“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 t
hey 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 super-naculum 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 twelve-month 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?”
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