James McGee - Ratcatcher

The colonel bent low, moving his eye over the drawings, examining them closely. Finally, he straightened, his face grave. “Hard to tell from these damned sketches, but, no, I’d say this is quite different. Oh, there are similarities, no doubt about that, but if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say this looks like a much more advanced design.” The colonel turned to James Read. “How the devil did you come by them?”

The colonel listened as the Chief Magistrate explained.

“A dead Runner, you say? Damned curious business. How about you, Hawkwood? Any thoughts on how they came to be in your late colleague’s possession?”

Hawkwood said wearily, “Colonel, I don’t even know what the hell it is we’re talking about.”

Congreve stared at the Runner then at the Board members.

Admiral Dalryde sighed. “The Chief Magistrate was about to explain when you arrived, Colonel. However, perhaps you’d do the honours, seeing as you’re our scientific expert.”

Had there been a hint of sarcasm in the Admiral’s voice? If so, the Colonel appeared not to have noticed, or else had chosen to disregard it. He looked thoughtfully at the two drawings before fixing Hawkwood with a steely eye. “Not one word of what I’m about to tell you leaves this room. Understood?”

Hawkwood nodded cautiously.

“What we have here,” Congreve said, “is quite possibly the most fiendish weapon ever devised.”

A weapon! So, the trigger device was significant after all!

“Some kind of bomb?” Hawkwood ventured.

Congreve smiled thinly. “No, though your guess is not so wide of the mark. Tell me, Captain Hawkwood, how’s your French?”

“Sir?”

“ Le bateau poisson is what the Frogs have christened it. Well, some of them have. Others call it le bateau plongeur.”

Fish boat? Plunging boat? “Sorry, Colonel, I’m not with you. Plunge where?”

Congreve looked at Hawkwood, his face a picture of incredulity. “Where the hell do you think, man? Underwater, of course! It’s a bloody submersible!”

Hawkwood stared back at him helplessly. “A what?”

It was the Chief Magistrate who came to Hawkwood’s rescue. “A boat that can travel under the sea.”

Even as he heard the words, Hawkwood thought there had to be a mistake. He stared down at the drawings. A boat? The contraption didn’t look like any boat he’d ever seen. And what the hell were plans for an undersea boat doing in Warlock’s baton?

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” Congreve said, misinterpreting Hawkwood’s look of confusion. “But it’s possible, believe me. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

James Read said, “The inventor’s an American. His name’s Robert Fulton.”

“And the bastard’s working for Bonaparte,” Charles Yorke growled.

Hawkwood felt as if he was wading thigh-deep through thick mud. Try as he might, he still could see no resemblance to a boat. If not a clock, his next best guess would have been the inside of a music box.

“Come,” the colonel said, taking pity on Hawkwood’s bewilderment. “I’ll show you.”

Hawkwood approached the table. The first thing he realized, as the colonel turned the first drawing on its side, was that he’d been viewing it from the wrong angle. He’d been looking at it as if the cylinder was standing vertically instead of lying horizontally.

The colonel took a pencil from a tray on the table. “Let’s see if I can make it a bit clearer.” The colonel traced the outline with the pencil point. “This is the hull. Here, the curve of the bow, the keel, deck, and stern. Now, if I add a mast and boom, you’ll get the idea.” The colonel drew quickly. “There, you see?”

Unbelievably, Hawkwood could. “And this?” Hawkwood pointed to what looked to be a raised section of deck, just forward of the drawn-in mast.

“A metal dome, It’s from here that the vessel is controlled. Imagine an upturned barrel placed over a hole on the deck. It allows the commander to stand upright inside the boat. His head and shoulders would protrude into the barrel. Understand?”

“How can he see where he’s going?” Hawkwood asked.

“The dome has windows. They’re small and made of very thick glass. If you were to ask me, I’d say it’s like looking through the bottom of a brandy decanter.”

Hawkwood was sorely tempted to say that he’d known a number of army officers who’d spent their entire careers in similar straits, but discretion forbade him. He made do with what he hoped was a sage nod of comprehension. “What makes it go?”

“Muscle power. The crewman turns a crank, which operates a set of revolving blades at the stern. They serve to push the craft through the water. Here-see?” The colonel pointed to the drawing.

Hawkwood looked sceptical.

“Oh, it works very well, Captain. On the surface, with two men working the crank, it’ll travel as fast as two men rowing. Submerged, it’s about the same. You have to appreciate that the watchword is stealth, not speed.”

“How’s it constructed?”

“Copper skin over a wooden frame, iron ribs for supports.”

Hawkwood watched and listened as the colonel explained and gradually, incredibly, it began to make a kind of sense. What at first sight had appeared to be a confusing jumble of cranks, cogs, spools and spindles had now acquired a totally new meaning. Hawkwood looked on in astonishment as the outer hull and interior of the submersible boat began to take shape before his eyes.

“How does it go up and down?”

“Pumps. They regulate the submergence of the boat underwater. There’s a ballast compartment along the bottom of the hull. To sink, you pump water in. To rise, you pump water out. Ingenious!” The colonel shook his head at the wonder of it. “You steer it like an ordinary boat, by the rudder here. That’s also controlled by a system of gears. There’s a second, horizontal rudder, which turns on a pivot passing through the main rudder. You use that to maintain depth. The keel, by the way, is metal. The weight keeps the vessel level. It’s detachable in an emergency, to allow for rapid ascent.”

Hawkwood’s brain was spinning. “How big is it?”

The colonel shrugged. “Hard to say for certain. The first one was twenty-one feet long, with a diameter of seven feet.”

“The first one?” Hawkwood said.

“Oh, didn’t I say?” The colonel raised an eyebrow. “The weapon’s not new. It was offered to us seven years ago.”

James Read said softly, “I think, perhaps, we should start at the beginning, don’t you?”

“We’ve been following his career for some time,” the colonel said. “A very industrious fellow is our Mr Fulton: artist, engineer, canal builder…”

“Canals?” Hawkwood echoed dully.

Congreve nodded. “Came to Europe from Philadelphia in ’87, originally. For his health, if you can believe that. Worked with Bridgewater and Brindley for a time.”

Hawkwood’s face betrayed his lack of knowledge.

“Lord Bridgewater? Came up with a plan to link Manchester to the sea? You remember?”

Vague memory of a rumoured scheme stirred distantly in Hawkwood’s brain.

Undeterred by Hawkwood’s ignorance, Congreve continued. “It was Fulton who came up with the idea to use winches to haul canal barges over hills. Even wrote a book about canal navigation, versatile bugger. That’s what took him to France in ’97. Hoped to take out a patent, get the Frogs interested in the idea. Grew sympathetic to the revolution, stayed, and became an engineer for the Directory.”

“And this…submersible?”

It was Blomefield who broke in. “Ah, that stemmed from a notion he had that the welfare of nations could only be achieved if liberty of the seas was maintained. In other words, destroy the world’s navies, establish free trade, and everyone lives happily ever after. Total rot, of course. My apologies, Colonel. Didn’t mean to butt in. You were saying?”