Now he was outside the storeroom, what should he do? Watters considered his options. His first was to find somewhere to hide in the ship, although he knew every square inch of the warship would be utilised. The second option was to slip over the side and swim for shore. Although Watters was a fair swimmer, the ship might be a hundred miles out to sea, so such a course could be suicidal. His third was the best: if he were fortunate, there would be a dinghy or other small boat. If he were very fortunate, the dinghy would be equipped with water and ship's biscuits.
Listening for the sound of footsteps or voices, Watters walked through the ship until he reached a companionway that stretched upwards. Taking a deep breath, he climbed the steps to a closed, varnished door, listened for voices, heard none, opened the door, and breathed deeply of air mingled with salt and soot.
Watters found himself on a deck smeared with sooty smuts from the smokestack. Cold winter air blasted him, while the constant beat of the paddles thrust the ship onward through grey waves tipped with silver white. Seabirds kept pace with the ship; their wingtips quivering.
Watters glanced along the deck. The officer of the watch stood on the starboard paddle-box, staring through a telescope. The steersman was in the stern, too concentrated on his task to notice a stray seaman wandering around the deck.
Sitting near the steersman, the captain's dinghy invited Watters's closer inspection. If he could get the dinghy into the sea, he might be able to reach land somewhere. It did not matter where it was; anywhere would be better than a Federal prison. Watters slipped closer to the dinghy. He frowned when he realised that professional hands had ensured her lashings were stiff. It was years since Watters had worked with maritime knots, and he was struggling to unfasten them when footsteps sounded.
Swearing softly, he looked up. A young midshipman was marching purposefully along the deck with his arms swinging and his hat squared on his head. A file of marines stepped at his back.
Still cursing, Watters sunk down and crawled away. He neither knew nor cared why the midshipman was leading his marines. He only knew they had interrupted what may be his only chance of escaping.
Opening the nearest door, Watters slid down a companionway to find himself in a small corridor with three plain, unvarnished wooden doors. One had the name 'Captain' embossed on a brass plate.
Where now? Watters glanced urgently around.
The corridor remained thankfully empty with a single shaded lantern swinging with the motion of the ship. Hearing the murmur of voices in the captain's cabin, Watters tried the door opposite, found it locked, and slid inside the cabin next to the captain's.
Watters gasped his relief when he found the room unoccupied. Two cots and a single desk took up most of the space with a pair of sea-chests filling the rest. Watters could hear people moving about in the cabin next door and the distinct murmur of voices. With nowhere else to go, he sat on a cot, aware of the constant churn of the paddles and the swish of the sea against the hull. The voices continued.
'Beaumont.'
The name had been repeated at least three times before the significance dawned on Watters. Squeezing as close to the thin bulkhead as he could, he listened to the voices.
'I don't agree with that at all.'
The reply was muffled, and Watters cursed his earlier inattention.
The first voice sounded again, the New England accent distinct. 'My orders are to drop you off in London and return. No more.'
Again the mumble, but the next words were clear, 'Mount Pleasant.'
The throbbing of the engine combined with the steady thump of the paddles made eavesdropping difficult, so Watters slid outside again and crept to the door of the captain's cabin. There were two voices inside. One belonged to the captain, with the Down East twang nasal and unmistakable. The second was more gentle and slower, perhaps from further west.
'I don't agree with murder, damn it, Mr H., or whatever you call yourself!' That was undoubtedly the captain. 'I don't hold with all this underhand subterfuge, and I don't like being used as a ferryboat for a murderer.'
'You fired on a virtually unarmed ship as part of your duty to the Union,' the gentler voice said. 'I will kill this man to help preserve that same Union.'
Who is to be killed? As Watters moved as close as he could, his boots scraped on the deck. He froze, but in a moving steamship, one more noise made little difference. The conversation continued unchecked.
'We're not at war with Great Britain, Mr H.,' that was the captain's voice, 'but actions such as this would provoke one.'
'It's an example,' the gentle speaker said, and with a start, Watters recognised Ted's voice, although with a different accent. Ted Houghton and Mr H. are one and the same. 'I want to send an example to all other British merchants that might help the South. We have already tried to destroy his businesses by fire.'
'You failed, sir,' the captain said.
'I relied on amateurs.' That was Ted. 'I will not make that mistake again. The arson attempts were the work of a local abolitionist group who jumped the gun. They should have waited until I supplied the correct equipment, such as this little device.' There was a pause while the speaker obviously showed something to the captain.
'What is that? A new cigar?' The captain's cynicism was apparent.
'Looks like it, doesn't it?' Ted's voice was bland. 'Our people have been working on this for months. It's small enough to fit inside one's pocket but deadly enough to burn down an entire building. I can open it… see?' There was silence for a moment. 'You notice the two compartments inside? One has sulphuric acid, the other potash. At present, this thin copper membrane separates them. If I push this little button, just here, the acid is free to eat its way through the copper, leaks into the potash, and boom! The thing heats up amazingly, setting fire to everything it touches.'
There was another silence, and then the captain spoke. 'Damn if that isn't the most devilish thing I ever saw. We're fighting to preserve the Union, not burn down Great Britain. I don't like it at all.'
Ted gave a gruff laugh. 'They work. I planted two in the ammunition stored for these French machine rifles on Alexander MacGillivray; otherwise, you would never have caught her.'
'We would have caught her.' The words had stung the captain's professional pride.
Watters grunted: That explains the mysterious explosions on the Confederate ship. So Ted was an agent for the Federal government. Marie was correct; this whole affair had been political all the time.
Ted spoke again, 'If the people in Dundee had waited until we provided these little beauties, then Beaumont's factories would have all burned to the ground, he would have been ruined, and there would have been no finance for the rebel ship. Instead, they tried arson with matches and old rags.'
'Your scheme failed,' the captain said.
'One man attacked Beaumont's daughter; the Dundee police took notice and slammed most of the abolitionists in the lockup. Their leader is still free. We can still use her.'
'Their leader' and 'we can still use her?' Who might that be? The women who paid Varthley? It could be no other. Who was she? No wonder I have not cracked this case.
The captain sighed. 'This is a sordid business. Have you tried any other methods of damaging this Beaumont fellow?'
'No.'
No? Watters frowned. How about trying to sink Lady of Blackness? Or are you ashamed that you failed there too, Mr H.? Can your pride not cope with another failure?
Watters listened with disbelief as these men from a civilised, neutral nation calmly planned the murder of a British businessman. It was true that Beaumont was ruthless in business and his financial backing of William Caskie was morally questionable, but Beaumont was not a political animal. His motives were profit based, not vindictive, and that surely was no reason to have him murdered. For one second, Watters contemplated jumping into the captain's cabin and disposing of both men, but sense chased away the red rage. They might be armed, and anyway, Mr H. would be very capable of lookin
g after himself. It would be better to escape somehow and warn Mr Beaumont and the British authorities.
'Hey! You!' The challenge echoed along the corridor. A young ensign was hurrying towards Watters with his face contorted in anger. 'What the hell are you doing, skulking outside the captain's cabin like that?'
Jumping to his feet, Watters knew he had a quick decision to make. Either he could run further into the bowels of the ship or push past the ensign onto the deck. The ensign was young but looked fit, strong, and angry, while to run deeper into the ship would be only to delay the inevitable.
'Out of my way!' Watters charged forward. The ensign blocked his way, but Watters was the more desperate. After a brief struggle, he knocked the ensign to the ground. Then it was a hurried scramble up to the deck and a quick breath of smut-filled air before searching for sanctuary.
There was none. Watters ran his gaze down the deck: a swivel gun fore and aft, four broadside cannons, a main and mizzen mast, a port and starboard paddle box, and four small boats, each one as securely lashed down as the captain's dinghy. The deck of a Federal paddle steamer did not provide a plethora of places in which to hide. Watters heard footsteps behind him as other seamen joined the ensign.
It was dawn, grey and heavy with the promise of rain. A sudden blast of wind swept across the deck. Watters ran aft, hoping for a miracle that he knew would not transpire. His choice was stark, surrender or jump overboard. If he fought, he would be shot, for these Federal seamen would have no time for escaped Confederate prisoners. Watters hesitated, looked at the leaping waves, and then dived back down the hatch that led below. Hearing the clatter of feet behind him, he kept running.
The layout of this warship was unfamiliar, but the basic plan was the same as the vessels on which Watters had sailed. He had expected there to be more crew then remembered that some would have been sent on board the captured Alexander MacGillivray. He ducked low, slid down a steel companionway, and scurried along a dimly lit corridor that throbbed and vibrated with the proximity of the engine.
There were more voices ahead, with footsteps echoing along the corridor and the banging of a door. Watters slid through a small hatch, stifling his gasp as he slithered down into utter blackness. He lay still until his eyes adjusted to the gloom of what he realised was an ammunition locker, surrounded by piles of solid shot. Feet clattered past, somebody's voice echoed in the corridor, but Watters waited for a long five minutes before easing open the door.
The corridor was deserted, with only a single vibrating lantern providing light. Watters slipped free, paused for a second, and hurried aft. He could not hide on board for long, so all he could do was try again to free one of the ship's boats to chance the German Ocean. Removing his shoes, he padded quietly toward a companionway and eased upward toward the deck.
'Hey!' The voice startled him, but he controlled his jangling nerves. He looked around, waving a casual hand to the confused-looking able seaman who had challenged him.
'I'm new on board,' Watters explained and moved onto the deck hoping that the dark concealed the colour of his uniform. The officer on watch was well forward, staring into the night, and this time, there was no midshipman or file of efficient marines.
Once again, Watters shivered in the blast of sea air as he moved toward the captain's dinghy. The cover was well lashed down, but he persevered, cursing that he had neither knife nor marline spike with which to free the ropes. He would have to loosen the davit attachments and hope that a final pull would release both at the same time. Sweat streamed from his face as he wrestled with salt-hardened rope, but he untied one before the shout came.
'That's him! That's the rebel!'
Watters was moving before the last word, running below as feet clattered across the deck. He dived back into the chill damp of the corridors, plunging in any direction as he heard the noise of pursuit. There was another corridor ahead, with a cabin door flapping open. Watters slipped in, trod on a surprisingly carpeted deck, and kicked shut the door. He leant against the bulkhead, trying to control his gasping breath in case it could be heard amidst the clamour of the paddle steamer.
There was a desk bolted to the deck, with two wooden chairs and a collection of charts and nautical books. There was also a sextant, a safe, and a file of official documents marked: US Navy: For the Eyes of the Captain. Watters swore; he must be in the captain's day cabin; he had run full circle around the ship.
A quick tug at the door of the safe assured him that it was securely locked, while the official documents referred only to the supposed movements of Confederate vessels, highly crucial to the Federal Navy but of no interest to him. Slowly opening the top drawer of the desk, Watters saw a four-inch-long cylindrical case tucked into the side. He had never seen the like before, and he remembered Ted describing a fire-raising device. Perhaps this was to what he referred? Watters grunted, shoved the metal case into his inside breast pocket, and left the cabin. He had no option; he had to try the dinghy again. Cautiously opening the door to the deck, he stepped onto the pristine timber.
'Rebel!'
There were men behind him now, that ubiquitous midshipman with a group of others. The midshipman shouted. 'Get back here! Back or I shoot, y'hear?'
The crack of a revolver sounded immediately after the midshipman's words, but where the shot went, Watters could not tell. Slithering onto the paddle box, he steeled himself to leap. The sea looked cold and grey. Would the Federals accept his surrender when he had been found spying? That was unlikely. Watters looked back; four men were pounding across the deck, the slender Midshipman, Scouse, Niner, and Ted Houghton holding a revolver. Watters swore when Ted stopped to aim.
Ted fired; the bullet gouged a long splinter from the paddle box. No prisoners, then. Taking a deep breath, Watters leapt into the sea as far astern as he could, hearing the revolver crack a third and fourth time as the water closed over him and the churning maelstrom of the paddle's wake caught him, thrust him under, and tossed him around like a cork.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: GERMAN OCEAN: DECEMBER 1862
Disorientated by the steamer's wake, Watters could not tell in which direction the surface lay until his head emerged. He spat out seawater, gasping as he kicked to keep afloat. The lights of the paddle steamer gleamed two cables-lengths to his right, fading slowly even as he watched. The blackguards aren't even going to search for me.
He had no idea how far the coast was, but the steamer had been travelling south, so if he swum at right angles to her starboard side, he should hit the coast of the United Kingdom sometime. Or drown, more likely, for Commander Pierce was taking care to be well outside the three-mile limit. Watters knew he could either swim or give up, and the latter was not an option. Spitting out another mouthful of the German Ocean, he swam slowly, hoping to retain his strength as long as possible. The water was so cold that already he felt the numbness spreading through his extremities.
After half an hour, Watters rested his arms, treading water to keep afloat as he watched the morning light unveil a panorama of tossing waves in every direction. 'Keep swimming,' he muttered, 'keep swimming.' He thought of Marie, of Amy squealing her delight at the bright windows in Reform Street, and then of Marie again, smiling.
'Move,' Watters said. 'Stay alive, keep moving; fight the pain.'
More waves, but he could see something else, something brown in the distance. Watters was unsure what it was, but he headed in that direction until he felt a terrible force pulling at his legs. He had heard of the wreck of Birkenhead when hundreds of British soldiers jumped overboard and were eaten by sharks, and for a second, he froze. Were there sharks in the German Ocean? He kicked out, yelling, and something dragged him into the sea.
Watters panicked, swallowing seawater that burned in his chest as he fought this powerful force that was pulling him underwater, backward, and upside down. So this was death; it seemed so unfair to be killed by some creature only a few miles off the British coast. What would Marie say when she heard if she ever
did hear?
The sound of drowning was terrible, a roaring that seemed to rip open his ears, combined with a burning that tore at his lungs and light that burned his eyes as he momentarily broke the surface into fresh air. He heaved, spewing out what seemed like gallons of boiling hot water, retched again, and tried to stand, but something held his hands and feet in a vice. He was plunged back into the water again, covered in hundreds of slippery, slimy things that wriggled as they remorselessly pressed the life out of him, and then he was lifted and dropped, cursing, onto a shifting surface.
'We've got another corpse.' The voice was laconic but the accent English. Watters opened his mouth to speak, only to have something slimy and wriggling force its way between his teeth.
'That's no corpse; he's alive!'
'Well, praise the Lord.'
'He's trying to eat our fish, though.' A hand snatched the fish from Watters's mouth. A broad face loomed over him. 'He don't look like a fisherman.'
'He's got some sort of uniform on. He could be a Frenchy or a Dutchy. Look, he's reaching for his pocket.'
Rough hands pulled Watters free of the net that had entangled him, and bearded men in oilskins knelt at his side. Somebody thrust a bottle in his mouth. Watters drank thirstily of the water.
'Look, Silas, he was reaching for the Holy Book!'
The voices seemed to echo from a great distance off, but they were kindly and concerned. 'A Bible, and it's wrote in English. He's as English as we are, God bless him!'
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