‘We met very brief aboard the Terces, Mr den Norske.’
‘But . . . I saw your ship explode and burn. How have you escaped?’
‘Our ship has not burned, you know.’
‘Ahh . . .’ Den Norske nodded, and gave a wry little smile. ‘Pyrotechnics, yes, I see . . .’
‘You must come with us, now.’
‘Come with you? D’you mean to take me to England?’
‘We do. And I hope that you will submit with good grace. I will not like to use physical force when it ain’t necessary.’
‘But you will use it – should I not submit, hm?’
‘I will.’
A shrug. ‘Then in course I will come with you. May I just shift into my coat?’ Nodding to his coat lying draped over a chair at the end of the bed.
James nodded, and den Norske stepped to the chair, and reached for the coat.
Huff had moved back to the door to signal to the two seamen waiting below that all was well, and James was momentarily distracted by this. Den Norske turned from the chair with a pair of pocket pistols in his hands, and was at James’s shoulder before he could react. The muzzle of one pistol was thrust into James’s right ear, and the muzzle of the other pointed at Clinton Huff’s broad back. As Huff turned
crack
he was shot dead. Blood sprayed across the wall and the canvas partition, and the body slumped. Powder smoke. The sound of blood leaking. Shouts from below.
‘Now then, Lieutenant.’ In James’s other ear. ‘You are going to assist me in leaving this house. Yes?’
‘I – I will do as you say.’
‘Then drop your pistol.’
James allowed the weapon to fall from his grasp. It clattered on the bare boards.
‘Very good.’
More shouts from below. Rapid footfalls on the stair.
‘Tell them to abandon their weapons, and go back downstairs, and wait. Tell them I will kill you if they do not obey at once.’
James opened his mouth, and called out the instructions. ‘There is a pistol at my head!’
‘Very good.’ Den Norske. ‘D’y’see that box under the bed there?’
James looked, and saw a small black strongbox nearly concealed by a folded blanket hanging low at the end of the bed.
‘I see it.’
‘Pick it up, and carry it in both hands before you. On no account drop it, or I will certainly shoot you. Do you have me?’
‘I understand you.’ James went to the bed, always aware of the pistol at his head, and he pulled the strongbox out from under the bed, and hefted it up in front of him.
‘Ahead of me, move to the top of the stair, and go slowly and carefully down.’
James did as he was told. Behind him he heard the rustle of den Norske’s coat being removed from the chair, and of papers being thrust away in a pocket. For an instant he thought of turning, flinging the heavy box at den Norske, and overpowering him. Den Norske seemed to read his thoughts.
‘Go on down, if y’please, Lieutenant. Do not entertain foolish notions of counter-attack.’
James could see Enderby and Lacey waiting at the bottom of the stair. He began the descent, holding the box clear of his chest so that he could see his feet and keep his balance in the light coming from the attic. As he reached the bottom of the stair, James saw that Enderby, the younger and taller of the two seamen, was concealing something in his left hand, which hung down at his side. Was that a pistol butt? His sea pistol lay on the floor, with Lacey’s pistol.
‘Where is Clinton Huff, sir?’ Enderby asked him.
From behind James, den Norske: ‘He is killed. As will your lieutenant be killed, if you do not obey me in every particular.’
Enderby pretended to take the news very hard. His shoulders slumped, then he leaned suddenly forward, thrust James powerfully aside with his right hand, lifted the small pistol in his left, and fired it directly at den Norske:
crack
The ball struck him in the neck. He clutched at his neck, his eyes staring, the pistol in his other hand discharged harmlessly into the wall, scattering plaster dust, and den Norske fell, blood welling through his fingers. The pistol clattered away across the floor. Powder smoke. James, thrown off balance, instantly recovered. He threw the strongbox aside, and jumped to prevent den Norske from attempting escape. The wounded man was beyond escape. He gave a desperate groaning gasp, and lost consciousness. Blood leaked from his neck on the floor, pooling under his head.
James knelt, tore the kerchief from his head, balled it up and pressed it against the wound. The bunched cloth grew sodden with blood, and James saw that his effort to keep den Norske alive was pointless. He was already dead.
‘Is he dead? Did I do right, sir?’ Enderby, peering down, the smoking pistol still in his hand.
‘Ay, ye did right.’ James, with a sigh, and he got to his feet.
‘I know we was supposed to take him alive, sir, but I couldn’t see no other—’
‘Ye did right.’ James, over him, reassuringly. ‘And now we must get out of this house at once, or be took. The sound of shots will have raised the alarm. We will go downstairs to the kitchen, slip out through the alley and away to the wharf.’
‘Cole and Thomas is still at the front, sir.’
‘We will call to them as we reach the corner of the street. Take up that strongbox, now, and run. I will follow you.’
Enderby took up the box, and he and Lacey ran down the passage toward the landing. James knelt again and felt inside the dead man’s coat. Found the papers he was looking for, and thrust them away inside his jerkin. Rising, and looking down at the corpse:
‘You have got me into a pretty fix. I will be blamed for your death. But I cannot mourn over you, that killed a good man this night.’
A last glance up the steep stair, then he turned and ran along the passage. Less than a minute later he joined Enderby, Lacey and Hill in the alley, and they proceeded cautiously to the corner of the street, and whistled to Thomas and Cole. Presently they were all assembled in the shadows. A dog barked nearby, but otherwise there was no indication of alarum. Keeping his voice low, James:
‘We had better not return to the wharf as one party.’ To Enderby: ‘Give me the strongbox. I will carry it, and go on ahead alone.’ Enderby handed him the box. ‘You will follow singly, at intervals of two minutes, and we will all meet at the wharf in one glass. D’y’have me?’
‘Ay, sir.’
‘One glass, sir.’
‘Ay.’
‘Very good.’ James glanced both ways along the street, then he stepped out, carrying the box under his arm, and hurried away in the direction of the harbour.
When he arrived at the wharf twenty minutes after, not a single person remained of the crowd that had earlier watched the floating conflagration. The harbour was again dark and peaceful, the only evidence of the fire a hint of sulphurous smoke on the air. Keeping to the shadows James made his way to the north end of the wharf, peered down the steps, and was confounded. The boat was gone. And where was Mappin?
Captain Rennie had earlier sent a message to the address Brough Mappin had given him, outlining his independent plan to take den Norske, seize the complete set of designs for his gun, and bring them to the ship. He had required Mappin – if he desired to return to England in Expedient – to take no notice of the fire in the harbour, but to come to the wharf at a particular time, wait there for James and his crew to return with den Norske, then embark in the boat with them.
‘Could he have took the boat?’ James, muttering. Then he shook his head. Nay, Mappin would never have proceeded alone.
James put down the box, and ran down the steps. Then had the boat drifted? There was only the lapping water, and the mooring ring flat on the stone. His forehead was damp with sweat, and a breath of wind was pleasantly cooling. Nothing else was pleasing or comforting. He ran back up the steps, and leaving the box ran down the length of the wharf. There were two other sets of steps, o
ne halfway along, the other at the southern end. No boats were tethered at either.
‘God damn the thieves and villains of this port! May they rot in hell!’
He returned to the northern end, retrieved the box, and retreated into the shadows to wait. As his anger faded he was obliged to admit that, even though it had been sent back next day, he and Rennie had taken a boat from this very wharf in order to return to Expedient the night of Mr Hendry’s dinner. Was it fair, therefore, to blame whoever had taken Expedient’s boat tonight? Likely it would be returned in the morning – but too late. A sigh, and he crouched down to ease his tired limbs.
The others came one by one to the wharf, at intervals of a few minutes, crept into the shadows and gathered round James. When all were present:
‘Well, lads – we must make a new plan. Our boat has been took.’
‘Christ, and the coxswain dead . . .’
‘What are we to do, sir?’
‘Ay, tell us, sir.’
‘Just as I said, lads.’ With a confidence he most certainly did not feel. ‘A new scheme. Since our own boat is stole, we will steal one in our turn.’
‘Is there other boats moored here, sir?’ Enderby, doubtfully.
‘No, not at this wharf. We will go round to the next, and find a boat there.’
‘Ain’t that a loading wharf, sir? There will be watchmen there.’
‘Ay, there will. But we are strong, and determined. Any unwise persons that attempt to thwart us will be dealt with very severe. We will prevail, and return to Expedient.’ A deep breath, and he took up the box. ‘Come on, then.’
*
Expedient at sea, at seven bells of the middle watch. Captain Rennie pacing his quarterdeck. Although no part of the ship had been burned, the acrid reek of extinguished fire lingered everywhere in her, and in the sails and rigging. In accordance with the scheme Rennie had agreed with Lieutenant Hayter, the ship was now well outside the harbour, clear of all boats and ships that might otherwise have attempted to come to her aid as the fire died down. And if any such vessels tried to find her after daybreak, Expedient would by then have stood off the coast, and made for sail for England, her boat having returned to her under cover of darkness.
But the boat had not returned, and Rennie was increasingly anxious. Everything hinged on its safe return, everything. Was Mappin even now waiting at the wharf, waiting in vain? Had James and his men fallen foul of the authorities in Boston? Had they been took, and the scheme wrecked?
‘God knows . . .’ Rennie, at the tafferel.
The boat, mast stepped and sails bent, came to Expedient at three bells of the morning watch in grey pre-dawn light. The wind had freshened, and James had made good time once clear of the inner harbour. Expedient was hove to on the slow-riding, ruffled swell, maintopsail aback. Rennie had grown anxious to the point of despair, and had been about to call for his boatswain to make sail when the lookout’s call came.
‘De-e-e-e-ck! Boat approaching from the nor’-we-e-e-e-st!’
Rennie hurried forrard to the gangway as the boat came off the wind and lost way, and came in alongside. Lieutenant Hayter stepped up the ladder, carrying something under his arm. His face under the smears of charcoal was pallid, and he looked exhausted. Rennie peered down into the boat as sails were lowered, looking for passengers.
‘Have you brought them with you?’ As James came up into the ship.
‘If you mean Mr den Norske, sir – he is not with us.’
‘And where is Mr Mappin?’
‘He is not with us, neither. And we had to steal a boat. It is a long story, sir.’
‘Then for Christ’s sake make it a short one, and tell me.’ Again peering down into the boat. ‘You stole this boat? Where is my coxswain?’
‘Clinton Huff was shot dead, sir.’
‘Good God.’
‘By Mr den Norske, who was himself then killed.’
‘Christ Jesu – then the mission has failed.’
‘No, sir, not entire.’ He held out the strongbox. ‘I believe what we sought is in this box.’
‘You are certain? You have opened it?’
‘Nay, I have not.’
‘Bring it to the great cabin.’ Turning on his heel, then checking himself, and turning awkwardly back to his lieutenant. ‘That is, that is – if you please, Mr Hayter.’
In the great cabin James put the box on the table, and stood waiting for the captain to invite him to sit down and make his report, but Rennie was preoccupied and left his exhausted lieutenant standing. Rennie sent for the armourer, Ishmael Jupp, and marched impatiently round the table peering at the box from different angles. When the man came Rennie instructed him to break it open right quick. The lock proved difficult to break, and James – uninvited – at last slumped down in a chair at the end of the table. Rennie did not notice. To the armourer:
‘Cannot you wedge that damned chisel under the lock, Jupp?’
‘Yes, sir, I am attempting to do it, but the fu— I mean, the lock itself is peculiar stubborn, sir. It is all turned, like, with no hard edges.’
He adjusted the position of the chisel, lifted the mallet, and fell on the lock with a series of rapid ringing blows. James shut his eyes, and rubbed his forehead.
Five minutes of pounding, then a harsh metallic snap, a pinging clatter, and the lid of the box jumped up half an inch.
‘Done, sir!’ The armourer, standing back.
‘Very good, thankee, Jupp. – Cutton!’
‘Sir?’ His steward, attending bleary-eyed.
‘An extra ration of grog for the armourer. Say so to Mr Loftus.’
‘Me, sir?’
‘Yes yes, you. Jump now.’ Waving them both away out of the cabin.
When they had gone Rennie noticed James slumped asleep in the chair. For a moment he was inclined to leave him be – it was clear the poor fellow was all in – and then he changed his mind. They must discover what was in the box, and then Rennie had a great many questions for his lieutenant. Sleep must wait.
‘James! – James!’ Rapping his knuckles on the table.
James roused himself, rubbed his face, apologised, and stood beside Rennie as the captain opened the box. What they saw astonished both men. Wedged in the box between blocks of wood was a coned black shot, the base ringed by an inch-wide strip of steam-turned timber, and tied to a green flannel cartridge by several tightly wound threads of twine. At the top of the metal cone was a neat hole of about an inch and half diameter, and several inches deep. Lying in the bottom of the box, under the wooden blocks, was a wood-and-metal plug painted black and red.
‘What the devil is it, James? A mortar bomb?’
James, peering: ‘Nay, I believe this may be the combined cartridge and shot den Norske designed for his new field gun. That plug may probably contain an explosive charge of some sort.’ Pointing. ‘Don’t you think so, sir?’
‘But where is the design, James? Where are the draft plans for this bloody gun?’
‘I was near certain they were in the box.’
‘They are not.’ Curtly.
‘Wait, though.’ James had removed his jerkin and hung it over the back of his chair when he sat down. He retrieved the jerkin now, and thrust his hand into an interior pocket. ‘Yes, I have them still.’ And he withdrew several sheets of paper folded into a tight bundle. ‘I took these letters from den Norske’s coat after he was shot, and had thought no more about them until now.’
‘Well?’ Rennie.
James unfolded the sheets, and spread them out on the table. The first two sheets were indeed letters. The others were a series of beautifully executed drawings.
There were six drawings in all. In carriage plan, side elevation, breech elevation, muzzle elevation, section, and overall plan, they showed the full details of a brass six-foot field gun, with a rifled barrel, four and five-eights inches diameter at the muzzle, and an ingenious hinged breech. The carriage was of an extraordinarily clever design, with a pivot enabling
the gun to be swung and locked at a dozen points through a wide arc of fire, without compromising its stability. The breech elevation included, at one side, details of the projectile. The cone shell had an empty weight of seven pounds, and a charged weight of fourteen, with a one-pound bursting plug fitted into the top of the cone. Also included on this sheet were brief notes about a new type of cartridge powder. These gave no indication of its ingredients.
Both men studied the drawings, and at length James, half to himself:
‘I see that the cartridge and shot are meant to be inserted in the opening breech, rather than rammed in at the muzzle, but I do not see any provision for a flintlock . . .’
‘Loaded at the breech, good heaven?’ Rennie. ‘Nay, it cannot answer, James.’ Shaking his head, a grimace. ‘The fellow was clearly a lunatic.’
‘With respect, sir, I must disagree. The thing is entirely plausible, and quite wonderfully inventive.’
‘Y’said y’self there was no flintlock, James. Such an oversight is typical of men such as den Norske. They are elaborate and ingenious in their glorious fantastications, and they forget the fundamentals.’ Tapping a drawing dismissively.
‘No, sir. I never said there was no flintlock, merely that he had not included it upon the drawing. Here is the vent.’ Pointing. ‘There must be a place for the lock above it . . . Ah! Here it is, on the side elevation! But . . . it ain’t a flintlock, though. It is some other kind of lock. What is that word, sir, can you make it out?’
Rennie, peering: ‘“Fulminate”, I think. So far as I am aware, that means to strike by lightning. As I told you, the fellow was stark mad.’
‘Mad or no, these drawings deserve close examination by the Ordnance Board, sir. As does the shot itself.’
‘Possibly. It will be for Their Lordships to decide. It ain’t our business to deal with the intricate contrivances and doodlings of fellows like den Norske, thank God.’
‘If you will permit me to express an opinion, sir, I believe the seizure of these drawings – after all our tribulation – has made the commission a great success.’
‘Well well, you are entitled to your opinion, James. I must tell you it ain’t an opinion I share. I think we have wasted our time, at terrible and unconscionable cost.’ A sniffing breath, a glance at his lieutenant. ‘You are tired, and I will not detain ye long. However, I must have your report, and answers to all of my questions, before you go to your rest. – Sentry!’
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