LITMIR.BIZ

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beginning of the year.”

      “Why would the French still be interested after the last time?” Hawkwood asked, mystified. “Why have they changed their minds?”

      “Because Bonaparte’s losing the war.” The voice was the admiral’s. It was the first time he had entered the conversation. “Our little corporal’s on the run!”

      Congreve nodded. “And it would give Fulton a chance to get back at us. It’s no secret that relations between ourselves and the Americans have become somewhat strained.” The colonel pursed his lips. “There’ve been several incidents between our ships at sea. The navy’s been stopping American ships to search for deserters. The Americans have accused us of piracy. It would come as no surprise to me if the situation worsened.”

      “You mean war?” Hawkwood said, disbelievingly.

      At this, the First Sea Lord gave a meaningful cough. It sounded suspiciously like a veiled warning. Congreve shrugged. “Who knows?”

      While Hawkwood was contemplating the noncommittal answer, the colonel looked towards Dalryde. “Would you care to continue, Admiral?”

      Dalryde cleared his throat. “We thought it might pay us to keep an eye on Lee. We suspected Fulton had made a number of improvements. He wrote a book last year: Torpedo War and Submarine Explosions. We managed to secure a copy. The contents were disturbing enough for us to dispatch an agent to France to investigate. Resourceful fellow, name of Ramillies, one of our very best men. We’d used him on several previous occasions.”

      The admiral looked back at the colonel, as if suggesting he might like to take up the story. The colonel duly obliged.

      “Lieutenant Ramillies unearthed evidence suggesting that Lee had definitely constructed a more advanced submersible. Through contacts in the Bourbon resistance he was able to secure employment in the dockyard where the submersible was being built. From there, at great risk to himself, he managed to gain entry into Lee’s workshop and made copies of the submersible’s plans.” The colonel indicated the drawings. “Not exactly draughtsman’s quality, I’ll grant you, but more than sufficient for our needs. A short time later, he learned that trials of the weapon were due to be conducted on the Seine and infiltrated the area to observe proceedings.”

      “But he was discovered,” the admiral broke in, shifting in his chair. “He managed to escape by the skin of his teeth, with the drawings of the submersible, but he was severely wounded. He was sheltered by Royalist sympathizers until he was well enough to travel. They then arranged passage for him back to England. He was landed at Dover and was on his way to London when his coach was held up on the Kent Road. He was murdered and his plans of the submersible were stolen …” The admiral paused. “The rest you know.”

      The colonel picked up one of the sketches and stared at it intently. “We believe the submersible boat is now operational and ready to be used against our convoys. We also believe that Bonaparte has contracted Lee to attack a specific target. What we do not know is the nature of that target.”

      Hawkwood was still having trouble with the logistics. “But how does the weapon work? How does it deliver the bombs?”

      “What?” Congreve perked up. “The bombs, you say? Ah yes, of course, well, it’s dashed simple, really.” The colonel smiled suddenly. “But then they say the best inventions always are.”

      Hawkwood wondered if the colonel was alluding to his own experimental rockets. Recalling their erratic behaviour, they had looked anything but simple.

      The colonel picked up the pencil once more. “Now, where are we?” The colonel reached for the sketch of the submersible and pointed. “You see the dome? There’s a barbed spike attached to a rod that sticks out from the top of it. Fulton called it the horn. When the submersible is positioned beneath the target vessel, the bottom of the rod is struck from inside the dome, driving the spike up into the target’s hull. You follow?”

      Hawkwood nodded.

      “When the spike is secure, the submersible detaches itself, leaving the spike embedded in the target’s hull. At the bow of the submersible there’s a windlass controlled from inside the craft. A line runs aft, from the windlass, through a ring in the spike to the submersible’s stern …” the colonel moved the pencil point “… where it’s attached to a copper barrel containing gunpowder and a primer. As the submersible moves off, the line on the windlass is released. When all the line is played out, the forward motion of the submersible is transferred to the barrel by means of the line passing through the hole in the spike. This detaches the barrel, drawing it against the side of the target. The contact causes the primer to spark and ignite the powder.” The colonel grinned. “The rest I’ll leave to your imagination.”

      Ingenious, Hawkwood thought, didn’t begin to describe it. He peered past the pencil point, still hovering above the sketch. “How big would the charge have to be?”

      The colonel shrugged. “Not that great. Twenty pounds, perhaps. That amount of powder will do more damage underwater than it would on land. The force of a detonation doesn’t disperse as easily in water as it does in compressible air.”

      Astonishing, Hawkwood thought. And you’d never hear a damned thing until it was too late. “And the hammer and trigger – some kind of timing device?”

      The colonel nodded. “That would be my guess.”

      “And the writing?” Hawkwood asked.

      “Writing?” the colonel said.

      “There,” Hawkwood said, indicating the faint lettering.

      The colonel turned the paper in his hand and peered myopically.

      “It doesn’t make much sense,” Hawkwood said. “The … t-i-s – the rest of the word’s missing.”

      James Read moved to look over Hawkwood’s shoulder.

      The colonel shook his head. “Means nothing to me. What about you, gentlemen? Sir Charles? Admiral?”

      The First Sea Lord frowned, looked down, and his eyes widened. “Good God!” Charles Yorke turned towards the admiral. He looked to be a man on the verge of a seizure. “Thetis!”

      Dalryde’s face went white.

      Not two words then, only one. Yet Hawkwood was still none the wiser. He threw a glance of mute appeal towards James Read but, to his consternation, the Chief Magistrate appeared equally perplexed, by both the word and the reaction it had provoked.

      “Greek mythology, I believe. Thetis was one of the Nereids, a sea god.” The magistrate’s brow furrowed in doubt as he caught the exchange of looks between Dalryde and Charles Yorke. “Then again,” he said softly, “perhaps it has another significance.”

      The First Sea Lord was the one who spoke. After a further glance at Dalryde he said, “She’s a warship.”

      “Warship?” Read echoed.

      Thetis, it transpired, was not only a Greek deity. HMS Thetis was a brand-new seventy-four-gun Surveyors’ class two-decker currently moored at Deptford naval yard in preparation for upcoming sea trials. After which, the ship was destined to join the Royal Navy’s Channel Fleet.

      James Read looked sharply at the admiral. “When?”

      Dalryde blinked. “The twenty-seventh – two days’ time. She’s due to call in at Woolwich to be coppered and rigged, then Sheerness to take on armament and the rest of her crew. She’ll be at sea for a week, then it’s across to Portsmouth to join the squadron.”

      There followed a silence, during which the First Sea Lord continued to look pensive.

      “Something else, my lord?” James Read enquired.

      Charles Yorke hesitated, then nodded. “The Prince Regent.”

      The Chief Magistrate looked nonplussed. “Another ship?”

      But

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