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

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      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 that wasn’t what the First Sea Lord meant. He shook his head unhappily. “No, I mean the Prince Regent. His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”

      Read stared back at Charles Yorke. “What about him?”

      “It’s His Royal Highness’s intention to visit the ship and accompany her on the first part of her journey.”

      “To Sheerness?” The Chief Magistrate’s face was a picture of incredulity.

      Charles Yorke shook his head again. “Woolwich.”

      Hardly an epic voyage of discovery, Hawkwood thought. It sounded as if the Prince was fulfilling one of his many and increasing fantasies. It was well known that His Royal Highness held several delusions above his already exalted station. It was not unheard of for the Prince to dress up as a famous warrior from history – a medieval monarch, even a Chinese mandarin – and relive scenes from a blood-soaked and glorious military career, usually to the acute embarrassment of friends and sycophants who were either too loyal or too afraid to tell him the truth: that his prowess on the battlefield existed only in his own fertile imagination.

      No doubt, Hawkwood reflected, the Prince’s trip along the river would metamorphose at a later date into a second Battle of the Nile, with the Prince a veritable hero of the quarterdeck.

      The Chief Magistrate fixed the First Sea Lord with a gimlet eye. “And why was my office not informed of this?”

      The First Sea Lord shrugged. “Perhaps His Royal Highness did not want to burden you with trivialities.”

      “Trivialities?” Read responded sharply. “I would hardly consider the protection of the Prince Regent a triviality.”

      Charles Yorke sighed. “This was not perceived to be a civilian matter, Read, and His Royal Highness will not want for protection. A contingent of marines has already been drafted in from the Woolwich yard. He’ll be escorted for the entire journey. There’s no cause for concern.”

      “There was no cause for concern,” Read said venomously. “I would submit that circumstances have changed somewhat in light of this new development, wouldn’t you?”

      Charles Yorke straightened. “Good grief, man! His Highness will be perfectly safe. He’s only going as far as Woolwich. It’s not the bloody Baltic!”

      “You still intend him to go through with the visit?” Read said.

      The First Sea Lord gave a tight smile. “It’d take a braver man than me to tell His Royal Highness that his visit’s been cancelled. Word is, he’s already taken delivery of a new uniform from Schweitzer and Davidson. Let’s pray it’s something appropriate and that he doesn’t turn up looking like the Sultan of Ranjipur.” The First Sea Lord lifted a caustic eyebrow. “You know what he’s like.” Adding quickly, “No offence, Colonel. I know you count His Highness as a friend, but sometimes …”

      Congreve gave an amused shake of his head and waved a hand. “None taken, my lord.”

      Charles Yorke was being surprisingly indiscreet, Hawkwood thought, though he could well understand the First Sea Lord’s apprehension. The Prince was renowned for his flamboyant costumes, often of his own design, incorporating everything from leopard-skin sabretaches to gold epaulettes, all of which bore little resemblance to any recognizable regimental attire.

      “Besides,” the First Sea Lord continued, “he’s in no danger, not in the middle of London.” He turned to Dalryde. “However, once the ship reaches the estuary, that is a different matter. I want her captain summoned. And send a signal to the senior officer, Sheerness Dockyard. No, better still, issue a dispatch to all commanders on station in the Thames Estuary. ‘Utmost vigilance to be employed in the defence of all vessels.’ Best to be on the safe side.”

      As he gave the order, the First Sea Lord moved briskly to the wall above the fireplace. Affixed to the wall were a dozen rolled charts. He chose one and lifted it down. A space was cleared on the table and the chart was unfurled. Hawkwood saw that it covered the mouth of the Thames from Tilbury eastwards to Harwich, then south to Margate. To Hawkwood, it looked to be a vast area. How could you protect a vessel from something you couldn’t see?

      “We can increase patrols,” Yorke said, as if reading Hawkwood’s thoughts. “Lower netting, deploy boats to form a defensive ring, post extra lookouts.”

      “Why not warn vessels to head for port?” Hawkwood suggested.

      “Certainly not!” The First Sea Lord bristled. “You can’t have the ships of His Majesty’s Navy scurrying for cover like frightened rabbits! No, by God, we’ll face this threat with grit and determination. We’ll show Bonaparte it’s still Britain who rules the waves, not some colonial upstart in an upturned bloody rum cask!”

      As the Board Members continued to examine the charts, the Chief Magistrate drew Hawkwood aside. “You see now,” Read murmured, “why it is imperative we track down our highwaymen? We must find out who they were working for.”

      “You think French agents?” Hawkwood said.

      “Quite possibly. We know full well Bonaparte has spies in England. It’s likely Ramillies’ pursuers in France got word to them. It’s probably how they knew Ramillies was on the coach. It’s vital, therefore, that we run our villains to ground. Likewise, we need to know Runner Warlock’s role in all this. How did the plans come into his possession? The Mandrake connection certainly concerns me. I suggest you make enquiries in that direction, especially as we’ve not yet heard from your underworld friends.”

      “There is someone who may be able to help,” Hawkwood said.

      “Good,” Read said. The Chief Magistrate glanced towards Yorke’s broad back. His face was neutral. When he turned back to Hawkwood, he kept his voice low. “Do what you have to do. Whatever it takes.”

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