Expecting the order they quickly appeared. "Poulden," he said, to the coxswain, firmly, "this is not a time for volunteers. They'll be called on the night we're to attack. At this time I want a measure of how well these infernals swim." It had slipped out—it couldn't be helped. "Take the large coffer in tow six fathoms astern. When you reach a cable or so off, slew it around and, at the bo'sun's pipe, lay out with all your heart. Clear?"
Poulden could be relied on to get the best out of his men but he dropped his eyes and mumbled, "Um, sir, is it, as who should say, tender in its motions?"
"If you're worried about it exploding precipitate like, don't. The safety peg is in. However, er, do keep clear of its hawse. It's armed and has a full charge."
Uncharacteristically muted, the boat's crew tumbled into the launch, secured the coffer and bent to their oars. Straining and tugging produced only the slightest movement, and it was long minutes before they were able to heave it off into the darkness.
It was a clear night and a quarter-moon was rising. At a cable's length, when the boat made its turn gingerly, Kydd was dismayed to see its beetling black shadow clearly against the glittering moon-path. As promised, though, the torpedo was all but invisible.
He took out his watch and held it to catch the light from the binnacle lamp. The boatswain raised his call ready. "Pipe!" he said. The distant rowers started in a flurry of strokes but slowed immediately to a near stop. Poulden's frenzied hazing could be heard floating across the water—it made Kydd smile, but on the night it would not do.
Twenty minutes on the return: this was dismaying. "He's a pig t' steer, sir," Poulden reported, after returning aboard. "Worse'n a bull in a paddock as is shy o' the knife."
A catamaran was available now and it was brought round. As Kydd had suspected, there was no possibility that the small coffer could be raised and carried on the flimsy gratings fore and aft. It would require ship's boats as well.
"Load with hogsheads," Kydd said, after the two reluctant oarsmen had taken their place at the stubby sculls. One was swayed across and lashed in place. The catamaran settled at an angle until the other was aboard and then, with a heavy reluctance, the ungainly craft shoved off. "Same as the others, if y' please," Kydd told them.
They made slow progress, but this was due to their near comic performance at the sculls, so close to the water. They turned and started back. This was more encouraging—inches above the water only, it was difficult indeed to make them out. But it was hard going.
Helped aboard, the two oarsmen, soaked from the shoulders down, shuddered uncontrollably. "Every man as pulls a plunging boat is entitled to a double tot, if he wants it," Kydd ordered. "Get 'em dry and see it's served out immediately."
Too much hung on their efforts for rest and the remainder of the night was spent in timed trials, with two boats on the coffer, then three; the smaller with the pinnace at an angle to the launch and the carcass between, and, of course, the procedure for recovering the operations crew after the launch.
It was done: he had the facts, now for the figuring. But when he awoke later in the morning doubts and anxieties flooded in. Send them in as a broad wave or in stealthy column? The coffers first or the catamarans? Request some kind of diversionary tactic? Would volunteers step forward when the time came?
And the orders. His orders. The first he had ever given as a squadron commander as, in reality, he was. He bent to the task, nibbling his quill. So much to plan and decide.
"It's madness, is what I say," exploded Mills. "Settin' these vile contraptions afloat wi' a quarter-ton of powder an' two men sailing t' meet the enemy! I've never heard such—"
"Have a care, Mr. Mills!" Kydd barked. "These are my orders and I mean them to be obeyed! If you have objections, I'm sure Admiral Keith would like t' hear them." With men's lives in the balance, only trust and teamwork would see it through. He resolved to catch Mills privately later.
Teazer's great cabin seemed an incongruous setting for such a briefing. Kydd had seen this room dappled by water-reflected moonlight from warm and exotic Mediterranean harbours; it had been the scene of his hopes and fears—and now was to be the place of his disposing of so many destinies.
Containing his emotions, he resumed his orders. "The large coffers will have two boats each and will set off first on either side of the designated channel. The faster catamarans will then move forward and past the coffers, being able to penetrate unseen up to the French line where the torpedoes will be launched."
He paused, conscious his words had rung with false confidence, then went on, "The recovery of the catamaran crews will be the responsibility of Mr. Lamb and his little fleet o' gigs. The whole operation should take less than two hours."
"How do we give coverin' fire if we're laying off t' seaward?" growled Mills.
Kydd bit his lip. Now was not the time for a confrontation. "You don't. The whole point is to stand clear of the channel of approach and let the torpedoes go in and do their work quietly. You're a dispatch vessel; crew the catamarans and boats and send 'em on their way only. No play with the guns—is that clear?"
Lamb seemed troubled and Dyer's face showed resignation, but they paid attention while the remaining details were laid out—elementary signals concerning the start and others for cancellation of the assault, provision for an assembly-and-dispatch sequence, launch timing, accounting for munitions expended, the order of night mooring.
Kydd tried to end on an upbeat note. "In the morning there's to be practice with the catamarans, and my gunner, Mr. Duckitt, will instruct on the timing engine and other. Now, gentlemen, this is our chance t' give Boney a drubbing as he can't be expecting. Let's make it a good 'un, shall we?"
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.