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"Against Boulogne?" Popham said, with growing animation. "If these 'torpedoes' can be relied on to sink a ship in a single blow, we have an entirely new method of assaulting an enemy. No more hours of battering away with broadsides at the hazard of life and limb."

"That's as it seems, sir."

"He will find much of the Service arrayed against him, of course. There are not a few inclined to oppose anything that is ingenious or not hallowed by the centuries, including those who have a moral objection to the employment of such weapons. Well, Mr. Kydd, if you ask my advice, I would suggest you should batten down for a long and stormy voyage."

"It does seem worthy of further trial but in this we have a perplexity, sir. Mr. Francis is without means if he works on, and feels he must on that account return to America."

"I see."

"It does occur to me, sir, that were his inventions to be put forward by one of unassailable standing in the Navy it would not be Mr. Francis alone to be resisted."

"You're very persuasive, Mr. Kydd, but I myself am much taken up with business. In the last election I'm made the Member of Parliament for Yarmouth, but at the least I shall spy out the lie of the land for you."

True to his word, a message of encouragement arrived not long afterwards, followed by another requiring Fulton and Kydd to take coach to Deal to meet Popham at an unfashionably early hour in the King's Naval Yard with as many illustrations of the projected weapons as were available.

Mystified, they waited at the appointed place as morning blossomed into day. Popham arrived punctually. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said, with a mysterious air. "Do join my carriage. We are expected."

It was only a few minutes along the foreshore before they drew up at the quaint rounded edifice of Walmer Castle. They were saluted by soldiers at the gatehouse, then hustled inside to the comfortable residence within.

Kydd supposed they must be going to meet the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, upon whom Popham clearly felt it worth his while to call. Kydd hoped the old gentleman would understand enough of what was being said.

The doors of a long corridor were flung wide and a striking young woman appeared. "My lady," murmured Popham, with a bow. "This is Mr. Kydd, and Mr. Francis. Gentlemen, the Lady Hester Stanhope."

"You've not come with bad news, I trust, Sir Home," she said sternly. "You know how Uncle always takes it so personally." She was dressed for the morning, but in an individual white gown with a boldly coloured shawl.

"No, Hester, this is merely an entertainment."

She looked at him distrustfully.

"Mr. Francis is an American gentleman with diverting views on marine travel."

"Oh? Then I believe I shall stay. Come in, and do remember Uncle's health is causing us some concern." She ushered them into a small reception room cunningly fashioned within one of the ancient Tudor bastions.

The men waited politely in easy-chairs for the Lord Warden to appear. Lady Hester took firm direction of the arrangements as a small circular table was spread with various hot and cold dishes. Then the door opened and, almost apologetically, a lean, drawn man shuffled in, wearing a well-used corded green dressing-gown and red slippers. He nodded to Popham and waved down the dutiful rising of the others. "Please excuse," he said, in a voice not much above a whisper, "you'll believe this is the only way I have to attend on you."

"It's kind in you to see us at such notice, sir," Popham said respectfully, then introduced Kydd and Fulton.

The two bowed.

"And this, gentlemen, is William Pitt, the prime minister of Great Britain."

Kydd's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Hester, my dear, there's no need to tarry on my behalf."

"No, Uncle, I want to hear—"

"Dear child, I rather feel they have a matter of some delicacy to discuss."

After his niece had departed, Pitt brushed aside Popham's background introduction of Fulton. "I know of you, sir," he said. "My condolences on the committee's decision, which, in all fairness, does appear to me to be the right one."

Popham leaned forward earnestly. "Mr. Francis recognises that his plunging boat may be delayed a while but he has since been turning his mind to the presenting difficulty of the age, Mr. Bonaparte's armada."

"Oh?" Pitt toyed with a kipper, but listened keenly.

"He has produced a remarkable plan for submarine bombs, which may be launched unseen from a distance, requiring but one to sink a ship and which appear to me eminently suited to an assault on Boulogne."

"Have you details?"

"Mr. Francis has brought his plans to show you, sir."

Spreading out the drawings over a chaise-longue Fulton launched into an explanation. The artistic quality of the illustrations and his colourful metaphors brought a smile to the ailing statesman. "So these torpedoes might be prepared using existing naval materials and ready within no more than three months?"

"Indeed."

"So, if we make immediate arrangements for a monthly stipend of, say, two hundred pounds while you are so employed, with a capital sum against expenditure of naval stores of—what? five to seven thousand pounds?—you would be prepared to begin?"

"Should I receive the unqualified support of the Navy and a satisfactory agreement entered into regarding my recompense."

"Being?"

"The sum of one hundred thousand pounds to release the plans under licence to your government and a royalty payment of forty thousand for every decked French vessel destroyed by my weapons."

"One hundred thousand? Your engines come dear, sir."

"The loss of this kingdom the dearer."

Pitt gave a tight smile. "Very well. I shall instruct the Treasury to draw up a contract of such a nature and, er, agree the financial details with you." Pitt broke off to cough into his handkerchief. "Not omitting that His Majesty's dockyards and arsenals be charged with assisting where sought. And, Mr. Francis, it is my fervent desire that you should begin without delay."

Outside, Fulton's eyes shone, and Popham observed drily, "You'll agree there are some compensations in being a Member of Parliament, Mr. Kydd. However, it might be that in going above the heads of the Admiralty we're on a lee shore to them. But be that as it may, to work! I suggest that, in this, I shall be the one speaking with the Admiralty and Navy Board and you, Mr. Kydd, do take station as before on our American friend. Admiral Keith will no doubt agree to your continuing with trials and close liaison. Agreed?"

Kydd stepped gingerly into Fulton's crowded casemate. It was now more a workshop than a design office with three benches and workmen with sheets of copper, an industrious carpenter, and a cooper sighting along his staves.

Fulton was bending over his plans and turned to greet Kydd. "Now we're getting somewhere." He rubbed his hands together. "I'm to start all over again. Before, I had my Nautilus with its horn, slowly rising under the victim to strike, now it must be another way. I have my ideas . . ."

"I'm sure you do," Kydd said hastily. "I came to know if there's any service I can perform."

"There is. As you can see, I proceed cautiously, trying and testing, for nothing will serve unless it can be seen nobly to meet the ocean's billows. Your stout vessel will have its hour at the final trials but for now I need to conduct experiments of a privy nature, explosions and the like."

Kydd considered the request. Who better to ask about a quiet retreat for activities of a stealthy nature than a Revenue officer?

Over a friendly jug of ale, he had his answer. "The coast t' Romney Marsh is the worst in the kingdom f'r smuggling. Reckon I c'n find you a tucked-away little spot as will meet y'r needs. How about Martha's Cope, just a little ways off?"