"Splendid!" Popham declared. "There!" he told Fulton. "You have your means of delivery, sir."
CHAPTER 12
IT HAD BEEN FRUSTRATING in the extreme. Hours spent in journeying to London, two days explaining, reassuring, promising, Kydd waiting outside, and the solitary Fulton sitting at one side of a long table, with the seniority of the Admiralty assembled along the other. Popham had assured Kydd and Fulton it was necessary, but in their eyes there were more pressing concerns.
And now more hours in a coach on the return. Kydd pondered the extraordinary turn of events, and the irony that he had now the wealth and the opportunity finally to take his place in higher society, but the grave situation in which England stood made it all but meaningless. Even a small estate was beyond his grasp: as an active captain he could give it no real attention—and he had no lady to rule it.
He watched the neat, rolling hills of the Weald of Kent passing by, almost garden-like in their loveliness. Next to him Fulton's eyes were closed, and opposite, a merchant and his prim lady kept aloof. His thoughts turned inevitably to the war: there was no question but that in a short time there would be a reckoning.
Would he play his part with honour when the time came? Of course. Then doubt flooded in. Did honour include the stealthy blasting to atoms of sailors? Was it so necessary to support Fulton as he did, or had he, as Renzi believed, crossed a moral Rubicon? Troubled, he crushed the thoughts. Did not the situation demand extreme measures? Was not—
The coach lurched to a grinding stop, the horses whinnying in protest. There were sharp voices outside, and Kydd leaned out of the window. Two horsemen stood athwart their path, both masked and each with a heavy pistol. One walked his mount to the window of the coach and leaned down, flourishing his weapon.
"The men—out!"
Highwaymen! Rage filled Kydd that these vermin were still at their trade when the country's peril was so real. His sword was in the rack above the seat, but it would be useless in the face of the big horse pistol pointing steadily at him.
"Now." The voice was flat, with no emotion and left little choice but to obey.
Kydd climbed out, looking tensely for the slightest chance, but these were clearly professionals. One stood back to cover the other while he dismounted. Kydd tried to peer into the mask but there was only the glitter of dark eyes.
The three male passengers stood together and faced the two riders. It was odd that they were ignoring the lady, for she surely had the richest pickings.
"I—I h-h-have a w-watch!" the merchant stuttered, reaching for his fob.
He was ignored. The highwayman still mounted trained his pistol on each in turn, then rapped, "Which of you is Fulton?"
In an instant it became clear. These were French agents sent to find the inventor. Fulton glanced at Kydd with a lopsided smile. Neither spoke.
The merchant looked bewildered and afraid.
The rider motioned meaningfully at his accomplice, who threw open the coach door. "Out!" he snarled at the woman, holding his weapon to her head. She screamed and the man cuffed her to the ground. Still with the pistol aimed at her, he cocked it.
"Which is Fulton?"
If the French took back the inventor they would know in detail what was planned against them and take appropriate defensive measures. Then they would undoubtedly build infernals of their own. It could not be risked. "I am," Kydd said, and stepped forward.
In French the mounted man demanded, "Answer quickly. What rank does Gaspard Mongé hold under the Emperor?"
Kydd was unable to answer.
"You!" said the man, pointing to Fulton with his pistol. "Come here."
His accomplice swiftly cut the traces of the coach horses and slapped their rumps, sending them galloping away over the heath. Then he resumed his horse but kept his pistol out.
"Up behind!" Fulton obeyed awkwardly. They cantered into the woods and out of sight.
It was a catastrophe—and Kydd was responsible. It had taken half an hour to catch one of the horses and now he was riding south, bareback, thrashing it as hard as it could go. Kydd knew that the agents would be in urgent flight to the coast to spirit Fulton to France.
At a village he hired the best mount he could find and thundered madly down the road, hoping against hope to see the riders ahead. Then, under the goading of urgency, he headed instinctively for his ship. Tired and sore, he left the exhausted animal at the King's Naval Yard in Deal.
As Kydd slumped down wearily, Renzi looked up from his reading. "Is there—"
"I've lost Fulton," Kydd said simply.
"Lost?"
"We were bailed up on the highway from London b' French agents, not three hours ago. They took Fulton. I have t' do something!" With every minute gone they would be that much closer to France.
Renzi put down his book. "You will be considering alerting the admiral."
"Damn it, o' course!" Kydd forced himself to concentrate. "I'd wager they'll want to get him over just as soon as they can. The closest place is right here. I feel it in m' bones—they're about somewhere."
It was an all-or-nothing throw: that they would have made for this place of all the possible escape ports and, additionally, that they were here still. If he was wrong, the consequences could not be more serious, but the same instincts that had made him a successful privateer captain were reassuring him coolly that he was not mistaken.
The typical late-summer calm was preventing their final flight to France—to the land that was so plainly in sight across the Channel— but in an hour or two an afternoon offshore breeze would pick up and they would make a run for it, if indeed they were here.
Restless, Kydd got up, went to the stern windows and flung one open. In the Downs it was a calm, placid day, the sun glittering on a glassy sea. Upwards of two hundred ships of all sizes were peacefully at anchor waiting for a wind, lifting to the slight swell, a charming picture.
"What better place to conceal but in the middle of all those," Renzi murmured, over his shoulder. "It will be hard to flush them even with every boat in the squadron out."
Kydd came to a decision. "No! I'm not telling the admiral," he said firmly. "There's no time t' rummage so many ships—and, besides, who knows Fulton to recognise him? No, we're to wait out the calm and when they make their run we go after them." If he was wrong, it would be disaster for England.
He went on deck to make his dispositions. "Mr. Hallum, I want both watches turned up. They're t' keep a tight lookout for, er, any craft making sail towards the Gull passage." That was the direct route past the Goodwins to Calais. "Five guineas to the man as sights it."
Time hung: the sun beamed down in a show of warm beneficence. The lazy slap of water under Teazer's counter and irregular creaking below were the only sounds to disturb Kydd's dark thoughts. At noon he sent one watch for a hurried meal, then the other. He himself stayed on deck, unable to contemplate food.
Then, more than an hour later, the first zephyr touched the water in playful cats-paws, hardly enough to lift the feathered wind vane in the shrouds. Teazer's moorings had long since been buoyed ready to slip instantly and her sails were in their gear, held only by rope yarns that would be cut to let them tumble down.
At a little after three bells there was a definite lift and flurry in the breeze, enough to set lines from aloft slatting in expectation, the shadow of wind-flaws ruffling the glittering sea surface as they moved forward. It died, but then returned to settle to a playful, warm offshore whisper.
Kydd longed to send men to the yards but this would give the game away to their quarry. The wait was agonising and, to make things worse, it appeared that the whole anchorage was stirring in preparation for departure. Inshore, small craft were putting off from the shingle beach and larger ones shaking out sails.