Ratcatcher

For the second time that morning, he began to run.

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