5_2

Quarter of an hour later, the men of Welles spread themselves out in a great line which covered the land from the southern shore to the tops of the Three Sisters, and they began to walk slowly east wards. Ahead of them Thatcher led de Hogue along the main road which ran from Welles out to the eastern most farms on the island. This road had no real name, but every one called it ‘the long road’. It was a simple packed dirt affair, lined with puddles and weeds.
Neither man spoke for the first half an hour, but as they passed the short road which led to the old ruined mill, Thatcher spat out his quid of tobacco then turned to de Hogue.
“I figured thee were the law the moment I clapped eyes on thee.”
De Hogue made no reply, but marched steadily on. Thatcher continued regardless.
“I suppose y’all be out hunting for them smugglers eh?”
De Hogue gave the taller man a side long glance but remained silent, and Thatcher chuckled to himself.
The rain continued to fall but the two men ignored it. They made there way past a series of long pot holes and the odd group of trees until finally they came to a branch in the road. Thatcher took the left road, which led up onto the hills, and for another half hour they walked in silence.
Gradually the rain ceased and the sky lightened. They had just reached the summit of the last hill, when the sun broke forth and the two men stopped and stared far out to sea where a large ship of the line was coming in under a full press of sail.
“Orion, with seventy four” de Hogue remarked.
Thatcher nodded absently. Despite their differences, they were both sailors and neither man could resist the beauty of the scene. The distant ship and the rays of sun which played across the sea held them for several minutes.
Further out, just visible on the horizon were four or more inbound ships, Indiamen from the look of them but even as de Hogue noted them they were disappearing into the grey haze. More rain was soon to come.
They pressed on and finally arrived at Samuel Harrow’s small cottage. Thatcher strode to the door and hammered on it loudly.
“Sam?” he cried out. “Sam Harrow, are you here?”
There was no answer, and they separated to walk around the cottage, meeting again in the small yard at the rear. Here was a tree stump and a mass of fire wood, cut and stacked and against the back wall of the cottage was a row of lobster pots, eel hives and other fish traps.
Standing by itself was an ancient ladder sided wagon its coupling poles all but hidden in the long grass.
“Does he have a horse?” de Hogue asked eyeing the wagon.
“Aye, but Gawd knows where he keeps it” Thatcher replied. He glanced about in all directions, then cupping his mouth he bellowed; “SAM HARROW!”
There was no reply but the wind, and de Hogue started walking towards a group of trees.
“Where are you going?” Thatcher called after him.
“You go up that way and work your way around to me” he stopped and replied.
Thatcher made no comment but set off at once, walking back out onto the dirt road, then up onto the hill where a few sheep were quietly eating the grass.
Watching him go, de Hogue checked his weapons. He had his long barrelled boarding pistol in his belt, and tucked under his arm, he had the short wide muzzled Miquelet pistol which he had bought in London. Making sure their powder was dry; he picked up a heavy stick from the wood pile and made his way on towards the trees.
Already by the tree line, there were two dead sheep. As he approached them a pair of black crows took to the air and flapped lazily away.
He stared down at the ground. Every where in the soft mud were the same triangular marks that he had seen around the sheep the day they had discovered Mary Coleman. He looked in among the trees and here were more dead sheep. Six or seven tattered bodies lay scattered here and there, and hefting the boarding pistol in his right hand, he stepped gingerly amongst them. Here, there were more marks in the ground, and he noticed at least four of the trees bore similar scars. One in particular had been punctured repeatedly with the mark. He stepped closer and examined one of the deeper holes.
It was a slightly elongated triangular point, some two inches across, and it penetrated some four inches into the tree. A man would have to be in quite a fury to be able to inflict such a wound on a tree he reflected, and what kind of weapon was this?In the distance came the dull crack of a gunshot. He looked up and glanced around. Thatcher! He rushed from the trees and stared about but in concern, but Thatcher was standing in the field waving at him.