James McGee - Ratcatcher

In the defence of the realm, it was now clear that any rule could be broken. All methods could be justified in the pursuit of a goal. Then Hawkwood remembered the unfinished conversation in the bedroom at the commissioner’s house and knew instinctively there was more to follow.

“We knew from Lieutenant Ramillies’ reports that improvements had been made to the submersible boat.” It was Colonel Congreve who spoke. The colonel had stopped pacing and was standing next to the fireplace. “We needed to find out what they were and whether they had made the device a more viable proposition. William Lee’s mission to attack Thetis gave us that opportunity. It meant we could observe the efficiency of the vessel first hand.”

“What if I’d been able to destroy it?” Hawkwood asked.

“We still had the drawings the clockmaker gave to Officer Warlock. Those and the intelligence gleaned by Lieutenant Ramillies in France would have provided us with a basis for our own plans.”

“Own plans for what?” Hawkwood said. Though he had begun to suspect what they might be.

“To build our own submersible boat, of course.”

Hawkwood felt a swirl of nausea.

“And I have to confess,” the colonel beamed, “we were damned impressed with the result. Tell me, is it true Lee had constructed a means by which you can see above the water when the vessel’s submerged?”

“He called it the eye,” Hawkwood said woodenly, wondering what madness was about to be unleashed.

“Splendid!” the colonel beamed. “I look forward to examining it in detail.”

Hawkwood stared at him.

“Well, you didn’t think we were going to leave the damned thing on the bottom of the river, did you?”

“That thing,” Hawkwood said, “is a bloody death-trap. It blew up.”

“That’s right.” Congreve nodded. There was a pause. “It was supposed to.”

James Read ignored the look of bewilderment on Hawkwood’s face. “Master Woodburn made it happen. When we retrieved his body from the warehouse, we also discovered his journal. He had been composing it in secret, using scraps of paper he managed to secrete during his incarceration. He describes the repairs he was forced to make to the submarine bomb’s timing device. He also describes his own sabotage attempt. It seems he used to let himself out of his cell at night. His guard, Seaman Sparrow, had a habit of leaving the premises to frequent the local gin shop. He obviously thought the old man was securely locked up. Master Woodburn took advantage of his jailer’s absence to make his own modifications to the submersible. Apparently, he was able to conceal a small amount of explosive and equipment to fashion a bomb of his own. Triggered by a clockwork mechanism, it seems, set in motion and timed to detonate once the torpedo had been released from the submersible’s stern.”

Hawkwood recalled the old man’s manner in the cell. Josiah Woodburn had been about to tell him something when Lee had walked in with the woman. Presumably it was the other reason why he hadn’t escaped with Warlock. It hadn’t only been fear for his granddaughter’s safety that had held the clockmaker back, but also his plan to turn the tables on William Lee’s assassination plot. Again, there had been the expression on the old man’s face as Hawkwood had boarded the submersible. Not only the knowledge that his own life had become forfeit but that Hawkwood was being forced on to what was, in effect, a doomed vessel.

“You’re planning to salvage the submersible?” Hawkwood said, still not believing it.

Congreve nodded. “That’s right. And we’ve got our own man to operate it.”

And it all began to fall into place. “Captain Johnstone.”

“Correct. The man’s an indisputable rogue, of course. Talented, I grant you, but a rogue nonetheless. He worked with Fulton when he brought the Nautilus to England. A jack of all trades, you might call him. Been a Channel pilot, privateer, smuggler, even spent a time or two in a debtors’ prison. Not the sort of fellow you’d invite to a soiree, but he’s the best man for the job. No doubt about that.”

Hence the colonel’s less than benevolent expression earlier, Hawkwood thought.

“So, now it’s our turn,” Hawkwood said, unable to keep his anger in check. “What’s it to be? Boney’s barge on the Seine? We’re no bloody better than they are! What the hell’s it all been for?”

James Read looked at him. “Why, victory, Hawkwood-what else?”

Runner Jeremiah Lightfoot was thinking of his bed. He was also thinking about his plump wife, Ettie, and how much he’d like her to be in the bed with him. They had not seen much of each other of late, what with his duties at the bank and his journey north in pursuit of Lord Mandrake; a wasted journey, as he kept reminding himself. He had been looking forward to spending an evening at home, with his loving wife cuddled at his side. But it was not to be. Instead, here he was, loitering on a dark quayside with nothing to keep him company save for the ship’s cat and a small flask of brandy.

The cat was a friendly enough creature, rubbing up against his legs, purring whenever he reached down to stroke it, but he suspected the animal was more interested in the prospect of food than the force of his personality. Sadly, Lightfoot did not have any food, and if he had he sure as hell wouldn’t have shared it with any flea-ridden moggy.

Apart from a watchman dozing in a hammock on the foredeck, Lightfoot was the only man on board. The rest of the crew were ashore, spending their last night enjoying the delights of the local taverns. The ship-a Portuguese owned vessel called the Madrilena — was due to sail with the morning tide, and Runner Lightfoot’s duty was to see that the woman sailed with her. The woman had been escorted to the ship late that afternoon by a brace of constables. She was currently occupying the main cabin.

The woman was beautiful and it had been no hardship watching her as she walked around the deck, taking the air, prior to going below. He knew she was aware of his attention. She had smiled at him several times with her dark eyes and Lightfoot had wondered what it would be like to be with someone like her. But Jeremiah Lightfoot loved his wife, so all he did was wonder.

Dusk was falling as the small, fleet-footed figure made his way along the quayside. Lightfoot watched the boy approach and drew himself up straight.

At the top of the gangplank the boy reached into his pocket and held up a folded piece of paper. “Got a message for the lady.”

“Is that right? And what might your name be?”

“They call me Tooler.”

Lightfoot stiffened and looked around. The watchman was still asleep in his hammock, dead to the world, and taking no notice of the visitor. “Wait here.”

Lightfoot made his way down the companionway. There was a light burning behind the cabin door. He knocked softly.

“Enter.”

She was seated at the small table, reading a book. Lightfoot glanced at the leather binding. Something in French; he could not make out the title.

She looked up. “Yes?”

Her hair was unfastened and hung to her shoulders. She was wearing a low bodice. Lightfoot could see the tops of her breasts. Her skin glowed in the lantern light. Lightfoot swallowed. “There’s a boy. He says he has a message for you.”

“A message?” She frowned. It didn’t make her any less beautiful.

“A note. Says he didn’t want to come below, but he has to give it to you personally. Says it’s important.”

A small lie wouldn’t hurt, Lightfoot thought. Not in the long run.

“Here,” Lightfoot said, “let me get your shawl.” He found his hands were shaking.

The woman rose, accepted the shawl with a nod, and preceded Lightfoot out of the cabin.