Invasion

It seemed so thin, so fragile, but was this because he didn't really believe in the infernals—or himself?

The final conference was in Monarch and Keith wasted no words. 'I'm sailing at noon to anchor before Boulogne at sunset. I want the assaulting division to be ready for launch three hours after sunset, namely nine p.m. Mr. Kydd?'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Savery coughed. 'Er, sir. To appear in force in full view of the enemy before sunset? They'll surely know something's afoot.'

'Can't be helped. The torpedo craft need to know where we are in the darkness, so they will fix our position while daylight reigns. They won't do that if we're tacking and veering about all the time. And it hardly needs pointing out that we've not been strangers to this coast, and while we'll be arriving in force, the enemy has no conceiving of the nature of our assault. We attack as planned.'

Weighed down with anxieties, Kydd returned to his ship. Now there would be the call for volunteers, an advisement to his dispatch sloops—it was all but committed. He swung over the bulwark, touching his hat to the boatswain at his call.

Renzi stood there, his face grave. 'Then we sail against the flotilla,' he said quietly. He was using a cane to support his wounded leg.

'We do,' Kydd said, then added, 'Nicholas, this is not your war—I want you ashore.'

'Ashore? Of course not! There's—'

'You'll go, and that's my order,' he said harshly, staring his friend down.

'Very well, then I must do as I'm bid,' Renzi said softly. He slowly held out his hand. 'Can I—may I sincerely wish that you do fare well in what must come?'

Kydd's bleak expression did not alter. He took the hand briefly then turned and hurried below.

HMS Teazer led the torpedo squadron to sea. For Kydd the overcast autumn day had a particularly oppressive and lowering undertone. Some five miles off Boulogne the fleet assembled about the flagship—frigates, minor ships-of-the-line, sloops, cutters and, at the centre, what gave it its purpose.

Before sunset the fleet had formed up opposite the port. The approach channel for the catamarans was resolved, the dispatch sloops positioned to seaward, and aboard each the process of arming the torpedoes was put in train.

Locust moved up between them, put its borrowed cluster of gigs in the water, and suddenly there was nothing further to do.

A sombre dusk fell; among the hills the campfires of Napoleon's host twinkled into existence, their myriad expanse a feral menace that seemed to reach right out to them. The last of the day's radiance hardened into a moonless night, a dark almost dense enough to touch. Surrounding ships lost their outline and were swallowed in the blackness, leaving only the single riding lights of the British fleet and the red and gold dots along the hills.

Kydd could only wait. His plans were straightforward enough but what were they next to the reality before him? The catamarans were already in the water but not the hogsheads, which must be swayed aboard fully armed and struck down on their gratings by feel—no lights could be allowed to betray warlike activity.

The watch mustered, and the volunteers. Sailors who had willingly stepped up when called upon that afternoon, who had trusted him in the matter of riding these infernal machines to victory against the foe or . . .

A lump rose in his throat. Would any of them survive the night? With false jollity, jokes were cracked in the age-old way as they pulled on their black guernseys, laced on dark caps and rubbed galley soot into their faces. Some yawned, a sure sign of pre-battle nerves.

'Sir—flagship!' The usual three riding lights in the tops of Monarch were replaced by four. As they watched, the fourth was dimmed. The signal.

'Into the catamarans, the volunteers,' Kydd ordered crisply, trying to conceal his feelings.

Without speaking the first two went down the side and, with gasps at the cold, took their places in the catamaran scheduled to lead the attack. 'As I live and breathe,' Hallum whispered, 'this is something I could not do, I confess it.'

It was too much: in a rising tide of feeling Kydd leaned over and called hoarsely, 'Timmins! Out o' the boat—I'm the one to lead the catamarans.'

The group on the quarterdeck fell back in shock; Kydd wasted no time in stripping to his breeches, and when the dripping Timmins appeared on deck, he took the man's guernsey and cap, then went hastily over the side, only remembering at the last minute to throw at the open-mouthed lieutenant, 'You have the ship, Mr. Hallum.'

The sea was shockingly cold as Kydd settled into the little under-water seat and oriented himself. So close to the water the restless wavelets now held spite and Teazer loomed in the darkness, her barnacles and sea-growth so close.

There were voices; then Stirk was claiming the place of the other in the catamaran. He clambered into the forward seat, cursing vigorously at the cold.

'Thank ye, Toby,' Kydd said, in a low voice.

'If 'n ye're going, Mr. Kydd, ye'll need one as knows th' buggers, like,' Stirk grunted, and signalled up to the deck. As gunner's mate he had helped Duckitt instruct the others.

The first hogshead came, to be grappled by Stirk and struck down on the gratings. He made an expert slippery hitch, then gave another signal to the deck. The other came down aft, and Kydd struggled to ease the monstrous bulk onto its grating. Numb fingers passed the lashing and finished with the hitch to release it. 'Shove off,' he growled, pushing at the huge ship's side with his light scull. Almost sub-surface the catamaran was a heavy, awkward thing and he panted with the effort of getting it going. This was going to be near impossible, he thought, in despair.

They cleared Teazer's side and pulled out into the channel. Low hails came from others in the vicinity. Kydd looked about carefully, shivering all the while with the bitter cold. There seemed no betraying noise or bustle in the anchored fleet and, turning shorewards, he saw no sign of any French alarm. Then