Sparrow began to turn the crank. His effort was accompanied by the sound of cogs meshing, as if a clock was being tightly wound. The Narwhale vibrated. Hawkwood felt the vessel shift on its axis. Slowly, the submersible began to come about. At first, the movement was uneven, but as Sparrow eased into his rhythm, progress through the water became smoother. Only the hypnotic click of the gearing mechanism and Sparrow’s breathing as he turned the propeller crank gave any indication that the vessel was in motion.
Lee’s eye was glued to the tiny window. Occasionally his gaze would shift to the compass dial and his hands would alter the angle of the rudder to maintain the vessel’s course. He knew this would be the last time they could raise the Narwhale without attracting attention. After this it would be too risky exposing the tower so close to unfriendly eyes on ship and shore.
Lee did not have a lot of room to play with. Even at the height of a spring tide, the river bottomed out at a little over three fathoms, which didn’t leave a great deal of leeway either above or beneath the hull. And over the years, the river had been gradually silting up. There’d probably come a time, not too far distant, when the dockyard would no longer be able to handle ships of large tonnage. As it was, Deptford was too far upriver, with insufficient depth of water, to allow ships to sail down to the mouth fully armed and victualled. Current practice, once a ship had been launched, was to rig a jury mast and float her down to Woolwich, where she would be docked, coppered and rigged in preparation for sea trials.
And HMS Thetis was about to make that first auspicious journey.
The warship looked mightily impressive, Lee conceded, as he peered through the glass. As bright as a new pin in the morning sunshine. He could see that the jury mast had been raised. Cut from a single Norfolk Island pine, it rose tall and slender, as straight as an arrow from her midsection, A temporary boom had also been attached. Bunting and flags fluttered gaily from every rail. It was going to be a grand occasion.
He could see movement at her bow and stern as the crew made final preparations for departure. A tremor of excitement moved through him.
Hawkwood looked over his bound wrists, saw the American stiffen and sensed they were close and that Lee probably had the target in his sights. Which meant that he was fast running out of time. Lee was about to commence his attack and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop him.
“She’s a beautiful sight, my friend.” Lee grinned. “But you’ll have to take my word for that.” Lee turned. “Pity she’s going to end the day as kindling. Steady, Mr Sparrow. We don’t want any mishaps this close to home.”
The submersible moved ahead cautiously and Lee pressed his eye to the glass once more. He was looking for defences, festoons of netting, fenders, a ring of decoys—anything that would indicate that they were anticipating an attack. But, astonishingly, the ship appeared to be unprotected. Lee recalled Hawkwood’s attempted bluff, when the Runner had told him he had men outside the warehouse. There had been no men, no support, no reinforcements. Hawkwood had been on his own. Which indicated that Hawkwood’s assertion that the authorities knew about the attack on Thetis had also been an exaggeration. They undoubtedly thought the attack was going to take place further downriver, in the estuary, not in the middle of London. Lee grinned to himself. Damned fools! He was about to deliver a blow that would shake the British out of their complacency.
Lee gave the order to submerge. As silently as a ghost, the Narwhale sank beneath the waters of the Thames. Less than two hundred yards separated the submarine from its unsuspecting prey.
19
“You’ve got a choice, Corporal,” Jago growled. “Either you find Chief Magistrate Read and bring ’im here, or else you take me to ’im. Either way, you’d better be quick, or else I’m going to tear your bleedin’ head off, piss down your neck, an’ go and look for ’im myself. What’s it to be?”
The marine gripped his musket and swallowed nervously. An angry Jago was an awesome sight, and the corporal who had stopped Jago at the top of the dockyard jetty stairs was beginning to regret his dedication to duty. Not that he’d had much say in the matter; his orders had been clear. Halt and prevent all unauthorized personnel from entering the dockyard area. The directive had been handed down by Sergeant of Marines Burnside, and where Corporal Elias Watkins was concerned, Sergeant Burnside’s word was law. So the corporal stood his ground.
“Can’t do that. You ain’t got authorization.” The corporal stumbled over the last word.
Jago reached under his jacket. “This here’s all the authorization I need, laddie.” He held out Hawkwood’s baton. “So, why don’t you stick your neck back in, and you and me can take a little walk. What about it?”
The corporal looked Jago up and down.
“Right now would be a good time,” Jago hinted ominously.
The corporal regarded the baton, its royal crest, and the fearsome expression on Jago’s face, then took a cautious look over his shoulder. Indecision furrowed his brow. Finally, after what seemed like an age, he shouldered his musket.
“You’d best come with me.”
The big warship lay at anchor, paintwork gleaming. Her two-decked hull was mustard yellow, her upper wales and gunports jet black. She dwarfed the flotilla of smaller dockyard support vessels that hustled and bustled feverishly around her high chequered sides like worker ants around a queen.
Cutters, buoy boats, hoys, pinnaces, skiffs and lighters scurried between ship and shore, loaded to the gunwales with equipment and victuals, while yachts, yawls and gigs transported officers and men with all the dexterity of waterborne sedan chairs.
Her name was inscribed boldly for all to see on the counter of her stern: Thetis.
The dockyard rang with the sounds of industry. Enclosed within the yard’s stout protective walls were all the workshops and raw materials vital to maintaining the British Navy’s command of the high seas. From launching and building slips, wet and dry docks, mast houses, boat ponds, saw pits and timber berths to tar and oakum stores, sail lofts, rigging-houses, rope-walks, smithies and copper mills, and accommodation for a score of other trades besides.
Adjacent to the dockyard lay the huge victualling yard. Had the capital, by some cruel circumstance, found itself in the grip of a deadly epidemic, the chairman and commissioners in charge of the navy’s Victualling Board could rest easy, secure in the knowledge that the Royal dockyard and its workforce would emerge from the plague unscathed. All they’d have to do was bar the gates. The yard was as self-sufficient as a small town. Aside from dry-storage facilities, the Deptford yard boasted its own bakery, brewery, cooperage and slaughterhouse. This was evidenced not only in the sounds that carried across the water but also in the smells that accompanied them. Some pleasant, like the warm aroma of freshly baked bread and biscuits and fermenting hops, some not so agreeable: the pungent odour of boiling tar and the sweet, sickly whiff of cow shit, untreated hide, fresh blood, and offal.
James Read stood by the side of the launching slip and surveyed the activity before him. His right hand toyed idly with the handle of his cane.
“You think she’ll pass muster?” The voice came from the man at his side.
Commissioner Ezekiel Dryden was tall and loose-limbed. His heavy-lidded eyes and languid exterior gave the impression of a lifetime spent in idle pursuits. Dryden, however, was a former naval captain, as were the majority of dockyard commissioners. He had commanded ships in action. Now he was in charge of both the Deptford and Woolwich dockyards. He had full authority over all dockyard personnel, both military and civilian, and movement of all vessels therein. He reported directly to the Navy Board.