the sky.
‘God?’ yelled Sheridan, looking up, as if searching for the source of such divine deliverance.
‘Até,’ said Jack, and bent to pick up the tomahawk. ‘Good throw, brother.’
The Mohawk thrust the weapon back into his belt and shrugged. ‘I do not understand all the rules of these contests. But as
your Second, was I not meant to stop such a thing?’
Savingdon had rushed to the fallen man. ‘Your savage has killed him!’ he cried.
‘If my
savage
had meant to kill him, then he’d be dead.’ Jack smiled. ‘Is that not right, Até? You struck him with the top of the weapon,
not the cutting edge, eh?’
For the first time, Até looked a little disconcerted. ‘Actually, brother, maybe it was just not such a good throw.’
The horn blasts sounded again, much nearer now. Shouts too, seemingly from all sides.
‘Come, gentlemen,’ said Sheridan, ‘time to make our exit.’
The crowd had scattered swiftly, for anyone arrested at the scene of a duel could be prosecuted. The largest body, counting
on the strength of their numbers, headed for the most direct route back to the road – which was, of course, the direction
from which the constables were approaching. Others broke, in singles and pairs, in all directions.
‘This way,’ called Sheridan.
They burst through a screen of trees cresting a small bank. The snow had drifted here, rising to their thighs, making it hard
going. To their left came an excited shout, a blast of horn. Looking there, Jack saw three men in grey greatcoats. Each was
armed and one now unleashed two hounds.
‘To the right, lads,’ Jack cried, and began to straddle the snow, seeming to go where it was thickest. It was exhaustingwork but looking back, Jack saw his choice had been correct; for the dogs were finding the drifts too deep, leaping like porpoises
in a white sea only to be swallowed and having to leap again. Their handlers were not faring any better.
They had gained some advantage when they reached a drover’s path where the snow had been beaten down with hooves. Immediately,
they began to run, stumbling at first, used as they were to the sensation of resistance. Soon, however, they picked up a good
pace, though by the sounds of the yelps behind them, it would not be long before the dogs were moving swifter than they on
the packed snow.
Ahead, through the gloom and falling snow, they saw a light. A shepherd’s hut stood on the edge of the common there.
‘The Windsor Road, I think. Means our landau is round the other side, dammit.’ Sheridan was breathing more heavily than the
others, unused to this outdoor work.
‘It would have been secured by the Runners anyway.’ Jack led them around the side of the hut. In its lee they paused for a
moment, squatted down. Sheep in a pen regarded them incuriously. ‘If Windsor’s that way then so’s the river. We can lose the
dogs in the reeds on the bank. Come on.’
Jack rose, Até beside him. Sheridan struggled up but, red-faced, fell back.
‘No, me boys, this hare has run his last. I think I’ll converse with the owner of this fine establishment. Always useful to
hear how the simple folk are talking these days. And when the Runners find me here, I can entertain them for a while.’
Jack began to protest but Sheridan interrupted him. ‘Go and Godspeed. They will not incarcerate me long. We play my new comedy,
The School for Scandal
, for the King next week, and he will not like to be disappointed. Go!’
Two swift handshakes, and Jack and Até turned, began to run. Behind them Sheridan called out, ‘Write me, dearestJack, of your exploits, if you please. You always provide such thundering good plots!’
Jack snorted. He knew how this plot had to end. They needed to buy – or steal – horses in Windsor and ride south. The Portsmouth
road was not far. He had to beat the news of this action to the coast. With the right tide, he could be a-ship and on his
way to Nevis ahead
James Silke, Frank Frazetta