Ratcatcher

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Jago tipped his head to one side. “Could be I did hear something.”

“Like what?”

Jago fixed Hawkwood with a steadfast gaze. “You aimin’ to bring ‘em to justice, Cap’n?”

“Them?” Hawkwood said quickly.

Jago took a sip of brandy and wiped his lips. Hawkwood knew the sergeant was giving himself time to think, weighing his options.

“Two men. Old ‘un and young ‘un, so I ‘eard.”

“What else did you hear?”

Jago sighed. “Not much. Only that they ran foul of the Redbreasts and got away with naught but a few trinkets.” Jago shook his head. “Hardly worth the bleedin’ effort! Bloody amateurs!”

“The passenger was an admiralty courier,” Hawkwood said.

“Was he now?” Jago replied, eyes narrowing. “I was wondering why you was so interested. Tell me, what if it had only been the driver’s mate that was shot, would you and me be ‘avin’ this conversation?”

“Murder’s a serious business,” Hawkwood said. “Doesn’t matter if the victim’s a prince or pauper. It’s not the same as stealing a loaf of bread.”

“Try tellin’ that to the magistrate,” Jago grunted. “It’s an ‘anging offence, either way.”

Hawkwood shook his head. “I’d not begrudge any man who’d steal a loaf to feed his family.”

“In that case,” Jago murmured, “I’d say you was definitely in the minority.” He stared at Hawkwood. “Y’know, Cap’n, strikes me, this is becoming too much of a bleedin’ ‘abit.”

“What is?”

“You comin’ and askin’ me for favours. Just because you an’ me were former comrades in arms don’t mean I can be taken for granted.”

“I thought you said it was always a pleasure to see me?” Hawkwood grinned.

Jago stared back at him. “Christ, I’ll say one thing, you sure ain’t lost your sense of humour.”

Hawkwood smiled. “I’ll not deny that you and me knowing each other makes it easier to ask for favours. You have to use what you’ve got.”

“And right now,” Jago said, “all you got is me.”

Hawkwood smiled again.

Jago listened as Hawkwood explained how Lomax and his patrol had failed to pick up the highwaymen’s trail.

“Bleedin’ cavalry!” Jago retorted. “What did you expect? Couldn’t find their own arses if they were sitting on ‘em!”

An image came to Hawkwood: the face of Lomax, the ex-major of dragoons, mutilated almost beyond recognition. Had Jago seen those ruined features, Hawkwood knew the sergeant would not have been so ready with the slander.

“I’m no informer, Cap’n,” Jago said.

“I know that,” Hawkwood replied softly.

“So, what we’re talking about is our usual arrangement. I scratch your back an’ you scratch mine.”

There was a moment’s pause, followed by a theatrical sigh from Jago. “All right, I’ll bite. What do you want me to do?”

“Just keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know if anyone tries to fence the goods.”

“That’s all?” Jago asked doubtfully.

“That’s all.”

“You do realize it’ll play ‘avoc with my reputation? Me consortin’ with an officer of the law.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” Hawkwood said.

A blood-curdling howl rose suddenly from the pit below, followed by a collective groan from the spectators. Jago curled his lip in disgust. “Bloodthirsty sods.” He looked on as the defeated dog was hauled out of the pit by its disappointed owner. The dog’s flanks were heaving. Blood streamed from more than a dozen bite wounds.

Hawkwood was watching Jago’s face so he noticed the shift in eye direction and change in expression. Jago’s gaze was centred on the occupants of a nearby table. One man in particular caught his attention. Heavy set, shaven-headed with a dark scowl on a face pitted with smallpox scars, he was staring back with undisguised hostility. A brindle dog lay across his feet; a huge, savage-looking beast, heavy at the shoulder, with a broad muzzle. It appeared to be dozing but, as if sensing the mood in the air, it opened its eyes and raised its massive head. Razor-sharp teeth gleamed brightly.

“You got something to say, Tom Scully?” Jago enquired. “‘Cause if you do, best not to keep it bottled up. Best to spit it out, so’s it’s over and done with.”

The big man stiffened. Judging from the uneasy looks he was getting from his companions, he had elected himself spokesman for the group. “‘Pears to us you’re keepin’ bad company, Jago.”

“Is that a fact?” Jago responded. “An’ what makes you think I give a toss?”

The man’s face clouded. He jerked his chin towards Hawkwood. “All of us ‘eard Dick Brewer say how he recognized your man. He’s the law. A bloody Ratcatcher! So we were curious to know how come you and him are sharing a bottle. Looks from where I’m sitting as if you two are just a mite too close for comfort.”

Jago’s jaw tightened. “Who I drinks with is my affair, Scully, not yours – nor that of any other man in this room.”

“‘Tis if’n he brings the law down on our ‘eads.”

“That ain’t going to happen.”

“Who says?”

“I do.”

“You?”

“That’s right, Scully. Me. You doubting my word?”

Scully, realizing he had backed himself into a corner, looked to his cronies for support. When he discovered none was forthcoming, he turned back and ran a nervous tongue along bloodless lips.

“All I’m sayin’ is that it ain’t right.”

Jago rolled his eyes. “Ain’t right? Jesus, Scully! There’s lots of things ain’t right. Ain’t right there’s people dying in the streets, ain’t right that I ‘as to listen to you witter on like a bloody fishwife! Now, less’n you got something constructive to say, I suggest you shut your trap, otherwise you an’ me’ll be continuing this conversation in that bloody dog pit. You hear what I’m saying?”

There was a tense silence.

“I’m waiting,” Jago said.

Scully’s jaw twitched. A spark of anger flared in his eyes. “I hear you,” he said softly.

“Good,” Jago said. “Now, anyone else got anything to say?” He glared at Scully’s companions. “No? Well, that’s a relief.” He turned back to Hawkwood, muttering darkly. “Stupid buggers! Now, where was I?” He raised his mug.

“Who’s he?” Hawkwood asked.

“Scully?” Jago spat out the name with contempt and lowered his drink. “He’s naught but a lower-deck lawyer. You don’t want to pay him no heed.”

“Seaman?”

“Aye, and he’s a fine one to talk. When it comes to keeping bad company, Scully could write a bleedin’ book. That’s if the bastard could write in the first place, mind,” Jago added with grim humour.

“What’s his story?”

Jago stared into his mug before looking up and shrugging dismissively. “Ex-navy. Claims he was a gun captain on the old Inflexible.” Jago smiled thinly. “One of Parker’s bully boys.”

“Parker?”

“Aye, you remember. Delegates of the Whole Fleet at the Nore, they called themselves. A right bloody mouthful. Though I knows a better word for ‘em.”

It came to Hawkwood then. “Mutineer?”

Jago nodded. “One of the ringleaders, so it’s said.”

It may have seemed ironic that Jago, a deserter, should have cast a mutineer in such a dark light, but Hawkwood knew that in Jago’s eyes there was a world of difference between the two.

“So, how come he slipped through the net?” Hawkwood asked.

“Ah, now there’s a tale, right enough,” Jago said. “You recall how I said he was a gunner on the Inflexible?”

Hawkwood nodded.

“Well, it were the Inflexible’s crew who was last to surrender, all except a dozen or so, Scully included, who wanted to fight on. The rest of the crew, though, had had enough and they locked Scully and his diehards down below. It was while the rest of ‘em were waitin’ to surrender that Scully and his men climbed out of a gunport and made off in a couple of longboats.”

Hawkwood listened as Jago told him how the escapees had made it as far as Faversham, where they had stolen a sloop and set sail for Calais, in the hope of joining the French.