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traveled in those lands?”
    “I have,” said the doctor. “Many years ago.”
    “But what’s all this got to do with this friend of yours that got done in?”
    “It was him that put the cards in their pockets,” said Tom.
    “Pickpocketry was his art,” added Ocean.
    “A diver, was he?” said the sergeant. “But was he arrowed too?”
    “No,” said Tom. “He was strangled. Please tell us what you know.”
    The sergeant once again took his eyes from the doorway and looked at Tom. He smiled a wry smile and turned back. “I do have an ache to tell someone,” he said. “Though, Lord knows, no one ever seems to benefit from the telling of the tale.”
    “All the same,” said Ocean, “sing out. Let’s hear it.”
    “Very well, then,” said the sergeant. “Leastways then when Ezekiel Quinn disappears from the world, there’ll be some who know his story.” He called out for another jug of gin and then sighed deep and long. “So here it is, boys, the Last Dying Speech of the Condemned.” He was still looking at the entranceway but he seemed to be seeing something else.
    “Well now, friends, it all goes back some years, back to the soldiering I did in the last war against the Frenchies in those godless lands across the waters.” He thanked the serving girl, who had brought him a fresh jug, and poured himself a drink. “The savages that live in those woods are fearsome cruel, I can tell you, and the French made evil use of them in that war.” He looked at Tom. “Be thankful that those eyes will never see the sights that these have, lad.” Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The sergeant took a long drink and filled his cup again.
    “Well, on with my tale. As we were in the service of the Crown, so were we in its pay. The bags of silver came all the way from England and it was given me as a duty to ensure the safe passage of this money to our troops inland. The silver was to be transported in a wagon guarded by eight outriders. I was to lead them.”
    “All that silver must have been a temptation,” said Ocean.
    “That it was, friend; but not to me. I was not always the fallen creature you see before you. But it was not easy to pick men for the task. I chose those I could count on in a fight, whatever else I thought of them. I even chose Shepton, God save me. A more vicious scoundrel you never did see, but what a fighter. He had a scar the whole length of his face to prove it, from his eyebrow to his jaw. An Indian tomahawk, it was. Most men wouldn’t have survived it, but Shepton wasn’t most men. Ah, but what a look it left him with; it made a hard face evil. No one ever forgot the sight of it.” The sergeant shook his head.
    “And there was a robbery?” said the doctor.
    “Of a kind, yes, there was. We were passing through forests—those forests so vast and so thick of trees, you could hide an army there unseen—when without warning, an arrow struck me in the back. It hit me here, near my shoulder, and come clean through to stick out five inches from my coat.” He pulled aside his collar and filthy shirt to show the scar.
    “I swung my horse round to see my men falling to the ground. I heard a shout of ‘Injuns!’ and saw Shepton galloping towards me. When he pulls up beside me, I see he has his hand to his belly and between the fingers there juts an arrow. ‘Get clear!’ he yells. ‘Save yourself! We’re done for!’ Then he gave my horse a slap on the rump and away I went. I thought to myself, Well, he might have been a rogue all his life, but he just saved my life. That I was sure of.” The sergeant took another swig of gin and shook his head. “When the troopers from the camp got there, they found every man dead—those that were there, at any rate. They’d been brutally treated . . . scalped. Do you know what that means?”
    “Yes,” said Dr. Harker. “The cutting off of the skin and hair from the top of the head.” Tom shuddered.
    “Yes,” said the sergeant, with