Ratcatcher

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.