“It was a bloody disaster, of course. Not only did they open up a hole in our line, but the Guards lost more than a quarter of their men. If it hadn’t been for Wellington sending in Mackenzie’s brigade to fill the gap, we’d have been done for.”
Blomefield shook his head. “Mackenzie died, of course, along with Lapisse, which I suppose was a kind of justice, but it was a close-run thing and no mistake.
“Anyway, the way I heard, at the end of the day, our Captain Hawkwood sought out Delancey and confronted him. Accused him of reckless behaviour and complete disregard for the lives of his men. In short, told him he was a bloody idiot and a disgrace to the uniform, and it would have been a blessing all round if he’d been among the poor bastards who hadn’t made it home. Bad enough man to man, of course, except this was in full view of Delancey’s friends. Only one thing to do and that was to call Hawkwood out.”
The First Sea Lord looked as if he was about to speak, but Blomefield beat him to it. “Oh, I know, regulations. Duelling strictly forbidden and all that, but for Delancey this was an affair of honour. Insult to the family name and so forth.”
“And Hawkwood killed him,” the First Sea Lord said bluntly.
“Aye. Shot him dead. Straight through the heart. Not only is our man undoubtedly a crack shot with a rifle, he can use a pistol as well.”
“And no one tried to stop it?”
Blomefield shook his head. “Delancey’s friends probably thought the affair was a foregone conclusion, thought Delancey would best the upstart. Turns out they were wrong. Only one outcome of course: court martial. I understand there were those who wanted Hawkwood sent back to Horseguards in chains and tried for murder, but nothing came of it.” Blomefield dropped his voice low. “I did hear it was Wellington himself who intervened.”
“How so?” Dalryde asked.
Blomefield shrugged. “No one knows for certain. When Hawkwood was cashiered it was generally assumed he’d be shipped back to England, but that didn’t happen.” Blomefield cast a sideways glance at the Chief Magistrate.
“So what became of him?”
Blomefield pursed his lips. “There was a rumour he’d upped and joined the guerrilleros.”
“The Spanish?” The First Sea Lord’s eyes widened.
“Went to fight with them in the mountains. He could speak the lingo, you see. French, too, it was said.” Another look towards James Read. “Whether it was with Wellington’s blessing, I wouldn’t know. I believe it was hinted that a man of Hawkwood’s experience would be better employed fighting the French than returning to England. It could be Wellington was planning to use him in some liaison capacity – that’s where your man Grant comes in, I’m thinking.” The Inspector General frowned. “I did hear another rumour that a number of his company deserted the ranks to join him. A sergeant and a brace of chosen men. Whatever the circumstances, the word was that Captain Hawkwood disappeared off the face of the earth. Until now, that is.”
There was a long silence during which the Admiral regarded James Read gravely. “That’s quite a story,” he said, finally. “And yet you’re telling us you have faith in this Hawkwood fellow? I would remind you this is more than a mere criminal matter. We are concerned with nothing less than the defence of the realm.”
“I have the utmost confidence in Officer Hawkwood,” Read said firmly. “He’s my best thief-taker. His contacts within the criminal fraternity are considerable. If anyone can track the villains to their lair, it is he.”
There followed several moments of reflection while the First Sea Lord exchanged exasperated glances with Blomefield and Dalryde. Finally, he sighed heavily. “Very well, Read. It seems we’ve little choice but to accept your recommendation. Let’s see what the fellow can do. However, I’ll require you to keep the Board informed on a daily basis. Is that understood?”
Read inclined his head. “As you wish.”
Whereupon the First Sea Lord pointed a blunt finger towards James Read’s chest. “But you had better be right, sir. Because God help you if your man lets us down. In fact,” he added with emphasis, “God help us all.”
The girl couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, but the look in her eyes was as old as time. She had gazed up at him, a sly expression on her grubby face, before running her tongue suggestively between parted lips. Then she’d said simply, “Jago sent me.”
She walked beside Hawkwood, a barefoot waif in a threadbare dress. Hawkwood was conscious of the looks the pair of them were attracting, the knowing grins, the nudges and winks. The girl was aware of them, too. She’d have to be blind not to be. But she seemed unconcerned. It was, no doubt, something she’d grown used to.
Along Great Earl Street, through the squalor of Seven Dials, towards the church of St Giles; she was leading him on a merry dance through the back alleyways. Hawkwood presumed this was in case they were being followed. It was a precaution he’d expected.
At the corner of the street, in the shadow of the church tower, she had taken hold of his sleeve and in a thin voice had said, “Stay close.”
It had been a warning, not an invitation.
Nearly a full day had passed before he had been contacted. He had been prepared for that and had used the intervening time to track down the officer commanding the horse patrol that had interrupted the coach robbery and put the two highwaymen to flight.
Lomax, the officer in charge of the patrol, was an ex-major of dragoons. Meeting the man for the first time, Hawkwood had been unprepared for the sight that met his gaze. He knew that revulsion must have shown momentarily on his face but, having received no prior warning, there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.
Almost the entire right side of Lomax’s face, from brow to throat, was a mass of scar tissue. It was as if half of the major’s face had been turned inside out. The eye had gone. The socket was a crater of ragged flesh while the lower jaw, from cheek to jowl, was as fissured and pitted as if it had been scourged with a branding fork.
Hawkwood, trying hard not to avert his eyes, had steeled himself and listened to the major’s description of events.
It had been luck rather than judgement that had found the horse patrol on the heath at the same time that the robbery was taking place. If the mail coach hadn’t been delayed by the storm, Lomax and his riders might have missed the incident altogether. Lomax explained how he had directed two men to remain with the coach while he and the rest of his patrol had given chase. They had managed to track the robbers for a mile or so before conceding defeat. They hadn’t been able to compete with the driving rain, which had, to all intents and purposes, rendered the fleeing highwaymen completely invisible.
About the only information Lomax had been able to reveal was that their quarry was last seen in the Bermondsey area, heading north towards the city. Which meant they could have taken any one of a dozen routes. Suppressing his disappointment, Hawkwood had thanked Lomax for his time. In truth it was as much as he had expected.
It had been at the moment of parting that Lomax had said, hesitantly, “There’s something I’d like you to know. I was at Talavera with the 23rd, under Anson. I … that is … we …” Lomax took a deep breath. “What I mean is … the Delancey boy was a poor officer, not much liked by all accounts, and it was a damned fool thing he did; a waste of too many brave men. You said what had to be said and you did what had to be done. There were those of us who thought you deserved better.” The words had come out in a rush. Lomax had shrugged awkwardly. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know.”
At which point the ex-dragoon had fallen silent, his