part0025

'Put about! Full speed!' The order from the quarterdeck was distinct as Alexander MacGillivray used her twin screws to turn sharply before the Federal warship could fire. White smoke jetted out, and tall fountains of water rose from the exact spot where Alexander MacGillivray had been only minutes before.

'Good shooting,' Ted sounded laconic, 'but she won't catch us. '

The Federal warship fired again, the shots screaming overhead to raise more waterspouts a quarter of a mile away. Commander Black ran aft with a Sharp's rifle, aimed, and fired a single shot before Edwards snarled another order and Alexander MacGillivray jinked to port.

Some of the crew cheered when a drift of wind ruffled the Confederate saltire, with the weak, winter sunlight picking out the red, blue, and white.

'Nice flag,' Watters said.

'Nice enough.' Ted looked aloft. 'But it doesn't feel right, somehow, fighting under foreign colours.'

Another salvo crashed close by, raising a tall column of water, which remained upright for a long moment before thundering down on deck. 'Watch my blasted paintwork!' Ted swore and shook a fist toward the pursuing Federal warship. 'Jesus! What's Captain Edwards up to? What's he doing now?'

Alexander MacGillivray veered sharply to starboard, steering right through another salvo that shook the ship and sprayed splinters across the deck.

'That's why.' Watters pointed ahead, where another vessel emerged from the rising sun.

The second ship was low and lean, with side paddles that churned the sea into froth. Her guns immediately opened up. Now Alexander MacGillivray had to show her speed as both vessels closed in on her from opposite angles with their guns raising columns of water and spray all around.

The first Federal ship altered shape as she presented her broadside, then she disappeared behind a gush of white smoke. Watters counted the seconds before there was a succession of whines all around, and huge waterspouts rose, rattling the fabric of the ship.

'Bugger!' Watters swore.

'And more than bugger,' Ted said, grinning. 'But the Yank has lost a lot of distance firing her broadside guns like that. She won't make that up again.'

Alexander MacGillivray surged on, Captain Edwards using both screws to make a rapid series of course alterations that seemed to confuse the Federal vessels for their next two volleys were far short.

'We'll do it!' Ted waved his fist defiantly at the nearest Federal vessel.

As if in reply to Ted, the next shot landed a cables-length astern, skipped across the waves, crashed against Alexander MacGillivray's counter, and bounced off the steel plate.

Commander Black walked briskly along the deck. 'Break out the arms,' he shouted. 'Mr Dumas, it's time to see if your fancy machines work.'

For the first time since the chase began, Dumas appeared, holding his wide-awake hat and strapping on a pair of long revolvers, which looked more theatrical than useful in this long-range battle.

'You men! Did you not hear me? Do something useful!' Black pointed to Watters.

'Aye, aye, sir,' Watters responded automatically.

As Edwards ordered an erratic course to avoid the Federal fire, Dumas supervised the unpacking of one of the crates that Pluton had carried, with Black snarling orders at the men. Watters helped lever up the brass bands that held the wooden planking together, grunting at the familiar, sharp tang of gun oil.

'Get this thing unpacked fast!' Dumas glanced over his shoulder as one of the Federal vessels fired again, with the shot screaming overhead.

A scramble of seamen unloaded various pieces of machinery, all coated in thick, yellow grease.

'Never mind the muck! Lay them on the deck.' Dumas raised his voice to be heard above the constant thunder of the engines, the whine of the wind, and the continuous slap and surge of the sea.

'Captain Edwards will hate this mess on his deck.' Ted gave his gap-toothed grin.

'Stand aside!' Dumas began to piece the machinery together.

Alexander MacGillivray made a hard turn to port, followed by one to starboard, avoiding the next salvo from the Federal vessels by a good three cables' lengths.

'We're getting away,' Ted said. 'Old Captain Edwards has got their measure!'

'What is this thing?' Scouse asked as Dumas continued to fit the pieces together .

'It's a Montigny mitrailleuse ,' Watters said quietly. Now I know why William Caskie had been in France.

'A what?' Scouse stared at Watters. 'A Monty Mitrally? What does it do?'

'It's a machine that fires bullets faster than a dozen rifles at once,' Watters said. 'A very charming Belgian gentleman named Joseph Montigny has been working on it for the past few years.'

Dumas glowered at him. 'Have you ever seen one, Watters?'

'Never,' Watters admitted.

'Well, you're going to be firing one soon. Give me a hand here.'

'What the hell does mitrailleuse mean?' Niner asked.

'It means grapeshot shooter,' Watters said. 'Another Belgian fellow invented it back in '51, a fifty-barrelled volley gun. This one is an improvement.'

'This weapon is a prototype,' Dumas was surprisingly forthcoming, 'and one that will help win the war for the South. I've bought thirty examples, each one capable of winning a battle on its own.' He stood up when two of the machines were assembled. The Federal vessels were closer than before. 'As you can see, the weapon is crank operated. You wind that lever and the barrels turn, firing a constant stream of bullets at the enemy. These are revolutionary devices, adapted from the original by a Frenchman named Jean-Baptiste Verchere de Reffye.'

'Another charming fellow.' Watters remembered Amy's words.

'We slide in the magazine plate into the breech like so,' Dumas demonstrated, 'lock it in place with this hinged loading lever at the rear, aim, and turn the crank.' He slapped the breech. 'As you see, there are thirty-seven barrels inside the casing, and when we turn the handle, all the barrels fire. With luck, the operator can fire 150 rounds a minute. With skill, he can fire more.'

Black glared at the greasy, wondering men. 'This thing's damned heavy, so it'll need all of your muscle power to move it. I want one of these machines in the port bow and one in the starboard quarter.'

Seamen were vastly experienced in moving heavy weights with block and tackle, so despite the constant firing from the Federal warships, they had the mitrailleuse in position within a few moments.

In the time it had taken Dumas to prepare his wonder weapon, the Federal warships had approached to barely a quarter of a mile, with gun smoke hazing the Stars and Stripes that flew proudly from their mizzens.

On a word from Captain Edwards, Alexander MacGillivray slowed further, allowing the Federal warships to close.

'Throw a cover over these machines and lie down,' Edwards shouted. 'Now lower the flag but keep it handy.'

'We're not surrendering!'

Ted's cry swept the ship from stern to stem. 'We're not surrendering to the Yankees.'

As the Confederate flag fluttered down, both Federal ships stopped firing and crept closer. Watters could see the officers grouped in the stern of each, examining Alexander MacGillivray through extended telescopes.

'Here they come,' Ted murmured.

Dumas swore. 'I wish we had time to train the men on these damned guns. '

Watters grunted. He was not sure what he wanted; if the Federal ships won, he could be a prisoner of the North for months, and if the Confederates won, he could be forced to fight for them for the same period of time. He could also be killed. Instinctively, he touched his New Testament and wished he could contact Marie.

The Federal ships parted, with one coming to the stern of Alexander MacGillivray and the other to the bows. The Federal officer's telescopes scanned the Confederate's deck, focussed on the canvas covered machines, and moved on, wary of a trap.

'They're closing.' Dumas stood in the centre of the deck, allowing himself to be seen as he gave orders to the prone men. 'On my word, rise up, pull the covers from the mitrailleuse, and fire at the closest enemy ship. They have boarding parties massed ready. That's your mark.'

Lying on the deck with the canvas cover on top of him and the vibration of the ship beneath, Watters felt the tension rise. What the devil am I doing here, fighting in another country's civil war that had no interest to me whatever ?

'Ready… Ready… Now!' The instant Dumas shouted the order, the lying men leapt to their feet, dragging away the canvas covers. The Federal vessels were within ten cables' length, efficient-looking ships with the sea breaking in silver spray around their bows. Boarding parties crowded amidships.

'Flag!' Captain Edwards roared. Eager hands hauled the Confederate flag back aloft. For a second, it hung limp, and then a gust of wind opened it to blaze its colours against the leaden northern sky.

'Shoot!' Dumas shouted. 'Shoot the Yankees flat!'

Two Confederate seamen were first to the mitrailleuse , aiming and turning the crank even as Dumas said the last word. At that range, they could not miss. Watters saw the bullets spray into the crowd of would-be boarders. He saw some fall, saw a thin film of blood rise from the impact of the bullets on frail human flesh, and heard a chorus of shouts, shrieks, and yells. Then the mitrailleuse stopped .

'Reload!' Dumas ordered. 'For God's own sake, reload!'

Clumsy hands worked the machine, but the Federal vessel had halved the distance between them before the mitrailleuse fired again. Once more, the bullets spattered along the wooden deck of the Federal ship, and then Captain Edwards shouted, 'Hard aport and full steam ahead. Ram them!'

Alexander MacGillivray surged to port, aiming at the closest of the Federal vessels. The Confederate crew cheered wildly, with the men at the stern mitrailleuse loading and firing again, missing their target as both ships manoeuvred on the choppy sea.

'We're going to get away!' somebody shouted.

The explosion came from inside the ship, rocking her to starboard, ripping a hole in the deck and sending a fountain of metal shards upwards. There was immediate pandemonium, a chorus of yells and curses.

'What the devil?' Dumas looked stunned as Alexander MacGillivray slewed round with smoke gushing from the gaping hole amidships .

'They've hit us.' Scouse sounded as calm as if he was ordering a round in a Scotland Road public house.

'What's happened? The Federals haven't fired!' Ted looked at Watters. 'What's happened?'

'I'm blessed if I know,' Watters said as the Federals took advantage of the situation to circle away from Alexander MacGillivray's ram and unleash a broadside that clattered and clanged against the Confederate vessel's steel sides.

Another explosion sounded from below, tearing an enormous hole in Alexander MacGillivray's bow and sending murderous splinters of steel cascading along the deck. Somebody below began to scream, high pitched and hopeless, and the Federal warships fired again. Solid shot hammered against the hull, bouncing back into the water but doing no damage save to increase the confusion on board.

A man ran past Watters, moaning and holding a hand to his shattered face. The jug-eared Confederate lay on the deck, staring stupidly at what remained of his legs. The screaming from below reached a crescendo, stopped, and started again. More shots battered against the Confederate ship, and someone yelled that they surrendered. Commander Black had lifted his Sharps rifle and was firing back, ignoring the carnage all around him. 'I'll show you, Yankee pirates. I'll teach you,' and then he was gone, carried clean away by a cannonball.

More cannonballs crashed and rattled along the deck, more shells exploded, more water erupted alongside, more men screamed, until Watters found himself lying beside the rail, wondering what had happened as red-stained sea water hissed and bubbled past him. There were further explosions, the acrid sting of smoke in Watters's throat, and rapid footsteps on the deck. Someone was shouting 'lower that damned rebel flag,' and a man scrambled aloft to fall as somebody shot him. Watters heard rifle fire, sharper than the previous cannon, the distinctive crack of a revolver, and polished boots tramped beside his face.

'Up, you rebel bastard!' The boots moved as the owner kicked him hard in the ribs. 'Get up, damn your hide! '

Rough hands hauled Watters upright. He stared into the lean face of a young man in the blue uniform of the Federal Navy. 'Join the rest!' Somebody shoved him forward, where he collapsed at the feet of a bunch of smoke-blackened, shocked survivors of Alexander MacGillivray's maiden voyage.

'You all right, mate?' Ted sounded concerned as he knelt down. 'You was out for a bit there.'

'We were beating them.' Watters was still dazed. 'We were beating them until there was an explosion inside the ship.'

'Nah.' Ted shook his head. 'I thought that, but it was just the Federal's shells. See the corvette there? Fine looking ship; I wonder if they want any recruits.'

Watters later heard that the Federal corvette was a sister to the new Tuscarora, with nine powerful guns including two pivoting eleven-inch columbiads, six broadside cannon, and a rifled Parrot. The corvette did not linger but got steam up, raised her sails, and sailed away as soon as the paddle steamer had the smoking wreck of Alexander MacGillivray secure .

The Federal crew were efficient, searching every quarter of their prize, taking note of everything and comparing their prisoners with the crew manifest. A petty officer ran an expert eye over what remained of the Confederate ship before he stepped over to Watters.

Still dazed, Watters could only mumble his name.

'Watters? Who the hell are you?' the petty officer said. 'You're not on the list.'

'A volunteer recruit,' Ted said. 'He just signed on yesterday.'

'Put him with the rest.'

One of the younger Federal officers looked at Watters through narrow eyes as he was hustled away below to be crammed into another storeroom packed with barrels, boxes, and dejected sailors. Some men nursed wounds, from the minor cuts and bruises that were common on board any ship to obscene horrors caused by shellfire. Scouse looked up, shrugged, and looked away. Niner sat in a corner, staring at the ground. In a clear area in the centre of the room, two severely wounded men gasped their way to death.

Watters slumped in a corner between a sobbing Frenchman and a barrel of tar. Some voyage this had been, from Joyce to gun-runner to would-be-Confederate warship to Federal paddle steamer all in the space of three days. Rather than solve the murder on Lady of Blackness , he would be a prisoner in some festering Federal camp for the foreseeable future.

Ted winked at him. 'All right, mate? Chin up; you're alive, aren't you? Lots of lads aren't so fortunate.'

'You're cheerful enough, anyway.'

'Always the optimist, that's my motto.' Ted handed over a bite of tobacco. 'And why not? What's the use of being downhearted? I've worked the Thames barges, been a hand in a New South Wales convict ship, a bluejacket, and a Confederate seaman. I even worked for the United States once.' He eyed Watters for a second. 'There's not much difference between the lot of them. Hard work and hard knocks, and at the end, a trip down to Davy Jones's Locker.' He chewed vigorously. 'So what does it matter where you are and what you do, eh?'

Watters said nothing. For the past few weeks, he had reacted, rather than acted, allowing others to control his life with the result that he was now a prisoner in a war of which he knew and understood little. 'Bugger it,' he decided. 'I'm going home.'

'Good for you, mate.' Ted was jammed against him, chewing mightily. 'And I hope that she's worth it.'

The thought of Marie worrying about him made Watters's situation worse. 'I have to get back.'

'Too late now, mate. We're heading south, and at some speed, to judge by the racket.'

Watters could hear the different beat of the paddles as they thrashed the water. In this mechanical age, speed was everything, from the frenzy of the mills to this mad dash by a steamship. All of life centred on ever-increasing velocity with no room for thought.

After a few worrying hours, a surly Federal seaman fed them standard Navy rations, which Watters found as bad as he expected. Some of the men lit pipes, threw the spent matches on the deck, and began to grumble. Leaning back, Watters rubbed his face with its three-day accumulation of beard. He closed his eyes; sleep was as important as food to fortify him against the hard times he was sure lay ahead.

Watters did not know what woke him. It might have been a sound, or perhaps it was his policeman's instinct. He only knew that something tore him from dreams filled with the sound of gunfire and the screams of wounded men. He lay still for a moment, unsure where he was or what he should be doing.

Two uniformed seamen had entered the cabin and were standing over Ted. Watters balled his fists, ready to jump to the rescue until he saw Ted rise willingly to leave with the seamen. Scouse and Niner followed only a step behind. They closed the door and locked it quietly behind them.

With his police instincts thoroughly roused, Watters stepped carefully over the prostrate bodies of his companions to reach the door. He had heard the key turn in the lock but had not heard it withdraw. Kneeling, he peered into the lock, nodding in quiet satisfaction when he saw the key tip blocking the light. He was in a store cabin, not a police cell; the key and lock had been designed to frustrate casual seamen, not a man with his experience of the criminal underworld. If he had brought his tools with him, Watters could have picked the lock in seconds. As it was, he lifted one of the spent matches, split it in two and inserted the ends into the lock.

While his usual tool for this kind of delicate operation was a pair of long-nosed pliers, the split match was better than nothing. The wood was far too lightweight, but Watters persevered, with the smoky, stuffy room bringing beads of sweat to his forehead until the key turned with an audible click. Watters crouched for a long moment, hoping that nobody had heard the sound, although with the creaks and shudders of a moving paddle-steamer that was unlikely. Only when he was sure it was safe did he slowly, cautiously, open the door a crack. He peered outside; there was no sentry. Watters slipped through, closing the door behind him. He was in a long, dark corridor with a single lantern casting dim light as it swayed with the rhythm of the ship.

Now he was outside the storeroom, what should he do? Watters considered his options. His first was to find somewhere to hide in the ship, although he knew every square inch of the warship would be utilised. The second option was to slip over the side and swim for shore. Although Watters was a fair swimmer, the ship might be a hundred miles out to sea, so such a course could be suicidal. His third was the best: if he were fortunate, there would be a dinghy or other small boat. If he were very fortunate, the dinghy would be equipped with water and ship's biscuits.

Listening for the sound of footsteps or voices, Watters walked through the ship until he reached a companionway that stretched upwards. Taking a deep breath, he climbed the steps to a closed, varnished door, listened for voices, heard none, opened the door, and breathed deeply of air mingled with salt and soot.

Watters found himself on a deck smeared with sooty smuts from the smokestack. Cold winter air blasted him, while the constant beat of the paddles thrust the ship onward through grey waves tipped with silver white. Seabirds kept pace with the ship; their wingtips quivering.

Watters glanced along the deck. The officer of the watch stood on the starboard paddle-box, staring through a telescope. The steersman was in the stern, too concentrated on his task to notice a stray seaman wandering around the deck.

Sitting near the steersman, the captain's dinghy invited Watters's closer inspection. If he could get the dinghy into the sea, he might be able to reach land somewhere. It did not matter where it was; anywhere would be better than a Federal prison. Watters slipped closer to the dinghy. He frowned when he realised that professional hands had ensured her lashings were stiff. It was years since Watters had worked with maritime knots, and he was struggling to unfasten them when footsteps sounded.

Swearing softly, he looked up. A young midshipman was marching purposefully along the deck with his arms swinging and his hat squared on his head. A file of marines stepped at his back .

Still cursing, Watters sunk down and crawled away. He neither knew nor cared why the midshipman was leading his marines. He only knew they had interrupted what may be his only chance of escaping.

Opening the nearest door, Watters slid down a companionway to find himself in a small corridor with three plain, unvarnished wooden doors. One had the name 'Captain' embossed on a brass plate.

Where now? Watters glanced urgently around.

The corridor remained thankfully empty with a single shaded lantern swinging with the motion of the ship. Hearing the murmur of voices in the captain's cabin, Watters tried the door opposite, found it locked, and slid inside the cabin next to the captain's.

Watters gasped his relief when he found the room unoccupied. Two cots and a single desk took up most of the space with a pair of sea-chests filling the rest. Watters could hear people moving about in the cabin next door and the distinct murmur of voices. With nowhere else to go, he sat on a cot, aware of the constant churn of the paddles and the swish of the sea against the hull. The voices continued.

The name had been repeated at least three times before the significance dawned on Watters. Squeezing as close to the thin bulkhead as he could, he listened to the voices.

'I don't agree with that at all.'

The reply was muffled, and Watters cursed his earlier inattention.

The first voice sounded again, the New England accent distinct. 'My orders are to drop you off in London and return. No more.'

Again the mumble, but the next words were clear, 'Mount Pleasant.'

The throbbing of the engine combined with the steady thump of the paddles made eavesdropping difficult, so Watters slid outside again and crept to the door of the captain's cabin. There were two voices inside. One belonged to the captain, with the Down East twang nasal and unmistakable. The second was more gentle and slower, perhaps from further west .

'I don't agree with murder, damn it, Mr H., or whatever you call yourself!' That was undoubtedly the captain. 'I don't hold with all this underhand subterfuge, and I don't like being used as a ferryboat for a murderer.'

'You fired on a virtually unarmed ship as part of your duty to the Union,' the gentler voice said. 'I will kill this man to help preserve that same Union.'

Who is to be killed? As Watters moved as close as he could, his boots scraped on the deck. He froze, but in a moving steamship, one more noise made little difference. The conversation continued unchecked.

'We're not at war with Great Britain, Mr H.,' that was the captain's voice, 'but actions such as this would provoke one.'

'It's an example,' the gentle speaker said, and with a start, Watters recognised Ted's voice, although with a different accent. Ted Houghton and Mr H. are one and the same. 'I want to send an example to all other British merchants that might help the South. We have already tried to destroy his businesses by fire.'

'You failed, sir,' the captain said .

'I relied on amateurs.' That was Ted. 'I will not make that mistake again. The arson attempts were the work of a local abolitionist group who jumped the gun. They should have waited until I supplied the correct equipment, such as this little device.' There was a pause while the speaker obviously showed something to the captain.

'What is that? A new cigar?' The captain's cynicism was apparent.

'Looks like it, doesn't it?' Ted's voice was bland. 'Our people have been working on this for months. It's small enough to fit inside one's pocket but deadly enough to burn down an entire building. I can open it… see?' There was silence for a moment. 'You notice the two compartments inside? One has sulphuric acid, the other potash. At present, this thin copper membrane separates them. If I push this little button, just here, the acid is free to eat its way through the copper, leaks into the potash, and boom! The thing heats up amazingly, setting fire to everything it touches.'

There was another silence, and then the captain spoke. 'Damn if that isn't the most devilish thing I ever saw. We're fighting to preserve the Union, not burn down Great Britain. I don't like it at all.'

Ted gave a gruff laugh. 'They work. I planted two in the ammunition stored for these French machine rifles on Alexander MacGillivray ; otherwise, you would never have caught her.'

'We would have caught her.' The words had stung the captain's professional pride.

Watters grunted: That explains the mysterious explosions on the Confederate ship. So Ted was an agent for the Federal government. Marie was correct; this whole affair had been political all the time.

Ted spoke again, 'If the people in Dundee had waited until we provided these little beauties, then Beaumont's factories would have all burned to the ground, he would have been ruined, and there would have been no finance for the rebel ship. Instead, they tried arson with matches and old rags.'

'Your scheme failed,' the captain said.

'One man attacked Beaumont's daughter; the Dundee police took notice and slammed most of the abolitionists in the lockup. Their leader is still free. We can still use her. '

' Their leader' and 'we can still use her?' Who might that be? The women who paid Varthley? It could be no other. Who was she? No wonder I have not cracked this case.

The captain sighed. 'This is a sordid business. Have you tried any other methods of damaging this Beaumont fellow?'

No? Watters frowned. How about trying to sink Lady of Blackness ? Or are you ashamed that you failed there too, Mr H.? Can your pride not cope with another failure?

Watters listened with disbelief as these men from a civilised, neutral nation calmly planned the murder of a British businessman. It was true that Beaumont was ruthless in business and his financial backing of William Caskie was morally questionable, but Beaumont was not a political animal. His motives were profit based, not vindictive, and that surely was no reason to have him murdered. For one second, Watters contemplated jumping into the captain's cabin and disposing of both men, but sense chased away the red rage. They might be armed, and anyway, Mr H. would be very capable of looking after himself. It would be better to escape somehow and warn Mr Beaumont and the British authorities.

'Hey! You!' The challenge echoed along the corridor. A young ensign was hurrying towards Watters with his face contorted in anger. 'What the hell are you doing, skulking outside the captain's cabin like that?'

Jumping to his feet, Watters knew he had a quick decision to make. Either he could run further into the bowels of the ship or push past the ensign onto the deck. The ensign was young but looked fit, strong, and angry, while to run deeper into the ship would be only to delay the inevitable.

'Out of my way!' Watters charged forward. The ensign blocked his way, but Watters was the more desperate. After a brief struggle, he knocked the ensign to the ground. Then it was a hurried scramble up to the deck and a quick breath of smut-filled air before searching for sanctuary.

There was none. Watters ran his gaze down the deck: a swivel gun fore and aft, four broadside cannons, a main and mizzen mast, a port and starboard paddle box, and four small boats, each one as securely lashed down as the captain's dinghy. The deck of a Federal paddle steamer did not provide a plethora of places in which to hide. Watters heard footsteps behind him as other seamen joined the ensign.

It was dawn, grey and heavy with the promise of rain. A sudden blast of wind swept across the deck. Watters ran aft, hoping for a miracle that he knew would not transpire. His choice was stark, surrender or jump overboard. If he fought, he would be shot, for these Federal seamen would have no time for escaped Confederate prisoners. Watters hesitated, looked at the leaping waves, and then dived back down the hatch that led below. Hearing the clatter of feet behind him, he kept running.

The layout of this warship was unfamiliar, but the basic plan was the same as the vessels on which Watters had sailed. He had expected there to be more crew then remembered that some would have been sent on board the captured Alexander MacGillivray. He ducked low, slid down a steel companionway, and scurried along a dimly lit corridor that throbbed and vibrated with the proximity of the engine .

There were more voices ahead, with footsteps echoing along the corridor and the banging of a door. Watters slid through a small hatch, stifling his gasp as he slithered down into utter blackness. He lay still until his eyes adjusted to the gloom of what he realised was an ammunition locker, surrounded by piles of solid shot. Feet clattered past, somebody's voice echoed in the corridor, but Watters waited for a long five minutes before easing open the door.

The corridor was deserted, with only a single vibrating lantern providing light. Watters slipped free, paused for a second, and hurried aft. He could not hide on board for long, so all he could do was try again to free one of the ship's boats to chance the German Ocean. Removing his shoes, he padded quietly toward a companionway and eased upward toward the deck.

'Hey!' The voice startled him, but he controlled his jangling nerves. He looked around, waving a casual hand to the confused-looking able seaman who had challenged him.

'I'm new on board,' Watters explained and moved onto the deck hoping that the dark concealed the colour of his uniform. The officer on watch was well forward, staring into the night, and this time, there was no midshipman or file of efficient marines.

Once again, Watters shivered in the blast of sea air as he moved toward the captain's dinghy. The cover was well lashed down, but he persevered, cursing that he had neither knife nor marline spike with which to free the ropes. He would have to loosen the davit attachments and hope that a final pull would release both at the same time. Sweat streamed from his face as he wrestled with salt-hardened rope, but he untied one before the shout came.

'That's him! That's the rebel!'

Watters was moving before the last word, running below as feet clattered across the deck. He dived back into the chill damp of the corridors, plunging in any direction as he heard the noise of pursuit. There was another corridor ahead, with a cabin door flapping open. Watters slipped in, trod on a surprisingly carpeted deck, and kicked shut the door. He leant against the bulkhead, trying to control his gasping breath in case it could be heard amidst the clamour of the paddle steamer.

There was a desk bolted to the deck, with two wooden chairs and a collection of charts and nautical books. There was also a sextant, a safe, and a file of official documents marked: US Navy: For the Eyes of the Captain . Watters swore; he must be in the captain's day cabin; he had run full circle around the ship.

A quick tug at the door of the safe assured him that it was securely locked, while the official documents referred only to the supposed movements of Confederate vessels, highly crucial to the Federal Navy but of no interest to him. Slowly opening the top drawer of the desk, Watters saw a four-inch-long cylindrical case tucked into the side. He had never seen the like before, and he remembered Ted describing a fire-raising device. Perhaps this was to what he referred? Watters grunted, shoved the metal case into his inside breast pocket, and left the cabin. He had no option; he had to try the dinghy again. Cautiously opening the door to the deck, he stepped onto the pristine timber.

There were men behind him now, that ubiquitous midshipman with a group of others. The midshipman shouted. 'Get back here! Back or I shoot, y'hear?'

The crack of a revolver sounded immediately after the midshipman's words, but where the shot went, Watters could not tell. Slithering onto the paddle box, he steeled himself to leap. The sea looked cold and grey. Would the Federals accept his surrender when he had been found spying? That was unlikely. Watters looked back; four men were pounding across the deck, the slender Midshipman, Scouse, Niner, and Ted Houghton holding a revolver. Watters swore when Ted stopped to aim.

Ted fired; the bullet gouged a long splinter from the paddle box. No prisoners, then. Taking a deep breath, Watters leapt into the sea as far astern as he could, hearing the revolver crack a third and fourth time as the water closed over him and the churning maelstrom of the paddle's wake caught him, thrust him under, and tossed him around like a cork.