Invasion

'The attacking force will be in three divisions: the torpedoes in the centre defended on either side by a strong force from my squadron, myself in Monarch to seaward, three sixty-fours and two fifty- gun ships, with five frigates flanking them at depth.'

If there was enemy interference with the cumbersome craft in the act of launching their torpedoes it would turn into a bloodbath.

'The torpedoes in turn will be in three divisions: the centre with catamarans of Mr. Popham's invention, which are near invisible and have the chance of penetrating to the closest, and these shall be armed with the, er, hogsheads. In column on either side will be launches towing the coffers, the largest of which I have been reliably informed are now of two tons weight with the colossal charge of the equivalent of forty barrels of powder each.'

He ignored the gasps of incredulity. 'Further, to complete and make certain our descent, we will employ four explosion ships, which will carry similar amounts and will be set on course to intersect the enemy line before they are abandoned. These, with all our engines of destruction, will be fitted with the new mechanical timing machine that will be set to detonate the charges at precisely the right position.'

This was as unlike any pre-battle council that Kydd had ever experienced and the glances of consternation among the others revealed that he was not the only one to feel as he did. There had been no appeal to lay one's ship alongside the enemy, no talk of conduct becoming the traditions of the service, no detail of complex signals enjoining complicated manoeuvres. And, worst of all, it promised to be a battle in the night, the defenders not even brought face to face in the encounter, the torpedoes doing their work unseen. It was unreal and disturbing to many in a navy whose traditions were resolutely to close and grapple with an enemy until the issue was decided.

Keith seemed to sense the unease and his tone took on a stiff joviality. 'I leave it to you, gentlemen, to conceive of the terror in the hearts of the French at the destruction wrought in their midst by unknown and superior weapons. Thus I do confide in you my hopes for a good success in this enterprise.'

Queries and doubts were voiced, concerning responsibilities, timing, command, but all responses came down in the end to a single task: of getting the torpedoes to their target.

When the questions had tailed off, Keith resumed. 'I have mentioned the three divisions of torpedoes. At the seaward head of each column a dispatching sloop will be responsible for sending them in. The central, being the catamarans, will be in overall command, with responsibility for pressing home the assault.'

He looked round grimly, then settled his gaze on Kydd. 'As the only one of us with experience of these devices, this task is assigned to Commander Kydd.'

Exultant, but more than a little fearful, Kydd considered his position carefully. In effect he was a mini commodore, placed above another two commanders in the most important job in the operation and under the direct eye of the commander-in-chief—not only him but the first lord of the Admiralty too. Under no circumstance must he fail.

He retired to his great cabin and began his planning. But as the list of priorities and concerns grew, so did his anxieties. The Articles of War required whole ships of men, officers included, to obey his every order without question—even if they were mistaken or ill-thought-through. And once the deadly machines were put into motion they could neither be summoned back nor even signalled to. His orders had better be the right ones . . .

The first vital matter was to establish the characteristics of the weapons, handling, firing or whatever. This would form the basis of the training and operational orders, and would give him time to think.

'Portsmouth, Mr. Hallum. It's there we'll make trial of our in-fernals, the catamarans now being at Lymington, the torpedoes produced at Priddy's Hard, o' course.'

The overnight voyaging saw Teazer enter the familiar harbour early the next day, but this time passing beyond the great dockyard into the large, enclosed expanse of shallow water beyond. It was deserted, but for a line of ships in ordinary in the deeper water along the western side, well suited for trials of a secret weapon.

Teazer sailed on as far as she could in the shallowing water and picked up moorings at the head of a channel through the mudflats, Horsea Island. She waited patiently but it took some hours for a dockyard hoy to bring the weapons across the water from Priddy's Hard. An interested but wary ship's company had their first sight of the new weapons of war.

'Ugly beasts!' Kydd murmured to Hallum, who seemed lost for words as he stared down at them. Low in the water alongside, and within a canvas screen, they were dormant in the evening light, submerged until the upper surfaces were nearly awash, one of each type, black, deadly and evil.

Fulton arrived as the sun was lowering, in a fluster after some disagreement with officials of the Ordnance Board. He and Kydd, with Duckitt, went over the side and into a low punt. 'This is your hogshead,' Fulton said, and slapped its swelling bulk affectionately. It reverberated sullenly, a black parody of a large barrel of beer. Next to it floated a low cylindrical device, its exterior smooth black-painted copper but much bigger than the first, with a single line and grapnel. 'The small coffer.' Then, outside them all, lay a crocodilian shape all of twenty feet long, its dark menace barely visible under the surface. 'The large coffer,' Fulton said lightly, and stepped on to it from the punt. It barely gave, betraying its tremendous weight.

'Er, how heavy is it, Toot?'

'No more'n two tons. Get him going at the enemy, there's nothing on God's earth will stop him.'

'Sir,' Duckitt asked quietly, 'an' how do we, er, fire 'em?'

'Good question. You've to throw aside all notions o' firing. These don't mess with slowmatch—we use a modern mechanism.'

'An' how c'n we be sure—'

'See here?' Fulton pointed out a slightly recessed indentation. 'Inside is your timing engine. Screw in the plug and, for every turn, the explosion takes place five minutes later.' He demonstrated, twisting deftly.

Kydd started. Surely Fulton had not initiated the detonation . . .

'Three turns, fifteen minutes. This handsome machine is charged and armed and will explode in a quarter-hour.' Duckitt caught his breath. 'Were it not for this.' Fulton flourished an object very similar to a miniature belaying pin. 'The safety peg. It comes from here'—he pointed to a tiny hole next to the timing screw, fortunately occupied by an identical one—'and so long as he sleeps in his hole, all is tranquil. Withdraw it, and whatever is set on the timing will be the moment of destiny for the coffer.'

No one spoke, but Fulton grinned inanely. 'A contrivance of beauty and perfection, don't you think?'