LITMIR.BIZ

       12

      Hawkwood closed his eyes and wondered what the punishment was for throttling an Admiralty clerk. The continuous scratching of nib across paper had become a kind of torture, like the insistent buzzing of a wasp trapped against a window pane.

      The cause of Hawkwood’s irritation, a lieutenant who didn’t look a day over sixteen, was not unaware of the effect his labours were having. During the last ten minutes, on each occasion the lieutenant had dared lift his head to take a surreptitious peek at the tall, grim-faced man seated on the bench against the opposite wall, his perusal had been met and returned with such brooding intensity that he had been forced to lower his eyes quickly lest he be turned to stone by the basilisk stare.

      It was thus with considerable relief that the lieutenant responded to the jangling of the admiral’s bell. He looked up briefly. “You may enter.”

      Hawkwood stood and eased cramped muscles. He had begun to wonder if the Chief Magistrate had forgotten him. Since their arrival at the Admiralty offices and Read’s disappearance through the doors of the Board Room, with instructions to wait until sent for, Hawkwood had been left to cool his heels. Only the indistinct murmurings, barely audible beyond the closed doors, had persuaded him that his presence might still be required.

      Composing himself, he opened the door.

      Aside from the Chief Magistrate, there were three men in the room. Hawkwood did not recognize any of them. James Read beckoned him forward. “Come in, Hawkwood. These gentlemen are anxious to make your acquaintance. Allow me to present Sir Charles Yorke, First Lord of the Admiralty. His fellow board members, Admiral Dalryde and Inspector General Blomefield. Gentlemen, Officer Hawkwood.”

      Anxious, maybe, Hawkwood thought, but not overly happy at the prospect, if their expressions were anything to go by.

      The First Sea Lord’s face was as dark as a thundercloud, though it could have been the subdued lighting that had manufactured that effect. The admiral, seated behind the long table, was looking at Hawkwood the same way he might have regarded something he’d picked up on the sole of his boot. Of the three, only Inspector General Blomefield showed what might have been a hint of genuine interest. There was something else in the man’s gaze, Hawkwood sensed. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn it was amusement.

      Hawkwood’s eyes were drawn to the table and the two sketches that lay upon it.

      The First Sea Lord threw an accusatory glance at James Read. “Does he know?”

      Read shook his head. “Not yet.”

      “Perhaps it’s time I did,” Hawkwood said. He’d had enough of being kept in the dark.

      The admiral’s head came up quickly. Charles Yorke grimaced. “By God, Read, you breed impudent pups!”

      Before James Read could respond, Blomefield spoke. “Actually, I’d say the fellow has a point, under the circumstances. Wouldn’t you, Sir Charles?”

      There was an uneasy silence. Hawkwood felt the eye of the First Sea Lord upon him, sensed the displeasure at the apparent disrespect for authority.

      After several moments, and somewhat grudgingly, the First Sea Lord finally nodded. “Very well, Read. I suppose you’d better tell him.”

      Before the Chief Magistrate could respond, however, there came a sharp tap on the Board Room door. The door opened. The admiral’s clerk stood on the threshold. The lieutenant opened his mouth, but he was given no chance to speak as a uniformed figure bustled past him.

      “Profound apologies, gentlemen. Came as speedily as I could.”

      Blomefield grinned. “Better late than never, Colonel. Bit like your bloody rockets, eh? Ha! ha!”

       Colonel? Rockets?

      To his consternation, Hawkwood found himself being scrutinized keenly.

      “Officer Hawkwood, Colonel,” James Read said. “Hawkwood, this is Colonel Congreve.”

      Hawkwood stared at the latecomer, taking in the uniform, the bearing, the restless energy. Then it came to him. Colonel William Congreve, eldest son of the Comptroller of the Royal Laboratory at Woolwich, officer of the Royal Artillery, and inventor of the naval rocket.

      Congreve’s rockets had first been used against the French at Basque Roads. They’d proved so erratic in behaviour they’d been as much a danger to the British vessels transporting them as they had to the enemy fleet. Three years later, however, the design had improved sufficiently for the army to form two rocket companies. Hawkwood had seen Congreve’s rockets in action and he wasn’t afraid to admit that they’d scared the hell out of him. Fortunately, the French had been even more terrified, but that still didn’t answer the immediate question. What was he doing here?

      “Hawkwood? Ah, yes, of course,” Congreve said. Then, to Hawkwood’s surprise, the colonel held out his hand. “An honour, Captain.”

      Captain? Behind his back, Hawkwood heard the First Sea Lord clear his throat disapprovingly.

      The colonel ignored the slight. “Well, gentlemen, to what do I owe this hasty summons? Judging by the way your man hammered on my front door, Master Magistrate, I assume it’s important?” The colonel moved towards the table and his eyes widened. “Good God Almighty!”

      “Well?” Yorke demanded. “What say you, Congreve? Is it the same?”

      The colonel bent low, moving his eye over the drawings, examining them closely. Finally, he straightened, his face grave. “Hard to tell from these damned sketches, but, no, I’d say this is quite different. Oh, there are similarities, no doubt about that, but if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say this looks like a much more advanced design.” The colonel turned to James Read. “How the devil did you come by them?”

      The colonel listened as the Chief Magistrate explained.

      “A dead Runner, you say? Damned curious business. How about you, Hawkwood? Any thoughts on how they came to be in your late colleague’s possession?”

      Hawkwood said wearily, “Colonel, I don’t even know what the hell it is we’re talking about.”

      Congreve stared at the Runner then at the Board members.

      Admiral Dalryde sighed. “The Chief Magistrate was about to explain when you arrived, Colonel. However, perhaps you’d do the honours, seeing as you’re our scientific expert.”

      Had there been a hint of sarcasm in the admiral’s voice? If so, the colonel appeared not to have noticed, or else had chosen to disregard it. He looked thoughtfully at the two drawings before fixing Hawkwood with a steely eye. “Not one word of what I’m about to tell you leaves this room. Understood?”

      Hawkwood nodded cautiously.

      “What we have here,” Congreve said, “is quite possibly the most fiendish weapon ever devised.”

       A weapon! So, the trigger device was significant after all!

      “Some kind of bomb?” Hawkwood ventured.

      Congreve smiled thinly. “No, though your guess is not so wide of the mark. Tell me, Captain Hawkwood, how’s your French?”

      “Sir?”

      “Le bateau poisson is what the Frogs have christened it. Well, some of them have. Others call it le bateau plongeur.”

      Fish boat? Plunging boat? “Sorry, Colonel, I’m not with you. Plunge where?”

      Congreve

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