Ratcatcher

12

Hawkwood closed his eyes and wondered what the punishment was for throttling an Admiralty clerk. The continuous scratching of nib across paper had become a kind of torture, like the insistent buzzing of a wasp trapped against a window pane.

The cause of Hawkwood’s irritation, a lieutenant who didn’t look a day over sixteen, was not unaware of the effect his labours were having. During the last ten minutes, on each occasion the lieutenant had dared lift his head to take a surreptitious peek at the tall, grim-faced man seated on the bench against the opposite wall, his perusal had been met and returned with such brooding intensity that he had been forced to lower his eyes quickly lest he be turned to stone by the basilisk stare.

It was thus with considerable relief that the lieutenant responded to the jangling of the admiral’s bell. He looked up briefly. “You may enter.”

Hawkwood stood and eased cramped muscles. He had begun to wonder if the Chief Magistrate had forgotten him. Since their arrival at the Admiralty offices and Read’s disappearance through the doors of the Board Room, with instructions to wait until sent for, Hawkwood had been left to cool his heels. Only the indistinct murmurings, barely audible beyond the closed doors, had persuaded him that his presence might still be required.

Composing himself, he opened the door.

Aside from the Chief Magistrate, there were three men in the room. Hawkwood did not recognize any of them. James Read beckoned him forward. “Come in, Hawkwood. These gentlemen are anxious to make your acquaintance. Allow me to present Sir Charles Yorke, First Lord of the Admiralty. His fellow board members, Admiral Dalryde and Inspector General Blomefield. Gentlemen, Officer Hawkwood.”

Anxious, maybe, Hawkwood thought, but not overly happy at the prospect, if their expressions were anything to go by.

The First Sea Lord’s face was as dark as a thundercloud, though it could have been the subdued lighting that had manufactured that effect. The admiral, seated behind the long table, was looking at Hawkwood the same way he might have regarded something he’d picked up on the sole of his boot. Of the three, only Inspector General Blomefield showed what might have been a hint of genuine interest. There was something else in the man’s gaze, Hawkwood sensed. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn it was amusement.

Hawkwood’s eyes were drawn to the table and the two sketches that lay upon it.

The First Sea Lord threw an accusatory glance at James Read. “Does he know?”

Read shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Perhaps it’s time I did,” Hawkwood said. He’d had enough of being kept in the dark.

The admiral’s head came up quickly. Charles Yorke grimaced. “By God, Read, you breed impudent pups!”

Before James Read could respond, Blomefield spoke. “Actually, I’d say the fellow has a point, under the circumstances. Wouldn’t you, Sir Charles?”

There was an uneasy silence. Hawkwood felt the eye of the First Sea Lord upon him, sensed the displeasure at the apparent disrespect for authority.

After several moments, and somewhat grudgingly, the First Sea Lord finally nodded. “Very well, Read. I suppose you’d better tell him.”

Before the Chief Magistrate could respond, however, there came a sharp tap on the Board Room door. The door opened. The admiral’s clerk stood on the threshold. The lieutenant opened his mouth, but he was given no chance to speak as a uniformed figure bustled past him.

“Profound apologies, gentlemen. Came as speedily as I could.”

Blomefield grinned. “Better late than never, Colonel. Bit like your bloody rockets, eh? Ha! ha!”

Colonel? Rockets?

To his consternation, Hawkwood found himself being scrutinized keenly.

“Officer Hawkwood, Colonel,” James Read said. “Hawkwood, this is Colonel Congreve.”

Hawkwood stared at the latecomer, taking in the uniform, the bearing, the restless energy. Then it came to him. Colonel William Congreve, eldest son of the Comptroller of the Royal Laboratory at Woolwich, officer of the Royal Artillery, and inventor of the naval rocket.

Congreve’s rockets had first been used against the French at Basque Roads. They’d proved so erratic in behaviour they’d been as much a danger to the British vessels transporting them as they had to the enemy fleet. Three years later, however, the design had improved sufficiently for the army to form two rocket companies. Hawkwood had seen Congreve’s rockets in action and he wasn’t afraid to admit that they’d scared the hell out of him. Fortunately, the French had been even more terrified, but that still didn’t answer the immediate question. What was he doing here?

“Hawkwood? Ah, yes, of course,” Congreve said. Then, to Hawkwood’s surprise, the colonel held out his hand. “An honour, Captain.”

Captain? Behind his back, Hawkwood heard the First Sea Lord clear his throat disapprovingly.

The colonel ignored the slight. “Well, gentlemen, to what do I owe this hasty summons? Judging by the way your man hammered on my front door, Master Magistrate, I assume it’s important?” The colonel moved towards the table and his eyes widened. “Good God Almighty!”

“Well?” Yorke demanded. “What say you, Congreve? Is it the same?”

The colonel bent low, moving his eye over the drawings, examining them closely. Finally, he straightened, his face grave. “Hard to tell from these damned sketches, but, no, I’d say this is quite different. Oh, there are similarities, no doubt about that, but if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say this looks like a much more advanced design.” The colonel turned to James Read. “How the devil did you come by them?”

The colonel listened as the Chief Magistrate explained.

“A dead Runner, you say? Damned curious business. How about you, Hawkwood? Any thoughts on how they came to be in your late colleague’s possession?”

Hawkwood said wearily, “Colonel, I don’t even know what the hell it is we’re talking about.”

Congreve stared at the Runner then at the Board members.

Admiral Dalryde sighed. “The Chief Magistrate was about to explain when you arrived, Colonel. However, perhaps you’d do the honours, seeing as you’re our scientific expert.”

Had there been a hint of sarcasm in the Admiral’s voice? If so, the Colonel appeared not to have noticed, or else had chosen to disregard it. He looked thoughtfully at the two drawings before fixing Hawkwood with a steely eye. “Not one word of what I’m about to tell you leaves this room. Understood?”

Hawkwood nodded cautiously.

“What we have here,” Congreve said, “is quite possibly the most fiendish weapon ever devised.”

A weapon! So, the trigger device was significant after all!

“Some kind of bomb?” Hawkwood ventured.

Congreve smiled thinly. “No, though your guess is not so wide of the mark. Tell me, Captain Hawkwood, how’s your French?”

“Sir?”

“Le bateau poisson is what the Frogs have christened it. Well, some of them have. Others call it le bateau plongeur.”

Fish boat? Plunging boat? “Sorry, Colonel, I’m not with you. Plunge where?”

Congreve looked at Hawkwood, his face a picture of incredulity. “Where the hell do you think, man? Underwater, of course! It’s a bloody submersible!”

Hawkwood stared back at him helplessly. “A what?”

It was the Chief Magistrate who came to Hawkwood’s rescue. “A boat that can travel under the sea.”

Even as he heard the words, Hawkwood thought there had to be a mistake. He stared down at the drawings. A boat? The contraption didn’t look like any boat he’d ever seen. And what the hell were plans for an undersea boat doing in Warlock’s baton?

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” Congreve said, misinterpreting Hawkwood’s look of confusion. “But it’s possible, believe me. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

James Read said, “The inventor’s an American. His name’s Robert Fulton.”

“And the bastard’s working for Bonaparte,” Charles Yorke growled.

Hawkwood felt as if he was wading thigh-deep through thick mud. Try as he might, he still could see no resemblance to a boat. If not a clock, his next best guess would have been the inside of a music box.

“Come,” the colonel said, taking pity on Hawkwood’s bewilderment. “I’ll show you.”

Hawkwood approached the table. The first thing he realized, as the colonel turned the first drawing on its side, was that he’d been viewing it from the wrong angle. He’d been looking at it as if the cylinder was standing vertically instead of lying horizontally.

The colonel took a pencil from a tray on the table. “Let’s see if I can make it a bit clearer.” The colonel traced the outline with the pencil point. “This is the hull. Here, the curve of the bow, the keel, deck, and stern. Now, if I add a mast and boom, you’ll get the idea.” The colonel drew quickly. “There, you see?”

Unbelievably, Hawkwood could. “And this?” Hawkwood pointed to what looked to be a raised section of deck, just forward of the drawn-in mast.

“A metal dome, It’s from here that the vessel is controlled. Imagine an upturned barrel placed over a hole on the deck. It allows the commander to stand upright inside the boat. His head and shoulders would protrude into the barrel. Understand?”

“How can he see where he’s going?” Hawkwood asked.

“The dome has windows. They’re small and made of very thick glass. If you were to ask me, I’d say it’s like looking through the bottom of a brandy decanter.”

Hawkwood was sorely tempted to say that he’d known a number of army officers who’d spent their entire careers in similar straits, but discretion forbade him. He made do with what he hoped was a sage nod of comprehension. “What makes it go?”

“Muscle power. The crewman turns a crank, which operates a set of revolving blades at the stern. They serve to push the craft through the water. Here—see?” The colonel pointed to the drawing.

Hawkwood looked sceptical.

“Oh, it works very well, Captain. On the surface, with two men working the crank, it’ll travel as fast as two men rowing. Submerged, it’s about the same. You have to appreciate that the watchword is stealth, not speed.”

“How’s it constructed?”

“Copper skin over a wooden frame, iron ribs for supports.”

Hawkwood watched and listened as the colonel explained and gradually, incredibly, it began to make a kind of sense. What at first sight had appeared to be a confusing jumble of cranks, cogs, spools and spindles had now acquired a totally new meaning. Hawkwood looked on in astonishment as the outer hull and interior of the submersible boat began to take shape before his eyes.

“How does it go up and down?”

“Pumps. They regulate the submergence of the boat underwater. There’s a ballast compartment along the bottom of the hull. To sink, you pump water in. To rise, you pump water out. Ingenious!” The colonel shook his head at the wonder of it. “You steer it like an ordinary boat, by the rudder here. That’s also controlled by a system of gears. There’s a second, horizontal rudder, which turns on a pivot passing through the main rudder. You use that to maintain depth. The keel, by the way, is metal. The weight keeps the vessel level. It’s detachable in an emergency, to allow for rapid ascent.”

Hawkwood’s brain was spinning. “How big is it?”

The colonel shrugged. “Hard to say for certain. The first one was twenty-one feet long, with a diameter of seven feet.”

“The first one?” Hawkwood said.

“Oh, didn’t I say?” The colonel raised an eyebrow. “The weapon’s not new. It was offered to us seven years ago.”

James Read said softly, “I think, perhaps, we should start at the beginning, don’t you?”

“We’ve been following his career for some time,” the colonel said. “A very industrious fellow is our Mr Fulton: artist, engineer, canal builder…”

“Canals?” Hawkwood echoed dully.

Congreve nodded. “Came to Europe from Philadelphia in ’87, originally. For his health, if you can believe that. Worked with Bridgewater and Brindley for a time.”

Hawkwood’s face betrayed his lack of knowledge.

“Lord Bridgewater? Came up with a plan to link Manchester to the sea? You remember?”

Vague memory of a rumoured scheme stirred distantly in Hawkwood’s brain.

Undeterred by Hawkwood’s ignorance, Congreve continued. “It was Fulton who came up with the idea to use winches to haul canal barges over hills. Even wrote a book about canal navigation, versatile bugger. That’s what took him to France in ’97. Hoped to take out a patent, get the Frogs interested in the idea. Grew sympathetic to the revolution, stayed, and became an engineer for the Directory.”

“And this…submersible?”

It was Blomefield who broke in. “Ah, that stemmed from a notion he had that the welfare of nations could only be achieved if liberty of the seas was maintained. In other words, destroy the world’s navies, establish free trade, and everyone lives happily ever after. Total rot, of course. My apologies, Colonel. Didn’t mean to butt in. You were saying?”

“I was going to say that the man’s half Irish,” Congreve said, without rancour. “So three guesses as to whose navy he planned to destroy first.”

The First Sea Lord, a man clearly unused to someone else holding the floor for any length of time, snorted derisively. Unflustered, Congreve resumed his story.

“He took the idea from an American revolutionary, name of Bushnell. Bushnell built himself a diving boat. Called it the Turtle. The plan was to sail it under Earl Howe’s flagship in New York harbour, attach an explosive device, then withdraw. Fortunately for the admiral, the plan failed. Not enough control of the vessel underwater, plus the flagship’s hull was too tough. But Fulton thought the idea was sound enough to attempt improvements. Turns out Bonaparte thought so too. He financed the vessel’s design and manufacture. Took the bugger three years, used the Seine as a test site. Even gave the thing a name: called it Nautilus.”

“From the Greek,” Blomefield cut in. “Some sort of mollusc, apparently.”

“Indeed,” the colonel observed patiently, before continuing. “Well, by this time we’d begun to pick up reports from our agents in France that Bonaparte’s engineers were conducting experimental underwater explosions. Didn’t think too much of it at the time, but a gradual increase in rumours led us to believe the Frogs were developing a secret weapon, and then Fulton’s name kept cropping up.

“At first we thought it was some kind of sea mine. We’d heard reports of barges being blown up and so forth, but then we heard about something else. A submersible boat. Sounded fantastical, but the rumours persisted. Then we had a stroke of luck.

“We heard the vessel had been tested at sea, but we weren’t able to confirm it until a month or so later, when the captain of a Revenue cutter got into conversation with the master of a brig that had been anchored off the Marcoufs around the same time as the trials were said to have taken place.

“The brig master had a curious tale to tell. Told the Revenue man he’d been chased by a whale! Now, how many whales do you suppose there are in the English Channel, eh?”

Hawkwood didn’t respond. To his ears, the link seemed pretty flimsy, but there was more, as the colonel explained.

Two days previously, one of the brig’s lookouts had observed a small sailboat in trouble; mast and canvas had all but collapsed and the vessel was taking in water. The brig altered course to assist, but by the time they reached the spot, the sailboat had disappeared completely. No wreckage, no bodies, nothing. After searching the area, the brig had resumed course.

“And then something strange happened.” The colonel’s voice was couched low, as if fearful of eavesdroppers. “The brig’s stern lookout spotted what looked like another sailboat in distress! Only this time it was closer in to shore. It was only when the brig master took a look through the glass himself that he recognized it as the same boat! And here’s the rub. He said this time the boat wasn’t sinking, he swore it was rising out of the water!

“It was definitely the same vessel,” Congreve continued. “It was the odd shape of the rig, you see. The master said he’d never seen the like of it before. Said it looked like a half-opened parasol.”

“And the rest,” Blomefield prompted eagerly. “Tell him the rest!”

“Yes, yes.” The colonel waved a hand impatiently. “I’m coming to that. You see, Hawkwood, the brig master estimated the distance between each of the sailboat’s positions to be at least one mile. A mile! It was proof, don’t you see? The Frogs did have a vessel that could sail underwater!”

The colonel checked his excitement. “But what to do? How could we defend ourselves against such a weapon?”

The solution had at first seemed simple. The British government had dispatched an agent to Paris to try and entice Fulton to England.

Thomas Blomefield took up the story.

Fulton had run into trouble with his French allies. A change of administration at the Ministry of Marine had brought with it a sudden reversal of enthusiasm for the American’s invention.

“Decres it was who took over. Looks as if he’s changed his tune since, though, but at the time he thought Fulton’s idea was barbaric, more suited to a pack of corsairs than the Imperial Navy. Put Fulton’s back up, as you can imagine. Fortunately, it coincided with our plan to bring him over to us. Excellent timing on our part. Mind you, he was a greedy bugger!

“Had this agreement with the Frogs. They were to pay him a bounty for every ship destroyed. He demanded a similar contract from us. Also told us if we wanted him to provide details of his submersible and his submarine bombs, it would cost us a hundred thousand pounds for the privilege. Bloody nerve!”

For a moment Hawkwood thought his ears had deceived him. A Runner’s salary was twenty-five shillings a week, plus an extra fourteen shillings for expenses; a little over one hundred pounds a year. A thousand times that was an unimaginable sum. What was it about the American’s invention that made it worth a king’s ransom?

“Anyway,” Blomefield said, “we refused to agree any sort of price until his inventions had been examined and tested in England.”

“In other words,” Congreve put in, “far better to have him inside the tent, pissing out.”

The First Sea Lord and the Admiral smiled weakly. James Read’s expression remained neutral, though Hawkwood thought he detected a faint tremor at the corner of the magistrate’s mouth.

A further inducement had been employed. Fulton had been experimenting with steam as a means of propulsion. While in Paris, he’d written to the Birmingham firm, Boulton & Watt, asking them to build an engine for use in a steamboat in the United States. The British Government, not surprisingly, had refused an export permit. However, should Mr Fulton choose to move to England…well, anything was possible.

“Have to confess, I was rather taken with the fellow,” Congreve smiled. “I was on the commission, you see.”

Fulton had travelled to England in April 1804. No sooner had he set foot ashore than Prime Minister Pitt had appointed a special commission to examine the American’s inventions. Other appointees had included the distinguished scientist Henry Cavendish, Admiral Sir Hope Popham, and Sir Joseph Banks, President of the Royal Society. The initial findings, however, had not been well received by Fulton, as the colonel revealed.

“Oh, the design was feasible enough, no doubt about that, but totally impractical in combat.” As he spoke, the colonel’s hand strayed to the sketches on the table. “Or so we thought at the time.” The colonel gave a wry smile. “The commission was more interested in his submarine bomb—his torpedo, as he called it.”

“His what?” Hawkwood asked.

“Torpedo. Named after a breed of fish. The beast uses an electrical discharge to stun its enemies. Not sure how exactly, I’m no expert in aquatic fauna.”

Despite the explanation, Hawkwood felt none the wiser. The colonel might as well have been conversing in Hindustani.

Prime Minister Pitt, however, had been sufficiently impressed to put his signature to a contract agreeing to pay Fulton £40,000 for demonstrating the principles of his submersible and the surrender of all rights to his invention. A very generous amount, even without the additional supplement of £200 a month salary, a credit limit of £7,000 and a further £40,000 for the first French ship destroyed. Admiralty dockyards and arsenals were ordered to furnish materials and equipment as required.

“We tried out his torpedoes at Boulogne later that year,” Congreve said. “Without much success, frankly, but we saw the potential right away. And just the rumour was enough to put the fear of God into the Frogs. There was a lot of refining to do, more testing and so forth. Took another year before we were ready to try again. Remember the Dorothea, Blomefield?”

“By God, do I!”

The Dorothea, the colonel explained, had been an ancient Danish brig anchored in Walmer Roads, off the Dover coast. Fulton’s submarine bombs had reduced the ship to matchwood.

“That was the result we needed. We were all set. We planned to use Fulton’s torpedoes and my rockets against the French fleet at Cadiz. Would have been the grandest bloody firework display in Europe!” Colonel Congreve shook his head in regret.

“Only our one-eyed admiral got there first,” Blomefield said.

They meant Trafalgar.

Blomefield sighed. “The brave bugger only went and annihilated the Frog fleet. No need for Fulton’s newfangled bombs after that. Nothing left for us to blow up!”

“Didn’t stop him demanding his bloody fee, though!” the First Sea Lord grumbled.

As a final settlement, Fulton had asked for £10,000 for switching allegiance, £100,000 for demonstrating that warships could be destroyed by his invention, a £2,400 annual pension for life, and £60,000 for agreeing not to use his inventions against the British fleet.

The Board of Arbitration consulted and decided Fulton hadn’t done enough to warrant the extortionate payments he was requesting. The Board had eventually awarded him £14,000 plus salary and incidentals already earned, which had amounted to the far from princely sum of £1,640.

“So the bugger dismantled all his equipment and packed off home,” Blomefield said. “Lock, stock, and bloody barrel.”

“Bearing a very aggressive bee in his bonnet,” the colonel added.

“So,” Hawkwood said, “the man has a grudge.”

“A bloody big one, would be my guess.” Congreve sucked at his lower lip reflectively.

“And you think he’s back in France?”

Congreve shook his head. “No, not Fulton. The fellow’s not in the best of health. An emissary, sent in his place.”

“His name is William Lee,” James Read said. “He’s an old friend of Fulton, been working with him for the past five years. Our contacts informed us that he arrived in France at the beginning of the year.”

“Why would the French still be interested after the last time?” Hawkwood asked, mystified. “Why have they changed their minds?”

“Because Bonaparte’s losing the war.” The voice was the Admiral’s. It was the first time he had entered the conversation. “Our little corporal’s on the run!”

Congreve nodded. “And it would give Fulton a chance to get back at us. It’s no secret that relations between ourselves and the Americans have become somewhat strained.” The colonel pursed his lips. “There’ve been several incidents between our ships at sea. The navy’s been stopping American ships to search for deserters. The Americans have accused us of piracy. It would come as no surprise to me if the situation worsened.”

“You mean war?” Hawkwood said, disbelievingly.

At this, the First Sea Lord gave a meaningful cough. It sounded suspiciously like a veiled warning. Congreve shrugged. “Who knows?”

While Hawkwood was contemplating the noncommittal answer, the colonel looked towards Dalryde. “Would you care to continue, Admiral?”

Dalryde cleared his throat. “We thought it might pay us to keep an eye on Lee. We suspected Fulton had made a number of improvements. He wrote a book last year: Torpedo War and Submarine Explosions. We managed to secure a copy. The contents were disturbing enough for us to dispatch an agent to France to investigate. Resourceful fellow, name of Ramillies, one of our very best men. We’d used him on several previous occasions.”

The admiral looked back at the colonel, as if suggesting he might like to take up the story. The colonel duly obliged.

“Lieutenant Ramillies unearthed evidence suggesting that Lee had definitely constructed a more advanced submersible. Through contacts in the Bourbon resistance he was able to secure employment in the dockyard where the submersible was being built. From there, at great risk to himself, he managed to gain entry into Lee’s workshop and made copies of the submersible’s plans.” The colonel indicated the drawings. “Not exactly draughtsman’s quality, I’ll grant you, but more than sufficient for our needs. A short time later, he learned that trials of the weapon were due to be conducted on the Seine and infiltrated the area to observe proceedings.”

“But he was discovered,” the admiral broke in, shifting in his chair. “He managed to escape by the skin of his teeth, with the drawings of the submersible, but he was severely wounded. He was sheltered by Royalist sympathizers until he was well enough to travel. They then arranged passage for him back to England. He was landed at Dover and was on his way to London when his coach was held up on the Kent Road. He was murdered and his plans of the submersible were stolen…” The admiral paused. “The rest you know.”

The colonel picked up one of the sketches and stared at it intently. “We believe the submersible boat is now operational and ready to be used against our convoys. We also believe that Bonaparte has contracted Lee to attack a specific target. What we do not know is the nature of that target.”

Hawkwood was still having trouble with the logistics. “But how does the weapon work? How does it deliver the bombs?”

“What?” Congreve perked up. “The bombs, you say? Ah yes, of course, well, it’s dashed simple, really.” The colonel smiled suddenly. “But then they say the best inventions always are.”

Hawkwood wondered if the colonel was alluding to his own experimental rockets. Recalling their erratic behaviour, they had looked anything but simple.

The colonel picked up the pencil once more. “Now, where are we?” The colonel reached for the sketch of the submersible and pointed. “You see the dome? There’s a barbed spike attached to a rod that sticks out from the top of it. Fulton called it the horn. When the submersible is positioned beneath the target vessel, the bottom of the rod is struck from inside the dome, driving the spike up into the target’s hull. You follow?”

Hawkwood nodded.

“When the spike is secure, the submersible detaches itself, leaving the spike embedded in the target’s hull. At the bow of the submersible there’s a windlass controlled from inside the craft. A line runs aft, from the windlass, through a ring in the spike to the submersible’s stern…” the colonel moved the pencil point “…where it’s attached to a copper barrel containing gunpowder and a primer. As the submersible moves off, the line on the windlass is released. When all the line is played out, the forward motion of the submersible is transferred to the barrel by means of the line passing through the hole in the spike. This detaches the barrel, drawing it against the side of the target. The contact causes the primer to spark and ignite the powder.” The colonel grinned. “The rest I’ll leave to your imagination.”

Ingenious, Hawkwood thought, didn’t begin to describe it. He peered past the pencil point, still hovering above the sketch. “How big would the charge have to be?”

The colonel shrugged. “Not that great. Twenty pounds, perhaps. That amount of powder will do more damage under water than it would on land. The force of a detonation doesn’t disperse as easily in water as it does in compressible air.”

Astonishing, Hawkwood thought. And you’d never hear a damned thing until it was too late. “And the hammer and trigger—some kind of timing device?”

The colonel nodded. “That would be my guess.”

“And the writing?” Hawkwood asked.

“Writing?” the colonel said.

“There,” Hawkwood said, indicating the faint lettering.

The colonel turned the paper in his hand and peered myopically.

“It doesn’t make much sense,” Hawkwood said. “The…t-i-s—the rest of the word’s missing.”

James Read moved to look over Hawkwood’s shoulder.

The colonel shook his head. “Means nothing to me. What about you, gentlemen? Sir Charles? Admiral?”

The First Sea Lord frowned, looked down, and his eyes widened. “Good God!” Charles Yorke turned towards the Admiral. He looked to be a man on the verge of a seizure. “Thetis!”

Dalryde’s face went white.

Not two words then, only one. Yet Hawkwood was still none the wiser. He threw a glance of mute appeal towards James Read but, to his consternation, the Chief Magistrate appeared equally perplexed, by both the word and the reaction it had provoked.

“Greek mythology, I believe. Thetis was one of the Nereids, a sea god.” The magistrate’s brow furrowed in doubt as he caught the exchange of looks between Dalryde and Charles Yorke. “Then again,” he said softly, “perhaps it has another significance.”

The First Sea Lord was the one who spoke. After a further glance at Dalryde he said, “She’s a warship.”

“Warship?” Read echoed.

Thetis, it transpired, was not only a Greek deity. HMS Thetis was a brand-new seventy-four-gun Surveyors’ class two-decker currently moored at Deptford naval yard in preparation for upcoming sea trials. After which, the ship was destined to join the Royal Navy’s Channel Fleet.

James Read looked sharply at the Admiral. “When?”

Dalryde blinked. “The twenty-seventh—two days’ time. She’s due to call in at Woolwich to be coppered and rigged, then Sheerness to take on armament and the rest of her crew. She’ll be at sea for a week, then it’s across to Portsmouth to join the squadron.”

There followed a silence, during which the First Sea Lord continued to look pensive.

“Something else, my lord?” James Read enquired.

Charles Yorke hesitated, then nodded. “The Prince Regent.”

The Chief Magistrate looked nonplussed. “Another ship?”

But that wasn’t what the First Sea Lord meant. He shook his head unhappily. “No, I mean the Prince Regent. His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”

Read stared back at Charles Yorke. “What about him?”

“It’s His Royal Highness’s intention to visit the ship and accompany her on the first part of her journey.”

“To Sheerness?” The Chief Magistrate’s face was a picture of incredulity.

Charles Yorke shook his head again. “Woolwich.”

Hardly an epic voyage of discovery, Hawkwood thought. It sounded as if the Prince was fulfilling one of his many and increasing fantasies. It was well known that His Royal Highness held several delusions above his already exalted station. It was not unheard of for the Prince to dress up as a famous warrior from history—a medieval monarch, even a Chinese mandarin—and relive scenes from a blood-soaked and glorious military career, usually to the acute embarrassment of friends and sycophants who were either too loyal or too afraid to tell him the truth: that his prowess on the battlefield existed only in his own fertile imagination.

No doubt, Hawkwood reflected, the Prince’s trip along the river would metamorphose at a later date into a second Battle of the Nile, with the prince a veritable hero of the quarterdeck.

The Chief Magistrate fixed the First Sea Lord with a gimlet eye. “And why was my office not informed of this?”

The First Sea Lord shrugged. “Perhaps his Royal Highness did not want to burden you with trivialities.”

“Trivialities?” Read responded sharply. “I would hardly consider the protection of the Prince Regent a triviality.”

Charles Yorke sighed. “This was not perceived to be a civilian matter, Read, and His Royal Highness will not want for protection. A contingent of marines has already been drafted in from the Woolwich yard. He’ll be escorted for the entire journey. There’s no cause for concern.”

“There was no cause for concern,” Read said venomously. “I would submit that circumstances have changed somewhat in light of this new development, wouldn’t you?”

Charles Yorke straightened. “Good grief, man! His Highness will be perfectly safe. He’s only going as far as Woolwich. It’s not the bloody Baltic!”

“You still intend him to go through with the visit?” Read said.

The First Sea Lord gave a tight smile. “It’d take a braver man than me to tell his Royal Highness that his visit’s been cancelled. Word is, he’s already taken delivery of a new uniform from Schweitzer and Davidson. Let’s pray it’s something appropriate and that he doesn’t turn up looking like the Sultan of Ranjipur.” The First Sea Lord lifted a caustic eyebrow. “You know what he’s like.” Adding quickly, “No offence, Colonel. I know you count His Highness as a friend, but sometimes…”

Congreve gave an amused shake of his head and waved a hand. “None taken, my lord.”

Charles Yorke was being surprisingly indiscreet, Hawkwood thought, though he could well understand the First Sea Lord’s apprehension. The Prince was renowned for his flamboyant costumes, often of his own design, incorporating everything from leopard-skin sabretaches to gold epaulettes, all of which bore little resemblance to any recognizable regimental attire.

“Besides,” the First Sea Lord continued, “he’s in no danger, not in the middle of London.” He turned to Dalryde. “However, once the ship reaches the estuary, that is a different matter. I want her captain summoned. And send a signal to the senior officer, Sheerness Dockyard. No, better still, issue a dispatch to all commanders on station in the Thames Estuary. ’Utmost vigilance to be employed in the defence of all vessels.’ Best to be on the safe side.”

As he gave the order, the First Sea Lord moved briskly to the wall above the fireplace. Affixed to the wall were a dozen rolled charts. He chose one and lifted it down. A space was cleared on the table and the chart was unfurled. Hawkwood saw that it covered the mouth of the Thames from Tilbury eastwards to Harwich, then south to Margate. To Hawkwood, it looked to be a vast area. How could you protect a vessel from something you couldn’t see?

“We can increase patrols,” Yorke said, as if reading Hawkwood’s thoughts. “Lower netting, deploy boats to form a defensive ring, post extra lookouts.”

“Why not warn vessels to head for port?” Hawkwood suggested.

“Certainly not!” The First Sea Lord bristled. “You can’t have the ships of His Majesty’s Navy scurrying for cover like frightened rabbits! No, by God, we’ll face this threat with grit and determination. We’ll show Bonaparte it’s still Britain who rules the waves, not some colonial upstart in an upturned bloody rum cask!”

As the Board Members continued to examine the charts, the Chief Magistrate drew Hawkwood aside. “You see now,” Read murmured, “why it is imperative we track down our highwaymen? We must find out who they were working for.”

“You think French agents?” Hawkwood said.

“Quite possibly. We know full well Bonaparte has spies in England. It’s likely Ramillies’ pursuers in France got word to them. It’s probably how they knew Ramillies was on the coach. It’s vital, therefore, that we run our villains to ground. Likewise, we need to know Runner Warlock’s role in all this. How did the plans come into his possession? The Mandrake connection certainly concerns me. I suggest you make enquiries in that direction, especially as we’ve not yet heard from your underworld friends.”

“There is someone who may be able to help,” Hawkwood said.

“Good,” Read said. The Chief Magistrate glanced towards Yorke’s broad back. His face was neutral. When he turned back to Hawkwood, he kept his voice low. “Do what you have to do. Whatever it takes.”