The vessel surfaced twice more, taking the long, low dive that meant McGee was moving it towards its final berth below the pier. It powered steadily ahead for seven seconds before he shut off the engine. The vibration wracking Cribb’s body stopped. They glided silently forward for an interval too charged with tension to estimate accurately. Then there was a muffled bump. Another, stronger in impact, caused the boat to lurch towards starboard, before righting itself. A case of dynamite slid across the space behind McGee and stopped on the opposite side of the deck. The submarine boat was stationary. They were resting on the bottom of the Thames. Somewhere above them was Gravesend pier, decorated with the flags of the Empire and His Royal Highness’s personal standard.
Cribb peered at Thackeray to see whether the jolting of the boat had made any difference. It had not.
The situation, then, was clear. A cynic might have described it as desperately clear. They were sealed from outside help by three fathoms of water. There was no chance at all of Cribb releasing himself from his bonds: he might as well have been wearing a strait-jacket. He would get no help from McGee. Thackeray was insensible, and tied hand and foot like himself.
Not quite like himself. They had not bothered with the additional constraint of the two straps about the arms, perhaps because they recognised that the chloral was more than enough to incapacitate him. He was bound around the ankles and wrists.
By turning on his side and leaning forward, Cribb could see the face of the clock Devlin had left behind. Five past nine. If his only hope of release was Thackeray’s emergence from oblivion, then he
How would he do it? With his teeth. Thank the Lord for a decent set of grinders!
First it was necessary to move Thackeray on to his side, no easy achievement with a sixteen stone man. It was no use nudging him fitfully with the knees. The job required leverage. He obtained it by planting his feet against the stanchion to which they were tied and wriggling into a position where his thighs were pressed against his chest and his left shoulder was wedged under Thackeray’s right hip. By bracing his legs he succeeded in pressing the constable’s substantial form so hard against the side of the boat that it was forced to turn. Once the right hip was pushed off the deck, it was like rolling a log. Thackeray’s face turned to the wall and his bound hands appeared from under him.
They were tied with rope lashed two or three times round each wrist and then wound repeatedly round both, before being brought between the hands to cross the ligature so formed and bind it laterally. The two ends were secured by a formidable knot. The only encouraging thing about it was that it was in a position where Cribb could work at it with his teeth.
After twenty minutes, he had made no impression at all. It was Devlin’s handiwork, he decided. A boatman’s knowledge of working with rope, and a hammer-thrower’s strength is a redoubtable combination. In the next ten minutes, however, he succeeded in loosening and separating the first join in the knot.
There was also a change in the rate of Thackeray’s breathing, but whether it indicated returning consciousness or mild suffocation from lying face and beard downwards was difficult to estimate.
Twenty-five minutes to ten. Above them, the final arrangements for the Prince’s reception would be under way. Roads adjacent to the river would be closed to traffic and the inspection party would be parading on the pier, with the Gravesend silver band tuning up in the background.
He applied his teeth to the next section of the knot and worried it like a terrier, his lips smarting from contact with the rope-fibres. It came away more readily. Encouraged, he jerked the ends clear and shifted the angle of his head to meet the new formation. It was slower to yield, but he worked it loose by sheer persistence.
Ten minutes to ten. The simple reef knot towards which he had been working was now revealed. He fastened his teeth on the part affording the best grip and doggedly disengaged it. He had mastered Devlin’s knot!
As if in tribute, Thackeray emitted a long, low groan.
Five to ten.
‘Thackeray! Can you hear me?’
No response.
There was still the binding round the wrists to loosen. Cribb switched his attention back to it, displacing it thong by thong to reveal the weals where the rope had bitten into Thackeray’s wrists. When the last piece fell away and the hands separated, the constable groaned again.
Ten o’clock.
To quicken the process, Cribb leant forward and sharply nipped the tip of Thackeray’s right forefinger with his teeth.
‘Hey!’ said Thackeray.
Cribb gripped the constable’s sleeve in his teeth and rolled him on to his back. ‘Wake up, man!’
Another groan.
Somewhere deep beneath them, an engine started to vibrate. McGee had switched on the pumps to eject water from the ballast chambers. The submarine boat was about to rise from the river-bed to nestle under the pier itself. By now the Royal carriage must have disgorged its Passenger. He would be strolling over the gangway to meet the assembled dignitaries of Gravesend.
‘Look sharp, blast you, you old perisher!’ Cribb said.
‘Whassat?’ Thackeray’s eyes opened-and closed again.
‘You’ve got to untie me, man!’
‘Untie me, man,’ repeated Thackeray.
He looked at the clock.
It was five past ten.
The moment when, by all calculations, the course of history should have been altered. All calculations, that is to say, except Sergeant Cribb’s.
It was five past ten and the detonation should have taken place, but Cribb had made quite sure that the Person Who Mattered was in no danger.
The urgency in what was happening under the pier had nothing to do with history. It was simply that Cribb did not intend to suffocate. If Thackeray could be persuaded into consciousness, he would certainly share the intention. Besides, it was unthinkable to be robbed of the pleasure of telling Inspector Jowett how a humble sergeant had foiled a Royal assassination.
On Devlin’s reckoning, there was now enough air left to last them twenty minutes.
Cribb leaned over Thackeray. ‘You’re lying in a steel coffin fifteen feet under the Thames.’
‘Eh!’ Thackeray sat bolt upright.
‘Release me, man, as quick as you can!’ said Cribb.
It cannot be a pleasant experience to nod off after breakfast and wake up with your head pounding and your feet tied together, in an ill-ventilated submarine boat stacked with dynamite. It says much for Thackeray’s quick response to the call of duty that he carried out the order without a word.
The straps proved harder to remove than the ropes, but a few choice exhortations to Thackeray assisted his efforts. Free at last, Cribb rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation. He looked at the clock.
Ten past ten.
It happened that in the moment he chose to look in that direction, he took in McGee in the same glance. The dynamiter, too, had taken note of the time and the apparent failure of Cribb’s infernal machine. He had taken a box of matches from his pocket. He had struck one and was holding it over the nearest open crate of dynamite, waiting for the flame to catch enough of the match to ensure that it would not go out.
‘Hand me a strap,’ Cribb ordered.
Thackeray put one in his hand and he swung it high and with all the force at his command. It whipped down on McGee’s forearm and encircled the wrist. Cribb tugged it back towards him at the same instant, jerking the arm away from the crate. The match fell on the deck and Cribb swept forward and stamped it out. He lifted McGee from the pilot’s seat and laid him on the ground.
‘Put the strap round his arms, Thackeray, and get the matches away from him,’ he ordered. ‘I’m going to try to take us to the surface.’
The difficulty in taking the controls was that he had heard the instructions without seeing which levers served
