Invasion (19 page)

He gulped at the intensity of his reaction but then an image of
Teazer
assailed him—the graceful being in whose bosom he had been borne while his theories had matured, destroyed without warning in a cataclysmic detonation, prey to a lurking submarine boat, her unsuspecting crew torn to pieces by the explosion.

It was horrific, an unthinkable fate that might come to pass unless . . . In the warm darkness it was all he could do to prevent his helplessness coming out in a storm of emotion and overwhelming him.

It was stultifying in the room: Haslip had resorted to a lengthy legal argument and was presenting it in a monotone. The French were led by an arrogant young firebrand, an earthy scion of the Revolution who clearly despised both the English and what he had to do, and did not bother to hide his impatience.

The presentation droned on, and when they broke for refreshments Renzi went to Haslip to show him his notes and express support. He met nothing but self-importance and a pompous disinclination to listen.

In the afternoon the French deployed their own man, an arid word-grinder whose lengthy, many-tailed points were almost impossible to follow and summarise on paper. Renzi despaired. It was as if the opposite party was under orders to obfuscate and delay, and he was relieved when an appeal to an obscure medieval case-law finding was interpreted in opposite ways and it was agreed to retire for study and deliberation.

His offer of assistance acidly declined, Renzi felt able to take time to get a hold on the situation. But before he did so he would indulge himself—just this once. He had noted a bookshop of some distinction further along the rue St. Honoré that it would be a sin to ignore, in this the Paris of Montesquieu and Diderot.

It was, in fact, a grand palace of learning, ramparts of books stretching away, alcoves and desks for enquirers and stiffly dressed assistants attending the browsing public. He reached for a Voltaire and was soon contentedly absorbed in its earnest and learned preface, written by another scholar, praising the author as an epitome of the Enlightenment.

An assistant came up to him. Renzi thought of his own studies. Clearly, now was the perfect opportunity to discover the works of lesser-known authors—and at source. In his best French he asked politely if it were known that the philosopher Johann Herder had published anything of note following the
Ideen zur Philosophie
which had so informed Renzi's earlier searches for historical origins.

“Je suis désolé, m'sieur,”
the man said sorrowfully, clearly un-troubled by Renzi's English appearance.

An older man nearby removed his spectacles and cocked his head to one side.
“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,”
he said. “I could not but help overhearing. I rather feel he would be most offended were I not to make mention of his
Briefe zur Beförderung der Humanität
recently to print.”

“You are so kind, sir,” Renzi said, with a bow. “I find Herr Herder at a refreshing distance from Goethe's classicism.”

“Are you then a scholar,
monsieur?
” the gentleman said, with rising interest.

“In the slightest way, sir. I am as yet unpublished, still to mature my hypotheses on the human condition.”

“Then surely the swiftest way to an enlightenment is disputing with the author himself.”

“‘Was ist Aufklärung?'”
Then what is enlightenment? Renzi could not resist Kant's pungent epigram. Then he hurried on, “And I should wish it possible, sir.”

The man's eyes twinkled. “Tonight you shall. It is the first Thursday of the month so there is a lecture at the Institut and I am sure your author friend will be there. Oh, may I introduce myself? Pierre Laplace, astronomer and mathematician.”

Renzi was stunned. This was the very savant whose work on celestial mechanics and advanced mathematics had earned him the title of the French Newton—and, if he had heard aright, he was inviting him to the famous Institut to mingle with the finest minds of the age. “B-but I am English, sir,” he said faintly.

“You may be a Hottentot for all I care. This night you shall be my guest,
Monsieur . . . ?
”

“Oh—er, Smith, Nicholas Smith.”

“Quite so.”

Close by, an anonymous individual continued to concentrate on his book—Renzi noticed it was upside-down.

The lecture, on the taxonomic peculiarities of seaweed, was persuasively delivered, and afterwards Laplace went in search of Herr Herder. However, it seemed that the elderly gentleman was ill and they dined alone.

For some hours Renzi had been able to throw off his feeling of hopelessness, and taste something of what it must be to reach a level of recognition that would find him welcomed into the company of great thinkers such as these. Would his own contributions to knowledge ever achieve such greatness? “Sir, I must express my deepest sensibility at your kindness in inviting me here,” he declared sincerely.

“Nonsense,
monsieur.
You will go from here with renewed purpose, a higher vision. This is what
la belle
France is giving to humanity—a world where all are equal, each may enter the Temple of Learning as a consequence of their gifts of logic and scholarship, never the circumstances of their birth.”

“Sir, our Royal Society—”

“Is prestigious but class-bound. In France we order things differently. Why, where would be your Genevan Rousseau, even your Pole Kosciusko had they not slaked their thirst for philosophies at the fountains of wisdom only to be found here in Paris?”

Renzi murmured an agreement, and Laplace continued expansively, “Why, there are sages and philosophes from
all
corners of the world flocking here to be recognised—I honour these savants—and even original thinkers, like the American who came here desiring, of all things, to create a submarine boat.”

“A—a what?” Renzi could hardly believe his ears.

“A species of plunging boat that submerges completely under the water. A most amazing device. I have seen it myself, for I have the honour to count the inventor among my friends,” Laplace said.

“It—it immerses under the water and stays there?” Renzi's mind was flailing wildly. “Come, come, sir, this is hard to accept.”

“No, it is true,
monsieur,
you have my word. I was able to intercede on his behalf to secure the funding—I have the ear of the Emperor, you know, and he was concerned even in these busy times to allow the gentleman to realise his undersea dreams.”

“How generous,” Renzi said, as heartily as he could. “Can you conceive of it? A boat that swims freely in the realm of the creatures of the deep and allows the brave Argonauts aboard to view their disporting in safety and comfort. This is a marvel indeed.”

“Quite so.”

“And it may remain under the water for a—a period of time?”

“I myself and three score distinguished witnesses observed its disappearance beneath the Seine to reappear whole, the crew unharmed, after a full hour had passed. And later the craft was transported down-river to the sea and he repeated the miracle. The submersible—he calls it
Nautilus—
may be relied upon to navigate unseen, travel many leagues at sea and carry quantities of men.”

“A magnificent opportunity for science,” Renzi enthused. “Does it have a window at all? And how might the brave sailors breathe for so long in such confines? This is a mystery that must seize the imagination of even the most hopeless dullard. How I wish I might see this wonder of the deep.”

“Ah. That may be difficult. I believe the inventor is under contract to our government for its development and, naturally, there is much discretion involved in such. It is tedious but governments being as they are . . .”

Renzi allowed his disappointment to show. “I understand. Such a pity. In my old age I might have recounted how I set eyes on the first submarine boat of the age, and now my curiosity must remain for ever unsatisfied . . .”

“A vexation for you. The pity of it all is that the man himself is most probably in the library below us. It is his practice that when he concludes at the ministry he invariably spends time there. He does treasure it for its quiet.”

Catching his breath Renzi stammered, “To be here, when . . .”

Laplace tut-tutted, clearly moved by Renzi's ardent manner. “Sir, this at the least I will do. I will leave it to Mr. Fulton whether or no he desires to be introduced to one who stands in admiration of his work and prays that he might learn more. I believe the proctor's office will be available to us at this hour, and thus you may discreetly satisfy your curiosity as he will permit. That is all I can promise.”

It was an incredible stroke.

C
HAPTER 7

I
N THE BOOK-LINED
,
leather-smelling proctor's office Renzi waited for Laplace's return with pounding heart. It seemed an interminable time but suddenly he heard voices outside, then two men entered the room.

Renzi got hurriedly to his feet. “Th-thank you, sir, so kind in you to see me.”

The man was tall and slender, even graceful, but what caught Renzi's eye was the intensity of his features, the large, dark eyes, intelligent forehead and quick, darting manner. “Not at all, my friend,” he replied, in a hardly noticeable American accent, then smiled. “And if I'm not mistaken in my reckoning, you're English, sir.”

“Oh—Smith, Nicholas Smith of, um, Plymouth in Devon,” Renzi stammered, hoping to appear overcome at being in the presence of such genius.

“I know where Plymouth is, friend. I spent three years in Devon at my easel. Fine place to be. Now, be so good as to tell me how an Englishman is here in Paris unhung?”

“Er, I'm assistant to the official mission concerning the exchange of prisoners-of-war—and by way of a scholar, but in the meanest degree,” he added, with a shy glance at Laplace.

“A cartel man? So, not a son of Albion come to his senses and the Republican cause?”

“Ah, not as who should say, sir,” Renzi said, aware that any pretence to radical sympathies as a means of penetrating a tight-knit group of expatriates of the Revolution would never stand scrutiny.

“Pity. So what can I do for you, sir?”

“Mr. Fulton, Monsieur Laplace was good enough to tell me something of your submarine boat, and I confess I'm quite overcome with the grandeur of your vision. To conceive of a craft that swims with the fishes, inhabits Neptune's world like the native denizens—it is truly magnificent.”

“I thank you, sir.”

“Do tell—for I'm on fire with curiosity—when under the sea, do you see by light from the windows or is it a lanthorn or similar? I cannot imagine how it must be, warm and dry but fathoms down in the pelagic gloom lit only by . . . ?”

“Foxfire, sir. Naught but your common foxfire!” At Renzi's look of incomprehension he gave a boyish grin and said, “A lanthorn or candle produces vitiated air, not fit for a human. This foxfire, we get it from the woods after a season of rain. It glows in the dark, quite enough to conn our noble craft, sir.”

“And you speak of air. Do you take a—a balloon or some such with you on the expedition, to release when the breathing becomes . . . difficult?”

Laplace stood up. “Forgive me, gentlemen, I must attend to another matter. Do feel free to continue your discussion while I'm gone but, pray, do not leave this office together. It would prove . . . inconvenient for me.”

Renzi could hardly believe his luck: was this his chance?

His whole being urged him to make the move while he could— there might be no further opportunity. Yet a tiny voice of caution insisted that until he knew more of this man he stood a good prospect of being denounced as a British agent.

Fulton moved to the proctor's desk and sprawled in his chair, fiddling with a quill. “You're both fascinated and in dread of the beast, am I right?”

“Your
Nautilus
is a scientifical phenomenon of the first order and I'm finding it difficult to grapple with its implications for mankind,” Renzi said.

“It is that.”

“Then—then do you not fear that your wonderful creation might not be subverted to serve an other, baser interest?”

“That of war?”

“It might be supposed.”

Fulton smiled cynically. “Then, Mr. Englishman, I have news for you. The entire reason for my inventing it is war.”

“Sir, I beg you to elucidate.”

“Believe me, Mr. Smith, to be an enemy to oppression wherever it's to be found. And the only guarantee of liberty for the individual is freedom for the nation. I see that there exists one tyrant, one oppressor, who sorely bears on the nations of this world, that has made perpetual war in my lifetime by bestridin' the seas and robbing the world of its ancient maritime freedoms. Sir, I speak of the Royal Navy!”

“Go on, sir,” Renzi said.

“The rest then surely follows.
Nautilus
and her sisters'll make it impossible for your damn navy to take to the seas. Their ships'll skulk in harbour, a-feared o' silent assassination, the people will rise up on their monarchy, and then the oceans will be free for all nations in amity to progress on their lawful occasions.”

Was there any sign of madness behind the triumphant smile? If so, Renzi couldn't detect any.

“And that, Englishman, will be the end of war as we know it. No state will ever more hazard to set a fleet of ships a-swim with the intention of dominating the seas, which will then oblige each nation to live peaceable within the bounds nature has set it.”

He spindled a paper lazily. “In course, I've taken steps to place the whole on a sound commercial footing, as you'd expect of a Maryland farming boy—there's to be a bounty payable on every warship put down by my submarines and a royalty for each one built under licence. Self-funding, you see.”

Renzi struggled to reconcile the stern political radicalism with the artless words of a backwoodsman. Was this the raving of an unworldly visionary or was the future to be this horrifying reality? He asked respectfully, “Sir, might we say your plans to this end are advanced at all?”

“Do you mean, sir, is
Nautilus
ready for her destiny? Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte thinks so. He told me to my face to take her overland to Brest and there, before a quantity of admirals, I stalked unseen a ship—and blew her to smithereens with my torpedoes. That opened one or two eyes, I can tell you.”

“Out in the open sea?” Renzi said, chilled to the core. This submarine did not just work, it was now armed with a deadly explosive device and quite ready to strike wherever it chose. It had happened. The world he knew was fast ending.

“Of course. And I'll tell you something else.” He chuckled. “In the end months of the last war I took her out myself on patrol and there's two English brigs alive today only because they sailed before I could see to 'em!”

Who was to say that one of them had not been
Teazer,
unwittingly hunted by an unseen assassin to within a moment of being blown to fragments? Renzi pulled himself together. “A—a fine achievement,” he said faintly. “I had no idea.”

“Why, thank you, sir. I didn't think to hear the same from an Englishman.” Fulton seemed genuinely touched.

“Er, it would gratify me no end if I were able to view your fabled
Nautilus
.”

“That will not be possible,” Fulton retorted, with a hard look.

“I did not mean to offend, sir.”

Fulton's features softened. “Well, if you must know I'm right now in negotiation with the French Ministry of Marine for a larger, more potent plunging boat and . . .” He tailed off and gazed out of the window.

“I do understand your position, sir,” Renzi said.

“The world will hear about 'em soon enough.” Fulton swung around in his chair and rose, extending his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, friend. And good luck with your prisoners,” he added breezily, and left.

The situation had changed from grave to catastrophic. From future potential to present reality. Here was the truth of all the rumours: a submarine craft
had
been constructed, tested and fitted with weapons of irresistible destruction. Fulton had indeed the ear of Napoleon and was concluding a contract for a whole fleet of the submersibles. And very soon these would quickly break the stalemate and see the Channel cleared wide open for a grand concluding scene.

In an agony of helplessness Renzi sprang to his feet and began pacing the room. If there was going to be any time left for action he had to think of something now. But, for God's sake, what?

His frantic thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Laplace. “Ah—so Mr. Fulton has returned to his work. Did you find satisfaction, sir?”

Renzi composed himself. “Indeed so,
monsieur.
A most fascinating gentleman.”

“Then I must bid you farewell, Mr. Smith.
Bonne chance
in your negotiations. I shall see you to the door.”

Out in the street Renzi let the ceaseless flow of people and vehicles eddy past, trying to bring to bear a line of thought that would lead to a path of action, but there were too many conflicting elements.

The fortuitous meeting with Laplace would be seen as harmless enough in itself, for the academician had thoughtfully arranged his meeting with Fulton in privacy—no one would know and he was therefore unlikely to be under suspicion. Renzi still retained his freedom of movement and Fulton had shown himself not unfriendly, so it was reasonable to assume that he stood a chance if only he could think of
something
.

He paced slowly, forcing his mind to concentrate. The only way that Fulton was going to leave France was of his own volition. Therefore it was up to Renzi to create the elements that would lead to such a decision with arguments so persuasive that the inventor would see it overwhelmingly in his interest to abandon Napoleon to go with the British, no matter his political views. It seemed impossible and time was running out: who knew how much longer the talks about the prisoners would last?

Then, some hundreds of yards ahead, he saw Fulton walking down the street, carrying a large flat case, his head bowed in thought. Impulsively, Renzi followed—at the very least he could try to find out something more of the man.

Almost certainly Fulton was being trailed. Bonaparte had too much invested in him to do otherwise. However, Renzi had been seen publicly with the highly respected Laplace, who had obviously trusted him, so at the moment it was unlikely
he
was being tracked.

Deliberately Renzi stopped and gawped upwards at an imposing stonework façade, then wandered on, taking in the sights but alert for one thing. It wasn't long before he spotted what he was looking for: a man who found shop-windows very interesting, then hurried on, his quick, covert glances always in Fulton's direction.

Renzi eased his pace, letting Fulton pass out of sight ahead. As long as he had the tail in view he was being led after his quarry. They both disappeared to the right down the next street. Renzi lengthened his stride, moving faster without the appearance of haste. Round the corner Fulton was comfortably in sight again. He remembered this avenue led to the banks of the Seine—what was Fulton up to?

The American paused at the edge of the water. Then he made off up the river on the leafy
quai
that led to some of the grandest sights in Paris. With the red of the setting sun, the distant image of Notre Dame seemed to Renzi to lift ethereally above earthly dross.

As if in sudden resolution, Fulton stepped out faster. The evening promenaders drifting across the line-of-sight made it easy for Renzi to keep a discreet observation on his mark. It was puzzling, though: the further sights were grander but this was not a district noted for its residences. Then, suddenly, clutching his case close to him, Fulton hurried across the Pont au Change and on to the mid-river island that bore the great cathedral—and the blood-soaked Conciergerie prison.

He didn't stop and passed quickly across to the other bank. This was a mystery indeed. Fulton was now on the Left Bank and, in the gathering dusk, heading deep into the Latin Quarter of seedy, decaying tenements. Was he visiting a paramour?

Unlikely, given the kind of doxy to be found in this district. Or the rendezous place of some revolutionary band?

Finally it was down a short street and into a dead end where Fulton passed into a doorway. Renzi crossed the road but stayed by the corner, looking back diagonally across at the anonymous apartment building. If he was caught, there could be no pretence now of sightseeing—there could be only one reason for his movements.

Was this merely a visit, a delivery—a clandestine meeting? Nerves at full stretch, Renzi waited. There was no sign of the follower. He pressed back into the grimy brickwork as an infant squalled on a lower floor and cooking smells wafted out. At the top a light flickered into existence and steadied. A shadow passed in front of it, then another light sputtered on and Fulton passed unmistakably between them.

Yet another light appeared close to the first. Still no other figure. Fulton crossed back, and when all had been still for some time it became clear to Renzi that this was no secret rendezvous or other furtive assignation; Fulton's unsuspecting movements could have only one meaning. This was simply a man returning home after a hard day of work. The many lights meant he was probably working on his design ready for the next day's meetings.

This raised as many questions as it answered, but he now had the priceless secret of where Fulton could be found. His spirits rose. But there must be a reason for the man's living in such surroundings. Perhaps, as an artist, the Bohemian lifestyle of this
arrondissement
appealed? But why subject himself to the noise and stinks when he could no doubt demand a mansion?