Invasion (32 page)

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.”

C
HAPTER 12

I
T 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, bare-back, 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.