‘A river mist often lifts quite quickly as the sun comes up,’ said Cribb.
‘Stow your gammon, Copper,’ growled Millar. ‘You’re a dead man. Have the decency to behave like one.’
The launch chugged steadily out into deeper water, with the black hull of the submarine boat settling in its wake. Occasionally a distant ship’s siren sounded, but otherwise they were detached from the world. Visibility was variable, never more than fifty yards. Once they glimpsed a massive sailing-vessel, moored on the starboard side.
‘The
‘Close behind,’ Millar confirmed. He chuckled softly.
‘What’s amusing you?’ asked Carse.
‘I was thinking it’s a good thing Devlin ain’t great shakes as a conversationalist, because he won’t be getting much response from his passengers, McGee being dumb and Thackeray out to the world.’
They cruised on through Fiddler’s Reach and made the steep turn into Northfleet Hope, pressing against the flood tide at little more than four knots. ‘The steamboat jetty at Northfleet is the next landmark,’ said Carse. ‘I’ll move in close so that we don’t miss it. Soon after that we’ll stop the engines and let Devlin draw alongside to take the copper aboard. I never did find out your name, did I?’
‘Sargent will do,’ said Cribb.
‘Well then, Sargent, you’d better consider whether there’s a last message we can pass to Scotland Yard on your behalf. You’ll be taking your leave of us in a few minutes.’
‘That looks like the jetty,’ said Millar.
‘Yes, that’s it. And that will be the entrance to Northfleet dockyard,’ said Carse. ‘Any last words, Mr Sargent?’
As Cribb replied, he looked directly across the cabin at Rossanna. ‘I’ve made my arrangements, thank you.’ Silently, he mouthed the words he had spoken in her room the night before, ‘Trust me.’
She nodded, unseen by Millar, who was peering through the mist for the first sighting of Gravesend.
‘Please yourself,’ said Carse. ‘We’ve tried to do our best for you. Not every unsuccessful police spy gets a coffin made of Siemens-Martin steel, subscribed by Irish patriots. I’m shutting down the engines now, Millar. Signal Devlin to heave to alongside us, will you?’
The monstrous vessel sidled close to the launch, and presently the lid of the conning-tower opened and Devlin’s head appeared.
‘I think this will do,’ Carse called up to him. ‘How is she performing?’
‘She’s a capital craft,’ said Devlin.
‘Will you need more ballast when she submerges? I’ve got half a crate more of dynamite here on deck, ready to transfer if you need it.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Devlin. ‘Let’s get Sargent aboard.’ He lifted a short metal ladder from inside the conning-tower and attached it to the side.
Cribb felt a prod in the back from Millar. ‘Move up the ladder, Copper. Lean well forward and you shouldn’t fall.’
Aided by several timely shoves from behind, Cribb negotiated the rungs. At the top, Devlin had emerged from the conning-tower. He grasped Cribb’s shoulders as firmly as a throwing-hammer, summoned his strength with an emphatic grunt, and tipped him head first into the hatch. Like a hundredweight of coal, Cribb plunged towards the impact that promised to shatter his skull. By the fortune that only ever favoured him
‘Get to the aft end, with your mate,’ Devlin called, as he dropped down after him, and aimed a kick at his ribs. Cribb squirmed out of range, past the small, hunched figure of McGee, propped against a crate of dynamite. The interior was well-lit by two electric light bulbs. He recognised Thackeray’s recumbent form and wedged himself beside it. The constable was breathing through his open mouth. With each exhalation the top layer of whiskers on his beard flattened like grass on a railway embankment. It would be quite some time before he regained his senses. There was no hope of help from that quarter for hours to come.
‘He’s well dosed with chloral,’ Devlin said, clambering after Cribb. ‘I’ve taken the precaution of binding his hands and feet, in case he wakes up before five past ten. And now I’m going to put a cord round your ankles and tether them to this stanchion, so that you don’t disturb McGee. You can shout as much as you like, though, because he’s stone deaf.’
Cribb felt the cord bite into his shins. Devlin’s technique of fettering a man matched his strength. It would be impossible to escape without assistance.
‘In case you wondered where the bomb is located,’ said Devlin, ‘I fitted it under the engine, by removing one of the steel plates and then riveting it back. There’s no way of reaching your infernal machine from inside, Brother Sargent. Of course, you may move the dynamite about as much as you like if you succeed in getting free, but nothing you do in here can prevent this boat from being blown into a million pieces when the time comes.’ He took out his watch. ‘Lord, it’s almost eight o’clock already. Time I gave McGee his instructions.’ He returned to the front of the boat, picked up the crippled man from the deck with ease, and positioned him on the pilot’s seat. Then, standing where McGee could follow the movements of his lips, he slowly identified the controls. ‘Wheel. Starting switch. Levers to admit the water-ballast, to put the boat in diving trim. This switch controls the force-pump which ejects the water from the ballast chambers. .’
Cribb listened keenly as the entire process was twice repeated. From where he was, it was difficult to see any of the controls, or how McGee was responding to the lesson.
‘Now, it is quite straightforward,’ Devlin insisted, articulating each word separately to assist comprehension, ‘I shall start the engine and you need not switch it off until the boat is in position under the pier. To set the propellers in motion pull this handle towards you. You will then be under way. To submerge, push down the ballast- levers here and here. .’ By degrees, the instruction took a simpler turn. ‘Now remember, this one to move forward. These, to go down. This to come up again. This for speed. And this to stop. The pier is two hundred yards ahead, so you will need to surface more than once. You will see the flags ahead. Do you understand? Very well. Now it is time to practise.’
The engine stuttered into life, sending painful vibrations through those parts of Cribb’s body which still retained some feeling.
‘Open the ballast chambers,’ ordered Devlin. ‘Excellent. Now we are in diving trim. Take her slowly forward.’
He took McGee systematically through the manoeuvres required to steer the boat to its position below the pier. As it submerged completely for the first time, Cribb dimly registered that the experience lacked the charm of taking to the air in a balloon, but he was frankly more occupied with devising some means of escape than savouring a new sensation. He nudged Thackeray sharply with his heels. There was still not the faintest response in the somnolent features.
‘Splendidly done! You’ll cope without any trouble at all,’ Devlin announced from the controls. ‘It’s time I left you. I must call up the launch. Once I’ve closed the lid on the conning-tower, you can move off when you like. I’m leaving a clock here on top of this crate. It’s twenty-five minutes past eight now. You should have enough air down here to keep you alive for two hours, and you won’t need that much, will you? We wouldn’t want you to suffocate. That’s an ugly way to go. So there’s just a hundred minutes to wait for a moment of history, gentlemen. God save Ireland!’
After those heroic sentiments, Cribb’s final sight of Devlin before the hatch was sealed was the seat of his trousers moving upwards to freedom. The sound of the lid closing reverberated through the submarine boat.
Painfully, Cribb lifted his head to see whether McGee was equal to the task of moving the boat into position. He had appeared to understand Devlin’s instructions, but could he function independently?
The answer was not long in coming. McGee leaned forward and pulled a lever. The boat began to move through the water. Cribb heard water churning into the ballast chambers beneath him. The submarine boat dipped below the surface. In a few seconds they surfaced, presumably to get a sighting of the pier through the scuttles, and then they submerged again in the approved ‘porpoising’ mode of navigation. The effort of concentration going on in the few functioning parts of that shattered brain must have been prodigious.
