The Invasion Year

treat gunpowder, if one wished it to stay dry and go Bang!

His clerk and one of his Mids with a good copper-plate writing had made copies, one for MacTavish. Lewrie expected he would hear the fellow’s screeches all the way down-river from Woolwich once he read his copy!

In the meantime, though…

* * *

“Excuse me, sir, but I wonder if I might have a word?”

“Aye, Mister Merriman?” Lewrie said, looking up from his stroll of Reliant’s quarterdeck to savour the Summer sunshine.

“It’s about the torpedoes, sir,” Lt. Merriman began.

“Those bastards!” Lewrie said with a dismissive snort.

“Indeed, sir,” Merriman said with a wry grin of agreement. “I and Mister Westcott were talking things over last night, and we were wondering if there would be any more trials with them. If so, we think we’ve come up with a way to improve them. Sea-anchors, sir!”

“Sea-anchors?”

“One uses a sea-anchor to keep a ship’s head to wind in stormy weather, but… was a sea-anchor used in a strong tideway, would not a drogue pull the torpedo shoreward faster? Just bobbing about like they did, we had to get within a mile, with the timer set for fourty-five minutes, but… if we could launch from farther out, we could almost do it in daylight, and be out of range of most shore guns,” Lt. Merriman said, bubbling over with enthusiasm.

“Might as well put a mast and a lugs’l on ’em, sir,” Lewrie rejoined, feeling gloomy of a sudden to imagine that there would be one more round of trials with the damned things! “Or, just shove tons of powder into a fireship and let it sail itself in.”

“The First Lieutenant brought the idea up, too, sir,” Merriman replied, falling alongside of Lewrie’s in-board side as he paced aft to the taffrails. “If the drogues won’t improve the torpedoes, then perhaps a small fireship, a fire-boat, might serve the purpose.”

“There’s the problem of damp, though,” Lewrie pointed out.

“Aye, sir, and on that head we asked Mister Mainwaring the Surgeon if he knew of any earth or element that would absorb damp,” Lieutenant Merriman rushed on, all eagerness. “He cited sodium chloride, sir… whatever that is.”

“Fire-boats… as in ship’s boats, Mister Merriman?” Lewrie asked, pausing in mid- stride.

“Exactly so, sir! Every dockyard’s full of them, or they can be readily bought,” Lt. Merriman continued. “One could place a floor above the ribs and keels, a bulkhead forward in the bows, and deck it all over, with just a cuddy to allow for setting the timer and priming the pistol igniter just before the crew abandons it. Perhaps even construct interior beam partitions to form a box cabin which would secure the powder charge, sir? Fill the voids between the hull and partitions with this sodium chloride whatever to soak up the damp, perhaps even line the entire box with tin, or lead, or… something… to keep it all dry, and a cheaply purchased fire-boat could sail in under its own power. Why, they might not even have to be set alight, and could sail in in the night with the French none the wiser ’til they explode… and a cutter or barge could carry a lot more gunpowder than one of the cask torpedoes, sir!”

“You’ve sketches, Mister Merriman?” Lewrie asked, beginning to be intrigued. Anything would beat MacTavish’s casks all hollow!

“Uhm, Mister Westcott said he would essay a sketch or two, sir,” Merriman explained. “He did not wish to present them to you ’til he and I were perfectly satisfied, but he also said that I should speak to you about the possibility.”

“Hidin’ his light under a bushel basket, is he?” Lewrie japed.

“Well, sir, if our idea seems plausible, Mister Westcott thought that the fire-boats should be deemed as secret as the torpedoes, hence we should show them to no one else but you, for now, sir,” Lieutenant Merriman said in a more guarded way.

“When you and the First Officer deem ’em ready, bring ’em aft to the great-cabins, Mister Merriman,” Lewrie told him. “And mum’s the word ’til then. Carry on.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Merriman said, doffing his hat in salute.

Gawd, another daft idea! Lewrie thought once Merriman had gone; Even more gunpowder… a ton or so? Brr! Still… an explosive boat doesn’t depend on the tide alone. Lash the tiller and it’ll steer itself. I wonder…

He heaved a sigh, realising that if Admiralty found Westcott’s and Merriman’s concept practical, both officers might be sent off to develop the boats, costing him two damned competent men. If he wrote too enthusiastically, Admiralty might even think him clever enough to oversee the project and take Reliant away from him and give him a shore post at some dockyard!

Admiralty thinkin’ me clever? Lewrie scoffed, though; That’ll be a cold day in Hell! I’d fight that, even did “all night in” with Lydia come attached!

* * *

It was mid-afternoon before Lewrie heard back from Lieutenants Westcott and Merriman, and he was, in point of fact, writing a letter to Lydia Stangbourne and looking forward to a good nap once that was done and sent ashore to be posted-in emulation of his cats-when his Marine sentry loudly announced their arrival. “Come!” he bade, and Westcott and Merriman trooped in, cocked hats under their arms and a packet of drawings in their hands, carefully rolled up and bound with twine to guard against their contents being revealed prematurely.

“Tea for all, Pettus, and then take yourself a long idle hour or so on deck,” Lewrie called out. Pettus poured them all tumblers of Lewrie’s patented cool tea from a pitcher, set out lemon slices and a sugar bowl, then departed, taking wee Jessop with him.

“Quite refreshing, sir, thank you,” Westcott said after a sip.

“What have you come up with, then?” Lewrie pressed, shifting with some eagerness in his chair as they sat round his dining table. “If it ain’t torpedoes, it’s welcome.”

“Oh, aye, sir!” Lt. Westcott laughed, baring, his teeth in a wide grin. He un-did the knots in the twine and un- rolled a short stack of folio-sized sheets. “The first, sir, is the overall outer design with ends, overhead, and beam views. Mister Merriman and I reckon that we’d need at least a twenty-five-foot cutter to get the job done, though a thirty-two-foot barge could carry more sail on its two masts, and more gunpowder, depending…”

“On how big a bang you wish, sir!” Merriman finished for his companion, with a laugh. “You’ll note, sir, that the decking-over to keep the powder charge safe from spray and slop is slightly arched. To channel a heavy sea off like water off a duck’s back.”

“How’d the sailors hoist sail, then, if it’s arched?” Lewrie puzzled, frowning over the drawing, which was as fine and detailed as any he’d seen in a dockyard office. “Wouldn’t they slide over the side, with the water?”

“Ah, you’ll note that the decking ends just inside the gunn’ls, and two inches below them, sir,” Lt. Westcott explained with another grin. “So the cap-rail of the gunn’l forms a low rail to brace their feet as they tend the sheets and halliards.”

“Uh-hum!” was Lewrie’s comment to that thoughtful provision. It appeared that his two Lieutenants had given the matter more thought than the recently departed and un-lamented Mr. MacTavish had his casks.

“The decking-over extends right aft, almost to the stern-sheets, sir,” Merriman said, taking up the explanation of the plans. “There’s the cuddy-like hatch to allow access to the box cabin, through which the powder kegs will be loaded, and the clockworks and pistol can be set.” He used a pencil to tap the pertinent parts.

“That way, sir, the kegs could be kept dry and safe from accidental discharge in the tender’s magazines ’til