Ratcatcher

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.