James McGee - Ratcatcher

Lee gave the order to submerge. As silently as a ghost, the Narwhale sank beneath the waters of the Thames. Less than two hundred yards separated the submarine from its unsuspecting prey.

“You’ve got a choice, Corporal,” Jago growled. “Either you find Chief Magistrate Read and bring ’im here, or else you take me to ’im. Either way, you’d better be quick, or else I’m going to tear your bleedin’ head off, piss down your neck, an’ go and look for ’im myself. What’s it to be?”

The marine gripped his musket and swallowed nervously. An angry Jago was an awesome sight, and the corporal who had stopped Jago at the top of the dockyard jetty stairs was beginning to regret his dedication to duty. Not that he’d had much say in the matter; his orders had been clear. Halt and prevent all unauthorized personnel from entering the dockyard area. The directive had been handed down by Sergeant of Marines Burnside, and where Corporal Elias Watkins was concerned, Sergeant Burnside’s word was law. So the corporal stood his ground.

“Can’t do that. You ain’t got authorization.” The corporal stumbled over the last word.

Jago reached under his jacket. “This here’s all the authorization I need, laddie.” He held out Hawkwood’s baton. “So, why don’t you stick your neck back in, and you and me can take a little walk. What about it?”

The corporal looked Jago up and down.

“Right now would be a good time,” Jago hinted ominously.

The corporal regarded the baton, its royal crest, and the fearsome expression on Jago’s face, then took a cautious look over his shoulder. Indecision furrowed his brow. Finally, after what seemed like an age, he shouldered his musket.

“You’d best come with me.”

The big warship lay at anchor, paintwork gleaming. Her two-decked hull was mustard yellow, her upper wales and gunports jet black. She dwarfed the flotilla of smaller dockyard support vessels that hustled and bustled feverishly around her high chequered sides like worker ants around a queen.

Cutters, buoy boats, hoys, pinnaces, skiffs and lighters scurried between ship and shore, loaded to the gunwales with equipment and victuals, while yachts, yawls and gigs transported officers and men with all the dexterity of waterborne sedan chairs.

Her name was inscribed boldly for all to see on the counter of her stern: Thetis.

The dockyard rang with the sounds of industry. Enclosed within the yard’s stout protective walls were all the workshops and raw materials vital to maintaining the British Navy’s command of the high seas. From launching and building slips, wet and dry docks, mast houses, boat ponds, saw pits and timber berths to tar and oakum stores, sail lofts, rigging-houses, rope-walks, smithies and copper mills, and accommodation for a score of other trades besides.

Adjacent to the dockyard lay the huge victualling yard. Had the capital, by some cruel circumstance, found itself in the grip of a deadly epidemic, the chairman and commissioners in charge of the navy’s Victualling Board could rest easy, secure in the knowledge that the Royal dockyard and its workforce would emerge from the plague unscathed. All they’d have to do was bar the gates. The yard was as self-sufficient as a small town. Aside from dry-storage facilities, the Deptford yard boasted its own bakery, brewery, cooperage and slaughterhouse. This was evidenced not only in the sounds that carried across the water but also in the smells that accompanied them. Some pleasant, like the warm aroma of freshly baked bread and biscuits and fermenting hops, some not so agreeable: the pungent odour of boiling tar and the sweet, sickly whiff of cow shit, untreated hide, fresh blood, and offal.

James Read stood by the side of the launching slip and surveyed the activity before him. His right hand toyed idly with the handle of his cane.

“You think she’ll pass muster?” The voice came from the man at his side.

Commissioner Ezekiel Dryden was tall and loose-limbed. His heavy-lidded eyes and languid exterior gave the impression of a lifetime spent in idle pursuits. Dryden, however, was a former naval captain, as were the majority of dockyard commissioners. He had commanded ships in action. Now he was in charge of both the Deptford and Woolwich dockyards. He had full authority over all dockyard personnel, both military and civilian, and movement of all vessels therein. He reported directly to the Navy Board.

James Read looked pensive. “She’ll have to. I fear time’s against us.”

A movement on the dockside diverted the Chief Magistrate’s attention. Two men were approaching, a marine and a civilian. Read’s heart quickened.

The marine drew to a halt and saluted. “Beggin’ your pardon, your honour…” But he was given no chance to expand as James Read held up a hand.

“Thank you, Corporal. You may go.”

The corporal blinked at the curt dismissal. He looked towards Dryden, as if seeking some kind of moral support. When none was forthcoming, he glanced at Jago with renewed respect and not a little confusion.

“Don’t let us detain you, Corporal.” Commissioner Dryden’s dry voice broke into the marine’s thoughts.

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.” Discipline finally overcoming curiosity, the corporal gave a flustered salute, shouldered his musket, and turned on his heel, no wiser than he had been before the big man had arrived.

Read wasted no time. “You have news, Sergeant?”

Jago nodded. “Aye, an’ none of it’s good.”

“Explain.”

Read and Dryden listened in silence as Jago described his own entry and investigation of the Mandrake warehouse. Read’s expression grew even more severe as Jago described his discovery of the clockmaker’s corpse.

“God in heaven!” Dryden, though a seasoned officer, experienced in the harsh reality of war at sea, was plainly shaken by the cold-blooded murder of Josiah Woodburn.

“And Officer Hawkwood?” the magistrate prompted. “You say there was no sign of him?”

Jago shook his head. “It’s my guess they took ’im.”

Read frowned. “Took him where?”

“On board with ’em.”

The magistrate looked taken aback. “On board? You mean the submersible?”

“I reckon.”

“God almighty!” Dryden said. The commissioner turned and stared balefully out at the river.

From the other side of the wall, separating the dockyard from the victualling yard, there came a sudden mournful lowing followed by a succession of ear-piercing grunts and squeals; the cacophony heralding a fresh intake of stock, newly arrived from Smithfield. Somewhere nearby, a hammer clanged against an anvil. The reverberation was followed by a wail of invective. While in a distant corner another, more strident voice, could be heard berating some hapless unfortunate for botched workmanship. Life in the yard went on.

“And you definitely saw the craft submerge?” Read pressed.

Jago hesitated. “You’re askin’ if I’m positive I saw the bloody thing. Can’t say as I am. All I can tell you is that the boat was there one minute and gone the next, Sparrow along with it. Could’ve been the top of a bloody barrel that I saw go under, could be the two shit-shovellers were lookin’ at something else, but if it was this submersible you told us about, then it’s still out there-” Jago nodded towards the water. “Somewhere.”

All three men gazed out at the river. The water looked suddenly deeper and darker and infinitely more menacing than it had a few moments before.

“So what do we do now?” Jago asked.

The Chief Magistrate remained silent. Dryden looked down at his shoes. Jago didn’t like the way they were avoiding his eye. “We’ve got to stop the bloody thing! What about the captain? What are we goin’ to do about him?”