Invasion

by Julian Stockwin

“As you sense the mood of the meeting, I’d suggest,” Kydd replied, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. No doubt the illustrious chairman would be taken with the novelty, the dockyard representative would be interested in the technology, the scientist with prospects for natural philosophy—but the one who stood capable of bringing down Fulton and his scheme was the representative of the Navy, Captain Popham. If, being creative and inventive in his own right, he took against Fulton for reasons of jealousy, or perhaps adopted a high moral stand, then he had the power to ruin the enterprise. Kydd was well aware of what that would mean to the courageous inventor.

  The door to the meeting room opened. “The committee will see you now, Mr. Francis,” a secretary said quietly. Kydd rose as well. “This is a closed meeting, sir,” the man said firmly, ushering Fulton in and closing the door.

  Kydd knew there was no real requirement for him to remain, his duties were mainly of a liaison nature, but he wanted to see the thing through and Hallum would be keeping Teazer in order for him.

  There was not long to wait: in less than twenty minutes the presentation was over and the members streamed out, talking excitedly. Kydd stood—the major in regimentals had to be Congreve, a reclusive-seeming gentleman in thick glasses the man of science, and there was Popham, a strong-faced figure in naval uniform striding out and looking thoughtful, nodding gravely to Kydd as he passed.

  When Fulton came out, he was beaming. “A good meeting, my friend—they listened and learned, and when the sceptics opened fire I was ready. God, was I ready!” He chuckled.

  “And?”

  “I just told the fools that they’re whistling in the wind—a submarine is not to be doubted for it’s been built, proved. It’s already happened. They’ll be getting a much more advanced craft, is all.” He laughed again. “Fair took the breeze from their sails—couldn’t say boo to a goose after that.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “They go away and think about it, talk among ’emselves. Promised to get back to me without delay.”

  “So you—” began Kydd, but a large, wealthy-looking gentleman walking painfully with an ivory stick had come out. It could only be Sir Joseph Banks.

  “Interesting, damned interesting,” he said genially, regarding Fulton keenly. “Not your common diving bell but a locomoting plunging boat. Fascinating.” With a quick glance at Kydd, he continued, “It would gratify me much if you’d consent to come to my little gathering tonight. There’ll be some present who’d be with child to hear of it—upon such short notice I know, but while you’re in town?”

  “Most certainly, Sir Joseph. Be glad to.”

  “And your friend? I’ll send my carriage. Where?”

  “Oh, the White Hart in Charles Street, sir,” Kydd intervened, before Fulton could respond.

  “Excellent. Shall we say six o’ clock?”

  It was only a small soirée but the Grosvenor Street mansion was of an intimidating quality.

  “Why, Sir Joseph, your leg is still troubling you?” said a stately lady, solicitously, elegantly working her fan.

  “The trials of age, my dear,” said Banks, then turned to Fulton. “This American gentleman is Mr. Francis, and this is Mr. Kydd, his friend while in England.”

  Kydd essayed his best bow—but Fulton’s was deeper and more extravagant.

  “Gentlemen, the Lady Broughton.” He continued, “Mr. Francis is here for a particular and quite diverting purpose, Bethany. I’m sanguine you’ll never guess it in a hundred years.”

  The fan stopped. “Mr. Francis, do tell. What is it brings you to these shores?”

  “The conjuring of a submarine boat as will swim beneath the waves with the fishes, that will disport with the porpoise and sea lion and altogether put a frightener on our Mr. Bonaparte,” Fulton said, in lordly tones.

  “I—I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”

  Banks interjected: “He means to say he is constructing a species of plunging boat that might creep along the seabed to rise up on unwary ships a-slumber at their anchor and explode them to atoms. Is that not so, Mr. Francis?”

  “Indeed it is, sir. At home both in the Stygian depths and ranging the oceans looking for prey. But as well the intrepid crew might peer through their port and be witness to sights in the depths until now seen only by drowning sailors and Neptune himself . . .”

  “Goodness gracious!” Lady Broughton said, staring at Fulton through her quizzing glass in awe.

  “Ah, Toot, perhaps we should not bore the ladies with such talk,” Kydd said uncomfortably. “Er, and is not the character of your work to be accounted secret?”

  “Quite so!” Banks agreed. “But the Lady Broughton here may never be thought your common French spy, Kydd. I can personally vouch for her, may I not, Bethany?”

  “Why, thank you, Sir Joseph.” Then she pressed Fulton, “But does not your submarine boat frighten the fishes? Or do they not recognise such a—a thing, and then you open a little door and spring out upon the poor unsuspecting creatures?”

  Fulton replied in ringing tones that echoed around the room. Others came over to listen to the new-found social celebrity. Eventually Kydd and Fulton left with firm invitations to the theatre, a fête champêtre in Hyde Park and various ill-defined assemblies—but Kydd was growing concerned by Fulton’s flamboyant behaviour.

  A note had arrived by hand from Captain Boyd of the Admiralty, remembering Kydd’s earlier visit and cordially inviting him to an evening affair—his friend would be made welcome.

  “These are the gentlemen you have to convince, Toot,” Kydd told him seriously, as they arrived. “They’ll be the ones finding men for your submarine and sending them off to fight in it. They’ll need to be confident in your plans, I’m thinking.”

  The two mounted the stone steps into the Admiralty, Kydd, in deference to his companion, not in uniform. Boyd greeted him effusively. “So good to see you again. I’ve heard you had a brisk time of it in the Downs?”

  “May I introduce Mr. Francis? He’s undertaking some work for—”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. Welcome to London, sir.”

  A larger officer with a face of granite loomed behind. It was Gresham. “We meet again, sir,” he said loudly, to Fulton. “How convenient. I was just trying to explain to my friend Noakes here how you propose to pay for your little toy.”

  “No mystery, sir,” Fulton said icily. “They’re self-funded after the first, as any who attended the committee now knows. Kydd, do explain to these worthy mariners if they’re still confused.” He gave the smallest of bows and turned his back.

  “Look here, sir—”

  “Captain Gresham, Mr. Francis is under pressure t’ complete his design. I’m sure—”

  “He’ll explain to me now how an untried and unworkable gim-crack contraption is going to save us all from Boney or I’ll—”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Boyd said, “this is a social occasion. Not the place to air professional disagreements. Now, can I press you both to a glass of punch?”

  The elderly Noakes shifted uncomfortably but seemed determined to have his say. “Nonetheless, I’d be obliged for a steer in the matter of the morality of all this. As I understand it, if the plunging boat works as advised, we’re being asked to sneak up on the enemy like common burglars and—”

  “Good God!” Fulton exploded, as he turned back abruptly. “Do you want to beat the French or no? You think a bunch of cow farmers in red coats is going to stop Napoleon if he lands—there’s two thousand invasion craft over there, stuffed to the gunnels with Boney’s best! Your only hope is to top ’em in their harbours before they sail. I’d have thought it plain enough for any simpleton.”

  He folded his arms and glared at Gresham, who said, with a sneer, “But it’s all to no account. Where are we going to find crews enough to man all these death-traps among our honest tars? They’ve more sense than to—”

  “Come, Mr. Kydd,” Fulton snarled. “I find there’s more important work I have
to do. Captain Boyd, I’ll thank you for your hospitality and we must leave. Goodnight.” He pushed his way to the door and out into the street.

  “Toot, this is not the way to—”

  “They were waiting for me. I’ll not stand to be a punch-bag for all the doubtin’ loobies in the British Navy! I’m away to do my work.”

  “I’ll call a carriage.”

  “No. I need to walk.” He stormed off down the road and Kydd hurried behind.

  At an ornate gate Kydd suggested they cut across the park, hoping the pleasant trees and shrubs would calm his mood. After a while Fulton eased his pace. “You really should not provoke ’em like that, Toot,” Kydd told him. “They have the ear of Popham, who’s very senior and—”

  Fulton drew a long breath. “It’s hard, damnable hard.” He sighed. “I’ve worked on this for years and still I’m fighting to make ’em understand. When will it all end?”

  Kydd had no easy answer. Fulton’s hopes of his creation coming alive had already been dashed after months of French bureaucracy. Was the same thing to happen again? And would Britain’s only chance to deal directly with Bonaparte’s deadly threat vanish?

  “The committee is a true one. It’ll give you a good report, I’m sure. Just—” He froze. Behind them, tapping steps had broken into a run. Kydd spun round as two men rushed towards them. He threw Fulton to the ground and stood astride him, whipping out his small-sword just in time to catch the first attacker with his weapon. The man gave a howl of pain, dropped his knife and ran for the bushes.

  The other stopped and drew out a heavy pistol, hesitating whether to kill Kydd first. A sharp crack rang out; he clutched his bloody face and fell kicking.

  “What in hell?” Fulton said, brandishing his pocket pistol as he heaved himself to his feet. “I’ve never seen robbers—”

  “French assassins,” Kydd said grimly. “I’ve got t’ get you under protection, m’ friend.” He looked round. It were better they were not found on the scene and he dragged Fulton through the bushes to another path.

  Fulton pulled himself free. “I’ll not have a posse of redcoats at my tail!” He snorted.

  “Then you’ll have to stay somewhere a mort safer than your Minories. Until we get word from the committee, you’ll be a guest aboard my ship.”

  Fulton hesitated. “Where’s she at? Not London, I’d say.”

  “In the Downs, only a few hours away. Have no fear, Toot. Deal is a gay enough town, with quantities of ladies to be entertained. However, I do believe you’ll be safer in Teazer for the present.” Kydd had sensed his reluctance to leave the capital—the lionising and awe must be a heady brew for one so far from home and on the brink of fame and fortune.

  “Mr. Hallum, Teazer has an important guest arriving shortly. It’ll only be for a few days, and your cabin . . . ?”

  Renzi took the news coldly and announced that he would be detained by his studies.

  Fulton arrived and immediately took over the great cabin, spreading out his plans and scratching away at new ideas for Nautilus and his other devices. He was a figure of mystery and excitement for the ship’s company and lurid rumours flew about the mess-decks.

  He appeared on deck only once in the next few days; Kydd followed companionably a few steps behind him as he paced with a distracted air. Men stopped their work and stared wonderingly at him, then broke into animated talk after he had passed.

  When he reached the fo’c’sle Fulton stopped, bewildered. A brawny seaman took him gently, turned him round and, grinning broadly, sent him on his way aft.

  For Kydd this little incident with the unsuspecting sailor in his act of kindness—secure in his wooden world, yet unaware that Fulton was planning its destruction—touched on all the elements of what was gathering pace and soon to break on the brotherhood of the sea. Did Fulton truly understand what was being wrought?

  Kydd turned on his heel and went to his cabin.

  The next day Fulton was full of spirit. “Well, I’ve solved it!” He chortled. “A torpedo detonation without human intervention. Yes, quite unseen and deadly certain.”

  Kydd could summon little interest in the detail but asked of it politely. Fulton gave him a pleased grin, wagged his finger, then made a mysterious reference to a horn atop Nautilus’s conning dome.

  Kydd persuaded Fulton to accept an invitation to a musical evening given by a marchioness in honour of the valiant defenders to be held at Downlands Hall. Nestling in the gently rising swell of the North Downs, it was the prettiest country house Kydd had seen, above the sprawling village of Nethersoke.

  It turned out to be a splendid affair, the scarlet and gold of regimentals vying with the dark blue and gold of naval uniforms among the most fashionable gowns of the age, all in the breathless heat of a still evening under the coruscating gold and crystal of the chandeliers. There were indeed quantities of ladies as the guests mingled before the performance, and Kydd saw Fulton disappear quickly into the throng. He accepted an iced confection and was just about to enter a conversation when he was startled by the distinct thud of a distant gun.

  The noise of happy gossip and repartee tailed off and the officers looked at each other meaningfully in the sudden quiet. Another gun sounded, and a corporal of yeomanry burst into the room. “The beacons!”

  There was pandemonium as everyone struggled for the doors and flooded out into the garden. Strident shouts came from some, with the occasional well-bred female shriek and the hoarse bellow of command rising above the excitement. Atop the nearest hill the stuttering glow of a beacon strengthened, and in the far distance the orange point of another wavered.

  Kydd’s heart lurched. Was this Napoleon Bonaparte at last?

  A trumpet sounded in the village below, an urgent tan-tara that had the soldiers girding their swords and hurrying away. The church bell began a continuous tocsin, unnerving in its dissonance.

  A sudden shout drew all eyes seaward. In the dusky blue light along the edge of the horizon hundreds of pale sails could be seen, too far away to make out details but heart-chilling in their import.

  The naval officers shouted for their carriages and, nearby, the nervous rattle of a drum indicated local volunteers beating to arms and forming up. Kydd was conscious that to be caught ashore was every captain’s nightmare—but where the devil was Fulton?

  Hallum would have the sense to send in a boat double-manned to get him back aboard, but he had to get through chaos to make Deal and the beach. Kydd cast about for Fulton, cursing that he had not kept closer to the man. Downlands Hall was still a blaze of lights; he went back inside and hurried through the deserted rooms calling him.

  A bugle quavered near the village—had he gone to see the militia turn out? It was out of the question to leave him on his own when Teazer sailed. Who knew when she would return and if fresh French agents would have their orders?

  “Toot!” he bawled again into the evening, as the last carriage left at full tilt.

  There was now nothing for it but to get to the village on foot, see if Fulton was there, then find a horse or some other conveyance.

  Panting, he arrived at the square. It was packed with a milling crowd, tearful women saying their farewells to menfolk humping muskets, militia crashing to attention, fearful old people and children wailing. It was hopeless calling for Fulton against the bedlam, so Kydd reluctantly gave up his search and looked about for some means to get to Deal.

  The militia marched off and a harassed clergyman implored the women with children to form groups for their speedy transport inland. Outside the Red Lion a straggly line of agricultural yeomen hefted pitchforks and scythes, growling defiance as a squire with a fowling piece joined them.

  The first carts turned into the square and the children clambered up, mollified at the prospect of a ride, some mothers joining them with cloth bundles of food. Then, with a crash of hoofbeats on cobbles, a troupe of yeomanry thundered past. More followed, and Kydd saw his chance.

  He stepped out and wav
ed his arms. They slid to an undignified halt. “In the name o’ the King!” Kydd bellowed. The corporal in charge looked at his splendid naval dress uniform in astonishment. “I demand you yield your horse t’ me,” Kydd told him.

  “Why, sir, I must attend at Walmer wi’out delay, sir!”

  “Then take me,” Kydd replied and, without waiting, hauled himself up behind the man. “Carry on,” he ordered. Fulton must now take his chances—if this was Bonaparte, there would be more important matters to attend to in a very short time.

  The corporal rallied his men and they clattered on into the gathering darkness. The roads were choked with people fleeing and the horses shied at their presence, but they made good progress and wheeled onto Beach Street where Kydd jumped down, sore after the ride.

  People looked with curiosity at his now dishevelled appearance. He ignored them and hurried to the King’s Naval Yard where he found his boat patiently waiting—and, standing beside it, Fulton. “Where the—” he began. “I was worried for you, Toot.”

  Atop the signal tower the semaphore clacked furiously in the last of the light. Fulton smiled sardonically. “I thought to find a grand seat for the performance to come, Mr. Kydd.”

  Calloway came up to Kydd and politely removed his hat. “Sir?”

  “Well, an alarm, is it not?” Kydd said peevishly, aware of his appearance.

  “Er, no, sir. Some farmer burning off his bean straw, a coastal convoy becalmed offshore, and the lobsterbacks got excited.”

  • • •

  Word came that a decision from the committee about future submarine plans was imminent. Fulton would not be held back, so he and Kydd posted to London the same day.

  As soon as they alighted from the coach Fulton threw off his travelling cloak and hurriedly went to the hall-stand at the Minories. Three waiting letters were cast aside but he seized on the fourth. “This is Banks’s writing,” he said, bore open the seal and went into the poky drawing room to read it. Kydd followed.

  Fulton scanned it. Then, with a set face, he read it again. “See for yourself,” he commanded, thrusting it at Kydd and turning away.