Rapscallion. James McGee
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House wasn’t much more than half a mile away. If his navigation was correct and he could reach the landing and find a boat, there was a possibility that he’d be able to cross the river and hide out on the opposite shore and thus give his pursuers the slip.
Keeping low, he continued to follow the dyke’s path, ignoring the stitch in his side, which was beginning to stab at him with all the tenacity of a red-hot rapier.
Another cry sounded; human this time, not more than a few hundred yards off. Sark was uncomfortably aware that the men on his trail knew the ground far better than he did. Despite the unevenness of the terrain and the latticework of waterways that crisscrossed the island, they were catching up fast.
His foot slipped and he swore as he started to slide down the side of the gulley. The desire to enter and wade through the murky water in a bid to confuse the hounds was tempting, but he knew it would hamper his progress. All they had to do was steer the dogs along each bank and they’d soon discover where he had left the stream, and they’d pick up his trail again in no time. It was best to keep moving and try to reach the ferry landing; as dry as possible, preferably. He slithered to his feet and scrambled back up the slope.
He could hear his pursuers calling to each other now, driven by the excitement of the chase. In his mind’s eye he saw the hounds, eyes bright, tongues slavering, straining at their leashes as they followed his scent. Sark quickened his pace.
The dyke began to widen. Sark hoped it was a sign he was close to its joining with the main channel. Pressing down on the edges of his boot heels to give himself purchase, he pushed his weary, mud-splattered body towards what he hoped was his route to salvation.
There was a shout. Glancing over his shoulder, Sark’s stomach lurched when he saw how quickly the gap had shortened. The torches were a lot closer. Beneath the fiery brands, he could make out the dark figures of men running, perhaps half a dozen in all, and the sleeker, four-legged, shapes moving swiftly across the uneven ground before them.
Another urgent cry went up and Sark knew that they had probably seen his fleeing form outlined against the sky. He ducked down, knowing it was far too late to do any good. He drew the pistol from his belt.
Then the ground gave way and he was falling.
As his feet shot from beneath him, he managed to twist his body and discovered that he had almost reached his destination. It was the edge of the river bank that had collapsed beneath his weight. He barely had time to raise the pistol above his head to avoid mud clogging the barrel, before he landed on his back in the ooze.
He struggled to his knees and pushed himself upright, and then saw the light. It was less than one hundred and fifty yards away, at the edge of the reeds. He strained his eyes. A small building began to take shape and he realized it was the ferry keeper’s cottage. His gaze shifted to the landing stage jutting out into the water; in its lee, a small rowboat resting on the mud and held fast to a thin wooden post. His spirits lifted. There was still a chance he could make it.
With the mud sucking greedily at his boots, Sark struck out for the landing stage. He had gone but a few paces when the consistency of the mud changed. It was less firm now and his boots were sinking deeper with each step. It was like wading through molasses. He looked out at the river. This was one of the narrower stretches, hence the ferry crossing, but the tide was out and there was a wide expanse of foreshore separating the jetty from the water. He would have to drag the boat a good few yards before he could float it. But he could make out the horizontal black shadow that was the opposite shore and that spurred him on. He pushed himself forward.
Behind him, the noises had diminished. There were no more cries, no howling from the dogs. The night was strangely quiet, save for the squelching of Sark’s laborious passage through the mud. Curious, Sark looked around and his blood froze.
They were ranged along the edge of the bank and they were watching him; a line of men, the shadows cast by the torches playing across their unsmiling faces. At their feet, secured by leashes, the hounds stood silently to heel.
The dogs were huge mastiffs, with broad heads and muscular bodies; each one the size of a small calf. As still as statues, they regarded the solitary figure below them with rapt attention. Their only movement was an occasional backward glance at the faces of the men who controlled them.
It was the moment that Sark knew he had nowhere to run.
But it didn’t stop him trying.
Sark estimated he still had about fifty paces to go before he reached the boat. His legs felt as heavy as lead, while the pain behind his ribs suggested his heart was about to burst from his chest. Gamely, he tried to pick up speed but while the spirit was willing, his body was telling him it had reached the point of exhaustion.
Sark did not hear the command to release the dogs, but a sixth sense told him it had been given. He turned. A close observer might have witnessed the look of weary resignation that stole across his face.
The handlers had not followed the hounds down on to the foreshore, but were holding to firmer ground, following the line of the river bank, the flames from their torches flaring like comet trails behind them. They ran in silence.
For the second time that night, Sark dropped to his knees.
The dogs were loping rather than sprinting towards him. With their agility, and their weight distributed between four legs instead of two, making them less susceptible to sinking into the mud, it was as if they knew they had all the time in the world.
All thoughts of escape stifled, Sark gripped the pistol firmly and watched the dogs approach.
He glanced to his side. He saw that the men were now parallel to him, torches raised. They were close enough for him to make out their expressions by the light from the flames. Four of them had faces as hard as rock. The other two were grinning.
Sark’s chest rose and fell. He looked back towards the dogs and raised his pistol. He aimed the barrel at the leading beast and tracked it with the gun’s muzzle.
He heard one of the men on the bank curse and saw that they had all drawn weapons of their own.
Sark could hear the dogs’ paws scampering across the mud. They were coming in very fast; close enough for him to see the light of anticipation in their eyes.
The lead hound was less than a dozen paces away when Sark thrust the barrel of the pistol under his own chin and pulled the trigger.
The back of Sark’s head blew apart. The powder smoke barely had time to dissipate before the still kneeling body was engulfed in a frenzy of snapping jaws and thrashing limbs. As the men on the bank ran towards the mêlée, the snarling of the hounds rose into the night and carried, like the devil’s chorus, down the muddy, bloodstained foreshore.
Outlined against the gunmetal sky, the ship’s blackened hull towered above the men in the longboat like some enormous Hebridean cliff face.
The men were silent, wrapped in their thoughts and awed by the grim sight confronting them. Only occasionally was the silence broken, by the dull clink of manacles, the splash and creak of oars and the wash of the waves against the side of the boat as it was pulled through the cold grey water.
Someone was sobbing. At the sound, several men crossed themselves. Others bowed their heads and, in whispers, began to pray.
There were fifteen men in the boat, excluding the oarsmen and the two marine guards. With few exceptions their clothes were ragged, their faces pale, unshaven and etched with fear; fear caused not only by the ship’s forbidding appearance, but also by the smell coming off her.
It had been with them even before they had embarked, carried across the river by the light easterly breeze. At first, the men had paid little mind, assuming the odour was rising from their own unwashed bodies, but then understanding had dawned. As the longboat had pushed away from the harbour wall they had become transfixed