The Tide Watchers (46 page)

It occurred to him that he'd never felt this happy. “I believe they're fast becoming my favorite words.” He allowed her to lead him inside through the back door of the inn.

The Tuileries, Paris

March 8, 1803

S
TANDING BENEATH THE BRIGHT
chandelier, Georgy chatted to friends and acquaintances alike in the stifling room. The servants had already stoked the fires high, because the first consul would walk through in exactly fourteen minutes, and he liked to be warm.

By now she knew Napoleon's likes and dislikes. She wore a demure, round-necked dress of faint primrose, no longer of the sheer or damped variety, but the highest-quality silk. About her neck and ears was the simple diamond set Mama had passed on from Grandmamma, suitable for a well-dowered virgin of high birth, accepted in all royal and diplomatic circles. Her hair was in a simple, braided chignon with pearls woven in. Serious, sweet, she was a young lady of high estate with a hint of the Mona Lisa about her. Napoleon was ensnared, but he'd still said nothing of Camelford's whereabouts.

She wished she knew how her presence here was helping Lizzy; but she had a feeling she wouldn't know until she saw her friend again. That she was determined to do—and John agreed with her. “We're in a position to help her, Georgy, and from what I've discovered, she deserves far more than simple acceptance in society.”

She loved it when they made plans for after their marriage.

With a faint frown, she became aware of a strange ripple of sound behind her, murmurs of mingled shock and speculation. She turned to see what was going forward.

The new British ambassador to France, Lord Whitworth, stood in the center of the noise. Nothing unusual in that; he came to the levees every week. A charming man with waving silver hair and a wonderful
smile, he stood a full head above almost every man in the room. It was no wonder the lovely Duchess of Dorset had married him so soon after she became a widow.

His wife was still on his arm. Odd—they normally parted, speaking to all in the room before Napoleon's entry, leaving everyone smiling. Now they moved from group to group within two minutes, leaving ripples of confusion and fear behind them.

Georgy's head tilted, watching. With a smile she crossed the glittering, overcrowded salon to where the Whitworths stood, presenting a united front—against what, she had to know.

“What mean you by that, my lord?” Fox was demanding, his cheeks and bulbous nose the shade of a ripe plum.

As one, Whitworth and his lady turned a frozen glance upon the leader of the Whigs. “I do not waste my explanations on Devon pig farmers masquerading as intelligent men. If you have a brain, use it to think.”

As the group gasped, Lady Whitworth nodded. “Come, my dear, these
persons
are not worth our staying for.” They walked off without appropriate farewells or looking back.

Georgy realized she was gaping and closed her mouth. The group they'd left consisted of British nationals—the very people the Whitworths represented in Paris. Lady Whitworth's choice of word felt deliberate.
Person
was used by butlers to tell their employers a visitor was not worth their consideration.

They approached Georgy. She swept a curtsy, but they passed by her without a word or glance. Overlooking a duke's daughter who was not engaged in conversation was a grave offense. She stared after them, then took a slow, circling walk around the salon. With every conversation she joined, she heard how the charming, well-bred Whitworths were insulting the French and frightening their own people, which they'd never do—

Unless . . .

Her gaze covered the room, but The Incomparable wasn't here. She glanced at John, standing in a corner and watching her with brokenhearted moodiness. The question asked. A half shrug in response.

The trumpets sounded, the doors flew open, and everyone hastened to take their places. The first consul strode up the stairs with his usual morose half smile—but as he glanced about the sumptuous salon, it vanished like the sun behind summer storm clouds. “What does he do here?” he demanded, his ringing tones filling the salon as he pointed ahead of him. “Well?” Bonaparte demanded again, turning to Lord Whitworth.

Georgy turned, saw a man slipping through the back doors, tall, broad shouldered and curly haired, with a definite kind of bearing about him, soldier or sailor. She hadn't noticed him until now. Odd—she normally noticed everyone.

“Of whom would you wish to ask,
Citoyen Premier Consul
?” Whitworth asked, in a tone reserved for tradesmen or encroaching persons. “I see no man who would bring forth this level of . . . agitation.”

Georgy heard the collective gasps. No one spoke to Napoleon this way, especially not before a crowd of people. This had all the earmarks of a well-rehearsed play.

As if he'd recognized it, too, Napoleon collected himself. “Captain Wright is a fugitive from French justice. He would not dare show his face here if you had not sanctioned it, Whitworth. He is staying at the embassy. Do you want an incident? Are you pushing for one? Is this little dispute over Switzerland worth war to you?”

Whitworth looked bored. “I assure you,
Citoyen
Bonaparte, Britain values peace as much as you do—as I am certain do the people of Piedmont, Parma, Venice, and Switzerland.”

Everyone in the room gasped at the deliberate provocation. Bonaparte's face turned ominously dark. “You say this to me, when you refuse to hand Malta to the Knights of St. John? Woe to those who do not honor treaties! What right do you have to dictate to me over those few little places, when your nation has invaded more countries than any other, not even giving the peoples the dignity of choice or keeping their religion or culture?”

Whitworth froze in place, his smile hard, cold. Eyes glittering. Tall and handsome and disdainful. “As you say, Monsieur Bonaparte.”

Bonaparte lifted his chin, fire meeting ice. “Shall I call you Mr. Whitworth, then, and not the title you have earned? Shall I name your king Mr. Saxe-Coburg, since he did nothing to earn his titles but be born into the right family?”

The whole room was silent. Waiting. Barely breathing. Long moments later, Whitworth bowed. “My lord Citizen First Consul,” he murmured, acknowledging the point.

Even lower did Bonaparte speak, almost a lion's growl. “I demand an answer, and not this stupid prevarication over bagatelles.
Was Captain Wright sent to the Tuileries as a deliberate provocation?
What does Britain want from me now? Have I not given enough?”

Whitworth sighed. “I saw no man resembling Captain Wright here tonight, my lord.”

“Ah, bah! I know what I saw!” Napoleon threw down his treasured tricorn hat and stamped on it. “You are lying. Do you think I do not know your nation is rearming, forming another army, or that I have not heard that you've recalled your ships from the Caribbean, bringing your best troops back from Egypt? I have more spies in Britain than you have free citizens! You say you're fulfilling the Treaty of Amiens, yet your government is recalling ships, gathering an army. Obvious preparations for war!”

Lady Whitworth stared down her nose at Napoleon, saying something to her husband about lowbred histrionics in a cultured but carrying tone.

Everyone gasped again.

Bonaparte stood very still. “What mean you, Lady Whitworth? Do you have the ill breeding to insult me in my own home?”

Lady Whitworth curtsied in return. “This home belonged to others before you, sir.” She spoke in English, putting Bonaparte at a disadvantage, since he'd need a translator.

Lord Whitworth stood to his full height, towering over the first consul. “I believe Lady Whitworth and I may be
de trop, Citoyen
Bonaparte. You are probably wishing us long gone. We bid you a good evening and will take our leave.”

After a brief bow bordering on insolence, the Whitworths left the room.

As they passed Georgy, Lord Whitworth murmured to the stunned girl, “Leave France with Bedford tomorrow. Your role here is done.”

As Lady Bessborough, sister to the great Duchess of Devonshire, joined her, Georgy's mind was in too much of a whirl to discuss the deliberate drama that had unfolded before them all tonight; but one thing had been made crystal clear. Her mission had ended, very publicly.

She didn't care if Camelford saw daylight again or not; but she hoped she'd done enough to help Lizzy. And she fully intended to invite Lizzy to her wedding.

During his time with Camelford, Mark had spent the few spare hours he'd had making signs, painting the most basic of ciphers on palings of a broken orange crate. Crude semaphore, and he'd meant to make proper paddles and flags, but now it would have to do. He'd run out of time.

Camelford thought he'd killed him. Bleedin' idiot was too thick witted to realize any mojer with a brain in his cock-loft could see the pleasure he took in killing people or animals. So by the time Camelford came at him with a knife, Mark was ready with a leather jerkin under his shirt. Bloody inbred, believin' he were superior. Even thought he 'ad blue blood.
All men shite the same color, lad,
his da had always said. And that gave a smart bleeder the edge. Let 'em play off their toff airs and you could run rings round 'em.

Not Commander Aylsham. Though he'd been cheeky as all get-out, he never got the best of the commander. Mark was right proud to serve with him. He just hoped Aylsham had found the note he'd left in his desk on board ship . . . and had caught the last semaphore he'd sent.

It was ruddy cold sittin' on the roof of the rough inn he'd come
to after his recovery. Masclet's doctor had saved his life and his shot was paid at the inn, long as he wanted it, but it still felt like a piss-poor kind of thanks for savin' their leader's life. No doubt Masclet had taken all the credit, and got all the rewards, too. But if the commander got this message today, he'd ensure the lowborn Cockney cabin boy would benefit from his loyalty.

Thanks to him, that freak Camelford had been caught in the act. Keepin' him in prison in Boulogne was clever of Boney. These days it was like a bleedin' fortress with all its security.

Lucky for Mark he was above suspicion. He was the current messenger lad at the offices of the
sous-préfet,
catchin' tossed coins and scraps of conversation as well.

'Twas a good thing the roof of this old inn was above its immediate neighbors.

It was time for his final semaphore. He'd stored his signs in the attic. Nobody went there. He just hoped it made sense to some British-paid coder in the farms outside town, the ones right by the sea with real portable semaphore sets on their roofs, to send messages direct to the ship. He might've learned by watching Flynn and Burton, but he'd never have a future as a signaler.

It was up to him now.

Alec came into the inn's dining parlor as Lisbeth and Duncan were finishing afternoon tea. “Lad, a strange semaphore came very early this morning. It said Marcus René Balfour three times, and then said,
Limey in the right place. Hell to pay for a sailor in the morning
.”

“Damn it, that's the signal. I was hoping for another week.” Duncan scraped his chair back hard and fast. “My dear, are you ready?”

Lisbeth opened a sack she'd kept by her chair, put bread, cheese, ham, and boiled eggs in it, and picked up two containers of small beer. “What about the extra drills?”

“We have five dozen now. It has to be enough.”

Lisbeth headed for their room to put the cabin boy's outfit on once again.

Duncan watched her, thanking God for her good sense—and that Mark had managed to send the messages. The little smart arse had been right on all counts. Boney had known about Camelford and wanted the unstable lord under his eye, so he'd let him get
in
to Boulogne. But nobody bothered to look at the skinny urchin with him.

I ain't nobody, sir, so's I can get about with nobody noticing. Don't tell nobody about me, Commander, sir, specially not the nobs,
the note had said
. Somebody ain't right on board ship. We can't trust nobody.

Mark had a real future in espionage, if he could get himself out of Boulogne as easily as he'd made it in and return to England on his own. Somehow Duncan had no doubt he would.

He turned to Alec. “Return to ship. We set sail within the hour, going around Guernsey and into English waters south of the Lydd promontory, but no time for us to take the long sail. Take us into French waters facing Boulogne, and then get the hell out. You have command, Alec. Flynn alone is to use the semaphore. West and Carlsberg will stay continuously by the forecastle, protecting Flynn from the deck. Hill and Marks will watch either end of the galley. We take cold food only, no cooking allowed until I return. All men are to hand in their weapons, plus any tinder and flint before boarding; no smoking allowed. Everyone is to be thoroughly searched for spare weapons, incendiary devices, or flint and tinder. You'll stay in English waters at all times: no need to use cannons. The sailors you've cleared of suspicion will take turns guarding the galley, the gunpowder store, and the weapons room at all times. They can only open them for you directly. Your suspects sail the ship only, while under constant guard. Anyone who argues goes overboard.”

Alec nodded, snatching some bread and butter from the table, shoving ham on it. “Consider it done, lad—and God go with you both.”

English Channel, French Waters

March 9, 1803

W
E NEED TO TEST
against any kind of unseen sabotage before we leave the ship,” Duncan said when the lines holding
Papillon
were released. “Work the propellers as hard as you can. I'll lower us. We need to be sure everything works underwater.”

Lisbeth tested every piece of equipment possible. “The floor's damp.” Frowning, she touched everything. “The air intake hose has a leak.”

They watched the water slipping in. It was barely noticeable, something they'd never have discovered until they were well out to sea, and probably out of air.

“Why didn't we notice this on the last test?”

“It didn't happen. Either this happened by accident when Fulton was making the new air pipe and the leak's only sprung now, or Alec was right about a second mole. But how he got to the smithy and into
Papillon
I don't know.” Duncan swore. “We'll use the sail as long as we can while I check the damage.”

“What about when we submerge?”

Another shrug, but she could tell he was worried. “We'll use the peg, tie it tightly beneath to hold the pipe together while we're drilling. If I can repair the horn, less water will get inside.”

“But if we must outrun a ship? Our hands are all taken up with the equipment.”

“We'll use every tie in the craft to tie it hard. The rudder stays in place once it's wound up, and we can use the chamber pot to catch drips.”

As they lifted to the surface, Lisbeth shuddered. Cold air flooded in as Duncan opened the hatch, and breathing it in felt as if she'd returned to life from the tomb. She reveled in the sweetness of it, but still shivered, even after Duncan wrapped his cloak around her.

“Give me the dark sail, Lizzy.”

She pulled the sail from the sack and used the steel hooks and eyes Fulton had created to fasten the sail to
Papillon
's walls. After checking the tide and what coastline was visible in the misty evening, Duncan unfurled the sail. He remained standing, continuously dipping down against sail movements, watching through the ship's second bilocular device for tide changes and enemy activity. Meanwhile, he kept checking the air horn. “It's merely out of place, Lizzy. It could just be a mistake on Fulton's part—he was fairly upset before he left. If I use the tiller to hammer it down, it might hold.”

She didn't want to think about Fulton, how he'd left Jersey without a farewell. “And if it doesn't?”

He frowned. “Then we do it as many times as we must.”

Shame washed through her. “Of course, Duncan, I apologize.”

He nodded and pulled the iron tiller from its canvas hold.

“The fog's closing in,” he reported after an hour of sailing and making repairs to the air hose. “The moon's well above the horizon, but I don't know how much longer we can keep sailing. With the rolling tide, a ship could cut us in two before we even know it's there.”

Dread touched her. “How close are we to shore?”

“By the compass direction and time we've sailed at about four knots, we're perhaps three miles, and the tide's running in to harbor. Sailing has cut our travel time by hours. It should only take another hour to reach the river mouth. The hose is as good as I could make it, and it's best for you to be warm.”

She couldn't afford to be a liability to him, tonight of all nights. “Hold until we can see the lights of the harbor and the patrolling ships.”

After a moment, he nodded. “There's an islet a mile out of harbor with treacherous rocks. We're far safer sailing around it.”

When they'd passed the island and saw patrol ships in the dis
tance, he looked at her. She nodded and, taking in her last breath of fresh air, took the tinderbox to relight the lantern.

He handed her the sail, and she packed it. She lifted her hand for the hooks and eyes, but he said, “It's best if we leave them in place. We'll need them ready for fast escape.”

Taken aback that he seemed to have more hope of living after today than she did, Lisbeth opened her mouth, closed it again, and nodded. After all he'd done to secure her future in England, and bringing Edmond home to her at last, she had to fight for her life. She smiled when the hatch closed and the closed-in panic she'd dreaded didn't eventuate.

“Take the rudder and hold it to shore,” she said, as she worked the pump. “We should submerge three feet before working the propellers.”

“We need to take care. It's a shallow tide, heading fast to the shore.”

She held the pump fair until the pump gauge tipped onto three. She had to slide against Duncan's body to turn without tipping the tiny craft. She said, “Last time we did this I could hardly stand the closeness, touching so much, wishing for more.”

He smiled before returning to the compass. “I thought you didn't notice—”
Papillon
rocked hard, and he glanced through the window. “Two ships approaching from north and southwest. Submerge and head east.”

When the danger passed, they raised the craft until the air horn was above the waterline, visibly slowing the steady drip of water dropping into the chamber pot from the ties.

In a fast tide, even while playing catch-as-catch-can with passing ships, and holding the air hose, they made the river mouth in under an hour. Another ten minutes and they'd turned under the pier. At last Duncan opened the hatch.

The thuds of booted feet on the pier warned Lisbeth to keep silent. They breathed, ate, drank small ale, and Duncan made quiet repairs to the air hose. When he'd done all he could, he looked at her; she nodded, and he pulled down the hatch and locked it.

Anything but breathing was a waste of air and precious time. She pointed to the rudder and he took the handle. She used the propellers until they were away from the riverbank.

Soon they were beneath the first ship's stern. The cargo hold was the safest part to drill, but the river was too murky to see if they were at the right spot. He took one end of the crank that turned the drill. She took the other. With a slow, methodical pattern, they drilled.

But soon the drill snapped off in the wood. So did the second. She looked at him in dread. “Do we still have inferior drills?”

He shook his head. “This is the lead ship, older and double hulled, made with aged oak. Let's hope the others are easier.”

Returning to the pier, they changed the drill. “I'd hoped to have five ships done by now,” Duncan growled as they moved on to the second ship.

As she'd predicted, the river was calmer than the churning Channel, but each passing ship rocked their equilibrium and churned the silt through the water. Every maneuver took precious time. They kept checking for a glitter on the water with the advent of sunrise, though it was still hours off.

At last they were in place. With exquisite care, they pushed the drills into the wood. The resistance she'd half expected wasn't there. Within a few minutes, they felt the release of tension that meant they'd made the breach.

As one, they halted. “Thank God, it's a single-layer hull,” he murmured. “We were lucky. With this clinker style of hull, the planks overlap for strength, and the planks may be caulked for flexibility of sailing instead of having iron rivets that will break our drills. The rush to have them made in time has worked in our favor.”

Unfortunately, they discovered some of the ships had the iron rivets and caulking, and the drills snapped more often than they could afford.

“Our success depends on if they do a preparatory check of the ship before setting sail.” He lifted the lantern, lit the third wick, and stared into the murky river water. “I can barely see the hull. I can't be certain if we've drilled the rib cleanly, but I think so.”

She chewed on her lip. “If we drill across two planks three times along each ship, we'd have reasonable certainty that we'll hit at least one rib in a line and weaken it enough.”

“It's worth trying. We won't be able to drill as many ships as we planned. We'll be lucky to drill forty before they launch—that is, if the drills last.” Then he nodded. “If only ten ships founder, it would convince them to return to port.”

The triple drills working sideways cost them far more time than they'd calculated, and they had to keep surfacing for air. “We'll become more proficient with each ship,” he predicted, as they moved toward the tenth ship.

Lisbeth said nothing. Since her illness her body grew tired much more easily from the heat and lack of air. She was sweating from her toes to her scalp, her body filled with a dull ache. Luckily the disgusting medicines the doctor had given her killed the cough for hours at a time.

Soon talking was beyond them both. They only came up for air when she felt faint. Hiding between ships, they opened the hatch, ate and drank, breathed and did what they must.

“Twenty-two,” Duncan muttered four hours later, when they finished the ship they'd been working on, triple-drilled sideways over three ribs. “We should drill at least one or two at the tail of the fleet before returning to the final ten here.”

She looked at him in helpless pleading. “I'm going to be sick.”

He took the propellers and worked them until they were between two ships. He opened the hatch, emptied the chamber pot, rinsed it quickly, and handed it to her. “Close it again if you're going to make a noise,” he whispered.

But the fresh air lessened her body's urgent need. She sipped at the small beer and sucked on a peppermint stick. She looked up, saw the gray-rose lighting the murky sky. “It's dawn. We should go to the back—” But then she heard the sound of marching boots, wave after wave. “Can you hear that?” Suddenly a coughing fit came, and she couldn't control it.

Men began shouting orders, and booms sounded as gangplanks fell into place.

Duncan brought down the hatch, quick and silent. “They're boarding. We need to leave now.”

“We didn't do enough ships. You said fifty was the minimum we'd need. We only did half of that. I failed you.”

He touched her face. “Nobody could have done better than you.” He reached into the food sack. “Now take your medicine, and eat bread and a boiled egg, love. You'll feel better, not to mention you'll need the energy until we can make use of the sails.”

Oddly, he was right. Her cough stopped soon after taking the vile green stuff, and she revived a little when she'd eaten. She took her place at the pump and rudder when he began using the downward and forward propellers. Staying submerged meant it took almost an hour to reach the outer harbor, nearly two to reach a mile out to sea.

The ominous rocking began.

Duncan peered through the window and swore. “That was fast. The lead ship's almost on us.” When she blinked at him, he snapped, “Submerge and avast.”

The sea around them was white with mist and sails by the time they reached the rocky islet to the northwest of Boulogne, hours later. Duncan shook his head when her hand hovered over the pump. “We can't risk it until we see where they're heading. There's a little cove to the south. Let's hide there and eat.”

When they reached the cove, Lisbeth peered through the window. “They're heading north-northwest. Surely they're not risking the Irish Sea after the terrible weather we've had?”

“It's been worse there this year than 1798 by all accounts.” Duncan shook his head. “Despite the mist rolling in, it's still daylight. Either Boney's run mad, or he knows Addington ordered the fifty ships to Dublin. That means the Irish rebellion
was
a French distraction for this purpose. They're not heading to Ireland at all, but western England.”

She frowned. “The French have set sail without their cannons complete. Look, quite a few are unfinished. What did the British do to provoke Bonaparte into this foolhardy act?”

He grinned, shaking his head. “If they allowed women into poli
tics, you'd have my vote. My guess is that's exactly what Whitehall has done. Made him angry and scared enough to set sail in a way that almost guarantees failure . . . and the admirals will have sent as many ships as they can to cover the expected entries into Britain.”

Her forehead crinkled. “But they wouldn't go without a landing port in mind. Ireland is out; everyone expects invasion via the Thames. So where are they heading?”

“St. George's Channel is a protected harbor. Wales has nothing but a few excisemen watching the tides for smugglers.” He added grimly, “Two hundred United Irishmen crossed the Irish Sea a few weeks ago, going where only God knows. Addington merely ordered extra protection around London.”

Her eyes grew wide. “There were thousands of soldiers on that fleet. They could take England via Wales in days.”

He nodded. “The Irish foment unrest at home and set up the assassination attempt on the king. Boney uses his assassination attempt to divert us with accusations over the treaty and invades Switzerland. While we're distracted with all the balls he's juggling, he sails in where nobody's watching.” He thumped his fist on the thigh that hadn't been shot. “
Damn
Whitehall! Boney stays awake every night until he's read all his dispatches, while the vital
communiqués
we send pile up in corners. If the lords would
read
them instead of attending bloody parties . . .” He risked another glance through the open hatch. “They worry more about gossip and royal scandals than whether the conqueror of Europe will invade.”

She didn't know how to answer. “How long before we see if our sabotage worked?”

“You ask because I would know, having drilled so many ships before?” Before she could take offense at his tired sarcasm, he shrugged. “The sun still sets by four this time of year. We should leave. If they begin to sink, they could use this islet as the closest shallow water.”