James McGee - Ratcatcher

James Read continued to gaze at the river. “Officer Hawkwood, I fear, is on his own. If he is on board the submersible, then we must pray that he finds a way to disable the vessel and gain the upper hand. If not, then there’s nothing any of us can do to assist him.”

Jago swore under his breath. They were not the words he had wanted to hear, even though he knew the magistrate was right, “But what about the ship? You’ve got nets out, right? And patrol boats?”

James Read turned slowly. There was a stillness about the magistrate’s face which Jago had not expected.

“No, Sergeant, we do not have nets out. Neither have we employed extra patrol vessels.”

Jago stared at the magistrate in horror. “But she’s a sittin’ duck!”

“Indeed she is, Sergeant.”

Jago looked at the ship, at the boats bobbing around her, at the men on her deck. “Oh, Jesus! What the hell have you done?”

James Read followed Jago’s gaze. The magistrate’s mouth was set in a grim line. “We have a contingency plan. Should Officer Hawkwood fail in his mission, we intend to let William Lee continue with his attack.”

Jago’s face distorted with shock. “You’re not bleedin’ serious?”

“Perfectly serious,” Read said.

Jago stared first at the magistrate then at the commissioner. “You can’t do that. You’ve got to stop the bastard!”

James Read raised his cane to shoulder height and swung the tip in an encompassing arc. “Take a look around, Sergeant. Tell me what you see.”

“What?” Jago blinked, temporarily thrown by the magistrate’s cool manner.

“Tell me what you see,” Read repeated calmly.

Jago shook his head in frustration. What the hell was going on? A ship was about to be destroyed by a madman and innocent men were going to die. And he was being asked to admire the view?

Which consisted of what?

Ashore, as far as he could see, there was nothing untoward. Plenty of activity, as might have been expected of a working yard. There were possibly more marines in evidence than usual, but that was about all. There were no marines stationed at Deptford, Jago knew. Those on current duty, like the vigilant corporal, would have been sent up from the Woolwich yard. But other than that, Jago couldn’t see anything that merited special attention.

His gaze moved to the water. There was the new warship, conspicuous in its gaudy paintwork, with several dozen small support craft flitting back and forth. Lying close by was the sheer hulk, the yard’s largest support vessel. The hulk was traditionally an old warship, cut down, with a mast fixed amidships. Fitted with extra capstans, sheer frames and tackles, the vessel was used to heave out or lower masts into newly fitted ships of the line. The hulk was the dockyard workhorse. The Deptford hulk was a particularly decrepitlooking craft, obviously long since fallen from grace, with its scabby hull more reminiscent of a coal barge than a retired man-of-war.

Further downstream, just beyond the dockyard limits, he could make out the prison ship. All the dockyards had them. Like the sheer hulk, they were usually former ships of the line or else captured vessels too old and too far beyond repair for further sea duties. At permanent moorings, they’d been used initially as temporary accommodation for transportees, but now the navy used them largely as holding pens for prisoners of war. There was a fleet of them on the Thames, lying off the mudflats in a scattered convoy stretching all the way down to the estuary. With their cut-down masts and decks and rigging often hung with drying laundry and mildewed bedding, they had become an ugly and all too common sight along the shoreline, though many a canny boatman continued to turn a handsome profit by running sightseeing trips to see the convicts at work digging and dredging the foreshore in preparation for some new riverside construction.

Jago’s eyes moved back to the warship and the movement of craft around her. There were a number of men onboard, he saw: a skeleton crew ready to take her downriver. Jago looked along her deck. A group of sailors stood clustered at her stern rail. By their dark blue coats and bicorne hats, Jago could see that most of them were officers. Nothing remiss, as far as he could tell. Other than the flags and bunting, there was not the sense of jubilation among the onlookers he might have expected, given the launch of a new ship, but this was a working dockyard and the experience was probably old hat to the local workforce. Jago dismissed the thought and was about to turn his attention elsewhere when the group at the ship’s rail broke apart to reveal the figure in its midst. Stouter and taller than his companions, he cut an imposing, colourful vision due, not only to his size, but to the wide sash around his waist, the ceremonial sword at his hip, the ribbons, medals and tassels adorning his broad chest, and the tuft of feathery white plumes in his hat.

Jago gaped. The reason why there were more marines around than usual was suddenly made clear. He swung towards James Read. “God Almighty! It’s Prinnie! What the hell’s he doin’ here? You were supposed to stop ’im!”

The Chief Magistrate did not reply. The corners of his mouth twitched. Commissioner Dryden studied his toes.

Before he could remonstrate further, a splash and a cry from one of the support boats reached Jago’s ear. He turned towards the sound.

A seaman had missed his footing transferring from bumboat to warship and fallen into the water, much to the amusement of his shipmates. Their laughter as he was hauled back aboard the bumboat in an undignified heap floated over to the quayside. It was what happened next that caused Jago to gasp. As the luckless seaman lay floundering in the well of the bumboat, the marine seated in the stern of the craft slammed the butt of his musket across the seaman’s shoulders. He was further amazed when the seaman’s companions rounded on the marine and let loose a broadside of abuse.

It had not been the spectacle of the blow from the musket or the seamen turning on the marine that had stunned Jago so much as the language that had been used. His first thought was that he must have misheard, but as he looked on the insults continued to be traded back and forth until a sharply issued command from the stern of a nearby officer’s gig stung the seamen into an uneasy silence.

Jago searched for the source of the order. There were half a dozen or so officers in the gig, and another armed marine. Jago looked closer. Something about the officers’ appearance didn’t sit quite right. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was definitely something odd about them.

The commotion had drawn the attention of the men on the warship’s deck. A group of them had gathered by the starboard rail to see what the fuss was about. Another cry went up as a dark object tumbled from the rail. A feather bedecked hat. It spiralled down, bounced off the side of the ship and splashed into the water like a wounded seagull. Before it had time to sink, however, it was rescued by a member of the bumboat’s crew. Another derisive cheer marked the hat’s expeditious retrieval. The seaman who had performed the rescue waved the hat above his head. The hat had not survived the fall undamaged. The feathers lay flat and sodden. What was more noticeable, however, was that one side of the hat had been newly branded by a broad yellow streak.

Jago’s stomach turned over. He looked quickly from the hat back up to the warship’s deck. Deprived of the sheltering brim, the features of the hat’s owner were now clearly defined. It was a disclosure that rocked Nathaniel Jago to the core.

“Bloody hell!”

Jago swung round to discover that Chief Magistrate Read and Commissioner Dryden were regarding him closely.