Hearts of Darkness by Paul Lawrence Page A

his eyes closed. He lifted his leg and broke wind, emitting the foulest of smells. ‘Good fortune and farewell.’
    Good fortune indeed if Josselin was hiding in Colchester.

Chapter Eleven
    Men shall be apt to put confidence in feigned friendships which shall profit them nothing.
    I clambered back into the boat flushed with a sense of wild optimism. Josselin’s sole objective was to hide from Arlington. What better strategy than to persuade the townsfolk of Colchester to spread false rumour as to his whereabouts?
    My excitement lacked contagion. Withypoll interrogated me with derision, snorting like a sneezy goat when I told him of my idea. He settled back, contenting himself with a long stare, huddled up beneath his jacket, shivering. Dowling sat silent, as he had been most of the day.
    Back on shore I walked next to Dowling, seeking an opportunity to poke him in the ribs and discover what ailed him, but Withypoll stayed too close.
    The first couple of soldiers we spoke to were too fuddled tothink. The third tottered about in an unsteady circle squinting into the distance against the sun, gaze fixed on someone in the distance. Following his stare I spotted the soldier we encountered before, the fellow with a sty so large he couldn’t see out of his left eye. He caught me staring and ducked out of sight.
    ‘Hoy!’ Withypoll saw him too and took off. We followed through the crowd, spotting the tail of his coat disappear up Magdalen Street. Strands of long, black hair bounced upon his head and flapped about his ears. He was the only sober soldier in the harbour, the only man capable of running without falling over.
    ‘Stop, Benjamin,’ Withypoll shouted. ‘Stop where you stand, else I shall slice off your ears.’
    Benjamin ran on awkwardly, short legs struggling to carry his substantial bulk. Halfway up the hill he gave up and turned to face us, still grasping the barrel of his musket. His face glowed so bright I feared he might collapse at our feet. ‘What do you want?’ he panted.
    Withypoll handed him the directive with moist palm. ‘You will escort us into the town,’ he said, prodding his sword into Benjamin’s belly. ‘Take us past the gates.’
    Benjamin frowned, attempted to ignore the weapon, and took the letter.
    ‘Why did you run?’ I asked, wiping sweat from my own dripping brow.
    ‘I’ve had enough,’ he snapped, angry, still reading. Two more soldiers wandered down the hill, blank expressions on dull faces. Benjamin looked up and scowled. ‘Everyone is drunk and Scotschurch is the drunkest. None of us are allowed into the town. No one is posted to watch who enters or who leaves.’
    ‘Read the orders,’ Withypoll commanded, his body waving gentlyfrom side to side. I wondered if he was about to drop dead on the spot.
    ‘Your company is here to make sure James Josselin doesn’t leave,’ I explained. ‘Now we’ve come to collect him. You will be sent home soon.’
    Benjamin shrugged, a thoughtful expression clouding his eyes. ‘Not I. I live here. When the army leaves I stay behind.’ He glanced at Withypoll. ‘Why do you want to enter the gates? To go to Shyam?’
    ‘Lytle here persuaded your captain Josselin might be inside the town,’ Withypoll replied. ‘What do you think of that?’
    Benjamin stared at me like I was a strange prophet.
    ‘Scotschurch said you arrived after Josselin entered Shyam,’ I said. ‘Maybe he didn’t go to Shyam at all.’
    ‘I didn’t arrive after Josselin,’ said Benjamin. ‘I was here already, but I didn’t see Josselin arrive. I heard about it next day. Josselin persuaded Flanner to allow him passage to Shyam is what they said.’
    ‘Would the townspeople protect him?’ I asked, excited.
    ‘Aye,’ Benjamin nodded, pensive. ‘He always was a liar. All this nonsense about wriggling through walls and withstanding torture. He was nine years old; he carried no special message. They tortured him, but he didn’t know what to tell them, else he