Chapter 12
First Moves
Mick Howell looked up as a figure darkened his doorway. “Luke. Take a seat. What brings you ’ere?”
“’Ewlett’s gorn. ’E’s not been ’ome for two nights now. T’ lads missed ’im goin’, but a neighbour says ’e took t’ Mail coach. ’E could be ’eaded ter Cambridge, inter Essex, or fer Norfolk.”
Mick cursed. He opened a drawer and pulled out a small purse. “Bastard’s after t’ boys.” Tossing the purse to his visitor, he said, “T’ Pride’s in Colchester, an’ so are t’ boys. Get t’ Mail an’ get there. If’n ’Ewlett’s there, ’e’ll ’ave ’elp wiv ’im.”
“If’n ’e got there two day ago, ’e’ll ’ave ’ad plenty o’ time ter prepare. Wot if t’ Mail ’as already left?”
“Then ’ire a ’orse, if you can ride.” He stood and remembered that most seamen couldn’t ride. “Or get a ’orse an’ trap—
