Stone's Fall

Except that the man who fitted the ship out was your Mr Macintyre, who was – until he vanished from the face of the earth – living proof of Laird's complicity. Or should I say duplicity? It doesn't matter. In order to avoid recriminations, he was given a large amount of money and told to make himself scarce. When asked, Laird's now say officially that he disappeared a few years ago and stole money before he left. They are as angry at him as anyone else, and in public demand his arrest and return . . .

I found all this fascinating, and at least it explained how the story of dishonesty had come to hang over Macintyre's reputation. The story of the Alabama is little known now, but it had a certain currency in its day; a wooden-hulled, 1,000-ton barque, commissioned by the Confederacy in 1861. The Unionists heard of the purchase and tried to stop it. Laird's was caught between its customer and the wishes – however reluctant – of the British Government to maintain a strict neutrality in the terrible Civil War.

Strict, but in my opinion, foolish, for the refusal of Britain to allow its industry to supply both sides led to the Americans supplying themselves, and thus building up the industries which now challenge our own. A more enlightened policy would have supplied both evenhandedly, thus draining the United States of gold, and shackling their industry; with a little wisdom and ruthlessness Britain could readily have re-established its predominant interest on that continent, and been ready to congratulate whichever side emerged victorious.

But the moralists triumphed, and from that triumph will come, eventually, the eclipse of Britain's industrial might. Be that as it may, Laird's (which was in need of commissions) found a way around the problem by using some other company as a go-between. How could we prevent our client re-equipping the vessel and selling it on? they asked when the matter was raised in Parliament. We build ships, we do not oversee their use as well.

A clever move but one which the victorious Unionists would not accept; they began to pursue Britain for liability for losses caused by the ship, and only settled the matter sometime after I returned to England from Venice. The Government and the insurance companies eventually paid out some four million pounds – for by the time she was caught off France in 1864, the Alabama had sunk a fearsome amount of Unionist shipping. But in 1867 the Americans (a people prone to extravagance in both speech and action) were insisting that anything less than two thousand million pounds' compensation would be an insult to their national pride, and threatening all manner of reprisals if they didn't get it.

I was thrust into Macintyre's company once more a few days after I received this interesting sideline on his past life, when he invited me to come along for the first real test of his torpedo. I was highly honoured; no other English person was even told this great moment in his life was taking place, but I had suggested that he try it out secretly first of all, rather than with the bankers there. What if you try it and there is some small hitch? That could ruin everything, I suggested. Best to have a test run away from prying eyes. If all goes well, then you can repeat the experiment in front of the bankers. It was good advice, and he realised it. The date was set, and I was – rather shyly – invited. I was touched by the gesture.

So, one cold morning a few days later, I found myself on a wooden barge, wrapped up warmly against the mist which hung over the lagoon like a depressing shroud. We were far away from land, to the north of the city, with a couple of his workmen for company. The barge owner had been told he was not wanted, and the previous evening the torpedo had been loaded in secret onto the deck and covered with tarpaulins.

It was a sailing barge, and there was a flurry of anxiety that there wasn't going to be enough wind, but eventually, at half-past four in the morning, the bargee declared that we could go, and we set off – very slowly indeed, the boat creeping along at such a pace that an hour later we were still just off the Salute. By six we were in the dead waters north of Murano, where the lagoon was shallow and few boats, only those with the most shallow of draughts, ever ventured. It was a magical experience in a way: to sit in the prow of the vessel smoking a cigar as the sun rose, and wild ducks flew low over the marshes, seeing Torcello in the distance with its great ruined tower, and far away the occasional sail – red or yellow – of one of the sailing ships that endlessly crisscrossed the lagoon.

Macintyre was not the best company, continually fussing over his invention, unscrewing panels and peering inside with an old oil lamp held over him by Bartoli so he could see what he was doing. Adding a little oil here, tightening a bolt there, tapping an instrument and grumbling under his breath.