Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion. James McGee

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      Surprise, Hawkwood knew, was his only weapon. Scully would be expecting him to draw back, to shrink away. Hawkwood decided that attack was the best policy. He knew he’d only get the one chance. He had already braced himself. When Scully stepped forward, Hawkwood clamped his manacled hands around the arms of the chair and heaved himself to his feet. Scully grunted and jerked back. Hawkwood twisted his body, driving the side of the chair into Scully’s hip. If he could tip him off balance …

      But Scully was ready for him and it had always been an unequal contest. Sidestepping with ease, Scully kicked Hawkwood across the thigh. Hawkwood’s legs folded. Unable to put his hands out to break his fall and encumbered by the chair, he crashed on to the deck. He landed on his side, his elbow striking the wooden boards with a sharp crack. The pain was excruciating. Scully, spitting profanities, moved in. His free hand moved to his belt. This time it was the sword, the blade short and broad: a navy cutlass.

      “Nice try, culley, but you’re dead. I’m going to break your skull, then I’m going to chop you up. The night soil men can take the pieces downriver. They’ll be burying your bones with the rest of the shit, come morning.”

      Hawkwood couldn’t move. His right arm was paralysed. He was as helpless as a turtle on its back. He tried aiming a double-footed kick at Scully’s ankles, but it was a futile gesture. The chair hampered all movement.

      Scully laughed contemptuously. “Thought you’d put up a fight, did you? Won’t do you no good.” Scully juggled the marlinespike in his hand. “Y’know, your mate was tougher than he looked. I spiked ‘im hard. Thought ‘e was dead when we put ‘im in the boat. We were goin’ to take ‘im upriver and dump ‘is body, too. Couldn’t believe it when ‘e went over the side. Figured ‘e’d gone under for good when we couldn’t find him. I ‘eard ‘e actually made it to shore. Game sod!”

      There was nowhere to run, nowhere to crawl.

      “Rot in hell, Scully!”

      Scully raised the marlinespike. Hawkwood turned his head away and waited for the blow.

      The door crashed open. “SPIKERRRR!”

      Scully whirled, the grin dying on his lips as the body hurtled towards him. The cutlass swept down. The sound of the blade carving into flesh was sickeningly loud.

      Hawkwood looked on in horror as Weazle’s body hit the floor beside him. Blood was pumping from the gaping wound in the little man’s throat. The dwarf’s eyes were wide open, but Hawkwood doubted Weazle had even seen the blow that had struck him. A gag had been tied round Weazle’s mouth to prevent him from crying out a warning. As he watched, Hawkwood saw the light in the dwarf’s eyes flicker and die.

      The speed and force of Jago’s shoulder-charge lifted Scully off his feet and pitched the seaman across the table. As the two men tumbled backward, the cutlass point struck the overhead lantern, sending it smashing against the bulkhead. Burning oil splashed over the unmade bunk, igniting mattress and blanket. Small flames began to lick the deck.

      Jago got to his feet. His right hand was clamped around a heavy wooden cudgel.

      “Cap’n!” He bent down and saw the chains. “Christ!”

      “Nathaniel!” Hawkwood yelled the warning as Scully rose into view from behind the table, eyes blazing.

      Jago stood up and turned. “I warned you, Scully! Harm him and you’d answer to me!”

      Scully was still holding the sword. His left hand gripped the marlinespike like a dagger. “Jago, I’m going to rip your heart out!”

      Scully came round the table and lunged forward. Jago leapt backwards, the sword blade missing his ribs by a hair’s breadth. Scully cursed and tried again. Recovering his balance, Jago countered quickly, scything the cudgel towards Scully’s head. Scully ducked. The club caught him on the shoulder. The big seaman bellowed in anger and retreated.

      The fire from the broken lantern had begun to spread. The oil-soaked bedding was now well alight. The wooden bunk was also burning. The flames had traversed the deck and were lapping the bottom of the bulkhead and the underside of the door. The hem of Weazle’s coat had begun to smoulder.

      Hawkwood struggled to get himself upright. Feeling was returning to his arm. Placing his boots against Weazle’s corpse for purchase, his first intention was to try and push himself clear of the expanding flames.

      In the confined space, Scully and Jago circled each other warily. Scully slashed the cutlass towards Jago’s arm. Firelight danced along the blade. Jago swapped the cudgel to his other hand. Parrying the steel, he smashed the cudgel against Scully’s exposed wrist. Scully roared as the bone snapped. The sword fell from his nerveless fingers. Desperately, he jabbed the marlinespike towards Jago’s throat. Jago swatted the spike aside and followed through, ramming the end of the cudgel into Scully’s stomach. Air exploded from the mutineer’s lungs.

      Jago didn’t hesitate. Kicking the marlinespike out of Scully’s hand, Jago drove the cudgel head hard against the seaman’s bald skull. Scully toppled sideways. His heel caught the table leg and he went down. Jago moved in. The seaman was on all fours, trying groggily to push himself off the deck. He had retrieved the marlinespike. Blood was streaming down Scully’s face. Jago stood over the kneeling mutineer, his face dispassionate. He raised the cudgel and brought it down for a second time. There was a noise like an axe splitting a melon in two. Scully’s carcass pitched forward and lay still. The marlinespike clattered across the deck.

      Jago viewed the body with disgust. “Gutless piece of shit!”

      Weazle’s hair and clothing were ablaze. Hawkwood could smell burning flesh. The pool of blood from Weazle’s throat was sizzling like bacon fat in the heat. Smoke filled the cabin. Shouts of alarm could be heard outside.

      Hawkwood found his voice and nodded towards the dwarf’s pockets. “The key! Look for the bloody key!”

      The search seemed to take for ever, until, with a grunt of satisfaction, Jago held the key aloft. Quickly, he knelt down, unlocked the manacles and hauled Hawkwood to his feet.

      Hawkwood rubbed circulation into his wrists. The cabin was now well and truly alight. The fire had taken full control and the heat was ferocious. Hawkwood looked frantically for an escape route. “The window!”

      He had his foot halfway over the sill when Jago said firmly, “Not on your bleedin’ life!”

      “What?” Hawkwood gasped as he saw the big man draw back.

      “I ain’t jumpin’,” Jago said.

      “Christ, Nathaniel! The bloody ship’s on fire!”

      Jago shook his head. “Take a look. It’s as black as a witch’s crotch down there. Can you see what you’re jumping into?”

      The roar and crackle of the flames were getting louder. Hawkwood could hardly see the door for smoke. He stared at Jago in disbelief. “You jumped ship to avoid the provost, for God’s sake! What’s the difference?”

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