Invasion

by Julian Stockwin

  It was a short but courteous note, thanking Fulton for his exertions and expressing every admiration for the genius of his design but thinking it only right to advise him in advance of the formal communication that the committee, while agreeing on the probable technical feasibility of the submersible, had decided that there would be insufficient time to develop the means to overcome its operational limitations, given the imminence of the invasion threat for which it was designed. It concluded with further warm compliments and the suggestion that an early approach to the Treasury for a settlement of accounts would be in order, given that, unhappily, this must be regarded as a termination of relations.

  Kydd looked up in consternation. “This means—”

  “The fools!” barked Fulton. “The benighted imbeciles! The cod’s-headed, hidebound jackasses! Can’t they see—don’t they realise—” He broke off, pounding his fists and choking at the enormity of it all.

  Fulton’s world had collapsed on him. The two biggest naval powers in the world were locked in a death struggle, yet neither wanted to take further his invention. In effect it was a conclusive vote of no-confidence in the device. Kydd knew it was now unlikely that Fulton would ever secure further development funding and must—

  “God blast ’em for a—a set o’ stinkin’ skunks!” Fulton croaked.

  Anger gripped Kydd that such a gifted inventor should be so treated by the world. “Toot, this is not the end, m’ friend. We’ll find out what it is ails ’em, then—”

  Before he could finish, Fulton snatched a decanter of brandy, swigged deeply from it, then rounded on Kydd. “Be damned to it!” he gasped, wiping his chin. “I should have known this’d happen, I throw in with the British.” He took another gulp. “That was why we cast off the shackles, damn it.” His face crumpled. “God rot the villains. I need fresh air.” He pushed past Kydd into the street.

  The ancient grey-white bulk of the Tower of London loomed to the south; he flew toward its rear wall where he beat his fists helplessly against the dark-weathered stone. “Bastards! Fucksters!” he cried. “I’ll see you in Hades, you pigging rogues.”

  Passers-by stared in shock, and Kydd tried to drag him away but he pulled himself free and looked around wildly. The dilapidated timber edifice of the Royal Mint was on the other side of Little Tower Hill. He made to storm across but then, scorning it, plunged past into the maze of Smithfield’s streets.

  Kydd tried to reason with him but Fulton shook him off, pushing faster into the crowds of market porters, butchery stalls and stinking squalor. “This is no place for us, Toot,” he shouted. “Let’s go back and I’ll—”

  “To blazes with it,” Fulton said savagely. “You can go to hell— I’m after finding some real people. The company of common folk.” He tore away from Kydd and disappeared ahead. Jostling against the tide of humanity, vainly searching for a glimpse of Fulton’s bright green coat, it became all too clear to Kydd that the man had vanished.

  He tried to think. To the left was the haunt of the apothecary and chirurgeon—no commoners there. To the right was the high rear wall of the new London docks—or there. But beyond . . . Kydd hurried forward along the line of the wall to where it stopped abruptly and headed back to the Thames. This was where Fulton was going—docklands. The stews of Wapping and Shadwell. The maritime rookery that accompanied the greatest concourse of shipping on earth—the Pool of London.

  Beyond the rickety tenements and streets of chandlery, sailmakers, slop-sellers and breweries there was a thick forest of masts and rigging. This was where ships from every corner of the globe found rest and could discharge their cargoes of tea, spices, cocoa, tobacco, cotton and goods of every conceivable description, whose pungency lay heavily on the air.

  The nature of the crowds changed: in place of the clerk and bookseller, now there were wharf-lumpers, sack-makers, draymen and sailors, going about their business in the narrow cobbled streets.

  Kydd thought he glimpsed Fulton’s green coat and redoubled his pace. Now he was coming to the Thames waterfront, the haunt of the crimp, the scuffle-hunter and mud-lark, and his fears for Fulton grew. Then he saw him, looking up at the faded sign of the Dog and Duck.

  Before he could reach him, he had gone inside. Kydd hurried to the door just in time to hear him declaim to the astonished topers on their stools that he was a friend to all the oppressed, the common folk, the honest labourer, and he was prepared to stand a brimmer with any who’d drink with him to the greatest submarine inventor ever made.

  “What’s it do, then, cock?” one called derisively. “Make eggs o’ brass or somethin’?”

  “A craft as swims like a fish beneath the waves and can explode any of your Nelson’s battleships to splinters any time it chooses.”

  Kydd thrust into the taproom, heavy with the odours of liquor, sawdust and rank humanity. Heads turned his way. “A grog for every man!” he roared, and threw the tapster two guineas. In the riot that followed he yanked Fulton out on to the street. “What do you think you’re doing, Toot?” he demanded, only too aware that they stood out in their quality garb and that his sword was with his baggage.

  Fulton tore free and ran down towards another waterfront tavern, the Blue Anchor, but before he could reach it a hard-faced man in leggings appeared from a doorway in front of him, standing astride and smacking a cudgel into his palm. Kydd swung round. Another was moving on them from behind.

  In desperation he glanced about him and saw a bundle of building laths among materials for repair. He dived for it and whipped one out. It was an absurdly thin and insubstantial piece of wood, but Kydd held it before him at the ready, like a sword, and advanced on the first man, who stopped in surprise, then lifted his heavy bludgeon with a snarl. That was just as Kydd had wanted. He lunged forward in a perfect fencing crouch, the point of the lath stabbing unerringly for the man’s face. It gouged into bone and, with a shriek, his attacker dropped his weapon, staggering back. The other shied away, unsure of what had happened. “Go! Go for your life!” Kydd bawled at Fulton.

  They headed instinctively for the water. Running feet and hoarse shouts followed them as they plunged through the narrow, stinking passages and across clattering footbridges at the edge of the river. Suddenly the vista opened up but Kydd had eyes only for one thing—the stone steps of wherry stairs. A waterman, dozing in the stern-sheets of his boat, woke at their shouts and they shoved off quickly, leaving their frustrated pursuers behind.

  CHAPTER 11

  FULTON HUNG HIS HEAD in dejection. “It’s over,” he said, in a low voice. “I’ll never see Nautilus swim in my lifetime.”

  Kydd moved his chair closer. “How can you say that, Toot? The committee haven’t given it enough thought, is all.”

  “So who will bring ’em to their senses? Gresham isn’t alone, damn his soul, for it’s in the nature of the mariner to distrust new things. No, I’m one man against a whole tribe of Noahs. Pity me, Tom.”

  Kydd grimaced at the street noises outside Fulton’s small rooms, loud and unceasing. They were a sad distraction for any thinking man. Fulton deserved better but obviously could not afford it. Then a thought came: could he himself fund the development? Fulton was proud and independent, and would allow it only under contract as a form of investment, shares in his company, perhaps. But as a venture the yield would be considerable, even as much as— What was he thinking? To profit by the murder of sailors, however logically necessary? His mind shied away in horror.

  However, he now knew that he believed in Fulton’s ability to bring to reality a war-changing weapon of historic significance. And if this were so, then standing outside the situation was not an option. If Britain were to possess it, and if he had any influence or power to bring it about, his duty was clear.

  “Toot, we’re going t’ see this through. The first thing we’ll do is find what made ’em cautious. I’m to see Captain Popham, I believe.”

  “Wait!” Fulton stood up and went to the window. “I—I don’t think it’ll
fadge.”

  “Pray why not?”

  “My purse is now uncommon light—at low water, as you sailors will say. If I’m to—”

  “Toot, you’ll honour me by accepting a small . . . accommodation as will see you secure for now.”

  “You’ll have my note of hand directly, Mr. Kydd,” Fulton said woodenly, and looked away.

  Kydd was ushered into a small, tastefully ornamented drawing room. “Why, Mr. Kydd, a very good morning to you,” Popham said pleasantly. “Do be seated.”

  “Thank you, sir.” After the usual pleasantries had been exchanged, Kydd came straight to the point. “Er, you’d oblige me much by gratifying my curiosity in respect of Mr. Fulton—or should I say Mr. Francis?”

  “Oh? A very fascinating cove indeed. Challenging ideas. Not your common projector, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Would it be impertinent of me to ask what the committee found objectionable in his plans?”

  Popham hesitated, then looked at Kydd quizzically. “Do I take it you have an interest of sorts in the fellow?”

  “As a serving officer it would be quite improper of me to take advantage of—”

  “Quite so.”

  If Popham was the one to have objected on moral or other grounds Kydd knew he was sailing close to the wind, but the man continued, “Yet one might take a professional interest, don’t you think?”

  Did this mean . . . ?

  Kydd pressed his case. “It appears t’ me, sir, that if there is anything of substance in the design then we’re duty-bound to discover its limits.”

  “It will set our notions of sea warfare on its head, should he be successful.”

  “Yes, sir, but if this is going to be the future, do we have the right to turn our backs on it without we know of it at the first hand?” There was no going back now.

  “Ah, do I see an enterprising and forward-looking officer not affrighted by the original, the radical? Then we are quite of a mind, sir.”

  Relieved, Kydd went on, “Then may I know who objected to the submarine?”

  Popham gave a lopsided grin. “There were several who did, but one who quite swayed the meeting and discouraged all further discussion.”

  “And he was?”

  “Myself. I had to, of course.”

  “I—I don’t understand you, sir.”

  “Reflect, if you will. Mr. Pitt is asking for a steer in the matter of saving the country from the invasion fleet of Mr. Bonaparte. That, at this time, is his first duty.” He paused, then said, “Do you know much of the design of this submarine boat?”

  “Not a great deal,” Kydd admitted stiffly.

  “In warfare the devil’s always in the detail,” Popham said.

  “The general consensus among us was that the design may be technically feasible, if not brilliant. No, Mr. Kydd, the problem does not in fact lie with our friend’s plan, which might well end in a formidable and deadly craft. It is, in short, workable. But the target is the flotilla in Boulogne. And, as you should know, the sea depths to be found there are scant and with much tide scour. Yet the design calls for the submersible to pass under the victim. I would suggest that even if this were possible, in such cramped conditions it would be to the grievous hazard of the craft, and I cannot find it in me to condemn its crew to such a horrible end.”

  “I see, sir,” Kydd said. “Yet it has to be admitted that such a weapon would give complete mastery of the sea to whoever is able to employ it.”

  Popham eased into a smile. “Which, at present, we already enjoy. No, sir, the remit of the committee was the destruction of the Boulogne invasion flotilla and none else. This Nautilus cannot achieve this. Therefore I cannot, in all conscience, recommend to the government that there be an expenditure on a device without specific utility to His Majesty’s arms. That was and is my duty to say, sir.”

  “Then . . .”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But in the future—”

  “The future may take care of itself.”

  Kydd stood. “Then I can only thank you for your time, sir, and—”

  “My dear fellow, I might appear to you unsympathetic, but this would be far from the case. I am a friend to any who can carry the war to the enemy, and if Mr. Francis had come to us with anything but a submarine boat he might have been more fortunate. Perhaps we shall look at it with interest, but later.

  “If you see him again, do extend to him my every expression of admiration for his achievement, will you, old fellow?”

  “So, as you can see it, Toot, there’s little can be done. Without it does for the invasion flotilla, Nautilus is not to be set a-swim by us—and that’s the last word, I fear.”

  Fulton slumped in dejection. “All these years . . .”

  “Are not t’ be wasted,” Kydd said forcefully. “There’s still a chance.”

  “No! I’m not spending what remains of my days wheedling dull-ards who—”

  “So you’re to have done with submarines? Cast all the work aside?”

  “I’m going back to America.”

  “Where there’s a great need of such,” Kydd said tartly. “Listen to me, Toot. You can have your Nautilus if first you can show ’em something as will stir their interest, give ’em confidence in your inventions. That will set ’em talking.”

  “What,” said Fulton bitterly, “can be more amazing than a submarine boat?”

  “Your torpedo machines? Did you not impress Napoleon himself with ’em?”

  “At Brest, with his admirals looking on,” Fulton conceded.

  “Then I can’t conceive of anything more prime to launch against their invasion craft.”

  “But without a submarine . . .”

  “Toot, you contemplate your torpedoes and I’ll see what we can do to deliver ’em for you. But might I know why you call them ‘torpedo’?”

  “After the electric fish that strikes invisibly. That’s your Atlantic torpedo of the Torpedo nobiliana family.”

  “Well, putting the name aside, let’s clap on all sail. The Admiralty will smile on any who can show a way to deal with the menace at Boulogne. Your course is set. Work up plans for a superior species o’ torpedo and I’ll see it gets attention. No time t’ be lost, Toot.”

  The promise of a means to deal with the crouching menace at Boulogne was vital to securing the attention and interest Fulton needed—but the original arrangement had run out and the committee had disbanded. How were they to get a fair hearing on another invention?

  Popham would be the key, Kydd thought. If he could capture the man’s imagination, persuade him to take an interest, lead him on, perhaps, to a personal involvement, then he most surely could take it to the higher levels. Fulton had sketches of the device he had used at Brest. With a few modifications it would bring attention.

  “Against Boulogne?” Popham said, with growing animation. “If these ‘torpedoes’ can be relied on to sink a ship in a single blow, we have an entirely new method of assaulting an enemy. No more hours of battering away with broadsides at the hazard of life and limb.”

  “That’s as it seems, sir.”

  “He will find much of the Service arrayed against him, of course. There are not a few inclined to oppose anything that is ingenious or not hallowed by the centuries, including those who have a moral objection to the employment of such weapons. Well, Mr. Kydd, if you ask my advice, I would suggest you should batten down for a long and stormy voyage.”

  “It does seem worthy of further trial but in this we have a perplexity, sir. Mr. Francis is without means if he works on, and feels he must on that account return to America.”

  “I see.”

  “It does occur to me, sir, that were his inventions to be put forward by one of unassailable standing in the Navy it would not be Mr. Francis alone to be resisted.”

  “You’re very persuasive, Mr. Kydd, but I myself am much taken up with business. In the last election I’m made the Member of Parliament for Yarmouth, but at the least I
shall spy out the lie of the land for you.”

  True to his word, a message of encouragement arrived not long afterwards, followed by another requiring Fulton and Kydd to take coach to Deal to meet Popham at an unfashionably early hour in the King’s Naval Yard with as many illustrations of the projected weapons as were available.

  Mystified, they waited at the appointed place as morning blossomed into day. Popham arrived punctually. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, with a mysterious air. “Do join my carriage. We are expected.”

  It was only a few minutes along the foreshore before they drew up at the quaint rounded edifice of Walmer Castle. They were saluted by soldiers at the gatehouse, then hustled inside to the comfortable residence within.

  Kydd supposed they must be going to meet the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, upon whom Popham clearly felt it worth his while to call. Kydd hoped the old gentleman would understand enough of what was being said.

  The doors of a long corridor were flung wide and a striking young woman appeared. “My lady,” murmured Popham, with a bow. “This is Mr. Kydd, and Mr. Francis. Gentlemen, the Lady Hester Stanhope.”

  “You’ve not come with bad news, I trust, Sir Home,” she said sternly. “You know how Uncle always takes it so personally.” She was dressed for the morning, but in an individual white gown with a boldly coloured shawl.

  “No, Hester, this is merely an entertainment.”

  She looked at him distrustfully.

  “Mr. Francis is an American gentleman with diverting views on marine travel.”

  “Oh? Then I believe I shall stay. Come in, and do remember Uncle’s health is causing us some concern.” She ushered them into a small reception room cunningly fashioned within one of the ancient Tudor bastions.

  The men waited politely in easy-chairs for the Lord Warden to appear. Lady Hester took firm direction of the arrangements as a small circular table was spread with various hot and cold dishes. Then the door opened and, almost apologetically, a lean, drawn man shuffled in, wearing a well-used corded green dressing-gown and red slippers. He nodded to Popham and waved down the dutiful rising of the others. “Please excuse,” he said, in a voice not much above a whisper, “you’ll believe this is the only way I have to attend on you.”