by James McGee
Even as he heard the words, Hawkwood thought there had to be a mistake. He stared down at the drawings. A boat? The contraption didn’t look like any boat he’d ever seen. And what the hell were plans for an undersea boat doing in Warlock’s baton?
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” Congreve said, misinterpreting Hawkwood’s look of confusion. “But it’s possible, believe me. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
James Read said, “The inventor’s an American. His name’s Robert Fulton.”
“And the bastard’s working for Bonaparte,” Charles Yorke growled.
Hawkwood felt as if he was wading thigh-deep through thick mud. Try as he might, he still could see no resemblance to a boat. If not a clock, his next best guess would have been the inside of a music box.
“Come,” the colonel said, taking pity on Hawkwood’s bewilderment. “I’ll show you.”
Hawkwood approached the table. The first thing he realized, as the colonel turned the first drawing on its side, was that he’d been viewing it from the wrong angle. He’d been looking at it as if the cylinder was standing vertically instead of lying horizontally.
The colonel took a pencil from a tray on the table. “Let’s see if I can make it a bit clearer.” The colonel traced the outline with the pencil point. “This is the hull. Here, the curve of the bow, the keel, deck, and stern. Now, if I add a mast and boom, you’ll get the idea.” The colonel drew quickly. “There, you see?”
Unbelievably, Hawkwood could. “And this?” Hawkwood pointed to what looked to be a raised section of deck, just forward of the drawn-in mast.
“A metal dome, It’s from here that the vessel is controlled. Imagine an upturned barrel placed over a hole on the deck. It allows the commander to stand upright inside the boat. His head and shoulders would protrude into the barrel. Understand?”
“How can he see where he’s going?” Hawkwood asked.
“The dome has windows. They’re small and made of very thick glass. If you were to ask me, I’d say it’s like looking through the bottom of a brandy decanter.”
Hawkwood was sorely tempted to say that he’d known a number of army officers who’d spent their entire careers in similar straits, but discretion forbade him. He made do with what he hoped was a sage nod of comprehension. “What makes it go?”
“Muscle power. The crewman turns a crank, which operates a set of revolving blades at the stern. They serve to push the craft through the water. Here-see?” The colonel pointed to the drawing.
Hawkwood looked sceptical.
“Oh, it works very well, Captain. On the surface, with two men working the crank, it’ll travel as fast as two men rowing. Submerged, it’s about the same. You have to appreciate that the watchword is stealth, not speed.”
“How’s it constructed?”
“Copper skin over a wooden frame, iron ribs for supports.”
Hawkwood watched and listened as the colonel explained and gradually, incredibly, it began to make a kind of sense. What at first sight had appeared to be a confusing jumble of cranks, cogs, spools and spindles had now acquired a totally new meaning. Hawkwood looked on in astonishment as the outer hull and interior of the submersible boat began to take shape before his eyes.
“How does it go up and down?”
“Pumps. They regulate the submergence of the boat underwater. There’s a ballast compartment along the bottom of the hull. To sink, you pump water in. To rise, you pump water out. Ingenious!” The colonel shook his head at the wonder of it. “You steer it like an ordinary boat, by the rudder here. That’s also controlled by a system of gears. There’s a second, horizontal rudder, which turns on a pivot passing through the main rudder. You use that to maintain depth. The keel, by the way, is metal. The weight keeps the vessel level. It’s detachable in an emergency, to allow for rapid ascent.”
Hawkwood’s brain was spinning. “How big is it?”
The colonel shrugged. “Hard to say for certain. The first one was twenty-one feet long, with a diameter of seven feet.”
“The first one?” Hawkwood said.
“Oh, didn’t I say?” The colonel raised an eyebrow. “The weapon’s not new. It was offered to us seven years ago.”
James Read said softly, “I think, perhaps, we should start at the beginning, don’t you?”
“We’ve been following his career for some time,” the colonel said. “A very industrious fellow is our Mr Fulton: artist, engineer, canal builder…”
“Canals?” Hawkwood echoed dully.
Congreve nodded. “Came to Europe from Philadelphia in ’87, originally. For his health, if you can believe that. Worked with Bridgewater and Brindley for a time.”
Hawkwood’s face betrayed his lack of knowledge.
“Lord Bridgewater? Came up with a plan to link Manchester to the sea? You remember?”
Vague memory of a rumoured scheme stirred distantly in Hawkwood’s brain.
Undeterred by Hawkwood’s ignorance, Congreve continued. “It was Fulton who came up with the idea to use winches to haul canal barges over hills. Even wrote a book about canal navigation, versatile bugger. That’s what took him to France in ’97. Hoped to take out a patent, get the Frogs interested in the idea. Grew sympathetic to the revolution, stayed, and became an engineer for the Directory.”
“And this…submersible?”
It was Blomefield who broke in. “Ah, that stemmed from a notion he had that the welfare of nations could only be achieved if liberty of the seas was maintained. In other words, destroy the world’s navies, establish free trade, and everyone lives happily ever after. Total rot, of course. My apologies, Colonel. Didn’t mean to butt in. You were saying?”
“I was going to say that the man’s half Irish,” Congreve said, without rancour. “So three guesses as to whose navy he planned to destroy first.”
The First Sea Lord, a man clearly unused to someone else holding the floor for any length of time, snorted derisively. Unflustered, Congreve resumed his story.
“He took the idea from an American revolutionary, name of Bushnell. Bushnell built himself a diving boat. Called it the Turtle. The plan was to sail it under Earl Howe’s flagship in New York harbour, attach an explosive device, then withdraw. Fortunately for the admiral, the plan failed. Not enough control of the vessel underwater, plus the flagship’s hull was too tough. But Fulton thought the idea was sound enough to attempt improvements. Turns out Bonaparte thought so too. He financed the vessel’s design and manufacture. Took the bugger three years, used the Seine as a test site. Even gave the thing a name: called it Nautilus.”
“From the Greek,” Blomefield cut in. “Some sort of mollusc, apparently.”
“Indeed,” the colonel observed patiently, before continuing. “Well, by this time we’d begun to pick up reports from our agents in France that Bonaparte’s engineers were conducting experimental underwater explosions. Didn’t think too much of it at the time, but a gradual increase in rumours led us to believe the Frogs were developing a secret weapon, and then Fulton’s name kept cropping up.
“At first we thought it was some kind of sea mine. We’d heard reports of barges being blown up and so forth, but then we heard about something else. A submersible boat. Sounded fantastical, but the rumours persisted. Then we had a stroke of luck.
“We heard the vessel had been tested at sea, but we weren’t able to confirm it until a month or so later, when the captain of a Revenue cutter got into conversation with the master of a brig that had been anchored off the Marcoufs around the same time as the trials were said to have taken place.
“The brig master had a curious tale to tell. Told the Revenue man he’d been chased by a whale! Now, how many whales do you suppose there are in the English Channel, eh?”
Hawkwood didn’t respond. To his ears, the link seemed pretty flimsy, but there was more, as the colonel explained.
Two days previously, one of the brig’s lookouts had observed a small sailboat in trouble; mast and canvas had all but collapsed and the
vessel was taking in water. The brig altered course to assist, but by the time they reached the spot, the sailboat had disappeared completely. No wreckage, no bodies, nothing. After searching the area, the brig had resumed course.
“And then something strange happened.” The colonel’s voice was couched low, as if fearful of eavesdroppers. “The brig’s stern lookout spotted what looked like another sailboat in distress! Only this time it was closer in to shore. It was only when the brig master took a look through the glass himself that he recognized it as the same boat! And here’s the rub. He said this time the boat wasn’t sinking, he swore it was rising out of the water!
“It was definitely the same vessel,” Congreve continued. “It was the odd shape of the rig, you see. The master said he’d never seen the like of it before. Said it looked like a half-opened parasol.”
“And the rest,” Blomefield prompted eagerly. “Tell him the rest!”
“Yes, yes.” The colonel waved a hand impatiently. “I’m coming to that. You see, Hawkwood, the brig master estimated the distance between each of the sailboat’s positions to be at least one mile. A mile! It was proof, don’t you see? The Frogs did have a vessel that could sail underwater!”
The colonel checked his excitement. “But what to do? How could we defend ourselves against such a weapon?”
The solution had at first seemed simple. The British government had dispatched an agent to Paris to try and entice Fulton to England.
Thomas Blomefield took up the story.
Fulton had run into trouble with his French allies. A change of administration at the Ministry of Marine had brought with it a sudden reversal of enthusiasm for the American’s invention.
“Decres it was who took over. Looks as if he’s changed his tune since, though, but at the time he thought Fulton’s idea was barbaric, more suited to a pack of corsairs than the Imperial Navy. Put Fulton’s back up, as you can imagine. Fortunately, it coincided with our plan to bring him over to us. Excellent timing on our part. Mind you, he was a greedy bugger!
“Had this agreement with the Frogs. They were to pay him a bounty for every ship destroyed. He demanded a similar contract from us. Also told us if we wanted him to provide details of his submersible and his submarine bombs, it would cost us a hundred thousand pounds for the privilege. Bloody nerve!”
For a moment Hawkwood thought his ears had deceived him. A Runner’s salary was twenty-five shillings a week, plus an extra fourteen shillings for expenses; a little over one hundred pounds a year. A thousand times that was an unimaginable sum. What was it about the American’s invention that made it worth a king’s ransom?
“Anyway,” Blomefield said, “we refused to agree any sort of price until his inventions had been examined and tested in England.”
“In other words,” Congreve put in, “far better to have him inside the tent, pissing out.”
The First Sea Lord and the Admiral smiled weakly. James Read’s expression remained neutral, though Hawkwood thought he detected a faint tremor at the corner of the magistrate’s mouth.
A further inducement had been employed. Fulton had been experimenting with steam as a means of propulsion. While in Paris, he’d written to the Birmingham firm, Boulton amp; Watt, asking them to build an engine for use in a steamboat in the United States. The British Government, not surprisingly, had refused an export permit. However, should Mr Fulton choose to move to England…well, anything was possible.
“Have to confess, I was rather taken with the fellow,” Congreve smiled. “I was on the commission, you see.”
Fulton had travelled to England in April 1804. No sooner had he set foot ashore than Prime Minister Pitt had appointed a special commission to examine the American’s inventions. Other appointees had included the distinguished scientist Henry Cavendish, Admiral Sir Hope Popham, and Sir Joseph Banks, President of the Royal Society. The initial findings, however, had not been well received by Fulton, as the colonel revealed.
“Oh, the design was feasible enough, no doubt about that, but totally impractical in combat.” As he spoke, the colonel’s hand strayed to the sketches on the table. “Or so we thought at the time.” The colonel gave a wry smile. “The commission was more interested in his submarine bomb-his torpedo, as he called it.”
“His what?” Hawkwood asked.
“Torpedo. Named after a breed of fish. The beast uses an electrical discharge to stun its enemies. Not sure how exactly, I’m no expert in aquatic fauna.”
Despite the explanation, Hawkwood felt none the wiser. The colonel might as well have been conversing in Hindustani.
Prime Minister Pitt, however, had been sufficiently impressed to put his signature to a contract agreeing to pay Fulton?40,000 for demonstrating the principles of his submersible and the surrender of all rights to his invention. A very generous amount, even without the additional supplement of?200 a month salary, a credit limit of?7,000 and a further?40,000 for the first French ship destroyed. Admiralty dockyards and arsenals were ordered to furnish materials and equipment as required.
“We tried out his torpedoes at Boulogne later that year,” Congreve said. “Without much success, frankly, but we saw the potential right away. And just the rumour was enough to put the fear of God into the Frogs. There was a lot of refining to do, more testing and so forth. Took another year before we were ready to try again. Remember the Dorothea, Blomefield?”
“By God, do I!”
The Dorothea, the colonel explained, had been an ancient Danish brig anchored in Walmer Roads, off the Dover coast. Fulton’s submarine bombs had reduced the ship to matchwood.
“That was the result we needed. We were all set. We planned to use Fulton’s torpedoes and my rockets against the French fleet at Cadiz. Would have been the grandest bloody firework display in Europe!” Colonel Congreve shook his head in regret.
“Only our one-eyed admiral got there first,” Blomefield said.
They meant Trafalgar.
Blomefield sighed. “The brave bugger only went and annihilated the Frog fleet. No need for Fulton’s newfangled bombs after that. Nothing left for us to blow up!”
“Didn’t stop him demanding his bloody fee, though!” the First Sea Lord grumbled.
As a final settlement, Fulton had asked for?10,000 for switching allegiance,?100,000 for demonstrating that warships could be destroyed by his invention, a?2,400 annual pension for life, and?60,000 for agreeing not to use his inventions against the British fleet.
The Board of Arbitration consulted and decided Fulton hadn’t done enough to warrant the extortionate payments he was requesting. The Board had eventually awarded him?14,000 plus salary and incidentals already earned, which had amounted to the far from princely sum of?1,640.
“So the bugger dismantled all his equipment and packed off home,” Blomefield said. “Lock, stock, and bloody barrel.”
“Bearing a very aggressive bee in his bonnet,” the colonel added.
“So,” Hawkwood said, “the man has a grudge.”
“A bloody big one, would be my guess.” Congreve sucked at his lower lip reflectively.
“And you think he’s back in France?”
Congreve shook his head. “No, not Fulton. The fellow’s not in the best of health. An emissary, sent in his place.”
“His name is William Lee,” James Read said. “He’s an old friend of Fulton, been working with him for the past five years. Our contacts informed us that he arrived in France at the beginning of the year.”
“Why would the French still be interested after the last time?” Hawkwood asked, mystified. “Why have they changed their minds?”
“Because Bonaparte’s losing the war.” The voice was the Admiral’s. It was the first time he had entered the conversation. “Our little corporal’s on the run!”
Congreve nodded. “And it would give Fulton a chance to get back at us. It’s no secret that relations between ourselves and the Americans have become somewhat strained.” The colonel pursed his lips. “There
’ve been several incidents between our ships at sea. The navy’s been stopping American ships to search for deserters. The Americans have accused us of piracy. It would come as no surprise to me if the situation worsened.”
“You mean war?” Hawkwood said, disbelievingly.
At this, the First Sea Lord gave a meaningful cough. It sounded suspiciously like a veiled warning. Congreve shrugged. “Who knows?”
While Hawkwood was contemplating the noncommittal answer, the colonel looked towards Dalryde. “Would you care to continue, Admiral?”
Dalryde cleared his throat. “We thought it might pay us to keep an eye on Lee. We suspected Fulton had made a number of improvements. He wrote a book last year: Torpedo War and Submarine Explosions. We managed to secure a copy. The contents were disturbing enough for us to dispatch an agent to France to investigate. Resourceful fellow, name of Ramillies, one of our very best men. We’d used him on several previous occasions.”
The admiral looked back at the colonel, as if suggesting he might like to take up the story. The colonel duly obliged.
“Lieutenant Ramillies unearthed evidence suggesting that Lee had definitely constructed a more advanced submersible. Through contacts in the Bourbon resistance he was able to secure employment in the dockyard where the submersible was being built. From there, at great risk to himself, he managed to gain entry into Lee’s workshop and made copies of the submersible’s plans.” The colonel indicated the drawings. “Not exactly draughtsman’s quality, I’ll grant you, but more than sufficient for our needs. A short time later, he learned that trials of the weapon were due to be conducted on the Seine and infiltrated the area to observe proceedings.”
“But he was discovered,” the admiral broke in, shifting in his chair. “He managed to escape by the skin of his teeth, with the drawings of the submersible, but he was severely wounded. He was sheltered by Royalist sympathizers until he was well enough to travel. They then arranged passage for him back to England. He was landed at Dover and was on his way to London when his coach was held up on the Kent Road. He was murdered and his plans of the submersible were stolen…” The admiral paused. “The rest you know.”