Then there was a series of scrapes and rattles.
‘What is that?’ Chaloner asked in alarm.
‘Someone climbing down the side of the ship,’ explained Lester. ‘The scoundrels must be making their escape by river. The fog will help — Williamson and Thurloe will never see them.’
But Chaloner was more interested in trying to avert an atrocity than in Fitzgerald’s movements.
‘Quickly!’ he urged. ‘Up the stairs.’
‘How? My hands are tied so tight that I can barely move … but I can! We are free! How in God’s name did you manage that?’
‘With Wiseman’s scalpel,’ explained Chaloner, grateful that Brinkes had missed it. He shoved Lester towards the ladder. ‘Why do you think I wanted you to stop talking? Now, hurry!’
Lester was gone in a trice, feeling his way in the darkness much more efficiently than Chaloner, and running up the ladder with the ease of the experienced seaman. Fortunately, Fitzgerald had not deemed it necessary to bar the hatch, and it opened easily. Beyond was nothing but darkness.
‘The gunpowder will be on the upper deck,’ whispered Lester, grabbing Chaloner’s sleeve and leading him unerringly along a companionway and then up another flight of steps. It was there that the reek of the bilges gave way to the sharper, cleaner scent of explosives.
‘At least we know why Fitzgerald used storm lamps,’ said Chaloner. ‘He did not want to blow himself up with stray sparks.’
The moment he spoke, he became aware of smoke and the crackle of flames: fires had been lit. He began to move faster, but stopped abruptly when they reached the upper deck and the dim light of another lantern revealed just how many barrels of gunpowder Fitzgerald had acquired. There were more than he could count, and would certainly destroy the quay. Worse, sparks from the resulting explosion might set the surrounding buildings alight, and the conflagration could easily spread. Lester darted to several separate hatches, then swore as he turned to face Chaloner.
‘Fires have been set in three different parts of the ship, all splashed with alcohol to make them spread.’ His face was white. ‘All will need to be doused if we are to prevent the kegs from igniting. But by the time we have one under control, the others will be beyond us.’
Chaloner ran to the nearest gunport and peered at the water below. It moved sluggishly as the current tugged it towards the sea. He whipped around, grabbed the nearest barrel and hurled it overboard. It sank, but then bobbed to the surface a moment later, where, half-submerged, it began to drift away. Would it be enough? He hoped so. He reached for another but it was heavy and his injured shoulder prevented him from throwing it as far as he would have liked.
‘I will not be able to lob them all overboard before the fires take hold,’ he explained quickly, reaching for a third. ‘But I should be able to manage enough to reduce the impact. Go and warn the Adventurers. Hurry!’
Lester did a quick survey. ‘You are right! We can foil these evil bastards and save the quay!’
Chaloner heaved the barrel overboard. ‘Yes, now raise the alarm.’
‘No.’ Lester snatched up a keg and pitched it through the hole. It fell much farther out than Chaloner’s had done, and was towed away more quickly. ‘I know which part of the deck to clear first — you do not, as evidenced by the barrels you have chosen to grab. Moreover, I have not been shot, and can work more efficiently. You warn the Adventurers.’
‘It is only a scratch,’ said Chaloner, struggling to lift the next cask. ‘You said so yourself.’
‘I lied,’ said Lester, snatching it from him. ‘Now go and save those people before it is too late.’
‘I left you once. At Elliot’s grave. I cannot do it again.’
‘It is hardly the same.’ Lester gave him a vigorous shove, then smiled lopsidedly. ‘Look after Ruth for me, because if Williamson puts her in Bedlam, it will be you I come back to haunt. It has been an honour serving with you, Tom. Now go before I toss you overboard.’
Chaloner could think of no trite declaration of friendship to make in return. With a final, agonised glance, he turned and clambered up the final set of stairs, sickened by the knowledge that he was exchanging the life of a good man for a lot of ruthless merchants who traded in slaves.
In Katherine’s Great Cabin, the Adventurers had finished the rum and were looking for something else to drink. There was a lot of discontented mumbling, because Leighton had gone to fetch wine some time ago, and had not returned. Also notable by their absence were Dugdale and Edgeman.
‘I will look for Leighton,’ Brodrick was offering, transparently grateful for an excuse to be back on terra firma. ‘He cannot have gone far. Play the fiddle again, O’Brien. It is-’
Chaloner burst among them, urgently enough to make Kitty issue a squeal of alarm. He supposed he did look desperate — dirty, sodden and reeking of bilge-water.
‘The ship next to you is going to blow up,’ he gasped. ‘Everyone needs to leave. Now!’
‘Jane?’ asked O’Brien in surprise. ‘I seriously doubt anyone would waste powder on that old tub. Indeed, I am surprised she survived her voyage up the Thames.’
There was a chorus of agreement, but Brodrick knew Chaloner well enough to see that he was not in jest. He took command and ordered everyone out. Unfortunately, his uncharacteristic display of authority caused immediate panic, and it took him and Swaddell at the stairs, and Chaloner at the gangway, to ensure there was not a stampede. As many Adventurers were drunk and others were weak with terror, the evacuation took far longer than it should have done. Williamson and Thurloe, quick to comprehend what was happening, hurried to direct people to a safe distance.
‘Where are you going?’ shouted Thurloe, as Chaloner fought his way through the last Adventurers waiting to disembark and began to run towards Jane.
‘Lester needs help,’ yelled Chaloner over his shoulder. ‘He-’
‘No!’ Thurloe raced after him and grabbed the flying tails of his coat. ‘It will be too late.’
Chaloner struggled free, but Thurloe stuck out a foot that sent him sprawling. Even as he started to rise, there was a tremendous explosion. Heat washed over him, and had he not been protected by the mass of Katherine, he would certainly have been blown to pieces. When he was able to look up, it was to see Jane’s masts toppling with a series of tearing groans. Every timber and sail was a bright cluster of flames.
He whipped around in alarm, fearing for Thurloe, but the ex-Spymaster had thrown himself to the ground, and was covering his head with his hands as fragments of burning wood began to rain down. When the treacherous fallout had finished, Chaloner scrambled upright on unsteady legs. Jane was a mass of blazing stays and spars that made the fog glow amber, while Katherine was battle-scarred and alight in a dozen places, but still afloat.
‘He did it,’ he whispered. ‘Lester saved Katherine and Queenhithe.’
Williamson arrived, looking around wildly. ‘Did you see Kitty leave? And Swaddell?’
‘I am here.’ Swaddell materialised out of the fog like a spectre. He shot his master a pained glance. ‘It seems we infiltrated the wrong group — it was not the Adventurers I should have been watching, but the Piccadilly Company.’
‘You did your best.’ Williamson’s face was a mask of agitation. ‘Kitty?’
‘I saw her escape,’ said Swaddell soothingly. ‘Do not worry. O’Brien will look after her.’
‘So is this the atrocity Fitzgerald and his master plotted?’ asked Thurloe, while Williamson winced at the blunt reminder that the object of his affections was married to his friend. ‘The murder of half the Court and the upper echelons of government?’