thought to find a grand seat for the performance to come, Mr. Kydd.'
Calloway came up to Kydd and politely removed his hat. 'Sir?'
'Well, an alarm, is it not?' Kydd said peevishly, aware of his appearance.
'Er, no, sir. Some farmer burning off his bean straw, a coastal convoy becalmed offshore, and the lobsterbacks got excited.'
Word came that a decision from the committee about future submarine plans was imminent. Fulton would not be held back, so he and Kydd posted to London the same day.
As soon as they alighted from the coach Fulton threw off his travelling cloak and hurriedly went to the hall- stand at the Minories. Three waiting letters were cast aside but he seized on the fourth. 'This is Banks's writing,' he said, bore open the seal and went into the poky drawing room to read it. Kydd followed.
Fulton scanned it. Then, with a set face, he read it again. 'See for yourself,' he commanded, thrusting it at Kydd and turning away.
It was a short but courteous note, thanking Fulton for his exertions and expressing every admiration for the genius of his design but thinking it only right to advise him in advance of the formal communication that the committee, while agreeing on the probable technical feasibility of the submersible, had decided that there would be insufficient time to develop the means to overcome its operational limitations, given the imminence of the invasion threat for which it was designed. It concluded with further warm compliments and the suggestion that an early approach to the Treasury for a settlement of accounts would be in order, given that, unhappily, this must be regarded as a termination of relations. Kydd looked up in consternation. 'This means—' 'The fools!' barked Fulton. 'The benighted imbeciles! The cod's-headed, hidebound jackasses! Can't they see—don't they realise—' He broke off, pounding his fists and choking at the enormity of it all.
Fulton's world had collapsed on him. The two biggest naval powers in the world were locked in a death struggle, yet neither wanted to take further his invention. In effect it was a conclusive vote of no-confidence in the device. Kydd knew it was now unlikely that Fulton would ever secure further development funding and must— 'God blast 'em for a—a set o' stinkin' skunks!' Fulton croaked.
Anger gripped Kydd that such a gifted inventor should be so treated by the world. 'Toot, this is not the end, m' friend. We'll find out what it is ails 'em, then—'
Before he could finish, Fulton snatched a decanter of brandy, swigged deeply from it, then rounded on Kydd. 'Be damned to it!' he gasped, wiping his chin. 'I should have known this'd happen, I throw in with the British.' He took another gulp. 'That was why we cast off the shackles, damn it.' His face crumpled. 'God rot the villains. I need fresh air.' He pushed past Kydd into the street.
The ancient grey-white bulk of the Tower of London loomed to the south; he flew toward its rear wall where he beat his fists helplessly against the dark-weathered stone. 'Bastards! Fucksters!' he cried. 'I'll see you in Hades, you pigging rogues.'
Passers-by stared in shock, and Kydd tried to drag him away but he pulled himself free and looked around wildly. The dilapidated timber edifice of the Royal Mint was on the other side of Little Tower Hill. He made to storm across but then, scorning it, plunged past into the maze of Smithfield's streets.
Kydd tried to reason with him but Fulton shook him off, pushing faster into the crowds of market porters, butchery stalls and stinking squalor. 'This is no place for us, Toot,' he shouted. 'Let's go back and I'll—'
'To blazes with it,' Fulton said savagely. 'You can go to hell— I'm after finding some real people. The company of common folk.' He tore away from Kydd and disappeared ahead. Jostling against the tide of humanity, vainly searching for a glimpse of Fulton's bright green coat, it became all too clear to Kydd that the man had vanished.
He tried to think. To the left was the haunt of the apothecary and chirurgeon—no commoners there. To the right was the high rear wall of the new London docks—or there. But beyond . . . Kydd hurried forward along the line of the wall to where it stopped abruptly and headed back to the Thames. This was where Fulton was going— docklands. The stews of Wapping and Shadwell. The maritime rookery that accompanied the greatest concourse of shipping on earth—the Pool of London.
Beyond the rickety tenements and streets of chandlery, sailmak-ers, slop-sellers and breweries there was a thick forest of masts and rigging. This was where ships from every corner of the globe found rest and could discharge their cargoes of tea, spices, cocoa, tobacco, cotton and goods of every conceivable description, whose pungency lay heavily on the air.
The nature of the crowds changed: in place of the clerk and bookseller, now there were wharf-lumpers, sack- makers, draymen and sailors, going about their business in the narrow cobbled streets.
Kydd thought he glimpsed Fulton's green coat and redoubled his pace. Now he was coming to the Thames waterfront, the haunt of the crimp, the scuffle-hunter and mud-lark, and his fears for Fulton grew. Then he saw him, looking up at the faded sign of the Dog and Duck.
Before he could reach him, he had gone inside. Kydd hurried to the door just in time to hear him declaim to the astonished topers on their stools that he was a friend to all the oppressed, the common folk, the honest labourer, and he was prepared to stand a brimmer with any who'd drink with him to the greatest submarine inventor ever made.
'What's it do, then, cock?' one called derisively. 'Make eggs o' brass or somethin'?'
'A craft as swims like a fish beneath the waves and can explode any of your Nelson's battleships to splinters any time it chooses.'
Kydd thrust into the taproom, heavy with the odours of liquor, sawdust and rank humanity. Heads turned his way. 'A grog for every man!' he roared, and threw the tapster two guineas. In the riot that followed he yanked Fulton out on to the street. 'What do you think you're doing, Toot?' he demanded, only too aware that they stood out in their quality garb and that his sword was with his baggage.
Fulton tore free and ran down towards another waterfront tavern, the Blue Anchor, but before he could reach it a hard-faced man in leggings appeared from a doorway in front of him, standing astride and smacking a cudgel into his palm. Kydd swung round. Another was moving on them from behind.
In desperation he glanced about him and saw a bundle of building laths among materials for repair. He dived for it and whipped one out. It was an absurdly thin and insubstantial piece of wood, but Kydd held it before him at the ready, like a sword, and advanced on the first man, who stopped in surprise, then lifted his heavy bludgeon with a snarl. That was just as Kydd had wanted. He lunged forward in a perfect fencing crouch, the point of the lath
