Invasion

by Julian Stockwin

  “Go on.” There was no reading anything in Fulton’s face.

  “Of course, he trusts you will understand that there can be no question of payments until your inventions have been properly examined and tested in England.”

  Fulton wheeled about. “That’s it? No advances, no promises?”

  “I do assure you, sir, that should you trust us with your naval secrets then the government will treat you with the utmost liberality and generosity in strict accordance with the importance of your inventions.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “At the moment, it is.”

  Fulton sauntered over to the window and looked out over the rooftops. “Are you seriously suggesting I pack my bags and leave on the strength of that? ” he asked, continuing to gaze out.

  Dread stole over Renzi: Fulton was not going to accept the offer and therefore he was going to walk off for ever. He had his grim instructions. Fulton was facing away, unsuspicious, and it was not in public. Would a protest that he had had no idea Fulton was any one but a common intruder fool the French long enough to buy him time to get away? He had so little time to think.

  Rising silently, he tiptoed over to the bureau and eased open the drawer. The knife glittered up at him. With it he would end the life of one whose mind had dreamed of voyaging with Neptune, and had so brilliantly succeeded. Renzi reached for it but at that instant he became aware that Fulton had swung around. The man cleared his throat and said abruptly, “Yes, I will.” He moved back across the room. “I trust you. We’ll go back to England together.”

  Renzi went rigid, then his hand moved to the decanter. “A drink, then, Mr. Fulton?” he said huskily, and splashed cognac into two glasses. “To brighter times.”

  He’d done it! Against all the probabilities he had brought it off. Then despair flooded him. How were they to flee across France ahead of vengeful pursuers when he had only the sketchiest plan prepared? When they were seen together the conclusion would be obvious.

  The solution, when it came, was an anticlimax. Renzi would find an excuse to return to England alone, using his diplomatic passport. At the last minute Fulton would arrive at Calais to join the cartel ship and they would leave together. Fulton’s papers from the ministry gave him access to all the northern ports and, in any case, as a neutral he could not be prevented from leaving.

  • • •

  Renzi left it until the last possible moment. The tedious carriage ride with another petulant young lieutenant had been a trial—but finally, rising above the low Customs building ahead, he saw the upper yards of the cartel ship. His heart beat faster for it would mean the end to the nightmare.

  He sat outside a nearby tavern in the warm sunshine where he was able to view the comings and goings into the building, and as time wore on for the evening sailing, he grew more and more anxious. There was no sign of Fulton.

  It was impossible that he should return without him, but who was to say that Fulton had not arrived early and was at this minute in his cabin? Or that word had been sent from Paris to detain him?

  They had let him alone to take his last fill of France, but when he passed through the gates and was processed aboard, there would be no turning back. In an agony of indecision Renzi waited until just two hours before departure; then he rose, paid the tavern-keeper and walked slowly to the hall.

  There, he handed in his passport and other papers, which were notated, and after guarded pleasantries, he was escorted to his ship. He mounted the gangway and stopped to breathe in the familiar tang of tar, timber and shipboard odours, a poignant moment after his recent travails.

  Nodding civilly to the dour captain, he enquired casually if any Americans were on board. It seemed there were not and none expected. It was hard to take and, with a sinking heart, Renzi watched the lines singled up, the capstan bars shipped for warping out.

  Two hours had become one: in despair, he allowed himself to be shepherded below with the other passengers in preparation for the awkward manoeuvre out into the stream, hearing the clunks and slithers of rope-handling above, the business-like squeals of the boatswain’s calls and sharp orders.

  Then came the shuddering creaks as the hull took up after the lines were thrown off. It was all over. They were on their way out.

  As the first dip and heave of the sea took the vessel, Renzi realised they were clearing Calais Roads. Shortly afterwards passengers were allowed on deck into a soft, violet dusk. The excited chatter of the others depressed him and he wandered forward to where the jib sheets were being hardened in. The lines were belayed, the seamen dispersed, and then he became aware of another, standing in the shadow of a staysail. The man moved towards him.

  “You—where . . . ?”

  “Thought I’d come aboard at the last minute, just in case,” Fulton said casually.

  “I didn’t think—”

  “As you would, Englishman. I’ll have you know that an American is accounted a welcome guest in France, as would any true republican, which means I can come and go as I please.”

  Renzi swallowed his anger. “Just so. Now you are a guest of the King.” He regretted the words immediately, but it was too late.

  “We won a war so’s not to bend a knee to a king—and I’m not about to start now.”

  Something made Renzi answer quickly, “Then why, pray, do you feel able to stand with us now?”

  “You don’t see it, do you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “As I said before, my inventions are for mankind—at one stroke to annihilate the present system of marine war by making it impossible for a navy bent on aggression to venture forth on the high seas. By this we create a guarantee of the liberty of the seas for all men, and where there is free trade there we will find the true sovereignty of the people.”

  “But—”

  “Once the people have their emancipation they will throw off the yokes of oppression—your monarchs, politicians and other parasites with their standing armies—and at last stand free. Whoever makes my machines possible is of no account, so long as they are created.”

  Renzi paused. “Some would say that the submarine boat is a barbaric weapon that pits innocent seamen against a foe that can never be seen.”

  Fulton’s face shadowed. “That may be true, but for the greater good it must be suffered. I have started a revolution in the minds of engineers that cannot now be stopped, and I must go forward to face my destiny, sir.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “ARE WE ALL ASSEMBLED? Then we’ll begin.” Although only in his forties the prime minister, the younger William Pitt, wore on his face the effect of years spent leading England in the long wars against the French. This capable prime minister had resigned earlier on a matter of conscience but the lacklustre administration that had replaced his had stumbled on from an ill-advised peace treaty, through a hasty declaration of war to the current crisis. Now matters appeared to be reaching their climax but that did little to lift the mortal weariness that lay so heavily on him. The others in the cabinet room regarded him with concern.

  “Sir, I feel I must express my profound sense of deliverance in seeing you once more in the chair that so rightfully belongs to you, at the helm of state in these parlous times. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say—”

  “Thank you, Lord Harrowby,” Pitt said, to the new foreign secretary, “but business presses.” He looked meaningfully at the secretary of war. “My lord Camden?”

  “Our confidential agent in the matter of the French plunging boat has just returned from France. I have to tell you he confirms the reports concerning its effectiveness as only too true, sir.” There was a general stir about the table.

  “Go on.”

  “It seems it is no mere philosophic curiosity. Before Napoleon and his admirals in Brest the inventor personally stalked a vessel from beneath the sea and exploded it to pieces in front of their eyes.”

  “Melville?”

  The first lord of the Admiralty leaned forward.
“Sir. If this device is ever perfected we stand under a near-insuperable threat. Our navy being unsafe even in its own harbours renders our entire strategic situation questionable. I cannot answer to the consequences.”

  “It may not come to that pass, sir,” Lord Camden said quietly. “This agent was successful in seducing the inventor from the French and at this moment he is in England awaiting our pleasure.”

  “Ah, yes . . .”

  “Foreign Secretary?”

  “I have to bring to your attention, gentlemen, that my predecessor was in communications of a clandestine nature with this inventor in France. As a condition of his quitting the country, certain demands were made and agreed to that we are morally obliged to accept.”

  “And these are?”

  “Among others, that a committee be immediately convened to examine his plans for a greatly improved submarine boat to be constructed and deployed by us, with a form of assistance from the royal dockyards and the Navy to this end.”

  “This seems reasonable enough,” Pitt replied. “But I’ll wager there’s somewhere a price in gold being asked.”

  “A considerable sum was mentioned but this is contingent upon his satisfying the committee in the particulars.”

  “Then I see we have a way forward. Ask the gentleman concerned to prepare his plans for the craft, which he will then present in due course. This will satisfy the immediate problem.”

  “Er, which is that, Prime Minister?”

  “That while he is working for us, he is not for the French,” Pitt said. “And we buy ourselves time to consider our position. I’m not altogether convinced that this is something we, a maritime nation of the first rank, should necessarily be involved with.”

  He went on, “We’ll give him his chance, see what he comes up with. We’ll have a strong committee—philosophers, scientificals, engineers of note and all of some eminence—to judge his work. Then we’ll decide what to do. Agreed?”

  At the polite murmuring he declared, “I shall ask the Treasury to open a disbursement account against my discretionary funding for now, this to include some form of emolument, say a monthly subsistence draw, and desire the Navy Board to afford him access to the dockyards and so forth. Oh, and he’s to have a place of work that shall be secure—we can’t discount that the French will seek to interfere with our new submarine navigator.”

  “And to keep him under eye,” Melville added drily.

  “Of course. Dover Castle springs to mind, being convenient should he wish to try his toys on Mr. Bonaparte’s flotilla.”

  “There is one more consideration, Prime Minister,” Harrowby said smoothly. “It seems that Mr. Francis—as he wishes to be known—is rather in the nature of an American with decided republican views and, er, somewhat novel, not to say whimsical, ideas on marine war.”

  “Just so, Foreign Secretary.” Pitt reached wearily for the decanter of port. “I’ll bear it in mind. As well, he will be needing a form of regular liaison with the Navy in an operational sense. Don’t want him getting our admirals huffy. A trials vessel too. Dover—that’s Keith’s bailiwick. Desire him to make a man-o’-war and crew available for both purposes, not too big.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “And we’ll have to find a commander who knows Americans,” he said sourly. “Shall we move on?”

  • • •

  It had been more than a month but now Teazer was complete. Kydd looked up from his journal as the door to his cabin opened. It was Renzi. “Reporting for duty, Captain,” he said, with a tired smile.

  “Good God, Nicholas, you look dreadful. Sit down, dear fellow. Tysoe! A hot negus on the instant for Mr. Renzi.”

  “Pay no mind to me, Tom. I’m—It’s that I’m out of sorts is all.” Renzi took the armchair and sank into it, turning his face to catch the sun streaming in through Teazer’s stern windows.

  Kydd rose. “So good t’ see you again, even if a mort weather-torn!” He contemplated Renzi then continued softly, “I don’t wish t’ pry but—”

  “A rather disagreeable episode I would much rather forget,” Renzi said distantly, then added, “But it was kind in you to remember the Wordsworth.”

  “The commander-in-chief was not amused when I was hauled out of my ship by some rum coves from Whitehall to answer some strange enough questions. Er, they didn’t say what it was all about?”

  “Nor should they. I’m sworn to mortal secrecy still, else I should tell you all. It was a singular enough experience. Perhaps later.” He closed his eyes, drained.

  “And it has put you to some measure o’ grief, I fear.”

  Renzi opened one eye. “It will pass, should I be granted the sublimity of a space of peace and quiet—and a good book.”

  Kydd knew Renzi well enough to be disturbed by his manner. What was it that he had endured? More than a physical trial, certainly, for he was like a man returned from the dead. “That you’ll get, Nicholas,” he said warmly. “For his sins young Calloway has been taking care o’ the ship’s books—if you find ’em out o’ kilter, let me know.”

  Kydd cleared his throat. Renzi’s tiny quarters in an operational ship-of-war were not what was wanted to heal him after his nameless ordeal. “We’ve lately been with the Downs inshore forces, another having taken our place in the flying squadron, so our days are not so exciting,” he said, as breezily as he could, “but I do think you’ll find you’ll need more in the way of a constitutional.” He paused. “Nicholas, there is a favour I’d ask of you.”

  “Of course.”

  “I want you to go to Bath for the waters. For as long as you need—not forgetting to hoist in some reading while you’re there, of course.”

  Renzi sighed, too tired to protest. “I—that is, it is well taken, and I confess I’m in sore need of respite. I do believe I’ll take up your handsome offer, dear brother.”

  The next morning Kydd saw his friend safely off in the coach. They had been through so much together and he was grateful he had the means to do this for him.

  Then his mind returned to the war. Sober estimates of the size of the invasion flotilla were now nearer two thousand than one, and the flying squadron had taken a recent mauling that had left two shattered wrecks on the dunes near Calais. Fortunately the battleships of the French fleet had not ventured from port but this was widely held to be their admiral husbanding his forces until such time as they would be called on to lock in mortal combat with the British at the grand climax of the invasion. The threat could not have been greater, but Kydd and Teazer were kept back on the shores of England in the second tier of defences and he felt the frustration acutely.

  At last the summons came. A peremptory order to report to the commander-in-chief for redeployment.

  Keith kept him waiting for twenty minutes, then called him in. “Mr. Kydd, you’re of this hour relieved of duty in these inshore waters.” Why should the commander-in-chief himself tell him that he was to resume in a flying squadron? The usual order pack would normally suffice. Kydd felt uneasy.

  “Tell me, does the record speak true? While you were on the North American station you were sent ashore in the United States to resolve some dispute that ended well enough, then spent a little time at sea in their new navy.”

  “I did, sir.”

  “So therefore it would be true to say that you know Americans?”

  “Well, sir, I—”

  “Capital. You and your sloop are stood down from active duty on this station. My condolences on the loss of opportunity for distinction, but we all have our cross to bear.”

  “Sir! May I know—”

  “Since you have shown yourself inclined to furtive intrigue I have given you over to the Foreign Office in their service.”

  At Kydd’s evident shock, Keith gave a cold smile. “Don’t imagine you’ll be out on some wild adventure. I gather it’s to be acting as dogsbody to some American charlatan inventor. You’ll remain in my command, Mr. Kydd—as Inspector of Fencibles.”

>   Surely not. The Sea Fencibles—a home-defence force of dabblers and seamen past their prime. At one stage the doughty Earl St. Vincent, first lord of the Admiralty, had muttered dismissively, “The Sea Fencibles are there only to calm the fears of old ladies, both within and without Parliament.”

  What had he done as a fighting seaman that he should be relegated to this? Kydd bit his lip in frustration. “Aye aye, sir,” he said bleakly.

  Keith waved his hand in dismissal. “Flags will tell you the rest.”

  How things had changed. From service in the very front line of the war at sea to nursemaid of well-meaning amateurs and whoever the American was. The flag-lieutenant was unable to add much. Sympathetically, he explained that the commander-in-chief had received his orders from a higher level and had complied, with Kydd the unlucky choice. It was apparently a discreet affair, and while his line of responsibility lay with Whitehall, his appointment as Inspector of Fencibles was to give him cover and keep him administratively within Keith’s command.

  A gentleman from London was, however, in attendance to explain. He was at pains to make clear the contractual arrangements between His Majesty’s government and the American, a Mr. Fulton, who also went by the name of Francis, which in the main appeared to be the production of plans for a contrivance of his inventing to be scrutinised in due course by a learned committee.

  Kydd’s role was to act as intermediary between the inventor and the Navy, providing assistance of a practical nature to include advice concerning operational procedures and administrative support at all levels. This latter was of particular importance, it seemed, bearing as it did on weighty matters, including the proper form of indenting for dockyard stores requested by Mr. Fulton and lines of responsibility back to Mr. Hammond, under-secretary of state with responsibility for the project.

  This contrivance? The functionary was not certain, leaving it up to Kydd to pursue details as he wished with the contractor. All costs must be fairly accounted for and rendered in the proper form, and a journal to be kept.