Invasion

CHAPTER 10

"NICHOLAS! TAKE A SEAT, m' friend. It seems the waters o' Bath are in truth a sovereign cure, you looking so well."

Renzi sat in his usual chair by the stern windows and stretched lazily. "Such a quantity of women, each with a tongue that simply could not be still. That a man must find peace in a man-o'-war is a singular thing." Then he gave Kydd a quizzical look. "Far be it for me to lay criticism at the feet of my worthy commander but did I not see a gaudy red at the ensign staff supplanting the pristine blue of our noble Admiral Keith?"

"Aye, you did. For now we are an unattached ship while I top it the inspector of Fencibles."

"Oh?"

"Well, you should know this is b' way of a blind while we are on a secret tasking."

Renzi jerked upright.

"Why, nothing t' remark," Kydd told him. "In fact, we're not to trouble the French in any wise."

"The Irish?"

"No. Oh, I'm sanguine you'll hear of it in time, but I'll ask you t' keep it in confidence. Our real task is to act as trials ship and Navy liaison to an American cove who's been inventing a submarine boat."

"Was this by any chance a man called Fulton?" Renzi asked, with a curious note in his voice.

"Er, yes, but here he's known as Mr. Francis."

Renzi's face tightened. "I didn't think to see that man again."

In dawning realisation, Kydd said, "Then—then it was you conducted him to England?"

"Yes."

"How did—you were in France?"

"Paris."

Kydd's face was grave. "Nicholas, now the French know you did—"

"There is nothing to connect my quitting the country with Fulton's departing. It's rather him that stands into danger. The French may now rue his leaving and take steps to silence him. Is he guarded?"

"Yes. In Dover Castle." Then Kydd challenged, "Why do you dislike the man?"

"Did I say that?" Renzi came back defensively.

"He's a genius who's going to give us the means t' get at Boney's flotillas," Kydd said stoutly.

"He's a mendacious and deluded fool, who covers his motives for creating his evil machines with absurd nonsense about saving the world from itself."

Kydd blinked in surprise at Renzi's intensity. "He's said some strange things, I'll agree, but if he's going to provide us with—"

"Have you not considered the nature of what he is doing, pray? He desires we send out these submarines, like assassins in the night, to fall upon unsuspecting victims who are powerless to defend themselves. This is never within the usages of war of any civilisation worth the name."

"Well, Nicholas," Kydd said lightly, trying to lift the mood, "if it is so dreadful, no navy will want to put to sea, and there you'll have your universal peace."

"Do not insult my intelligence," Renzi said. "In Earth's bloody history there will always be found those who place their lust for domination over any consideration of ethics or humanity and would, without hesitation, subject the world to a reign of terror for their own cruel ends."

"Are you meaning that our employing this against Boney is immoral by your lights?" Kydd snapped.

"Damn it, I am! And I'm surprised—very surprised—that you should see fit to encourage such a means of waging war."

"So, out of notions of honour we should lay aside the weapon that saves us from Bonaparte?"

Renzi did not reply at once, as if he were considering his response carefully. "If we're speaking of honour, consider this little analogy. What is the difference, may I ask, between he who faces another squarely in a duel, and the one who waits until darkness to break into his opponent's house to slaughter him in his bed?"

"Desperate situations call for radical measures."

"There must be limits to acceptable behaviour in war or we're lost as a species. And pitting a man, sword in hand, against an unarmed, blindfolded adversary is nothing but contemptible."

"You are, of course, hoist b' your own petard, Nicholas."

"Do go on," Renzi said stiffly.

"Before, you said that there'll always be found those so lost t' honour who'd think to employ such a means. By logic, therefore, we must ourselves acquire the same, or the godly must surely be overcome by the unrighteous."

"That's as may be, but it does not make it an acceptable course for an honourable nation." He paused. Then, with a twisted smile, he added, "And yet, you see, you have omitted one small matter."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"If this should be the manner of war then where might distinction be won by the valiant? Where is the triumph, the victory, in the mass destruction of unwary sailors?"

"Be that as it may," Kydd said tightly, "but tell me this. If you feel as you do, why did you take such pains t' bring the man to England?"

Renzi sighed. "So as not to leave him to the French, the main reason. And—and he has created a wondrous undersea chariot with which to visit Neptune's kingdom that might yet be of incalculable value to science."

Kydd said nothing and Renzi continued, "Since returning I have had time to consider, and now I've come to realise I loathe to the depths of my being what he is visiting on the world. I fear I cannot face him again. If he comes aboard I must tell you I will not sit at the same table with such a man."

Troubled, Kydd could see that more than duty and morality had now entered his friend's thinking. But was there any other way to get at Bonaparte's menace?

Kydd found Fulton in his casemate, head in his hands. "Is there a problem, Mr. Francis? Are you not well?"

Fulton lifted his head and Kydd could see the ravages of fatigue in his face. "I'm as well as I can be," he croaked. "Nothing to worry of."

"Are the plans near complete at all?" Kydd ventured.

"Don't concern yourself, Mr. Kydd, if that's the purpose of your visit. My calculations show a working depth of thirty-five feet and an increase to thirty in the number of submarine bombs she can carry in her deck compartments—and you cannot but admire my undersea observation ports in the dome."

Before he could look, Fulton pushed the plans to one side and swivelled round to Kydd. His eyes burned with a feverish glow. "Tell me, Mr. Sea Captain, what is it you're thinking? That I'm mad or a quack—that this is all a humbug to win gold from your king? Go on, say away!"

Kydd felt for the man. "You've been at your scribbling for weeks now. Have you had any bear you a hand?"

"There's no one on God's earth that's in any kind of position to help me. I conceive of it, I test the idea, do the calculations and then the draughting. Who else?"

"So all this time you've been here . . ."

Fulton slumped in the chair wearily. "I've worked every hour God gives, so help me. Night and day, meals brought in, don't wash, don't sleep much." Then he sat up, energised. "It's just so . . . damned breathtaking, dazzling to the mind working on the beast, I can't leave it."

Here was a man entirely on his own in a foreign country, grappling with devices and concepts far beyond the wisest philosopher and conjuring into being a mechanical sea-beast to plunge into the depths so that man could for the first time be truly a child of Neptune. "I'll tell you what I'm thinking about your submarine boat, Mr. Francis, but not here," Kydd said. "You'll first hoist inboard a square meal, as we say in the Navy, then talk."

"I can't—"

Kydd gave a friendly smile. "I'm not without means. It'll be entirely at my pleasure, sir."

The snug of the White Horse Inn was unoccupied, and Fulton devoured his steak and ale pie in privacy, expressing every degree of satisfaction with the victuals. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then prompted, "So what, then, is your feeling, sir?"

"I've had space t' think about it, Mr. Francis. Therefore I say to you . . . it's the most fearful and wonderful thing I've ever seen. And I'm persuaded it's the future, sir."

Fulton gave him a penetrating look, then threw back his head and laughed until the tears came. "At last—at last! A believer! And, dare I hazard, one who's ready to go with my Nautilus into that future whatever it brings, no matter that some name me a murderer of sailors, a charlatan and projector? You are to be congratulated, then, sir."

Kydd was discomfited by his ardour and took a pull at his drink. He caught the eye of the potboy and signalled for another round, then asked, as casually as he could, "Have you heard anything of the committee, sir?"

"Ah, yes. I meant to speak to you about it. They have constituted it and I'd be pleased to hear your opinions as to its members. We have Sir Joseph Banks its chairman, whom I met once, Henry Cavendish, a scientist—"

"Banks, of course, is of some eminence. I know but little of Cavendish," Kydd said. "Who will be the naval representative? Gresham, I suppose."

"Not at all! Note was taken, he's not on it. But I'd wager it's not the last we'll hear from the gentleman. No, it's to be one Popham, a high captain of sorts."

"Popham! Then you've a right cunning fellow there—he has distinguished service, and is a scientifical and inventor too. He's introducing a completely new method o' signalling into the Navy. If there's anyone to convince, it'll be he."

"Umm. Then there's Rennie, dockyards, and a redcoat Congreve from an ordnance department of some sort."

"Seems sound enough but I'm not sure I can add much."

"Ah, well." Fulton took a pull of beer.

"Do you have plans o' business as will see your Nautilus a-swim? One man on his own . . ."

"Yes," said Fulton crisply, "I do. The prime need is to get one party interested enough to fund my design. In this case, your Admiralty. She builds and off she goes under licence to my company and starts among the enemy like a tiger let loose. I will have a contract that says for every ship of size I put down, there's a royalty—tonnage or guns, I don't care. With these proceeds I build more and better. It's cheap, pays for itself, so other countries take a note and next thing there's submarine boats in every navy."

"You said before as your intention is universal peace and liberty for all b' making it impossible for warships to put t' sea."

"Just so. When all have my vessels, how can they? Some kind of mutual-destruction war? I don't think so. Therefore the high seas are made free for any and every man."

"I see," said Kydd. "Then I should wish you good fortune, Mr. Francis."

"Look, my friends call me 'Toot'—will you?"

"Oh, er, of course, um, Toot." Kydd warmed to the man's need to reach out. He was alone in the country, yet with such world-shattering plans in his head.

"Thank you, sir. And you?"

"Well, I'm Thomas Kydd, Thomas Paine Kydd after the radical as charmed my parents."

Fulton chortled. "Tom Paine! I'll have you know, the old feller's been a good friend to me, living in Paris all this time. Returned to New York only a year or so past. So right readily I'll call you Tom, my friend."

Kydd grinned. Fulton's enthusiasm was infectious and he raised his beer in salute. "To Nautilus as will be!"

It was time. The plans were ready to present. Kydd and Fulton boarded the Canterbury coach to London. Kydd took rooms in the White Hart as before but Fulton rejected offers of assistance in the matter of lodging, insisting he preferred the independence and freedoms of more humble quarters in the Minories, on the pretence of it being close by America Square.

On the due day they waited together in a discreet anteroom of Somerset House, Fulton clutching his flat case of plans and in high spirits. "Do you think one guinea a ton royalty an excessive figure?" he asked Kydd. "Being a fraction of what it costs to build?"

"As you sense the mood of the meeting, I'd suggest," Kydd replied, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. No doubt the illustrious chairman would be taken with the novelty, the dockyard representative would be interested in the technology, the scientist with prospects for natural philosophy—but the one who stood capable of bringing down Fulton and his scheme was the representative of the Navy, Captain Popham. If, being creative and inventive in his own right, he took against Fulton for reasons of jealousy, or perhaps adopted a high moral stand, then he had the power to ruin the enterprise. Kydd was well aware of what that would mean to the courageous inventor.

The door to the meeting room opened. "The committee will see you now, Mr. Francis," a secretary said quietly. Kydd rose as well. "This is a closed meeting, sir," the man said firmly, ushering Fulton in and closing the door.

Kydd knew there was no real requirement for him to remain, his duties were mainly of a liaison nature, but he wanted to see the thing through and Hallum would be keeping Teazer in order for him.

There was not long to wait: in less than twenty minutes the presentation was over and the members streamed out, talking excitedly. Kydd stood—the major in regimentals had to be Congreve, a reclusive-seeming gentleman in thick glasses the man of science, and there was Popham, a strong-faced figure in naval uniform striding out and looking thoughtful, nodding gravely to Kydd as he passed.

When Fulton came out, he was beaming. "A good meeting, my friend—they listened and learned, and when the sceptics opened fire I was ready. God, was I ready!" He chuckled.

"And?"

"I just told the fools that they're whistling in the wind—a submarine is not to be doubted for it's been built, proved. It's already happened. They'll be getting a much more advanced craft, is all." He laughed again. "Fair took the breeze from their sails—couldn't say boo to a goose after that."

"So what happens now?"

"They go away and think about it, talk among 'emselves. Promised to get back to me without delay."

"So you—" began Kydd, but a large, wealthy-looking gentleman walking painfully with an ivory stick had come out. It could only be Sir Joseph Banks.

"Interesting, damned interesting," he said genially, regarding Fulton keenly. "Not your common diving bell but a locomoting plunging boat. Fascinating." With a quick glance at Kydd, he continued, "It would gratify me much if you'd consent to come to my little gathering tonight. There'll be some present who'd be with child to hear of it—upon such short notice I know, but while you're in town?"

"Most certainly, Sir Joseph. Be glad to."

"And your friend? I'll send my carriage. Where?"

"Oh, the White Hart in Charles Street, sir," Kydd intervened, before Fulton could respond.

"Excellent. Shall we say six o' clock?"

It was only a small soirée but the Grosvenor Street mansion was of an intimidating quality.

"Why, Sir Joseph, your leg is still troubling you?" said a stately lady, solicitously, elegantly working her fan.

"The trials of age, my dear," said Banks, then turned to Fulton. "This American gentleman is Mr. Francis, and this is Mr. Kydd, his friend while in England."

Kydd essayed his best bow—but Fulton's was deeper and more extravagant.

"Gentlemen, the Lady Broughton." He continued, "Mr. Francis is here for a particular and quite diverting purpose, Bethany. I'm sanguine you'll never guess it in a hundred years."

The fan stopped. "Mr. Francis, do tell. What is it brings you to these shores?"

"The conjuring of a submarine boat as will swim beneath the waves with the fishes, that will disport with the porpoise and sea lion and altogether put a frightener on our Mr. Bonaparte," Fulton said, in lordly tones.

"I—I'm not sure I follow you, sir."

Banks interjected: "He means to say he is constructing a species of plunging boat that might creep along the seabed to rise up on unwary ships a-slumber at their anchor and explode them to atoms. Is that not so, Mr. Francis?"

"Indeed it is, sir. At home both in the Stygian depths and ranging the oceans looking for prey. But as well the intrepid crew might peer through their port and be witness to sights in the depths until now seen only by drowning sailors and Neptune himself . . ."

"Goodness gracious!" Lady Broughton said, staring at Fulton through her quizzing glass in awe.

"Ah, Toot, perhaps we should not bore the ladies with such talk," Kydd said uncomfortably. "Er, and is not the character of your work to be accounted secret?"

"Quite so!" Banks agreed. "But the Lady Broughton here may never be thought your common French spy, Kydd. I can personally vouch for her, may I not, Bethany?"

"Why, thank you, Sir Joseph." Then she pressed Fulton, "But does not your submarine boat frighten the fishes? Or do they not recognise such a—a thing, and then you open a little door and spring out upon the poor unsuspecting creatures?"

Fulton replied in ringing tones that echoed around the room. Others came over to listen to the new-found social celebrity. Eventually Kydd and Fulton left with firm invitations to the theatre, a fête champêtre in Hyde Park and various ill-defined assemblies—but Kydd was growing concerned by Fulton's flamboyant behaviour.

A note had arrived by hand from Captain Boyd of the Admiralty, remembering Kydd's earlier visit and cordially inviting him to an evening affair—his friend would be made welcome.

"These are the gentlemen you have to convince, Toot," Kydd told him seriously, as they arrived. "They'll be the ones finding men for your submarine and sending them off to fight in it. They'll need to be confident in your plans, I'm thinking."

The two mounted the stone steps into the Admiralty, Kydd, in deference to his companion, not in uniform. Boyd greeted him effusively. "So good to see you again. I've heard you had a brisk time of it in the Downs?"

"May I introduce Mr. Francis? He's undertaking some work for—"

"Yes, I've heard. Welcome to London, sir."

A larger officer with a face of granite loomed behind. It was Gresham. "We meet again, sir," he said loudly, to Fulton. "How convenient. I was just trying to explain to my friend Noakes here how you propose to pay for your little toy."

"No mystery, sir," Fulton said icily. "They're self-funded after the first, as any who attended the committee now knows. Kydd, do explain to these worthy mariners if they're still confused." He gave the smallest of bows and turned his back.

"Look here, sir—"

"Captain Gresham, Mr. Francis is under pressure t' complete his design. I'm sure—"

"He'll explain to me now how an untried and unworkable gim-crack contraption is going to save us all from Boney or I'll—"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Boyd said, "this is a social occasion. Not the place to air professional disagreements. Now, can I press you both to a glass of punch?"

The elderly Noakes shifted uncomfortably but seemed determined to have his say. "Nonetheless, I'd be obliged for a steer in the matter of the morality of all this. As I understand it, if the plunging boat works as advised, we're being asked to sneak up on the enemy like common burglars and—"

"Good God!" Fulton exploded, as he turned back abruptly. "Do you want to beat the French or no? You think a bunch of cow farmers in red coats is going to stop Napoleon if he lands—there's two thousand invasion craft over there, stuffed to the gunnels with Boney's best! Your only hope is to top 'em in their harbours before they sail. I'd have thought it plain enough for any simpleton."

He folded his arms and glared at Gresham, who said, with a sneer, "But it's all to no account. Where are we going to find crews enough to man all these death-traps among our honest tars? They've more sense than to—"

"Come, Mr. Kydd," Fulton snarled. "I find there's more important work I have to do. Captain Boyd, I'll thank you for your hospitality and we must leave. Goodnight." He pushed his way to the door and out into the street.

"Toot, this is not the way to—"

"They were waiting for me. I'll not stand to be a punch-bag for all the doubtin' loobies in the British Navy! I'm away to do my work."

"I'll call a carriage."

"No. I need to walk." He stormed off down the road and Kydd hurried behind.

At an ornate gate Kydd suggested they cut across the park, hoping the pleasant trees and shrubs would calm his mood. After a while Fulton eased his pace. "You really should not provoke 'em like that, Toot," Kydd told him. "They have the ear of Popham, who's very senior and—"

Fulton drew a long breath. "It's hard, damnable hard." He sighed. "I've worked on this for years and still I'm fighting to make 'em understand. When will it all end?"

Kydd had no easy answer. Fulton's hopes of his creation coming alive had already been dashed after months of French bureaucracy. Was the same thing to happen again? And would Britain's only chance to deal directly with Bonaparte's deadly threat vanish?

"The committee is a true one. It'll give you a good report, I'm sure. Just—" He froze. Behind them, tapping steps had broken into a run. Kydd spun round as two men rushed towards them. He threw Fulton to the ground and stood astride him, whipping out his small-sword just in time to catch the first attacker with his weapon. The man gave a howl of pain, dropped his knife and ran for the bushes.

The other stopped and drew out a heavy pistol, hesitating whether to kill Kydd first. A sharp crack rang out; he clutched his bloody face and fell kicking.

"What in hell?" Fulton said, brandishing his pocket pistol as he heaved himself to his feet. "I've never seen robbers—"

"French assassins," Kydd said grimly. "I've got t' get you under protection, m' friend." He looked round. It were better they were not found on the scene and he dragged Fulton through the bushes to another path.

Fulton pulled himself free. "I'll not have a posse of redcoats at my tail!" He snorted.

"Then you'll have to stay somewhere a mort safer than your Minories. Until we get word from the committee, you'll be a guest aboard my ship."

Fulton hesitated. "Where's she at? Not London, I'd say."

"In the Downs, only a few hours away. Have no fear, Toot. Deal is a gay enough town, with quantities of ladies to be entertained. However, I do believe you'll be safer in Teazer for the present." Kydd had sensed his reluctance to leave the capital—the lionising and awe must be a heady brew for one so far from home and on the brink of fame and fortune.

"Mr. Hallum, Teazer has an important guest arriving shortly. It'll only be for a few days, and your cabin . . . ?"

Renzi took the news coldly and announced that he would be detained by his studies.

Fulton arrived and immediately took over the great cabin, spreading out his plans and scratching away at new ideas for Nautilus and his other devices. He was a figure of mystery and excitement for the ship's company and lurid rumours flew about the mess-decks.

He appeared on deck only once in the next few days; Kydd followed companionably a few steps behind him as he paced with a distracted air. Men stopped their work and stared wonderingly at him, then broke into animated talk after he had passed.

When he reached the fo'c'sle Fulton stopped, bewildered. A brawny seaman took him gently, turned him round and, grinning broadly, sent him on his way aft.

For Kydd this little incident with the unsuspecting sailor in his act of kindness—secure in his wooden world, yet unaware that Fulton was planning its destruction—touched on all the elements of what was gathering pace and soon to break on the brotherhood of the sea. Did Fulton truly understand what was being wrought?

Kydd turned on his heel and went to his cabin.

The next day Fulton was full of spirit. "Well, I've solved it!" He chortled. "A torpedo detonation without human intervention. Yes, quite unseen and deadly certain."

Kydd could summon little interest in the detail but asked of it politely. Fulton gave him a pleased grin, wagged his finger, then made a mysterious reference to a horn atop Nautilus's conning dome.

Kydd persuaded Fulton to accept an invitation to a musical evening given by a marchioness in honour of the valiant defenders to be held at Downlands Hall. Nestling in the gently rising swell of the North Downs, it was the prettiest country house Kydd had seen, above the sprawling village of Nethersoke.

It turned out to be a splendid affair, the scarlet and gold of regimentals vying with the dark blue and gold of naval uniforms among the most fashionable gowns of the age, all in the breathless heat of a still evening under the coruscating gold and crystal of the chandeliers. There were indeed quantities of ladies as the guests mingled before the performance, and Kydd saw Fulton disappear quickly into the throng. He accepted an iced confection and was just about to enter a conversation when he was startled by the distinct thud of a distant gun.

The noise of happy gossip and repartee tailed off and the officers looked at each other meaningfully in the sudden quiet. Another gun sounded, and a corporal of yeomanry burst into the room. "The beacons!"

There was pandemonium as everyone struggled for the doors and flooded out into the garden. Strident shouts came from some, with the occasional well-bred female shriek and the hoarse bellow of command rising above the excitement. Atop the nearest hill the stuttering glow of a beacon strengthened, and in the far distance the orange point of another wavered.

Kydd's heart lurched. Was this Napoleon Bonaparte at last?

A trumpet sounded in the village below, an urgent tan-tara that had the soldiers girding their swords and hurrying away. The church bell began a continuous tocsin, unnerving in its dissonance.

A sudden shout drew all eyes seaward. In the dusky blue light along the edge of the horizon hundreds of pale sails could be seen, too far away to make out details but heart-chilling in their import.

The naval officers shouted for their carriages and, nearby, the nervous rattle of a drum indicated local volunteers beating to arms and forming up. Kydd was conscious that to be caught ashore was every captain's nightmare—but where the devil was Fulton?

Hallum would have the sense to send in a boat double-manned to get him back aboard, but he had to get through chaos to make Deal and the beach. Kydd cast about for Fulton, cursing that he had not kept closer to the man. Downlands Hall was still a blaze of lights; he went back inside and hurried through the deserted rooms calling him.

A bugle quavered near the village—had he gone to see the militia turn out? It was out of the question to leave him on his own when Teazer sailed. Who knew when she would return and if fresh French agents would have their orders?

"Toot!" he bawled again into the evening, as the last carriage left at full tilt.

There was now nothing for it but to get to the village on foot, see if Fulton was there, then find a horse or some other conveyance.

Panting, he arrived at the square. It was packed with a milling crowd, tearful women saying their farewells to menfolk humping muskets, militia crashing to attention, fearful old people and children wailing. It was hopeless calling for Fulton against the bedlam, so Kydd reluctantly gave up his search and looked about for some means to get to Deal.

The militia marched off and a harassed clergyman implored the women with children to form groups for their speedy transport inland. Outside the Red Lion a straggly line of agricultural yeomen hefted pitchforks and scythes, growling defiance as a squire with a fowling piece joined them.

The first carts turned into the square and the children clambered up, mollified at the prospect of a ride, some mothers joining them with cloth bundles of food. Then, with a crash of hoofbeats on cobbles, a troupe of yeomanry thundered past. More followed, and Kydd saw his chance.

He stepped out and waved his arms. They slid to an undignified halt. "In the name o' the King!" Kydd bellowed. The corporal in charge looked at his splendid naval dress uniform in astonishment. "I demand you yield your horse t' me," Kydd told him.

"Why, sir, I must attend at Walmer wi'out delay, sir!"

"Then take me," Kydd replied and, without waiting, hauled himself up behind the man. "Carry on," he ordered. Fulton must now take his chances—if this was Bonaparte, there would be more important matters to attend to in a very short time.

The corporal rallied his men and they clattered on into the gathering darkness. The roads were choked with people fleeing and the horses shied at their presence, but they made good progress and wheeled onto Beach Street where Kydd jumped down, sore after the ride.

People looked with curiosity at his now dishevelled appearance. He ignored them and hurried to the King's Naval Yard where he found his boat patiently waiting—and, standing beside it, Fulton. "Where the—" he began. "I was worried for you, Toot."

Atop the signal tower the semaphore clacked furiously in the last of the light. Fulton smiled sardonically. "I thought to find a grand seat for the performance to come, Mr. Kydd."

Calloway came up to Kydd and politely removed his hat. "Sir?"

"Well, an alarm, is it not?" Kydd said peevishly, aware of his appearance.

"Er, no, sir. Some farmer burning off his bean straw, a coastal convoy becalmed offshore, and the lobsterbacks got excited."

Word came that a decision from the committee about future submarine plans was imminent. Fulton would not be held back, so he and Kydd posted to London the same day.

As soon as they alighted from the coach Fulton threw off his travelling cloak and hurriedly went to the hall-stand at the Minories. Three waiting letters were cast aside but he seized on the fourth. "This is Banks's writing," he said, bore open the seal and went into the poky drawing room to read it. Kydd followed.

Fulton scanned it. Then, with a set face, he read it again. "See for yourself," he commanded, thrusting it at Kydd and turning away.

It was a short but courteous note, thanking Fulton for his exertions and expressing every admiration for the genius of his design but thinking it only right to advise him in advance of the formal communication that the committee, while agreeing on the probable technical feasibility of the submersible, had decided that there would be insufficient time to develop the means to overcome its operational limitations, given the imminence of the invasion threat for which it was designed. It concluded with further warm compliments and the suggestion that an early approach to the Treasury for a settlement of accounts would be in order, given that, unhappily, this must be regarded as a termination of relations. Kydd looked up in consternation. "This means—" "The fools!" barked Fulton. "The benighted imbeciles! The cod's-headed, hidebound jackasses! Can't they see—don't they realise—" He broke off, pounding his fists and choking at the enormity of it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's it do, then, cock?" one called derisively. "Make eggs o' brass or somethin'?"

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wait!" Fulton stood up and went to the window. "I—I don't think it'll fadge."

"Pray why not?"

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

"Toot, you'll honour me by accepting a small . . . accommodation as will see you secure for now."

"You'll have my note of hand directly, Mr. Kydd," Fulton said woodenly, and looked away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Quite so."

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

Did this mean . . . ?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And he was?"

"Myself. I had to, of course."

"I—I don't understand you, sir."

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

"Not a great deal," Kydd admitted stiffly.

"In warfare the devil's always in the detail," Popham said.

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

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

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

"Then . . ."

"I'm afraid so."

"But in the future—"

"The future may take care of itself."

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

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

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

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

Fulton slumped in dejection. "All these years . . ."

"Are not t' be wasted," Kydd said forcefully. "There's still a chance." "No! I'm not spending what remains of my days wheedling dullards who—"

"So you're to have done with submarines? Cast all the work aside?"

"I'm going back to America."

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

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

"Your torpedo machines? Did you not impress Napoleon himself with 'em?"

"At Brest, with his admirals looking on," Fulton conceded.

"Then I can't conceive of anything more prime to launch against their invasion craft."

"But without a submarine . . ."

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

"After the electric fish that strikes invisibly. That's your Atlantic torpedo of the Torpedo nobiliana family."

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

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

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

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

"That's as it seems, sir."

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

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

"I see."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, Hester, this is merely an entertainment."

She looked at him distrustfully.

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

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

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

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

The two bowed.

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

Kydd's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Hester, my dear, there's no need to tarry on my behalf."

"No, Uncle, I want to hear—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you details?"

"Mr. Francis has brought his plans to show you, sir."

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

"Indeed."

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

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

"Being?"

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

"One hundred thousand? Your engines come dear, sir."

"The loss of this kingdom the dearer."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And your Mr. Francis is ready with his inventions?"

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

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

"To save us from Boney," Kydd said shortly.

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

"That is a reason why we should turn our back on 'em in our hour of need?"

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

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

"Not so, my friend."

"Oh? Then there is—"

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

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

"You would not grieve it if he disappeared from the face o' the earth tomorrow?"

"Since you ask it, no."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kydd thought despairingly of Fulton's painstaking progress. "And when is this assault planned t' be?"

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

"I'm not the one t' say, but you're asking for the moon."

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

"We'll do our best for you," Kydd replied strongly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's this, then, Toot?"

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

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

"Mr. Duckitt, clear the range!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Meaning?"

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

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

"Beg pardon, sir," Duckitt interjected, "an' have ye considered corned powder a-tall?" "What's that?"

"New, like. Sifted mill cakes, hardened 'n' rolled in graphite. Makes f'r rare consistent firing."

"Have we any?" Kydd asked.

"Aye, sir. Costs a pretty penny—we keeps it f'r the chase guns only."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't worry, Mr. Firebrand, I'm satisfied an' will now move forward."

"So this means—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Flying over it in a balloon?"

"I'm reminded of my service off the coast of the Coromandel. There we encountered nightly the thievery of the native peoples—"

"Captain, I'm very engaged today, If you've—" "—who could approach unseen to within close hail except in the brightest moonlight."

"Swimming."

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

"Low in the water?"

"Inches only."

"Then we have a possibility."

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

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

"A different kind o' fuse, Toot?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shall we make trial of it?" Kydd said jovially. "Come now, you men, who'll volunteer?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 12

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

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

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

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

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

"The men—out!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The merchant looked bewildered and afraid.

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

"Which is Fulton?"

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

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

Kydd was unable to answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I've lost Fulton," Kydd said simply.

"Lost?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The fishing-boat, sir?" Hallum said doubtfully, indicating a two-masted lugger that had detached from the main body of the anchorage and seemed to be heading for the Goodwins. It was the same as many seiners at this end of the Channel—high curved bow and perfectly suited to conditions where it could blow up so quickly—

Fishing-boat? "That's him!" Kydd said savagely.

"Sir?" Hallum said, puzzled.

"Lay out 'n' loose, damn you!" he roared at the stupefied crew, then turned to Hallum in glee. "What kind of fisher-folk think the fish are biting now? Nearer sunset's more the mark."

In minutes Teazer had slipped and her every sail was set—but the breeze was sadly lacking in strength, favouring the smaller boat, which was also directly before it. Teazer needed to cover the half-mile to the Gull close-hauled before she could square away after the chase.

In barely a ripple they glided along at a slow walking pace in weather that would have the folk ashore bringing out a picnic. Kydd pounded his palm in frustration. "Wet the sails!" he spluttered, and the clanking of the deck-pumps was heard as buckets were filled and swayed up. Water cascaded darkly down the light canvas from the yards but there was no real increase in speed.

The lugger was comfortably under way and beginning to shape up for the Gull, gaining with every minute and showing no sign of noticing them. Was it indeed their quarry or an innocent?

Tide on the turn and no current to assist—it would be a close-run thing. At last Teazer was able to put down her helm and fell in astern of the lugger but almost immediately it was apparent that they were losing the race.

Renzi appeared at Kydd's side; his face was grave. It was unlikely that the languorous breeze would strengthen in the near term, and by the time Teazer had sufficient wind to haul in the smaller vessel, too much lead would have been established in the race for the blue-grey line that was the French coast.

"We're losing him," Kydd said, in a low voice, watching the lugger spread her wings for the open sea. His mind searched feverishly for answers. Rig Teazer's sweeps and row? It was unlikely they could make much more over the ground than they were doing. Ditch guns, water and so on? These were moves more suited to a long-protracted chase when fractions of a knot could add up over the miles. No, what was needed was a miraculous intervention that would see them catching up in just the next few hours. A bow chaser skilfully laid to take down a mast? No: Fulton's safety could not be put at risk.

A stray recollection—and he had it. "Put us about, Mr. Dowse," he said. "Take us back this instant."

There were disbelieving cries but Kydd was having none of it. "Get those men moving!" he bellowed, ignoring Renzi's bewilderment.

Under the impetus of her rapidly spinning helm Teazer swung right round the wind until hard up, heading back for the Deal foreshore as speedily as she could. "Boat in the water the instant we're within soundings!" Kydd ordered.

Sudden understanding spread around the deck. Their captain was going cap in hand back to the admiral. Disappointment replaced frustration, but Kydd seemed unaffected. "I want a particular boat's crew," he demanded, and named, among others, Stirk, Poulden and Mr. Midshipman Calloway.

The mystified men padded aft. Kydd waited until they were mustered, a wisp of a smile playing on his face. Then he stiffened and snapped, "Barkers and slashers!"

Answering grins surfaced—pistols and cutlasses could only mean Kydd expected to close with the French in the very near future.

As Teazer slewed to the wind and stopped, the men tumbled into the launch—but before Kydd could be the last to board Renzi pushed past and clambered in. "Nicholas, this is not your fight, m' friend," he said, in a low voice. In the past Renzi had been insistent on detaching himself from the naval hierarchy, reserving the right only to take up arms if the very ship was threatened.

"You've a fine idea as I'm sanguine will prove diverting, old fellow. You wouldn't begrudge me the entertainment?"

The boat shoved off and Poulden took the tiller. "After him, sir?" he said, watching the lugger with a frown. Although the light breeze was only sending the vessel along at walking pace it was beyond even the stoutest hearts to come up to it under oars.

"No, take us in," Kydd ordered, ignoring the puzzled looks.

The boat grounded lightly in the shingle and Kydd was away up the beach immediately. He knew where to go and quickly told the man what he wanted. "Now or sooner, Mr. Cribben, and it'll be three guineas the man."

The lazy afternoon on the Deal foreshore turned suddenly into a scene of activity: urgent shouts broke the stillness as small boys raced away, hovellers stumbled blinking from their huts, others from the grog-shops, all converging on one long shed amid the sprawl of shanties further along the beach.

Cribben muttered angrily to the knot of locals who stood glaring at the King's men suspiciously, eventually thrusting past them and throwing open the shed doors A surge followed, then from inside came the lusty call: "Alaw boat, haaauuul!" and out from the gloom, under the urging of a score of men, appeared the dark-varnished sharp prow of a long, low, oared craft.

This was quite a different matter from the iron sturdiness of the hovelling lugger. There, in unaccustomed daylight for all to see, was the notorious Deal galley-punt. Low and mean in build, it could make the French coast in two hours with twenty men at the oars, in good weather, and was known to be much favoured by smugglers and others of like need.

When the vessel was afloat in the gently lapping sea, the Navy men were sent forward while the oarsmen scrambled in, and then they were off, with low, feathering strokes that were quick and efficient; at night these would leave no telltale white splashes. They skimmed across the balmy seas and Kydd dared hope.

The rowers had quickly fallen into a rhythm and the strokes lengthened to produce a breathtaking dash across the waters. But several miles ahead the fishing-boat had won the open sea and now nothing was between it and Calais, already in plain sight.

"Stretch out for your lives! " Kydd roared at the men of Deal, who made a show of increasing speed. Then, wise in the ways of sailors, he added, "You catch 'em and it's a cask o' beer and another guinea each."

Leaving England to sink into anonymity astern, the rowers laboured on and on in a uniform dip and pull that was regular to the point of hypnotic, studied blankness on their faces as they concentrated on the effort. There was no doubt that they were catching the fishing-boat but would they be in time?

When the rolling dunes and cliffs of Calais were in stark clarity it was nevertheless clear that the race would be won. Pale faces appeared at the stern and Kydd's men prepared themselves. Stirk had a wicked grin as he tightened his red bandanna around his head and eased the pistols in his belt.

Kydd waited for the right moment and bawled across the last dozen yards, "In the King's name, come to or we fire into you!"

Faces showed again and raised voices were heard, but the lugger did not vary its course. "Lay us alongside aft," Kydd hissed.

The rowers panted and sweated but the freshening breeze now cooling them was at the same time their enemy. Under its gathering strength the lugger dipped and swayed daintily, then began slowly to pull ahead—it was agonising.

"Stirk! The grapnel!" Kydd barked.

It was a last chance—but at thirty feet? Stirk stood braced in the fore-sheets, coiling the line deliberately, the main turns in his left hand, the grapnel and flying turns in his right, and began his swing, casting wider and faster and then, at precisely the right moment, he flung out.

The grapnel sailed across—and clunked firmly on the lugger's plain transom.

"Well done, Toby!" Kydd gasped, watching Stirk complete his feat by deftly taking turns around the little samson post and belay, letting the rope take up to allow them to be towed by the fishing-boat.

"Haul in!" Willing hands leaned out and heaved, but as they neared the vessel a face appeared above the transom with a heavy pistol. It fired—and Renzi was flung backwards into the bottom of the boat. An instant later three pistols returned the shot, the man threw up his hands and slumped over the stern.

Kydd dropped to his friend—but Renzi was already pulling himself up, his lower thigh wet with blood from an ugly scoring along his side. "Damn the fellow," he said faintly. "Ruined a good pair of breeches."

Reassured, Kydd looked up to where the transom was being rapidly hauled in. Poulden was first over in a lightning heave and leap. Kydd and Stirk followed, landing on the cluttered after deck and scuttling over to the side to take in the situation.

It was deserted, except for right forward where Fulton was kneeling, bound and gagged. Over him a man stood with a cocked pistol at his head. "Get back! " he barked harshly, jabbing Fulton with the muzzle. "Get back in the boat—now!"

Kydd froze. To be so near to success! A dead Fulton would be a disaster—but perhaps that would be preferable to allowing Bonaparte to take possession of the inventor.

He hesitated but the decision was taken out of his hands. Behind him Renzi had hauled himself painfully on board. He drew out his sword, a lowly hanger, and hobbled forward purposefully.

"Nicholas—no!" Kydd blurted. Was he, through his beliefs, contemptuous of Fulton's life?

"He'll die!" the man shouted, the muzzle at Fulton's ear. Renzi took no notice and came steadily on. "He dies—now!"

The pistol aimed and the finger tightened, but Renzi did not waver, still moving forward. Coldly he detached the weapon from the man's hand and tossed it in the sea.

Stunned, the others rushed up and seized the agent, releasing Fulton, who fell, retching.

"What in blazes—Nicholas?"

"No mystery, dear fellow. Their orders were to recover Fulton for Bonaparte's service. It stands to reason that no servant of the Emperor would dare destroy him out of spite if there's a chance he might be secured later."

Kydd chuckled. "You took a risk on it, Nicholas, m' friend."

"Not so much," Renzi said, with perfect equanimity, "for if he killed me, with but one shot in his pistol, Fulton would still be safe, and I flatter myself he could be certain your vengeance was sure."

"And if Fulton was not?"

"Then, alas, I could not forgive myself that the world would then be deprived of a most terrible new submarine boat . . ."

In the deathly silence nothing could be heard but a tiny tick, tick, tick. It came from a neat but incredibly complex brass mechanism secured in a vice, which the three men were watching.

Suddenly with a loud clack a sear rotated to allow a hammer arm to spring forward, tugging a lanyard. There was an instant fizz of priming and a small column of smoke, which rose and hung as if to mark the passing of a moment of portent.

"There! I give you twenty-nine minutes, gentlemen," Fulton grunted, lowering his fob watch, "and can thereby guarantee a detonation timed almost to the very minute."

Kydd glanced at the expressionless face of the old watchmaker and murmured, "To time to the instant when an unknowing man must be launched into eternity—this is our achievement?"

Fulton looked at him sharply. "We progress," he said coldly.

"As we must," Kydd said heavily, then pulled himself together. "So, what's our standing in the venture now?"

Fulton first addressed the watchmaker. "Thank you, Mr. Jones. There'll be one or two small changes, then I'm content to recommend the placing of an order for, say, fifty mechanisms to be delivered without delay."

"W-what? H-how many did you say?" he stuttered. "It will—sir, I cannot possibly—"

"Then I must find someone who can."

"No, no, sir, I—I will hire every watchmaker in Kent, if need be. But—but this will cost, um . . . It will be expensive."

"No matter, leave it with our Mr. Hammond," Fulton said airily, and turned to answer Kydd. "Well, now, we have all the design testing complete. There will be some adjustments to my plans and then you may inform your masters that the production of ordnance may begin."

"Adjustments?"

"A few. I've decided we must field all three designs of torpedo: the large coffer, against which even a ship-o'-the-line cannot stand; a small coffer, for the lesser breeds; and a hogshead carcass, as will be used against the flotilla."

He pondered a little and added, "This is all supposing your friend's catamarans are equal to the task, of course. The extra charge weight is not insignificant."

"But we may say Teazer's task is complete?"

"For the moment."

As soon as Kydd entered the Three Kings it was obvious that the atmosphere had changed. Dyer of Falcon and Mills of Bruiser were slumped opposite each other at an empty fireplace, and an officer he didn't know stood with a glass gazing moodily out over the anchorage. There was no sign of Savery.

"Ahoy there, the Bruisers!" Kydd called cheerily. The man looked the other way but Dyer nodded wearily. "Captain Savery not at his Friday occasion?" he asked, signalling to the steward. "A supernaculum for my friends as need a recuperative," he ordered, looking about genially to mark their preference.

"Cap'n Savery is not here, Mr. Kydd," Mills said suddenly, swivelling to look at him.

"Oh. Well, I—"

"He's up agin the French coast."

"I wasn't aware—"

"Where he's been at the last month without even he's hauled off for a purgation."

The officer at the window turned to look curiously at Kydd. "Are you new on the coast, sir?"

"Not so," Kydd said, nettled at his reception. "I've been lately detained with secret matters touching on Boney's invasion plans."

"Secret! Hah!"

"Your meaning, sir?" Kydd asked Mills.

"All the world knows o' these wild motions wi' infernal machines, dammit! Not as if you was out o' sight over wi' the French."

"Since y' know so much of my business, Mills, then you'd also know that Mr. Pitt himself authorised 'em—on account that in one blow we can put the fear o' God into Johnny Crapaud as nothing else will!" "Er, how's that, sir?" The young officer had come over to listen. He had refined, sensitive features. "That is, if you're at liberty to tell. Oh—Lamb, out of Locust gun-brig."

"Well, Mr. Lamb, as we'll be going against the flotilla with 'em quite shortly you have a right t' know. A very ingenious American has invented a submarine boat—and built one, mark you—which can swim underwater until it reaches its victim, then reach out and explode the vessel above without warning."

"Good God," Lamb said quietly. "And the sailors aboard it?"

Kydd flushed. "In war they must expect casualties, in course."

"But that—that's no better than massacre by assassination!"

"It's the future, Mr. Lamb."

"And we must subscribe to such practices? Sir, this is neither courageous nor honourable. I cannot—"

"We have Bonaparte to beat," Kydd said. "What would you have us do? Tell the inventor to go away, we're too delicate?"

Lamb did not respond, standing stiff and pale.

"But then it's to no account," Kydd continued, "as in the event we'll not have the services of a submarine. Instead it will be—"

"It'll be your infernals, o' course! If they work. Heard the fishermen in Shell Ness say as the flounder still haven't returned, you explodin' carcasses under water, for God's sake!" Mills spluttered.

"So, then, what is your suggestion, sir," Kydd asked, "as a twelvemonth of war sees Napoleon's flotilla untouched by us in the usual run o' fighting . . . ?"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Dyer, with a sigh, "we have enough to do contending with the French without we assail each other. For myself, if we are given any weapon that promises confusion to the enemy, then I vow I'll not hang back from using it."

Kydd returned to his ship in a foul mood. It was not his fault that he and Teazer had been kept out of the fighting and he felt the implied slights keenly. There was one course, however, that would see them both to rights.

Later that afternoon he left Keith's cabin with the promise of active employment until he was required, and within the day had his orders: in view of his acquaintance with the ordnance central to the upcoming assault, HMS Teazer would be the one to carry out the necessary reconnaissance of Boulogne.

He remembered the sight from the sea of the Boulogne hills, stretching away under the sinister blanket of troop encampments, and the crush of craft in the inner harbour. This time there was nothing for it but to crowd in as close as he could, daring everything to bring back vital information for the attack.

The orders as well entailed the embarking of Major Lovett of the 95th Rifles, knowledgeable about Napoleon's military dispositions and requesting an observation of Boulogne.

Two days later, Teazer weighed in the morning, and stood out for France in an easy early-autumn westerly breeze. Before long they were shortening sail off the dunes of Boulogne. Kydd turned to his guest. "You've been here before, Major?"

Lovett—an older man with an air of detachment—lowered his field-glass. "I have, sir, many times."

"And you know the purpose of my reconnaissance?"

"Not altogether, I'm afraid."

"We shall be assaulting the port shortly with experimental weapons, torpedoes we call 'em, which require we close with the enemy before we launch them. I'll be taking an interest in tide states, depth o' water over the Bassure banks, lines of sight into the port, that kind o' thing."

"Quite so." Lovett raised his field-glass again. "Ah. I see that the Corps de Garde have increased their numbers—over to the left by the Tour de Croy." It was raised ground a mile or two north. "Do you know much of Boulogne, sir?"

"I've read the reports," Kydd said briefly, scanning the ridges with his pocket telescope.

"May I give you my appreciation?"

"By all means."

"Well, as you know, the salient feature is the river Liane upon which Boulogne resides, disgorging to the sea between the hills. A contemptible waterway of some fifty yards breadth only, it is nevertheless the main route for the invasion of England."

From seaward it was easy to make out the narrow entrance, as well as to glimpse the forest of masts that was the armada in its specially constructed assembly basins within. What caused Kydd much unease was a quarter-mile-long endless chain of ships moored head to stern across the river mouth, parallel with the shore, guns trained outwards.

"Marshal Soult's headquarters is beyond the fort—Châtillon—on the rise to the right. His troops will be first to embark. Ney's corps is at Montreuil, also to the right, twenty thousand men alone, and Davoût, with his fourteen regiments and Batavians, to the left, embarking at Ambleteuse. That's a total of eighty thousand men within your sight, Mr. Kydd."

"And guns?"

"Marmont calls this 'the coast of iron and bronze,' and with good reason," Lovett continued drily, "for between Fort de l'Heurt there"—he indicated a squat round edifice atop an island to the right—"and La Crèche there to the north the guns are waiting. The Bombardiers' monstrous mortars and howitzers at the water's edge, guarded in depth by the Chasseurs, with the Grenadiers' twenty-four-pounder cannon mounted on special carriages at the foreshore, all in advanced firing positions and any number of field pieces deployed at will by the horse artillery—some several hundreds of significant ordnance within that single league before you."

Kydd said nothing.

"Here, too, we have history," Lovett continued expansively. "The ruined tower of d'Ordre just to the left of the entrance and up was constructed by the sainted Caligula to save the souls of mariners."

He paused. "But getting back to the present, Napoleon, it seems, has found more sinister uses for it. The Batterie de la République is a perfect nest of artillery set to play upon any who will make motions towards the egress of the flotilla or such as dare interfere with it."

"And that is all?"

Lovett ignored Kydd's ironical tone. "Well, we have the Railliement to mock our approach with six- and twelve-pounders, but beyond that there is only the concentrated musketry of those eighty thousand troops . . ."

Kydd's face tightened. It was utter madness. What were Fulton's "curiosities" against this overwhelming strength? Would the men flinch as they were ordered into this inferno of fire? The future of the world depended on the answers.

"We shall attack at night, of course," Kydd said, hoping his voice held conviction. The darkness might help conceal them but it made the task of the torpedo launchers more difficult. By eye, Kydd plotted an approach from the west-south-west—the critical five-fathom line at datum was a mile offshore, according to the chart. Of all possibilities it was the least discouraging: there was the fire of the Fort de l'Heurt to be endured but . . .

"Place us with Le Portel at sou'-east b' east, Mr. Dowse," Kydd ordered. There was one way to find out what they faced and that was to track down this approach and see what came their way.

"Aye aye, sir," Dowse replied tersely.

The first guns opened up on Teazer as they crossed the five-fathom line under cautious sail on a line of bearing for the narrow estuary of the sluggish river. From various points along the sand-hills and beaches a lazy puff and thump announced a battery taking the opportunity of exercising on a live target.

Kydd had Calloway and the master's mate, Moyes, noting the precise position and estimated weight of metal of each, notwithstanding the likelihood that the heavier guns would be reserved for worthier targets.

The plash of strikes appeared in the sea, but Kydd was too experienced to let it worry him; most were close but all around them, and he knew that the only ones to worry about were those in line but short—they revealed a gun laid true and the likelihood that they would be struck on the ricochet.

How close could he go? Only a fraction of the guns were firing: a brig-sloop would be a common enough sight as enterprising young officers tried to steal a quick glimpse at the threats within.

Suddenly there was a sharp slap and a hole appeared in Teazer's foretopsail. Their angling approach had the advantage of reducing fire from the further coast but at the cost of an increasing tempest from the nearer, which now showed in its true numbers. In the continuous rolling thunder, roils of powder-smoke viciously pierced by gun-flashes and the tearing whuup sound of passing shot, it became clear that nothing more would be accomplished by daylight.

At least they could return with their personal report of what faced the attackers. "That will do, Mr. Dowse. Do you now bear away for—"

He never finished the order for, with a sudden thump and an appalling long-drawn-out splintering crash, Teazer came to a sudden stop, slewing drunkenly sideways and throwing everyone to the deck. The foretop- and maintop-gallant masts tumbled down in ruinous confusion, smothering men in canvas and snarls of rope.

There was an instant's terrified incomprehension, then cries and shouts erupted from all parts of the ship. Kydd fought his way from under the mad, flapping folds, knowing what must have happened. A collision. In broad daylight and fair weather.

It was baffling—inconceivable. Kydd did not remember another ship within miles of Teazer. He discarded the last of the torn sail and looked round wildly. Where was the other vessel? Was it sunk?

"Throw off all tacks 'n' sheets," he bellowed, frantic to take the strain off a motionless vessel under full sail. Purchet stormed about the canted deck with a rope's end, bringing back order while others picked themselves up from where they had been thrown.

Ignoring the imploring Hallum, Kydd tried furiously to work out what had happened, but then he saw the wreckage alongside—dark sea-wet timbers, planks over framing welling up sullenly that could only have come from another ship's hull. And alien to Teazer's build, older—proof that they had collided with another ship and crushed her underfoot to be mercilessly swallowed by the sea.

His mind reeled. There had been no sighting, no sudden cries from the doomed ship—why had they not—

Then he had it. Traces of seaweed on the timbers, an even scatter of barnacles—this was not another ship they had collided with but a recent wreck lying off the port they had piled into. There was little time for a moment of relief, though: Kydd became aware of redoubled fire from the shore. "Clear away this raffle," he threw at Purchet. "I mean t' get away before the French come." There was nothing more certain than that gunboats, galleys, even, would be quickly on the scene. These could stand off and batter the immovable sloop to ruin in minutes.

With icy foreboding, Kydd tried to think of a way out—traditional moves such as lightening by heaving water leaguers overside would not work in time and if he jettisoned his guns he would be rendered helpless. Should he tamely surrender? It was the humane thing to do in a hopeless situation such as this.

There were things that must be done. "Moyes—duck down and ask the cook to get his fire going."

"Sir?" he said, blinking.

"To destroy the signal books and confidentials!" Kydd rapped impatiently.

And what else must he do in this direful extremity? Find his commission: this would be proof to those taking him prisoner of his officer status. But what was there to say to his crew? They were certain to spend the rest of the war in misery, locked fast in one of the prison fortresses.

A rising tide of rage threatened his reason. This was not how it

should be! Teazer had a destiny in the coming final struggle . . .

"Two foot in the well." The carpenter had broken in on his thoughts. "Could be much worse'n that," he said, without conviction but if the sloop was shattered they would have been swimming for it by now.

"They're comin', sir!" The ship was directly opposite the river entrance and, through the outer line of moored ships, beetling shapes of oared gunboats now made towards them.

"The tide, Mr. Dowse?" The holding was good, and if they were granted time to stream a kedge they could conceivably haul off, if only . . .

"It'll be falling in a half-hour, Mr. Kydd." It meant they were in slack water at the height of the tide and then a settling on the wreck below. And the gunboats were clear of the line of ships and on their way. Bitter thoughts came, but Kydd knew that very soon he had a decision to make—to fight hopelessly or haul down his flag?

Then, as if by a miracle, Teazer stirred, a protracted groaning from deep within her bowels and a jerking realignment that saw her shifting by inches to be more parallel to the shore. Could this be . . . ?

"We're being shoved off—an' it's b' courtesy o' France itself," Dowse said gleefully, and pointed to the port entrance.

It took Kydd a moment or two to grasp it, but then he laughed. "Why, so we are. I should have smoked it! Hands t' set sail, if y' please."

"Sir, if you'd be so good to explain," Hallum said plaintively.

"Of course, Mr. Hallum. You see yonder? That's Boulogne, and the river Liane. We're directly opposite so the current from the river is pressing us to seaward. We cannot resist, it will have its way, and soon we will be carried off our place of resting and then we're homeward bound."

CHAPTER 13

TO THE INTENSE SATISFACTION of her captain, and the relief of her crew, HMS Teazer sailed from Sheerness dockyard two weeks later, the shipwrights there proving more than a match for the damage sustained. The town was much as Kydd remembered from the time of the Great Mutiny seven years before: bleak, windswept and far from any civilisation worth the name. Even hardened seamen were weary of the squalor of Blue Town and the stink of the marshes.

The sloop rounded the promontory for the Nore, then sailed south for North Foreland and the Downs. Kydd's blood was up: production of the ordnance must be close to completion and now Teazer was ready to play her part. In a fever of anxiety he made his number with the flagship and lost no time in reporting aboard.

Keith seemed preoccupied but acknowledged Teazer's accession to his forces—and disclosed that production of the munitions was at such an advanced stage that staff planning had begun for the operation. Kydd should hold himself in readiness for a council-of-war, at which he might expect a role.

It was on. His charge as nursemaid to Fulton was at an end and now he would rejoin the war, a very different one from that of the past. Torpedoes, submarines, stealth, destruction—if this was the future, he was duty-bound to prepare himself to be a part of it.

The operation was to be led by Popham in view of his interest in the new weapons and his role in developing the catamarans. He had gone to the Admiralty to discuss strategy.

Kydd felt left in suspense, but then was called to a conference with Keith. "Gentlemen," the admiral said flatly, to his officers around the table, "I have been apprised that the ordnance is ready, sufficient to make an initial descent on the flotilla. I have no doubt you realise that time is not on our side. The season is far advanced, and the weather cannot always be relied on to be in our favour." There was a murmur of agreement. "And, besides, it may well be in Bonaparte's mind to launch his invasion before the weather closes in and prevents it. Any means to deter this until the spring may be accounted worth the attempting."

Kydd was one of three commanders at the conference; the others, eight post-captains, were far his senior, only two of whom, Popham and Savery, he recognised.

Keith continued, "Like it or no, we must make our move at the next favourable time—a strong spring tide on the flood in the early darkness and no moon, the next of which being in eight days' time."

This left precious little time for preparation.

"To the operation itself. I have to inform you all that, as a consequence of the gravity of the situation, the first lord of the Admiralty, Lord Melville himself, is to be present at the engagement and I myself will take personal command in Monarch."

Popham's head jerked up. "Sir? I have to say—"

"I shall be in command and that's an end to it, sir." Clearly Keith was under pressure at the highest level. "Now, this action has clear and definite aims: the reduction of Bonaparte's invasion flotilla by any and all means. After an eventful reconnaissance by Teazer I have come to the conclusion that a direct assault against the port is not to be considered."

There were murmurs of heartfelt agreement. Nelson's bloody failure at the same task had been all too recent.

"But a further investigation by Locust has shown that the ships moored across the entrance are not a defensive squadron. They are the overplus vessels of the flotilla unable to find room within the port."

The formidable barrier was only troop-carrying transports with makeshift armament. This was a different matter entirely.

"One hundred and fifty sail—and these shall be the target of the first onslaught from our new weapons, gentlemen."

A babble of interjection arose, put down firmly by the unsmiling Keith. "I go further. This entire action is to be considered a proving of the torpedoes and coffers. No engagement is contemplated of the regular kind."

Astonishment and jealousy in turn showed on the faces of those assembled as it became clear that any distinction won would be with torpedoes, other weapons merely defensive—their keepers.

"The attacking force will be in three divisions: the torpedoes in the centre defended on either side by a strong force from my squadron, myself in Monarch to seaward, three sixty-fours and two fifty-gun ships, with five frigates flanking them at depth."

If there was enemy interference with the cumbersome craft in the act of launching their torpedoes it would turn into a bloodbath.

"The torpedoes in turn will be in three divisions: the centre with catamarans of Mr. Popham's invention, which are near invisible and have the chance of penetrating to the closest, and these shall be armed with the, er, hogsheads. In column on either side will be launches towing the coffers, the largest of which I have been reliably informed are now of two tons weight with the colossal charge of the equivalent of forty barrels of powder each."

He ignored the gasps of incredulity. "Further, to complete and make certain our descent, we will employ four explosion ships, which will carry similar amounts and will be set on course to intersect the enemy line before they are abandoned. These, with all our engines of destruction, will be fitted with the new mechanical timing machine that will be set to detonate the charges at precisely the right position."

This was as unlike any pre-battle council that Kydd had ever experienced and the glances of consternation among the others revealed that he was not the only one to feel as he did. There had been no appeal to lay one's ship alongside the enemy, no talk of conduct becoming the traditions of the service, no detail of complex signals enjoining complicated manoeuvres. And, worst of all, it promised to be a battle in the night, the defenders not even brought face to face in the encounter, the torpedoes doing their work unseen. It was unreal and disturbing to many in a navy whose traditions were resolutely to close and grapple with an enemy until the issue was decided.

Keith seemed to sense the unease and his tone took on a stiff joviality. "I leave it to you, gentlemen, to conceive of the terror in the hearts of the French at the destruction wrought in their midst by unknown and superior weapons. Thus I do confide in you my hopes for a good success in this enterprise."

Queries and doubts were voiced, concerning responsibilities, timing, command, but all responses came down in the end to a single task: of getting the torpedoes to their target.

When the questions had tailed off, Keith resumed. "I have mentioned the three divisions of torpedoes. At the seaward head of each column a dispatching sloop will be responsible for sending them in. The central, being the catamarans, will be in overall command, with responsibility for pressing home the assault."

He looked round grimly, then settled his gaze on Kydd. "As the only one of us with experience of these devices, this task is assigned to Commander Kydd."

Exultant, but more than a little fearful, Kydd considered his position carefully. In effect he was a mini commodore, placed above another two commanders in the most important job in the operation and under the direct eye of the commander-in-chief—not only him but the first lord of the Admiralty too. Under no circumstance must he fail.

He retired to his great cabin and began his planning. But as the list of priorities and concerns grew, so did his anxieties. The Articles of War required whole ships of men, officers included, to obey his every order without question—even if they were mistaken or ill-thought-through. And once the deadly machines were put into motion they could neither be summoned back nor even signalled to. His orders had better be the right ones . . .

The first vital matter was to establish the characteristics of the weapons, handling, firing or whatever. This would form the basis of the training and operational orders, and would give him time to think.

"Portsmouth, Mr. Hallum. It's there we'll make trial of our in-fernals, the catamarans now being at Lymington, the torpedoes produced at Priddy's Hard, o' course."

The overnight voyaging saw Teazer enter the familiar harbour early the next day, but this time passing beyond the great dockyard into the large, enclosed expanse of shallow water beyond. It was deserted, but for a line of ships in ordinary in the deeper water along the western side, well suited for trials of a secret weapon.

Teazer sailed on as far as she could in the shallowing water and picked up moorings at the head of a channel through the mudflats, Horsea Island. She waited patiently but it took some hours for a dockyard hoy to bring the weapons across the water from Priddy's Hard. An interested but wary ship's company had their first sight of the new weapons of war.

"Ugly beasts!" Kydd murmured to Hallum, who seemed lost for words as he stared down at them. Low in the water alongside, and within a canvas screen, they were dormant in the evening light, submerged until the upper surfaces were nearly awash, one of each type, black, deadly and evil.

Fulton arrived as the sun was lowering, in a fluster after some disagreement with officials of the Ordnance Board. He and Kydd, with Duckitt, went over the side and into a low punt. "This is your hogshead," Fulton said, and slapped its swelling bulk affectionately. It reverberated sullenly, a black parody of a large barrel of beer. Next to it floated a low cylindrical device, its exterior smooth black-painted copper but much bigger than the first, with a single line and grapnel. "The small coffer." Then, outside them all, lay a crocodilian shape all of twenty feet long, its dark menace barely visible under the surface. "The large coffer," Fulton said lightly, and stepped on to it from the punt. It barely gave, betraying its tremendous weight.

"Er, how heavy is it, Toot?"

"No more'n two tons. Get him going at the enemy, there's nothing on God's earth will stop him."

"Sir," Duckitt asked quietly, "an' how do we, er, fire 'em?"

"Good question. You've to throw aside all notions o' firing. These don't mess with slowmatch—we use a modern mechanism."

"An' how c'n we be sure—"

"See here?" Fulton pointed out a slightly recessed indentation. "Inside is your timing engine. Screw in the plug and, for every turn, the explosion takes place five minutes later." He demonstrated, twisting deftly.

Kydd started. Surely Fulton had not initiated the detonation . . .

"Three turns, fifteen minutes. This handsome machine is charged and armed and will explode in a quarter-hour." Duckitt caught his breath. "Were it not for this." Fulton flourished an object very similar to a miniature belaying pin. "The safety peg. It comes from here"—he pointed to a tiny hole next to the timing screw, fortunately occupied by an identical one—"and so long as he sleeps in his hole, all is tranquil. Withdraw it, and whatever is set on the timing will be the moment of destiny for the coffer."

No one spoke, but Fulton grinned inanely. "A contrivance of beauty and perfection, don't you think?"

Kydd needed time—much more than the days he had. Keith's orders were clear and sound: he was keeping back his conventional warships on outer guard tasks to allow the torpedoes clear sight of the enemy, a prudent and sensible measure given the disaster that would eventuate in the fog of war if a ship in the night chaos were to plough through the slow-moving and near-invisible catamarans.

But it meant as well that he alone was responsible for devising the technique that would see them to the launch point and a successful conclusion. The first worry was the size of the beasts: the large coffer would need the biggest of ship's boats to get it going against inertia and water resistance and he could not see how a "small" coffer could be brought aboard the catamaran. Even the hogsheads were huge and unhandy. It would be asking a lot of the crews.

A soft sunset had finally faded into the advancing night. They could begin. "Pipe the launch's crew to muster," he ordered.

Expecting the order they quickly appeared. "Poulden," he said, to the coxswain, firmly, "this is not a time for volunteers. They'll be called on the night we're to attack. At this time I want a measure of how well these infernals swim." It had slipped out—it couldn't be helped. "Take the large coffer in tow six fathoms astern. When you reach a cable or so off, slew it around and, at the bo'sun's pipe, lay out with all your heart. Clear?"

Poulden could be relied on to get the best out of his men but he dropped his eyes and mumbled, "Um, sir, is it, as who should say, tender in its motions?"

"If you're worried about it exploding precipitate like, don't. The safety peg is in. However, er, do keep clear of its hawse. It's armed and has a full charge."

Uncharacteristically muted, the boat's crew tumbled into the launch, secured the coffer and bent to their oars. Straining and tugging produced only the slightest movement, and it was long minutes before they were able to heave it off into the darkness.

It was a clear night and a quarter-moon was rising. At a cable's length, when the boat made its turn gingerly, Kydd was dismayed to see its beetling black shadow clearly against the glittering moon-path. As promised, though, the torpedo was all but invisible.

He took out his watch and held it to catch the light from the binnacle lamp. The boatswain raised his call ready. "Pipe!" he said. The distant rowers started in a flurry of strokes but slowed immediately to a near stop. Poulden's frenzied hazing could be heard floating across the water—it made Kydd smile, but on the night it would not do.

Twenty minutes on the return: this was dismaying. "He's a pig t' steer, sir," Poulden reported, after returning aboard. "Worse'n a bull in a paddock as is shy o' the knife."

A catamaran was available now and it was brought round. As Kydd had suspected, there was no possibility that the small coffer could be raised and carried on the flimsy gratings fore and aft. It would require ship's boats as well.

"Load with hogsheads," Kydd said, after the two reluctant oarsmen had taken their place at the stubby sculls. One was swayed across and lashed in place. The catamaran settled at an angle until the other was aboard and then, with a heavy reluctance, the ungainly craft shoved off. "Same as the others, if y' please," Kydd told them.

They made slow progress, but this was due to their near comic performance at the sculls, so close to the water. They turned and started back. This was more encouraging—inches above the water only, it was difficult indeed to make them out. But it was hard going.

Helped aboard, the two oarsmen, soaked from the shoulders down, shuddered uncontrollably. "Every man as pulls a plunging boat is entitled to a double tot, if he wants it," Kydd ordered. "Get 'em dry and see it's served out immediately."

Too much hung on their efforts for rest and the remainder of the night was spent in timed trials, with two boats on the coffer, then three; the smaller with the pinnace at an angle to the launch and the carcass between, and, of course, the procedure for recovering the operations crew after the launch.

It was done: he had the facts, now for the figuring. But when he awoke later in the morning doubts and anxieties flooded in. Send them in as a broad wave or in stealthy column? The coffers first or the catamarans? Request some kind of diversionary tactic? Would volunteers step forward when the time came?

And the orders. His orders. The first he had ever given as a squadron commander as, in reality, he was. He bent to the task, nibbling his quill. So much to plan and decide.

"It's madness, is what I say," exploded Mills. "Settin' these vile contraptions afloat wi' a quarter-ton of powder an' two men sailing t' meet the enemy! I've never heard such—"

"Have a care, Mr. Mills!" Kydd barked. "These are my orders and I mean them to be obeyed! If you have objections, I'm sure Admiral Keith would like t' hear them." With men's lives in the balance, only trust and teamwork would see it through. He resolved to catch Mills privately later.

Teazer's great cabin seemed an incongruous setting for such a briefing. Kydd had seen this room dappled by water-reflected moonlight from warm and exotic Mediterranean harbours; it had been the scene of his hopes and fears—and now was to be the place of his disposing of so many destinies.

Containing his emotions, he resumed his orders. "The large coffers will have two boats each and will set off first on either side of the designated channel. The faster catamarans will then move forward and past the coffers, being able to penetrate unseen up to the French line where the torpedoes will be launched."

He paused, conscious his words had rung with false confidence, then went on, "The recovery of the catamaran crews will be the responsibility of Mr. Lamb and his little fleet o' gigs. The whole operation should take less than two hours."

"How do we give coverin' fire if we're laying off t' seaward?" growled Mills.

Kydd bit his lip. Now was not the time for a confrontation. "You don't. The whole point is to stand clear of the channel of approach and let the torpedoes go in and do their work quietly. You're a dispatch vessel; crew the catamarans and boats and send 'em on their way only. No play with the guns—is that clear?"

Lamb seemed troubled and Dyer's face showed resignation, but they paid attention while the remaining details were laid out—elementary signals concerning the start and others for cancellation of the assault, provision for an assembly-and-dispatch sequence, launch timing, accounting for munitions expended, the order of night mooring.

Kydd tried to end on an upbeat note. "In the morning there's to be practice with the catamarans, and my gunner, Mr. Duckitt, will instruct on the timing engine and other. Now, gentlemen, this is our chance t' give Boney a drubbing as he can't be expecting. Let's make it a good 'un, shall we?"

It seemed so thin, so fragile, but was this because he didn't really believe in the infernals—or himself?

The final conference was in Monarch and Keith wasted no words. "I'm sailing at noon to anchor before Boulogne at sunset. I want the assaulting division to be ready for launch three hours after sunset, namely nine p.m. Mr. Kydd?"

"Aye aye, sir."

Savery coughed. "Er, sir. To appear in force in full view of the enemy before sunset? They'll surely know something's afoot."

"Can't be helped. The torpedo craft need to know where we are in the darkness, so they will fix our position while daylight reigns. They won't do that if we're tacking and veering about all the time. And it hardly needs pointing out that we've not been strangers to this coast, and while we'll be arriving in force, the enemy has no conceiving of the nature of our assault. We attack as planned."

Weighed down with anxieties, Kydd returned to his ship. Now there would be the call for volunteers, an advisement to his dispatch sloops—it was all but committed. He swung over the bulwark, touching his hat to the boatswain at his call.

Renzi stood there, his face grave. "Then we sail against the flotilla," he said quietly. He was using a cane to support his wounded leg.

"We do," Kydd said, then added, "Nicholas, this is not your war—I want you ashore."

"Ashore? Of course not! There's—"

"You'll go, and that's my order," he said harshly, staring his friend down.

"Very well, then I must do as I'm bid," Renzi said softly. He slowly held out his hand. "Can I—may I sincerely wish that you do fare well in what must come?"

Kydd's bleak expression did not alter. He took the hand briefly then turned and hurried below.

HMS Teazer led the torpedo squadron to sea. For Kydd the overcast autumn day had a particularly oppressive and lowering undertone. Some five miles off Boulogne the fleet assembled about the flagship—frigates, minor ships-of-the-line, sloops, cutters and, at the centre, what gave it its purpose.

Before sunset the fleet had formed up opposite the port. The approach channel for the catamarans was resolved, the dispatch sloops positioned to seaward, and aboard each the process of arming the torpedoes was put in train.

Locust moved up between them, put its borrowed cluster of gigs in the water, and suddenly there was nothing further to do.

A sombre dusk fell; among the hills the campfires of Napoleon's host twinkled into existence, their myriad expanse a feral menace that seemed to reach right out to them. The last of the day's radiance hardened into a moonless night, a dark almost dense enough to touch. Surrounding ships lost their outline and were swallowed in the blackness, leaving only the single riding lights of the British fleet and the red and gold dots along the hills.

Kydd could only wait. His plans were straightforward enough but what were they next to the reality before him? The catamarans were already in the water but not the hogsheads, which must be swayed aboard fully armed and struck down on their gratings by feel—no lights could be allowed to betray warlike activity.

The watch mustered, and the volunteers. Sailors who had willingly stepped up when called upon that afternoon, who had trusted him in the matter of riding these infernal machines to victory against the foe or . . .

A lump rose in his throat. Would any of them survive the night? With false jollity, jokes were cracked in the age-old way as they pulled on their black guernseys, laced on dark caps and rubbed galley soot into their faces. Some yawned, a sure sign of pre-battle nerves.

"Sir—flagship!" The usual three riding lights in the tops of Monarch were replaced by four. As they watched, the fourth was dimmed. The signal.

"Into the catamarans, the volunteers," Kydd ordered crisply, trying to conceal his feelings.

Without speaking the first two went down the side and, with gasps at the cold, took their places in the catamaran scheduled to lead the attack. "As I live and breathe," Hallum whispered, "this is something I could not do, I confess it."

It was too much: in a rising tide of feeling Kydd leaned over and called hoarsely, "Timmins! Out o' the boat—I'm the one to lead the catamarans."

The group on the quarterdeck fell back in shock; Kydd wasted no time in stripping to his breeches, and when the dripping Timmins appeared on deck, he took the man's guernsey and cap, then went hastily over the side, only remembering at the last minute to throw at the open-mouthed lieutenant, "You have the ship, Mr. Hallum."

The sea was shockingly cold as Kydd settled into the little under-water seat and oriented himself. So close to the water the restless wavelets now held spite and Teazer loomed in the darkness, her barnacles and sea-growth so close.

There were voices; then Stirk was claiming the place of the other in the catamaran. He clambered into the forward seat, cursing vigorously at the cold.

"Thank ye, Toby," Kydd said, in a low voice.

"If 'n ye're going, Mr. Kydd, ye'll need one as knows th' buggers, like," Stirk grunted, and signalled up to the deck. As gunner's mate he had helped Duckitt instruct the others.

The first hogshead came, to be grappled by Stirk and struck down on the gratings. He made an expert slippery hitch, then gave another signal to the deck. The other came down aft, and Kydd struggled to ease the monstrous bulk onto its grating. Numb fingers passed the lashing and finished with the hitch to release it. "Shove off," he growled, pushing at the huge ship's side with his light scull. Almost sub-surface the catamaran was a heavy, awkward thing and he panted with the effort of getting it going. This was going to be near impossible, he thought, in despair.

They cleared Teazer's side and pulled out into the channel. Low hails came from others in the vicinity. Kydd looked about carefully, shivering all the while with the bitter cold. There seemed no betraying noise or bustle in the anchored fleet and, turning shorewards, he saw no sign of any French alarm. Then he peered into the blackness towards the distant and barely visible line of ships that were their target. No indications of suspicion—but, then, the French had every reason to suppose that if there was an assault it would be at dawn in the usual way.

He looked behind—nothing. Ahead, the line of ships. "We go," he hissed, and dug in his sculls.

It was an unreal and frightening world of cold, darkness and beckoning danger. Stroke after stroke, double feathered and as silent as possible, onward towards the target. Muffled splashes from behind told him that the others had fallen into line with him. Stroke, pull, return, stroke. On and on.

Then, quite suddenly, they were close enough to individual ships that they needed conscious alterations of course to head towards them—they were nearing the launch point and still no alarm. It was time to select a victim. Curiously there was no feeling, only the calculated judgement of range and bearing.

"Hssst!" Stirk stopped rowing.

"What is it?" whispered Kydd urgently.

"I thought I heard—It's a Frenchy!"

Then Kydd made out a regular creak and splash of oars in the blackness to the left. The enemy was rowing guard on the moored ships in a pinnace. "Get down!"

They bent as low as they could, faces slapped by the cold sea, and waited. Should he give orders to retreat now while they could? Kydd wondered. If they were discovered it would be slaughter with no mercy. Shivering violently, he heard the sound approach, then cross and, with no change of rhythm, move away to the right.

Apart from the ceaseless rustling of the night waters there was nothing more than a far-away peal of merriment, a shouted hail between sentries, anonymous sounds.

It was time for the climax. "Cast off the line, Toby—it's secured to the other." It was part of Fulton's plan to squeeze a ship between two explosions by connecting the two hogsheads with a line and cork float, which, on the incoming tide, would fetch up on their victim's anchor cable and inexorably draw in the charges on both sides.

"Set for twenty minutes, Toby," he called softly, and waited while the turns were made. "That'll do," he said, as casually as he could. "We'll launch now. Pull the peg, cuffin."

There was a jerk and Stirk turned and handed him the safety pin. Kydd's orders were that all pegs should be returned as a surety that the torpedoes had been launched properly. After a quick tug on the hitch and persuasion with both feet the giant carcass plunged into the sea with a shattering splash.

They dug in their sculls to move out the requisite hundred feet— but a sputtering and popping of muskets started urgently from the line of shore. They had been discovered. The sound grew and was joined by heavier guns.

"Pull!" Kydd gasped. They were moving parallel with the shore to launch the second hogshead but the firing grew steadily in intensity. The timing mechanism was already primed so he fumbled with the safety peg and footed the monstrous thing clear to splash weightily in the sea.

They had done it! Torpedoes away, nothing could stop their rapid retreat. But they found themselves stroking into a strong flood-tide. The riding lights at the masthead of the flagship were just dimly visible but now the shore artillery had added its weight to the barrage, and the entire foreshore of Boulogne was alive with gun-flash. It was only a matter of time before they were spotted—and the venom of a hundred guns unleashed on them.

They passed another catamaran going in the other direction, resolutely pressing forward into the inferno to its launch position, with others on their way behind. Kydd's eyes pricked at their bravery.

It was some minutes before he realised that, surprisingly, with all the blazing guns, there was no shot-strike nearby. Miraculously they had a chance: the gunners were night-blinded by the flash of their own guns and without a knowledge of what their targets were, even with fixed lines of fire, they were aiming high, presuming a usual form of attack.

"Go to it, Toby!" he bawled, stretching out until his muscles burned. Then, blessedly, they were up with the gigs and being pulled into the boats with words of rough, sailorly sympathy. They fell back on the dispatch sloops.

Kydd was hauled aboard his ship utterly exhausted, but insisted on remaining on the upper deck where he sat in a chair shivering under a cloak. It should be at any time now. With the sky and sea a fiery pandemonium it was difficult to make out anything. The French were firing wildly into the night, not understanding what was going on.

They would soon find out, thought Kydd, grimly. Then something clutched at his heart. So many brave sailors would, before long, be blasted to pieces—at his hand.

The rage and fervour of battle ebbed a little. Was Renzi right that this furtive creeping and stealthy detonating were no better than cold-blooded murder? With a dull spirit Kydd waited for the first cataclysm—but none came. Perhaps it was asking too much of the delicate watchmaking art to function in this wet chaos. But then the sudden thump and roar of a colossal explosion tore at his senses, its flash lighting the sea in sharp relief for miles, the firing dying away in awe at the spectacle.

Another—this time an even larger one, which seemed to be on the far side of the defensive line. More—then a gigantic roar in the centre. And more. Fulton's infernals had worked to perfection but at each detonation Kydd's heart wrung at where man's ingenuity and creative spirit had led him—and that the world must now change.

The last explosion died, the guns petered out and suddenly there was nothing left but to return to the Downs and home.

When Teazer had picked up her moorings opposite the slumbering town of Deal and sea watches had been stood down, Kydd went to his cabin and collapsed into his cot. Exhaustion and reaction made sleep impossible and his thoughts raced on into nightmare—battles in the future fought under water and England's mighty ships-of-the-line replaced by swarms of catamarans. And for ever the fear that any stout ship, brought to her rest after hard voyaging, might without warning be blown to splinters with all her crew.

He drifted off, but was gently woken by Renzi. "Dear brother, I'm desolated to intrude on your rest but Admiral Keith does require your attendance."

"Er, what o' clock is it, then?" Kydd asked, struggling awake.

"Eleven."

Kydd pulled himself up. "Then this is the first reconnaissance now returned. I must go." He would soon be faced with the product of his night's work, the tally of blood that would hang about his neck for the rest of his life.

He slipped to the deck, catching sight of himself in the mirror— grey, drawn and old.

Teazer's boat bore him to the flagship, the bright morning a mockery of what had gone before. Gravely welcomed by the flag-lieutenant he was shown to the great cabin with the others. There were few pleasantries and Keith entered grim-faced.

"I've first to thank you all for a stout and bravely executed action of the last evening—being as it was in the best traditions of the Service." He paused, letting his gaze move about the seated officers. "Further, I've to inform you of the results of the first reconnoitre now to hand."

A ripple of interest went round, but Keith's bleak countenance did not change. "Gentlemen, the torpedo contrivances exploded to expectations—each and every one."

The chill of dread stole over Kydd as he steeled himself for the news.

Keith leaned forward. "And I have to tell you they did so to no effect. None. Nothing whatsoever. The flotilla remains as it did before."

Kydd's mind reeled. None? He had personally—

"I find that, at great hazard to our seamen, the torpedoes were launched to order and, further, that they were correctly armed and prepared, resulting as we've seen in their successful exploding. What was not in expectation was that the method of their delivery to the target has signally failed us and, quite frankly, I cannot readily conceive of any other."

The sudden buzz of talk was cut short by Keith, who went on, "And now the French are aroused and no doubt preparing a mode of defence to meet them. This can only be construed as nothing less than a catastrophic failure of the weapons. Gentlemen, as a direct result, we'll not be troubling you with such contrivances any further. That is all."

The meeting broke up in a babble of noise but Keith called, "Mr. Kydd, a word with you, sir."

Still shocked, Kydd made his way through the hubbub. "Sir?"

"You should know that I believe your part in last night's action was entirely to my satisfaction."

"Thank you, sir."

"But now it is over. Done with. You are forthwith relieved of your duties with the American and will rejoin my Downs Squadron. Flags will attend to the consequentials. Understood?"

"Sir."

Stumbling out into the bright sunlight, Kydd in his tiredness did not notice the lonely figure waiting by the mainmast. All he knew was that he had failed. His brave little fleet had achieved a derisory nothing. The enemy was untouched. No greater condemnation of a warrior's endeavours could be made.

"Tom? Tom, old friend." Fulton took his shoulder and swung him round. "What have you heard? Did you give the French a quilting?"

Kydd looked up dully. "No. Nothing . . . touched."

"Y-you mean . . . ?"

"They exploded, but without effect. We did our best—but I'm to be taken off duties with you, Toot. Your contract will be at hazard, I'd believe."

Fulton staggered back. "They—they can't! I'm promised . . . Tom, my friend, if you'll stay with me, speak with your high and mighty friends in the Admiralty—"

"I'm sorry. You tried your best—I tried. It wasn't enough."

"Wait! I've some new—some ideas as will stretch the mind, will change everything. You'll see!"

"I wish you well, Toot, but it's finished. I have t' go now."

"The world hasn't heard the last of me! I've only begun to conjure ideas. Listen . . ."

But Kydd had reached the side and, with a last wave, left to return to his old existence.

"You knew!" Kydd said, when Renzi hobbled into his cabin with a brandy.

"I did. Your sailor is not a retiring sort when stepping ashore after a hard action."

Kydd said nothing, holding his glass and staring unseeingly. "Nicholas, I have to live with this failure for all of my life," he said, with a catch in his voice.

"Not at all!" Renzi began, but Kydd cut him off.

"Is there any more disgrace than a commander of men who leads them on into—nothing?" Savagely, he drained his brandy and slapped the glass down. "I'll be a laughing stock."

"It's not you they'll laugh at, brother."

"What do you mean, Nicholas? Speak up!"

"The men ashore, they're singing glees about the infernals—about frog-toasters and catamarans that can do no better than entertain the enemy to an expensive fireworks show."

"That's unfair! Fulton tried—"

"They are right, dear fellow," Renzi said firmly. "He tried—and failed. The time is not ripe for such dread weapons. The wit is there but the substance to work with is too frail. It is too new, the mechanicals not so advanced in sophistication."

He regarded Kydd with an odd smile. "There will be a time, I'm persuaded, when a submarine boat will be a common sight—and, no doubt, huge and with a steam engine to boot. Your torpedoes will probably come with paddle-wheels that allow them to seek out the enemy at a far distance—but not now. Their moment is not yet."

Kydd closed his eyes in thought, then opened them. "You're in the right of it, Nicholas, m' friend. Yet while there was a chance to hammer the invasion flotilla, we had to try."

Renzi gave a half-smile. "And I now concede there was no other course—for England's sake."

Kydd knew what this admission meant for someone of Renzi's moral code. "He's a genius, is Toot. Give him the chance and he'll conjure infernal contrivances as will make the world stare—"

"It's time we don't have," Renzi interrupted. "Even with all the resources of a plundered continent, Napoleon Bonaparte cannot maintain his colossal army in idleness for much longer. He must make his move, and this will be to clear the way for the invasion by overwhelming force. To this end he will assemble the greatest fleet ever seen on this earth to crush our battle squadrons with such numbers as we cannot prevail. Then the world will witness such a clash of giants as will ring down the ages to resound in the history of nations as the day of destiny for all."

He continued relentlessly. "I cannot say when, still less where, but in my very bones I feel that, within the compass of months, the issue will be decided for all of time." The solemn pronouncement hung in the silence for long moments and neither friend looked at the other.

Then Kydd sprang suddenly to his feet. "Ha! So it's no more the enemy skulkin' away where we can't get at 'em. Boney'll have t' step into the ring and fight it out man to man."

He gave a wolfish grin. "Bring 'em on!"

Author's Note

Invasion is somewhat of a milestone in my literary career, my 10th book in print—one million words! When I look back to that day in April 2001 when I held a copy of Kydd in my hands for the first time, I can only wonder at the enrichment Thomas Kydd has brought to my life since then. My wife, Kathy, and I were able to give up the day jobs and work together as a creative team and we've travelled the globe delving into the captivating world of the eighteenth-century sailor, at sea and on land. We've met thousands of readers and booksellers, and people from all walks of life have enthusiastically shared their specialist knowledge. These range from Professor Jack Lynch in the U.S., an authority on Georgian speech patterns; to expert knot-tyer Ken Yalden in the U.K.; to Joseph Muscat in Malta, with his deep understanding of Mediterranean sailing craft.

I have seen the Kydd books translated into Japanese, French, Russian and many other languages, and published as e-books, in Braille, as audiobooks and in large-print. My monthly newsletter The Bosun's Chronicle exceeds a world-wide subscriber base of 4,000 and my website now celebrates all aspects of Neptune's Realm, thanks to regular input and feedback from readers. One of the most popular pages is the Shipmates' Album, which features photographs of some of my fans from around the world, including one reading Seaflower on his honeymoon, another with Kydd on a dangerous expedition up the Amazon . . .

I'm often asked whether my original conception of the series and its characters has changed much as I've gone on—and the answer is no, with the exception of perhaps two things. When I first put pen to paper I thought the series would run to 11 books; now I can see it reaching at the very least to 20. As I've delved more deeply into the period I have found there's just so much rich material in the historical record to stimulate an author's imagination. The other main change is the character of Renzi. Initially he was just to be a means of articulating in a way that the uneducated sailor could not, and act as a foil to Kydd. However he's grown into his own character, in some ways as interesting as Kydd himself. Kathy actually tells me I am half Kydd, half Renzi. Just how much an author's personal experiences influence his writing is of course very hard to say, but she may have something there . . .

Writing about the sea in all its moods gives me special pleasure. I take great pains to ensure my prose is as accurate as possible and make daily use of ships' electronic sea charts and my now-vast reference library, as well as regularly consulting the various experts I've discovered over the years. Of course having been a professional sailor myself helps enormously in bringing to mind the sights, smells and sounds of deep sea. When Old Salts tell me they've really felt the heave of a deck under their feet as they read my books, I feel especially chuffed! And whenever I can, I take the opportunity to get in a bit of sea time, whether in tall ships or putting to sea with the modern Royal Navy, whose ships may be steam and steel but many of the traditions from Kydd's day are still honoured aboard.

Although I have rough outlines for all the books, the period of research and fleshing out of the plot at the beginning of each writing year is especially enjoyable. Often one tiny obscure fact will suggest a nice twist in a particular aspect of the story line—and the hunt is on to find out more. About half of the year is devoted to this initial work; during the other half it's down to solid writing, in my case about 1,000 words a day. Kathy keeps a watchful eye on this as I go along and is always on hand with invaluable insights if required. We sometimes go for a walk in the lovely woodlands along the banks of the nearby River Erme to toss around ideas if I find I am writing myself into a corner—and it's never failed me yet.

Would I like to have lived in the eighteenth century? I think the answer must be yes. It was a far more colourful and individual time than it is today. The kind of characters who walked the Georgian stage will not be seen again and some of the great naval feats of the Napoleonic wars will never be repeated. It was also a more romantic and personally fulfilling time, I feel. I'm always taken with the soft effects of candlelight around a dinner table, of the art of conversation, of making your own musical entertainments in the evening. These the Georgians did very well!

In doing my research on historical people I have been fascinated by what has been discovered by modern scholarship—but at times what we don't know about some of these personalities is more intriguing. Robert Fulton, the maverick American inventor who appears in this book, is certainly a good example of this. There are several biographies of Fulton which I consulted extensively but he was one of those larger-than-life figures whose persona generates more questions the deeper you dig.

Fulton's nickname of "Toot" was widely used but I can find no definitive reason for it. Some have suggested it derives from the whistle of the steamboat for which he's known, but it seems his nickname was used before this. Fulton was very gifted but difficult to penetrate as a person, naïve but intense. A Maryland farm boy, he came to England by invitation, and for a time lived as a portrait painter in Devon, near where I live. He reached the status of having his work hung at the Royal Academy so he was no amateur, but then went across to revolutionary France, and extraordinarily, within a year he was working on his incredible submersibles. It's on record that he actually met Bonaparte face to face and demonstrated a working submarine, the first Nautilus. It remained on the bed of the Seine for an hour to the horror of the assembled dignitaries; Fulton later took it out on several armed war patrols against the British. He destroyed it when the French delayed in making a commercial arrangement along the lines I spell out in the book.

Fulton's proposed machines were the first weapons of mass destruction—deliberately designed to blow up humans without warning or a chance to fight back and caused as much stir then as WMDs do today. Did he really believe in what he said about freeing the world's oceans with the threat of mutual destruction or was this to assuage his feelings of guilt? The record is not clear and I can only guess at the answers to these questions.

And we'll never know whether if Fulton had been given full backing, he would have succeeded. It took another century before the world saw the first practical submarine but his terminology (submarine, torpedo, conning tower) is still in use today. How did it all end for him? He scraped together resources for one more try and succeeded in frightening the wits out of Admiralty officials gathered for a demonstration off Deal, but a fortnight later the Battle of Trafalgar took place and effectively ended his dreams. Fulton returned in penury to the U.S. but went on to become famous with the first commercial steamship there. Ironically, he later began building another submarine, this time against the British who were blockading New York in the War of 1812, but he died before it was finished.

Other characters in this book may seem at first reading to be the product of a vivid imagination but there really was a mysterious "Mr. Smith" who detached Fulton from Napoleon to transfer his allegiance to England. There is very little known on this episode so I took what I felt was likely to have occurred, and put Renzi in Smith's place. Likewise, the famed Parisian savant, LaPlace, was indeed a friend of Fulton's . . .

I enjoy Jane Austen's works and it was on a literary whim that I decided to mention her in Invasion, via her brother who actually was in post there at the time. She in fact had two sailor brothers: Francis, who Kydd meets in the course of his acquaintance with the Fencibles, and Charles. Both later advanced to become admirals and Jane no doubt consulted them when she created William Price in Mansfield Park and Captain Wentworth in Persuasion.

As usual, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to many people. I cannot acknowledge them all for space reasons but deep thanks are due to Rowena Willard-Wright and Joanne Gray of English Heritage, who arranged special access to Dover Castle, Fulton's base while he was working on his inventions, and Walmer Castle, where Pitt lived and which he used as a secretariat for his clandestine operations against the French. And of course I would be remiss not to mention my literary agent, Carole Blake, and my new editor at Hodder & Stoughton, Anne Clarke.