“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 infernals, 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.
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