James McGee - Ratcatcher

“You led Rutherford on,” Hawkwood said, understanding. “He and his friends were drunk. You made them think they could have you, then you acted the innocent, and you waited for me to come to your rescue.”

“My knight in shining armour.” Her dark eyes mocked him. “It was simply a matter of setting the scene. We knew you couldn’t resist helping a lady in distress.”

The servant must have been in on it as well, Hawkwood realized. Which accounted for the man’s less than cooperative attitude when Hawkwood had revisited Mandrake House.

“You knew Rutherford wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Hawkwood said. “You knew that he wouldn’t back down in front of his cronies, that he’d call me out! What were you hoping? That he’d kill me?”

As he spoke, he wondered about Lawrence’s contribution, but knew instinctively that the major could only have been an unwitting and convenient ingredient in the broth.

She smiled. “More likely you’d kill him, Matthew. Either way, we would be rid of you.”

“But you confounded us, Hawkwood,” Lee interposed. “Damn it, man, you let the bugger live!”

Did you kill him?

Hawkwood remembered her question in the carriage, following the duel. That indecipherable expression on her face had been, he now realized, one of half-concealed expectation. He recalled what had happened at the house; how, after she had tended his wound, she had initiated their energetic coupling, leaving him breathless and drained. It had been the knowledge that they had fought over her, that blood had been drawn, that had excited her, igniting the passion.

“Well now,” Lee said, “much as I hate to interrupt this happy reunion, we’ve work to do. So, gentlemen, if you’d be so kind as to follow me. Time and tide, they say, wait for no man, especially today. Oh, and a warning, Captain Hawkwood; if you’re thinking of attempting something heroic, don’t. It won’t be you the mademoiselle’ll shoot first, it’ll be the old man.”

Lee turned and led the way out of the cell, along a stoneflagged passageway. Their shadows, trapped in the lantern light, accompanied them in a flickering procession. Hawkwood had the distinct impression that the passageway sloped downwards and he suspected they were nearing the river. Certainly, the putrid smell of the water seemed to be getting stronger. His suspicions were confirmed when, after turning several corners and descending a narrow flight of stairs, they emerged into the warehouse’s main gallery.

The gallery was long and narrow and must have stretched the full width of the warehouse. The walls were of wood but the stonework at the base of the walls indicated that this was probably the oldest part of the building, resting upon the original foundations. Half the gallery was taken up with the interior loading dock. It was here that cargoes would have been transferred from barrow to barge, and vice versa. The stout wooden doors that Jago had drawn to Hawkwood’s attention earlier were located at the end of the dock. They were still closed, but there was sufficient space between them for daylight to penetrate. Further illumination came courtesy of two narrow, high-set windows and several lanterns hanging from hooks. The place reminded Hawkwood of a flooded church vault.

“Well, then,” Lee said. “What do you think of her?”

Hawkwood stood and stared.

The submersible was tethered to the dock by lines fore and aft. She looked bigger than he had expected; about twentyfive feet long. At first glance, with her wooden deck and tapering bow and stern, the vessel looked like any other small river craft. On closer inspection, however, a number of differences were discernible. Below the shortened bowsprit, protruding vertically from an extended prow, was a thin metal rod from which radiated four elliptical blades, each about two feet in length. Aft, below the stern rail, a similar device, horizontally set, could be seen. There was no mast, Hawkwood noticed; then he looked closer and saw that the mast, with boom and furled sail attached, was in fact lying along the deck. It was hinged, he realized, thus enabling it to be raised and lowered into its socket at will. On deck, immediately forward of the mast socket, was positioned an upturned, barrel-shaped, metallic protuberance; the tower, as Congreve had called it, from where the commander of the craft controlled operations. The rear of the tower was hinged open, forming a hatchway which gave access to the craft’s interior. Hawkwood’s attention moved to the stern of the vessel. Attached to a raised wooden frame was a copper cylinder the size of a small rum keg. A lanyard ran from the cylinder to the tower where it passed through what looked like the eye of a large needle embedded in the tower’s roof before disappearing through a small hole in the forward deck. Hawkwood remembered Colonel Congreve’s description of the submersible and realized with a shock of understanding that he was looking at the submarine bomb, Fulton’s torpedo.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Lee could not keep the pride from his voice.

Hawkwood was silent. There was movement on deck as Sparrow emerged from the hatchway. He now had a pistol stuck in his belt. His fingers brushed against the pistol butt and he stroked the cut on his throat, favouring Hawkwood with a stare of undiluted hatred before stepping nimbly on to the dock.

Lee stepped forward. “All in order, Mr Sparrow?”

The seaman nodded.

“Capital! In that case, please be so kind as to see to the doors and prepare the vessel for departure.”

Hawkwood stared at the woman, at her slim figure, her mannish dress, at her hair held in a tight chignon, at the pistol in her hand and her smile. And in a moment of startling clarity it came to him. Scully’s taunting when he’d been asked if another mutineer or Lee had been his partner in the coach hold up.

It were neither, squire. An’ if I told you, you’d never believe me. If you only knew…

Not a mute boy and certainly not Jago, as he had ludicrously supposed, but a woman whose accent would have betrayed her the moment she’d opened her mouth. She had shot the guard in cold blood and, judging by her present disposition, Hawkwood suspected that she hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep since.

Lee’s voice cut into his tumbling thoughts. “What’s the matter, Officer Hawkwood? Cat got your tongue?”

Before he could answer, the rattle of a chain sounded from the end of the dock. Sparrow was opening the doors.

As the gap between the doors slowly widened, light began to infiltrate the interior of the warehouse. Beyond the low archway, Hawkwood could see out to where the channel joined the river, flowing broad and smooth past the end of the outer quay. He wondered if Jago was still out there, still waiting.

Sparrow, his task complete, rejoined them. The seaman took the pistol from his belt and cocked it.

“Well, Captain Hawkwood, it’s time to go. What can I say? It’s been a pleasure. Truly.” The American grinned roguishly and stepped nimbly on to the submersible’s deck.

“Make it quick, Mr Sparrow. We haven’t got all morning.”

Sparrow grinned. He lifted the pistol and motioned Hawkwood to the edge of the dock.

“Kneel down.”

Hawkwood didn’t move.

He felt the muzzle of the pistol pressing against the nape of his neck. Heard the hiss of Sparrow’s voice in his ear.

“On your knees, you bastard! Do it!”

Hawkwood heard a groan of anguish. The clockmaker, about to witness his death. The pressure of the gun barrel prevented him from turning his head.

Hawkwood knelt.

The muzzle moved upwards, against the back of his skull, forcing his head down. Hawkwood found himself staring into the dark water.

“Dear God, no!” The clockmaker cried, beseechingly.