James McGee - Ratcatcher

The submersible tilted violently and Sparrow’s body rolled. In the water-filled darkness of the hull, Lee failed to see the obstacle in his path. His foot turned on Sparrow’s thigh and, hampered by the water, he lurched off balance, the maul falling from his hand.

Hawkwood threw himself against the American. The two men went down. Hawkwood had but a second to draw air into his lungs before the water closed over them.

In the swirling darkness, Hawkwood clawed for a killing hold. Lee was the older man but he was strong, and he was fighting for his life. Lee’s hands found Hawkwood’s throat. A red mist descended behind Hawkwood’s eyes as he fought for breath. The blood began to pound in his ears. The weight on his chest was colossal. His lungs felt as if they were about to explode. He gripped Lee’s wrists in a frantic attempt to break the American’s hold, but his energy was ebbing fast. He let go with his right hand, reached down, clamped his fingers around the American’s balls, twisted and pulled hard. Immediately, Lee’s hold slackened. Hawkwood released his grip and heaved himself upwards. His head broke from the water and inhaled greedily. He sensed Lee surface next to him, turned to meet the danger and took the full force of the knife thrust as Lee drove the blade deep into the muscle of his left shoulder.

Curiously, Hawkwood felt no pain until, with a ragged scrape of steel against bone, the blade was withdrawn. He felt it then. As if someone had poured fire into the wound. He fell back, his sound arm lifting in pathetic defence as the American stabbed down once more. The strike missed. Hawkwood went under, limbs flailing, fumbling in the inky blackness, scrabbling blindly for a weapon of his own-any object with which to defend himself. His fingers touched something, moved on, came back. Lee’s hand was on his sleeve. Hawkwood sensed the shift in the American’s weight, knew it would be over soon. The knife blade was coming around again. Summoning his last reserve of strength, he hurled himself out of the water and swung his arm.

The tip of the auger entered Lee’s right eyeball, piercing the front of the American’s skull with devastating force.

The scream that erupted from Lee’s lips was inhuman.

Hawkwood tightened his grip, thrusting deeper, increasing pressure. The scream died away, fading to a low whimper. The knife fell. Lee’s hands rose in mute supplication. A long, bubbling sigh emerged from the American’s lips. His body jerked violently and then went limp.

For what seemed an age, Lee’s body remained upright, suspended as if by an invisible hook, until Hawkwood finally relinquished his hold. He watched without emotion as the American’s corpse fell away and sank from view beneath him.

Another deep shudder moved through the boat as the Narwhale settled further into the silt. Hawkwood was suddenly conscious of how high the water had risen. It was up to his chest. Before long it would be lapping his shoulders, then his throat. After that…

It struck him that he was going to die down here, alone in the blackness, with only the bodies of Lee and Sparrow for company. Thetis had been destroyed. He would die, having failed in his assignment; an ignominious end to a short-lived career. In the heat of battle, Hawkwood had faced death many times. On those occasions, he’d viewed the prospect without self-pity or recrimination. Facing an enemy with rifle and sword in hand, knowing you were going to die, was almost acceptable. But this…?

The water was suddenly up to his chin. Christ, but it was cold! Shivering, he pushed himself towards the last place of refuge, the standing space in the tower. He was moving blindly now, all light having been extinguished. His left shoulder and arm were completely numb, partly from the pain, mostly from the chill. He had no idea how much damage had been inflicted by the knife blade. Not that it mattered, anyway. It wasn’t the knife wound that was going to kill him. The lack of air and the water in his lungs would see to that. Already his body had begun to shut down. He wondered vaguely if drowning was a painful death. He’d heard men say that it was a peaceful way to go. He’d have preferred not to be finding out first hand.

He inched his way painfully along the deck. Every movement had become a supreme effort of will. The water was up to his nostrils. He was shivering harder now, uncontrollably. It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. There couldn’t be much air left. He was amazed it had lasted this long.

He wondered about Jago. Had Nathaniel gone looking for him? Had he reached Magistrate Read? His last thought, as the water took him into its cold, eternal embrace, was that there was something important he had forgotten to do. He hadn’t even had the opportunity to say his farewells.

Jago and the corporal stroked their way through the debris. Several bodies floated face down. Burnt and blistered flesh showed through scorched clothing. Here and there gobbets of burning pitch glowed like molten lava. The corporal’s face was white as he surveyed the carnage.

Around them, the support boats were moving in on the men in the water. A bumboat had arrived alongside the warship’s hull and an officer was leading half a dozen firefighters up the side ladder to the smoke-obscured deck.

A cry came from the water to their right. A seaman, treading water, his face bleeding and blackened, raised an arm in supplication.

The corporal looked at Jago. Jago shook his head. “Keep rowing, Corporal. Someone else’ll pick him up. He ain’t the one we’ve come for.”

Jago ignored the questions in the marine’s eyes. He was too intent on trying to gauge the spot where he’d seen the disturbance in the water. Not that he knew what he was looking for, exactly, only that he had the feeling he’d know it when he saw it.

Like pieces of driftwood, for example. Maybe they were from the warship, Jago thought, as he reached down and scooped one up. He examined the shard of planking, turning it in his hands. The section of wood was curved, not unlike a barrel stave. The ends were badly splintered. Jago bit his lip and stared out over the gunwale. The wind had freshened, the water was turning choppy. Jago tossed the stave over the side. Maybe his eyes had deceived him and it had only been wave movement after all. He looked towards the shore. There were others in the water, gravely injured men who needed their help.

The big man’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “All right, lad, there’s nothing here. Let’s go back.”

But the marine wasn’t listening. He was pointing. “Wait. There’s something there.”

Jago looked. He couldn’t see anything. He shook his head. “There’s nothing, lad.”

“No,” the corporal said. “Look.”

And Jago stared.

A patch of shadow, that was all, cast by the row-boat and themselves.

But there was something strange about the way it was moving. As if…

The surface erupted. From the centre of the maelstrom, a hand clawed skywards, followed by a head and shoulders, and the sound of a man gasping for air that had the corporal leaping backwards in terror, the hairs on the back of his neck as rigid as corn stalks.

Jago was the first to react. “Come on, lad! Help me!”

The corporal came out of his trance, but Jago was already there, reaching down, grasping the dead weight, hauling the body into the boat, hand over hand.

It had to be some kind of miracle.

The marine rowed them towards the shore. Seated in the scuppers, Jago cradled Hawkwood in his arms. He was holding his padded neckerchief against the wound in Hawkwood’s shoulder. “It’s all right, don’t you worry, Cap’n. Jago’s got you now.”

Chest heaving, Hawkwood looked up at the big man. When he spoke, his voice was a faltering whisper.