by James McGee
Lee stared out over the bow. They had been making good headway. To port lay the Isle of Dogs, a low-lying stretch of sparsely inhabited meadow and marshland. Only two roads served the Isle. The Deptford and Greenwich Road followed the shore, granting land access to the few isolated wharves and industries that occupied the east bank. The Chapel House Road bisected the Isle, connecting the Ferry House, on the southern bend of the river, with the Blackwall entrance to the West India Docks. Lee turned his eyes to the opposite bank, which was far more congested. Thickets of tall mastheads had begun to clutter the skyline as the heavily laden merchantmen awaited their turn for admission into the big dockyards. The entrance to the No. 1 Commercial Dock was visible over the starboard beam. Next to it, the smaller East Country Dock marked the Surrey-Kent border. Immediately south of the border was Dudman’s Yard, with its mooring docks catering for the transports carrying convicts to the other side of the world. Beyond that, less than a mile distant, lay the Royal Dockyard, and his prey.
At a nod from the American, Sparrow, with quiet assurance, eased back on the tiller, taking them off the wind. The bow dipped. Without the advantage of the breeze, the sail began to flap listlessly.
Lee narrowed his eyes, and flicked the remnant of his cheroot over the side. “I’d say it’s time, Mr Sparrow.”
Sparrow lashed the tiller and moved to the mast. It took only seconds to lower the sail, lift the mast out of its socket and secure it to the deck.
The American touched his temple in salute and indicated the open hatch. “This way, Captain Hawkwood, if you please.”
Hawkwood hesitated. He was conscious that behind him Sparrow’s pistol was now drawn and cocked, and pointed at the back of his skull. Hawkwood rose to his feet and watched as the American backed down the hatchway. Lee had been right. The hatch was very small. It looked like a tight fit. Hawkwood stepped across the deck. He knew he had no choice. He couldn’t take on two armed men. The sensible thing, therefore, was to follow orders in the hope that an opportunity for retaliation would present itself in the not too distant future. Heart thumping, he followed Lee down the ladder and into the boat.
At the bottom of the ladder, Lee stepped aside. “Officer Hawkwood, welcome to the Narwhale.”
Emerging from the warehouse, Jago hawked and spat on to the cobbles. So much for that idea. He had searched the building from top to bottom. No Hawkwood, and no mysterious undersea boat either. But there had been a dead body, and given what he had been told by Hawkwood, it hadn’t been difficult to guess the identity of the corpse. It had to be the clockmaker. Which meant it was likely the conspirators had been using the warehouse as a rendezvous. And the old man’s death could only mean one thing: he had outlived his usefulness. The American, William Lee, was covering his tracks. Which meant Jago had to get word to James Read, and fast.
But where the hell was Hawkwood?
Back at the jetty, Jago stared down at the river. At least the bloody dinghy was still there. He knew he was missing something, but what? Then it hit him. When he’d searched the warehouse, the doors to the underground loading dock had been open. When he had arrived at the jetty with Hawkwood the doors had been closed. The thought occurred to Jago that instead of watching the warehouse and the comings and goings on the wharf, he should have been paying more attention to the bloody water. And there was something else.
The old man’s blood was still wet.
Jago looked around quickly, his eyes lifting. Then he was running.
They were known as widow walks: balconies that ran around the top floors of the warehouses and riverside storage buildings. It was here that sailors’ wives kept watch for the ships carrying their menfolk home. Years ago, from the highest platform on a fine day, an observer with a keen eye and a good spyglass could see clear across the flat expanse of the Isle of Dogs to the East India Docks, Bugsbys Marsh and the stretch of river beyond. On some of the older buildings a spyglass was a permanent fixture, enabling merchants and ship owners first sight of returning vessels. In nature the early bird catches the worm. And so it was in commerce. News that a ship had been sighted would radiate through the city like ripples in a pond. Tea, tobacco, spices and silks; the earliest arrivals always commanded the best prices. For want of a spyglass a healthy profit could be won or lost.
From the high balcony of Maggot amp; Sons, Wool Merchants, Jago, with a borrowed telescope jammed against his right eye, quartered the river. Part of his brain told him that looking on top of the water for a vessel that could travel beneath the surface was an exercise in futility, but he didn’t know what else to do and he had to do something.
Jago recalled the words of James Read: We must apply logic.
If the open doors meant that the submersible had been in the warehouse and departed, possibly with Hawkwood on board, how far could it have travelled? Jago, ignoring the vessels traversing the river, turned the lens on to the traffic heading downstream. How long was the submersible? Twenty feet? He began to concentrate on the smaller craft, increasing the distance from the jetty with each sweep.
Jago didn’t believe in miracles. Not until the glass settled on a small triangular patch of dun-coloured sail receding slowly down the left-hand side of the river. He blinked the sweat out of his eye and moved the glass down the mast. Just another wherry was his first thought. No cargo save what looked like a small cask at the stern and another upturned one forward of the mast. Flour, probably, or molasses. One man at the tiller, two more further down the boat, one seated at the gunwale, his back to the stern. Jago cursed and went to move the glass away, when, as if conscious of being spied upon, the man at the tiller turned. A sharp, familiar face floated into view. Jago stiffened, and swore.
Will Sparrow!
Jago tried quickly to bring the features of the other men into focus, but the boat heeled suddenly and the sail obscured his view. Jago cursed, tried to steady the glass once more, but the faces of the anonymous duo remained obstinately out of view. Jago knew a decision was required.
For the second time that morning, he began to run.
18
“ Narwhale? ” Hawkwood said.
Lee stroked the bulkhead affectionately. “ Monodon monoceros. A small whale, native of the northern oceans. With one unique feature: a single horn in the centre of its forehead. Tulpius named it unicornus marinum, the unicorn of the sea. You know of the unicorn, Captain? A mythical beast, small, fast, elusive, it attacks the powerful, braves all dangers, seeks out carnage and has no equal in battle.” Lee smiled. “A small indulgence of mine. Much more romantic than naming her after a shellfish, wouldn’t you agree?”
Hawkwood said nothing. Who the hell was Tulpius? he wondered.
He looked around. The interior of the vessel was like nothing he’d encountered before. They were in the space below the tower, the only part of the boat where a crew member could stand fully upright.
The deck was flat, but the hull, supported by a frame of metal stays not unlike the ribcage of a large fish, curved around them, enclosing them inside a bewildering array of levers, cranks and cogwheels, the solid manifestation of the drawing he had found in Warlock’s baton. He was immediately aware that the inside of the boat was smaller than its outer measurements suggested.
“She’s double-hulled,” Lee explained, patting the bulkhead. “Keeps us watertight and we use the space between for storage and ballast.” Lee tapped his foot on the deck. “Main ballast is down below. We don’t need much. Ten pounds or thereabouts.” Lee pointed to a small lever. “Pump water in, we sink. Pump water out, we float. The same way a fish moves through the ocean. They have a swim bladder. It’s by the bladder’s dilations and contractions that the volume of the fish is increased or diminished, enabling it to rise to the surface or sink to the bottom.”
Lee was like a child with a new toy, pointing to and explaining the function of the controls; from the handles that turned the blades at bow and stern-Lee called them wings-to the cranks that controlled the horizontal and ve
rtical rudders. Depth was measured by a crude barometer, direction by a small compass. Lee nodded through the tangle of ratchets and gears, towards what looked like a large copper globe tucked against the aft bulkhead. “And that’s our air reservoir; two hundred and fifty cubic feet; enough to sustain four men and two candles for five hours. We used to precipitate carbonic acid with lime or carry bottles of oxygen, but they took up too much damned room. With this system, I can release air into the vessel when I require it.”
Four men! Hawkwood tried to imagine what that would be like in such a confined space. Even with just the two of them below and Sparrow still on deck, the sense of claustrophobia was stifling, as was the smell; it carried with it the slight redolence that lingered in a ship’s bilges; breathable but not exactly pleasant.
Lee grinned at Hawkwood’s expression. “Snug, ain’t she? But don’t worry, We won’t be down as long as that. Maybe an hour or two. Spent six hours in her once, bottom of Le Havre basin. That was a day to remember! Mind you, that’s nothing compared to the Mute.”
“ Mute? ” Hawkwood said.
“Fulton’s new design. He tells me she’ll be nearly four times as long as this boat. Probably be able to stay down ten, twelve hours at a time.”
As Hawkwood’s brain tried to grasp the awesome implications of that statement, a boot heel on metal announced Sparrow’s arrival.
“She’s ready,” Sparrow said.
Lee nodded. “Very well. Officer Hawkwood, you take a seat on the deck over there. Secure his hands to that rib, Mr Sparrow. Don’t want him running around loose, do we?” Lee grinned. “And when you’ve finished making our guest comfortable, I’d be obliged if you’d close the hatch and stand by the pumps.”
Hawkwood, held fast to the bulkhead, watched as they prepared the boat for submergence.
The hatch clanged shut. There was a finality to the sound that made Hawkwood’s mouth go dry. A spasm of panic moved through him and he had a fleeting thought that this was what it must be like to be buried alive. And then he saw, unexpectedly, that he was not sitting in total darkness. There was light inside the boat. Half a dozen thin shafts of pale luminescence pierced the submersible’s interior. He saw that Lee was watching him with an amused expression.
“Did you think Sparrow and I had supernatural powers, Captain? That we could see in the dark?” The American smiled. “Candles consume air, my friend, and air is valuable. I’ve constructed several small windows in the deck. Not large-two inches in circumference and an inch in depth. Each window, as you can see, is guarded by a valve. In the unlikely event of the glass breaking, the valve will close and keep out the water. They’re quite sufficient for our needs. Even under the surface, I’ll be able to consult my watch and compass, and in the event of an unexpected solar eclipse, we do carry a lantern on board.” Lee grinned. In the semi-darkness, the American’s teeth looked as if they’d been carved from ivory.
Hawkwood did not smile back.
Lee, suddenly brisk, stood inside the tower and pulled down a small hinged seat. Perching himself on the rest, the American pressed his eye to a small rectangular bubble of glass set in the forward-facing curve of the tower. Three more identical windows gave views to port, aft, and starboard. They did not provide a complete 360-degree panorama, but the restricted view from each was sufficient for him to judge the boat’s position and its relation to other vessels that might be in the vicinity.
“Stand by, Mr Sparrow.”
“You’re mad, Lee,” Hawkwood said. “You think people aren’t going to notice the bloody boat going down?”
Lee took his eye from the window and shrugged. “Oh, they might notice, but what are they going to do? By the time the nearest vessel gets within boarding distance, we’ll be beneath the surface, invisible. They’ll think they imagined it, that their eyes deceived them.”
Sparrow’s hands rested ready on the pump handle.
Lee turned his back and watched the river. Despite his response to Hawkwood’s taunt, the submersible was not entirely immune to danger. The time between lowering the sail, clearing the deck and closing the hatch was when the Narwhale was at its most vulnerable. With no one on deck, the boat would look as if it was drifting and therefore, to those of an unscrupulous disposition, available for the taking. Lee was relying on surprise and his own ability. Fulton had been able to submerge the Nautilus in two minutes. Lee, by redesigning the efficiency of the pumping system, had cut down the Narwhale ’s diving time to a fraction over ninety seconds. For those on board, however, it would still seem like a lifetime.
Lee discovered, as he always did at this critical juncture, that he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly, keeping his eye to the glass. The nearest vessel, as far as he could see, was a collier, one hundred yards over the bow, heading downriver. It didn’t appear to be making much headway, indicating that the breeze had dropped considerably. From his low angle of vision, the river looked vast, with only a slight swell disturbing the sullen surface.
Timing was crucial.
“Now, Mr Sparrow!”
Sparrow gripped the lever with both hands and pushed down. Immediately, a low gurgling sound filled the hull. The vessel trembled. Using both hands, Sparrow began to pump, his movements steady and unhurried. Hawkwood felt the deck shift beneath him and braced himself against the hull. Slowly, the submersible’s bow began to tilt. Sparrow’s hands continued to depress and raise the pump lever. Each motion was accompanied by what sounded like bellows inflating and deflating. Hawkwood discovered that his fists were clenched so tightly his nails were digging into his palms.
The gurgling continued, but the vessel’s movements were becoming less pronounced. Gradually, the deck began to level off. Suddenly the light dimmed. Hawkwood looked up. One by one, the thin shafts of illumination from the windows were fading. Hawkwood felt the cold bubbles of sweat break out beneath his armpits. He looked towards Lee. There was a translucent sheen to Lee’s skin. The tiny windows set into the deck were acting like prisms, absorbing the light filtering down from the surface, inscribing the American’s features with a curious reptilian caste.
“Stop pumping, Mr Sparrow.” The American’s voice was very calm.
Sparrow ceased his exertions. Five feet beneath the surface of the Thames, the Narwhale hovered, like a fly trapped in amber. The sense of stillness was uncanny, as if the submersible was suspended in time. Hawkwood was relieved to discover that the American had been right and that there was still enough light to see. A low rasping sound, like fingernails being drawn across a slate, broke the spell and Hawkwood started violently.
“Just our movement with the current. No need to be alarmed.” Lee left his seat and began to peer closely into the darker recesses of the compartment. Hawkwood assumed the American was checking for leaks. Evidently satisfied that the integrity of the hull was secure, Lee caught Hawkwood’s eye and smiled. “Tell me you’re not impressed.”
Hawkwood didn’t answer. He was too preoccupied with his own heartbeat, waiting for it to stop pounding like a tinker’s drum.
Lee appeared unperturbed by the lack of response. “And this is only the beginning. Imagine a fleet of these vessels at your command. War would become obsolete, a fairy tale told only in story books.”
“How so?” Hawkwood finally found his voice.
“They say a country’s only as strong as its navy. Destroy a nation’s warships and you take away its backbone.” The American paused and shrugged. “At least, that’s what Fulton and Bonaparte reckon. You want to know Bonaparte’s plan?”
“I’ve a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway,” Hawkwood said.
“Bonaparte thinks my blowing up Thetis will frighten the British Navy into submission. Confidence in your seamen will vanish, your fleet will be rendered useless. The Emperor believes that’ll be the signal for British republicans to rise up. With Britain a republic, the seas will be free, and liberty of the seas will mean a guarantee of peace for all nations.”
“Th
en Bonaparte’s mad,” Hawkwood said, and wondered, even as he spoke, if there was such a creature as a British republican. It was a possibility, he supposed, but it was doubtful there’d be enough of them to ferment and organize revolution.
Lee appeared to give the possibility the same degree of consideration. “Maybe, but he’s the one with the money, so who am I to disagree?”
“How much is he paying you?”
Lee smiled. “For Thetis? 250,000 francs. After that, it’ll depend on the size of the vessel. Up to twenty guns, 150,000 francs; twenty to thirty guns, 200,000 francs; and 400,000 francs for anything over thirty guns. Sufficient for my modest needs.”
Hawkwood recalled his conversation at the Admiralty Office and the huge sums demanded by Lee’s predecessor, Fulton. It appeared Bonaparte was paying the American the going rate. In other words, a small fortune.
“How do you plan to get out? Even if you do manage to destroy the ship, you’ll never make it back to the sea.”
“Oh, we’ll make it, never you fear.”
“How?”
Lee smiled knowingly. “Same way we came in. Under tow. There’s a Dutch brig moored off High Bridge. Her captain’s a sympathizer. Well, no, that’s not strictly true. The Frogs are holding his wife and family hostage so he doesn’t get any fancy ideas. I’m listed as first mate, Sparrow’s down as cook. She’ll be the swan to the Narwhale ’s cygnet.” Lee jerked his thumb. “The tower’s detachable. We’ll stow it inside a wine cask, lash it to the deck with a few others, tie up to the brig’s stern rail, and it’s homeward bound. Couldn’t be easier. We’ll drop you off downriver. You’ll be dead, of course, but sacrifices have to be made, I’m sure you understand.”
You certainly couldn’t fault the man’s confidence, Hawkwood thought. The taste of bile rose sour in his throat. “So, what happens now?”
Lee angled his pocket watch towards one of the small ports and squinted at the dial.
