Five and Twenty Ponies - Chapter Two - Brandy for the Parson

Kestrel gritted his teeth as he felt the boat’s seat bite into his legs. He braced himself against the

violent rocking as Scar climbed aboard.

“Remember, get the right coin and not a penny less,” De Groot’s voice resonated in the

thick fog which enveloped them, “Stay clear of the militia, and be back before the morning tide.”

“That man is insufferable,” Kestrel said as they rowed towards the mouth of the Cooper

River.

Scar nodded in agreement.

Kestrel lit a small lantern and unfolded the list.

“First delivery is two casks of French Brandy for the Reverend Graham Howell of Saint

Augustine’s Church,” he read, “And he owes us ten shillings.”

Scar reached over and extinguished the lantern.

“What are you doing?” Kestrel’s eyes widened.

His burly companion put his finger to his lips and then pointed to the orange lights in the distance,

standing high above the fog in the cloudy night.

“Good thinking,” Kestrel relaxed, “That looks like it could be a bastion. I think our town’s on

the other side. I’ve got an idea!”

Scar hushed him.

“Sorry.” He lowered his voice.

Following the walls of the bastion, Kestrel spotted a light ahead at their level.

“That must be the way in.” He put his finger to his lips, “I’ll whistle.”

He slid into the river and swam towards the light. Feeling around, he made out the supports of a

jetty and climbed up. Ahead, he saw a guard patrolling near a door. He whistled.

“Who’s there?” The guard stood up and drew his sword.

Kestrel swam beneath the jetty to the opposite end, noticing Scar approaching with the boat.

“State your business here.” The guard called towards Scar.

Kestrel drew his dagger and emerged behind the guard.

“If you value your life, you’ll remain at ease.” He clamped his hand over the guard’s mouth

and held the dagger to his throat.

“If you value yours, you’ll let him go.”

Kestrel turned around. A second guard approached with his sword drawn.

“I don’t, so I’m inclined to refuse.” Kestrel replied, nodding to the boat.

Scar emerged from the boat and delivered a haymaker to the second guard. He fell off the pier

with a loud splash. The first guard’s sword clattered to the floor.

“I have the feeling we’re not very welcome here,” Kestrel said, “Find us a cart so we don’t

have to haul these wares on our own. I’ll tie up this fellow and get the boat unloaded.”

The low trundle of the cart seemed louder in the darkness. Kestrel pointed to a church spire in the

distance. Hiding the cart in the alleyway, they unloaded and made their way to an adjoining house.

Kestrel the door with his foot. A man in a nightgown greeted him, a single candle in his hand.

“What business do you have at this hour?” The man squinted at them.

“Are you Reverend Graham Howell?” Kestrel said.

The man nodded.

“We have your order,” Kestrel nodded to the casks under his arms.

The priest grinned and beckoned them inside.

“God bless you,” He took one of the casks and placed it on the table, “French brandy is

hard to find around here.”

“You owe us ten shillings,” Kestrel put the other cask down on the table.

“Of course,” Howell reached into a cabinet and pulled out three glasses, “But before I pay

anything, I would like to sample what you have bought. Please, join me.”

“If you insist,” Kestrel sat down, “We probably weren’t going to get much opportunity to

have a drink while we’re here.”

Howell filled the glasses from the cask’s tap and handed them out. Kestrel’s glass almost reached

his lips when Scar grabbed his arm. The giant held up one finger.

“Alright,” Kestrel said, “Just one glass.”

“Bless you. I’ll pray for your immortal souls.”

As he finished his second glass, Kestrel noticed that the candle had burned halfway down. He gave

polite murmurs to Howell’s sermon. Scar cleared his throat.

“Sorry to interrupt your flow,” Kestrel said, “But is the brandy to your liking?”

“Of course.” Howell raised his glass in a toast.

“Then we’ll collect the coin and be on our way.”

“There is still time for you to repent.” Howell stood up and made his way to a nearby desk.

“Says a man of God who clearly has no problems doing business with us sinners,” Kestrel

leaned back, “What would your flock say to such an association?”

“I’m sure they’ll allow one small indulgence,” Howell returned with a purse and counted

out the coin, “I’m paying for it, so I’m not breaking the Ten Commandments.”

“I suppose not,” Kestrel scooped up the money and got to his feet, “Thank you for sharing

the brandy. And while praying won’t do much for my immortal soul or very mortal body, I

nonetheless appreciate the words.”

He made his way to the door when Scar cleared his throat again.

“Right,” Kestrel pulled the list out and held it to the candlelight, “Would you be able to

point us in the direction of Suffolk Street? That’s our next port of call.”

Written by Andrew Roberts

"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."