Invasion

foreshore, all in advanced firing positions and any number of field pieces deployed at will by the horse artillery— some several hundreds of significant ordnance within that single league before you.'

Kydd said nothing.

'Here, too, we have history,' Lovett continued expansively. 'The ruined tower of d'Ordre just to the left of the entrance and up was constructed by the sainted Caligula to save the souls of mariners.'

He paused. 'But getting back to the present, Napoleon, it seems, has found more sinister uses for it. The Batterie de la Republique is a perfect nest of artillery set to play upon any who will make motions towards the egress of the flotilla or such as dare interfere with it.'

'And that is all?'

Lovett ignored Kydd's ironical tone. 'Well, we have the Railliement to mock our approach with six- and twelve- pounders, but beyond that there is only the concentrated musketry of those eighty thousand troops . . .'

Kydd's face tightened. It was utter madness. What were Fulton's 'curiosities' against this overwhelming strength? Would the men flinch as they were ordered into this inferno of fire? The future of the world depended on the answers.

'We shall attack at night, of course,' Kydd said, hoping his voice held conviction. The darkness might help conceal them but it made the task of the torpedo launchers more difficult. By eye, Kydd plotted an approach from the west-south-west—the critical five-fathom line at datum was a mile offshore, according to the chart. Of all possibilities it was the least discouraging: there was the fire of the Fort de l'Heurt to be endured but . . .

'Place us with Le Portel at sou'-east b' east, Mr. Dowse,' Kydd ordered. There was one way to find out what they faced and that was to track down this approach and see what came their way.

'Aye aye, sir,' Dowse replied tersely.

The first guns opened up on Teazer as they crossed the five-fathom line under cautious sail on a line of bearing for the narrow estuary of the sluggish river. From various points along the sand- hills and beaches a lazy puff and thump announced a battery taking the opportunity of exercising on a live target.

Kydd had Calloway and the master's mate, Moyes, noting the precise position and estimated weight of metal of each, notwithstanding the likelihood that the heavier guns would be reserved for worthier targets.

The plash of strikes appeared in the sea, but Kydd was too experienced to let it worry him; most were close but all around them, and he knew that the only ones to worry about were those in line but short—they revealed a gun laid true and the likelihood that they would be struck on the ricochet.

How close could he go? Only a fraction of the guns were firing: a brig-sloop would be a common enough sight as enterprising young officers tried to steal a quick glimpse at the threats within.

Suddenly there was a sharp slap and a hole appeared in Teazer's foretopsail. Their angling approach had the advantage of reducing fire from the further coast but at the cost of an increasing tempest from the nearer, which now showed in its true numbers. In the continuous rolling thunder, roils of powder-smoke viciously pierced by gun-flashes and the tearing whuup sound of passing shot, it became clear that nothing more would be accomplished by daylight.

At least they could return with their personal report of what faced the attackers. 'That will do, Mr. Dowse. Do you now bear away for—'

He never finished the order for, with a sudden thump and an appalling long-drawn-out splintering crash, Teazer came to a sudden stop, slewing drunkenly sideways and throwing everyone to the deck. The foretop- and maintop-gallant masts tumbled down in ruinous confusion, smothering men in canvas and snarls of rope.

There was an instant's terrified incomprehension, then cries and shouts erupted from all parts of the ship. Kydd fought his way from under the mad, flapping folds, knowing what must have happened. A collision. In broad daylight and fair weather.

It was baffling—inconceivable. Kydd did not remember another ship within miles of Teazer. He discarded the last of the torn sail and looked round wildly. Where was the other vessel? Was it sunk?

'Throw off all tacks 'n' sheets,' he bellowed, frantic to take the strain off a motionless vessel under full sail. Purchet stormed about the canted deck with a rope's end, bringing back order while others picked themselves up from where they had been thrown.

Ignoring the imploring Hallum, Kydd tried furiously to work out what had happened, but then he saw the wreckage alongside—dark sea-wet timbers, planks over framing welling up sullenly that could only have come from another ship's hull. And alien to Teazer's build, older—proof that they had collided with another ship and crushed her underfoot to be mercilessly swallowed by the sea.

His mind reeled. There had been no sighting, no sudden cries from the doomed ship—why had they not—

Then he had it. Traces of seaweed on the timbers, an even scatter of barnacles—this was not another ship they had collided with but a recent wreck lying off the port they had piled into. There was little time for a moment of relief, though: Kydd became aware of redoubled fire from the shore. 'Clear away this raffle,' he threw at Purchet. 'I mean t' get away before the French come.' There was nothing more certain than that gunboats, galleys, even, would be quickly on the scene. These could stand off and batter the immovable sloop to ruin in minutes.

With icy foreboding, Kydd tried to think of a way out—traditional moves such as lightening by heaving water leaguers overside would not work in time and if he jettisoned his guns he would be rendered helpless. Should he tamely surrender? It was the humane thing to do in a hopeless situation such as this.

There were things that must be done. 'Moyes—duck down and ask the cook to get his fire going.'

'Sir?' he said, blinking.

'To destroy the signal books and confidentials!' Kydd rapped impatiently.

And what else must he do in this direful extremity? Find his commission: this would be proof to those taking him prisoner of his officer status. But what was there to say to his crew? They were certain to spend the rest of the war in misery, locked fast in one of the prison fortresses.