Invasion

he peered into the blackness towards the distant and barely visible line of ships that were their target. No indications of suspicion—but, then, the French had every reason to suppose that if there was an assault it would be at dawn in the usual way.

He looked behind—nothing. Ahead, the line of ships. 'We go,' he hissed, and dug in his sculls.

It was an unreal and frightening world of cold, darkness and beckoning danger. Stroke after stroke, double feathered and as silent as possible, onward towards the target. Muffled splashes from behind told him that the others had fallen into line with him. Stroke, pull, return, stroke. On and on.

Then, quite suddenly, they were close enough to individual ships that they needed conscious alterations of course to head towards them—they were nearing the launch point and still no alarm. It was time to select a victim. Curiously there was no feeling, only the calculated judgement of range and bearing.

'Hssst!' Stirk stopped rowing.

'What is it?' whispered Kydd urgently.

'I thought I heard—It's a Frenchy!'

Then Kydd made out a regular creak and splash of oars in the blackness to the left. The enemy was rowing guard on the moored ships in a pinnace. 'Get down!'

They bent as low as they could, faces slapped by the cold sea, and waited. Should he give orders to retreat now while they could? Kydd wondered. If they were discovered it would be slaughter with no mercy. Shivering violently, he heard the sound approach, then cross and, with no change of rhythm, move away to the right.

Apart from the ceaseless rustling of the night waters there was nothing more than a far-away peal of merriment, a shouted hail between sentries, anonymous sounds.

It was time for the climax. 'Cast off the line, Toby—it's secured to the other.' It was part of Fulton's plan to squeeze a ship between two explosions by connecting the two hogsheads with a line and cork float, which, on the incoming tide, would fetch up on their victim's anchor cable and inexorably draw in the charges on both sides.

'Set for twenty minutes, Toby,' he called softly, and waited while the turns were made. 'That'll do,' he said, as casually as he could. 'We'll launch now. Pull the peg, cuffin.'

There was a jerk and Stirk turned and handed him the safety pin. Kydd's orders were that all pegs should be returned as a surety that the torpedoes had been launched properly. After a quick tug on the hitch and persuasion with both feet the giant carcass plunged into the sea with a shattering splash.

They dug in their sculls to move out the requisite hundred feet— but a sputtering and popping of muskets started urgently from the line of shore. They had been discovered. The sound grew and was joined by heavier guns.

'Pull!' Kydd gasped. They were moving parallel with the shore to launch the second hogshead but the firing grew steadily in intensity. The timing mechanism was already primed so he fumbled with the safety peg and footed the monstrous thing clear to splash weightily in the sea.

They had done it! Torpedoes away, nothing could stop their rapid retreat. But they found themselves stroking into a strong flood-tide. The riding lights at the masthead of the flagship were just dimly visible but now the shore artillery had added its weight to the barrage, and the entire foreshore of Boulogne was alive with gun-flash. It was only a matter of time before they were spotted—and the venom of a hundred guns unleashed on them.

They passed another catamaran going in the other direction, resolutely pressing forward into the inferno to its launch position, with others on their way behind. Kydd's eyes pricked at their bravery.

It was some minutes before he realised that, surprisingly, with all the blazing guns, there was no shot-strike nearby. Miraculously they had a chance: the gunners were night-blinded by the flash of their own guns and without a knowledge of what their targets were, even with fixed lines of fire, they were aiming high, presuming a usual form of attack.

'Go to it, Toby!' he bawled, stretching out until his muscles burned. Then, blessedly, they were up with the gigs and being pulled into the boats with words of rough, sailorly sympathy. They fell back on the dispatch sloops.

Kydd was hauled aboard his ship utterly exhausted, but insisted on remaining on the upper deck where he sat in a chair shivering under a cloak. It should be at any time now. With the sky and sea a fiery pandemonium it was difficult to make out anything. The French were firing wildly into the night, not understanding what was going on.

They would soon find out, thought Kydd, grimly. Then something clutched at his heart. So many brave sailors would, before long, be blasted to pieces—at his hand.

The rage and fervour of battle ebbed a little. Was Renzi right that this furtive creeping and stealthy detonating were no better than cold-blooded murder? With a dull spirit Kydd waited for the first cataclysm—but none came. Perhaps it was asking too much of the delicate watchmaking art to function in this wet chaos. But then the sudden thump and roar of a colossal explosion tore at his senses, its flash lighting the sea in sharp relief for miles, the firing dying away in awe at the spectacle.

Another—this time an even larger one, which seemed to be on the far side of the defensive line. More—then a gigantic roar in the centre. And more. Fulton's infernals had worked to perfection but at each detonation Kydd's heart wrung at where man's ingenuity and creative spirit had led him—and that the world must now change.

The last explosion died, the guns petered out and suddenly there was nothing left but to return to the Downs and home.

When Teazer had picked up her moorings opposite the slumbering town of Deal and sea watches had been stood down, Kydd went to his cabin and collapsed into his cot. Exhaustion and reaction made sleep impossible and his thoughts raced on into nightmare—battles in the future fought under water and England's mighty ships-of-the-line replaced by swarms of catamarans. And for ever the fear that any stout ship, brought to her rest after hard voyaging, might without warning be blown to splinters with all her crew.

He drifted off, but was gently woken by Renzi. 'Dear brother, I'm desolated to intrude on your rest but Admiral Keith does require your attendance.'

'Er, what o' clock is it, then?' Kydd asked, struggling awake.

'Eleven.'