"Haul in!" Willing hands leaned out and heaved, but as they neared the vessel a face appeared above the transom with a heavy pistol. It fired—and Renzi was flung backwards into the bottom of the boat. An instant later three pistols returned the shot, the man threw up his hands and slumped over the stern.
Kydd dropped to his friend—but Renzi was already pulling himself up, his lower thigh wet with blood from an ugly scoring along his side. "Damn the fellow," he said faintly. "Ruined a good pair of breeches."
Reassured, Kydd looked up to where the transom was being rapidly hauled in. Poulden was first over in a lightning heave and leap. Kydd and Stirk followed, landing on the cluttered after deck and scuttling over to the side to take in the situation.
It was deserted, except for right forward where Fulton was kneeling, bound and gagged. Over him a man stood with a cocked pistol at his head. "Get back! " he barked harshly, jabbing Fulton with the muzzle. "Get back in the boat—now!"
Kydd froze. To be so near to success! A dead Fulton would be a disaster—but perhaps that would be preferable to allowing Bonaparte to take possession of the inventor.
He hesitated but the decision was taken out of his hands. Behind him Renzi had hauled himself painfully on board. He drew out his sword, a lowly hanger, and hobbled forward purposefully.
"Nicholas—no!" Kydd blurted. Was he, through his beliefs, contemptuous of Fulton's life?
"He'll die!" the man shouted, the muzzle at Fulton's ear. Renzi took no notice and came steadily on. "He dies—now!"
The pistol aimed and the finger tightened, but Renzi did not waver, still moving forward. Coldly he detached the weapon from the man's hand and tossed it in the sea.
Stunned, the others rushed up and seized the agent, releasing Fulton, who fell, retching.
"What in blazes—Nicholas?"
"No mystery, dear fellow. Their orders were to recover Fulton for Bonaparte's service. It stands to reason that no servant of the Emperor would dare destroy him out of spite if there's a chance he might be secured later."
Kydd chuckled. "You took a risk on it, Nicholas, m' friend."
"Not so much," Renzi said, with perfect equanimity, "for if he killed me, with but one shot in his pistol, Fulton would still be safe, and I flatter myself he could be certain your vengeance was sure."
"And if Fulton was not?"
"Then, alas, I could not forgive myself that the world would then be deprived of a most terrible new submarine boat . . ."
In the deathly silence nothing could be heard but a tiny tick, tick, tick. It came from a neat but incredibly complex brass mechanism secured in a vice, which the three men were watching.
Suddenly with a loud clack a sear rotated to allow a hammer arm to spring forward, tugging a lanyard. There was an instant fizz of priming and a small column of smoke, which rose and hung as if to mark the passing of a moment of portent.
"There! I give you twenty-nine minutes, gentlemen," Fulton grunted, lowering his fob watch, "and can thereby guarantee a detonation timed almost to the very minute."
Kydd glanced at the expressionless face of the old watchmaker and murmured, "To time to the instant when an unknowing man must be launched into eternity—this is our achievement?"
Fulton looked at him sharply. "We progress," he said coldly.
"As we must," Kydd said heavily, then pulled himself together. "So, what's our standing in the venture now?"
Fulton first addressed the watchmaker. "Thank you, Mr. Jones. There'll be one or two small changes, then I'm content to recommend the placing of an order for, say, fifty mechanisms to be delivered without delay."
"W-what? H-how many did you say?" he stuttered. "It will—sir, I cannot possibly—"
"Then I must find someone who can."
"No, no, sir, I—I will hire every watchmaker in Kent, if need be. But—but this will cost, um . . . It will be expensive."
"No matter, leave it with our Mr. Hammond," Fulton said airily, and turned to answer Kydd. "Well, now, we have all the design testing complete. There will be some adjustments to my plans and then you may inform your masters that the production of ordnance may begin."
"Adjustments?"
"A few. I've decided we must field all three designs of torpedo: the large coffer, against which even a ship-o'-the-line cannot stand; a small coffer, for the lesser breeds; and a hogshead carcass, as will be used against the flotilla."
He pondered a little and added, "This is all supposing your friend's catamarans are equal to the task, of course. The extra charge weight is not insignificant."
"But we may say Teazer's task is complete?"
"For the moment."
As soon as Kydd entered the Three Kings it was obvious that the atmosphere had changed. Dyer of Falcon and Mills of Bruiser were slumped opposite each other at an empty fireplace, and an officer he didn't know stood with a glass gazing moodily out over the anchorage. There was no sign of Savery.
"Ahoy there, the Bruisers!" Kydd called cheerily. The man looked the other way but Dyer nodded wearily. "Captain Savery not at his Friday occasion?" he asked, signalling to the steward. "A supernaculum for my friends as need a recuperative," he ordered, looking about genially to mark their preference.
"Cap'n Savery is not here, Mr. Kydd," Mills said suddenly, swivelling to look at him.
"Oh. Well, I—"
"He's up agin the French coast."
"I wasn't aware—"
"Where he's been at the last month without even he's hauled off for a purgation."
The officer at the window turned to look curiously at Kydd. "Are you new on the coast, sir?"
"Not so," Kydd said, nettled at his reception. "I've been lately detained with secret matters touching on Boney's invasion plans."
"Secret! Hah!"
"Your meaning, sir?" Kydd asked Mills.
"All the world knows o' these wild motions wi' infernal machines, dammit! Not as if you was out o' sight over wi' the French."
"Since y' know so much of my business, Mills, then you'd also know that Mr. Pitt himself authorised 'em—on account that in one blow we can put the fear o' God into Johnny Crapaud as nothing else will!" "Er, how's that, sir?" The young officer had come over to listen. He had refined, sensitive features. "That is, if you're at liberty to tell. Oh—Lamb, out of Locust gun-brig."
"Well, Mr. Lamb, as we'll be going against the flotilla with 'em quite shortly you have a right t' know. A very ingenious American has invented a submarine boat—and built one, mark you—which can swim underwater until it reaches its victim, then reach out and explode the vessel above without warning."
"Good God," Lamb said quietly. "And the sailors aboard it?"
Kydd flushed. "In war they must expect casualties, in course."
"But that—that's no better than massacre by assassination!"
"It's the future, Mr. Lamb."
"And we must subscribe to such practices? Sir, this is neither courageous nor honourable. I cannot—"
"We have Bonaparte to beat," Kydd said. "What would you have us do? Tell the inventor to go away, we're too delicate?"
Lamb did not respond, standing stiff and pale.
"But then it's to no account," Kydd continued, "as in the event we'll not have the services of a submarine. Instead it will be—"
"It'll be your infernals, o' course! If they work. Heard the fishermen in Shell Ness say as the flounder still haven't returned, you explodin' carcasses under water, for God's sake!" Mills spluttered.
"So, then, what is your suggestion, sir," Kydd asked, "as a twelvemonth of war sees Napoleon's flotilla untouched by us in the usual run o' fighting . . . ?"
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Dyer, with a sigh, "we have enough to do contending with the French without we assail each other. For myself, if we are given any weapon that promises confusion to the enemy, then I vow I'll not hang back from using it."