by James McGee
The Narwhale’s bow dipped sharply and the submersible heeled violently to port. It was as if the vessel had been picked up by a giant hand and hurled against a wall. Hawkwood made a desperate grab for one of the iron ribs. As he did so, Sparrow’s body, still pumping blood, fell forward, trapping him against the bulkhead. Hawkwood drew in his knees and kicked out. Only one boot made contact, but it was just enough to shift the seaman’s dead weight. Hawkwood sucked in air, used the rib for support, and dragged himself upright. His eardrums felt as if they were on fire.
The submersible gave another massive lurch, this time to starboard. The motion was accompanied by what sounded like a heavy wooden door straining on a rusted hinge. Hawkwood felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He managed to hang on by his fingertips and stared at the horror around him. Whatever the cause of the second explosion, the effect had been catastrophic. With her stern section severely holed, the boat was flooding at a phenomenal rate. Hawkwood looked forward and saw Lee working feverishly to regain control. But the lack of response from the vertical and horizontal rudders and the angle of the bow told their own story. With all power lost, the Narwhale was dropping like a stone.
The ship was ablaze.
The explosion had echoed around the dockyard like the voice of God, sending every man—labourer, seaman, marine and magistrate—diving for cover. Voices rose sharply in panic. Shrieking gulls wheeled across the sky in massed confusion. Somewhere an alarm bell began to clang loudly.
The Thetis’s midsection was a smoking ruin and she had lost her mast. It lay like a fallen tree across her foredeck, boom and temporary sail still attached, canvas draped over the gunwales like a huge grey funeral shroud. The standards that had flown so proudly above her now hung in tattered and scorched disarray. Flames licked hungrily from her gun ports and open hatchways. Slowly she began to list.
Several men had gone over the side, either catapulted there by the force of the blast or having leapt over the rails to escape the terrible conflagration. Thrashing limbs, splashes and urgent cries for help showed where they had landed. The water was tinged with blood. Many of the survivors were screaming.
Jago, ears ringing like Bow Bells, almost missed it.
What made him glance out over the river at that precise moment he would never know. Even then, he wasn’t sure what he had seen: a commotion in the water, a hundred yards or so beyond the stricken warship. What looked like a small waterspout, or a splash, as if something had risen to the surface and dropped back down, causing a series of widening concentric ripples. A disturbance of some kind below the surface.
A marine hurried past, musket at the ready. Jago recognized him as the corporal who had stopped him earlier. “You, lad! Come with me!”
The look in Jago’s eyes told the corporal that dissent was not an option. Without a word he followed Jago to the dockyard stairs, watched as the big man climbed into the row boat and picked up an oar.
“Come on, son, we ain’t got all bleedin’ day!”
The corporal shouldered his musket and stepped gingerly into the boat.
Jago untied the painter, pushed them away from the quayside, and thrust the oar into the corporal’s hands. “Now, boy, you row!” Jago picked up the second oar. “You bloody row until I tell you to stop!”
Below the surface of the Thames, as the pitch of the vessel altered, the angle of illumination penetrating the submersible from above was changing. It was growing darker by the second.
The underside of the bow hit first. In the gloom of the compartment, the sound of the submersible’s keel scraping along the river bed was like a forty-two-pounder sliding across a storm-lashed deck, amplified a thousand-fold. It seemed as if a lifetime had passed before the noise began to diminish. Finally the tumult died. There followed a moment of eerie silence. Slowly the stern began to settle. Then, with a final protest from its creaking timbers, the Narwhale came to rest, canted at an angle like a broken barrel in a snowdrift.
Chest heaving, Hawkwood let go of the rib and checked himself for injuries. Miraculously he appeared to be unscathed. Self-preservation foremost in his mind, he groped frantically for the knife. The water was already hip-deep and icy cold. Sparrow’s corpse lay face down and wedged against the pump handle. Hawkwood clambered over the inert body, feeling urgently with his fingers. His hand brushed what might have been the knife blade, but even as he knelt to retrieve the object, with the incoming water surging around his legs like a whirlpool, the blade slid from his grip and Lee was upon him.
The American had lost his own pistol in the confusion, but his hand held another weapon. Instinct had Hawkwood twisting aside, arm rising to ward off the blow as the iron maul curved towards his skull.
The maul-head missed Hawkwood’s ear by less than a finger width. He felt the breath of its passing on his cheek. His hand encircled Lee’s wrist and he used Lee’s own impetus to overbalance the American and ram him against the bulkhead. He heard Lee grunt as his shoulder made contact with the metal rib. Hawkwood drove a fist into the American’s belly and was rewarded with another gasp of pain. But Lee, recovering fast, lashed out once more. This time the attempt was successful. The strike took Hawkwood under the ribcage, slamming him back against the propeller crank. Lee, eyes suddenly bright with the expectation of victory, moved in. Through tears of pain Hawkwood watched the approach of death.
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.
An
other 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.
Jago bent low. “Sorry, Cap’n. Didn’t catch that.”
Hawkwood took a deep breath, succumbed to a brief wracking cough, and tried again.
“Nathaniel?” His voice now a rasping croak.
“That’s me.”
“You were right.”
“I was?” Jago frowned. “What about?”
A grin rearranged Hawkwood’s face.
“It wasn’t much of a plan.”
And Jago started to laugh.
21
The surgeon, a burly man with a reassuring smile, stowed his instruments in his bag and turned to the Chief Magistrate. “The stomach wound is superficial; a scratch, nothing more. As far as the knife wound is concerned, I’ve cleaned it as best I can. He’s strong. I see no reason why he shouldn’t make a full recovery.”
James Read received the news with a nod. “Thank you, Doctor.”
As the surgeon stood, Commissioner Dryden, standing behind him, coughed discreetly. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I too have duties to attend to. And I’ve no doubt there are matters you wish to discuss in ah…private.” Dryden smiled, almost shyly, at Hawkwood. “Honoured to make your acquaintance, sir.” A nod to James Read and to Jago, who was standing at the bedside, and he, too, was gone.
They’d taken Hawkwood to the commissioner’s house. Commissioner Dryden had summoned his own doctor to examine Hawkwood’s injuries.
“He’s an excellent man,” Dryden had assured Read. “Served with Collingwood on the Dreadnought.”
James Read waited until the two men had left the room before turning to the patient. A rare smile hovered on the magistrate’s lips. “Welcome back.”
Sunlight flooded the room. A servant had arrived earlier to close the curtains, but Hawkwood had stopped her. His entombment in the submersible was still fresh in his memory. He craved light and warmth, lots of it. Those last moments in the Narwhale had been the most terrifying ordeal of his life. Trapped in the flooded tower, the water over his head, the will to fight slipping away until, in a moment of startling lucidity, he recalled Lee’s words. You hold your breath and pray.
So, in the pitch darkness, Hawkwood had held his breath and prayed that he could open the submersible’s hatch before the air in his lungs finally gave out. It had been a frantic few seconds, searching for the catch, one arm useless, the freezing cold invading his body with a crippling intensity. Eventually, the catch had yielded, and he was pulling himself through and clawing his way towards the light.
He did not respond to the magistrate’s greeting.
James Read frowned. “Your wounds pain you?”
“I was thinking about Lee,” Hawkwood said. “I wasn’t able to stop him. He still blew up the ship.”
A muscle twitched in the magistrate’s cheek. He looked at Jago. Jago returned the look and raised an eyebrow.
“What?” Hawkwood said.
“No he didn’t,” Jago said.
“Didn’t what?”
“He didn’t blow up the ship,” James Read said.
“Of course he did,” Hawkwood said. “I heard it
. I saw it, when Nathaniel brought me ashore.”
The Chief Magistrate shook his head. “No. He blew up a ship, not the ship.”
Hawkwood thought he might be going mad. Except Jago was grinning like a loon. He stared at them both.
Jago said, “They switched them, Cap’n. The sly buggers switched ’em.”
Hawkwood closed his eyes, waited, opened them again. Jago was still there, still grinning.
Jago glanced at the magistrate. “Well? Are you goin’ to tell ’im, or am I?”
James Read smiled. “I’d hate to deprive you of the pleasure, Sergeant.”
“Well, someone tell me,” Hawkwood said.
“All right,” Jago said. “First off, it wasn’t Thetis that blew up. It were the sheer hulk.”
“The what?”
“It’s what you might call the yard’s work ’orse, used for fetchin’ and liftin’. Dunno what ’er name was originally. Probably last saw action before we were born—well you at any rate. Now, where was I? Oh, aye…anyway, that’s how they did it.”
“The art of deception, Hawkwood. To hide in plain sight—isn’t that what they say?” The Chief Magistrate walked to the window and looked out on to the dockyard, where work was returning to normality after the morning’s excitement. “It seemed a logical solution to our dilemma. What to do if you failed in your assignment. We decided to employ a decoy. The sheer hulk was the only vessel close enough and large enough for our purposes. Our main problem was her appearance. Fortunately, we were able to employ both the yard’s workforce and the contents of her stores. We used two teams of men; one to paint the hulk, one to tarnish Thetis. Don’t forget, Thetis only had a jury mast. Neither was she rigged or coppered. It was not that difficult: some muddy canvas strategically placed, a web of old netting here and there, black paint to cover the ochre. The hulk was a bigger challenge, but we had the paint and the men. The carpenter’s shop provided us with a false name-board which we adhered to the hulk’s stern. Add banners, the Regent’s standard, crewmen…The disguise would not deceive a close observer, but we thought it might fool someone with a limited view, someone like William Lee on board his undersea boat.”