Invasion

by Julian Stockwin

“So—so this is your Nautilus as—”

  “As I constructed, trialled before Napoleon Bonaparte himself and used to blow to flinders a brig before the eyes of all his admirals,” he said grimly.

  “And may I ask where she lies now?”

  “In pieces, sold for scrap value. Don’t worry, I’ve left nothing behind. You English have no fear he can make another.” He slapped the drawings together again. “Right now, I’ve work to do. A sea-going Nautilus with double-sized crew, provisioned for a patrol of three weeks at a time, nine torpedoes. This’ll make ’em sit up.”

  It was a fearful and wondrous creation but Kydd was damned if he’d show how awestruck he was. “Well, then, shall I leave you to it, Mr. Francis, or is there anything you need?”

  “No. I crave to be left alone for a space, sketch out some thoughts. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  A caustic letter arrived from Keith suggesting that as an inspector of Sea Fencibles—albeit not a regular-built one—perhaps it was time Kydd earned his keep. As a sea officer of some experience, possibly an active tour of the less-frequented posts, a revealing report to follow? It was not a formal order but, for all that, a call to duty—and, despite his feelings about the Fencibles, Kydd welcomed the chance to do something seamanlike, something he could understand, while Fulton worked on his plans.

  He spread out the operational chart of the south. On it were marked the defences, including all those manned by the Sea Fencibles—harbour batteries, inshore gunboats, signal stations. And all his for the rousing! He’d make sure they’d hear of him and Teazer on the coast.

  Where to begin? He could not stray too far from Fulton in Dover but a day’s sail was half the south coast and even round North Foreland, if the wind was kind. And the south-east was both the closest to France and the most exposed to invasion. Perhaps . . . here, hard by the notorious smuggler’s haunt of Romney Marsh. A small coast signal station on the flat, lonely shingle promontory of Dungeness, little expecting visitors.

  HMS Teazer eased inshore off Dymchurch and hove to while her gig was put in the water and stroked briskly ashore. Curious onlookers were puzzled that when the sloop sailed away two of her company were left there.

  They wore plain clothing so there was nothing to alarm the sleepy little village, and Kydd, with Midshipman Calloway, found no difficulty in hiring horses. Soon they were clopping along the road between the marsh and the sea, but instead of following it as it curved inland to Snargate they struck out on a poor track across the stark bleakness of the promontory.

  For several miles they crossed the flat landscape, not a rise, not a tree intruding until they came to the tiny settlement of Lydd in its centre. Then they followed a barely visible path through the salt marsh and shingle out to a distant solitary hut at the very tip of the promontory.

  Their approach from inland was covered by the ceaseless muffled roar of the sea and they had time to note the old ship’s topmast with its extended staff and gaff to suspend signal hoists a good eighty feet above. The hut was in rough wood, finished in tar and ochre with a liberal sand-dash.

  Smoke swirled from a makeshift chimney and Kydd handed the reins to Calloway while he stepped over a tiny plot of greens.

  At his knock the weathered wooden door creaked open and an old man in carpet slippers appeared with a steaming mug, looking at Kydd in astonishment. “Why, gennelmen, what can I do f’r you?” he wheezed.

  From within the hut a stronger voice called irritably, “Who th’ devil’s out at this hour, George?”

  Kydd held his temper and said levelly, “Commander Kydd, Inspector of Sea Fencibles, come t’ visit.”

  “We ain’t heard nothing o’ no inspection,” came the voice from inside. “Bid the bugger begone!”

  “That’s enough!” Kydd barked. “Fetch your lieutenant,” he ordered.

  The old man paused, then drew himself up with pathetic dignity. “I am he, sir.”

  Kydd pushed past him contemptuously into the hut. A pot simmered over a smoky fire in the corner and there were two rooms made snug with rickety furniture; a table stood across the single window looking out to sea, a well-worn telescope in brackets above it.

  From the other room two resentful seamen appeared, one in under-clothes. “The other?” Kydd demanded. There should have been three manning the hut.

  “As he’s got his head down, ain’t he?” one said truculently.

  Wheeling on the lieutenant, Kydd ordered, “Your log, if y’ please.”

  The man shuffled over to the table and found the book, but did not offer it. Kydd strode across and took it for himself. If it was not in order he would see the man dismissed instantly for crass incompetence. These old officers might be long retired from worthy service at sea but it was vital to the country that ceaseless vigilance was maintained when every hour could see an invasion fleet lift menacingly above the horizon.

  He flicked the pages and was surprised to see it entered up with more than a score of vessels sighted that day alone. “A busy day, then,” he said, mollified. Then suspicion crept in. It was a cosy billet: this ancient lieutenant, when closed up, was earning eight shillings a day for his trouble, near as much as Kydd’s full naval pay, the men two shillings for every day on muster, the same as an able seaman facing the rigours of the sea and the malice of the enemy—and with it protection from the press-gang.

  Was it impossible to believe they could have fabricated the only evidence of honest labour? A list of imaginary ships to justify their existence? He’d soon find out. He consulted his fob watch and noted the time with satisfaction.

  Stepping outside he watched steadily to the left and, right on time, Teazer came slowly past the point. “So, what happens now, Mr. Lieutenant?” Kydd said, with relish.

  The man stood there, regarding him steadily.

  “Well, that’s number twenty-eight, is it not?” Kydd said testily. “‘Name of Vessel Passing is Required,’ or am I mistaken?” A finite number of signals could be sent from a coast signal station in their own code, which Teazer also carried and with which she must respond.

  The lieutenant glanced at the older seaman and nodded. The man turned and went outside to hoist the two flags, then came back to wait beside him.

  “Well?” exploded Kydd. “The log! Find out if the private signal is correct, the name of the ship. Then enter it up, decide if this is an alarm—get moving, damn you for a mumping set o’ lubbers!”

  The lieutenant folded his arms and said quietly, “Yon ship is the brig-sloop Teazer, Captain Kydd, Downs Squadron, having been on the coast these last two months. If ’n you wish me to make entry of our own forces as are already known to Admiral Keith, I will, or should you want an alarm raised . . .”

  He was quite right, of course, and in a way that suggested Kydd had underestimated the ragged band. They were locals—fishermen, smugglers, whatever—and could be relied upon to know exactly what was afoot on their own doorstep. Could it be a much more effective system than bringing in highly trained man-o’-war’s men who would have no idea of local conditions?

  Only if they knew the rest. “Tell me, an enemy flotilla is making t’ land at Winchelsea beach. What is your action?”

  “Red pennant at the masthead, three black balls at the peak,” the man said calmly.

  “And?”

  “At night, touch off the faggots in the fire-frame, lanterns and a blue light.”

  “Where is it?”

  He raised an arm and pointed to a twelve-foot post near the water’s edge. It had a deep iron basket at the top, which it was ready charged with combustibles.

  A wave of contrition came over Kydd. These men had the loneliest task in the Navy, miles from any other humanity but at the very bullseye of the invasion’s target. On this flat desolation, exposed to cutting winds and driving rain, there was no escape from the tedium of duty, noting details of ships interrogated as they passed, such that lesser evils, such as privateers and others, were caught out and instantly reported do
wn the line, the source, no doubt, of so much of the cryptic intelligence that had sent Teazer and her sisters off in righteous pursuit.

  “Quite right,” Kydd said, with a sudden smile. “Well, sir, I find your attention t’ duty a caution to us. I’ll bid you good day.” He turned to go, then paused, fumbled in his pocket and found a guinea. “God bless you all, and here’s rhino enough to drink the health of that fine barky you see out there.”

  Ramsgate was a bustling trading port at the south-east tip of England, well-favoured by those of means to embarking on ocean voyages. Even the mysterious cartel ships returning from France disembarked on Harbour Parade.

  This was no benighted, out-of-the-way exile for the Sea Fencibles. All the comforts of home and town were there, and no danger of being caught short by the weather, with the abundance of taverns on hand. Kydd saw what he wanted as soon as Teazer’s boat passed the stubby piers at the entrance and told Poulden to lay alongside the seaweed-covered steps on the inner side.

  Watched curiously by idle promenaders he cast a professional eye over two prime pieces: a pair of twenty-four-pounders atop the wall each side of the entrance with a field of fire to seaward. He went to the nearer one. It was fitted with a tompion and a stout lead apron, promising gunlocks in action, and was finished in traditional sea-service black.

  An official-looking small building stood where the pier joined the shore and Kydd strode over to it. “Where are the Sea Fencibles? I mean to see ’em drill,” he said, to a man lounging at the entrance puffing a clay pipe.

  Conscious of admiring glances at his commander’s uniform from passing ladies, he asked again. “Their lieutenant, then?”

  The man looked at him then slowly removed the pipe. “How in blue blazes would I know, Admiral? I’m th’ Revenoo only.”

  Customs and Excise men were immune to the press, or Kydd would have been sorely tempted. Stalking past, he entered and got the information he wanted, then dispatched his men—and waited.

  It was nearly two hours before a sullen and resentful gun crew were all closed up, still in their shopman’s aprons, sea-jerseys and tradesmen’s smocks. An elderly lieutenant in morning clothes arrived red-faced in vexation.

  “So kind in Mr. Bonaparte to wait upon you, sir,” Kydd said sarcastically. “And now may we see some action? Pray muster your equipment.”

  One of the men turned on the lieutenant. “An’ its Toosday and Sat’day only we drill. What’s th’ meaning o’ this’n?”

  “It’s a special muster for the officer here, and you’ll see your silver right enough,” the lieutenant snarled. By now a knot of people had gathered, the exercise promised a pleasing diversion for the Ramsgate seafront.

  Kydd pulled out his watch pointedly. The lieutenant called them to attention and made the gun numbers sing out their duties. That done, the order was given to cast loose the gun and rig tackles. There was another wait while the side tackles and other equipment were located in store and brought out. It took some looking to find the ringbolts to take the breeching and more for the training tackle before the gun was ready.

  It was a hot day but Kydd was taking no nonsense and the gun crew bent to their labours.

  “Out tompion!”

  “Run out the gun!”

  “Point your gun!”

  “Fire!”

  “Worm and sponge!”

  The age-old orders rang out, but it was not an impressive sight, even without the heavy real twenty-four-pound shot and cartridges. The flat space atop the pier was not best suited to close exercise, but Kydd was merciless—if the French came they would be serving their piece whatever the conditions.

  “Pity help you, sir, when we go to live firing,” Kydd said sorrowfully, to the lieutenant.

  “Live firing?”

  “Yes. I will have at least one round from you.” Kydd had noticed that the vent hole was blocked by a neat little spider funnel, proof enough of how much the gun had been used.

  “Why, sir—”

  “You object?”

  “It’s—it’s not done, sir. The noise, it would frighten the ladies. And people would think the French to have come.”

  “One round, if you please.”

  The lieutenant looked about helplessly, then muttered stubbornly, “I haven’t the keys to the magazine as I must apply to the colonel of militia.”

  Kydd could hardly believe his ears, but said, “Then we can oblige you, sir. Poulden, send to Teazer for a twenty-four-pounder carronade ball, cartridge, wadding and gunner’s pouch. There, sir,” he added genially, “you shall have your fun.”

  The expectant spectators were now several deep and an excited murmur went round. “Mr. Austen won’t half be in a takin’, sir,” one member of the gun crew said, fiddling with a tackle fall and looking anxiously at the lieutenant, whose face had paled.

  “Sir, don’t you rather think that—”

  “Bonaparte’s hordes could be upon you at any time, and you hesitate at a live practice?”

  A grinning gun crew arrived with the requirements. “Do you stand back, the Teazers. We’ll be leaving it to these fine men to show us how to serve a gun. Are you ready, sir?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Clear the area, you men,” Kydd told his boat’s crew, who shooed the interested audience off the pier to a safe distance. There was now a sizeable crowd lining the esplanade. “The first time in dumb show,” Kydd said encouragingly. “Then the real firing.”

  The Fencibles gun crew mumbled to themselves as they addressed their iron beast, soon to bellow its defiance to the world.

  “Come, come, gentlemen!”

  In half-hearted show a dummy run was performed. Then, in deathly silence, the gun was loaded. Cartridge, wad, a gleaming black shot and another wad. Priming, quill tube—and the gun captain stood ready, looking unhappily at the lieutenant.

  “Point your gun, then,” Kydd said impatiently. When the men with the crow stood about, looking confused, he added, “At the French, you lubbers—there!” The coast of France was a grey line on the far horizon.

  “Stand by!” The lieutenant’s order sounded thin and nervous. The entire amphitheatre of the harbour went still.

  A final glance at the implacable Kydd and the order was given. “Fire!”

  A fraction of a second later there came the bursting thunderclap of sound and a vast gouting of powder-smoke. The crash echoed around the harbour, sending a dense cloud of seagulls screaming skyward as onlookers clutched each other.

  The swirling smoke finally cleared, leaving a stupefied gun crew standing in horror at what they had achieved.

  “There! So now you know what a real battle is like,” Kydd said happily.

  It remained to make acquaintance with the seagoing Fencibles, and he pulled out the chart once more. It did not take long to find somewhere squarely within the invasion area but sufficiently small so as not to warrant too senior a presence. Rye.

  Guiltily, Kydd knew that an element of his choice was his curiosity to see the place. It was an ancient town of the medieval Cinque Ports and therefore entitled to “. . . right of soc and sac . . . blodwit and fledwit, pillory and tumbril, infangentheof and outfangentheof, mundbryce . . . flotsam and jetsam . . .” and probably the oldest port in England.

  So old, in fact, that the town lay far inland where centuries of silt from the river had extended the coastline out several miles into a flat, reedy estuary.

  Teazer let go her anchor in a lively sea, pivoting immediately to meet the waves, but when her boat reached the narrow mouth of the Rother it grew quickly peaceful. The river was dead straight for more than a mile, the result of untold years of striving to keep the port open as the land extended itself. Rye harbour was at the first bend; a pair of gunboats should have been maintained there by the Sea Fencibles to throw into any last desperate clash off the beaches. Kydd braced himself for what he might find.

  The boat swept round the bend but then he was confronted with the last thing he expected: alo
ng the gnarled old timber quay were lined up men in smart jackets and trousers that would not have been out of place in a man-o’-war at divisions, and as the gig glided in, an officer in full-dress Fencibles uniform called his men to order and swept off his hat. “Welcome to Rye Harbour, Mr. Kydd,” he said. “I do hope we’ll not disappoint.”

  Collecting himself, Kydd suspected that word of his mission had been passed on—Dungeness suggested itself but, anyway, this was all to the good in the greater scheme of things. “A fine body o’ men, Lieutenant. I shall inspect them.”

  They were a stout crew: fit, well turned out, direct eye gaze, capable seeming. All the signs of a good officer looking after his men. Satisfied, Kydd turned to their charges.

  The gunboats were secured to improvised trots out in the stream and Kydd summoned them alongside. One was in a pattern of the last war but wonderfully kept; gunboats were numbered but this one sported a nameplate on the bow, with Vixen of Rye picked out in gold on scarlet.

  Kydd dropped down into it. Double-ended and capable of rigging a lateen on a folding mast it mounted a respectable eighteen-pounder on a slide on the foredeck and a handy carronade aft.

  He went forward to the gun, the officer hovering anxiously. He inspected the bore—it was an old pattern requiring a quick-match to fire it rather than a gunlock. Kydd used the old gunner’s trick of reflecting sunlight from the back of his fob watch into the bore but there was no sign of kibes, the bright metal of a flaw made by a shot loose in the bore striking along its length.

  The vent-work was in pristine condition, and the rest of the boat quite up to it, so there was little Kydd could find to criticise. The other vessel, of similar vintage and named Wolf of Winchelsea, was in the same fine shape. Sensing Kydd’s pleased surprise, the lieutenant rubbed his hands together. “They’re to your satisfaction, sir?” he asked.

  “Most certainly.”

  “Then it will be my pleasure to invite you to our usual meeting at the George in Mermaid Street, sir.”

  “Not so fast.”

  “Sir?”

  “I desire you should now attack my ship.”