Captain Jack's Woman (Bastion Club 0.50)

He touched his heels to Champion’s sides and the stallion was off, heading for the path to the cliff top. Delia followed, with Matthew’s and George’s mounts close behind. They swung inland to slip into the protection of the belt of trees running parallel to the cliff’s edge, a hundred yards or more from it. They didn’t have to go far to find the Revenue.

In the shadow of a fir, Jack stood by Champion’s head, his hand clamped over the grey’s nose to stifle any revealing whinny, and watched the Revenue men under his command thunder past like a herd of cattle without thought for stealth or strategy. He shook his head in disbelief and exchanged a pained look with George. As soon as the squad had passed, they remounted.

A sudden hoot from beside her startled Kit as she was settling her boot in the stirrup. She sat bolt upright, only to hear a long-drawn birdcall answer from a few feet away. Then Jack struck his knife blade to his belt buckle, muttering unintelligibly. George and Matthew responded similarly. Kit stared at them.

The retreating drum of the hooves of the Revenue’s horses came to a sudden, somewhat confused halt. Matthew and George continued with their noises while Jack urged Champion to the edge of the trees. The muffled din continued until Jack turned and hissed: “Here they come.”

George and Matthew held silent, watching Jack’s upraised hand. Then his hand dropped. “Now!”

Amid cries of “The Revenue!” they spilled from the trees, heading west. Jack glanced about to find Delia’s black head level with his knee, Kit crouched low over the mare’s neck. His teeth gleamed in a smile. It felt good to be flying before the wind with her at his side.

They made as much noise as a fox hunt in full cry. Initially. When it was clear all the Revenue Officers were in dogged pursuit, floundering behind them, Jack pulled up in the lee of a small hill. Matthew and George brought their mounts to plunging halts beside him; Kit drew Delia to a slow halt some yards farther on. Her muffler had slipped slightly; she didn’t want George or Matthew to see her face. The drizzle was intensifying into rain. A drip from the damp curls clinging to her forehead coursed down to the tip of her nose. Raising her head, she looked east. Low clouds, purple and black, scudded before the freshening wind.

Jack’s voice reached her. “We’ll split up. Kit and I have the faster horses. You two head south. When it’s safe, you can separate and go home.”

“Which way will you head?” George shook the water from his hat and crammed it back on.

Jack’s smile was confident. “We’ll head west on the beach. It won’t take long to lose them.”

With a nod, George turned and, followed by Matthew, slipped into the trees lining the road on the south. They couldn’t head off until the Revenue were drawn away—the fields were too open and clearly visible from the road.

The squad of Revenue men were still out of sight on the other side of the hill. Jack nudged Champion close to Delia. “There’s a path to the beach over there.” He pointed. Kit squinted through the rain. “Where that bush hangs over the cliff. Take it. I’ll follow in a moment.”

Kit resisted the impulse to say she’d wait. His tone was not one to question. She kicked Delia to a canter, swiftly crossing the open area to the cliff’s edge. At the head of the path, she paused to look behind her. The Revenue came around the hill and saw them—she at the cliff, Jack riding hard toward her. He’d dallied to make sure the troop didn’t miss them. With a howl, the Revenue took the bait. Kit sent Delia to the sands, reaching the foot of the path as Champion landed with a slithering thump a few yards away. She’d forgotten that trick of his.

“West!”

At the bellowed order, Kit turned Delia’s head in that direction and dropped the reins. Primed by the tension, the mare obediently went straight to a full gallop, leaving Champion in her wake. Kit grinned through the raindrops streaking her face. Soon enough, the thud of Champion’s hooves settled to a steady beat just behind her, keeping pace between her and their pursuers.

Behind Kit, Jack watched her flying coattails, marveling at the effortless ease of her performance. He’d never seen anyone ride better—together, she and Delia were sheer magic in motion. She held the mare to a long-strided gallop, a touch of pace in reserve. Jack glanced behind him. The Revenue were dwindling shapes on the sand, outdistanced and outclassed.

Jack looked forward, opening his mouth to yell to Kit to turn for the cliff. A blur of movement at the top of the path, the last path before they passed onto the west arm of the anvil-shaped headland above Brancaster, caught his eye. He shook the water from his eyes and stared through the rain.

Hell and confound the man! Tonkin had not only disobeyed orders and come east, but he’d had the sense to split his men into two. He and Kit weren’t leading the Revenue west—they were being herded west. Tonkin’s plan was obvious—push them onto the narrow western headland, then trap them there, a solid cordon of Revenue Officers between them and the safety of the mainland.

Kit, too, had seen the men on the cliff; slowing, she glanced behind her. Champion did not pause; Jack took him forward to keep pace between Delia and the cliff. “Keep on!” he yelled in answer to the question in Kit’s eyes.

“But—”

“I know! Just keep going west.”

Kit glared but did as he said. The man was mad—all very well to keep on, but soon they’d run out of land. She could just make out the place ahead where the cliff abruptly ended. There was only sea beyond it.

Unconcerned by such matters, Jack kept Champion at a full gallop and pondered his new insight into Sergeant Tonkin. Obviously, he’d underestimated the man. He still found it hard to believe Tonkin had had wit enough to devise a trap, let alone put it into practice. It wasn’t going to work, of course—but what could one expect? Tonkin’s net had a very large hole which was one hole too many to trap Captain Jack.

A crack of thunder came out of the east. The heavens opened; rain hit their backs in a drenching downpour. Jack laughed, exhilaration coursing through him. The rain would hinder Tonkin; it would be morning before the sodden Revenue men could be sure the prey had flown their coop.

Kit heard his laughter and stared.

Jack caught her look and grinned. They were still riding hard directly west. The tide was flowing in fast, eating away the beach. On their left, the cliff swept up to a rocky outcrop, then fell to a rock-strewn point. The beach ran out. Kit pulled up. Champion slowed, then was turned toward the rocks.

“Come on.” Jack led, setting Champion to pick his way across the rocky point, waves washing over his heavy hooves. Delia followed, hooves daintily clopping.

Around the point lay a small, sandy cove. Beyond, sweeping southeastward, the beaches on the southern side of the headland gleamed, a pale path leading back to the mainland. But the Revenue would be

skulking somewhere in the murk, waiting.

In the lee of the cliffs, the rain fell less heavily. Jack pulled up in the cove; Kit halted Delia alongside Champion. She sat catching her breath, staring through the rain at the headland on the opposite side of the small bay.