Ratcatcher

18

“Narwhale?” Hawkwood said.

Lee stroked the bulkhead affectionately. “Monodon monoceros. A small whale, native of the northern oceans. With one unique feature: a single horn in the centre of its forehead. Tulpius named it unicornus marinum, the unicorn of the sea. You know of the unicorn, Captain? A mythical beast, small, fast, elusive, it attacks the powerful, braves all dangers, seeks out carnage and has no equal in battle.” Lee smiled. “A small indulgence of mine. Much more romantic than naming her after a shellfish, wouldn’t you agree?”

Hawkwood said nothing. Who the hell was Tulpius? he wondered.

He looked around. The interior of the vessel was like nothing he’d encountered before. They were in the space below the tower, the only part of the boat where a crew member could stand fully upright.

The deck was flat, but the hull, supported by a frame of metal stays not unlike the ribcage of a large fish, curved around them, enclosing them inside a bewildering array of levers, cranks and cogwheels, the solid manifestation of the drawing he had found in Warlock’s baton. He was immediately aware that the inside of the boat was smaller than its outer measurements suggested.

“She’s double-hulled,” Lee explained, patting the bulkhead. “Keeps us watertight and we use the space between for storage and ballast.” Lee tapped his foot on the deck. “Main ballast is down below. We don’t need much. Ten pounds or thereabouts.” Lee pointed to a small lever. “Pump water in, we sink. Pump water out, we float. The same way a fish moves through the ocean. They have a swim bladder. It’s by the bladder’s dilations and contractions that the volume of the fish is increased or diminished, enabling it to rise to the surface or sink to the bottom.”

Lee was like a child with a new toy, pointing to and explaining the function of the controls; from the handles that turned the blades at bow and stern—Lee called them wings—to the cranks that controlled the horizontal and vertical rudders. Depth was measured by a crude barometer, direction by a small compass. Lee nodded through the tangle of ratchets and gears, towards what looked like a large copper globe tucked against the aft bulkhead. “And that’s our air reservoir; two hundred and fifty cubic feet; enough to sustain four men and two candles for five hours. We used to precipitate carbonic acid with lime or carry bottles of oxygen, but they took up too much damned room. With this system, I can release air into the vessel when I require it.”

Four men! Hawkwood tried to imagine what that would be like in such a confined space. Even with just the two of them below and Sparrow still on deck, the sense of claustrophobia was stifling, as was the smell; it carried with it the slight redolence that lingered in a ship’s bilges; breathable but not exactly pleasant.

Lee grinned at Hawkwood’s expression. “Snug, ain’t she? But don’t worry, We won’t be down as long as that. Maybe an hour or two. Spent six hours in her once, bottom of Le Havre basin. That was a day to remember! Mind you, that’s nothing compared to the Mute.”

“Mute?” Hawkwood said.

“Fulton’s new design. He tells me she’ll be nearly four times as long as this boat. Probably be able to stay down ten, twelve hours at a time.”

As Hawkwood’s brain tried to grasp the awesome implications of that statement, a boot heel on metal announced Sparrow’s arrival.

“She’s ready,” Sparrow said.

Lee nodded. “Very well. Officer Hawkwood, you take a seat on the deck over there. Secure his hands to that rib, Mr Sparrow. Don’t want him running around loose, do we?” Lee grinned. “And when you’ve finished making our guest comfortable, I’d be obliged if you’d close the hatch and stand by the pumps.”

Hawkwood, held fast to the bulkhead, watched as they prepared the boat for submergence.

The hatch clanged shut. There was a finality to the sound that made Hawkwood’s mouth go dry. A spasm of panic moved through him and he had a fleeting thought that this was what it must be like to be buried alive. And then he saw, unexpectedly, that he was not sitting in total darkness. There was light inside the boat. Half a dozen thin shafts of pale luminescence pierced the submersible’s interior. He saw that Lee was watching him with an amused expression.

“Did you think Sparrow and I had supernatural powers, Captain? That we could see in the dark?” The American smiled. “Candles consume air, my friend, and air is valuable. I’ve constructed several small windows in the deck. Not large—two inches in circumference and an inch in depth. Each window, as you can see, is guarded by a valve. In the unlikely event of the glass breaking, the valve will close and keep out the water. They’re quite sufficient for our needs. Even under the surface, I’ll be able to consult my watch and compass, and in the event of an unexpected solar eclipse, we do carry a lantern on board.” Lee grinned. In the semi-darkness, the American’s teeth looked as if they’d been carved from ivory.

Hawkwood did not smile back.

Lee, suddenly brisk, stood inside the tower and pulled down a small hinged seat. Perching himself on the rest, the American pressed his eye to a small rectangular bubble of glass set in the forward-facing curve of the tower. Three more identical windows gave views to port, aft, and starboard. They did not provide a complete 360-degree panorama, but the restricted view from each was sufficient for him to judge the boat’s position and its relation to other vessels that might be in the vicinity.

“Stand by, Mr Sparrow.”

“You’re mad, Lee,” Hawkwood said. “You think people aren’t going to notice the bloody boat going down?”

Lee took his eye from the window and shrugged. “Oh, they might notice, but what are they going to do? By the time the nearest vessel gets within boarding distance, we’ll be beneath the surface, invisible. They’ll think they imagined it, that their eyes deceived them.”

Sparrow’s hands rested ready on the pump handle.

Lee turned his back and watched the river. Despite his response to Hawkwood’s taunt, the submersible was not entirely immune to danger. The time between lowering the sail, clearing the deck and closing the hatch was when the Narwhale was at its most vulnerable. With no one on deck, the boat would look as if it was drifting and therefore, to those of an unscrupulous disposition, available for the taking. Lee was relying on surprise and his own ability. Fulton had been able to submerge the Nautilus in two minutes. Lee, by redesigning the efficiency of the pumping system, had cut down the Narwhale’s diving time to a fraction over ninety seconds. For those on board, however, it would still seem like a lifetime.

Lee discovered, as he always did at this critical juncture, that he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly, keeping his eye to the glass. The nearest vessel, as far as he could see, was a collier, one hundred yards over the bow, heading downriver. It didn’t appear to be making much headway, indicating that the breeze had dropped considerably. From his low angle of vision, the river looked vast, with only a slight swell disturbing the sullen surface.

Timing was crucial.

“Now, Mr Sparrow!”

Sparrow gripped the lever with both hands and pushed down. Immediately, a low gurgling sound filled the hull. The vessel trembled. Using both hands, Sparrow began to pump, his movements steady and unhurried. Hawkwood felt the deck shift beneath him and braced himself against the hull. Slowly, the submersible’s bow began to tilt. Sparrow’s hands continued to depress and raise the pump lever. Each motion was accompanied by what sounded like bellows inflating and deflating. Hawkwood discovered that his fists were clenched so tightly his nails were digging into his palms.

The gurgling continued, but the vessel’s movements were becoming less pronounced. Gradually, the deck began to level off. Suddenly the light dimmed. Hawkwood looked up. One by one, the thin shafts of illumination from the windows were fading. Hawkwood felt the cold bubbles of sweat break out beneath his armpits. He looked towards Lee. There was a translucent sheen to Lee’s skin. The tiny windows set into the deck were acting like prisms, absorbing the light filtering down from the surface, inscribing the American’s features with a curious reptilian caste.

“Stop pumping, Mr Sparrow.” The American’s voice was very calm.

Sparrow ceased his exertions. Five feet beneath the surface of the Thames, the Narwhale hovered, like a fly trapped in amber. The sense of stillness was uncanny, as if the submersible was suspended in time. Hawkwood was relieved to discover that the American had been right and that there was still enough light to see. A low rasping sound, like fingernails being drawn across a slate, broke the spell and Hawkwood started violently.

“Just our movement with the current. No need to be alarmed.” Lee left his seat and began to peer closely into the darker recesses of the compartment. Hawkwood assumed the American was checking for leaks. Evidently satisfied that the integrity of the hull was secure, Lee caught Hawkwood’s eye and smiled. “Tell me you’re not impressed.”

Hawkwood didn’t answer. He was too preoccupied with his own heartbeat, waiting for it to stop pounding like a tinker’s drum.

Lee appeared unperturbed by the lack of response. “And this is only the beginning. Imagine a fleet of these vessels at your command. War would become obsolete, a fairy tale told only in story books.”

“How so?” Hawkwood finally found his voice.

“They say a country’s only as strong as its navy. Destroy a nation’s warships and you take away its backbone.” The American paused and shrugged. “At least, that’s what Fulton and Bonaparte reckon. You want to know Bonaparte’s plan?”

“I’ve a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway,” Hawkwood said.

“Bonaparte thinks my blowing up Thetis will frighten the British Navy into submission. Confidence in your seamen will vanish, your fleet will be rendered useless. The Emperor believes that’ll be the signal for British republicans to rise up. With Britain a republic, the seas will be free, and liberty of the seas will mean a guarantee of peace for all nations.”

“Then Bonaparte’s mad,” Hawkwood said, and wondered, even as he spoke, if there was such a creature as a British republican. It was a possibility, he supposed, but it was doubtful there’d be enough of them to ferment and organize revolution.

Lee appeared to give the possibility the same degree of consideration. “Maybe, but he’s the one with the money, so who am I to disagree?”

“How much is he paying you?”

Lee smiled. “For Thetis? 250,000 francs. After that, it’ll depend on the size of the vessel. Up to twenty guns, 150,000 francs; twenty to thirty guns, 200,000 francs; and 400,000 francs for anything over thirty guns. Sufficient for my modest needs.”

Hawkwood recalled his conversation at the Admiralty Office and the huge sums demanded by Lee’s predecessor, Fulton. It appeared Bonaparte was paying the American the going rate. In other words, a small fortune.

“How do you plan to get out? Even if you do manage to destroy the ship, you’ll never make it back to the sea.”

“Oh, we’ll make it, never you fear.”

“How?”

Lee smiled knowingly. “Same way we came in. Under tow. There’s a Dutch brig moored off High Bridge. Her captain’s a sympathizer. Well, no, that’s not strictly true. The Frogs are holding his wife and family hostage so he doesn’t get any fancy ideas. I’m listed as first mate, Sparrow’s down as cook. She’ll be the swan to the Narwhale’s cygnet.” Lee jerked his thumb. “The tower’s detachable. We’ll stow it inside a wine cask, lash it to the deck with a few others, tie up to the brig’s stern rail, and it’s homeward bound. Couldn’t be easier. We’ll drop you off downriver. You’ll be dead, of course, but sacrifices have to be made, I’m sure you understand.”

You certainly couldn’t fault the man’s confidence, Hawkwood thought. The taste of bile rose sour in his throat. “So, what happens now?”

Lee angled his pocket watch towards one of the small ports and squinted at the dial.

“Now we wait.”

Hauling back on the oars, Jago cursed his creaking bones and reflected that he hadn’t done this much hard labour since he’d left the army. His palms were raw from the scrape of the oar handles. In the Rifles, he had always prided himself on his fitness and stamina, but he was a civilian now, damn it. He should be taking it easy, enjoying the fruits of his labours, not running around like a bloody lunatic. It was all Hawkwood’s fault, of course. Give the man an inch and he took a bloody mile. But Hawkwood, all things considered, was probably the closest thing Jago had to a friend. And if there was one thing the army taught you, it was that you stood by your friends. And Hawkwood had stood by Jago more times than the ex-sergeant could count. Now, Hawkwood was in trouble. It was time to repay his debts.

Jago paused, twisted in his seat, wiped sweat from his brow, and looked downriver. Without the advantage of height, his view was restricted by the ever-changing flow of traffic. He could no longer see the sailboat with Sparrow at the helm, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d imagined it. He swore viciously. No, it had been Sparrow he’d seen, he was certain of it. But so what? He didn’t know for sure that Sparrow even had a connection with Lee and his undersea boat. On the other hand, Sparrow had been a mate of Spiker’s and, though the link was tenuous, it was all he had to go on. Nathaniel Jago was running on instinct. He tried not to think about the consequences if he was wrong. They were worrying enough if he was right.

I know you’re out there, Sparrow. I can bloody smell you! So come on, you bastard, show yourself!

Without warning, a gap suddenly widened between the vessels ahead of him, giving a clear view of the open stretch of water beyond, and it was then that he saw it. The sailboat was some five hundred yards over the port bow. The vessel didn’t appear to have made much headway since his last sighting. It was still hugging the eastern side of the river, close-hauled against the oncoming breeze. But then, even as Jago watched, the stern of the sailboat began to come around.

An angry bellow erupted from Jago’s starboard side. A heavily laden bumboat was on a collision course. Jago dug in his oars as the vessel cut across his bow, heading for the Dog and Duck Stairs.

“Move your bloody arse!” Jago bellowed. The bumboat wallowed past with infuriating slowness. The tiller-man raised an angry fist. The gesture was accompanied by a torrent of oaths. With his way eventually clear, Jago, echoing the tiller-man’s curse, plunged the oars back into the water and began searching urgently for his quarry.

Where the hell was it?

Jago blinked. The sailboat could hardly have been out of his sight for more than a couple of minutes at the most. There was no way it could have made it to shore in that time. It had to be out there somewhere. He should have purloined the spyglass, he thought, brought the damned thing with him. But Jago’s eyesight was good. He had been a rifleman, and riflemen needed the eyes of a hawk to target enemy officers. So Jago narrowed his eyes and scoured the river. Plenty of similar vessels about, but not the one he was looking for. No sailboat with a brandy keg at the stern. Shit and piss!

Then he saw the arm, pointing.

The arm was attached to a crewman on a dirt boat. The dirt boat was cutting across the river, probably en route to the Deptford yard with a hold full of ballast. Something had caught the crewman’s eye. Jago followed the direction of the outstretched arm, squinted hard. There was something in the water.

A barrel, bobbing incongruously with the current, probably lost overboard by some passing lighter or merchantman; nothing to get excited about. And yet…Jago looked back at the dirt boat. The crewman had been joined by one of his mates. Both of them were pointing now. It seemed an undue amount of attention for a discarded wine cask.

Wine cask?

Jago stood up, stared harder, and watched as the cask sank slowly beneath the water. Not a single ripple marked its passing.

Christ on a bloody cross!

Showing remarkable speed for such a big man, Jago dropped down into the boat and scrambled for the oars. Nathanial Jago had walked the cold stone passage of Mandrake’s warehouse as if the Devil had been on his shoulder. Now he began to row as if the Devil was at his heels.

“What happens if it sinks?” Hawkwood asked.

Lee glanced up from his pocket watch and frowned. “It’s a goddamned submersible. It’s supposed to sink.”

“I don’t mean on purpose,” Hawkwood said. “I mean if something happens. How do you get out?”

Lee appeared unperturbed by the likelihood. “You detach the keel, and float up.”

“And if that doesn’t happen?”

“Then you hold your breath, and pray.”

Hawkwood stared at him.

Lee sighed. “If you can’t detach the weight of the keel, the only way out is through the hatch. But you can’t simply open it and swim out. The incoming water pressure would be too great. The only way would be to open the valves and allow the hull to flood. Once the hull’s flooded, there’s equal pressure inside and out. Only then could you open the hatch and swim to the surface.” Lee chuckled darkly. “I commend you, Officer Hawkwood. Your desire for self-preservation is quite admirable. Futile, but admirable.”

Lee snapped his watch shut. “But enough. The tide’s reached its height. Time we were making a move, Mr Sparrow. Stand by to take her up.”

Lee relayed crisp instructions and the submersible began to rise. Lee pressed his eye to the forward window. “Hold!”

Hawkwood sensed that the top of the submersible’s tower had breached the surface. He watched Lee. The American was concentrating on the river and studying his watch and compass, taking bearings.

Sparrow took the opportunity to remove his shirt. Clothed, Sparrow’s physique had seemed insubstantial. Now, Hawkwood could see the man was wiry rather than thin. As a deckhand, Sparrow would have been no stranger to ropes and rigging and manual graft, and the muscles in his upper body and his flat stomach hinted at both strength and stamina. Sweat glazed his chest and forearms. Hawkwood found himself staring at the seaman’s back. Sparrow’s flesh was a mosaic of crisscrossing scar tissue. The scars were old, Hawkwood saw, but there was no disguising what they were: the legacy of a severe flogging, possibly more than one. It probably explained why, like Scully, he was working for the American. Another abused, disaffected seaman—in all likelihood a former mutineer—looking for vengeance.

Eye pressed against the tiny window, Lee’s hands moved to the rudder controls. “Now, Mr Sparrow. Steady as she goes.”

Sparrow began to turn the crank. His effort was accompanied by the sound of cogs meshing, as if a clock was being tightly wound. The Narwhale vibrated. Hawkwood felt the vessel shift on its axis. Slowly, the submersible began to come about. At first, the movement was uneven, but as Sparrow eased into his rhythm, progress through the water became smoother. Only the hypnotic click of the gearing mechanism and Sparrow’s breathing as he turned the propeller crank gave any indication that the vessel was in motion.

Lee’s eye was glued to the tiny window. Occasionally his gaze would shift to the compass dial and his hands would alter the angle of the rudder to maintain the vessel’s course. He knew this would be the last time they could raise the Narwhale without attracting attention. After this it would be too risky exposing the tower so close to unfriendly eyes on ship and shore.

Lee did not have a lot of room to play with. Even at the height of a spring tide, the river bottomed out at a little over three fathoms, which didn’t leave a great deal of leeway either above or beneath the hull. And over the years, the river had been gradually silting up. There’d probably come a time, not too far distant, when the dockyard would no longer be able to handle ships of large tonnage. As it was, Deptford was too far upriver, with insufficient depth of water, to allow ships to sail down to the mouth fully armed and victualled. Current practice, once a ship had been launched, was to rig a jury mast and float her down to Woolwich, where she would be docked, coppered and rigged in preparation for sea trials.

And HMS Thetis was about to make that first auspicious journey.

The warship looked mightily impressive, Lee conceded, as he peered through the glass. As bright as a new pin in the morning sunshine. He could see that the jury mast had been raised. Cut from a single Norfolk Island pine, it rose tall and slender, as straight as an arrow from her midsection, A temporary boom had also been attached. Bunting and flags fluttered gaily from every rail. It was going to be a grand occasion.

He could see movement at her bow and stern as the crew made final preparations for departure. A tremor of excitement moved through him.

Hawkwood looked over his bound wrists, saw the American stiffen and sensed they were close and that Lee probably had the target in his sights. Which meant that he was fast running out of time. Lee was about to commence his attack and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop him.

“She’s a beautiful sight, my friend.” Lee grinned. “But you’ll have to take my word for that.” Lee turned. “Pity she’s going to end the day as kindling. Steady, Mr Sparrow. We don’t want any mishaps this close to home.”

The submersible moved ahead cautiously and Lee pressed his eye to the glass once more. He was looking for defences, festoons of netting, fenders, a ring of decoys—anything that would indicate that they were anticipating an attack. But, astonishingly, the ship appeared to be unprotected. Lee recalled Hawkwood’s attempted bluff, when the Runner had told him he had men outside the warehouse. There had been no men, no support, no reinforcements. Hawkwood had been on his own. Which indicated that Hawkwood’s assertion that the authorities knew about the attack on Thetis had also been an exaggeration. They undoubtedly thought the attack was going to take place further downriver, in the estuary, not in the middle of London. Lee grinned to himself. Damned fools! He was about to deliver a blow that would shake the British out of their complacency.

Lee gave the order to submerge. As silently as a ghost, the Narwhale sank beneath the waters of the Thames. Less than two hundred yards separated the submarine from its unsuspecting prey.