Invasion

by Julian Stockwin

  “Splendid,” Popham said heartily, “as it will please their lordships to hear.” His tone became more serious. “The descent on Boulogne has been sanctioned at the highest, and time is now of the essence. Is there anything whatsoever that I might do for your American?”

  Kydd detected a note of anxiety and guessed that there was more to the question than had been said, but before he could answer Fulton swung round, his face dark. “Yes, there is, Mr. Englishman—perhaps you’d keep clear of the works. There’s enough to worry on without we have sightseers.”

  Popham gave a wintry smile. “Do tell me your concerns. I’m no stranger to novelties of a mechanical nature, sir,” he encouraged.

  Fulton hesitated. “It’s the fault of your committee. Without I have a submarine, how do I attack with a torpedo? If it’s agreed that it be done unseen, do they propose I use ships’ boats splashing along with oars in full sight of the enemy? Or like the ancient Greeks, by swimmers with a torpedo under each arm?”

  “There are other ways of approaching a prey,” Popham responded.

  “Flying over it in a balloon?”

  “I’m reminded of my service off the coast of the Coromandel. There we encountered nightly the thievery of the native peoples—”

  “Captain, I’m very engaged today, If you’ve—”

  “—who could approach unseen to within close hail except in the brightest moonlight.”

  “Swimming.”

  “No, Mr. Francis. In a species of native craft called a catamaran. This has the property that it lies very close to the water, being of two hull forms joined by a central bracing. I’m sanguine it can be made strong enough to deliver your torpedoes.”

  “Low in the water?”

  “Inches only.”

  “Then we have a possibility.”

  Fulton looked speculatively at Popham, who hastened to add, “Leave it to me. I know an amiable shipwright who will be persuaded to produce one immediately for our consideration. In the meanwhile you shall be free to concentrate on your curiosities.”

  “It won’t do! I calculate we’ll need all of thirty minutes, if not the hour, to make our approach by stealth. An’ if that’s with slowmatch it’ll die of suffocation long since.”

  “A different kind o’ fuse, Toot?”

  “There isn’t any not using fire, damn it all to hell! If we were going in with a submarine, there’d be none of this.”

  Kydd’s heart went out to him: to be pressured so and in a situation not of his making was taking its toll. “Can you not—a mechanical fuse o’ sorts?”

  Fulton looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “There’s no such. Not even . . . Wait! I have it.” He laughed. “Why not? Mechanical—an automatic self-igniter.”

  He pulled out his notepad and, with hurried strokes, sketched in a gear train and cams, then a striker plate and cocking detent. “Yes! Does not consume air, and can do its deadly work in secret, deep beneath the waves until it knows its time has come. Then, without warning, heroically sacrifices itself in one hellish detonation.”

  Kydd shuddered at the picture but he had to see things through. “It must be made of brass or some such, else the seawater will turn it to rust in quick time, and that’ll cost you not a little.”

  “Hang the cost! Set the price of one squiddy bit of brass clockwork against that of a man-o’-war? There’s no argument, my friend.”

  Despite his disquiet, Kydd found Fulton’s sudden enthusiasm infectious.

  “I’ve some drawings to make,” Fulton continued, “and I’d be much obliged should you scare up a watchmaker who’ll relish a challenge.”

  Kydd was later entertained by the sight of Fulton explaining to the bemused craftsman the operation of a delay mechanism that, at its culmination, instead of setting off an alarm actuated something that looked suspiciously like a gunlock.

  “So. We have figures on depth to tamping effect for a given charge, as may be scaled up. A form of watertight carcass has been devised, proof to the depths it will be used, and if our crafty captain is to be believed, a near invisible means of launching the beasts. Now, with our automatic fuse in construction we can turn our minds to assembling them all into a fearsome weapon of war.”

  The first torpedo was impressively huge: more than twelve feet long, square sectioned and with symmetrically sharp front and rear. It was ballasted to ride just beneath the sea surface and had within it twenty watertight compartments ready to receive their lethal cargo of explosives.

  “My friend, I do intend now to test its force. Just for this I won’t be needing either the catamarans or the automaton igniter. However, the concussion will set up such a commotion that I’d rather be elsewhere than here, further away from the ladies of Dover in their parlours.”

  It was eventually agreed that Shell Ness, a few hours sail around North Foreland at the tip of the Isle of Sheppey would suit. It was low, scrubby and desolate, with nothing but one or two empty shepherds’ huts.

  Teazer’s deck bore three torpedoes lashed down securely, long, tar-dark coffers that, in their deadly menace, made hardened seamen tiptoe nervously past them. It was necessary to wait at anchor while their promised victim, a decrepit fishing-boat, was towed into the bleak mudflats. It was old but of a size, and to Kydd seemed to assume a pathetic dignity as it was led to its place of sacrifice.

  No time was wasted: the coffer was lowered into the sea, grappled by the pinnace crew and manhandled round to face the target. The men strained at their oars, the torpedo wallowing sullenly after them until they reached the vessel’s side where it was left.

  The gunner in the gig then gingerly started the match fuse and hastily pulled away. An expectant hush fell over Teazer as all aboard waited and stared at the tethered victim in horrified fascination.

  Kydd aimed his telescope while Fulton had his improvised quadrant trained ready. Time passed in breathless silence. Suddenly the sea at the waterline shot up in a huge pall of white, suffused with gun-flash and smoke, and a clap of thunder rolled round the bay, sending countless sea-birds to flight.

  Fulton grunted in satisfaction as he noted the height of the plume and grinned sideways at Kydd, but when it had subsided, the fishing-boat was still there. Motioning the gig alongside, Kydd went out with him to inspect the result.

  Part of the vessel’s side was stove in and gaping, but otherwise only a large area of scorched timber gave evidence of the cataclysm—and she was still afloat.

  “What in Hades . . . ?” Fulton said, almost to himself, as he poked at the scarified hull and peered up at the crazily hanging gaff-yard. Then he collected himself and added calmly, “But, then, this is our sea in its tamping. It works to satisfaction yet directs its force in the main to the line of least resistance, which is to the vertical. Hmm— this is a setback, I cannot deny it.”

  Yet by the time they had returned to Teazer Fulton had his answer. “We use two torpedoes, one each side, and crush the ship between their vehemence.”

  The two remaining coffers were swayed down and put in the water, but at the long-suffering victim, another difficulty presented itself. “Mr. Duckitt, they must explode together, as near as you please.” This was a tall order, but the gunner bent his best efforts in cutting the match to the exact same mark. He borrowed a boatswain’s call to sound the precise time to the gunner’s mate on the opposite side to light the fuse.

  A double roar saw the vessel hidden in smoke and spray but when it dissipated, there was the satisfying sight of blackened wreckage settling beneath the waves. “The coffer size must increase, of course, but with an automatic fuse we will have a good result,” Fulton said briskly.

  The catamaran was as strange a craft as Kydd had ever seen: two long, slender hulls joined with an open framework. The two oars-men would take position on a narrow bench running fore and aft, set well down—in fact, they would be sitting in the sea. Their silhouette would be inches high only, a cunning device to allow them to close invisibly with the target before launch. Popha
m was clearly pleased and accepted the flattering comments about his contribution, then motioned the vessel to be brought alongside.

  “Shall we make trial of it?” Kydd said jovially. “Come now, you men, who’ll volunteer?”

  As always in the Navy, the out-of-routine had instant appeal and this promised at the very least a skylark in the summer sea for the lucky pair selected. They settled into their subsea seats to much ribaldry, and it was quickly clear that, barely head and shoulders above the surface, they would be more difficult to spot even than a small ship’s boat.

  The testing time was as night drew in. For some reason the darkling sea took on a feeling of looming menace; unknown shadows moving restlessly.

  “Who’s to come forward then, you idlers?” Kydd called encouragingly, to the knot of onlookers. This time there were no takers. “That fine pair of this afternoon, you’ve had your amusement, so step up, my lads, and see what it’s like to earn your grog.”

  The two detached from the others and came to the ship’s side, looking down in consternation at the flimsy contraption in the darkness. “Come along, then,” Kydd said gruffly. “Salt water never harmed anyone. In you go.”

  Hand over hand, they lowered themselves, exclaiming aloud at the chill of the night water as they immersed.

  “Good God!” spluttered Popham, leaning over the side. “For the cold plunging pool at Tunbridge Wells you’d damn well need to find five guineas—the Navy’s giving you your health cure at no cost.”

  The oarsmen seemed not to appreciate the joke, but Popham turned to Kydd and said, “Damme, that’s what I’ll call the beasts— my plungers.”

  Kydd watched the shivering pair shove off and awkwardly ply their sculls to take them into the anonymous blackness. They were under instructions to circle Teazer out in the moonless night, then close in from a random direction.

  “Keep a bright lookout, ahoy!” Kydd roared up at the men in the tops. Much hung on this, as everyone knew, and a wary silence settled.

  Some minutes later there was a call from aft— “Boooat ahoooy! Away t’ starb’d!” It was some time before Kydd could pick out the low form that the sharp eyes of a ship’s boy had spotted.

  “Around again!” they were ordered, and this time, coming in directly on Teazer’s bow, they penetrated easily within a ship’s length.

  “Splendid!” Popham declared. “There!” he told Fulton. “You have your means of delivery, sir.”

  CHAPTER 12

  IT HAD BEEN FRUSTRATING in the extreme. Hours spent in journeying to London, two days explaining, reassuring, promising, Kydd waiting outside, and the solitary Fulton sitting at one side of a long table, with the seniority of the Admiralty assembled along the other. Popham had assured Kydd and Fulton it was necessary, but in their eyes there were more pressing concerns.

  And now more hours in a coach on the return. Kydd pondered the extraordinary turn of events, and the irony that he had now the wealth and the opportunity finally to take his place in higher society, but the grave situation in which England stood made it all but meaningless. Even a small estate was beyond his grasp: as an active captain he could give it no real attention—and he had no lady to rule it.

  He watched the neat, rolling hills of the Weald of Kent passing by, almost garden-like in their loveliness. Next to him Fulton’s eyes were closed, and opposite, a merchant and his prim lady kept aloof. His thoughts turned inevitably to the war: there was no question but that in a short time there would be a reckoning.

  Would he play his part with honour when the time came? Of course. Then doubt flooded in. Did honour include the stealthy blasting to atoms of sailors? Was it so necessary to support Fulton as he did, or had he, as Renzi believed, crossed a moral Rubicon? Troubled, he crushed the thoughts. Did not the situation demand extreme measures? Was not—

  The coach lurched to a grinding stop, the horses whinnying in protest. There were sharp voices outside, and Kydd leaned out of the window. Two horsemen stood athwart their path, both masked and each with a heavy pistol. One walked his mount to the window of the coach and leaned down, flourishing his weapon.

  “The men—out!”

  Highwaymen! Rage filled Kydd that these vermin were still at their trade when the country’s peril was so real. His sword was in the rack above the seat, but it would be useless in the face of the big horse pistol pointing steadily at him.

  “Now.” The voice was flat, with no emotion and left little choice but to obey.

  Kydd climbed out, looking tensely for the slightest chance, but these were clearly professionals. One stood back to cover the other while he dismounted. Kydd tried to peer into the mask but there was only the glitter of dark eyes.

  The three male passengers stood together and faced the two riders. It was odd that they were ignoring the lady, for she surely had the richest pickings.

  “I—I h-h-have a w-watch!” the merchant stuttered, reaching for his fob.

  He was ignored. The highwayman still mounted trained his pistol on each in turn, then rapped, “Which of you is Fulton?”

  In an instant it became clear. These were French agents sent to find the inventor. Fulton glanced at Kydd with a lopsided smile. Neither spoke.

  The merchant looked bewildered and afraid.

  The rider motioned meaningfully at his accomplice, who threw open the coach door. “Out!” he snarled at the woman, holding his weapon to her head. She screamed and the man cuffed her to the ground. Still with the pistol aimed at her, he cocked it.

  “Which is Fulton?”

  If the French took back the inventor they would know in detail what was planned against them and take appropriate defensive measures. Then they would undoubtedly build infernals of their own. It could not be risked. “I am,” Kydd said, and stepped forward.

  In French the mounted man demanded, “Answer quickly. What rank does Gaspard Mongé hold under the Emperor?”

  Kydd was unable to answer.

  “You!” said the man, pointing to Fulton with his pistol. “Come here.”

  His accomplice swiftly cut the traces of the coach horses and slapped their rumps, sending them galloping away over the heath. Then he resumed his horse but kept his pistol out.

  “Up behind!” Fulton obeyed awkwardly. They cantered into the woods and out of sight.

  It was a catastrophe—and Kydd was responsible. It had taken half an hour to catch one of the horses and now he was riding south, bare-back, thrashing it as hard as it could go. Kydd knew that the agents would be in urgent flight to the coast to spirit Fulton to France.

  At a village he hired the best mount he could find and thundered madly down the road, hoping against hope to see the riders ahead. Then, under the goading of urgency, he headed instinctively for his ship. Tired and sore, he left the exhausted animal at the King’s Naval Yard in Deal.

  As Kydd slumped down wearily, Renzi looked up from his reading. “Is there—”

  “I’ve lost Fulton,” Kydd said simply.

  “Lost?”

  “We were bailed up on the highway from London b’ French agents, not three hours ago. They took Fulton. I have t’ do something!” With every minute gone they would be that much closer to France.

  Renzi put down his book. “You will be considering alerting the admiral.”

  “Damn it, o’ course!” Kydd forced himself to concentrate. “I’d wager they’ll want to get him over just as soon as they can. The closest place is right here. I feel it in m’ bones—they’re about somewhere.”

  It was an all-or-nothing throw: that they would have made for this place of all the possible escape ports and, additionally, that they were here still. If he was wrong, the consequences could not be more serious, but the same instincts that had made him a successful privateer captain were reassuring him coolly that he was not mistaken.

  The typical late-summer calm was preventing their final flight to France—to the land that was so plainly in sight across the Channel— but in an hour or two an afternoon offshor
e breeze would pick up and they would make a run for it, if indeed they were here.

  Restless, Kydd got up, went to the stern windows and flung one open. In the Downs it was a calm, placid day, the sun glittering on a glassy sea. Upwards of two hundred ships of all sizes were peacefully at anchor waiting for a wind, lifting to the slight swell, a charming picture.

  “What better place to conceal but in the middle of all those,” Renzi murmured, over his shoulder. “It will be hard to flush them even with every boat in the squadron out.”

  Kydd came to a decision. “No! I’m not telling the admiral,” he said firmly. “There’s no time t’ rummage so many ships—and, besides, who knows Fulton to recognise him? No, we’re to wait out the calm and when they make their run we go after them.” If he was wrong, it would be disaster for England.

  He went on deck to make his dispositions. “Mr. Hallum, I want both watches turned up. They’re t’ keep a tight lookout for, er, any craft making sail towards the Gull passage.” That was the direct route past the Goodwins to Calais. “Five guineas to the man as sights it.”

  Time hung: the sun beamed down in a show of warm beneficence. The lazy slap of water under Teazer’s counter and irregular creaking below were the only sounds to disturb Kydd’s dark thoughts. At noon he sent one watch for a hurried meal, then the other. He himself stayed on deck, unable to contemplate food.

  Then, more than an hour later, the first zephyr touched the water in playful cats-paws, hardly enough to lift the feathered wind vane in the shrouds. Teazer’s moorings had long since been buoyed ready to slip instantly and her sails were in their gear, held only by rope yarns that would be cut to let them tumble down.

  At a little after three bells there was a definite lift and flurry in the breeze, enough to set lines from aloft slatting in expectation, the shadow of wind-flaws ruffling the glittering sea surface as they moved forward. It died, but then returned to settle to a playful, warm offshore whisper.

  Kydd longed to send men to the yards but this would give the game away to their quarry. The wait was agonising and, to make things worse, it appeared that the whole anchorage was stirring in preparation for departure. Inshore, small craft were putting off from the shingle beach and larger ones shaking out sails.