Invasion (25 page)

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

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

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

Entering through the Constable's Gate his spirits rose.

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

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

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

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

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

The man turned abruptly. “Who're you?”

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

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

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

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

“As will promote the success of your work.”

“To be a victim.”

“A what?” Kydd said irritably.

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

Kydd stopped. “A submarine boat?”

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

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

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

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

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

Fulton's cold certainty was disconcerting. “Go on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

C
HAPTER 9

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

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

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

Hammond looked enquiringly at Kydd, but before he could say anything Fulton said firmly, “Mr. Kydd, of the Navy, who's my keeper and liaison man. If needs be, he'll be advising me—that's so, isn't it, Commander?”

“Er, yes. In accordance with Mr. Francis's conditions in coming to England I'm to assist in any way I can to facilitate his work by way of explaining our operational practices and arranging procedural matters on his request.”

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

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

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

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

“No, sir, it is not,” Fulton said energetically. “This is a new departure in the marine arts. As such it—”

“Damn it all for a lunatic charade!”

“Captain Gresham?”

“Will someone please explain to me why on earth we're contemplating creeping about under the sea in these contraptions, like some verminous highwayman in the woods, when we've got the mightiest and best navy the world's ever seen?”

“Because the prime minister desires we shall,” Hammond retorted. “Mr. Jackson, please continue.”

“Oh, yes. I would think that—”

“Let me answer our salty son of the briny,” Fulton broke in abruptly. “We're contemplating a submarine because not even all your king's horses and all your king's men can defend a battleship against even one of these. If ever you stopped to think—”

“Mr. Francis, I have to rule you out of order, I'm afraid,” Hammond came in. “You're here in an advisory capacity and may only address the meeting when called upon to answer a particular
technical
question. Mr. Jackson?”

“As I was saying, you'd be well served by a dockyard engineer— they're a canny breed, quite at home with curious sea machines. I'm thinking of Mr. Bentham—that's Samuel, not his brother. And, in course, Mr. Rennie . . .”

“Thank you, sir. Major Wardle, who in the view of the Ordnance Board would be suitable?”

“Who has not heard of Thomas Blomefield? Or the younger William Congreve? There is a gratifying superfluity of persons of an ordnance persuasion, sir, ready to do their duty.”

“Indeed. I should perhaps at this stage make mention that Mr. Henry Cavendish has indicated his willingness to allow us the benefit of his observations in the scientifical line.”

“Cavendish?” Gresham asked his neighbour.

“Rum cove—factitious airs, the electric fluid, Mr. Lavoisier's hydrogen . . .” the man replied.

Fulton leaned back restlessly. “These philosophical gents are all very well, Mr. Chair, but your most significant man will be your seaman who knows the sea. A whole navy to choose from, sir—who will it be?”

“Hear, hear,” rumbled Gresham. “Our American friend and I are at last in agreement. We need one of weighty experience, knows the crackpot from the plain lunatic—”

“Quite so.”

“Not an admiral as is set in his ways, been at sea more'n a dog-watch, smelled a mort of powder-smoke—”

“Rather similar, in fact, to yourself, sir?”

“If you insist, Mr. Chairman,” Gresham said, with oily satisfaction.

“It will be considered in due course,” Hammond said, and turned to Fulton. “Mr. Francis, this committee is convened upon your request. Do you have any objection to the names mentioned as having the competence to adjudge your work?”

“Only one,” Fulton said, looking pointedly at Gresham.

“That is noted. The names, sir, will be put forward to the prime minister's office and selection made. You will be informed, of course. Thank you, gentlemen.”

With a shuffling of feet the meeting adjourned. In the hubbub following, Jackson crossed to speak to Fulton but Gresham stopped Kydd. “A junior commander is it, then, Mr. Kydd? I do hope you've wits enough to see through this crafty rogue. The Navy doesn't want his kind about when we've got more pressing engagements, if you see what I mean.”

“I have m' duty, sir, and that's to give Mr. Francis a clear hawse in the matter of designing a submarine boat,” Kydd said pointedly.

“Don't take that tone with me, sir. You have your duty, and it's to the Service, not to some jumped-up Yankee projector who's got ideas as will bring about the ruination of the profession! The Navy expects you to stand by its traditions with courage and right-thinking, not go chasing after hare-brained schemes that—”

“Mr. Kydd!” Fulton called loudly across the room. “I find I'm hard-pressed and must leave—if you're ready at all?” In the street outside he pulled on his gloves savagely and jammed on his hat. “God save you from all his tribe,” he said bitterly, “else you'll be a-seeing Mr. Bonaparte marching down this very street before long.”

“The committee's not yet selected, Mr. Fulton. It might be he's not on it.”

“He will be.”

“Let's wait and see.”

“No, we won't—I don't like waiting. I must get to work.”

A few days later Kydd returned to the casemate, this time taking in more of the details. Halfway up a sheer cliff, its slatted wooden decking was probably to guard against the damp and mould of the vast chalk cavern. The only entry apart from the one he had used, which was through an army barracks, was a small exit to the open air, barred with a grille. It was perfectly chosen for the purpose of securing Fulton and his plans from the outside world—or acting as his prison.

Fulton beckoned him in. He was trying to heave round his desk and Kydd hastened to take the other end, manhandling it into place as close as possible to the light and air streaming through the grille. “It will serve,” Fulton panted. “I've worked in far worse and time's not on my side.”

It was beginning to shape up: the drawing desk across the mouth of the casemate, shelves down each side and stowages resembling ship's sea-chests in strategic locations. This was where the war at sea was going to be changed utterly.

Fulton glanced at Kydd and seemed to come to a decision. “Do you desire to see how a submarine is constructed, sir?”

“I do.”

Rummaging in his chests Fulton came up with a clutch of long papers, which he smoothed out on the desk. “Hmm—these are construction details for the workmen, each to his own and never the whole to be comprehended by one man.”

Then he took out a smaller drawing and spread it in front of Kydd. “But with this you may see my
Nautilus
in all her glory.”

Kydd leaned over intently: his first view of what lay in the future for the world, and which promised to save England from Napoleon Bonaparte or plunge the realm of the mariner into unthinkable undersea warfare for ever.

Before him was a sectioned craft as unlike a ship as it was possible to be. Long and sinister, tubular with a conical bow and small protruding dome, it seemed to be filled with cranks and wheels and above it, like a giant bat's wing, an apparatus of rigging.

“There's no waterline marking on the plan,” Kydd said, searching for something to say, then cursed himself as he remembered that, for a submersible, waterlines had no meaning.

“On the surface she's nearly awash, only this little tower for conning the ship to be seen.”

“If—if she's made of wood, won't she just float?”

“Her hull is of ellipsoid section, copper sheeting over iron frames, but a fair question. I reserve space in the keel for ballast, and as she progresses under the sea, a crewman drives a horizontal rudder of sorts to send her deeper while two more turn the cranks, which operate this four-bladed propelling paddle here.”

“And this?”

“That's a window into the deep—I can see the minute hand on my watch at twenty-five feet,” Fulton said proudly.

Kydd tried to visualise what it must be to exist in the gloom and stench far beneath the waves, the immensity of the sea pressing in, the knowledge of the coming detonation, wreckage, torn bodies . . . “Is it—what is it like, er . . . ?”

“Tolerable, tolerable,” Fulton said absently. “I find it takes but two minutes only to unrig for diving, and when deep, I navigate by compass in the usual way, even in the open sea when it's a damn relief to get down to the peace of the abyss, where there's no hurry and rush of the waves.”

“C-can you see mermaids and such? Sailors set great store on such things,” Kydd said, his eyes widening.

“None seen by me—it's naught but dull green down there. It goes on for ever as you'd never conceive,” Fulton said. “Black rocks looming up of a sudden—gives you the frights to see 'em close to like that.”

Kydd struggled for words as he grappled with the images. “Er, do you not fear it when your air is, er, used up?”

“As to that, carbonic acid and lime has been promoted but I find a trusty copper globe of air as I've prepared under pressure answers better. Just tap off what we need. Four hours and twenty on the seabed with myself and three crew, and it was boredom that drove us up in the end.”

“So—so this is your
Nautilus
as—”

“As I constructed, trialled before Napoleon Bonaparte himself and used to blow to flinders a brig before the eyes of all his admirals,” he said grimly.

“And may I ask where she lies now?”

“In pieces, sold for scrap value. Don't worry, I've left nothing behind. You English have no fear he can make another.” He slapped the drawings together again. “Right now, I've work to do. A sea-going
Nautilus
with double-sized crew, provisioned for a patrol of three weeks at a time, nine torpedoes. This'll make 'em sit up.”

It was a fearful and wondrous creation but Kydd was damned if he'd show how awestruck he was. “Well, then, shall I leave you to it, Mr. Francis, or is there anything you need?”

“No. I crave to be left alone for a space, sketch out some thoughts. I'll be sure to let you know.”

A caustic letter arrived from Keith suggesting that as an inspector of Sea Fencibles—albeit not a regular-built one—perhaps it was time Kydd earned his keep. As a sea officer of some experience, possibly an active tour of the less-frequented posts, a revealing report to follow? It was not a formal order but, for all that, a call to duty—and, despite his feelings about the Fencibles, Kydd welcomed the chance to do something seamanlike, something he could understand, while Fulton worked on his plans.

He spread out the operational chart of the south. On it were marked the defences, including all those manned by the Sea Fencibles—harbour batteries, inshore gunboats, signal stations. And all his for the rousing! He'd make sure they'd hear of him and
Teazer
on the coast.

Where to begin? He could not stray too far from Fulton in Dover but a day's sail was half the south coast and even round North Foreland, if the wind was kind. And the south-east was both the closest to France and the most exposed to invasion. Perhaps . . . here, hard by the notorious smuggler's haunt of Romney Marsh. A small coast signal station on the flat, lonely shingle promontory of Dungeness, little expecting visitors.

HMS
Teazer
eased inshore off Dymchurch and hove to while her gig was put in the water and stroked briskly ashore. Curious onlookers were puzzled that when the sloop sailed away two of her company were left there.