“It’ll be dawn soon.” Kestrel watched the night sky as they left the plantation, “Just one more delivery: This sealed envelope for Mr McGuire at the King’s Head Inn. Paid in full, await instructions if necessary. I hope we’re not waiting too long. I want to get back to Port Royal, and maybe spend some hard-earned coin there.”
“Aye.” Scar nodded.
Kestrel’s legs ached as they reached a house on the wide dirt trail running from the bastion. A hanging sign above the door depicted King Charles, illuminated by the lamps outside.
“Hail the Merry Monarch,” Kestrel bowed to the sign, “I may have no love for royalty, but he’s supposed to be good for a laugh. And at least he ain’t Puritan.”
“Come on.” Scar ushered him inside.
The interior of the King’s Head smelled of wood smoke. Kestrel ignored the stares of the patrons as he strode over to the bar.
“What do you want?” the innkeeper spat into a tankard and polished it with a once-white rag.
“Ale,” Kestrel leaned closer, “And I’m looking for Mr McGuire.”
The innkeeper fell silent at the mention of the name. He filled a tankards from the cask and placed it on the bar. Kestrel raised it in a toast when he heard Scar clear his throat. His companion gestured for the tankard.
“Greedy bastard,” Kestrel handed it over.
Scar pulled out a scrap of paper wedged in the bottom of the tankard and unfolded it. He handed them both back. Kestrel squinted at the note.
I am being watched. Up to you to make the delivery.
Kestrel pocketed the note and looked around the bar. Three men in mud-caked clothes sat at one table, conversing over ale and bowls of soup. Three men in uniform sat at another. A lone man sat at the table between them. He made eye contact with Kestrel, nodding at the occupied tables.
“That must be our man,” Kestrel murmured to Scar, “Any thoughts?”
“Oi, what are you looking at?” One of the men from the first table lumbered towards the bar, “What’s with that sword? It looks Spanish. Are you Spanish?”
“This will make an interesting diversion,” Kestrel turned back to the bar and took a long drink from his ale.
“Didn’t you hear me?” the man grabbed Kestrel’s shoulder, “Don’t you speak English, Spaniard?”
“I speak it just fine, mate. And I’m telling you to unhand me.”
“Or what?”
Kestrel elbowed the man in the stomach.
Scar grabbed the man and threw him into the second table. Tankards and bowls spilled their contents. Stools scraped. Conversations ceased. Six patrons stood up and advanced. The lone man stood up and walked to the door.
“Do you want to fight us one at a time or altogether?” Kestrel stepped forwards and grinned.
One man grabbed him. Another punched him in the torso.
“Fair enough.” He kicked the attacker below the belt. The second man swung at his face. He lurched sideways. The punch struck the man holding him.
“Everything alright?” He said to Scar.
The Antiguan giant knocked two heads together and gave a thumbs up.
“I’ll leave you to it.” Kestrel sent another man flying. He shoved his way to the door.
Kestrel breathed in the night air as he stepped outside.
“You have a strange way of being discreet,” An Irish accented voice said.
Kestrel saw the lone patron emerge from around the corner of the inn.
“Well, you left it in our hands.” Kestrel produced the letter.
“Do you have a vessel? I fear your heavy-handedness has compromised me.”
“No need to shoot the messenger,” Kestrel said, “And Scar and I have finesse. We’re not heavy-handed.”
A man flew out of the window.
“That’s some finesse.” Mr McGuire said, “But I need passage.”
“We have a boat at the dock. And a vessel waiting at the mouth of the river. We must be back before the morning tide.”
Mr McGuire handed over five shillings.
“Take me with you. I’ll hang if I stay here. They’re on to me.”
“How will we get past the bastion?”
“I know a secret way.” Mr McGuire tapped his nose, “Now, we must move.”
Kestrel stuck his head through the broken window.
“Scar, are you finished in there?”
His companion opened the door and stepped out, brushing the dust off his shoulders.
The sky grew lighter as the smugglers followed Mr McGuire back towards the bastion.
“This way.” He gestured to a patch of grass at the foot of the wall, pulling it to reveal a trapdoor. He grabbed the lantern from Kestrel and led them down a narrow tunnel, ending at a door. “We’re in the cellar of my townhouse. It’s how I get past the bastion without being noticed.”
“Thanks for the tour.” Kestrel said, “Now can we get to the dock?”
McGuire led the pair through the back streets and back alleys, watching for the glow of the militia’s lanterns. Kestrel pointed him towards the dock.
“That’s them!” A voice called out, “Halt, smugglers!”
Kestrel noticed the two guards they had encountered on the docks, accompanied by five more soldiers. He leaped off the jetty into the rowboat as muskets cracked, enveloping the dock with powder smoke.
“Scar! Cut it!” He drew his pistol and fired back.
Scar drew his cutlass and hacked at the mooring line.
Kestrel grabbed one of the pistols from his companion’s belt and fired at another guard. They scattered and ran for cover.
“We’re moving!” McGuire shouted when another shot rang out. He clutched his stomach and fell back into the river.
Kestrel sat back and grabbed an oar, rowing back towards the mouth of the river. He felt the shots fly past his head as they rowed further away from the jetty.
“Scar, I have the feeling we’ve outstayed our welcome in this place.” He watched the sun rise over the coast. He looked around at where De Groot’s sloop had anchored the previous night. The vessel was not present.
“We must have missed the tide.” He scratched his head.
“They’ll be back.” Scar said.
“You’re right there, mate,” Kestrel nodded, “We’re carrying De Groot’s money. He’ll want his pay day. We’ll hide for now. Let him find us. He’ll be lucky we’ve got nowhere to spend it.”
Kestrel mopped the sweat off his brow as he felt his shirt sticking to his back. He beached the boat on a small island in the swamp, listening to the nasal whine of mosquitos.
“I hope we’re not waiting for long.” He said, lying down on the driest part.
Scar shook his head and pointed. Kestrel looked up to see The Nord and four other men from De Groot’s sloop wading towards them.
“Thanks for waiting.” He said to the newcomers.
“You didn’t make the rendezvous.” The Nord tightened his grip around a boarding axe, “De Groot asked me to wait and collect the money. He didn’t say anything about you.”
“So, we’re off the payroll?” Kestrel rested his hand on his rapier, “After all the work we put in.”
“The penalty for disobedience…is death.”
“Well, I’ve never paid attention to anybody who wants me to obey them.” Kestrel drew his sword and slashed the Nord’s shoulder. The larger man screamed in anger and swung the axe.
“Scar! I’ve made him angry!” Kestrel sidestepped the blow and kicked the Nord in the head. Two of the crewmen drew cutlasses and charged. He dodged and parried, keeping his distance.
Scar drew his cutlass and drove it through his attacker. The fourth man dropped his blade and fled in the opposite direction. He stomped the Nord and aimed a pistol at the brute’s head.
Kestrel led his opponents towards the swamp, noticing a large bump surface in the water.
“Alligators!” One of the men fled.
“You’re on your own.” He grinned at the final opponent. The man stepped. Kestrel beat his blade aside and lunged. The man stumbled back.
Catching his breath, Kestrel walked over to The Nord. He produced the bulging purse and rattled it.
“You can’t buy your life.” The Nord snarled, “Captain De Groot does not want you serving under him.”
“Our sentiments exactly.” Kestrel squatted down next to him, “I’m not buying our lives, but yours. Take the money, go back to De Groot, and tell him we’re even.”
“He will not forget or forgive.” The Nord spat at Kestrel’s feet, “You’re just delaying the inevitable. I may not kill you here, but you will die by my hand. You thieving…”
Scar’s pistol interrupted him, followed by silence. The burly Antiguan made his way back to the boat.
“Well, something’s going to feast on them. I’m glad to be out of that mess.”
“We’re lost.” Scar picked up the oars.
“Yes, that is an issue.” Kestrel rattled his purse, “But look on the bright side. This is the best money we’ve made in a while.”
And watch the wall my darling while the gentlemen go by…
The End
Andrew Roberts has been writing as a hobby since the age of 17. After struggling to fit this around a full-time accounts job, he decided to take some time out to study Creative Writing at university.
He hopes to develop a swashbuckler series featuring the wandering rogues Kestrel and Scar
