James Read looked pensive. “She’ll have to. I fear time’s against us.”
A movement on the dockside diverted the Chief Magistrate’s attention. Two men were approaching, a marine and a civilian. Read’s heart quickened.
The marine drew to a halt and saluted. “Beggin’ your pardon, your honour…” But he was given no chance to expand as James Read held up a hand.
“Thank you, Corporal. You may go.”
The corporal blinked at the curt dismissal. He looked towards Dryden, as if seeking some kind of moral support. When none was forthcoming, he glanced at Jago with renewed respect and not a little confusion.
“Don’t let us detain you, Corporal.” Commissioner Dryden’s dry voice broke into the marine’s thoughts.
“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.” Discipline finally overcoming curiosity, the corporal gave a flustered salute, shouldered his musket, and turned on his heel, no wiser than he had been before the big man had arrived.
Read wasted no time. “You have news, Sergeant?”
Jago nodded. “Aye, an’ none of it’s good.”
“Explain.”
Read and Dryden listened in silence as Jago described his own entry and investigation of the Mandrake warehouse. Read’s expression grew even more severe as Jago described his discovery of the clockmaker’s corpse.
“God in heaven!” Dryden, though a seasoned officer, experienced in the harsh reality of war at sea, was plainly shaken by the cold-blooded murder of Josiah Woodburn.
“And Officer Hawkwood?” the magistrate prompted. “You say there was no sign of him?”
Jago shook his head. “It’s my guess they took ’im.”
Read frowned. “Took him where?”
“On board with ’em.”
The magistrate looked taken aback. “On board? You mean the submersible?”
“I reckon.”
“God almighty!” Dryden said. The commissioner turned and stared balefully out at the river.
From the other side of the wall, separating the dockyard from the victualling yard, there came a sudden mournful lowing followed by a succession of ear-piercing grunts and squeals; the cacophony heralding a fresh intake of stock, newly arrived from Smithfield. Somewhere nearby, a hammer clanged against an anvil. The reverberation was followed by a wail of invective. While in a distant corner another, more strident voice, could be heard berating some hapless unfortunate for botched workmanship. Life in the yard went on.
“And you definitely saw the craft submerge?” Read pressed.
Jago hesitated. “You’re askin’ if I’m positive I saw the bloody thing. Can’t say as I am. All I can tell you is that the boat was there one minute and gone the next, Sparrow along with it. Could’ve been the top of a bloody barrel that I saw go under, could be the two shit-shovellers were lookin’ at something else, but if it was this submersible you told us about, then it’s still out there—” Jago nodded towards the water. “Somewhere.”
All three men gazed out at the river. The water looked suddenly deeper and darker and infinitely more menacing than it had a few moments before.
“So what do we do now?” Jago asked.
The Chief Magistrate remained silent. Dryden looked down at his shoes. Jago didn’t like the way they were avoiding his eye. “We’ve got to stop the bloody thing! What about the captain? What are we goin’ to do about him?”
James Read continued to gaze at the river. “Officer Hawkwood, I fear, is on his own. If he is on board the submersible, then we must pray that he finds a way to disable the vessel and gain the upper hand. If not, then there’s nothing any of us can do to assist him.”
Jago swore under his breath. They were not the words he had wanted to hear, even though he knew the magistrate was right, “But what about the ship? You’ve got nets out, right? And patrol boats?”
James Read turned slowly. There was a stillness about the magistrate’s face which Jago had not expected.
“No, Sergeant, we do not have nets out. Neither have we employed extra patrol vessels.”
Jago stared at the magistrate in horror. “But she’s a sittin’ duck!”
“Indeed she is, Sergeant.”
Jago looked at the ship, at the boats bobbing around her, at the men on her deck. “Oh, Jesus! What the hell have you done?”
James Read followed Jago’s gaze. The magistrate’s mouth was set in a grim line. “We have a contingency plan. Should Officer Hawkwood fail in his mission, we intend to let William Lee continue with his attack.”
Jago’s face distorted with shock. “You’re not bleedin’ serious?”
“Perfectly serious,” Read said.
Jago stared first at the magistrate then at the commissioner. “You can’t do that. You’ve got to stop the bastard!”
James Read raised his cane to shoulder height and swung the tip in an encompassing arc. “Take a look around, Sergeant. Tell me what you see.”
“What?” Jago blinked, temporarily thrown by the magistrate’s cool manner.
“Tell me what you see,” Read repeated calmly.
Jago shook his head in frustration. What the hell was going on? A ship was about to be destroyed by a madman and innocent men were going to die. And he was being asked to admire the view?
Which consisted of what?
Ashore, as far as he could see, there was nothing untoward. Plenty of activity, as might have been expected of a working yard. There were possibly more marines in evidence than usual, but that was about all. There were no marines stationed at Deptford, Jago knew. Those on current duty, like the vigilant corporal, would have been sent up from the Woolwich yard. But other than that, Jago couldn’t see anything that merited special attention.
His gaze moved to the water. There was the new warship, conspicuous in its gaudy paintwork, with several dozen small support craft flitting back and forth. Lying close by was the sheer hulk, the yard’s largest support vessel. The hulk was traditionally an old warship, cut down, with a mast fixed amidships. Fitted with extra capstans, sheer frames and tackles, the vessel was used to heave out or lower masts into newly fitted ships of the line. The hulk was the dockyard workhorse. The Deptford hulk was a particularly decrepitlooking craft, obviously long since fallen from grace, with its scabby hull more reminiscent of a coal barge than a retired man-of-war.
Further downstream, just beyond the dockyard limits, he could make out the prison ship. All the dockyards had them. Like the sheer hulk, they were usually former ships of the line or else captured vessels too old and too far beyond repair for further sea duties. At permanent moorings, they’d been used initially as temporary accommodation for transportees, but now the navy used them largely as holding pens for prisoners of war. There was a fleet of them on the Thames, lying off the mudflats in a scattered convoy stretching all the way down to the estuary. With their cut-down masts and decks and rigging often hung with drying laundry and mildewed bedding, they had become an ugly and all too common sight along the shoreline, though many a canny boatman continued to turn a handsome profit by running sightseeing trips to see the convicts at work digging and dredging the foreshore in preparation for some new riverside construction.
Jago’s eyes moved back to the warship and the movement of craft around her. There were a number of men onboard, he saw: a skeleton crew ready to take her downriver. Jago looked along her deck. A group of sailors stood clustered at her stern rail. By their dark blue coats and bicorne hats, Jago could see that most of them were officers. Nothing remiss, as far as he could tell. Other than the flags and bunting, there was not the sense of jubilation among the onlookers he might have expected, given the launch of a new ship, but this was a working dockyard and the experience was probably old hat to the local workforce. Jago dismissed the thought and was about to turn his attention elsewhere when the group at the ship’s rail broke apart to reveal the figure in its midst. Stouter and taller than his companions, he cut an imposing, colourful vision due, not only to his size, but to the wide sash around his waist, the ceremonial sword at his hip, the ribbons, medals and tassels adorning his broad chest, and the tuft of feathery white plumes in his hat.