‘em back, of course. Then found they’d fortified the bloody place, so we had to lay siege. Bombarded them with the ships’ twenty-four-pounders. Took us four days before we finally secured the breach.”
Lawrence’s voice trailed off. Fitzhugh realized that the major was holding the watch. The cover was open and Lawrence was fondling it abstractedly, running his thumb across the engraved surface. He looked up, recovered himself, slipped the timepiece back into his sash and continued. “Lost a lot of good men before they surrendered. Took a host of prisoners, too, including the governor, Don Pasquil. But there was one fellow, a general he was, in command of the citadel. Can’t remember his blasted name. Refused to give himself up. Auchmuty sent a flag of truce promising safe passage, but he declined the offer. So Sam ordered in the sharpshooters.”
Fitzhugh’s eyed widened. “Sharpshooters?”
“We had a detachment of the 95th with us. A brace of their riflemen were ordered to a nearby tower with orders to pick this general out and shoot him dead. I was directed to assist. Our friend was one of the riflemen. A lieutenant he was. Didn’t know his name then, though I recall thinking it strange that they should have sent an officer to do the job.”
Fitzhugh frowned. “How can you be sure it was the same fellow?”
“Because of what I witnessed that day. It’s not something I’m likely to forget. We were atop the tower, the riflemen, myself and a couple of privates, waiting for the general to put in an appearance. Sure enough, out he came, up at his ramparts, strutting around in his frills and finery, proud as a turkey cock.”
The major reached inside his jacket and extracted a short-stemmed clay pipe and a leather tobacco pouch. With what seemed to Fitzhugh like maddening deliberation, Lawrence packed the pipe and returned the pouch to his jacket. Fitzhugh watched in frustrated silence as Lawrence lit a taper from the candle on the table and held the flame to the pipe bowl. When the tobacco was glowing to his satisfaction, Lawrence extinguished the taper with his thumb and forefinger and returned it to the container by his elbow. At first Fitzhugh suspected the major was toying with him, prolonging the agony. Then he realized that Lawrence was using the opportunity to collect his thoughts.
The major sucked noisily on the pipe stem. “Never saw anything like it, Fitz. Our friend stands there, looking out over the rooftops towards the general’s position. Doesn’t say a word, just stares. Then, calm as you like, he takes up his rifle, loads it, rests it on the parapet, and takes aim.
“One shot, Fitz, that’s all it took. I was watching the general through my glass. The bullet took the bugger in the head. Blew his brains out.”
“What was the range?”
“Two hundred and twenty yards, if it was an inch.”
“Good God!” Fitzhugh’s jaw dropped.
“Best damned shooting I’ve ever seen.”
“I can believe it,” Fitzhugh said, marvelling.
“Did the trick, of course. Spaniards surrendered almost immediately.”
“And the rifleman?”
“Returned to his unit. Never saw him again. Never forgot that shooting, though. Quite outstanding.” Lawrence fell silent, lost in a quiet moment of reflection. He drew on his pipe, then lifted his mug and drained the contents.
“Another?” Fitzhugh asked.
Lawrence stared down at his mug, as if noticing for the first time that he had emptied it. “Why not?”
Fitzhugh raised his hand and beckoned to one of the serving girls. At the summons of a handsome young man in uniform, she approached the table with a ready grin. Rounded breasts strained against her low-cut bodice as she bent forward and retrieved the empty mugs. Fitzhugh gave his order and the girl pulled away, her left breast pressing heavily against his arm, reminding the lieutenant of his and Lawrence’s plans for the evening: a visit to a small and very discreet establishment off Covent Garden, in which hand-picked young ladies of beauty and charm provided entertainment of a kind not found in the Officers’ Mess.
Fitzhugh watched the girl depart, following her passage through the gauntlet of roving hands and lewd enticements. A thought occurred to him and he turned back to Lawrence.
“Why do you think he denied having met you before?”
Lawrence shrugged. “Hard to say, though he has less cause to remember me than I do him.”
Not strictly true. The major was being modest. Fitzhugh knew for a fact that Lawrence’s contribution to the taking of Montevideo had been considerable. The watch that the major prized so highly was testament to the fact. It was a part of regimental lore handed down to junior officers.
The British had laid siege to the city’s Spanish fortifications using tried and tested means, albeit medieval in conception. They had constructed batteries and breastworks, gabions and fascines to protect the guns brought up from the men-of-war that had transported them from Rio de Janeiro.
The walls of the city were six feet thick. As Lawrence had said, it had indeed taken four days for the cannon to knock down the gates. The British troops had attacked in the early morning, under cover of darkness. The forlorn hope, the forward troops charged with leading the frontal assault, had been led by a Captain Renny. When Renny had been felled by a Spanish musket ball, it had been the young Lieutenant Lawrence who had, quite literally, stepped into the breach and pressed home the attack, leading his men across the wall and on into the town.
Sir Samuel Auchmuty had presented Lawrence with the watch, his own timepiece, as a measure of his regard for his junior officer’s bravery. As further reward, Lawrence had also received his captaincy, courtesy of the late, lamented Renny.
The girl returned bearing their drinks. Another smile for Fitzhugh and she was gone, with perhaps just a slight exaggeration in the sway of her broad hips.
