“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.
“Now we wait.”
Hauling back on the oars, Jago cursed his creaking bones and reflected that he hadn’t done this much hard labour since he’d left the army. His palms were raw from the scrape of the oar handles. In the Rifles, he had always prided himself on his fitness and stamina, but he was a civilian now, damn it. He should be taking it easy, enjoying the fruits of his labours, not running around like a bloody lunatic. It was all Hawkwood’s fault, of course. Give the man an inch and he took a bloody mile. But Hawkwood, all things considered, was probably the closest thing Jago had to a friend. And if there was one thing the army taught you, it was that you stood by your friends. And Hawkwood had stood by Jago more times than the ex-sergeant could count. Now, Hawkwood was in trouble. It was time to repay his debts.
Jago paused, twisted in his seat, wiped sweat from his brow, and looked downriver. Without the advantage of height, his view was restricted by the ever-changing flow of traffic. He could no longer see the sailboat with Sparrow at the helm, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d imagined it. He swore viciously. No, it had been Sparrow he’d seen, he was certain of it. But so what? He didn’t know for sure that Sparrow even had a connection with Lee and his undersea boat. On the other hand, Sparrow had been a mate of Spiker’s and, though the link was tenuous, it was all he had to go on. Nathaniel Jago was running on instinct. He tried not to think about the consequences if he was wrong. They were worrying enough if he was right.
I know you’re out there, Sparrow. I can bloody smell you! So come on, you bastard, show yourself!
Without warning, a gap suddenly widened between the vessels ahead of him, giving a clear view of the open stretch of water beyond, and it was then that he saw it. The sailboat was some five hundred yards over the port bow. The vessel didn’t appear to have made much headway since his last sighting. It was still hugging the eastern side of the river, close-hauled against the oncoming breeze. But then, even as Jago watched, the stern of the sailboat began to come around.
An angry bellow erupted from Jago’s starboard side. A heavily laden bumboat was on a collision course. Jago dug in his oars as the vessel cut across his bow, heading for the Dog and Duck Stairs.
“Move your bloody arse!” Jago bellowed. The bumboat wallowed past with infuriating slowness. The tiller-man raised an angry fist. The gesture was accompanied by a torrent of oaths. With his way eventually clear, Jago, echoing the tiller-man’s curse, plunged the oars back into the water and began searching urgently for his quarry.
Where the hell was it?
Jago blinked. The sailboat could hardly have been out of his sight for more than a couple of minutes at the most. There was no way it could have made it to shore in that time. It had to be out there somewhere. He should have purloined the spyglass, he thought, brought the damned thing with him. But Jago’s eyesight was good. He had been a rifleman, and riflemen needed the eyes of a hawk to target enemy officers. So Jago narrowed his eyes and scoured the river. Plenty of similar vessels about, but not the one he was looking for. No sailboat with a brandy keg at the stern. Shit and piss!
Then he saw the arm, pointing.
The arm was attached to a crewman on a dirt boat. The dirt boat was cutting across the river, probably en route to the Deptford yard with a hold full of ballast. Something had caught the crewman’s eye. Jago followed the direction of the outstretched arm, squinted hard. There was something in the water.
A barrel, bobbing incongruously with the current, probably lost overboard by some passing lighter or merchantman; nothing to get excited about. And yet…Jago looked back at the dirt boat. The crewman had been joined by one of his mates. Both of them were pointing now. It seemed an undue amount of attention for a discarded wine cask.
Wine cask?
Jago stood up, stared harder, and watched as the cask sank slowly beneath the water. Not a single ripple marked its passing.
Christ on a bloody cross!
Showing remarkable speed for such a big man, Jago dropped down into the boat and scrambled for the oars. Nathanial Jago had walked the cold stone passage of Mandrake’s warehouse as if the Devil had been on his shoulder. Now he began to row as if the Devil was at his heels.
“What happens if it sinks?” Hawkwood asked.
Lee glanced up from his pocket watch and frowned. “It’s a goddamned submersible. It’s supposed to sink.”
“I don’t mean on purpose,” Hawkwood said. “I mean if something happens. How do you get out?”
Lee appeared unperturbed by the likelihood. “You detach the keel, and float up.”
“And if that doesn’t happen?”
“Then you hold your breath, and pray.”
Hawkwood stared at him.
Lee sighed. “If you can’t detach the weight of the keel, the only way out is through the hatch. But you can’t simply open it and swim out. The incoming water pressure would be too great. The only way would be to open the valves and allow the hull to flood. Once the hull’s flooded, there’s equal pressure inside and out. Only then could you open the hatch and swim to the surface.” Lee chuckled darkly. “I commend you, Officer Hawkwood. Your desire for self-preservation is quite admirable. Futile, but admirable.”
Lee snapped his watch shut. “But enough. The tide’s reached its height. Time we were making a move, Mr Sparrow. Stand by to take her up.”
Lee relayed crisp instructions and the submersible began to rise. Lee pressed his eye to the forward window. “Hold!”
Hawkwood sensed that the top of the submersible’s tower had breached the surface. He watched Lee. The American was concentrating on the river and studying his watch and compass, taking bearings.
Sparrow took the opportunity to remove his shirt. Clothed, Sparrow’s physique had seemed insubstantial. Now, Hawkwood could see the man was wiry rather than thin. As a deckhand, Sparrow would have been no stranger to ropes and rigging and manual graft, and the muscles in his upper body and his flat stomach hinted at both strength and stamina. Sweat glazed his chest and forearms. Hawkwood found himself staring at the seaman’s back. Sparrow’s flesh was a mosaic of crisscrossing scar tissue. The scars were old, Hawkwood saw, but there was no disguising what they were: the legacy of a severe flogging, possibly more than one. It probably explained why, like Scully, he was working for the American. Another abused, disaffected seaman—in all likelihood a former mutineer—looking for vengeance.
Eye pressed against the tiny window, Lee’s hands moved to the rudder controls. “Now, Mr Sparrow. Steady as she goes.”