Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion. James McGee

part of the building, resting upon the original foundations. Half the gallery was taken up with the interior loading dock. It was here that cargoes would have been transferred from barrow to barge, and vice versa. The stout wooden doors that Jago had drawn to Hawkwood’s attention earlier were located at the end of the dock. They were still closed, but there was sufficient space between them for daylight to penetrate. Further illumination came courtesy of two narrow, high-set windows and several lanterns hanging from hooks. The place reminded Hawkwood of a flooded church vault.

      “Well, then,” Lee said. “What do you think of her?”

      Hawkwood stood and stared.

      The submersible was tethered to the dock by lines fore and aft. She looked bigger than he had expected; about twenty-five feet long. At first glance, with her wooden deck and tapering bow and stern, the vessel looked like any other small river craft. On closer inspection, however, a number of differences were discernible. Below the shortened bowsprit, protruding vertically from an extended prow, was a thin metal rod from which radiated four elliptical blades, each about two feet in length. Aft, below the stern rail, a similar device, horizontally set, could be seen. There was no mast, Hawkwood noticed; then he looked closer and saw that the mast, with boom and furled sail attached, was in fact lying along the deck. It was hinged, he realized, thus enabling it to be raised and lowered into its socket at will. On deck, immediately forward of the mast socket, was positioned an upturned, barrel-shaped, metallic protuberance; the tower, as Congreve had called it, from where the commander of the craft controlled operations. The rear of the tower was hinged open, forming a hatchway which gave access to the craft’s interior. Hawkwood’s attention moved to the stern of the vessel. Attached to a raised wooden frame was a copper cylinder the size of a small rum keg. A lanyard ran from the cylinder to the tower where it passed through what looked like the eye of a large needle embedded in the tower’s roof before disappearing through a small hole in the forward deck. Hawkwood remembered Colonel Congreve’s description of the submersible and realized with a shock of understanding that he was looking at the submarine bomb, Fulton’s torpedo.

      “Beautiful, isn’t she?” Lee could not keep the pride from his voice.

      Hawkwood was silent. There was movement on deck as Sparrow emerged from the hatchway. He now had a pistol stuck in his belt. His fingers brushed against the pistol butt and he stroked the cut on his throat, favouring Hawkwood with a stare of undiluted hatred before stepping nimbly on to the dock.

      Lee stepped forward. “All in order, Mr Sparrow?”

      The seaman nodded.

      “Capital! In that case, please be so kind as to see to the doors and prepare the vessel for departure.”

      Hawkwood stared at the woman, at her slim figure, her mannish dress, at her hair held in a tight chignon, at the pistol in her hand and her smile. And in a moment of startling clarity it came to him. Scully’s taunting when he’d been asked if another mutineer or Lee had been his partner in the coach hold-up.

       It were neither, squire. An’ if I told you, you’d never believe me. If you only knew …

      Not a mute boy and certainly not Jago, as he had ludicrously supposed, but a woman whose accent would have betrayed her the moment she’d opened her mouth. She had shot the guard in cold blood and, judging by her present disposition, Hawkwood suspected that she hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep since.