James Mcgee - Rapscallion

Rapscallion

James McGee

Table of Contents

Sark stopped,sank to his knees and listened, but the only sounds he could hear were thepounding of his own heartbeat and the rasping wheeze at the back of his throatas he fought desperately to draw air into his burning lungs. He tried to delayhis inhalations in an attempt to slow down his breathing, but the effect wasmarginal. Moisture from the soggy ground had begun to soak into his breeches,adding to his discomfort. He raised himself into a squat and took stock of hissurroundings, eyes probing the darkness for a familiar landmark, but to his untutoredeye one stretch of featureless marshland looked much like any other.

A hooting crycame from behind and he stiffened. Owls hunted across the levels at night.Sometimes you could hear the beat of their wings if you were quiet enough. Sarkremained where he was, crouched low. It had probably been an owl, but therewere other creatures abroad, Sark knew, and they were hunting too.

There wasmovement to his left, accompanied by a soft grunt. The short hairs rose acrossthe back of Sark's neck and along his forearms. He turned slowly, not daring toexhale, and found himself under close scrutiny from a large sheep. For severalseconds, man and beast regarded each other in eerie silence. The animal was notalone. Sark could make out at least a dozen more, huddled behind.

The ewe was thefirst to break eye contact. Backing off, it ambled away and began to herd itscompanions towards a clump of bushes. Sark breathed a sigh of relief.

Then he heardthe distant baying and the bile rose into his mouth.

They were usingdogs.

Sark glanced outof the corner of his eye and saw the sheep pause in their tracks as their earspicked up the unearthly ululation. Then, as if with one mind, the animals brokeinto a brisk trot. Within seconds they had vanished into the deepening gloom.

Sark turned andtried to locate the direction of the sound, but the darkness, allied to thedips and folds in the ground, made it difficult to pinpoint the exact bearing.

Ahead of him,the land had begun to rise. Sark inched forward, hoping the slope would providethe advantage of height and enable him to see further than his current position.Reaching the top of the bank, he elevated himself cautiously and stared backthe way he had come. The first thing he saw was the bright flickering glow of atorch flame, then another, and another beyond that. From his vantage point hecould see that the torch- bearers were still some way off and that they were proceeding haphazardly. He suspected theywere following the creek lines, but there was no doubt they were moving towardshim, drawing inexorably closer with each passing second.

There were more lightsin the far distance. They were no more than pinpricks, and stationary, and heguessed these were the masthead lanterns of ships moored in the estuary. Hewondered briefly if he shouldn't have been heading towards rather than awayfrom them, but he knew that hadn't been an option. His pursuers were sure tohave cut off that line of escape.

He looked aroundand found he was at the edge of a dyke. The ditch stretched away from him,merging into the moonlit wetlands like a snake into the undergrowth. The smellfrom the bottom of the dyke was foul; a pungent, nostril-pinching mix of peatand stagnant water. There was another strong odour, too. He could see a heapedshape lying close to the water's edge; the remains of a dead sheep. Presumably the animal had placedits foot in a rabbit-hole or some similar burrow, stumbled down the bank andbecome stuck in the bog, unable to extricate itself.

Sark wonderedhow long it had taken the beast to die. He tried to ignore the mosquitoeswhining about his ears, knowing even though he could not feel their bite thatthey had already begun to feast upon his blood.

Anotherdrawn-out howl came looping out of the night. Sark felt the cold hand of fearclutch his heart and he cursed his inactivity. He shouldn't have remained solong in one place. He got to his feet and began to run.

He had a roughidea of where he was and the direction in which he was travelling. He had thevague notion that the King's Ferry House wasn't much more than half a mileaway. If his navigation was correct and he could reach the landing and find aboat, there was a possibility that he'd be able to cross the river and hide outon the opposite shore and thus give his pursuers the slip.

Keeping low, hecontinued to follow the dyke's path, ignoring the stitch in his side, which wasbeginning to stab at him with all the tenacity of a red-hot rapier.

Another crysounded; human this time, not more than a few hundred yards off. Sark wasuncomfortably aware that the men on his trail knew the ground far better thanhe did. Despite the unevenness of the terrain and the latticework of waterwaysthat crisscrossed the island, they were catching up fast.

His foot slippedand he swore as he started to slide down the side of the gulley. The desire toenter and wade through the murky water in a bid to confuse the hounds wastempting, but he knew it would hamper his progress. All they had to do wassteer the dogs along each bank and they'd soon discover where he had left thestream, and they'd pick up his trail again in no time. It was best to keepmoving and try to reach the ferry landing; as dry as possible, preferably. Heslithered to his feet and scrambled back up the slope.

He could hearhis 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, strainingat their leashes as they followed his scent. Sark quickened his pace.

The dyke beganto widen. Sark hoped it was a sign he was close to its joining with the mainchannel. 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 tosalvation.

There was ashout. Glancing over his shoulder, Sark's stomach lurched when he saw howquickly the gap had shortened. The torches were a lot closer. Beneath the fierybrands, he could make out the dark figures of men running, perhaps half a dozenin all, and the sleeker, four-legged, shapes moving swiftly across the unevenground before them.

Another urgentcry went up and Sark knew that they had probably seen his fleeing form outlinedagainst the sky. He ducked down, knowing it was far too late to do any good. Hedrew the pistol from his belt.

Then the groundgave way and he was falling.

As his feet shotfrom beneath him, he managed to twist his body and discovered that he hadalmost reached his destination. It was the edge of the river bank that hadcollapsed beneath his weight. He barely had time to raise the pistol above hishead to avoid mud clogging the barrel, before he landed on his back in theooze.

He struggled tohis knees and pushed himself upright, and then saw the light. It was less thanone hundred and fifty yards away, at the edge of the reeds. He strained hiseyes. A small building began to take shape and he realized it was the ferrykeeper's cottage. His gaze shifted to the landing stage jutting out into thewater; in its lee, a small rowboat resting on the mud and held fast to a thinwooden post. His spirits lifted. There was still a chance he could make it.

With the mudsucking greedily at his boots, Sark struck out for the landing stage. He hadgone but a few paces when the consistency of the mud changed. It was less firm now and his boots were sinking deeper with eachstep. It was like wading through molasses. He looked out at the river. This wasone of the narrower stretches, hence the ferry crossing, but the tide was outand 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. Buthe could make out the horizontal black shadow that was the opposite shore andthat spurred him on. He pushed himself forward.