James McGee - Ratcatcher

Sparrow was cranking hard. The muscles in his shoulders and forearms bulged as he powered the submersible through the dark water. His back and chest looked as if they had been smeared in oil. The sweat dripped off him as the submersible began to pull away.

Counting steadily under his breath, Lee took out his pocket watch once more and squinted at the dial.

The Narwhale was travelling at two knots. Two hundred feet from the warship, the submersible checked. The movement was barely noticeable, but it was the moment Lee had been waiting for. It meant the line on the windlass had reached its full length and the submersible’s forward motion had been transferred to the keg at the stern. The torpedo had been released. It was heading unerringly for its target.

Ten seconds later, there was a second tug as the torpedo made contact with the warship’s keel, severing the line and its last connection with the Narwhale.

Lee gripped the bulkhead. “Brace, Mr Sparrow!”

The last strand of rope parted. Hawkwood reversed the knife and came off the deck with the blade angled towards Sparrow’s throat.

And the torpedo detonated.

Hawkwood knew he had failed. He knew it the moment he launched himself off the floor. He heard Lee’s cry of warning, saw that Sparrow was already turning. The sound of the blast enveloped the boat, but it was the shock-wave, nudging the Narwhale off its axis as it moved out from the centre of the explosion, that tipped the balance, sending Hawkwood slithering across the deck as his feet shot out from under him.

Sparrow, accustomed to the pitch and roll of a ship at sea, was first to recover. With a bellow of rage he reached down, twisted the knife from Hawkwood’s grip, tossed it aside, hauled the Runner to his knees by his hair, and took the pistol from his belt. The ratchet sound of the weapon being cocked was unnaturally loud. Helpless, Hawkwood watched Sparrow raise the pistol.

“Bastard!” Sparrow hissed. For the second time that morning, his finger whitened on the trigger.

The sound of the second detonation was ear shattering.

Sparrow’s eyes widened in shock as a sliver of copper from the ruptured air cylinder sliced through his jugular, releasing a fountain of blood across Hawkwood’s face and shoulders. Hawkwood looked up, awe-struck, as Sparrow, teeth bared in a silent, choking scream, buckled at the knees, the pistol dropping from his hand. There followed a second of blinding pain as the hair was ripped from his scalp by Sparrow’s involuntary death spasm. There was barely enough time for the hurt to register before the incoming torrent of water slammed into him, driving the air from his lungs and hurling him against the starboard hull with the force of a mule kick.

The Narwhale ’s bow dipped sharply and the submersible heeled violently to port. It was as if the vessel had been picked up by a giant hand and hurled against a wall. Hawkwood made a desperate grab for one of the iron ribs. As he did so, Sparrow’s body, still pumping blood, fell forward, trapping him against the bulkhead. Hawkwood drew in his knees and kicked out. Only one boot made contact, but it was just enough to shift the seaman’s dead weight. Hawkwood sucked in air, used the rib for support, and dragged himself upright. His eardrums felt as if they were on fire.

The submersible gave another massive lurch, this time to starboard. The motion was accompanied by what sounded like a heavy wooden door straining on a rusted hinge. Hawkwood felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He managed to hang on by his fingertips and stared at the horror around him. Whatever the cause of the second explosion, the effect had been catastrophic. With her stern section severely holed, the boat was flooding at a phenomenal rate. Hawkwood looked forward and saw Lee working feverishly to regain control. But the lack of response from the vertical and horizontal rudders and the angle of the bow told their own story. With all power lost, the Narwhale was dropping like a stone.

The ship was ablaze.

The explosion had echoed around the dockyard like the voice of God, sending every man-labourer, seaman, marine and magistrate-diving for cover. Voices rose sharply in panic. Shrieking gulls wheeled across the sky in massed confusion. Somewhere an alarm bell began to clang loudly.

The Thetis ’s midsection was a smoking ruin and she had lost her mast. It lay like a fallen tree across her foredeck, boom and temporary sail still attached, canvas draped over the gunwales like a huge grey funeral shroud. The standards that had flown so proudly above her now hung in tattered and scorched disarray. Flames licked hungrily from her gun ports and open hatchways. Slowly she began to list.

Several men had gone over the side, either catapulted there by the force of the blast or having leapt over the rails to escape the terrible conflagration. Thrashing limbs, splashes and urgent cries for help showed where they had landed. The water was tinged with blood. Many of the survivors were screaming.

Jago, ears ringing like Bow Bells, almost missed it.

What made him glance out over the river at that precise moment he would never know. Even then, he wasn’t sure what he had seen: a commotion in the water, a hundred yards or so beyond the stricken warship. What looked like a small waterspout, or a splash, as if something had risen to the surface and dropped back down, causing a series of widening concentric ripples. A disturbance of some kind below the surface.

A marine hurried past, musket at the ready. Jago recognized him as the corporal who had stopped him earlier. “You, lad! Come with me!”

The look in Jago’s eyes told the corporal that dissent was not an option. Without a word he followed Jago to the dockyard stairs, watched as the big man climbed into the row boat and picked up an oar.

“Come on, son, we ain’t got all bleedin’ day!”

The corporal shouldered his musket and stepped gingerly into the boat.

Jago untied the painter, pushed them away from the quayside, and thrust the oar into the corporal’s hands. “Now, boy, you row!” Jago picked up the second oar. “You bloody row until I tell you to stop!”

Below the surface of the Thames, as the pitch of the vessel altered, the angle of illumination penetrating the submersible from above was changing. It was growing darker by the second.

The underside of the bow hit first. In the gloom of the compartment, the sound of the submersible’s keel scraping along the river bed was like a forty-two-pounder sliding across a storm-lashed deck, amplified a thousand-fold. It seemed as if a lifetime had passed before the noise began to diminish. Finally the tumult died. There followed a moment of eerie silence. Slowly the stern began to settle. Then, with a final protest from its creaking timbers, the Narwhale came to rest, canted at an angle like a broken barrel in a snowdrift.

Chest heaving, Hawkwood let go of the rib and checked himself for injuries. Miraculously he appeared to be unscathed. Self-preservation foremost in his mind, he groped frantically for the knife. The water was already hip-deep and icy cold. Sparrow’s corpse lay face down and wedged against the pump handle. Hawkwood clambered over the inert body, feeling urgently with his fingers. His hand brushed what might have been the knife blade, but even as he knelt to retrieve the object, with the incoming water surging around his legs like a whirlpool, the blade slid from his grip and Lee was upon him.

The American had lost his own pistol in the confusion, but his hand held another weapon. Instinct had Hawkwood twisting aside, arm rising to ward off the blow as the iron maul curved towards his skull.

The maul-head missed Hawkwood’s ear by less than a finger width. He felt the breath of its passing on his cheek. His hand encircled Lee’s wrist and he used Lee’s own impetus to overbalance the American and ram him against the bulkhead. He heard Lee grunt as his shoulder made contact with the metal rib. Hawkwood drove a fist into the American’s belly and was rewarded with another gasp of pain. But Lee, recovering fast, lashed out once more. This time the attempt was successful. The strike took Hawkwood under the ribcage, slamming him back against the propeller crank. Lee, eyes suddenly bright with the expectation of victory, moved in. Through tears of pain Hawkwood watched the approach of death.