Invasion

'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 seagoing 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.

They wore plain clothing so there was nothing to alarm the sleepy little village, and Kydd, with Midshipman Calloway, found no difficulty in hiring horses. Soon they were clopping along the road between the marsh and the sea, but instead of following it as it curved inland to Snargate they struck out on a poor track across the stark bleakness of the promontory.

For several miles they crossed the flat landscape, not a rise, not a tree intruding until they came to the tiny settlement of Lydd in its centre. Then they followed a barely visible path through the salt marsh and shingle out to a distant solitary hut at the very tip of the promontory.

Their approach from inland was covered by the ceaseless muffled roar of the sea and they had time to note the old ship's topmast with its extended staff and gaff to suspend signal hoists a good eighty feet above. The hut was in rough wood, finished in tar and ochre with a liberal sand-dash.

Smoke swirled from a makeshift chimney and Kydd handed the reins to Calloway while he stepped over a tiny