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.