Invasion

CHAPTER 5

THE SUMMER SUN WAS HIGH in the sky when HMS Teazer made her way home with the others to find her anchor buoy and pick up her moorings once again. It was still warm and beneficent when Kydd returned to his ship after an immediate conference aboard Actaeon.

Teazer was to be stood down from the flying squadron due to battle-damage—much of her larboard bulwarks beaten flat and guns dismounted—and it would be several weeks before she could look to active service again.

Kydd felt the need to stay on deck in the brightness of the day, with the pleasant sight of the town and its bustle, the constant to-and-froing of scores of ships about their occasions—reality, normality. But a captain could not idly pace among the men as they worked. Reluctantly, he went to his cabin and found Renzi at the table scratching away at papers, the interminable loose ends after any scene of combat.

"A hot action," he said, looking up.

"Yes," Kydd muttered, slumping into his chair. Only that morning his ship had been plunged into a desperate fight for survival and here she was, an hour or two later, battered and sore but lying to single anchor in sun-kissed tranquillity.

Seeing Kydd's drawn face, Renzi laid down his pen.

Kydd went on sombrely, "As it was necessary, m' friend." The sheer savagery of the encounter and the seemingly unstoppable determination of the vessels assembled for their grand enterprise had unnerved him. He had also found himself quite affected by the death of young Philipon, a gay, laughing soul now removed from the world of men, and by the sight of Locust's pinnace on its way past them to land the pitiful figure of her captain, writhing under a blanket and mortally wounded. Later, no doubt, others from the naval hospital would be making their last journey on earth to the austere St. George's church in Deal.

"'. . . these are times to try men's souls—but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of men and women . . '" Renzi murmured.

"What?" said Kydd, distracted.

"Oh, naught but the rantings of an unfashionable rogue of fevered times now past."

Kydd sighed. "Who is your philosopher, then, Renzi?"

"His name, you may have heard it, Tom Paine."

Kydd allowed a twisted smile. He had borne the name of the revolutionary since birth, his parents having once heard the great man speak and been caught up in the fiery rhetoric. "So the villain can conjure some right words, I'm to say." He sighed heavily. "But its hard t' take. After as grim a fight as ever we've been in, what've we won? Naught but a handful o' Boney's flotilla. They say that, with this last, he's now above one thousand craft near Boulogne." So many vessels with but one purpose—and he had seen for himself how powerless they had been against mere scores.

"Mr. Hallum, I've a yen to step ashore. The ship is yours." Kydd picked up his walking cane and clapped on his tall yellow beaver. Renzi was delayed with ship's business and, anyway, he felt the need to walk alone, to let the calm tranquillity of the land work on his soul.

With a lazy surf hissing in the shingle, he was carried ashore safe and dry by his boat's crew. To the left was the King's Naval Yard, with its Admiralty telegraph to London even now clattering away, and the smoky fumes of the smithy spiralling up behind the high wall.

To the right, a long street faced the beach, the inns and taverns giving way to substantial buildings further on and the bright, hazy prospect of Pegwell Bay in the distance. Kydd struck out briskly, nodding to passing gentlemen and doffing his hat politely to promenading ladies, no doubt passengers from the Indiaman anchored offshore.

He turned inland towards the town proper, entering Middle Street: here, there were courts and passageways with cobbled streets and rich merchants' houses. He strolled on to High Street, with its bustling shops and markets, and his eyes caught a placard in one window:

. . . And our brave Sons invite the foe to come;

For they remember Acre's valiant fight,

When Britons put the vaunting Gaul to flight;

Remembering too, Nile's Battle...

He had been at both and felt a stab of pride. Then he noticed a recruiting poster:

Brave Soldiers! Defenders of YOUR COUNTRY! The road to glory is open before you—Pursue the great career of your Forefathers, and rival them in the field of honour. A proud and usurping TYRANT (a name ever execrated by Englishmen) dares to threaten our shores with INVASION, and to reduce the free-born Sons of Britain to SLAVERY . . . The Briton fights for his Liberty and Rights, the Frenchman for Buonaparte who has robbed him of both!

There was a hard gaiety on the air: women sported martial cockades and children strutted about, every gentleman wore his sword. The markets were thronged, and the street cries, as lusty as ever, suggested that none in this town was about to be affected by the awful forces gathering just a few leagues across the water.

The cheerful hustle lifted his spirits. Restored, he threw a coin to a begging child and returned to the seafront. The view from the shore was impressive: the crowding ships in the Downs and, just visible on the horizon, a sable-brown line that was the Goodwin Sands.

Reluctant to quit his view of the sea he strolled along in the warm sunshine and pondered the peculiar difference to be had in perspectives of it: from the rock-still shore, the land-bound saw the line of white waves acting as a boundary between the two worlds, and beyond, the sea's mystery, with ships disappearing so quickly from man's ken over the horizon to far and unknowable regions.

A sailor's prospect, however, was of being borne along on a constantly moving live quintessence without limit, the land an occasional encounter in the endless oceanic immensity.

His steps took him past the King's Naval Yard and on to Deal Castle. Part of a coastal chain put in place by Henry VIII, under much the same invasion threat, the battlements were small, round and squat. They were from an era when cannon had been changing the rules of war but even today they were manned by redcoats and ready for service.

At the top of the shingle, scores of Deal luggers were drawn up before humble cottages and huts, each of which had a capstan to the front with men working on them or just sitting in the sun with a comfortable pipe and baccy. Kydd wandered up. Every tiny sea-place on England's coasts had its own peculiarities and he was curious to see how the unusual steep shingle landings had influenced the boats' construction.

They were all substantial craft, few less than forty feet long and fifteen broad, long-yarded with a square-headed dipping lug sail and handy mizzen, and remarkably high-waisted. Most had an iron skeg with an eye at the turn of the forefoot to assist in hauling up, and all were bright-sided, the varnish work on them as winsome as a new-fallen horse chestnut.

Eyes turned suspiciously on Kydd as he crunched through the shingle to take in the bluff lines of one, the Kentish Maid. He bent double to catch the rise of bilge. As he suspected, the high gunwale was matched by a broad, flat bottom, ideally suited to coming ashore on a steep beach in anything of a sea.

He peeped over the gunwale. It was simply equipped with a small shelter forepeak; it was easy to sense great strength. The boat stank richly of its sea gear. Caressing the sturdy sides in admiration he was startled when a shrill voice challenged him. "Oi! Th' young man yonder! I seen ye—what are y' doing wi' that boat?"

A wizened but bright-eyed old man sitting on a pair of shipwreck timbers shook a knobby stick at him. Kydd chuckled and went over to him. "Why, sir, I'm taking m' pleasure in the sight of as fine a barky as ever I've seen. Elm-built, is she?"

The man squinted at him. "Then who are ye, then?"

"M' name is Thomas Kydd. May I know . . . ?"

"Tickle—William Tickle—an' ye hasn't said as why ye're so taken wi' th' Maid."

Kydd had passed an ancient tap-house on the way. "Sir, if you'd tell me more o' these I'd be honoured t' stand you a glass o' the true sort in the tavern."

"No."

"Well—"

"I likes th' prospects here," Tickle said, waving his stick at the boats drawn up. "Go to y' tavern an' get me a jorum of ale an' I'll tell ye all there is t' know."

Kydd returned with a potboy and, leather tankards a-flow with dark beer, he learned from the Deal boatman.

"A hard life, t' be sure," Tickle began. "Hovellin' an' foyin' is all we got, isn't it? That an' the other."

"The other?"

"Gift o' the sea. Free tradin', like."

Smuggling.

"Er, tell me of your foying, Mr. Tickle."

"Aye, well, it's naught but plyin' for trade wi' the merchant jacks out in th' Roads as wants fresh wegetables, dry provisions, y' knows."

Kydd nodded. There would be many a blue-water merchantman inbound from a lengthy voyage who would be more than willing to pay over the odds for fresh victuals.

"And we'm Channel Pilots o' the Cinque Ports—Trinity lot gives best t' us, any which wants t' try th' Goodwins in a fog."

"Hovelling—can't say as I've heard of it afore," Kydd said.

"Then I guess ye haven't been t' sea much. Where ye from?"

"Um, Guildford, Mr. Tickle. The hovelling . . . ?"

It turned out to be as colourful and dangerous a sea trade as any he had heard of in his years of voyaging. Thoroughly at home around the treacherous Goodwins, on fine-weather days the hovellers would hoist their distinctive blood-red sails and occupy themselves sweeping the seabed close to the great banks for anchors and ground tackle lost in storms. They would sweat to recover them by art and sea craft and either bring them aboard or sling them beneath and return, storing them in an anchor field close to the King's Naval Yard.

On foul-weather days they would keep close watch on the edge of the Goodwins for signs that a ship was dragging her anchors or had lost one and was nervously eyeing the remainder. A stout Deal lugger would then be launched into the violence to take out a complete anchor, weighing tons, along with heavy coils of cable, and offer it to the anxious captain for a handsome fee. It was seldom refused.

That explained the high-sided construction and generous scantlings of these hardy boats. Kydd could only imagine the fearful effort required to set the boats to sea with such a load.

"Why, thank 'ee, Mr. Tickle," he said, happily back to his old self. "You've quite explained it all for me. I'm much obliged." He doffed his hat politely and required the old seaman to accept a small contribution in token of the time he had spent.

"How goes it, Mr. Purchet?" Kydd asked, looking doubtfully at the cluttered larboard deck. The King's Naval Yard had done well to have five shipwrights and their sidesmen out to them within two days and their clunking and chipping had sounded ever since throughout the daylight hours.

"Main fine, sir."

It seemed that their primary concern, the slide on which the car-ronades recoiled, was simple enough to repair, the design being nothing more than a sliding bed on a longer one and secured by a thick pin. The quarterman shipwright was therefore sanguine that Teazer's armament would be whole again within the week. The bulwarks were another matter, seasoned timber of such length apparently not in ready supply and . . .

Kydd promised to take better care of his command in the future and, in the meantime, offered an earnest by which it would appear the timbers would be more expeditiously acquired. It would be a frustrating wait. but in Deal, rooms were to be had for sea officers at the genteel end of Middle Street, and Kydd established a presence ashore, where Renzi's valuable work on his treatise could be kept in a place of safety.

"Yes, Mr. Hallum?" Kydd said, about to step ashore one morning.

"I'm truly sorry to have to report that a midshipman has not returned from leave."

Calloway, in the Navy since childhood and as loyal as it was possible to be? Or could it be their first-voyage new reefer Tawse, unable to face another bloody action?

"Who is it?"

"Calloway, sir."

"He's to wait on me the instant he returns on board." Kydd swore under his breath. There was no possibility of going ashore until this had been resolved, and when Calloway did return an hour later his captain was is no mood for trifling.

The young man stood before him, pale-faced but defiant. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kydd. It's . . . I overslept, is all."

"Slewed t' the gills, no doubt."

"I weren't, Mr. Kydd!"

"Then pray tell, what tavern-keeper fails t' shake his customers in the morning as will have 'em back on board in time? Or was it—"

"I was—that is, there's this girl I was with and . . ."

"And?"

"Sally an' I, well . . ."

Kydd waited.

"Mr. Kydd!" he burst out. "S' help me, I'm struck on th' girl! She's—she's right dimber an' says I'm the first she's been with, an' she wants t' be spliced to me, and—and . . ."

Biting back a sarcastic retort, Kydd glared at him. "For an affair o' the heart you'd hazard your chances at the quarterdeck, let your shipmates down? And if there's to be an alarm . . ."

"We're not under Sailin' Orders," Calloway said doggedly.

"That's not the point, as well you know, younker."

The young man's eyes dropped, but he went on, in a low voice, "An' I'm remembering, too, that time in th' Caribbean, you an' Miss Sukey, Mr. Kydd . . ."

"How dare you?" Kydd spluttered. "An' that was afore I had m' step as an officer," he added unconvincingly, as though it excused everything.

"Sir, I—"

"Be damned to it! I'll not have m' men out o' the ship at this time. There's a hot war out there, in case y' haven't heard."

The youngster stared obstinately into space and Kydd nearly weakened, but told him, "Any seaman in your division as overstays his liberty will be served the same way. It's t' be stoppage o' leave for you, Mr. Calloway."

The eyes turned on him in misery. "But, Mr. Kydd, she'll—"

"If you're not on deck assisting the boatswain in ten minutes, I'll double it."

After the young man had left, Renzi looked up from his papers with a wry smile. "Miss Sukey? In those piping days of our youth I do not recollect our being introduced . . ."

"I do apologise, old fellow. An unfortunate oversight," Kydd replied sarcastically. "And might I ask how your letters are progressing?"

Before Renzi could reply there was the thump of an alarm gun.

Kydd hesitated, but for only a moment. It did not include them, for he had not declared ready for sea, but who could stand idle while others threw themselves into battle? "We must join 'em," he said forcefully. The larboard carronades were more or less mounted now and the bulwarks—well, they'd rig canvas dodgers or something.

"Hands t' unmoor ship!" he roared up the companionway, having thrown aside his shore clothing for action dress. By the time he reached the deck the ship was in an uproar.

"Mr. Hallum, a muster o' both watches after they're closed up, if y' please." Who knew how many were ashore?

The first of the flying squadron slipped to sea, a game little cutter thrashing out into the overcast for the French coast, followed closely by Actaeon. Others loosed sail and joined them, Teazer bringing up the rear, still tying off on the improvised bulwarks. It might have been worse: with a two-thirds complement they could maintain fire on at least every other gun and, with no real need to mount long sea watches, they had a chance.

In hours Teazer and the others were hove to before Boulogne and telescopes were quickly raised on quarterdecks. At first glance there seemed no threatening movement. Then, from inshore, a small sloop set course under a crowd of sail direct for Actaeon. It would be one of the British inshore squadron that was doggedly watching the huge concentration.

"A baneful sight for English eyes," said Renzi, who generally kept out of sight until the ship was called to quarters.

His station was then on the quarterdeck to record events for the captain.

"Why, t' be sure," Kydd responded off-handedly. "And as long as we don't fall asleep, I dare t' say this is where they must remain."

He grunted and continued to search with his telescope. It was his first encounter with the menacing sights around this premier invasion port. The prospect was awesome. The pale regular shapes of the encampment of the Grande Armée were spread out in an immensity beyond counting, covering the swelling heights of the hills and valleys around the port as far as the eye could see.

This, then, was the reality, the reason for their being: a tidal wave of the finest troops in Europe arrayed in plain sight against them.

The sloop reached Actaeon and passed out of sight around her lee. After half an hour a general signal was hoisted: "All captains repair on board."

Kydd wasted no time in complying and convened with the other captains in the great cabin. "I'll be brief, gentlemen," Savery opened, his features grave. "It does appear that the final act is at last upon us. We have intelligence that the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte himself is at this moment in Boulogne."

There was a stir of apprehension, which was brusquely cut short. "This is not the first time he has been here—he likes to show himself to his army and to inspect preparations. This is not exceptional. What is unique and disturbing is that this time not only the Emperor but his entire military staff has come. Paris is left without a single marshal's baton!"

This was received in utter silence.

"Marshal Ney is here with his corps as are Soult and Davout. The Grande Armée is now complete and I don't have to remind you that tomorrow is a new moon, with spring tides, the winds fair for England and the weather holding. Bonaparte has even sent for his brothers Louis and Joseph, now styled princes, and columns are said to be on the march for Boulogne, to a total of at least twenty cavalry squadrons and sixty regiments." He concluded soberly, "I can see no reason for this sudden descent on Boulogne other than . . ."

"Lord Keith has been informed, sir?" Kydd asked.

"Of course. He is making his dispositions, but I fear it will be a little time before we might see any reinforcements. Meanwhile, our duty remains as it always has. Should the Grande Armée sail, we place ourselves between it and England. Do I make myself clear?"

There was a murmur of assent, and Savery finished, "We have an agent of the first calibre in Boulogne who will attempt to reach me tonight under cover of dark with the final details, which naturally you will share at first light. I wish you well for the rencontre, gentlemen."

It was no longer high strategy or studied tactical manoeuvring that would be needed tomorrow: it would be nothing less than a frenzied fight to the finish, a sacrifice for the very highest stakes. Teazer was as ready she could be and everyone aboard knew their duty. While her company was issued a double tot of rum, Kydd and Renzi took a quiet and reflective dinner together.

Later, in the privacy of his sleeping cabin, Kydd drew out his fighting sword. In the flickering candlelight it gleamed with a fearful lustre, the blued Toledo steel blade at a razor's sharpness and the gold damascening catching the light with a barbaric glitter. His hand caressed the ornamentation, a pair of choughs that he had insisted on to remind him of his uncle in far distant Canada, a noble lion-head pommel chased in gold. Would this blade taste enemy blood tomorrow or must he shamefully surrender it when Teazer was overwhelmed—or worse?

Dawn came: there was no news. Instead there was a sight that caused the whole ship to fall quiet: the Grande Armée was on the move. The martial glitter of bayonets and breastplates showed in the wan morning sun as the dense columns of soldiers marched over the slopes like giant caterpillars. They converged on one vast open area in a sea of plumes, helmets and banners. More and more appeared over the line of hills to join the immense horde.

It was happening.

"Boat approaching, sir," said Tawse, matter-of-factly. The little midshipman was clearly not about to be overawed by anything Frenchy.

It was a pinnace under a press of sail. It rounded to, hooked on by the side steps and a lieutenant bounded breathlessly on board. "Captain, sir?" he said excitedly. "From Cap'n Savery, his compliments and believes you should want to know what is afoot."

"I do," Kydd said drily. "My cabin?"

"No need, sir, I'm hard pressed. Sir, this is the Emperor Napoleon and he's called the Grande Armée to—"

"We know this, sir. Get on with it, if you will," Kydd ordered. Hallum's apprehension was plain and others came up anxiously to hear.

"Well . . ." Kydd prompted.

"Er, sir, our agent was able to get out to us during the night with news of Bonaparte. Sir, he's called the Grande Armée to a parade only and—"

"To a parade!" Kydd choked. "You're telling me he's mustered those hundreds o' thousands of soldiers just for—"

"Yes, sir, I am. This is no ordinary parade. It's something of an historical day, for Napoleon wants to be sure of the army when he's finally crowned, the people having had a revolution to get rid of the aristocrats, and he desiring to start a parcel o' new ones from his own family. More'n that, he's creating a whole new order o' chivalry to honour the new French Empire, as will have himself at its heart. This day he's to award a new medal to the soldiers to replace the Croix de Saint Louis. He calls it the Légion d'Honneur."

Kydd's mouth dropped open.

The officer became animated. "One hundred thousand men, captured banners, massed salutes and all the glory t' be wished for! And for his throne—"

"Hard pressed, you said?" Kydd reminded him.

"Um, yes, sir. And I'm to say that Cap'n Savery conceives that no action of any kind will take place these three days on account of no Frenchman would dare to risk being bested before the Emperor. He'll be falling back to the Downs and hopes to see us all in the Three Kings to raise a toast of damnation to the new Emperor."

The shipwright had been right: the timbers for Teazer's wounds were not so easily to be acquired. For days now Kydd had had the galling sight of the stripped-back bulwark with naked top-timbers protruding from the deck where new timberheads had been scarphed into the stumps, awaiting their cladding. As well, the fore-chains still lacked its channel and was unable to take the fore-shrouds.

Unfit for sea duties, Teazer could only lie to her moorings until she was made whole and was nominally transferred to the Downs defensive inshore division. It was now a matter of controlling frustration and preparing for the time when she would return to the offensive.

Meanwhile it was not good that seamen, keyed up for any sacrifice, were spending their days in idleness. Kydd was too wise in their ways to contemplate more harbour tasks of endless prettifying and pointless restowing, and allowed them relaxed discipline, with liberty from midday. However, it bore heavily on his spirit to lie stagnating while others sailed to face the odds.

There was a marked coolness about Calloway, but it was an ideal time for both the midshipmen to exercise their craft and Kydd saw to it that they were duly occupied.

On the fifth morning dawn broke on a falling barometer and a veering wind. The sea stretched hard and dark, like gunmetal, out to a luminous band on the horizon under a greying sky. There was no mistaking the onset of uncomfortable weather, but equally there did not appear to be any ominous swells heaving in massively to warn of the approach of a gale.

Kydd, not yet fully confident of his knowledge of sea conditions in the English Channel, crossed to Dowse. "Foul weather, I think?"

"Aye. Out o' the east."

This meant it would be one of the unaccountable continental blasts that could reach gale proportions within hours but because it had passed entirely over land would be given no chance to establish a fetch, the long, powerful seas induced by the same wind over hundreds or thousands of miles that were common in the Atlantic. It would be unpleasant but not deadly.

The sailing master sniffed the wind and stared upwards as he estimated its speed by clouds passing a fixed point in the rigging. "A sharp drop in th' glass. It could be a pauler or it might pass. I'd say it t' be the first, sir."

"Mr. Purchet, we'll turn up the hands to secure the ship for a blow, I believe." They were safely within the Downs, largely protected from anything in the east by the Goodwins, but Kydd was too respectful of the sea to leave anything to chance. They would lay out another bower, veer away cable on both and have the sheet anchor on a slip stopper along with the usual precautions.

"An' strike topmasts, sir?"

"If you please." Even if it did turn out that it was a passing blow it would do no harm to perform the exercise. "Oh, and let the first lieutenant know if we have any stragglers ashore, would you, Pipes?" Apart from needing a full crew on hand for any eventuality there was the requirement to have a tally of men aboard, such that any missing after the blow would not be assumed swept overboard.

By mid-morning the wind had hardened and steadied from the east-north-east and the first white-caps appeared. Snugged down, though, there was little to fear, only the endurance of Teazer's endless jibbing and bobbing to her anchors as she lay bows to the seas.

"An easterly," Renzi said, looking up from his writing in the great cabin.

"It is," Kydd grunted. "A fair wind for the French, but I have m' doubts that even for His Knobbs, Napoleon the Grand, they'll put to sea in this."

His tea was now slopping into its saucer, a wet cloth on the side-table necessary to prevent it sliding off. It would be his last for a while, but with a bit of luck they should be over the worst by the next morning and could then get the galley fire going again.

Kydd wedged himself more tightly into his chair, which had been secured to its ringbolts, and reflected ruefully on sea life in a small ship.

After a tentative knock, Purchet looked in at the door. "Er, a word wi' ye, sir."

Kydd stood. This did not seem to be an official visit.

"Thought ye'd like to know of it first. See, Mr. Calloway ain't aboard."

"Does the first lieutenant know?"

"Um, not yet, sir."

"Thank you for telling me, Mr. Purchet."

The boatswain waited.

"Er, I'll take the matter in hand m'self—no need t' trouble Mr. Hallum."

"Aye, sir. An' if ye wants . . ."

"Well, yes. On quite another matter, tell Mr. Moyes and Mr. Tawse to step aft, would you?"

The boatswain nodded and left. If it ever became official, Calloway was in deep trouble: breaking ship after a direct order from her captain was at the least desertion and would most certainly end in a court-martial with the destruction of his career.

Renzi closed his book. "I, er, need to chase up a reference," he said hastily, passing Moyes and Tawse as he left.

Moyes was a new-made master's mate and took his duties seriously, but when Kydd questioned him about one of his reefers he could throw no light on the disappearance. "Thank you, Mr. Moyes, you can go."

"Mr. Tawse," he said, as menacingly as he could, "I want you t' tell me now where I can find Calloway, and I'll not take no for an answer."

The little midshipman turned pale but stood his ground. "He's— he's not on board," he whispered.

"I know that, you simkin! If he can be got back aboard before this blow stops the boats running, he's got a chance t' avoid serious consequences, so where's he t' be found, younker?"

Tawse flushed and stared stubbornly at the deck.

"I'm not talking about a mastheading, this is meat for a court-martial. Flogging round the fleet, I'd not be surprised." At Tawse's continued silence he went on, "I know about his saucy piece, his— his Sally, was it? He's gone t' ground with her, hasn't he? Answer, you villain!"

The young lad looked about miserably, then said, in a small voice, "He's quean-struck on her, Mr. Kydd, and—and he won't listen to his shipmates . . ." He tailed off under Kydd's venomous look.

It was the end for Calloway unless he could be brought to reason.

A memory came to Kydd of a shy thirteen-year-old painfully learning his letters with dockyard master Thomas Kydd in Antigua those years ago. Now that lad had turned into a fine seaman whom he had been able to set upon his own quarterdeck as midshipman, with a future as bright as any. But if he spared him, ignored the crime, every seaman in Teazer would expect their own offence to be treated in the same way.

Calloway must face the consequences and . . . No, damn it! How could he let young Luke be scuppered by some scheming wench? If only he could get to him, talk to the rascal, knock a bit of sense—

"Mr. Tawse! You're guilty o' condoning desertion, failing t' inform your superiors," Kydd bellowed.

The lad shrank back, his eyes wide.

"And I find there's only one thing as'll save your skin."

"S-sir?"

"Tell me truly where he's at—and no whoppers or I'll personally lay on th' stripes."

"I—I don't know, sir. She's—she's not o' the quality, I know. Luke—Mr. Calloway—he won't say much 'cos I think he's worried we'll not approve her station."

"Where?" Kydd ground out.

"Oh, sir, on stepping ashore we always must leave him at the top o' Dolphin Street. Mustn't follow or he'll give us a quiltin'."

"That's all?"

"Why, sir, we've never even seen her, no matter where she lives."

It was hopeless. "You've not heard him talk of her last name a-tall?"

"I can't say as I remember—oh, one day I heard him say as she's got long hair like an angel, as our figurehead has."

"I see. Well, duck away, Mr. Tawse, and not a word t' anyone. D' you mark my words?"

"Clap a stopper on m' tongue, I will, sir," the youngster piped.

Kydd bit his lip. The only chance Calloway had now was if someone went ashore and roused him to his duty before it became open knowledge and reached the ears of authority.

Should he send Tawse? And let the lad roam the streets of a sailor-town alone? Purchet or Moyes? No. It would compromise their standing aboard if ever it came out.

Then who? It must be someone he trusted but at the same time a man who had the power to give credible reassurance. Kydd heaved a sigh. It was crazy, but there was only one who could go about the darker side of town knocking on doors and entering taverns, then confront the looby and hale him back aboard. Himself. But he would need a trusted accomplice.

"Mr. Hallum," he said casually, after going on deck, "I've just recalled something as needs my presence ashore for a short while. Call away the pinnace, if y' please."

"Sir?" the first lieutenant said, frowning. It would be a wet trip, if not impossible, but a delay in returning would probably prevent his captain being able to get back at all until the storm abated.

"Of course," Kydd added casually, "should I be unfortunately detained then you've nothing to worry of. We've the safest anchoring in the kingdom."

"Sir, may I ask what it is—"

"No, sir, you may not."

A worried look descended on Hallum, but Kydd told him, "I'll need to take the gunner—no, a gunner's mate will suffice."

"That's Stirk, then, sir?"

"He'll do," Kydd replied. "Have him lay aft."

While the boat's crew were being mustered Kydd retired to his cabin, tore off his captain's coat and breeches and pulled on an old pair of Renzi's plain trousers that he had borrowed. With his ancient grego he would probably pass as a merchant skipper on business ashore.

When a mystified Stirk arrived, Kydd laid out the situation before him. "Young Luke's got himself in a moil."

"I knows, Mr. Kydd, sir." Nothing could be read from the glittering black eyes.

"And I've a mind t' do something for him."

No response came.

"Someone should go ashore an' bring the young scamp t' his senses. I've a notion that's t' be me. What d' you say . . . Toby?"

Slowly, Stirk's expression eased into a smile. "As I was a-thinkin'—shipmate."

A rush of warmth enveloped Kydd. The years had been stripped away; the old loyalties of his days as a foremast hand had not been forgotten.

Stirk rubbed his chin. "Won't be easy. We'll need t' describe 'em both without anyone knows the cut o' the jib of his dollymops."

"Heard tell she's a head o' hair like our own figurehead. All we has t' say is, anyone seen a tow-headed youngster with a long-haired filly astern, somewheres south o' Dolphin Street?" Kydd chuckled, aware that his hard-won refined speech was wilting under the influence of the returning years.

"I has th' say."

"Aye," said Kydd, meekly. "Well, boat's alongside and—"

"Poulden's coxswain," Stirk said firmly, as though that explained everything. Kydd dutifully went down with his old friend into the boat, leaving a puzzled lieutenant watching.

It was a wet trip, the boat's sail under a close reef, and they surfed forward on the backs of the rolling seas until they grounded with a solid crash on the shingle. Kydd leaped nimbly overside before the recoiling wave could return and waited while the boat was brought up.

"I, er, don't know how long m' business will take, Poulden. Do ye wait for me here."

Expressionless, his coxswain acknowledged, and Kydd set out with Stirk for Dolphin Street. It did not boast the lofty residences and courts of Middle Street, but a dark maze of interconnecting alleyways between the tap-houses, chandleries and shanties of the boatmen and artisans of the King's Naval Yard.

The rich stink of marine stores, stale beer and fish hung heavily as they moved urgently along. The taverns were full of local sea-folk waiting out the foul weather—and they would be best placed to notice strangers coming and going. Rain squalls added to the wind's bluster and Kydd drew his old grego closer as he waited patiently at the door while Stirk entered the Farrier. He wasn't long inside. "Some reckons they've clapped peepers on 'em but can't say where they's at. We're on th' right course, cuffin."

Without Stirk to allay suspicions, there wouldn't have been a chance of laying hands on Calloway, who, as a child, had been a barefoot waif in London and knew all the tricks. They hurried on. The wind was rising and Kydd tasted the salt sea spume on the air.

The Brewer's Arms brought news: a fuddled man in the blue jersey of a boatman disclosed gleefully that not only was Calloway known but that he had taken up with the daughter of Jack Cribben, a hoveller who, it seemed, was none too happy about the situation. The obliging boatman was at pains to point out that Cribben could be found in one of the little homes towards the seafront.

"Spread more sail, Toby. We'll have 'im back in a trice."

The windows of the house were barred, shuttered and wet with the constant spray. Kydd hammered at the door. There was a muffled shout from within and he realised he was being told to go to the back where it was sheltered.

The door was answered by a diminutive, furtive woman, who immediately called Cribben, a powerfully built older man. "Yer business?" he said abruptly, noting Stirk's thick-set figure.

"We need t' talk to Luke Calloway, if y' would."

Cribben stiffened. "Who says—"

"We know where he's at, mate," Kydd bit off. "Take us."

"Hold hard, there, cully! An' who's askin'? Are yez a king's man?"

"We're—shipmates o' the lad who wants him back aboard afore he runs afoul o' the captain," Kydd said quickly. "Y' see, we know you're not, as who should say, glad t' see him and y' daughter . . ."

"My Sally's not marryin' into th' Navy! She's a sweet lass as needs a steady hand on th' tiller an' one who comes home reg'lar each night. No sailin' away t' them foreign parts, havin' a whale of a time, an' her left wi' the little bantlings an' all."

"Then we'll take 'im off y' hands, sir," Kydd said briskly. "Just ask him t' step outside, if ye would."

Standing legs a-brace, Cribben shook his head and folded his arms defiantly.

"No?" Kydd spluttered. "An' why not?"

"'Cos I'll never be the shabbaroon as cravenly delivers up a body t' the Navy fer anyone, begob."

A flurry of light rain came with the wind's growing bluster. "Then we'll have t' get 'im f'r ourselves, cock," Kydd said.

The man did not move. "Y' won't find 'im here."

"S' where is he?" Kydd demanded.

There was no response.

Stirk's fists slowly bunched. "If 'n y' don't give us th' griff, cully, an' that right smartly—"

Kydd caught his eye. "No, drop it, Toby. Sea's gettin' up. We'd best be on our way." Calloway would be tipped off about a Navy visit and would hide deeper.

As they turned to go a small boy raced around the corner, and burst out excitedly in front of Cribben, "Old Bob Fosh seen a packet in trouble off the North Goodwins."

Cribben's eyes glinted, then the light died. "I thank 'ee, y' little rascal, even as it's t' no account." He found a coin for the child, who darted off.

At Kydd's puzzled expression he said, "All of 'em hereabouts is out after th' Princess draggin' anchor off the Bunt, seein' as how she'll pay over the odds, bein' an Indiaman. That's going t' leave me wi' no crew to go a-hovelling," he said bitterly. "Not as ye'd care."

He turned to go back inside but Kydd stopped him. "No hands? I'll work ye a bargain, Mr. Cribben. We crew f'r you an' ye're going t' tell us where t' find our Luke. Agreed?"

"Ye'll want shares in the hovel."

"No shares, should y' keep this t' yourself."

Cribben hesitated for a moment. "Wait," he ordered, and snatched an oilskin from behind the door, then plunged off down the beach frontage. Kydd followed.

"Ye're breaking ship y'self, then," Stirk said, with relish, as he caught up.

The lively seas were rolling in, with white-capped breakers here and there, the wind flat and hard from the east. If they left now they would make it out to Teazer, a wet and uncomfortable trip, but if they delayed . . .

Kydd chuckled. "Well, we bein' held up ashore, th' ship's boat won't take seas like this, will it now? S' what we do while we waits for th' weather t' ease is no one's business . . ." They laughed together, like youngsters out on a prank.

Cribben disappeared inside a hut further along and came out with a weathered individual. "Dick Redsull," he threw over his shoulder. "We needs another." The man was clearly of some years and cackled a greeting at them, but Kydd recognised the wiry build of a seaman.

Cribben hurried along to another boat-hut, but without success. "Long Jabber Neame?" Redsull suggested reedily.

"If 'n he ain't betwaddled wi' ale," muttered Cribben, but entered a small cottage and emerged with a large, bewildered man carrying sea-boots and trying to pull on foul-weather gear.

"Jack Neame, lads," he said apologetically. His red-rimmed eyes probably owed more to grog than salt-spray but he steered a straight enough course.

"Get some foulies f'r ye," Cribben said, and briefly ducked into his house, finding Kydd and Stirk sea-boots, jerseys and oilskins. They were well used, with the smell of tar, linseed oil and humanity.

Leaving the grateful pair to haul them on, Cribben went away to get further word on the ship. He returned with a satisfied grin. "A three-master t' seaward o' the Knoll," he said, to understanding nods from the hovellers. "We'll go 'im I think. Oh—what does we call ye, then?"

"Ah, Tom's m' tally an' this here is Toby."

Cribben nodded, then explained that the ship was probably a foreigner without a pilot, too much in dread of a notorious reputation to attempt the narrow channels through the treacherous sandbanks to the shelter of the Downs on the other side. And, with the easterly wind strengthening, so would be their anxieties over the anchor and cable that were holding them.

Daisy May was lying stem seaward with deck-covers whipping and hammering in the gusts, but already a large beach party was milling about in expectation of employment. Cribben waved cheerily at several men as he tramped over to the field past the King's Naval Yard.

Dozens of anchors of all shapes, weights and vintages recovered from the sands were laid out there; Cribben took his time and picked a stout piece nearly twice his height. "This 'un," he declared. It needed twenty men and a sledge to bring the awkward monster to the water's edge, the seas breaking heavily about it in a seething hiss.

The crowd held back respectfully while Cribben heaved himself up into the lugger and carefully checked the gear. "Jack?" he called, and Neame joined him. The long fore and mizzen yards with sails already bent on were handed into the boat, clapped on to their masts and quickly rigged.

A steady stream of men laid square timbers down the shingle.

"Come on, let's be havin ye!" Cribben urged. Kydd heaved himself up over the high bulwarks and stumbled over a dismaying tangle of ropes and spars lying about in the capacious hull.

Fortunately a dipping-lug rig was the simplest of all, and by the time impatient shouts were going up from those outside, he had taken it in: two masts, a yard for each, tacks and sheets. Under the wet snarl of rigging, all around the bottom-boards, there were regular coils of substantial rope, with the left-hand lay of anchor cable.

"You, Tom, go take th' fore wi' Jack. Toby, aft wi' me." Kydd did as he was told and glanced to seaward. It was a scene he had seen many times before—but from the deck of a well-found man-o'-war, not an open boat hardly bigger than a frigate's launch.

Under the hammering easterly the white-caps were increasing and now marched in on the backs of grey-green waves, setting the many ships in the Downs jibbing energetically to their anchors. But what drew Kydd's attention was an indistinct white line developing on the grey horizon: wild seas piling up on the hovellers' destination, the Goodwin Sands.

The tide was low, making it nearly a hundred feet down steep shingle to pull the craft to its native element. The beach party crowded round, every inch of the boat manned, and a double rope led out forward with willing hands tailing on.

Kydd looked down on scores of backs bent ready.

"Alaaaawww!" At the hoarse cry every man buckled to.

They were launching into the teeth of a dead muzzler, and Kydd knew they had to win their way against wind and the surging combers.

"Alaaaawww!" the cry went up again. It was answered immediately by a regular chant, and the heaving began. "Alaw boat, haul, alaw boat, haul, haul, haul, haaauuul!" At first the straining saw no result, but then the boat shuddered and inched forward over the timbers.

"Alaaaawww!" The ton deadweight of the Daisy May picked up speed and slithered down the ways until she met the seas in thumps of spray—and they were afloat, the wet black iron of the big anchor left forlorn on the beach.

"Jack, damn ye!" But Neame had already leaned over the bluff bow and taken the dripping rope handed up to him, straightening and passing it rapidly to the waiting Redsull. Then Kydd understood: this was a haul-off warp, and he bent to help get it over the stout windlass so that they could heave their boat bodily out to sea past the line of breakers.

Daisy May reared and shied at the considerable seas now rampaging in, but with three men at the windlass they hauled out steadily in the teeth of the wind to the warping buoy and quickly tied off. Then the hard work began: lines had been taken to their beached anchor and secured around its peak, where the shank met the flukes, in order to drag it out without it digging in.

It was back-breaking work in chill bursts of spray and on an unsteady footing: six-foot handspikes were thudded into square sockets in the horizontal windlass drum, then came a heroic backwards straining pull, the rhythm kept up by having the holes offset from each other so each man could re-socket at different times.

Unaccustomed to the toil, Kydd's muscles burned, but there could be no slacking—he had seen Stirk's devilish grin. All four laboured until, when the anchor was near, Cribben called a halt. Then it was more work at tackles to align Daisy May before the last task—lifting the anchor bodily from under them until it hung suspended close beneath. Cribben ordered the jigger tackles secured and their tethering to the warp buoy singled up, then raised an arm.

Kydd had to concede it masterly seamanship, performed in the wildest conditions.

"Get on wi' ye," Neame said good-naturedly. The long yard needed to be hooked to the foremast and hoisted. Kydd aligned the spar to the direction of the wind, seized the halliard and looked aft with concern.

A dead foul wind blowing hard could drive them helpless back on to the shore to be cast up. There would be no second chance.

Redsull pushed his way past to the bow painter while Neame, at the sheet, looked steadily at Kydd, who in turn kept his gaze on Cribben. His arm fell: Kydd hauled furiously hand over hand and the heavy yard began to lift. The wind hustled at it until, at chest height, it caught the exposed sail, which bellied to a hard tautness, Daisy May's bow shying away in response. At the same time Neame threw off the buoy slip rope, the mizzen briskly rose and took, and suddenly they were making way against the towering boisterous-ness of the onrushing seas.

Kydd hunkered down behind the bow with Stirk, trying to avoid the sheets of spume curling over as they met each wave with a crunch and smash of white spray. They were winning their way slowly to seaward. Light-headed, he felt a guilty thrill at the escapade but savoured the exhilaration of such seamanship. He flashed a grin at Stirk, who winked back.

They thrashed out through the anchored ships and towards the line of smoking white that now lay across their entire horizon, vivid against the dark of the storm-clouds. With her burden Daisy May made slow progress against the powerful seas but she was sure: this was her true element, and her high-waisted, broad lines felt sturdy and secure.

On impulse, Kydd abandoned his shelter and passed hand to hand down the boat to where Cribben sat at the tiller. "Snug as a duck in a ditch," Kydd offered.

"Aye, she is that."

"We're going north-about, then?"

Cribben looked at him in astonishment. "No, mate, we're goin' through in course," he said, as if speaking to a child.

"Through! Why, we're—"

"F'r them as knows th' Goodwins it's no great shakes," Cribben said. "Ye'd have t' know that they's shiftin' all the time—ye have t' keep a trace o' every little spit and bay, where the swatch-ways run in a tide-fall, th' gullies an' scour-pits all a-changing, where lies th' deepest fox-falls, how the tide runs, an', b' heaven, we knows it!"

During their slow beat out he went on to tell of the sands themselves. In calmer weather they dried to miles of hard-packed grains on which the local lads would play cricket in bravado—but woe betide the laggard, for the returning tide could race in faster than a man could run. Then the water would transform the vast sandbar into hillocks that ran like hot wax, quickening the sand into treacherous glue to drag a victim under. And if a ship was unfortunate enough to be cast up she had but one tide to break free: when the sand became quick she would "swaddle down" to be held in the maw of the Goodwins for ever—like as not, with her crew as well.

"More'n two thousan' good ships've left their bones t' rot here," Cribben said soberly. "It's bin called b' your Bill Shakespeare, th' 'Ship Swallower' an' he's right an' all."

They drew closer, and the effectiveness of the huge mass of the sands in arresting the onrush of the gale's heavy seas was becoming apparent: to the weather side, there was a broad band of hanging spray where the waves were in violent assault, while to its lee Daisy May was making her laborious way in perfect safety.

The Goodwins were now in full view with the ebbing tide—a long, low menace, not the golden yellow of a beach but the dark, sable sand of the seabed, stretching away unbroken into the far distance in both directions.

A gull landed on the gunwale, hooking in its claws and swaying under the battering of the wind. It was not the usual grey-white species but a big, flat-headed type with cruel yellow eyes that watched them with cold calculation. Every member of the boat flailed at it, sending it quickly up and away. "Is a priggin' corpse eater," cursed Redsull.

Then, ahead, Kydd saw their way: at a sharp diagonal through the main banks and therefore unseen before, it stretched away through to the violence on the other side. They went about for the approach. "Kellett Gut," grunted Cribben. "Nothing to worry of—we's more'n sixty feet under us."

Hundreds of yards wide only and churning with a tide-race, it seemed a fearful prospect for the plucky little boat but she won through, emerging into a quite different seascape—murderous combers crashing in to spend their fury in a bass thunder of breaking seas, their tops smoking with white spume, the stinging spray driven mercilessly downwind by the blast of the gale.

No more than half a mile to the north, a foreign-looking barque was near hidden in the mists of spume. Cribben gave a soft smile and shouted against the wind, "He's in a fair way o' takin' the ground where he's at—loses his holding there, an' it's all deep water t' the Knoll."

Kydd understood: the barque was hanging on to an unseen narrow spit, and if her anchor tore free of the sand under the wind's blast, the deep water between it and the steep-sided Knoll would give no holding whatsoever—they were in dire peril. "Go forrard then, Tom, where we needs ye," Cribben told him. He pulled on the tiller and, crabwise, Daisy May came up with the deep-laden ship, passing into the small lee around her stern. Smart work with fore and miz-zen kept her there, while Cribben stood and, hanging onto a stay, hailed the anxious faces peering down from her taffrail.

"Yez standin' into danger, that there sand-spit. Compree?" he bellowed.

"Ach, ve know," came back a faint hail. "But vot can we do?"

It was a Prussian barque, a Danziger with a valuable freighting, but when her master realised what was afoot he quickly turned cagey. However, Cribben had done such haggling many times before and did not have to mention how inadvisable it would be if, in the event of an insurance claim, it became known that the offer of a perfectly sound set of ground tackle had been turned down.

It was not long before they were lighter one anchor and cable, and the barque was in possession of a third anchor to windward. Taking advantage of their lee, Daisy May was put about for a rapid trip back before the wind. The absence of the deadweight of an anchor resulted in a lively roll in the beam seas before they were able to shape course into Kellett Gut, away from the chaos of the gale.

"Hoy, Jack!" cried Neame, urgently, throwing out an arm to seaward. At first it was difficult to make out what he meant, but then a passing squall lifted the mist and revealed the stark outlines of a small derelict—a coaster perhaps, dismasted out to sea and now driving to her inevitable doom on the Goodwins.

Kydd's heart went out to the unknown mariners who had suffered this calamity for he knew they could not be helped; Daisy May was too far committed into the narrow passage of the Gut and the wreck would be cast up well before others could come to their aid.

Nevertheless, perhaps out of some sense of brotherly feeling towards them in their extremity, Cribben luffed up and came to in the lee side of the immense sandbank. "Killick," he threw at Neame laconically. The man cleared away their little bow anchor, which plummeted down while all eyes followed the final act of the drama.

Figures on the derelict were jerking about in some sort of frantic activity, but the end could not be long delayed. Soon the huge breakers roaring in would rise up as they felt the solid bank under them, bear the derelict aloft and smash it to flinders on the unyielding sand.

As Kydd looked on, mesmerised, he realised that the activity on deck had been that of some hero who had fashioned a steering oar from a plank and had succeeded in wrestling the bow resolutely shoreward. And he also recognised the vessel, with her rakish lines, she was a chasse-marée, a French privateer.

Nobody spoke as a giant breaker curled and fell—and as the boiling surf raced up the sand, it sent the wreck shooting forward. The hero's final actions were rewarded, for as soon as the dark shape of the craft came to rest, the figures stumbled from it on to the blessed firmness. The sea returned in a hissing roar and pushed the craft crazily broadside but the men were not running for safety: they were struggling with something in the wreck. It was a body—no, an injured seaman, and they were dragging him out, then making hastily for the higher ground.

Kydd felt like cheering but Cribben's look was bleak as he grunted, "They've got t' come off of there—tide'll have 'em in a couple of hours."

"Can't we close with th' bank an' take 'em?" Kydd asked.

"Why? They's only mongseers, is all. Let 'em take their chances."

"They're sailors, jus' like us all."

"No."

Kydd felt his blood rise but held himself in check. "Five guineas t' lay off the bank."

Cribben looked at him in astonishment, then peered into Kydd's face as if for reassurance as to his sanity. "Seven."

"Done."

The others looked at Kydd warily, but helped to pull the lugger in as far as was prudent and Kydd signalled to the stranded seamen with exaggerated beckoning movements. There was a distracted wave back but no sign that they understood the urgency of their situation.

Kydd swore; in a short time they would be beyond mortal help. He repeated the signal, then got everyone aboard Daisy May to join in, but the Frenchmen were not going to risk the tide-rips.

"Leave 'em be, the silly buggers," Cribben said dismissively, clearly ready to leave.

Kydd said nothing but began to strip off to his trousers.

"What're ye up to?" Cribben demanded.

"I knows th' French lingo," Kydd retorted, "an' in common pity they have t' be warned."

"We only gets th' bounty fer bringing back bodies, not live 'uns."

Standing on the gunwale Kydd leaped clumsily into the cold shock of the sea and struck out. The current seized him and carried him along but after frantic strokes his toe caught the hard roughness of the sandy bottom and he staggered upright, looking for the castaways.

The chill of the wind's blast nearly took his breath away and when a Frenchman hurried up to him he could hardly control his shuddering. "V-vous êtes i-ici dans un g-grand péril, m-mon brave," he stuttered, and tried to convey the essence of the danger.

It was surreal: he was standing on hard-packed brown sand that was about to plunge beneath the sea, talking to a French privateers-man whom it was his duty to kill—and himself, a commander of the Royal Navy, taking orders from a Deal hoveller.

The Frenchmen chattered among themselves, then explained that for reasons of humanity they could not abandon their injured comrade—he had been the one to wield the steering oar—and besides, like many seamen, none could swim. There was such poignant resignation in their faces that Kydd was forced to turn away.

Staggering with the force of a vicious wind squall across the flat banks he tried to flog his frozen mind to thought. Cribben would not keep Daisy May among the leeward shoals for much longer. It was—

A faint shout drew his attention to the lugger. He saw Stirk jump into the sea and strike out for them, Redsull back in Daisy May furiously paying out a line.

Stirk splashed into the shallows and Kydd helped him up. A small double line was threaded through his belt at the small of his back, which he released. Hoarsely, he panted, "They hauls 'em out b' this rope. Cribben's in a rare takin'—but them others'll be good 'uns."

The light line was handed rapidly along as an endless loop until a heavier line arrived and, with a piece of timber for flotation, the rescue was rapidly made complete.

"S' then, Mr. Hoveller, where's our Luke Calloway?" Kydd demanded. Cribben was at the head of the beach with his arms folded, watching Daisy May hauled out of the surf and up the shingle in the fading light.

"Where's m' seven guineas?" snapped the man, keeping his eyes on the straining capstan crew.

"You'll get 'em by sunset t'morrow," Kydd replied tightly.

Then Cribben turned to him with a smile. "I don't rightly know who you is, Mr. Tom, but youse a right taut man o' th' sea as ever I seen, an' I honour ye for it. Follow me."

"I'll go, Toby—no need f'r you," Kydd said.

Cribben stamped up the shingle and into the maze of alleyways. He stopped at the gaunt old edifice of a deserted maltster's and gestured contemptuously. "I know they's got their heads down in that there loft. Take him an' be damned to the shab."

Kydd eased open the ancient double doors and entered into the smelly darkness, the wind covering the noise of his entrance. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw dust-covered mash-tubs, long planked floors and, to the side, a flight of rickety steps leading up to the blackness at the top of the building.

Kydd tiptoed to the stairs ears a-prick for any sound.

Halfway up he heard muffled giggling. He completed the climb, arriving at what appeared to be an overseer's office. Within it, he heard furtive movement and beneath the door saw dim light.

He crashed it open. "Mr. Midshipman Calloway! Y'r duty t' your ship, sir!"

With a horrified shriek, a naked girl snatched for covering. Calloway sat up groggily, and glared resentfully at him.

"T' break ship is a crime and an insult t' your shipmates, Luke. Why . . . ?"

"Er, me 'n' Sally, um, we're—"

"Y'r country lies under such a peril as never was. Are ye going t' tell me you're comfortable t' leave the fighting to others while ye cunny burrow with y' trug?"

Calloway reddened and reached for his clothes. "I'm done with roaming," he said stubbornly. "I want t' cast anchor next to m' woman, an' she won't be found in a poxy man-o'-war."

"Leave my Luke be!" screeched the girl. "Him 'n' me's gettin' spliced, ain't we, darlin'?"

Kydd ignored her. "Your duty calls ye, Luke," he said remorselessly.

"I—I'm not . . ."

"I c'n have you taken in irons and haled aboard as a deserter."

The lad stiffened.

"But I won't. I'm leaving—now. And if y' follows me, it's back aboard, no questions asked, all a-taunto. And if y' don't, then you'll have t' live with y'r decision for the rest o' your life . . ."

CHAPTER 6

RENZI CONTEMPLATED THE WIND-TORN SEAS of the Downs through Teazer's salt-encrusted stern windows. Years in Neptune's realm had inured him to the motion and he knew he would miss the honest liveliness and daily challenges of the elements if ever he was obliged to go ashore for good.

For now, though, that was not in question and he blessed his luck in securing a situation that ensured food, board and the company of his friend while he pursued his scholarly quest. It was proceeding well: he had settled back into his studies after the catastrophe of the failed plot against Napoleon and, just recently, had reached a delightful impasse in his careful building of the edifice of support of his central hypotheses: the Nomological Determinist position was threatening the entire substructure of his "Economic Man," but once again the sturdy pragmatism of Hobbes, two centuries earlier, was coming to the rescue. In fact, conflated with the naturalistic philosophies of Hume, the so-called "Compatibilists" had—

The distant wail of the boatswain's call sounded. Kydd was being piped aboard after his enforced delay ashore. Voices echoed in the tiny companionway to the great cabin, then Kydd poked his head in, shaking water everywhere.

"I'll be with you in a brace o' shakes, old chap," he said, and disappeared to change, then returned quickly to down a restorative brandy. "A tolerably divertin' time of it yesterday," he said expansively, "and one young fussock back aboard as is considering his position." He wedged himself in his chair against Teazer's jerking at her moorings, which was her way of indicating her impatience for the freedom of the open sea. Eyeing the canvas dispatch bag, he added, "I see the boats are running again—is that the mail?"

Guiltily, Renzi emptied the contents on to the table. Only one item seemed at all official; any concerning officers would be conveyed personally by a midshipman or lieutenant, so this was probably in regard to a member of the crew or yet another routine fleet order that Teazer, still awaiting repairs, would be unable to comply with. He passed it to Kydd.

"Why, I do believe you're found out, Renzi. Listen to this: 'The ship's clerk, HMS Teazer, to attend at the flag-officer's . . . forthwith'" Kydd laughed, "Don't worry. I'll send along a hand to bear a fist with all your workings."

The trip out to Monarch was uncomfortable, wet and not a little irksome. The order had not specified which papers were due for a surprise vetting so Renzi had been obliged to take along as many as he could manage, carefully protected in two layers of oilskin.

His irritation increased when no one seemed to know why he had been sent for. Finally, the first lieutenant appeared and regarded him curiously. "Ah, yes. It is Renzi, is it not?"

"Sir."

"Then my instructions are to convey you to Walmer Castle with all dispatch. They're expecting you, I believe. Er, pray refrain from discussing your visit with anyone. That is, anyone whomsoever. Do you understand me?"

"Aye aye, sir," Renzi replied, taken aback.

"Very well. I shall call away our own boat immediately. There's no need to detain yours. And do get rid of that raffle—I hardly think Walmer are likely to be interested in your weekly accounts or similar." He chuckled.

This was strange indeed. Renzi had seen Walmer Castle from the sea, a low, round edifice like Deal Castle, also dating back to the eighth King Henry. He had heard that it was now home to the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, an honorary position under the Crown whose origins were lost in medieval antiquity.

The castle was near the edge of the beach at a secluded location a mile to the south of Deal. A tight-lipped lieutenant accompanied Renzi as they trudged up the shingle and approached the ancient bastions.

"Halt, an' who goes there?" It was the first of many sentinels who challenged them before they reached the round Tudor gatehouse and Renzi felt stirrings of unease. Army sentries at a private residence?

The lieutenant spoke to the gatekeeper sergeant, who took Renzi in charge, gruffly telling him to follow. They went through the echoing gateway and upstairs, eventually entering a distinguished residence with hanging pictures and velvet curtains. With kitchen odours and the distinctive serge and leathery smell of soldiery, it appeared well tenanted too.

They passed into a central corridor, then mid-way along the sergeant stopped and knocked at a door. It was answered by a well-dressed civilian. "Renzi? Do come in, old chap."

Warily, he entered the small room, with its single desk and visitor's chair opposite illuminated by a mullioned gunport. "Sit down, make yourself at home. Tea, or . . . ?"

Renzi declined refreshments.

"Hobson, Aliens Office. You must be wondering why we've asked you here," he began mildly.

Renzi remained silent.

Hobson went on, "We have the warmest recommendation from Commodore d'Auvergne in Jersey as to your probity and reliability, which leads us to consider whether in the matter of—"

"No!"

"—a particular and delicate service—"

"I am never a spy, sir."

"—of the highest importance to the interests of this country, that you would consider—"

"Understand me now, sir. I find the practices of spying repugnant to my character and odious in the extreme. Should you—"

"Mr. Renzi. No one has mentioned spying that I recall. This concerns an entirely different matter and I confess I'm quite at a loss to account for your hostile manner, sir." He paused, then resumed stiffly, "You will be aware of the humane and practical custom between belligerents of the exchange of prisoners-of-war, both of paroled officers and the common sort."

"I am, of course," Renzi replied.

"Then you will be as dismayed as His Majesty's government at the abhorrent actions of the French in detaining our prisoners with no hope of repatriation in any wise, contrary to the usages of war, which, until the present conflict, have always served perfectly adequately."

Renzi knew of the unprecedented act of barbarism by Bonaparte at the outset of the war in seizing every Englishman, high or low, military or harmless tourist, and incarcerating them, along with their women. Was this to be some crazy rescue attempt?

Hobson continued in the same tone. "There is to be noted a marked imbalance in prisoners held. At the moment we hold some three or four times as many French as they do ours, and it is our belief that this may be the means to bring Napoleon to a more rational standing on the matter."

"To negotiate?"

"Quite so. Agreement has recently been reached with the French government through an intermediary for a diplomatic mission to be sent by us to explore the question."

"You wish me to—"

"No, Mr. Renzi, we do not. The foreign secretary, Lord Hawkes-bury, has appointed a Mr. Haslip, lately of the Transport Board, to conduct the mission. It is his wish to be accompanied by one in the undoubted character of gentleman who, at the same time, might be relied upon to undertake the humbler—but nevertheless vital—tasks as they present themselves."

Despite himself, Renzi could not smother a cynical chuckle.

"Come, come, sir. This is not an occasion for humour. Consider, if you will, the families of the unfortunates in the fortress prisons of France with no hope of release. The hardships they must daily face, the—"

"I thank you for your consideration, Mr. Hobson, but I have to tell you I am perfectly content where I am."

Hobson steepled his hands in thought. "You do surprise me, Renzi. Clerk of a brig-sloop, now to be given the opportunity to visit Paris, the home of Diderot, Rousseau and Enlightened Man—and, while under diplomatic protection, to be quite free to take your fill of the sights and mingle in learned company . . ."

He had Renzi's avid interest now. This was another matter entirely. Savants of sufficiently adequate stature on both sides were—after considerable fuss at the highest level—sometimes given safe-conduct for the express purpose of furthering human knowledge and were thereby able to pass unhindered between warring nations. That he, unpublished and unknown, could enjoy the same privilege would be an incredible stroke of fortune.

"Er, there is no question of my abusing such a position to engage in activities in the nature of spying, of course."

Hobson frowned in exasperation. "Mr. Renzi! This continual adverting to some form of espionage does you no credit at all. You have my word on it that no spying is involved. In point of fact, should you be so far in want of gentlemanly conduct as to undertake such on a private basis, then His Majesty's ministers will utterly condemn you. You will go openly, under your own auspices and with stated diplomatic objectives, while no doubt you will be, from the first, subject to a form of surveillance by the authorities. Provided you are earnest and diligent in the discharge of your duties and refrain from being seen near locations of a military nature, I can see no difficulties pursuant to an interesting and rewarding experience."

"I shall proceed in cartel, as a full member of the mission to . . . ?"

"Mr. Renzi, if you have a stated moral objection to assisting at such a level then please to let me know at this point," Hobson said, with a touch of impatience. "I shall then be obliged to find another."

"No, not at all. I was merely—"

"Then shall we continue? An accreditation to the mission requires more than a few diplomatic formalities, which should be put in hand without further delay. Mr. Haslip has let it be known he wishes to depart at the earliest possible opportunity."

"Of course," said Renzi, hastily. "I shall immediately put my affairs in order in my ship and—"

"There will be time for that later. Now, to the first. Do you wish to travel under your own name or another? Some feel it more congenial to their privacy to discourage curious prying by a foreign power."

"Oh? Then, er, 'Smith' will answer, I believe."

"Certainly. There are other details we shall need to record, and then, under your signature, these will be sent to Whitehall by special messenger for your formal accession to the body of the mission. I suspect Mr. Haslip will therefore wish to be aboard the cartel ship, departing this Thursday night from Ramsgate.

"There may be final matters to discuss before you leave, so perhaps we shall meet once more on Wednesday. Oh, and as no doubt you have already been told, the invariable custom in these affairs is that complete secrecy is to be observed. Not even your captain must know."

He looked Renzi directly in the eye. "You have no conception of the villainous creatures who inhabit the nether world, ready to take advantage."

"Quite, quite," Renzi said, with feeling.

"You're taking a holiday?" Kydd asked, in surprise, as Renzi assembled his bags in the larger space of the great cabin. "Where will this be, old trout?"

Renzi fought with the temptation to mention casually that he intended to spend the weekend in Paris. "It did seem the most suitable opportunity, Teazer being under repair for the time being."

Light-headed with exhilaration at the prospect before him, he deliberated whether the old but finer blue coat would more suit in a Paris of fashion and gaiety, or was it to be the newer but sombre brown? In the end he decided that if he was to put up a decent showing as a diplomat then perhaps he would visit a fashionable tailor while he was there. After all, he was representing his country.

Kydd would not let it rest. "Fine weather, just the ticket for a bit o' sporting in the sun?" He tried again. "Do you have anyone to go with, Nicholas?"

"You mean in the character of a female?"

Kydd grinned. "I see, you wicked dog."

"No."

"Then where?"

Renzi picked up one of the bags, as though checking its weight. Thwarted, Kydd stumped off to annoy the officer-of-the-watch.

The day before the cartel ship was due to sail Renzi made acquaintance of Haslip. He was a humourless, pompous bureaucratic functionary but Renzi knew how to handle such as him.

Hobson greeted him warmly. "So you're leaving tomorrow for Paris? I envy you, Renzi. My position seldom allows me such diversions." He closed the door. "Now, one thing has come up, old fellow. Do see if you can help us. While you're in Paris there is one chap we'd like you to look up. He's an artist, portraiture and such, the Duke of Devonshire and similar. Rather good, too—he's hung in the Royal Academy, no less."

"Oh?"

"Yes indeed," Hobson said smoothly. "You see, he's an odd kind of cove, head full of strange notions, but we'd like you to let him know that we're quite keen to see him back in the old country. I'll let you have a sum of money to that end—you'll sign and account for it in the usual way, of course, but we are rather concerned to have him return."

"You mean—to smuggle him back?"

"Goodness gracious, no! He's a citizen of the United States, a neutral, and is quite free to go where he pleases. Name of Fulton."

The cartel ship left the pier at Ramsgate in the anonymous darkness and was soon butting into a chill south-easterly. The passengers scuttled below to light and warmth, but Renzi stood on the foredeck, clutching a shroud and burning with indignation.

He had been well and truly hooked, caught and landed. Dazzled by the daring thought of Paris in the summer he had not stopped to consider why he, Renzi, had been plucked out of obscurity to perform the task. The real reason for his visit turned out not to be spying but something infinitely worse and more dangerous. The stakes for him and England could not have been higher.

This Fulton, or Francis, the code-name he sometimes went by, was an extraordinary man, possibly a genius. From childhood poverty in Maryland he had attracted early support for his painting talent sufficient to have him sent to England, where he had shone as a portrait painter. He had spent some fruitful years in Devon, then come to the attention and patronage of Benjamin West, the president of the prestigious Royal Academy. In the course of time he had been hung beside the great masters.

On the continent the hideous excesses of the French Revolution had turned to power struggles and thence a fragile form of stability while energies were directed outward in war. With England convulsed in the bloody mutinies of Spithead and the Nore, Fulton had suddenly decided to leave and cross to France, where he had quickly taken up with the circle of expatriate radicals and friends of the Revolution who encouraged the blossoming of his growing republican idealism.

Then, within months, word had trickled back to England that, extraordinarily, Fulton had presented plans to the Directory for a "submarine boat" for use by the French Navy against the British. Why and how a noted artist had turned his talents to such fancies was not explained to Renzi. Then, after a coup in 1799, Napoleon Bonaparte had become Consul for Life and his attention had been drawn to Fulton's schemes. He had advanced the inventor funding to produce his first "submarine," Nautilus.

If reports were to be believed, Fulton had indeed built it and trialled it in the Seine, submerging with his crew for an hour before horrified witnesses, then triumphantly returning to the surface. It seemed a far from practical weapon of war, but when he later manoeuvred the submarine confidently about the entrance to Le Havre and then the open sea, and talked of fitting it with his new exploding "torpedoes," there was no more doubt but that the sinister and deadly craft was about to rewrite the rules of war.

He had been granted a personal audience with Bonaparte and had energetically begun to prepare plans for a bigger and more destructive submersible, but peace had been declared and development stalled. When war resumed, Fulton was well placed to demand what he would for a weapon that could be aimed directly at the one thing that denied the French domination of the world: the Royal Navy.

Since Napoleon's seizure of power, his network of spies and secret police had clamped a tight hold on the capital so reliable information was virtually impossible to get—but it did not take much imagination to realise that any maritime nation would be helpless against the possessor of such an instrument of destruction, utterly defenceless against something that could not even be seen. Who knew what was being promised to its inventor as Bonaparte gathered his forces for the invasion of England?

Renzi's task was simple: locate Fulton, detach him from the French cause and conduct him to Britain.

The unfairness nearly choked him. Why should such responsibility be placed on his shoulders? On sober reflection, though, he realised he was uniquely qualified for the job. After his hard experiences in Jersey, assisting a spymaster, he knew what to expect of the French system; he was intelligent yet unknown to the French, and with considerable experience of sea service. Added to that there was his undoubted moral integrity, the demeanour of a gentleman and the fact that his naval record would even show service on the North American station. That was why he had been chosen.

And it was a job that demanded the guile of just one man, not a force, and still less a full conspiracy. With numbers came the chance of betrayal, and the French would be merciless to any who threatened their trump card.

In summary, his task was to find where the man was hidden in the great city and approach him with unanswerable arguments as to why he should betray and turn on his benefactors—after he had unavoidably revealed himself to Fulton as a British agent, of course. And this to the man whose intercepted letters had described England's Navy as "the source of all the incalculable horrors" committed against the free citizens of the ocean and whose firm friend in Paris was Tom Paine, the notorious revolutionary.

It was the stuff of nightmares, a near impossible objective but one that had to succeed.

His mind reeled, his body oblivious to the cold and spray as they made for Calais and enemy country. He had no idea how he would begin: he was on his own with nothing but his wits and cunning.

A white flag prominent at her foretop-gallant masthead, the cartel ship hove to in Calais Roads to await inspection. To Renzi, dazed with lack of sleep, it was utterly unreal. So recently Teazer had been fighting for her life in these very waters, trying to prevent ships entering. Now here he was, on an English ship, about to be welcomed into that same port.

Soon they were making their way within a narrow staked passage through the mudflats, past the forts and into the inner basins crowded with invasion craft and dominated by the louring Fort Nieulay. Then came the sight of sour-faced douaniers on the quay, the sharp tones of the officer conducting exchanges and the indefinable odours of foreign soil.

As his passport was minutely examined Renzi felt himself in an increasingly dream-like situation that was paradoxically insulating him against the dread of the reality into which he was being sucked.

He and Haslip were separated from the others and conducted to a quayside office where their papers were checked yet again, then taken outside to a waiting carriage. A gens d'armes lieutenant helped them to board and, without comment, entered as well, signalling to the escort of two horsemen behind.

It was the usual gut-rattling journey into the interior, relieved only by regular stops for refreshment and a change of horses. No one spoke. Haslip had not been made privy to the real reason for Renzi's appointment and ignored him in a lordly way, while the lieutenant was not disposed to be friendly to an Englishman. Renzi stared out of the window at the flat, boring landscape, prevented from dozing by the gritty jolting—and the thought of the madness into which he was about to be plunged.

His mind strayed to the last time he had been with Kydd before they sailed. It was soon after they had seen fit to inform Renzi of the true nature of his mission. Something in his face had sparked dismay in his friend: brushing aside Renzi's light prattle of holidays, Kydd had gripped his hands and wished him all good fortune for wherever it was he was going.

Villages became more frequent; here, little had changed in the years since, as a carefree young man, Renzi had passed through France on his Grand Tour, and as they neared the capital, he felt a surge of exhilaration at approaching the legendary City of Light.

The outer reaches of Paris were much as he remembered, and suddenly they were in the city. The same open spaces, narrow muddy streets and, rising above the stink of horses and coal-smoke, the enticing alien smell of garlic and herbs, always on the air. There were as many people on the avenues as before, but they were of a different kind, sombrely dressed and keeping to themselves as they hurried along. There were fewer shabbily dressed poor.

Renzi recognised the rue St. Honoré and, close by, the ancient church of St. Roche. Then the massive stone columns and classical pediments of the Hôtel Grandime came into view, and the carriage swayed finally to a stop. The lieutenant asked them curtly to remain and bounded up the steps. He returned with footmen, and they were ushered inside.

Conscious of a wary hush and hostile stares, Renzi completed the formalities, the eyes of the concierge flicking between him and the lieutenant. Their rooms were on the first floor, a larger inner suite and a smaller outer one, which he took for himself without comment.

"I shall dine alone, Smith, and shall not want to be disturbed," Haslip said importantly. "See that you're able to attend upon me at ten tomorrow. Is that understood?"

It suited Renzi well: from his rooms he could slip in and out quietly as he pleased, and that Haslip wished to remain in his solitary glory was even better. His meagre luggage arrived and, worn out, he flopped onto the musty four-poster and closed his eyes. He drifted off quickly but woke feeling stiff and cold. Immediately the dread of his situation rushed back but he did not allow it to take hold. He finished stowing his gear in the old-fashioned drawers and splashed his face with water.

He patted his waistcoat pocket, and was reassured by the crackle of his passport. Then he went downstairs, with an air of jaunty defiance, ignored the watchful gaze of the concierge and strode out into the evening. Hesitating, he turned right, then walked purposefully along towards the vast Place Louis XV.

He emerged into its great spaces and slowed. This was now the Place de la Révolution and he was making pilgrimage to the spot where, just a handful of years ago, the guillotines had slithered and fallen before screaming crowds to end the lives of so many of France's ancient nobility.

The sense of loss of the older world was overpowering here, and he closed his eyes in melancholy. The feeling passed and he walked on rapidly—he needed the comfort of human company.

Inside a nearby tavern it was warm and dark, dense with pipe-smoke. Low candlelight played on the animated features of couples and the babble of talk ebbed and flowed. Renzi found a corner table and settled quietly, letting the memories return. "Garçon!" The tapster seemed not to hear and he repeated the call more loudly. Astonished faces turned to him as the man stormed across. "M'sieur, un demi de bière, s'il vous plaît."

The tapster came to an abrupt stop and peered at Renzi. "Vous êtes anglais?" he said disbelievingly.

Whether it was because of his square-cut English coat or his accent, Renzi did not know; but he was obliged to explain at length why an Englishman was on the loose in the Paris of Napoleon. In return he had to accept a scolding over his use of garçon and monsieur where now the egalitarian citoyen was expected.

A nearby couple made much of moving to another table and, behind him, a noisy incident was probably another pair ostentatiously removing themselves from the proximity of an Englishman, no doubt for the benefit of hidden watchers.

Alone, Renzi sipped his beer as the conversations started again and his thoughts turned to what lay ahead.

It was near impossible, but a start had to be made. The hardest thing of all would be to locate the American. He had his freedom to move about, but that did not mean he could simply go up and ask where the submarine inventor called Fulton was. Even the slightest interest in matters not directly concerning his official purpose in France would be reported and seized upon jubilantly as evidence that he was abusing his position to spy. The Moniteur would trumpet to the world such perfidy against "his innocent hosts," and the worthy cause of the hapless prisoners-of-war would irrevocably be lost.

Renzi forced himself to concentrate: there had to be a way to Fulton if he had the wit to find it. Without question he was being followed. After Jersey, however, he was too wise in the ways of spying to try to shake them off. Once identified, an agent was a known quantity but, more importantly, a slick evasion would be the quickest way to guarantee the attention of Fouché's secret police.

The safest course would be to appear to make the most of his stay and move about, visiting and gaping. This would have them relaxing their surveillance and make furtive meetings more possible. He smiled wryly. Right at this moment he was where duty called— openly tasting the night life of Paris.

There was movement under the candlelight by the far wall as a raven-haired chanteuse and a darker central European violinist bowed together and opened with a soaring peasant air from the Auvergne which took Renzi back to long-past days of gaiety and passion. The singer made shameless play of her charms and held the room spellbound. Despite himself, Renzi was caught up in the charged atmosphere and applauded enthusiastically.

Then followed a sensual love lament. The tavern fell quiet as she held the audience with her tale of longing and suffering, loving and losing. Renzi couldn't help a sudden rush of feeling; for some reason she was reaching him with a message of humanity and grief that rose far above the gross distortions of war. As the urgent, pleading harmony enveloped him, his mind rebelled: he was furious at the pitiless logic that said the ultimate course for nations in disagreement was to throw themselves at each other in a struggle to the death.

He gulped at the intensity of his reaction but then an image of Teazer assailed him—the graceful being in whose bosom he had been borne while his theories had matured, destroyed without warning in a cataclysmic detonation, prey to a lurking submarine boat, her unsuspecting crew torn to pieces by the explosion.

It was horrific, an unthinkable fate that might come to pass unless . . . In the warm darkness it was all he could do to prevent his helplessness coming out in a storm of emotion and overwhelming him.

It was stultifying in the room: Haslip had resorted to a lengthy legal argument and was presenting it in a monotone. The French were led by an arrogant young firebrand, an earthy scion of the Revolution who clearly despised both the English and what he had to do, and did not bother to hide his impatience.

The presentation droned on, and when they broke for refreshments Renzi went to Haslip to show him his notes and express support. He met nothing but self-importance and a pompous disinclination to listen.

In the afternoon the French deployed their own man, an arid word-grinder whose lengthy, many-tailed points were almost impossible to follow and summarise on paper. Renzi despaired. It was as if the opposite party was under orders to obfuscate and delay, and he was relieved when an appeal to an obscure medieval case-law finding was interpreted in opposite ways and it was agreed to retire for study and deliberation.

His offer of assistance acidly declined, Renzi felt able to take time to get a hold on the situation. But before he did so he would indulge himself—just this once. He had noted a bookshop of some distinction further along the rue St. Honoré that it would be a sin to ignore, in this the Paris of Montesquieu and Diderot.

It was, in fact, a grand palace of learning, ramparts of books stretching away, alcoves and desks for enquirers and stiffly dressed assistants attending the browsing public. He reached for a Voltaire and was soon contentedly absorbed in its earnest and learned preface, written by another scholar, praising the author as an epitome of the Enlightenment.

An assistant came up to him. Renzi thought of his own studies. Clearly, now was the perfect opportunity to discover the works of lesser-known authors—and at source. In his best French he asked politely if it were known that the philosopher Johann Herder had published anything of note following the Ideen zur Philosophie which had so informed Renzi's earlier searches for historical origins.

"Je suis désolé, m'sieur," the man said sorrowfully, clearly untroubled by Renzi's English appearance.

An older man nearby removed his spectacles and cocked his head to one side. "Pardonnez-moi, monsieur," he said. "I could not but help overhearing. I rather feel he would be most offended were I not to make mention of his Briefe zur Beförderung der Humanität recently to print."

"You are so kind, sir," Renzi said, with a bow. "I find Herr Herder at a refreshing distance from Goethe's classicism."

"Are you then a scholar, monsieur?" the gentleman said, with rising interest.

"In the slightest way, sir. I am as yet unpublished, still to mature my hypotheses on the human condition."

"Then surely the swiftest way to an enlightenment is disputing with the author himself."

"'Was ist Aufklärung?'" Then what is enlightenment? Renzi could not resist Kant's pungent epigram. Then he hurried on, "And I should wish it possible, sir."

The man's eyes twinkled. "Tonight you shall. It is the first Thursday of the month so there is a lecture at the Institut and I am sure your author friend will be there. Oh, may I introduce myself? Pierre Laplace, astronomer and mathematician."

Renzi was stunned. This was the very savant whose work on celestial mechanics and advanced mathematics had earned him the title of the French Newton—and, if he had heard aright, he was inviting him to the famous Institut to mingle with the finest minds of the age. "B-but I am English, sir," he said faintly.

"You may be a Hottentot for all I care. This night you shall be my guest, Monsieur . . . ?"

"Oh—er, Smith, Nicholas Smith."

"Quite so."

Close by, an anonymous individual continued to concentrate on his book—Renzi noticed it was upside-down.

The lecture, on the taxonomic peculiarities of seaweed, was persuasively delivered, and afterwards Laplace went in search of Herr Herder. However, it seemed that the elderly gentleman was ill and they dined alone.

For some hours Renzi had been able to throw off his feeling of hopelessness, and taste something of what it must be to reach a level of recognition that would find him welcomed into the company of great thinkers such as these. Would his own contributions to knowledge ever achieve such greatness? "Sir, I must express my deepest sensibility at your kindness in inviting me here," he declared sincerely.

"Nonsense, monsieur. You will go from here with renewed purpose, a higher vision. This is what la belle France is giving to humanity—a world where all are equal, each may enter the Temple of Learning as a consequence of their gifts of logic and scholarship, never the circumstances of their birth."

"Sir, our Royal Society—"

"Is prestigious but class-bound. In France we order things differently. Why, where would be your Genevan Rousseau, even your Pole Kosciusko had they not slaked their thirst for philosophies at the fountains of wisdom only to be found here in Paris?"

Renzi murmured an agreement, and Laplace continued expansively, "Why, there are sages and philosophes from all corners of the world flocking here to be recognised—I honour these savants—and even original thinkers, like the American who came here desiring, of all things, to create a submarine boat."

"A—a what?" Renzi could hardly believe his ears.

"A species of plunging boat that submerges completely under the water. A most amazing device. I have seen it myself, for I have the honour to count the inventor among my friends," Laplace said.

"It—it immerses under the water and stays there?" Renzi's mind was flailing wildly. "Come, come, sir, this is hard to accept."

"No, it is true, monsieur, you have my word. I was able to intercede on his behalf to secure the funding—I have the ear of the Emperor, you know, and he was concerned even in these busy times to allow the gentleman to realise his undersea dreams."

"How generous," Renzi said, as heartily as he could. "Can you conceive of it? A boat that swims freely in the realm of the creatures of the deep and allows the brave Argonauts aboard to view their disporting in safety and comfort. This is a marvel indeed."

"Quite so."

"And it may remain under the water for a—a period of time?"

"I myself and three score distinguished witnesses observed its disappearance beneath the Seine to reappear whole, the crew unharmed, after a full hour had passed. And later the craft was transported down-river to the sea and he repeated the miracle. The submersible—he calls it Nautilus—may be relied upon to navigate unseen, travel many leagues at sea and carry quantities of men."

"A magnificent opportunity for science," Renzi enthused. "Does it have a window at all? And how might the brave sailors breathe for so long in such confines? This is a mystery that must seize the imagination of even the most hopeless dullard. How I wish I might see this wonder of the deep."

"Ah. That may be difficult. I believe the inventor is under contract to our government for its development and, naturally, there is much discretion involved in such. It is tedious but governments being as they are . . ."

Renzi allowed his disappointment to show. "I understand. Such a pity. In my old age I might have recounted how I set eyes on the first submarine boat of the age, and now my curiosity must remain for ever unsatisfied . . ."

"A vexation for you. The pity of it all is that the man himself is most probably in the library below us. It is his practice that when he concludes at the ministry he invariably spends time there. He does treasure it for its quiet."

Catching his breath Renzi stammered, "To be here, when . . ."

Laplace tut-tutted, clearly moved by Renzi's ardent manner. "Sir, this at the least I will do. I will leave it to Mr. Fulton whether or no he desires to be introduced to one who stands in admiration of his work and prays that he might learn more. I believe the proctor's office will be available to us at this hour, and thus you may discreetly satisfy your curiosity as he will permit. That is all I can promise."

It was an incredible stroke.

CHAPTER 7

IN THE BOOK-LINED, leather-smelling proctor's office Renzi waited for Laplace's return with pounding heart. It seemed an interminable time but suddenly he heard voices outside, then two men entered the room.

Renzi got hurriedly to his feet. "Th-thank you, sir, so kind in you to see me."

The man was tall and slender, even graceful, but what caught Renzi's eye was the intensity of his features, the large, dark eyes, intelligent forehead and quick, darting manner. "Not at all, my friend," he replied, in a hardly noticeable American accent, then smiled. "And if I'm not mistaken in my reckoning, you're English, sir."

"Oh—Smith, Nicholas Smith of, um, Plymouth in Devon," Renzi stammered, hoping to appear overcome at being in the presence of such genius.

"I know where Plymouth is, friend. I spent three years in Devon at my easel. Fine place to be. Now, be so good as to tell me how an Englishman is here in Paris unhung?"

"Er, I'm assistant to the official mission concerning the exchange of prisoners-of-war—and by way of a scholar, but in the meanest degree," he added, with a shy glance at Laplace.

"A cartel man? So, not a son of Albion come to his senses and the Republican cause?"

"Ah, not as who should say, sir," Renzi said, aware that any pretence to radical sympathies as a means of penetrating a tight-knit group of expatriates of the Revolution would never stand scrutiny.

"Pity. So what can I do for you, sir?"

"Mr. Fulton, Monsieur Laplace was good enough to tell me something of your submarine boat, and I confess I'm quite overcome with the grandeur of your vision. To conceive of a craft that swims with the fishes, inhabits Neptune's world like the native denizens—it is truly magnificent."

"I thank you, sir."

"Do tell—for I'm on fire with curiosity—when under the sea, do you see by light from the windows or is it a lanthorn or similar? I cannot imagine how it must be, warm and dry but fathoms down in the pelagic gloom lit only by . . . ?"

"Foxfire, sir. Naught but your common foxfire!" At Renzi's look of incomprehension he gave a boyish grin and said, "A lanthorn or candle produces vitiated air, not fit for a human. This foxfire, we get it from the woods after a season of rain. It glows in the dark, quite enough to conn our noble craft, sir."

"And you speak of air. Do you take a—a balloon or some such with you on the expedition, to release when the breathing becomes . . . difficult?"

Laplace stood up. "Forgive me, gentlemen, I must attend to another matter. Do feel free to continue your discussion while I'm gone but, pray, do not leave this office together. It would prove . . . inconvenient for me."

Renzi could hardly believe his luck: was this his chance?

His whole being urged him to make the move while he could— there might be no further opportunity. Yet a tiny voice of caution insisted that until he knew more of this man he stood a good prospect of being denounced as a British agent.

Fulton moved to the proctor's desk and sprawled in his chair, fiddling with a quill. "You're both fascinated and in dread of the beast, am I right?"

"Your Nautilus is a scientifical phenomenon of the first order and I'm finding it difficult to grapple with its implications for mankind," Renzi said.

"It is that."

"Then—then do you not fear that your wonderful creation might not be subverted to serve an other, baser interest?"

"That of war?"

"It might be supposed."

Fulton smiled cynically. "Then, Mr. Englishman, I have news for you. The entire reason for my inventing it is war."

"Sir, I beg you to elucidate."

"Believe me, Mr. Smith, to be an enemy to oppression wherever it's to be found. And the only guarantee of liberty for the individual is freedom for the nation. I see that there exists one tyrant, one oppressor, who sorely bears on the nations of this world, that has made perpetual war in my lifetime by bestridin' the seas and robbing the world of its ancient maritime freedoms. Sir, I speak of the Royal Navy!"

"Go on, sir," Renzi said.

"The rest then surely follows. Nautilus and her sisters'll make it impossible for your damn navy to take to the seas. Their ships'll skulk in harbour, a-feared o' silent assassination, the people will rise up on their monarchy, and then the oceans will be free for all nations in amity to progress on their lawful occasions."

Was there any sign of madness behind the triumphant smile? If so, Renzi couldn't detect any.

"And that, Englishman, will be the end of war as we know it. No state will ever more hazard to set a fleet of ships a-swim with the intention of dominating the seas, which will then oblige each nation to live peaceable within the bounds nature has set it."

He spindled a paper lazily. "In course, I've taken steps to place the whole on a sound commercial footing, as you'd expect of a Maryland farming boy—there's to be a bounty payable on every warship put down by my submarines and a royalty for each one built under licence. Self-funding, you see."

Renzi struggled to reconcile the stern political radicalism with the artless words of a backwoodsman. Was this the raving of an unworldly visionary or was the future to be this horrifying reality? He asked respectfully, "Sir, might we say your plans to this end are advanced at all?"

"Do you mean, sir, is Nautilus ready for her destiny? Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte thinks so. He told me to my face to take her overland to Brest and there, before a quantity of admirals, I stalked unseen a ship—and blew her to smithereens with my torpedoes. That opened one or two eyes, I can tell you."

"Out in the open sea?" Renzi said, chilled to the core. This submarine did not just work, it was now armed with a deadly explosive device and quite ready to strike wherever it chose. It had happened. The world he knew was fast ending.

"Of course. And I'll tell you something else." He chuckled. "In the end months of the last war I took her out myself on patrol and there's two English brigs alive today only because they sailed before I could see to 'em!"

Who was to say that one of them had not been Teazer, unwittingly hunted by an unseen assassin to within a moment of being blown to fragments? Renzi pulled himself together. "A—a fine achievement," he said faintly. "I had no idea."

"Why, thank you, sir. I didn't think to hear the same from an Englishman." Fulton seemed genuinely touched.

"Er, it would gratify me no end if I were able to view your fabled Nautilus."

"That will not be possible," Fulton retorted, with a hard look.

"I did not mean to offend, sir."

Fulton's features softened. "Well, if you must know I'm right now in negotiation with the French Ministry of Marine for a larger, more potent plunging boat and . . ." He tailed off and gazed out of the window.

"I do understand your position, sir," Renzi said.

"The world will hear about 'em soon enough." Fulton swung around in his chair and rose, extending his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, friend. And good luck with your prisoners," he added breezily, and left.

The situation had changed from grave to catastrophic. From future potential to present reality. Here was the truth of all the rumours: a submarine craft had been constructed, tested and fitted with weapons of irresistible destruction. Fulton had indeed the ear of Napoleon and was concluding a contract for a whole fleet of the submersibles. And very soon these would quickly break the stalemate and see the Channel cleared wide open for a grand concluding scene.

In an agony of helplessness Renzi sprang to his feet and began pacing the room. If there was going to be any time left for action he had to think of something now. But, for God's sake, what?

His frantic thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Laplace. "Ah—so Mr. Fulton has returned to his work. Did you find satisfaction, sir?"

Renzi composed himself. "Indeed so, monsieur. A most fascinating gentleman."

"Then I must bid you farewell, Mr. Smith. Bonne chance in your negotiations. I shall see you to the door."

Out in the street Renzi let the ceaseless flow of people and vehicles eddy past, trying to bring to bear a line of thought that would lead to a path of action, but there were too many conflicting elements.

The fortuitous meeting with Laplace would be seen as harmless enough in itself, for the academician had thoughtfully arranged his meeting with Fulton in privacy—no one would know and he was therefore unlikely to be under suspicion. Renzi still retained his freedom of movement and Fulton had shown himself not unfriendly, so it was reasonable to assume that he stood a chance if only he could think of something.

He paced slowly, forcing his mind to concentrate. The only way that Fulton was going to leave France was of his own volition. Therefore it was up to Renzi to create the elements that would lead to such a decision with arguments so persuasive that the inventor would see it overwhelmingly in his interest to abandon Napoleon to go with the British, no matter his political views. It seemed impossible and time was running out: who knew how much longer the talks about the prisoners would last?

Then, some hundreds of yards ahead, he saw Fulton walking down the street, carrying a large flat case, his head bowed in thought. Impulsively, Renzi followed—at the very least he could try to find out something more of the man.

Almost certainly Fulton was being trailed. Bonaparte had too much invested in him to do otherwise. However, Renzi had been seen publicly with the highly respected Laplace, who had obviously trusted him, so at the moment it was unlikely he was being tracked.

Deliberately Renzi stopped and gawped upwards at an imposing stonework façade, then wandered on, taking in the sights but alert for one thing. It wasn't long before he spotted what he was looking for: a man who found shop-windows very interesting, then hurried on, his quick, covert glances always in Fulton's direction.

Renzi eased his pace, letting Fulton pass out of sight ahead. As long as he had the tail in view he was being led after his quarry. They both disappeared to the right down the next street. Renzi lengthened his stride, moving faster without the appearance of haste. Round the corner Fulton was comfortably in sight again. He remembered this avenue led to the banks of the Seine—what was Fulton up to?

The American paused at the edge of the water. Then he made off up the river on the leafy quai that led to some of the grandest sights in Paris. With the red of the setting sun, the distant image of Notre Dame seemed to Renzi to lift ethereally above earthly dross.

As if in sudden resolution, Fulton stepped out faster. The evening promenaders drifting across the line-of-sight made it easy for Renzi to keep a discreet observation on his mark. It was puzzling, though: the further sights were grander but this was not a district noted for its residences. Then, suddenly, clutching his case close to him, Fulton hurried across the Pont au Change and on to the mid-river island that bore the great cathedral—and the blood-soaked Conciergerie prison.

He didn't stop and passed quickly across to the other bank. This was a mystery indeed. Fulton was now on the Left Bank and, in the gathering dusk, heading deep into the Latin Quarter of seedy, decaying tenements. Was he visiting a paramour?

Unlikely, given the kind of doxy to be found in this district. Or the rendezous place of some revolutionary band?

Finally it was down a short street and into a dead end where Fulton passed into a doorway. Renzi crossed the road but stayed by the corner, looking back diagonally across at the anonymous apartment building. If he was caught, there could be no pretence now of sightseeing—there could be only one reason for his movements.

Was this merely a visit, a delivery—a clandestine meeting? Nerves at full stretch, Renzi waited. There was no sign of the follower. He pressed back into the grimy brickwork as an infant squalled on a lower floor and cooking smells wafted out. At the top a light flickered into existence and steadied. A shadow passed in front of it, then another light sputtered on and Fulton passed unmistakably between them.

Yet another light appeared close to the first. Still no other figure. Fulton crossed back, and when all had been still for some time it became clear to Renzi that this was no secret rendezvous or other furtive assignation; Fulton's unsuspecting movements could have only one meaning. This was simply a man returning home after a hard day of work. The many lights meant he was probably working on his design ready for the next day's meetings.

This raised as many questions as it answered, but he now had the priceless secret of where Fulton could be found. His spirits rose. But there must be a reason for the man's living in such surroundings. Perhaps, as an artist, the Bohemian lifestyle of this arrondissement appealed? But why subject himself to the noise and stinks when he could no doubt demand a mansion?

Renzi shook his head at the conundrums and turned to go. From round the corner the follower stepped squarely into his path. In one terrifying instant Renzi had to make a decision to fight or run. Both courses would have the same outcome: his spying would be discovered. In a burst of desperate inspiration he plastered a foolish grin on his face and swaying towards the man, fell to his knees, pawed ineffectively at him, then keeled over and dry-retched into the filthy gutter.

The man stepped round him in disgust and Renzi crawled away, groaning, then staggered to his feet, trembling. It had been a narrow escape.

Haslip was waiting for him. "This I could scarcely credit, Mr. Smith! One in your position, daring to approach a gentleman of such stature as Monsieur Laplace, and at the Institut no less. The French government have rightly expressed to me their serious misgivings that a junior member of a diplomatic mission should so far forget himself." He snorted in indignation.

So the French knew of his meeting Laplace and were nervous—but they had no idea he had spoken to Fulton or it would have been a very different matter. Renzi forced himself to an icy calm. "Sir, I do sincerely regret the impulse that led me to such an action. In my studies I have often encountered the work of Monsieur Laplace and—"

"That is to no account, sir. As head of mission, I forbid you to engage in such scholarly pretensions above your station, which can only result in ridicule. Do I make myself clear?"

"Why, yes, Mr. Haslip, you do. I shall not trouble the gentleman again."

"Hmph. It seems to me there is little enough work to keep you occupied. I shall think on it."

"Thank you, sir. Should I go now, sir?" Renzi wheedled. To his contempt, he could see that this had mollified Haslip, who sniffed and indicated that the interview was at an end. Renzi left and took refuge in his room.

He sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. The situation was tightening. Without doubt he was now being watched; he could not count on freedom to act any more. And what could be the meaning of Fulton's living in such eccentric circumstances when he was the confidant of an emperor?

His feet hurt and the incident with the follower had unsettled him. To be at large in the Paris of Napoleon Bonaparte, who, no doubt, was preparing for the night in sumptuous surroundings less than a mile from where Renzi sat, was almost too fantastical for belief. Yet if he put a foot wrong—a lapse in speaking, an unlooked-for coincidence, recognition by one from his past—Fouché's secret police would pounce.

There was a bottle of brandy between two glasses on the dresser.

He splashed himself a strong measure and tried to compose his thoughts. Everything hung on his conjuring an argument to detach Fulton from the French cause.

He felt the brandy doing its work and paced up and down while he considered his next move. He had to act quickly to prevent any suspicion growing. For the moment they would be presuming that he had been reprimanded by his master for straying outside set bounds. Therefore he must do something suitably predictable in the circumstances, and it must be a move that no self-respecting spy would make.

It came to him almost immediately, effective and credible, but with the grave drawback that if he could not pull it off to perfection he would end by being the instrument of his own betrayal. Only iron self-control would see him through—the prize, his freedom to act. It was the only way forward. Tonight he would get drunk.

Not just flustered or even betwaddled, but completely cup-shot and maudlin, such that any sympathetic stranger sidling up to share his woes would not doubt for a moment what they heard.

Renzi made his preparations. He had not been lost to drink since his youth and the wanton excesses of the Grand Tour. Now he was determined to bring it to pass—there could be no studied pretence at intoxication: it could be only the real thing, convincing in its re-pulsiveness and gradual descent into incoherence. He examined his store of coins. How many of these new-fangled "francs" would it take to achieve total drunkenness?

Carefully he went through his pockets: there was nothing incriminating. His precious passport was slipped deep within his waistcoat and he was ready for the night.

Outside it was dark but the traffic showed little sign of diminishing. He dithered at the hotel entrance, long enough to be seen, then turned left, ambling along in quite the opposite direction from the Latin Quarter, towards the more northerly faubourgs,

Montmartre—or was that now Mont Marat after the scientist and revolutionary?

He resisted the temptation to see if he was being followed and kept his eyes ahead, but allowed himself to be jostled by a passing couple and swung about to glare after them. With much satisfaction, he saw guilty movement in a slightly built man a dozen yards behind.

He resumed his walk without a second glance back. As the larger establishments turned into a smaller, more intimate hostelry he looked about. Le Canard Sportif appealed and he went in. The noise, the glare of Argand lamps on brass and crystal, and the smell of humanity, beer and Gallic cuisine assaulted his senses, but Renzi reminded himself he had a job to do.

His order was taken by a waif-like girl in an apron who, on hearing his accent, ran back to the patron, who came over to peer at him suspiciously.

But he had his story, and, with a suitably woebegone expression, then the ostentatious checking of francs, it seemed to persuade the man that he would be no trouble. What did he desire to drink? Why, absinthe would answer—he had heard of but never tried this newly fashionable tipple. So monsieur has a taste for Paris? Then the verte would probably most appeal. Mademoiselle—ici!

An odd pinch-waisted glass was brought with an intense green liquor in the base and a narrow, spike-ended spoon placed across the rim. A lump of sugar was put on its slotted bowl and ice-cold water poured over it, clouding the result to an opalescent milkiness.

Fascinated, Renzi took it, inhaling the wormwood aroma appreciatively. He sipped: the complex of herbs took him by surprise but was, he concluded, very agreeable. Remembering his duty he downed it resolutely and, before long, felt the subtle tendrils of inebriation begin to spread.

Another? Certainly. A few curious glances came his way. The liquor had a lazy potency that was deceptive and even a fine onion soup did nothing to halt the muzziness stealing over him.

He became aware of someone drawing up a chair beside him. At last—they were making their move! But it was a girl. They chatted amiably but she pouted and left when he kept reaching for his absinthe. The spirit took a deeper hold. His inner being calmly noted a curious rotation of perspectives, a plasticity in objects as his mind gently separated from its corporeal existence.

He noticed a distraction to one side and drunkenly turned in his seat—it was a man, smiling affably, who introduced himself as one who so deplored this unfortunate state of hostilities between two such great nations, and who seemed not to notice his befuddlement.

It took a convulsion of will to realise that the moment had come. Fighting lassitude, he fumbled for the elusive French that expressed his solemn agreement and hope that this fine city might soon be open once again to any English hearts seeking to pay homage.

The man agreed and summoned more absinthe for his new friend—his opinion on a clear variety, La Bleue, was earnestly solicited. Renzi allowed it a splendid drop and confided it was going far in helping him overcome his woes. His head swam.

Woes? Surely not! Another La Bleue persuaded Renzi to unburden and, to the man's sharp interest, he obliged passionately.

Rather than the loneliness of a foreign country, it seemed it was more the cruel fate of the prisoners-of-war that grieved him. They were getting nowhere in the negotiations and all the time men on both sides were spending their years in unjust captivity, merely for doing their duty to their country.

Renzi grew more emotional: to see the conditions of the prison hulks in Portsmouth and Sheerness, it would wring the heart of the devil himself—and now there was talk of building a massive fortress prison in the middle of remote Dartmoor. He struggled for words to describe the desolate heath, the hopeless pallor of the prisoners, families unseen whose grief at the separation . . .

To Renzi's relief the man's interest declined and, finding he had an appointment, he departed.

What was left of his rational being exulted—and, with a seraphic smile, he surrendered all and slid to the floor.

The next morning his plea of illness was relayed to Haslip—Renzi didn't care how it was received as, despite his hammering head, he was gloriously triumphant: by some mysterious working of the brain, he had woken with a glorious, vital inspiration at the forefront of his consciousness.

He now understood the real reason for Fulton's hiding away in the stews of the Left Bank—and with it he had the key to making an approach. He lay back in growing satisfaction, letting all the pieces come together. And they fitted as snugly as he could have wished.

It was the character of the man. His was a brilliant and fecund mind; in a few short years he had changed from an artist of the first rank into a self-taught engineer, able not only to conceive of but actually bring to realisation dread engines of war. But that very quality, his lonely genius and single-minded drive to achieve, had made him almost completely self-reliant, never needing the support and comfort of an organisation. And, like many deeply immersed in a project of their own conception, he was suspicious and wary.

The vital clue was what he had said about a business footing for his endeavours. Greed for gold did not figure in this: he was using a commercial mechanism to control the project and remain at its head. But thinking that Paris would agree to such a novel prospect— commercialising the art of war—was both naïve and futile.

However, if Fulton was holding out for a business relationship, that would explain both the conspicuous absence of the military about him and his humble lodgings. With the French standing firm, the man was probably fast running out of money.

Was this, then, his chance? Despite his thudding head, Renzi felt a leaping hope. After his short talk with Fulton he felt certain that, for him, the bringing into the world of his creations stood above all else. He had almost certainly chosen to go with the French as having the greatest need for a war-winning sea weapon against the all-conquering Royal Navy, and the radical talk might be just that.

It was time to act—but was he prepared to stake everything, even his life, on one drunken insight? He had until that night to decide.

Slipping out of the hotel quickly, Renzi stepped down the avenue and into the darkness, pausing only at the corner to glance back. As far as he could tell, his previous night's debauchery had succeeded and no one was interested in him. He pushed on as if he was heading for the Bastille. Then he took a last precaution. At Le Marais he chose a narrow street, turned down it and hid in the first alley he could find. He had not long to wait: he had been followed.

As the man pressed past urgently Renzi was out and behind him. Hands clasped, he brought his fists down hard on the nape of the man's neck, then dragged his pursuer, senseless, into the alley. In the blackness he went through the man's pockets, taking a watch, money, papers. He stuffed them away and, for good measure, took the coat, a stout fustian, then left. Now free to move, he cut abruptly right and across the Seine by the Pont Marie, dropping the coat into the river as he went.

He headed directly through the Latin Quarter to Fulton's address, slowing when he got near. A watcher stood at the corner opposite. This was another matter. Close in with the wall and at full alert, the man could not be taken by surprise. Lights showed in the top floor—Fulton was there.

Renzi's resolve hardened. Should he kill the man? But that would only awaken suspicions. Then he remembered something. He turned back to a small pile of old furniture. With a flap-sided table over his shoulder, he walked firmly towards the doorway. The watcher would probably know the tenement residents, but it was unlikely that a tradesman delivering goods would be challenged.

At the entrance he mimed to a woman that he was a mute, jabbing upwards. She let him in and he stumped up the dark stairs, leaving the table at the top landing. Then, heart racing, he knocked at the door.

Fulton's muffled voice demanded who it was. Renzi mumbled a few words until an exasperated Fulton flung the door open. "Mr.— Mr. Smith! What in hell's name—"

Renzi pushed his way past, ducking out of sight of the windows. "Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Fulton, but my business with you is pressing and cannot stand on ceremony."

"What business? And how in the devil's name do you know where I live?"

"Sir, I know you to be an inventor and genius of the first rank who will surely find a place in history. I am also aware that you're frustrated in your desire to see your creations born, to have them become a tangible reality."

A long table at the end of the room was overflowing with drawings and other papers. Renzi thought he could detect the form of an undersea craft.

"Not only that, but you are being denied the fruits of your labours—even the means to sustain existence while you bring these wonders into the world. Mr. Fulton, I'm here to—"

"By God, you're English and you've come to put in your oar with me and Emperor Bonaparte!" he gasped in astonishment. "The barefaced hide of you, sir!"

A knot formed in Renzi's stomach: if he revealed his true identity he might court betrayal to the watcher outside, but if he denied it, he would have no standing by which to negotiate.

"It's true, isn't it? How can you know of my affairs," Fulton snapped, "unless you've agents in the Ministry of Marine?" His eyes narrowed.

"Sir, if your heart is set on this, you must see that your present arrangement will not be the one that achieves it. Napoleon's France will never agree to putting a military master-stroke in the power of a Yankee businessman, no matter what the terms. You should see this, sir!"

Time was slipping away: at any moment the watcher might realise that the deliveryman had not emerged and become suspicious. And if he had made an error concerning Fulton's true situation he was done for.

"Well, Mr. Smith, or whatever your name is, I can tell you now, you're plain damn wrong in your reckoning. There's nothing stands between me and my arrangement save a little matter concerning the crew of the submersibles."

"The crew?" Renzi said, mystified.

"If it's the barbaric custom these days to treat fire-ship crews as pirates and incendiaries, I want the French to stand surety that the enemy won't hang 'em—and take reprisals on their prisoners if they do."

"Sir, I'd hazard they've been hanging fire over this for . . . a long time," Renzi said quietly. For the canny French it would be an ideal sticking point to drag matters out. It was looking more and more certain that they were letting economic hardship do their work for them in forcing Fulton to hand over the plans and come to a different agreement.

"They'll get to it," Fulton said uncomfortably.

"Perhaps," said Renzi, seeing his chance. "But in the meantime it would grieve me to see a mind as worthy as yours brought to such a needy pass." He fumbled beneath his waistcoat and found his money-belt. "Here—twenty English guineas." He placed them on the table. Fulton made no move to stop him. "They're yours, sir, with my best wishes. There's no need to account for them—no one has seen me give them to you, have they?"

They were part of a sum he had signed for in far-away Walmer Castle and he would have to explain later but for now . . .

Fulton gave him a look of indignation. "If you're thinking I'd sell out for English gold . . ."

But Renzi had seen the gleam in his eye—the money meant decent meals, wine, a respite from creditors . . . independence. At the very least Renzi had bought his silence. The danger of betrayal had receded. "Sir, I would not think to imply such a thing. Do take it as your due."

Fulton picked up the coins and slipped them into his pocket. "Accepted with my thanks—but I see myself under no obligation whatsoever."

"Quite. I cannot help but observe that it's not without its merit to consider some kind of business relationship with Britain as will see your projects properly completed. I'm sure—"

"Are you an English agent?" Fulton asked.

Renzi caught his breath. "I'm authorised to offer you a contract with His Majesty's government for the full realisation of your works in a sum to be determined, and all possible assistance from the naval authorities under your direction."

This was breathtaking gall. Renzi knew very well he had no such authority—in light of Fulton's commercial inclinations he had made it up on the spot.

"So it seems you must be an agent, Mr. Englishman. Well, unless I did not make myself clear before," he said sarcastically, "let me inform you that my democratic and republican views are as—"

"Democratic? Republican? A singular position, may I say, for one who will now be seen as supporting the world ambitions of an emperor, no less, whose own views on—"

"Leave Mr. Bonaparte out of this!"

"I cannot see how that is possible," Renzi said smoothly. "So long as you confine your labours to the cause of this French emperor the world must draw its own conclusions."

Fulton's face reddened. He started to say something but thought better of it.

Renzi continued, in a brighter tone, "For one in the character of a businessman, I'm surprised you do not see the opportunity before you of enabling a helpless and frustrated navy before the invasion ports to enter unseen and put paid to the flotillas skulking within. For this power they will pay much, I'm persuaded." Renzi pushed the vision. "In course, you will conjure such a fleet of submarine boats as will astonish mankind. Should you be paid by results, as you wish, then the elimination of two thousand invasion craft—"

"You're speaking for the British Admiralty?"

"Not at all. I speak for His Maj—the government of Great Britain, the prime minister, sir."

Fulton paced about the room. "If such a thing were possible, it could only be under a copper-bottomed business contract that sees me in charge, and be damned to pettifogging interference."

"Can there be any other way? We speak of results—what better way to secure them than to place the responsibility entirely in your hands." Renzi smiled ironically. "You will appreciate that the practice of business is not entirely dissimilar in our two nations."

Fulton scowled but said nothing.

A thought suddenly struck Renzi, one that appealed to his romantic streak. The submarine: how fitting—how exciting it would be if they were to make their dramatic escape in it from Napoleon's clutches safely to the open sea beneath the waves!

"Er, incidentally, where do you keep Nautilus at the moment?"

"She is no more."

"Oh."

Fulton turned his face away. "To keep myself I was constrained to break her up, sell the pipes and cylinders, all the ironwork." "I'm sorry to hear it," Renzi said softly, the vision fading.

"The French were in a right taking when they heard about it." He grinned sourly.

As well they might be, thought Renzi. Without a working specimen, everything lay out of reach, confined within Fulton's fertile brain. It explained why they had held off seizing what they wanted and were now applying more subtle pressures.

Renzi gave what he hoped was a look of sincere sympathy. "No more than they deserve. A disgraceful treatment of a distinguished man of engineering. You will find that we British will—"

"You British!" Fulton snarled. "Have a care, sir—I've said naught about toadying up to King George, as I remember."

"Nor should you!" Renzi came back swiftly. "As we both know, it is in the nature of a business arrangement only."

Fulton stalked away and stood glowering out of the window.

"Above all things," Renzi said, "you will agree that while you remain here you stand small chance of seeing your sea dreams realised. A firm contract with my government means you could be building within the month."

There was no visible response. "Mr. Fulton, if—"

"You're asking I take up with the losing side," Fulton retorted acidly.

"Do you not have confidence in your own device of war, sir?" Renzi replied coolly.

"I'll think on it."

"Sir, I must press you to—"

"I said I'd think on it, damn you!"

"An understanding, perhaps, that—"

"Get out! Before I tip off your friend yonder."

Renzi drew himself up. "Very well. Should you desire to discuss terms then, er, I shall be in touch. Good day to you, Mr. Fulton."

He turned to go, but Fulton stopped him and pointed to the ceiling. "I'd advise you leave by that hole—it lets out over the roof," he said, with a twisted smile. "No point in letting 'em know who you've been to see."

"Why, thank you for your concern, sir," Renzi said.

Fulton grinned. " Shall we say I've seen my share of creditors?"

It was not until he was halfway back that the full implications of what had happened dawned on him. In effect, for all his efforts and personal danger, Renzi had nothing to show for it. The best that could be said was that he had been right in his insight and that Fulton had listened. Whether this might be turned to advantage was another matter.

Now he was faced with a near insuperable problem: he had slipped his shadow and, for a certainty, would now be trailed closely wherever he went. With Fulton under observation as well, how would they get together to conclude anything, even if the man was receptive?

At the Grandime Hotel he took care to reel in happily, a foolish smile in place, nodding to the silent men at the desk before he hauled himself up the stairs.

He flopped onto his bed and tried to recruit his thoughts. It had all happened so quickly, but at the same time he had achieved only a reconnaissance and, worse, he had lost the ability to continue any negotiations with Fulton. Even if the man could be persuaded, there was still the matter of an exit strategy, an escape route that would keep them ahead of the inevitable hot pursuit—the French would spare nothing to stop them.

Staring up at the dark ceiling he tried to bring together all the threads, but always reached the same conclusion. So near and so far—he could see no way forward on his own.

There was one last move open to him, one that he had been warned was only to be made in extreme circumstances, which did not include personal danger. This was to make contact with the network of agents in Paris, the precious few who remained after the recent catastrophic failure of the plot against Napoleon.

The next afternoon when Haslip was taking time for himself, Renzi made his way to the broad open spaces of the Place du Carrousel. This was where the plot to assassinate First Consul Bonaparte had so nearly succeeded two years before. The Breton giant Cadoudal had barely escaped with his life to try again the following year. Renzi carefully pinned a revolutionary red, white and blue cockade to his left arm and, with his hat firmly under the right, strolled through the gardens, admiring the flowers.

In the pleasant sunshine he nodded to the ladies, trying not to think of his deadly peril. A covey of screaming children raced on to the grass with a scolding woman in vain pursuit.

"Vous là! Oui, se tenir prêt les fleurs!" challenged a gendarme, with a fierce moustache and red-plumed bicorne. "Venez ici!" he commanded, gesturing.

"Papers!" he demanded, when Renzi came up, one hand on his sword-hilt, the other outstretched.

Renzi fought down the impulse to run and fumbled for his passport, heart thudding. Passing promenaders gave them a wide berth.

"Oui, monsieur—les voici." The gendarme examined it closely, then looked up sharply. "The wolf howls only at the moon!" He stabbed his finger at the passport.

"Th-then it is silent!" Renzi answered nervously. It was the challenge and response, and he was now in contact with a royalist agent.

"What do you want?"

"A—a delicate matter. If you can arrange, in some way, a privy communication with a certain person . . ."

"When?"

"Er, as soon as possible."

"Very well." He thrust the passport at Renzi. "Be sitting at the park bench over my shoulder at four. Do you understand?"

Renzi nodded.

The gendarme smiled unexpectedly. "Bonne chance, mon brave," he said, stepping back and folding his arms in dismissal.

In good time Renzi was sitting on the bench as instructed. At four there was no one, and at a quarter past the hour a young mother insisted on occupying the other end while she dandled her baby on her knee in the sunshine, cooing and clucking, inviting him to admire the now squalling infant.

It was a clever ruse and, within a few minutes, Renzi had been invited to impart the essence of the difficulty. In return he received a businesslike solution. A vase of flowers would later appear in his room. If he placed it in the window it would indicate that a message for Fulton was concealed under its base. Likewise, Fulton's message for Renzi might be found under the base should the vase appear again in the window. At the other end there would be different arrangements. How it was done was not his affair.

That night he wrote a short message, in anonymous block capitals, which simply explained how Fulton's new friend might be contacted and hoped that he would hear from him soon.

He placed the vase in the window and went to bed. In the morning when he woke it was still there, but when he returned from another morning of stupefying boredom at the prisoner-of-war negotiating tables, he found a different paper in the hollow base. Feverishly he tore it open.

"The matter is not impossible," it read, in a beautifully neat and characterful hand. "What can you offer?"

Exultant, Renzi paced up and down while he considered. In his body-belt he held eight hundred pounds in gold, intended for travel expenses and the like. Would this be enough to tempt Fulton to leave immediately, the form of the contract to be discussed in England?

The thought of quick acceptance followed by rapid departure from this fearful world of danger and deceit was intoxicating. Quickly he penned a reply, emphasising immediate payment and rosily reviewing the prospects he had mentioned earlier.

For the rest of the day he was forced to attend a legal hearing and did not arrive back until late—but there was a reply. Renzi scanned it rapidly, and his heart sank. In lordly tones Fulton was demanding no less than ten thousand pounds to leave France. Carefully he composed a reply. It would not be possible to raise such an amount at short notice but the eight hundred would be more than sufficient to ensure a swift passage to England where all things would be possible. His overriding objective was to ensure his freedom to negotiate at the highest level he chose.

When the response came it was long-winded, hectoring, and demanded, as a condition to Fulton's considering any proposal, an undertaking that the British government form a plenary committee within three weeks of his arrival to examine the scope not only of his submarine craft but of other inventions. In return he would be able to offer the plans for an improved Nautilus and his torpedoes to the Admiralty for a hundred thousand pounds. Further, written proof of the offer from the British at cabinet level would be necessary before he would contemplate acceptance or leaving France.

It was an impossibility. The annual salary of a senior clerk for a thousand years? The man must be mad—or was he? Whoever stalked the undersea realm would surely command the seas, and it was plain that those who stood to lose the most were the English.

Renzi slumped. His first impulse was to promise anything at all, as long as Fulton left for England. He was living on borrowed time—and the stakes could not have been higher. But he knew he could not compromise his principles still further.

He sighed deeply and reached for his pen. With the utmost regrets he admitted he was not in a position to bind the British government to the amount indicated. However, to keep faith with Fulton he would, with all dispatch, open secret communications with Whitehall to establish a basis for negotiation.

There was little more he could do, now that he was passing the responsibility to a higher authority—and, wearily, he realised that this presented a grave problem in itself. How the devil would he get messages of explosive content safely to England when he had no means to secure them? Trusting the agents to perform some kind of coding was asking too much—and, apart from that, they would then be privy to state secrets of the highest importance.

He had no cipher materials: possession of such in any context was prima facie evidence of espionage. Yet if the communications were not enciphered he could not risk divulging vital and necessary details. In any case, to meet Fulton's demands he had to obtain a written undertaking at the highest level, which must be secure. He was going round in circles. There must be a way.

Renzi was by no means ignorant of secret codes after his experiences in Jersey: could he find a method from first principles to encrypt the message? The gravest difficulty of all was that in virtually every case the key had to be known beforehand at the receiving end or it must be sent in clear by other means—with catastrophic consequences if compromised.

Despite everything, Renzi found himself drawn into the logical challenges of the dilemma. After the intense boredom of the prisoner-of-war negotiations, the danger and frustration of dealing with Fulton, this bracing intellectual exercise was congenial, and he bent his mind to the task.

Any cipher whose key could be discovered was by definition unusable. Classical ciphers, such as the famous Caesar Shift, with no key but letter substitution, were unsafe—code-breaking had moved on in modern times. The same applied to the transposition types and, without prior arrangements, more complex techniques would require a key or method-type to be sent on before in clear.

A book cipher? This had the advantage that the key was already in the possession of the receiver—the text of a pre-agreed book held by both. A word in the message was specified as a precise location of that same word in the book. The disadvantage was that not only was it essential for each to have precisely the same edition but it was laborious, and the resulting encipherment could be large in size. The Bible had been used many times, with its exact chapter and verse convenience, but of course it would be the first that code-breakers tried.

There was another method: the running-key cipher. This used a source book too, but at individual character level. From a given point the ongoing text was used as a continuous key-stream to yield coded values against the message contents. This was better—and if the book's title was protected the resulting encipherment was near unbreakable.

So, what volume was to be used, known precisely by both parties? The Admiralty's own King's Regulations? Or the Articles of War? But without them to hand he could not swear to accuracy. And if it was to be some other book, its name and edition had to be divulged first. He was back where he had started.

He lay down and closed his eyes. It was the separate transmission in clear of a key or decoding method that was the sticking point. If he could only—

He sat bolt upright. That was it! The method, the key-text—and a cast-iron secure way of transmitting the key!

Galvanised, he set to work. He would not be disturbed—he had uncovered some time ago that Haslip's concern to be left alone was on account of a certain woman, and the French could not trespass on diplomatic territory.

Snatching up paper and a pencil he began to set up his tabula recta, the encoding matrix. Not needing to consult a book, he was able to work swiftly, and at a little after midnight he had the result. Carefully he burned his workings, folded the papers as small as he could and sealed them tightly together.

He hesitated over the forwarding instructions but eventually settled on "Foreign Office, per Smith, Paris." It would find the right handler easily enough. Underneath, in smaller lettering, was the more important entry: "Refer Cdr Thomas Kydd, HMS Teazer." It was done.

Kydd stalked into his cabin in a foul mood. This was the third man flogged within the month for petty crimes, unavoidably in full view of the shore, and the spirit aboard was stagnating. When would the damned timbers arrive for the repair? He was keenly conscious of the fearful danger under which England lay and it went so much against his grain to lie in useless idleness. And Renzi—heaven knew what he was up to, and would Kydd ever find out?

Restless, he ventured on deck again. A fine sight, so many blue-water ships, particularly the big Indiaman to the south—as massive as a line-of-battle ship with, no doubt, a freighting aboard worth a prince's ransom, and soon to venture out to the open ocean where dangers lurked in wait every day of her six months', or more, voyaging.

Ashore, he could pick out the Deal hovellers. On this fine summer's day there was nothing to occupy them except the taking out of fresh provisions, passengers—

"Telegraph's in a taking," Hallum offered, behind him, trying to make conversation. The shutter atop a bluff tower in the King's Naval Yard was indeed busy, clacking away furiously. The chain of signal stations stretched all the way to London and the Admiralty in a direct line.

Idly, Kydd wondered what it was signalling. Never used for routine messages it was how the first lord of the Admiralty, through his senior staff, was able to reach out and deploy the chess pieces that were his fleets to counter enemy threats. Incredibly, this signal would be here, in the commander-in-chief's hands, some fifteen minutes or so after it was sent from London.

He resumed pacing. It was no use worrying about his timber, which would come in its own good time. He must contain his impatience and be ready to throw Teazer into the fray the instant she was whole once more.

"Boat approaching, sir."

Oddly, the vessel had been launched from the King's Naval Yard instead of the flagship, and with only a single officer in the sternsheets. Kydd stayed on deck and watched it hook on.

The officer came on board. "Commander Kydd, sir?" he asked respectfully, with more than a hint of curiosity.

"It is."

"Then, sir, I have a message from the admiral. You are to hold yourself in readiness at his office immediately for a particular service that he will speak to you about—in person."

"Er—"

"I know nothing further."

"Very well."

Admiral Keith was short, almost to the point of rudeness. "Kydd, I have just received a signal from the Admiralty concerning you that greatly disturbs me."

"Sir?" The Admiralty?

"It asks—no, damn it, demands that you be taken out of your ship and made ready to receive a parcel o' rogues from the Aliens Office under circumstances of the utmost secrecy. Now, sir—this is intolerable! I will not be kept in ignorance. You will tell me what is afoot this instant, sir."

Kydd swallowed. "Sir, I—I cannot. The Aliens Office?"

"Are you asking me to accept that a—a junior commander is to be made privy to matters considered too sensitive for a senior admiral? Have you been politicking, sir? I won't stand for it in a serving captain of mine, Mr. Kydd, no, not for one minute."

"N-no, sir."

"And I intend to be present when those jackanapes arrive!"

"Of course, sir."

"Most irregular!"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"You'll wait here until sent for," Keith rumbled irritably. "You may not leave on any account."

"Aye aye, sir."

Sitting alone in the little side office, Kydd waited apprehensively.

Late in the afternoon he heard a commotion in the outer office: raised voices, scraped chairs and hurrying footsteps. Moments later, two travel-dusty men strode in, closely followed by a red-faced Keith.

"This is insupportable! I will not have it! This officer is under my command and—"

"Sir. We take our instructions from the foreign secretary directly, this being as grave a matter as any that has faced this kingdom." The taller individual sniffed. "You have a telegraph, sir. If you have any doubts . . ."

He waited pointedly until the admiral had left them, then addressed Kydd: "From this point on everything that is said shall be at the highest possible level of secrecy. Do you understand me?"

"I know my duty, sir."

"Very well." He opened his dispatch case and extracted a small packet, the seal broken. "What do you understand by this?"

Kydd took it and went cold. "Why, this is from my ship's clerk and good friend. Where is he—"

"That will be of no concern to you. Can you say any more?"

"Er, unless I might read the contents?"

"No, sir, you may not," he said, taking it back. "Please answer me directly. Was there any arrangement between you touching on the transmission of privileged information?"

"None. He's in a—a difficulty of sorts, is he?" Kydd said uneasily.

The two exchanged looks. "He is performing a mission of the utmost importance that is proving unfortunate in its complexity," the taller man said carefully. "You may know that what you hold is a form of communication that is strongly ciphered. We do not possess the key, however, and believe that his referring to yourself implies it may be found by reference only to you."

Kydd was dumbfounded. "We've never discussed anything in the character of spying—nothing! Renzi wholly detests it, you may believe."

"Then this leaves us in a difficult position indeed," the man continued heavily. "If you know of nothing he has said, no paper to keep guarded, no locked cabinet . . . ?"

"I do not."

"Nothing whatsoever that may lead us to a key?"

"Tell me, this key, how would I know it?"

The other man broke in, his dry voice calm. "Mr. Kydd, the practice of privy communications is a black art but has a number of inviolable axioms, one of which is that the receiver must be in possession of the same key that was used to encode the message, without which he is helpless.

"It is the usual practice to establish a key beforehand, else we shall be obliged to transmit the key by other means, a most unsatisfactory and hazardous proceeding. In this particular case we have no prior arrangement and the key not being onpassed therefore must exist here, and be alluded to. The only clue we have is what you see before you. Your name has been invoked and that is all. A masterly stroke, which is its own guarantee of security but, regrettably, leaves us in a quandary.

"As to its appearance, well, a key can be of many forms—an arithmetical formula, a grid of nonsense, a passage in a book and in fact anything—but without it . . ."

Kydd realised that the men would not have acted as they had unless the matter was vitally important, and Renzi would not have given his name unless he himself was the key.

"Show me the message," he demanded.

Reluctantly it was handed over. Kydd examined it minutely: it was in his friend's hand but consisted of lines upon lines of meaningless letters in groups of five and covered several pages. A few mistakes were blotted out and there were one or two crossed-out sequences in the margin, but that was all. It was not signed, and the beginning was only a bare date on one side, with what looked like a doodle on the other. No doubt it had occupied lonely hours of danger for Renzi.

He looked at the little picture. It was a stylised open book and a fat exclamation mark next to it as though in exasperation at the tedium of the task. Was this a sign—or a pointer of some kind? A clue?

Then he had it! "Why, I think I know what it is. A passage from a book, you said. Will a poem do at all?"

"Yes, damn it!"

The sudden tension in the room made Kydd think better of a grand gesture and he contented himself with the plain facts. "By this little picture Renzi is reminding me of a poem he's got fastened to the bulkhead in his cabin above his desk. Taut hand with words, is Nicholas."

"What poem?" the taller man ground.

"Oh, it begins—let me see:

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;

Or surely you'll grow double

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;

Why all this toil and trouble... ?

Kydd tried to recall what went next but failed. "I can't remember the rest."

"Go out to your ship and get the doggerel! Now!"

"I don't see any reason why I should," Kydd replied quietly, but at the man's reddening face he relented. "We can find it at the bookseller just along by Beach Street here. It's by his friend Wordsworth, whom he much admires. Should you get an 1800 edition you'll no doubt find the poem in it."

The proprietor was taken aback when three men burst into his shop, demanding urgently that precise volume of Wordsworth but hurriedly obliged. There was the poem: "The Tables Turned."

At the office the table was swiftly cleared and paper produced. The taller yielded to the other, who drew up his chair, sharpened his pencil and opened the book.

"Priceless!" He chuckled and read:

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

"Damn you, sir! Get on with it!"

Patiently, a tabula recta for the tableau was constructed and the cipher-text applied. In a short time the man raised his head and, with a satisfied smile, said quietly, "Gentlemen, we have a solution!"

Renzi returned to his rooms weary and depressed. It had been weeks of waiting and no reply—and the worst of it was that Fulton had disappeared. Renzi had sent him a short message saying that London had been contacted on his behalf but it had been returned unopened with the terse notation "not at this address" and no further clue.

It had been maddeningly frustrating. Was Fulton taken by the authorities? Had he quit the field entirely, returned to America? Or was he in possession of a fine new contract from the French that now saw him in some palatial lodging and for ever out of reach?

As he flopped into his chair he noticed the vase back in the window. Nervously he lifted it—but there was no message. Then he saw a copy of that morning's Moniteur tossed carelessly to one side. And deep within it he found a substantial packet.

The superscription was in an unknown hand and, unusually, the packet was secured with sailmaker's twine instead of the usual ribbon. Inside, there were two parts, both ciphered. One was short, no more than a few sentences, Renzi guessed. The other was boldly inscribed even if in coded groups and on stiff, expensive vellum.

There was no key, no little drawing or textual hint. However, he guessed immediately the significance of the unusual fastening, for that would surely be:

Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers, And call a train of laughing Hours . . .

He took the vellum first, a prominent "1" indicating the key-stream was to start with it and continue to the other. He set out his matrix. Soon finding himself correct in his assumption, the two pages were swiftly deciphered and then he sat back, satisfied.

It had told him two things: the first was that Kydd, knowing his penchant for memorising poetry, had correctly divined his key. The next was that Whitehall had accepted his difficult situation and taken positive steps to help him, for this was in effect a counteroffer from the foreign secretary of Great Britain himself. Renzi could prove it by decoding the vellum in front of Fulton.

The offer was interesting, but would it be sufficient? He turned his attention to the shorter message and applied himself. This was a very different document—and Renzi was shocked to the core. It was terse and to the point: if Fulton did not accept the offer he was to be killed.

Mechanically he burned his workings and stirred the ash carefully.

All he had feared was coming to pass. He was now being expected to perform the ultimate act of dishonour in this whole wretched business, that of mercilessly ending the life of an unsuspecting other.

Could he do it? He knew he must. This was the transcendent logical outworking of what he had undertaken to do.

The means? Silent but sure—a blade. He had none, but a quick foray produced a kitchen knife, thin-bladed but effective, the point honed to a wicked sharpness. There was, of course, the chance that he would never use it, for where was Fulton now?

The prisoner-of-war talks dragged on with no sign of an agreement, even though Britain held some four times as many prisoners as the French and was prepared to exchange at the rate of many for one. The unspoken obstacle was the reality that trained seamen were too valuable to return to duty in a navy that was so successful. There was every probability now that there would be no hope left to the wretches in Bitche and Verdun.

Utterly depressed by the futility of the situation, Renzi was unprepared for what met him when he reached his room after another week of tedium. As he entered, he was confronted by a grinning Fulton rising from a chair. "Hail to you, Smith!" he declaimed dramatically. "How goeth it?"

Recovering himself Renzi said, "What the devil are you doing here? You're being followed, you fool!" Anger flooded over him at the careless attitude and jocular tone. Then he became alarmed. Was this part of a French trap?

"No, I'm not trailed," Fulton said lazily, stretching. "I'm only this day back in Paris, and nobody knows I'm here. Er, have you, by chance, heard anything from London?"

"Where have you been all this time, may I ask?"

"Oh, Amsterdam. Thought I'd like to see the canals—very interesting to me."

Renzi bit off a retort and forced himself to be calm. If the French wanted to catch them together they would probably have made their move by now. "Well, I'm pleased to tell you that I've been in contact with England—and at the highest level." He moved to the other chair and smiled winningly. "It seems that you've earned the attention of no less than Lord Hawkesbury, the foreign secretary of Great Britain. In fact I have a communication from him addressed to you."

"Oh?" Fulton said.

Renzi drew a deep breath. "Indeed so." He went to a picture on the wall and felt behind it, detached the packet and opened it. "Here." He handed it over, letting Fulton feel the quality of the paper.

"It's in code."

"Naturally. For your protection, should the French discover you are treating with the English." Renzi took it back and smoothed it. "However, I shall now decipher it before you as your assurance of its authenticity."

"Don't trouble yourself. If you're fooling me we'll find out soon enough. Just tell me what he's got to say."

Renzi's stomach contracted. It was the last throw of the dice. "Well, in it the foreign secretary welcomes your interest and notes the terms you are asking, including the forming of a plenary committee and, er, your one-hundred-thousand-pound fee. I'm happy to say he sees no insuperable bar to any of your provisions."

"Go on." There was no reading anything in Fulton's face.

"Of course, he trusts you will understand that there can be no question of payments until your inventions have been properly examined and tested in England."

Fulton wheeled about. "That's it? No advances, no promises?"

"I do assure you, sir, that should you trust us with your naval secrets then the government will treat you with the utmost liberality and generosity in strict accordance with the importance of your inventions."

"And that's all?"

"At the moment, it is."

Fulton sauntered over to the window and looked out over the rooftops. "Are you seriously suggesting I pack my bags and leave on the strength of that?" he asked, continuing to gaze out.

Dread stole over Renzi: Fulton was not going to accept the offer and therefore he was going to walk off for ever. He had his grim instructions. Fulton was facing away, unsuspicious, and it was not in public. Would a protest that he had had no idea Fulton was any one but a common intruder fool the French long enough to buy him time to get away? He had so little time to think.

Rising silently, he tiptoed over to the bureau and eased open the drawer. The knife glittered up at him. With it he would end the life of one whose mind had dreamed of voyaging with Neptune, and had so brilliantly succeeded. Renzi reached for it but at that instant he became aware that Fulton had swung around. The man cleared his throat and said abruptly, "Yes, I will." He moved back across the room. "I trust you. We'll go back to England together."

Renzi went rigid, then his hand moved to the decanter. "A drink, then, Mr. Fulton?" he said huskily, and splashed cognac into two glasses. "To brighter times."

He'd done it! Against all the probabilities he had brought it off. Then despair flooded him. How were they to flee across France ahead of vengeful pursuers when he had only the sketchiest plan prepared? When they were seen together the conclusion would be obvious.

The solution, when it came, was an anticlimax. Renzi would find an excuse to return to England alone, using his diplomatic passport. At the last minute Fulton would arrive at Calais to join the cartel ship and they would leave together. Fulton's papers from the ministry gave him access to all the northern ports and, in any case, as a neutral he could not be prevented from leaving.

Renzi left it until the last possible moment. The tedious carriage ride with another petulant young lieutenant had been a trial—but finally, rising above the low Customs building ahead, he saw the upper yards of the cartel ship. His heart beat faster for it would mean the end to the nightmare.

He sat outside a nearby tavern in the warm sunshine where he was able to view the comings and goings into the building, and as time wore on for the evening sailing, he grew more and more anxious. There was no sign of Fulton.

It was impossible that he should return without him, but who was to say that Fulton had not arrived early and was at this minute in his cabin? Or that word had been sent from Paris to detain him?

They had let him alone to take his last fill of France, but when he passed through the gates and was processed aboard, there would be no turning back. In an agony of indecision Renzi waited until just two hours before departure; then he rose, paid the tavern-keeper and walked slowly to the hall.

There, he handed in his passport and other papers, which were notated, and after guarded pleasantries, he was escorted to his ship. He mounted the gangway and stopped to breathe in the familiar tang of tar, timber and shipboard odours, a poignant moment after his recent travails.

Nodding civilly to the dour captain, he enquired casually if any Americans were on board. It seemed there were not and none expected. It was hard to take and, with a sinking heart, Renzi watched the lines singled up, the capstan bars shipped for warping out.

Two hours had become one: in despair, he allowed himself to be shepherded below with the other passengers in preparation for the awkward manoeuvre out into the stream, hearing the clunks and slithers of rope-handling above, the business-like squeals of the boatswain's calls and sharp orders.

Then came the shuddering creaks as the hull took up after the lines were thrown off. It was all over. They were on their way out.

As the first dip and heave of the sea took the vessel, Renzi realised they were clearing Calais Roads. Shortly afterwards passengers were allowed on deck into a soft, violet dusk. The excited chatter of the others depressed him and he wandered forward to where the jib sheets were being hardened in. The lines were belayed, the seamen dispersed, and then he became aware of another, standing in the shadow of a staysail. The man moved towards him.

"You—where . . . ?"

"Thought I'd come aboard at the last minute, just in case," Fulton said casually.

"I didn't think—"

"As you would, Englishman. I'll have you know that an American is accounted a welcome guest in France, as would any true republican, which means I can come and go as I please."

Renzi swallowed his anger. "Just so. Now you are a guest of the King." He regretted the words immediately, but it was too late.

"We won a war so's not to bend a knee to a king—and I'm not about to start now."

Something made Renzi answer quickly, "Then why, pray, do you feel able to stand with us now?"

"You don't see it, do you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"As I said before, my inventions are for mankind—at one stroke to annihilate the present system of marine war by making it impossible for a navy bent on aggression to venture forth on the high seas. By this we create a guarantee of the liberty of the seas for all men, and where there is free trade there we will find the true sovereignty of the people."

"But—"

"Once the people have their emancipation they will throw off the yokes of oppression—your monarchs, politicians and other parasites with their standing armies—and at last stand free. Whoever makes my machines possible is of no account, so long as they are created."

Renzi paused. "Some would say that the submarine boat is a barbaric weapon that pits innocent seamen against a foe that can never be seen."

Fulton's face shadowed. "That may be true, but for the greater good it must be suffered. I have started a revolution in the minds of engineers that cannot now be stopped, and I must go forward to face my destiny, sir."

CHAPTER 8

"ARE WE ALL ASSEMBLED? Then we'll begin." Although only in his forties the prime minister, the younger William Pitt, wore on his face the effect of years spent leading England in the long wars against the French. This capable prime minister had resigned earlier on a matter of conscience but the lacklustre administration that had replaced his had stumbled on from an ill-advised peace treaty, through a hasty declaration of war to the current crisis. Now matters appeared to be reaching their climax but that did little to lift the mortal weariness that lay so heavily on him. The others in the cabinet room regarded him with concern.

"Sir, I feel I must express my profound sense of deliverance in seeing you once more in the chair that so rightfully belongs to you, at the helm of state in these parlous times. I'm sure I speak for us all when I say—"

"Thank you, Lord Harrowby," Pitt said, to the new foreign secretary, "but business presses." He looked meaningfully at the secretary of war. "My lord Camden?"

"Our confidential agent in the matter of the French plunging boat has just returned from France. I have to tell you he confirms the reports concerning its effectiveness as only too true, sir." There was a general stir about the table.

"Go on."

"It seems it is no mere philosophic curiosity. Before Napoleon and his admirals in Brest the inventor personally stalked a vessel from beneath the sea and exploded it to pieces in front of their eyes."

"Melville?"

The first lord of the Admiralty leaned forward. "Sir. If this device is ever perfected we stand under a near-insuperable threat. Our navy being unsafe even in its own harbours renders our entire strategic situation questionable. I cannot answer to the consequences."

"It may not come to that pass, sir," Lord Camden said quietly. "This agent was successful in seducing the inventor from the French and at this moment he is in England awaiting our pleasure."

"Ah, yes . . ."

"Foreign Secretary?"

"I have to bring to your attention, gentlemen, that my predecessor was in communications of a clandestine nature with this inventor in France. As a condition of his quitting the country, certain demands were made and agreed to that we are morally obliged to accept."

"And these are?"

"Among others, that a committee be immediately convened to examine his plans for a greatly improved submarine boat to be constructed and deployed by us, with a form of assistance from the royal dockyards and the Navy to this end."

"This seems reasonable enough," Pitt replied. "But I'll wager there's somewhere a price in gold being asked."

"A considerable sum was mentioned but this is contingent upon his satisfying the committee in the particulars."

"Then I see we have a way forward. Ask the gentleman concerned to prepare his plans for the craft, which he will then present in due course. This will satisfy the immediate problem."

"Er, which is that, Prime Minister?"

"That while he is working for us, he is not for the French," Pitt said. "And we buy ourselves time to consider our position. I'm not altogether convinced that this is something we, a maritime nation of the first rank, should necessarily be involved with."

He went on, "We'll give him his chance, see what he comes up with. We'll have a strong committee—philosophers, scientificals, engineers of note and all of some eminence—to judge his work. Then we'll decide what to do. Agreed?"

At the polite murmuring he declared, "I shall ask the Treasury to open a disbursement account against my discretionary funding for now, this to include some form of emolument, say a monthly subsistence draw, and desire the Navy Board to afford him access to the dockyards and so forth. Oh, and he's to have a place of work that shall be secure—we can't discount that the French will seek to interfere with our new submarine navigator."

"And to keep him under eye," Melville added drily.

"Of course. Dover Castle springs to mind, being convenient should he wish to try his toys on Mr. Bonaparte's flotilla."

"There is one more consideration, Prime Minister," Harrowby said smoothly. "It seems that Mr. Francis—as he wishes to be known—is rather in the nature of an American with decided republican views and, er, somewhat novel, not to say whimsical, ideas on marine war."

"Just so, Foreign Secretary." Pitt reached wearily for the decanter of port. "I'll bear it in mind. As well, he will be needing a form of regular liaison with the Navy in an operational sense. Don't want him getting our admirals huffy. A trials vessel too. Dover—that's Keith's bailiwick. Desire him to make a man-o'-war and crew available for both purposes, not too big."

"Yes, Prime Minister."

"And we'll have to find a commander who knows Americans," he said sourly. "Shall we move on?"

It had been more than a month but now Teazer was complete. Kydd looked up from his journal as the door to his cabin opened. It was Renzi. "Reporting for duty, Captain," he said, with a tired smile.

"Good God, Nicholas, you look dreadful. Sit down, dear fellow. Tysoe! A hot negus on the instant for Mr. Renzi."

"Pay no mind to me, Tom. I'm—It's that I'm out of sorts is all." Renzi took the armchair and sank into it, turning his face to catch the sun streaming in through Teazer's stern windows.

Kydd rose. "So good t' see you again, even if a mort weather-torn!" He contemplated Renzi then continued softly, "I don't wish t' pry but—"

"A rather disagreeable episode I would much rather forget," Renzi said distantly, then added, "But it was kind in you to remember the Wordsworth."

"The commander-in-chief was not amused when I was hauled out of my ship by some rum coves from Whitehall to answer some strange enough questions. Er, they didn't say what it was all about?"

"Nor should they. I'm sworn to mortal secrecy still, else I should tell you all. It was a singular enough experience. Perhaps later." He closed his eyes, drained.

"And it has put you to some measure o' grief, I fear."

Renzi opened one eye. "It will pass, should I be granted the sublimity of a space of peace and quiet—and a good book."

Kydd knew Renzi well enough to be disturbed by his manner. What was it that he had endured? More than a physical trial, certainly, for he was like a man returned from the dead. "That you'll get, Nicholas," he said warmly. "For his sins young Calloway has been taking care o' the ship's books—if you find 'em out o' kilter, let me know."

Kydd cleared his throat. Renzi's tiny quarters in an operational ship-of-war were not what was wanted to heal him after his nameless ordeal. "We've lately been with the Downs inshore forces, another having taken our place in the flying squadron, so our days are not so exciting," he said, as breezily as he could, "but I do think you'll find you'll need more in the way of a constitutional." He paused. "Nicholas, there is a favour I'd ask of you."

"Of course."

"I want you to go to Bath for the waters. For as long as you need—not forgetting to hoist in some reading while you're there, of course."

Renzi sighed, too tired to protest. "I—that is, it is well taken, and I confess I'm in sore need of respite. I do believe I'll take up your handsome offer, dear brother."

The next morning Kydd saw his friend safely off in the coach. They had been through so much together and he was grateful he had the means to do this for him.

Then his mind returned to the war. Sober estimates of the size of the invasion flotilla were now nearer two thousand than one, and the flying squadron had taken a recent mauling that had left two shattered wrecks on the dunes near Calais. Fortunately the battleships of the French fleet had not ventured from port but this was widely held to be their admiral husbanding his forces until such time as they would be called on to lock in mortal combat with the British at the grand climax of the invasion. The threat could not have been greater, but Kydd and Teazer were kept back on the shores of England in the second tier of defences and he felt the frustration acutely.

At last the summons came. A peremptory order to report to the commander-in-chief for redeployment.

Keith kept him waiting for twenty minutes, then called him in. "Mr. Kydd, you're of this hour relieved of duty in these inshore waters." Why should the commander-in-chief himself tell him that he was to resume in a flying squadron? The usual order pack would normally suffice. Kydd felt uneasy.

"Tell me, does the record speak true? While you were on the North American station you were sent ashore in the United States to resolve some dispute that ended well enough, then spent a little time at sea in their new navy."

"I did, sir."

"So therefore it would be true to say that you know Americans?"

"Well, sir, I—"

"Capital. You and your sloop are stood down from active duty on this station. My condolences on the loss of opportunity for distinction, but we all have our cross to bear."

"Sir! May I know—"

"Since you have shown yourself inclined to furtive intrigue I have given you over to the Foreign Office in their service."

At Kydd's evident shock, Keith gave a cold smile. "Don't imagine you'll be out on some wild adventure. I gather it's to be acting as dogsbody to some American charlatan inventor. You'll remain in my command, Mr. Kydd—as Inspector of Fencibles."

Surely not. The Sea Fencibles—a home-defence force of dabblers and seamen past their prime. At one stage the doughty Earl St. Vincent, first lord of the Admiralty, had muttered dismissively, "The Sea Fencibles are there only to calm the fears of old ladies, both within and without Parliament."

What had he done as a fighting seaman that he should be relegated to this? Kydd bit his lip in frustration. "Aye aye, sir," he said bleakly.

Keith waved his hand in dismissal. "Flags will tell you the rest."

How things had changed. From service in the very front line of the war at sea to nursemaid of well-meaning amateurs and whoever the American was. The flag-lieutenant was unable to add much. Sympathetically, he explained that the commander-in-chief had received his orders from a higher level and had complied, with Kydd the unlucky choice. It was apparently a discreet affair, and while his line of responsibility lay with Whitehall, his appointment as Inspector of Fencibles was to give him cover and keep him administratively within Keith's command.

A gentleman from London was, however, in attendance to explain. He was at pains to make clear the contractual arrangements between His Majesty's government and the American, a Mr. Fulton, who also went by the name of Francis, which in the main appeared to be the production of plans for a contrivance of his inventing to be scrutinised in due course by a learned committee.

Kydd's role was to act as intermediary between the inventor and the Navy, providing assistance of a practical nature to include advice concerning operational procedures and administrative support at all levels. This latter was of particular importance, it seemed, bearing as it did on weighty matters, including the proper form of indenting for dockyard stores requested by Mr. Fulton and lines of responsibility back to Mr. Hammond, under-secretary of state with responsibility for the project.

This contrivance? The functionary was not certain, leaving it up to Kydd to pursue details as he wished with the contractor. All costs must be fairly accounted for and rendered in the proper form, and a journal to be kept.

Voice lowered, the man went on to inform Kydd that, the contract being of a confidential nature, all elements pertaining should be kept from public view. Security for the principal of the contract and his workings would not be his responsibility, however, except in so far as unforeseen events dictated.

Francis, not Fulton, was the name on the contract; he was a gentleman of singular views and would need sensitive handling. Work space was being provided in Dover Castle, any sea trials would probably take place locally and other than that, well, Kydd was expected to work closely and supportively with the man, provided always that the interests and prerogatives of the Crown were upheld.

Numb with rage, Kydd made his way back to his ship. A sloop-of-war of the first rank and a commander, Royal Navy, at the beck and call of some money-grubbing projector—it was infamous. England needed every sail-of-war to face Napoleon!

He swallowed his bitterness. "Mr. Hallum, we have new orders."

"Sir?" The man's grey subservience irritated Kydd. "We weigh within the hour for Dover—and strike the blue ensign," he snapped.

"S-strike?"

"God damn it!" Kydd roared. "Take it down, I said. Hoist a red 'un in its place!" He went on grimly, "As of now we're an unattached private ship so we fly a red. Hands t' turn to, unmoor ship, Mr. Hallum." It would be remarked all over the anchorage: HMS Teazer was standing down from the fight.

During the short trip south to Dover Kydd brooded. He had no choice other than to do his duty, but all his warrior instincts were to face the enemy. What he had heard at the Admiralty had shaken him, and to be absent from the field in his country's time of trial was almost too much to bear.

He had never been to Dover; the harbour to the west of the town was small and had no naval presence to speak of, but brazenly atop the towering white cliffs was the mightiest fortress in the south: Dover Castle.

The town nestled snugly in a fold of the white cliffs. After he had taken one look at the roads winding up the steep hills, Kydd hired a carriage to take him to the castle. Despite his savage mood he was impressed by the sight of it: the giant central keep within the near half a mile of protecting ramparts and bastions spoke of defiance and age-old puissance in a world gone mad. It had been a symbol of tenacity looking out to England's enemies for nearly eight centuries and, yet again, had come to be a major element in the forward defence of the kingdom.

Entering through the Constable's Gate his spirits rose.

The red coats of soldiers everywhere, others in fatigues with pickaxes and carts, more drilling at their heavy cannon showed it to be an active fortress of a truly majestic size.

Feeling conspicuous in his naval uniform among all the soldiers, Kydd was marched by a genial sergeant inside the walls and his pass was verified. Then an officer was produced who knew of the castle's distinguished guest.

It was not to the towering keep that he was taken. Instead they walked seaward over the grassy slopes of the hill and approached the edge of the cliff. Then, unexpectedly, it was an abrupt descent into the bowels of the earth and a dark world of medieval tunnels, passages and steps. Here, there were subterranean barrack rooms, kitchens, work places, storerooms, sleeping quarters and guard rooms. Then the blessed sight of sunlight—not above, but at the end of casemates, long, fortified chambers, much as Kydd had known in Gibraltar but this time, rather than a view across a dusty plain into Spain, he found himself looking out from a height over the sparkling sea.

Towards the centre of the complex of casemates the officer stopped. "You'll find your Mr. Francis in there," he said, pointing to one.

Kydd entered the long cavity and made his way towards a figure arranging desk and drawers at the end. "Mr. Francis?"

The man turned abruptly. "Who're you?"

It was odd to hear the American twang he had last encountered in Connecticut in such surroundings. "Commander Kydd, Royal Navy."

"And you're to be my keeper," Fulton grunted, and went back to his sorting. The desk was well sited for detailed work, the sunlight streaming in through the iron grille at the end of the casemate.

"Not so, sir," Kydd said. "My orders are to furnish you with such assistance as the Navy can provide, and the services of my ship, the brig-sloop Teazer."

Fulton paused. "Why, that's right handsome of their lordships," he said. "I guess for passage, trials, that sort of thing."

"As will promote the success of your work."

"To be a victim."

"A what?" Kydd said irritably.

"If I'm to be creating a submarine boat, it will need a victim to practise upon, wouldn't you say?"

Kydd stopped. "A submarine boat?"

"You have no idea, do you? Your government is paying me thousands for a plunging boat and they don't see fit to tell their man." He shook his head.

"Mr. Francis, I was hauled off my ship in the middle of a war to be told I'm to assist a private contractor make a hill of money, not what he has to do to earn it."

Fulton waited for the outburst to subside, then leaned towards Kydd. "If I tell you how your Mr. Boney will be stopped in his tracks by this one device—against which there is no defence—will that be enough for you?"

"The submarine?" Kydd said sarcastically. "If you're going to tell me now that you're the only one in the world can design it . . ."

"I've built such a one and I've used it—against the British Navy."

Fulton's cold certainty was disconcerting. "Go on."

In a short time Kydd had the sense of it: a submarine craft that was able to navigate silently under the waves, completely out of the sight and knowledge of men until it had delivered its deathblow, and against which there could truly be no defence. What gun could pierce to the ocean's depths?

As Fulton revealed more, Kydd fought off the unreality that was closing in on him. This was more than yet another crazy idea, it was a new reality that threatened the world of ships and the sea that was at the centre of his life. It promised to render useless the great fleets that were the bulwark of Britain's defences and . . . and he needed time to think, to make sense of what he had just heard.

Kydd took to his cabin, telling Hallum and Tysoe that he was not to be disturbed, and let his thoughts run free. Should he even be party to such a devilish scheme? If he refused the duty, there would quickly be another found and, in any case, the question hinged on deeper considerations. It was barbaric and not to be contemplated by any gentleman—but was it morally wrong?

Probably. But did that mean it should be immediately discarded by any civilised country? That was the nub: if all nations refused such weapons, the answer was yes, but if this were so, then any weaker that ignored the pact might easily prevail over a stronger by their introduction. Thus, logically, all should acquire them to preserve the balance.

It was a melancholy but irrefutable fact: the genie was now out of the bottle and could not be put back. What was invented could not be uninvented. The future of war at sea, therefore, would now be one of submarines and sudden death of the defenceless.

There was, however, one question that, to Kydd, put all others aside: was this going to be the means to get at the invasion flotilla skulking in harbour and put to an end the mortal threat that hung over England, once and for all?

If it was then, damn it, he would give it all he had.

CHAPTER 9

KYDD FILED IN and sat next to Fulton. Others took position around them and all rose when the chairman, George Hammond, undersecretary of state for the Foreign Office entered and took the head of the table.

"Thank you, gentleman, and especially you, er, Mr. Francis, for affording us your valuable time." He shuffled some papers, then looked up sharply. "The purpose of this meeting—this informal meeting—I should remind you, is to discover how the committee for the examination of the submarine boat be most effectively constituted so as to give a true and fair view of its prospects in service." A large man next to him gave an ill-tempered harrumph, which was ignored.

"I shall introduce you all. This is Mr. Jackson, an engineer of some repute; Major Wardle, for the Ordnance Board; Captain Gresham, for the Royal Navy," the large man nodded and glared around the table, "and, of course, Mr. Francis himself."

Hammond looked enquiringly at Kydd, but before he could say anything Fulton said firmly, "Mr. Kydd, of the Navy, who's my keeper and liaison man. If needs be, he'll be advising me—that's so, isn't it, Commander?" "Er, yes. In accordance with Mr. Francis's conditions in coming to England I'm to assist in any way I can to facilitate his work by way of explaining our operational practices and arranging procedural matters on his request."

"Very well," Hammond said crisply. "To business. Mr. Pitt strongly believes that the importance of this project demands that only men of the highest eminence need be asked to sit on this committee. Therefore I ask that you do consider deeply your separate professions as to who might best be approached." He paused. "For instance, the name of Sir Joseph Banks has been mentioned as chairman."

Kydd was impressed: the well-born naturalist who had sailed with Cook to the South Seas, president of the Royal Society and adviser to governments and kings—this was eminence indeed.

Hammond continued, "Mr. Jackson. Might we start with yourself? Who in the practice of engineering would you consider in this regard?"

The pleasant-faced man appeared perplexed. "As I'm not well acquainted with what Mr. Francis proposes to do, I'm at a stand, sir. If it's shipbuilding—"

"No, sir, it is not," Fulton said energetically. "This is a new departure in the marine arts. As such it—"

"Damn it all for a lunatic charade!"

"Captain Gresham?"

"Will someone please explain to me why on earth we're contemplating creeping about under the sea in these contraptions, like some verminous highwayman in the woods, when we've got the mightiest and best navy the world's ever seen?"

"Because the prime minister desires we shall," Hammond retorted. "Mr. Jackson, please continue."

"Oh, yes. I would think that—"

"Let me answer our salty son of the briny," Fulton broke in abruptly. "We're contemplating a submarine because not even all your king's horses and all your king's men can defend a battleship against even one of these. If ever you stopped to think—"

"Mr. Francis, I have to rule you out of order, I'm afraid," Hammond came in. "You're here in an advisory capacity and may only address the meeting when called upon to answer a particular technical question. Mr. Jackson?"

"As I was saying, you'd be well served by a dockyard engineer— they're a canny breed, quite at home with curious sea machines. I'm thinking of Mr. Bentham—that's Samuel, not his brother. And, in course, Mr. Rennie . . ."

"Thank you, sir. Major Wardle, who in the view of the Ordnance Board would be suitable?"

"Who has not heard of Thomas Blomefield? Or the younger William Congreve? There is a gratifying superfluity of persons of an ordnance persuasion, sir, ready to do their duty."

"Indeed. I should perhaps at this stage make mention that Mr. Henry Cavendish has indicated his willingness to allow us the benefit of his observations in the scientifical line."

"Cavendish?" Gresham asked his neighbour.

"Rum cove—factitious airs, the electric fluid, Mr. Lavoisier's hydrogen . . ." the man replied.

Fulton leaned back restlessly. "These philosophical gents are all very well, Mr. Chair, but your most significant man will be your seaman who knows the sea. A whole navy to choose from, sir—who will it be?"

"Hear, hear," rumbled Gresham. "Our American friend and I are at last in agreement. We need one of weighty experience, knows the crackpot from the plain lunatic—"

"Quite so."

"Not an admiral as is set in his ways, been at sea more'n a dogwatch, smelled a mort of powder-smoke—"

"Rather similar, in fact, to yourself, sir?"

"If you insist, Mr. Chairman," Gresham said, with oily satisfaction.

"It will be considered in due course," Hammond said, and turned to Fulton. "Mr. Francis, this committee is convened upon your request. Do you have any objection to the names mentioned as having the competence to adjudge your work?"

"Only one," Fulton said, looking pointedly at Gresham.

"That is noted. The names, sir, will be put forward to the prime minister's office and selection made. You will be informed, of course. Thank you, gentlemen."

With a shuffling of feet the meeting adjourned. In the hubbub following, Jackson crossed to speak to Fulton but Gresham stopped Kydd. "A junior commander is it, then, Mr. Kydd? I do hope you've wits enough to see through this crafty rogue. The Navy doesn't want his kind about when we've got more pressing engagements, if you see what I mean."

"I have m' duty, sir, and that's to give Mr. Francis a clear hawse in the matter of designing a submarine boat," Kydd said pointedly.

"Don't take that tone with me, sir. You have your duty, and it's to the Service, not to some jumped-up Yankee projector who's got ideas as will bring about the ruination of the profession! The Navy expects you to stand by its traditions with courage and right-thinking, not go chasing after hare-brained schemes that—"

"Mr. Kydd!" Fulton called loudly across the room. "I find I'm hard-pressed and must leave—if you're ready at all?" In the street outside he pulled on his gloves savagely and jammed on his hat. "God save you from all his tribe," he said bitterly, "else you'll be a-seeing Mr. Bonaparte marching down this very street before long."

"The committee's not yet selected, Mr. Fulton. It might be he's not on it."

"He will be."

"Let's wait and see."

"No, we won't—I don't like waiting. I must get to work."

A few days later Kydd returned to the casemate, this time taking in more of the details. Halfway up a sheer cliff, its slatted wooden decking was probably to guard against the damp and mould of the vast chalk cavern. The only entry apart from the one he had used, which was through an army barracks, was a small exit to the open air, barred with a grille. It was perfectly chosen for the purpose of securing Fulton and his plans from the outside world—or acting as his prison.

Fulton beckoned him in. He was trying to heave round his desk and Kydd hastened to take the other end, manhandling it into place as close as possible to the light and air streaming through the grille. "It will serve," Fulton panted. "I've worked in far worse and time's not on my side."

It was beginning to shape up: the drawing desk across the mouth of the casemate, shelves down each side and stowages resembling ship's sea-chests in strategic locations. This was where the war at sea was going to be changed utterly.

Fulton glanced at Kydd and seemed to come to a decision. "Do you desire to see how a submarine is constructed, sir?"

"I do."

Rummaging in his chests Fulton came up with a clutch of long papers, which he smoothed out on the desk. "Hmm—these are construction details for the workmen, each to his own and never the whole to be comprehended by one man."

Then he took out a smaller drawing and spread it in front of Kydd. "But with this you may see my Nautilus in all her glory."

Kydd leaned over intently: his first view of what lay in the future for the world, and which promised to save England from Napoleon Bonaparte or plunge the realm of the mariner into unthinkable undersea warfare for ever.

Before him was a sectioned craft as unlike a ship as it was possible to be. Long and sinister, tubular with a conical bow and small protruding dome, it seemed to be filled with cranks and wheels and above it, like a giant bat's wing, an apparatus of rigging.

"There's no waterline marking on the plan," Kydd said, searching for something to say, then cursed himself as he remembered that, for a submersible, waterlines had no meaning.

"On the surface she's nearly awash, only this little tower for conning the ship to be seen."

"If—if she's made of wood, won't she just float?"

"Her hull is of ellipsoid section, copper sheeting over iron frames, but a fair question. I reserve space in the keel for ballast, and as she progresses under the sea, a crewman drives a horizontal rudder of sorts to send her deeper while two more turn the cranks, which operate this four-bladed propelling paddle here."

"And this?"

"That's a window into the deep—I can see the minute hand on my watch at twenty-five feet," Fulton said proudly.

Kydd tried to visualise what it must be to exist in the gloom and stench far beneath the waves, the immensity of the sea pressing in, the knowledge of the coming detonation, wreckage, torn bodies . . . "Is it—what is it like, er . . . ?"

"Tolerable, tolerable," Fulton said absently. "I find it takes but two minutes only to unrig for diving, and when deep, I navigate by compass in the usual way, even in the open sea when it's a damn relief to get down to the peace of the abyss, where there's no hurry and rush of the waves."

"C-can you see mermaids and such? Sailors set great store on such things," Kydd said, his eyes widening.

"None seen by me—it's naught but dull green down there. It goes on for ever as you'd never conceive," Fulton said. "Black rocks looming up of a sudden—gives you the frights to see 'em close to like that."

Kydd struggled for words as he grappled with the images. "Er, do you not fear it when your air is, er, used up?"

"As to that, carbonic acid and lime has been promoted but I find a trusty copper globe of air as I've prepared under pressure answers better. Just tap off what we need. Four hours and twenty on the seabed with myself and three crew, and it was boredom that drove us up in the end."

"So—so this is your Nautilus as—"

"As I constructed, trialled before Napoleon Bonaparte himself and used to blow to flinders a brig before the eyes of all his admirals," he said grimly.

"And may I ask where she lies now?"

"In pieces, sold for scrap value. Don't worry, I've left nothing behind. You English have no fear he can make another." He slapped the drawings together again. "Right now, I've work to do. A seagoing Nautilus with double-sized crew, provisioned for a patrol of three weeks at a time, nine torpedoes. This'll make 'em sit up."

It was a fearful and wondrous creation but Kydd was damned if he'd show how awestruck he was. "Well, then, shall I leave you to it, Mr. Francis, or is there anything you need?"

"No. I crave to be left alone for a space, sketch out some thoughts. I'll be sure to let you know."

A caustic letter arrived from Keith suggesting that as an inspector of Sea Fencibles—albeit not a regular-built one—perhaps it was time Kydd earned his keep. As a sea officer of some experience, possibly an active tour of the less-frequented posts, a revealing report to follow? It was not a formal order but, for all that, a call to duty—and, despite his feelings about the Fencibles, Kydd welcomed the chance to do something seamanlike, something he could understand, while Fulton worked on his plans.