Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion

“‘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.

“Reckoned they’d be welcomed with open arms,” Jago continued, sitting back in his chair. “Stupid bastards! Soon as they landed, the Frenchies threw them in prison. Probably planned to exchange them for prisoners of war we was holding.”

“Is that what happened?”

“Nah, they were freed after a time. Most of ‘em were allowed to sign on with Frog privateers.”

“Including Scully?”

“That’s the way he tells it. Served for eight years before he made a run for it. Jumped ship off Martinique, made his way back ‘ome and took up the smuggling game. He’s from my neck of the woods – Sheerness. Knows the coast like the back of his hand, the best places for offloading and lying up to avoid the Revenue. Mind you, you got to admire the bugger’s application. Can’t be too many who’ve gone over the side from two navies!” Jago snorted with contempt.

“He’s a fair way from home,” Hawkwood said.

“Ain’t we all?” Jago murmured. His eyes roamed the cellar, missing nothing. “Fact is, Spiker’s one o’ the best light horsemen on the river.”

There were two kinds of horsemen. Heavy horsemen was the name given to thieves who operated during daylight hours. Light horsemen plied their trade under cover of darkness: professionals who worked in gangs, usually with the aid of copemen, who received and distributed the stolen goods. Their hunting ground was the river and the vessels that sailed upon it. Their knowledge of the moon and tides enabled them to prey on the barges and lighters. Their method was to cut the chosen vessel adrift, allowing it to drift downstream to a chosen spot where they would run it aground and strip it of its cargo. It was a good living for those with nerve and the right connections.

“Why ‘Spiker’?” Hawkwood asked.

Jago gave a grim little smile. “We call ‘im that on account of he’s got an interestin’ way of dealing with people who cross him. What you might call ‘is trademark …”

Hawkwood waited.

“Most men’ll use their fists to settle an argument, or a blade, like as not.” Jago indicated the table over Hawkwood’s shoulder. “Your man Scully uses a marlinespike. Fearsome weapon in the wrong ‘ands,” Jago commented reflectively.

Not that the disclosure needed embellishment, certainly not as far as Hawkwood was concerned. He had ceased to be surprised at the variety of means by which the more murderously inclined members of society were prepared to perform grievous bodily harm upon their fellow men – or women and children, come to that. The ex-seaman, Scully, was just another piece of human jetsam to have drifted in with the tide. The capital’s rookeries were full of men like Scully. Rootless, violent types, willing to use any means of intimidation to further their own ends.

“’As an abidin’ ‘atred of authority, does our Spiker,” Jago went on, warming to his subject. “Wanted to string the Inflexible’s officers from the nearest yardarm, so I ‘eard. Funnily enough, it was Parker who stopped him. Though I did ‘ear he killed an officer before he went over the side o’ that Frog ship he was on. Stove his ‘ead in, poor bugger, an’ speared his ‘ands to the deck.”

A cackle of laughter erupted from the table behind and Jago’s face darkened. He drained his mug. “You want toppin’ up?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “Time I was going. My guess is I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Then you’ll need someone to guide you back,” Jago advised. “It’s getting dark out. We don’t want you roamin’ the streets and getting into trouble, not with this lot around. You never know who you’re likely to run into. Why, I’d never live with myself if you was robbed on your way home.” The ex-sergeant winked broadly.

Jago beckoned with his finger. A small figure detached itself from the cluster of bodies around the dog pit and scampered up to the table. Hawkwood assumed the girl, Jenny, had been pressed into service once more, but he was mistaken. The small, tousle-haired, stick-thin figure who answered Jago’s summons was male and instantly familiar. It was the boy he had last seen fleeing Mother Gant’s lodging house, the one who had so deftly relieved Major Lawrence of his watch and chain. Somehow, somewhere between the Widow Gant’s and the Bridewell House of Correction, young Tooler the pickpocket had managed to do a runner.

Tooler favoured Hawkwood with a cheeky grin and a mock salute and looked to Jago for orders, while Hawkwood promised himself a serious talk with Constable Rafferty.

Jago placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re to see him safely home, Tooler. And that means all the way, mind. I don’t want you runnin’ off and leavin’ him at the mercy of footpads and ne’er-do-wells. You got that?”

Tooler nodded obligingly.