by James McGee
The science of electricity was in its infancy during this period, and yet scientists and physicians were already attempting to harness electrical power as a means to dominate nature. Several experiments were conducted to inject life into human cadavers. The attempt to reanimate the corpse of the murderer George Forster did take place as described, as did John Hunter’s efforts to resuscitate the forger William Dodd.
Regarding the latter experiment, there is an intriguing footnote in Wendy Moore’s biography. Despite there being a memorial stone bearing his name in St Laurence’s churchyard in Cowley, West London, there is no mention of Reverend Dodd’s interment in the parish register.
Coming soon from HarperCollins,
the third novel in James McGee’s
MATTHEW HAWKWOOD series
Rapscallion
PROLOGUE
Sark stopped, sank to his knees, and listened, but the only sounds he could hear were the pounding of his own heartbeat and the hoarse, rasping wheeze at the back of his throat as he fought desperately to draw air into his tortured lungs. He tried to delay his inhalations in an attempt to slow down his breathing, but the effect was marginal. Moisture from the soggy ground had begun to soak into his breeches, adding to his discomfort. He raised himself into a squat and took stock of his surroundings, eyes probing the darkness for a familiar landmark, but to his untutored eye one stretch of featureless marshland looked much like any other.
A hooting cry came from behind and he stiffened. Owls hunted across the levels at night. Sometimes you could hear the beat of their wings if you were quiet enough. Sark remained where he was, crouched low. It had probably been an owl, but there were other creatures abroad, Sark knew, and they were hunting too.
There was movement to his left, accompanied by a soft grunt. The short hairs rose across the back of his neck and along his forearms. He turned slowly, not daring to exhale, and found himself under close scrutiny from a large sheep. For several seconds, man and beast regarded each other in eerie silence. The animal was not alone. Sark could make out at least a dozen more, huddled behind.
The ewe was the first to break eye contact. Backing off, it turned away and began to herd its companions towards a clump of bushes. Sark breathed a sigh of relief.
Then he heard the distant baying and the bile rose into his mouth.
They were using hounds.
Sark glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw the sheep pause in their tracks as their ears picked up the unearthly ululation. Then, as if with one mind, the animals broke into a brisk trot. Within seconds they had disappeared into the deepening gloom.
Sark turned and tried to locate the direction of the sound, but the darkness, allied to the dips and folds in the ground, made it difficult to pinpoint the exact bearing.
Ahead of him, the land had begun to rise. Sark inched forward, hoping the slope would provide the advantage of height and enable him to see further than his current position. Reaching the top of the bank, he elevated himself cautiously and stared back the way he had come. The first thing he saw was the bright flickering glow of a torch flame, then another, and another beyond that. From his vantage point he could see that the torchbearers were still some way off and that they were proceeding haphazardly. He suspected they were following the creek lines, but there was no doubt they were moving towards him, drawing inexorably closer with each passing second.
There were more lights, he saw, in the far distance. They were no more than pinpricks, as small as fireflies, and stationary, and he guessed these were the masthead lanterns of ships moored in the estuary. He wondered briefly if he shouldn’t have been heading towards rather than away from them, but he knew that hadn’t been an option. His pursuers were sure to have cut off that line of escape.
He looked around and found he was at the edge of a dyke. The ditch stretched away from him, merging into the moonlit wetlands like a snake into the undergrowth. The smell from the bottom of the dyke was foul; a pungent, nostril-clenching mix of peat and stagnant water.
Another drawn-out howl came looping out of the night. Sark felt the cold hand of fear clutch his heart and he cursed his inactivity. He shouldn’t have remained so long in one place. He got to his feet and began to run.
He had a rough idea of where he was and the direction in which he was travelling. He had the vague notion that King’s Ferry House wasn’t much more than half a mile away. If his navigation was correct and he could reach the landing and find a boat, there was a possibility that he’d be able to cross the river and hide out on the opposite shore and thus give his pursuers the slip.
Keeping low, he continued to follow the dyke’s path, ignoring the stitch in his side, which was beginning to stab at him with all the tenacity of a red-hot rapier.
Another cry sounded; human this time, perhaps not more than a few hundred yards off. Sark was uncomfortably aware that the men on his trail knew the ground far better than he did. Despite the unevenness of the terrain and the latticework of waterways that crisscrossed the island, they were catching up, fast.
His foot slipped and he swore as he began to slide down the side of the gully. The desire to enter and wade through the murky water in a bid to confuse the hounds was suddenly tempting, but he knew it would only hamper his progress. All they had to do was steer the dogs along each bank and they’d soon discover where he had left the stream, then they’d pick up his spoor again in no time. It was best to keep moving and try to reach the ferry landing, as dry as possible, preferably. He slithered to his feet and scrambled back up the slope.
He could hear his pursuers calling to each other now, driven by the excitement of the chase. A dog barked and in his mind’s eye he saw the hounds, eyes bright, tongues slavering, straining at their leashes as they followed his scent. Sark quickened his pace.
The dyke began to widen. Sark hoped it was a sign he was close to its joining with the main channel. Pressing down on the edges of his boot heels to give himself purchase, he pushed his weary, mud splattered body towards what he hoped was his route to salvation.
There was a shout. Glancing over his shoulder, Sark’s stomach lurched when he saw how quickly the gap had shortened. The torches were a lot closer. Beneath the fiery brands, he could make out the dark figures of men running, perhaps half a dozen in all, and large, four-legged shapes moving swiftly across the uneven ground before them.
Another urgent cry went up and Sark knew that they had probably seen his fleeing form outlined against the sky. He cursed his stupidity and ducked down, knowing it was far too late to do any good. He drew the pistol from his belt.
Then the ground gave way and he was falling.
As his feet shot from beneath him, he managed to twist his body and discovered that he had almost reached his destination. It was the edge of the riverbank that had collapsed beneath his weight. He barely had time to raise the pistol above his head to avoid mud clogging the barrel, before he landed on his back in the ooze.
He struggled to his knees and pushed himself upright, and then saw the light. It was less than one hundred and fifty yards away, at the edge of the reeds. He strained his eyes. A small building began to take shape and he realized it was the ferry keeper’s cottage. His gaze shifted to the wooden landing stage jutting out into the water; in its lee, a small rowboat resting on the mud and held fast to a stanchion. His spirits lifted. There was still a chance he could make it.
With the mud sucking greedily at his boots, Sark struck out for the landing stage. He had not gone but a few paces before the consistency of the mud began to change. It was becoming less firm. His boots were sinking deeper with each step. It was like wading through molasses. He looked out at the river. This was one of the narrower stretches, hence the ferry crossing, but the tide was out and there was a wide expanse of foreshore separating the jetty from the water. He would have to drag the boat a good few yards before he could float it. But he could make out the horizontal black shadow that was the opposite shore and that spurred him on. He pushed h
imself forward.
Behind him, the noises had diminished. There were no more cries, no howling from the dogs. The night was strangely quiet, save for the squelching of his laborious passage through the mud. Curious, Sark looked around and his blood froze.
They were ranged along the edge of the bank and they were watching him; a line of men, the shadows cast by the torches playing across their unsmiling faces. At their feet, secured by leashes, the hounds stood silently to heel.
The dogs were huge mastiffs, with broad heads and muscular bodies; each one the size of a small calf. As still as statues, they regarded the solitary figure below them with rapt attention. Their only movement was an occasional backward glance at the faces of the men who controlled them.
It was the moment that Sark knew he had nowhere to run.
But it didn’t stop him trying.
Sark estimated he still had about fifty paces to go before he reached the boat. His legs felt as heavy as lead, while the pain behind his ribs suggested his heart was about to burst from his chest. Gamely, he tried to pick up speed, but while the spirit was willing, his body was telling him it had reached the point of exhaustion.
Sark did not hear the command to release the dogs, but a sixth sense told him it had been given. He turned. A close observer might have witnessed the look of weary resignation that stole across his face.
The handlers had not followed the hounds down on to the foreshore but were holding to firmer ground, following the line of the riverbank, the flames from their torches flaring like comet trails behind them. They ran in silence.
For the second time that night, Sark dropped to his knees.
The dogs were loping towards him rather than sprinting. With their agility, and their weight distributed between four legs instead of two, making them less susceptible to sinking into the mud, it was as if they knew they had all the time in the world.
All thoughts of escape stifled, Sark gripped the pistol firmly and watched the dogs approach.
He glanced to his side. He saw that the men were now parallel to him, torches raised. They were close enough for him to make out their expressions by the light from the flames. Four of them had faces as hard as rock. The other two were grinning.
Sark’s chest rose and fell. He looked back towards the dogs and raised his pistol. He aimed the barrel at the leading hound, tracked it with the gun’s muzzle.
He heard one of the men on the bank curse, looked around and saw that they had all drawn weapons of their own.
Sark could hear the dogs’ paws scampering across the mud. They were coming in very fast; close enough for him to see the light of anticipation in their eyes.
The lead hound was less than a dozen paces away when Sark thrust the barrel of the pistol under his own jaw and pulled the trigger.
The back of Sark’s head blew apart. The powder smoke barely had time to dissipate before the still kneeling body was engulfed in a frenzy of snapping jaws and thrashing limbs. As the men on the bank ran towards the mêlée, the snarling of the hounds rose into the night and carried, like the devil’s chorus, down the muddy, bloodstained foreshore.
1
Outlined against the gunmetal sky, the ship’s blackened hull towered above the men in the longboat like some enormous Hebridean cliff face.
The men were silent, wrapped in their thoughts and awed by the grim sight confronting them. Only occasionally was the silence was broken, by the dull clink of manacles, the splash and creak of oars and the wash of the waves against the side of the boat as it was pulled through the cold grey water.
Someone began to sob. At the sound of the weeping, several men crossed themselves. Others bowed their heads and, in whispers, began to pray.
There were fifteen men in the boat, excluding the oarsmen and the two marine guards. With few exceptions their clothes were ragged, their faces pale, unshaven and etched with fear; fear caused not only by the ship’s forbidding appearance, but also by the smell coming off her.
It had had been with them even before they had embarked, picked up and carried across the river by the light easterly breeze. At first, the men had paid little mind, assuming the reek was rising from their own unwashed bodies, but then understanding had dawned and as the longboat had pushed away from the harbour wall they had become transfixed by the true nature of the fate that was about to befall them. As if to emphasize their passengers’ rising sense of horror, the marine guards traded knowing looks and raised their neck scarves over their lower faces.
The long boat approached the rear of the ship. High above, embedded beneath the stern windows, a nameplate that once had been embossed in gold but which was now tarnished beyond repair, proclaimed the vessel to be the Rapacious.
Close to, the ship looked even more intimidating. The dark-hulled vessel had all the appearance of a smoke-stained sarcophagus rather than a former ship of the line. Massive chains at bow and stern secured the ship to the riverbed. Beyond, four more vessels in a similar state of disrepair sat moored in mid-stream, line astern and a cable’s length apart, their blunted bows facing down river.
All around, a bewildering variety of other vessels lay at anchor, but from brigs to cutters and from frigates to flush-decked sloops, they were worlds away from the five charred leviathans. Yellow and black hulls gleamed. A forest of masts rose tall and straight, and pennants fluttered gaily from their yardarms. They were Britain’s pride and they were ready for war.
By comparison, isolated from the rest of the fleet, the Rapacious and her four sister ships looked as if they had been discarded and left to rot, victims of a terrible and terminal disease.
Seated in the waist of the longboat, one man ignored the lamentations of his companions and gazed at the ship with what could have been interpreted as interest rather than dread. Two scars were visible on the left side of his face. The first followed the curve of his cheekbone, an inch below his left eye. The second scar, less ragged, ran an inch below the first. His long hair was dark save for a few streaks of grey above the temple. His jacket and breeches were worn and faded, much like those of the men around him, but while the bulk of the other men were either bare-footed or else wearing poorly-fitting shoes, his feet were shod in what appeared to be a pair of stout but well-scuffed military boots.
“A sou for your thoughts, my friend.”
The words were spoken in French. They came from an aristocratic-looking individual dressed in a dark blue jacket and grubby white breeches, seated on the dark-haired man’s right.
Matthew Hawkwood remained silent but continued staring over the water towards the black-hulled ship.
“Heard she fought at Copenhagen,” the speaker continued in a quiet voice. “She was a 74. They took the idea from us. Extended their 70s. They use them as standard now. Can’t blame the bastards. Good sailing, strong gun power, what is there not to like?”
The speaker, whose name was Lasseur, grinned suddenly, the expression in marked contrast to the unsmiling faces about him. The neat goatee beard he wore, when added to the grin, lent his features a raffish slant.
The grin disappeared in an instant as a series of plaintive cries sounded from beyond the boat’s prow.
Ahead, another longboat was tied up against the boarding raft in the shadow of the ship’s grime-encrusted hull. A cluster of men had already disembarked. Huddled on the walkway, under the watchful eyes of armed guards, they were preparing to ascend the stairs. Several of the men had difficulty walking. Two were crawling along the grating on their hands and knees. Their progress was painfully slow. Seeing their plight, their companions lifted them to their feet and with arms about their shoulders shepherded them along.
There were still men left on the boat. From their posture, it was clear that none of them had the strength to make the transfer on their own. Their cries of distress floated over the water. The two marine guards on the boat were looking up towards the ship’s rail as if waiting for orders, breaking off to jab the barrels and butts of their muskets against the supine
bodies around them.
Lasseur bared his teeth in a snarl.
His reaction was echoed by dark mutterings from the men seated about him.
“Silence there!” The order came from one of the marines, who stared at his charges accusingly and brandished his musket, bayonet affixed. “Or so help me, I’ll run you through!” Adding, with ill-disguised contempt, “Frog bastards!”
A face had appeared at the ship’s rail. An arm waved and an inaudible command was given. The response was a half-hearted salute from one of the marines in the boat below who turned to his companion and shook his head. Whereupon, the rowers shipped their oars and they and the two guards climbed out of the boat on to the boarding raft. Turning, one of the rowers used his oar to push the boat away, while one of his fellow boatmen unfastened and started to pay out the line connecting the longboat to the ship. Caught by the current, the longboat began a slow movement away from the ship’s hull. When the boat was some thirty or so yards out, the line was retied, leaving the boat’s pitiful passengers to drift at the mercy of the tide.
Angry shouts came from the line of men on the grating. Their protestations were met by a severe clubbing from their guards. Retreating, the quietened men began their slow and laboured ascent of the stairway.