The Invasion Year

went on, seemingly seated at ease in a folding chair, clubman fashion, with one leg over the other. “As for who, sir… it was Mister James Peel of Foreign Office Secret Branch, with whom I’ve worked in the past, now and again. He had had correspondence from… sources in France alerting the government and Admiralty that they existed. I gathered that is his brief, sir… the recruiting and handling of intelligence sources.”

“Keel-haul the bastard! Keel-haul! Rwark!” from the parrot.

“And you deemed these… things you captured were more important than our secret work, Lewrie?” Speaks sneered.

“I did, sir,” Lewrie firmly stated.

“Your orders charged you to safeguard Penarth and her cargo of devices from capture by the French, ‘at all hazards,’ Lewrie! ‘At all hazards’! That phrase slip your mind, did it?” Speaks accused. “What do I find when I return to the rendezvous? Nothing! No one to safeguard this vessel or her vitally secret weapons, no aid in conducting fresh experiments, either, and no message left with the authorities at Guernsey explaining why you just up and left! And I couldn’t very well commandeer another warship from the blockading squadron and expose the secret of the torpedoes’ existence to just any damned fool!”

“Given the importance of my find, though, sir, I acted as I deemed best,” Lewrie insisted.

“Saucy rascal! Flog the bugger, too-wheep!” from the bird.

Christ, they’ve been together so long, they even think alike! Lewrie told himself. The parrot had an eerily impressive vocabulary, indeed!

“Forcing me to cancel experiments, and return to Portsmouth,” Captain Speaks said in a huff, “failing in my express orders from Admiralty. Experiments which have become even more vital than before, sir. Vital, I tell you! By God, I really should lay court-martial charges against you. Turn you over to Admiral Lord Keith, and let him deal with you. So you can explain to him why the weapons that he intends to employ might be wanting!”

Lord Keith commanded in The Downs, subordinate to Admiral Lord William Cornwallis of Channel Fleet, making Lewrie wonder why Speaks would prefer charges with him, instead of Cornwallis, or Admiralty directly. Weapons he intends to employ? Lewrie wondered.

“These damned French things you brought in, Lewrie,” Captain Speaks said, turning too mellow and “chummy” too quickly for Lewrie’s taste. “We both have access to high secrets. What are they, really?”

“I cannot reveal that, sir. Truly!” Lewrie insisted.

“Bosun, lay on! Two dozen lashes! Rwark!” the parrot uttered, prefaced, and concluded, with what sounded like a throaty and rasping gargle, or cat-purr, as it paced along its perch.

“Have the French developed a form of torpedo, Lewrie? Perhaps anchored torpedoes?” Speaks further asked, almost cajolingly.

“I can assure you that they’re not torpedoes, sir, but that’s all I can tell you,” Lewrie cautiously replied. “About Admiral Lord Keith, though… he intends to employ catamaran torpedoes, did y’say? Before the weather in the Channel turns foul?”

“You will be informed at the proper time, Captain Lewrie,” the choleric older fellow snapped, seeing that the nature of Lewrie’s secret would not be forthcoming, and keeping his own ’til the last minute. He turned snippish once more. “Thanks to you, sir, there will not be time for further testing, and the catamaran torpedoes will be employed before their ultimate perfection, and…,” Speaks gravelled, levelling a finger at Lewrie like a pistol barrel, “should they fail to achieve the desired results, such failure will not be placed upon my head, but upon yours, sir, for your lack of support to me!”

“Despite our suggested improvements of drogues and rudders that drifted them quicker and straighter, sir?” Lewrie asked, having a hard time stifling his anger at such a threat, and the unfairness of it. “I and my men have been very supportive to you, as you told me earlier.”

“Damn my…!” Speaks said, spluttering with fury. “You are to keep your bloody frigate ready to sail at a moment’s notice! You are to restrict access with the shore, and except for victualling, you are to keep your people aboard, where they cannot blab.”

“Well, Reliant’s people have earned a brief spell Out of Discipline, after…,” Lewrie countered, instantly regretting how tongue-in-cheek that sounded.

“Absolutely not, sir!” Speaks roared. “You will sit and swing at anchor ’til I’ve need of you. Do not be obstreperous or insubordinate with me… I’ll not have it, do you hear?”

“Quite clearly, sir,” Lewrie replied, abashed.

“Dismissed, Captain Lewrie,” Speaks ordered, stone-faced.

“Mutinous dog! Mutinous dog… rwark!” from the parrot.

Once out on deck in the fresh air, Lewrie let out a deep pented breath, puffing out his cheeks and sharing a rueful glance with Lieutenant Douglas Clough, Penarth’s captain, who had wisely found another place to be while Speaks was tearing a strip off Lewrie’s arse. Clough looked sympathetic.

“Might there be something up, Mister Clough?” Lewrie asked him in a close-by mutter as he made ready to board his waiting big.

“Ye dinna hear it from me, sir, but… we’ve been ordered to take a fresh load of torpedoes aboard, in a tearing hurry, mind, and once done, I’m to take her down to Saint Helen’s Patch and wait for a favourable wind… for The Downs, sir, to join Admiral Lord Keith! Captain Speaks gave me a hint… it’s to be Boulogne, sir!” the rough-featured Scot muttered back, though with an eager grin. “Explosive boats, fireships, our torpedoes, and even some rocket- firing vessels… Mister William Congreve’s explosive rockets!”

“What’s a Congreve rocket?” Lewrie wondered aloud, in a soft, conspiratorial tone. “I know signal rockets, but…”

“Don’t rightly know, sir, for no one ever tells me things, if they don’t pertain to our torpedo trials,” Lt. Clough said with a wee and wry laugh. “Mark my words, Captain Lewrie… we’ll be a part of a grand attack on Boulogne, sure as Fate, and that soon!”

“Thankee, Mister Clough,” Lewrie said, grinning back, “for the news. Now, I’ll have t’play dumb ’til our superiors decide t’tell us for certain.”

“With no shore liberty for anyone… even officers,” Clough mournfully agreed.

“Boulogne, though… well, well!” Lewrie whispered, imagining what that would be like, on the day ordained.

Play dumb ’til I’m told the details? Lewrie thought as he went through the ritual of departing honours, I was born t’play dumb! It’s what people expect o’ me!

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

At least it’s a pretty day for it, Alan Lewrie thought as the coast of France loomed up from the southern horizon, as a squadron, of which HMS Reliant was a part, sailed for Boulogne. Lewrie did wonder, though, why the expedition was so small, if the undertaking was of such vital importance to England’s survival.

The squadron was led by Admiral of the Blue Lord Keith in HMS Monarch, a two- decker 74-gunned Third Rate, not the lofty First or Second Rate more suitable to his seniority. With Monarch were two 64-gun two-deckers and two much older Fourth Rate two-decker 50s, a type of warship more commonly seen on convoy duty or troop carrying these days, not in the line of battle. It was smaller ships that made up the bulk of the squadron’s numbers; there were bomb vessels with their big sea- mortars, some older warships converted to fire William Congreve’s infernal rockets, brig-sloops and frigates, and a host of cutters and armed launches… along with at least four fireships and the collier Penarth bearing their catamaran torpedoes.