Invasion

by Julian Stockwin

  “It’s kind in you to see us at such notice, sir,” Popham said respectfully, then introduced Kydd and Fulton.

  The two bowed.

  “And this, gentlemen, is William Pitt, the prime minister of Great Britain.”

  Kydd’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  “Hester, my dear, there’s no need to tarry on my behalf.”

  “No, Uncle, I want to hear—”

  “Dear child, I rather feel they have a matter of some delicacy to discuss.”

  After his niece had departed, Pitt brushed aside Popham’s background introduction of Fulton. “I know of you, sir,” he said. “My condolences on the committee’s decision, which, in all fairness, does appear to me to be the right one.”

  Popham leaned forward earnestly. “Mr. Francis recognises that his plunging boat may be delayed a while but he has since been turning his mind to the presenting difficulty of the age, Mr. Bonaparte’s armada.”

  “Oh?” Pitt toyed with a kipper, but listened keenly.

  “He has produced a remarkable plan for submarine bombs, which may be launched unseen from a distance, requiring but one to sink a ship and which appear to me eminently suited to an assault on Boulogne.”

  “Have you details?”

  “Mr. Francis has brought his plans to show you, sir.” Spreading out the drawings over a chaise-longue Fulton launched into an explanation. The artistic quality of the illustrations and his colourful metaphors brought a smile to the ailing statesman. “So these torpedoes might be prepared using existing naval materials and ready within no more than three months?”

  “Indeed.”

  “So, if we make immediate arrangements for a monthly stipend of, say, two hundred pounds while you are so employed, with a capital sum against expenditure of naval stores of—what? five to seven thousand pounds?—you would be prepared to begin?”

  “Should I receive the unqualified support of the Navy and a satisfactory agreement entered into regarding my recompense.”

  “Being?”

  “The sum of one hundred thousand pounds to release the plans under licence to your government and a royalty payment of forty thousand for every decked French vessel destroyed by my weapons.”

  “One hundred thousand? Your engines come dear, sir.”

  “The loss of this kingdom the dearer.”

  Pitt gave a tight smile. “Very well. I shall instruct the Treasury to draw up a contract of such a nature and, er, agree the financial details with you.” Pitt broke off to cough into his handkerchief. “Not omitting that His Majesty’s dockyards and arsenals be charged with assisting where sought. And, Mr. Francis, it is my fervent desire that you should begin without delay.”

  Outside, Fulton’s eyes shone, and Popham observed drily, “You’ll agree there are some compensations in being a Member of Parliament, Mr. Kydd. However, it might be that in going above the heads of the Admiralty we’re on a lee shore to them. But be that as it may, to work! I suggest that, in this, I shall be the one speaking with the Admiralty and Navy Board and you, Mr. Kydd, do take station as before on our American friend. Admiral Keith will no doubt agree to your continuing with trials and close liaison. Agreed?”

  • • •

  Kydd stepped gingerly into Fulton’s crowded casemate. It was now more a workshop than a design office with three benches and workmen with sheets of copper, an industrious carpenter, and a cooper sighting along his staves.

  Fulton was bending over his plans and turned to greet Kydd. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m to start all over again. Before, I had my Nautilus with its horn, slowly rising under the victim to strike, now it must be another way. I have my ideas . . .”

  “I’m sure you do,” Kydd said hastily. “I came to know if there’s any service I can perform.”

  “There is. As you can see, I proceed cautiously, trying and testing, for nothing will serve unless it can be seen nobly to meet the ocean’s billows. Your stout vessel will have its hour at the final trials but for now I need to conduct experiments of a privy nature, explosions and the like.”

  Kydd considered the request. Who better to ask about a quiet retreat for activities of a stealthy nature than a Revenue officer?

  Over a friendly jug of ale, he had his answer. “The coast t’ Romney Marsh is the worst in the kingdom f’r smuggling. Reckon I c’n find you a tucked-away little spot as will meet y’r needs. How about Martha’s Cope, just a little ways off?”

  Kydd went to view it. Sure enough, at the base of the soaring chalk cliffs close to Dover there was a tall cleft and several lofty pinnacles standing out to sea, a flat area in their lee, and a dark cave into the rock, a token of its more usual visitor.

  It would do admirably. The towering cliffs would deflect the sound and would ensure their security as only boats could approach the area. A mooring buoy laid offshore would make for convenience, and marines posted at either shore approach would keep all would-be visitors at bay. Let the trials commence.

  Pleased, he went below to detail his intentions to Keith and found Renzi at his books in the great cabin. As Kydd entered he looked up. “So, you’ve found a portion of God’s good earth on which to test your infernal machines, then,” he said acidly.

  “As you will see,” Kydd said neutrally, not wishing to find himself in yet another argument.

  “And your Mr. Francis is ready with his inventions?”

  “He works like the devil himself, but they will need proving first, Nicholas.”

  “Of course, you see the true reason for his industry.”

  “To save us from Boney,” Kydd said shortly.

  “Not as we’d recognise,” Renzi replied, with a measure of venom. “He merely wants to see his diabolic devices created and cares not a damn who pays for them.”

  “That is a reason why we should turn our back on ’em in our hour of need?”

  “You are a gentleman. You’ve reached a level of politeness in discourse and delicacy of perception that are a shining credit to you. It escapes me why it should be that you do encourage the man in his mass destruction of sailors. It’s an inviolable maxim of conduct in war that one’s enemy is met on the field face to face, that the issue be decided nobly by courage, resolution and skill-at-arms. Failing that, the mastery of the profession of war is set at naught and we descend into a base hackery—or the promiscuous exploding of bodies unknown.”

  Stung, Kydd replied, “And it’s escaped me why you will not see that it’s happened . This is the future for all men now, whether you like it or no, and we must learn the new arts.”

  “Not so, my friend.”

  “Oh? Then there is—”

  “Recollect. Before Fulton there was no one with a deadly submersible like Nautilus . He has attempted to interest the French in it without success, mainly on account of their distaste for it and what it represents. It has been turned down as well by ourselves, and I cannot readily see who else in this terraqueous globe might be moved to expend their treasure in order to exploit it.

  “In fine, as we look around, in the absence of any other of such inventive persuasion, it would appear that Mr. Fulton and his ingenious contrivances are destined to appear as a curious footnote to history, he the only one of his kind, and the world will, with a grateful sigh, revert to civilised conduct once more. That is, if the gentleman is not rashly encouraged . . .”

  “You would not grieve it if he disappeared from the face o’ the earth tomorrow?”

  “Since you ask it, no.”

  The first trial was simple. Teazer lay submissively to her buoy over on the seaward side and a strange ceremony took place. Under the interested gaze of her entire crew, Fulton prepared his first experiment with a short, stubby barrel, well caulked, canvas covered and heavy. It was lowered over the side on a marked line, which Fulton paid out slowly, observing it sinking lazily from sight into the bright summer sea.

  At the first mark he hauled in. It seemed unaffected, but Fulton shook
it carefully, listening for water inside. Satisfied, he entered something on his notepad and repeated the action to the second mark. It wasn’t until the fourth that the dripping barrel came up ugly with imploded staves.

  The buzz of conversation rose when a second barrel was produced, this time larger and tar-black. It lasted to the seventh mark. “I’ll trouble you now for a length of slowmatch, Mr. Kydd,” Fulton requested.

  In another cask of the same type Duckitt, the gunner, coiled slow-match close down on the ballast inside. A flint and steel had the end settling to a red smoulder and, stepping aside, he allowed the header to be thumped in.

  Without delay Fulton lowered it rapidly over the side to the fourth mark before drawing it up again. The boatswain himself knocked out the header—but the match inside was dead. He looked up at Duckitt wryly. Fulton appeared unperturbed.

  “This was not vitiated air,” he murmured thoughtfully. “The candles lasted for hours in Nautilus . I rather think . . .”

  The next day saw a successful submerging and a triumphant return. Fulton waved the glowing end about the air in great satisfaction. “Lead lining and no condensation—that’s the ticket,” he crowed.

  It was only the start: the barrels elongated and grew, now the size of hogsheads and half the height of a man. Significant looks passed between the watching sailors as they considered the implications of such when crammed with powder and set off; more than one turned his back, faces set, and went below.

  The unwieldy beasts needed tackles to sway them over-side, and, in the water, required extra ballast. The first returned as an untidy clutch of splintered timbers, the second brutishly fighting the training lines. Submergence was not all that was expected: they should as well pass silently through the sea on their deadly occasions.

  Fulton worked throughout the daylight hours at his experimenting or figuring in a corner of the deck. Kydd became impatient. He waited his moment and confronted him. “Toot, answer me this: I heard you say that you demonstrated one of these in Brest before generals and admirals. Why do we start again when you successfully destroyed a whole ship even then?”

  “Ah. Well, that was, as we must say, a demonstration only,” Fulton said cheerfully. “As would meet expectations. A simple barrel on a rope over-stuffed with gunpowder and, um, suitably deployed. In our present contract we look to the palpable reality where men must strive unseen against others and will not stand unless their apparatus is without flaw. Agreed?”

  Kydd nodded reluctantly. “It seems reasonable, given that any future contract would be at hazard, were your engines found wanting on the field of battle, Toot.”

  Later in the day a naval officer in plain clothes came aboard Teazer . “Kind in you to see me, Kydd. I’m here dispatched by our lord and master to top it the spy concerning your infernal machines,” he admitted.

  Kydd gave a wry smile. This way there was no official notice being taken of the activities of a private contractor, but as the commander with operational responsibility Keith had a moral right to be in the know.

  “I’m not certain I can tell you much,” he replied. “The trials are at an early stage only, what’s watertight, ballast required, that sort of thing.”

  The officer turned grave. “As I feared.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You see, old chap, Keith is put under notice by the politicos to make a sally against the French using these infernals to satisfy the mob that Bonaparte is being dealt with severely—you do understand, I know.”

  Kydd thought despairingly of Fulton’s painstaking progress. “And when is this assault planned t’ be?”

  “Well, yesterday would best suit but any time close after will serve.”

  “I’m not the one t’ say, but you’re asking for the moon.”

  “Am I? Then, dear fellow, if you have any influence over the chap, do impress on him the need for celerity and that sort of thing, won’t you? I have the feeling that Keith will press on whatever state the contrivances are in. Did you know that our new first lord of the Admiralty, Lord Melville himself, bless him, fully intends to take part in the assault, so consequential is the action believed to be?”

  “We’ll do our best for you,” Kydd replied strongly.

  “Stout fellow!” the officer said. “You get along splendidly with Americans, I’m told. Best of luck.”

  It put a new and graver complexion on the situation: was it a measure of desperation at the highest levels that the august head of the Navy—who was certainly not expected to tread a deck, let alone smell powder-smoke—should feel obliged to be a part of it?

  Fulton took the news calmly but retreated to his casemate, demanding that a soldier’s camp bed be placed next to his desk, and set to work. By morning he had sketches ready; his mechanics turned to and he requested that Teazer be made available again.

  At Martha’s Cope it became clear that the character of the trials had now taken a more serious turn. The gunner was asked to provide material for live charges and, after a nod from Kydd, assembled the makings into an arms chest and brought it up.

  The impedimenta was rowed ashore in the launch and prepared. “Over there,” Fulton decided. It was a low, flat rock, lapped by waves; close by loomed the pinnacles of chalk that gave the tiny cove its name.

  “Post your men,” Kydd told the sergeant of Royal Marines, and two sentries were sent marching stolidly under the vertical white cliffs in opposite directions to seal off the approaches.

  In complete silence the first experiment was assembled. A simple contraption was erected, a metal hemisphere pointing cup down at the end of a hinged arm twelve feet long, braced by two legs.

  “What’s this, then, Toot?”

  “It gives a measure of the vehemence of a blast. Observe here, where there is a scale at the hinge. With exactly the same charge a variation in the confining of the igniting powder will result in a different force.”

  He laid down a metal plate and lowered the cup over it. “See here, first powder quite unrestrained.” A cascade of black grains poured from the measuring funnel and settled in a pyramid.

  “Mr. Duckitt, clear the range!”

  Every man stepped back to a safe distance. “Fire the charge!”

  The gunner blew on his portfire and touched off the powder. It flared up high in a bright, firework-like glare, with a vigorous but impotent hiss. When they tramped back to the apparatus the gauge had not moved.

  Without comment Fulton produced a coconut-sized sphere. “Charge this, if you please,” he said to the gunner, and explained to Kydd, “This is, then, the same amount, within a half-inch clay jacket.” Match was inserted and lit. The onlookers retired hastily.

  It detonated with a satisfying flash and a clap of thunder that echoed back from the soaring cliff-face. After a moment pieces of the jacket were heard skittering about. Fulton plunged into the eddying smoke and inspected the result, noting down the reading. “One inch clay,” he intoned, resetting the indicator.

  This time the explosion had a vicious ring and the shattered clay whipped through the air overhead, falling into the shallows in myriad splashes. Fulton took the reading from the canted arm, then became thoughtful. “I’d hoped the effect would scale, but it does not. This is not double the impetus.”

  “Meaning?”

  “To multiply this force and be sure to sink a well-found man-o’-war will take either a mort more powder or a jacket so heavy as to cause the torpedo to sink. I must think again.”

  The next day a three-inch jacket was tested, which confirmed the problem: a larger charge in the same case had the puzzling result of a lower indication on the gauge than expected. “I wonder if it’s the greater bulk of the powder smothering the speed of burning?” Fulton mused.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” Duckitt interjected, “an’ have ye considered corned powder a-tall?”

  “What’s that?”

  “New, like. Sifted mill cakes, hardened ’n’ rolled in graphite. Makes f’r rare consistent firing.”

  “Have we
any?” Kydd asked.

  “Aye, sir. Costs a pretty penny—we keeps it f’r the chase guns only.”

  Duckitt was dispatched to find it and Kydd asked Fulton, “If the explosion is within the sea, will not the water pressing on your, er, container, act t’ tamp it like the clay jacket?”

  “Coffer. That’s what we call ’em,” he replied, distracted. “Why, yes, I’m supposing it will, but how do I take the measure of an underwater blast, pray?”

  Nowhere in Kydd’s experience in the Navy had he ever come across explosions occurring beneath the surface. His question, however, seemed to have sparked something in Fulton, for the next trial was with small submersible casks.

  “From the boat, if you please.” The match was started and the cask head thumped home, then the whole was allowed to sink on a line to an improvised buoy, nervous oarsmen sparing nothing to make certain the boat was nowhere near the spot.

  In a deathly silence all eyes were on the barely ruffled innocent surface of the water. A sub-sea thump was more felt than heard, followed a second later by the bursting upward of a white geyser, which subsided to an ugly, roiling scar in the sea.

  “We take it by the height of the splash,” Fulton said defensively, selecting another, larger cask. “We’ll see if this scales up.” There was another tense wait, and once more the plume rose skyward.

  “Better!” Fulton said, with relief, lowering his improvised quadrant. Kydd pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it pointedly.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Firebrand, I’m satisfied an’ will now move forward.”

  “So this means—”

  At that moment a naval cutter was sighted, making her way prettily towards them. “A very good morning to you, gentlemen!” Popham said breezily, when he had stepped onto the shore. “Do I see your new curiosities performing to satisfaction?”

  Fulton busied himself obstinately among the apparatus in the arms chest, leaving it to Kydd to answer. “Mr. Francis is moving forward this day, sir, on account he has achieved satisfaction in the matter of the, er, coffer.”