The Tide Watchers (7 page)

For the first time since they met, Narbonne smiled. “Think how the Opening of Parliament will be after the attempt on Bonaparte—especially if he blames the English for it.” The fatalistic shrug said it all. With Boney, it was always the Jacobins or the English. “If the attempt happens, Parliament will call the king to an emergency meeting. The conspirators will be ready for it, especially if they have an impoverished member of the House of Lords in their pockets.”

As Annersley's legal representative and proxy since he'd turned twenty-one, Duncan had attended several sessions of Parliament. With every lord loudly abusing or pushing his agenda over whoever was speaking, it was lively and confusing enough in peacetime; but an emergency meeting with an addled king, a frightened Prince of Wales, a strident Duke of York, Irish and Scots landlords yelling about insurrection and a renewed threat of war—it made for a shambles that would cover any noise the conspirators made until it was far too late.

Narbonne murmured, “They must have a member of the House of Lords telling them about any changes in schedule—a man who wants a place of honor when Bonaparte takes power here. I believe those ranks are swelling daily. Bonaparte has many admirers.”

Again, it was plausible. In the past two years, many of Bonaparte's fanatical spies had been British: night soil men and farmers, stable lads and housemaids, doctors and lawyers, sailors and high-ranking officers, naval and military. Even members of the aristocracy had been discovered to be in French pay.

He remembered a dream he'd had where he'd been tossed naked into the snow, and everyone he knew was there, laughing at him. Annersley stood at the front of the line, jeering.
Did you really think you could save the world, boy? You're pathetic.

He said slowly, “You think they're aiming at revolution.”

“Killing the king and many prominent lords will leave Britain with a gaping hole in its existing social system. It leaves the nation ripe for plucking by the
Grande Armée,
which is
many times the size of its armed forces. I believe all this was planned before Bonaparte proposed the Treaty of Amiens, to give him time to create a means to bring his army across the Channel.”

“An invasion fleet?” Duncan thought of the Liane, Boulogne's deep, wide river behind the shallow harbor, and all the new buildings erected on the seaside of the river, making it impossible to see anything from a ship in the Channel.

In the light of the pillage of Parma and Piedmont, there was no hiding from Boney's intentions. He craved Britain's treasury, made fat
on the wealth of its colonies—and to conquer Britain was to conquer Europe. His timing couldn't be better with the navy halved, not to mention a war-weary government and public. Addington would almost open the gates of London for Boney rather than declare war again.

Duncan stood. “Thank you for the risks you took to give me this information,
Votre Éminence
. I'll make certain our people investigate everything you've told me.”

The old man bowed, his head dipped a shade deeper than mere acknowledgment or farewell. The implied respect lessened the cold clenching of Duncan's gut. So stupid to care what a stranger thought of him. About as ridiculous as the part of him that still feared Annersley's ridicule and craved his approval.

“There's a final message from Sir Edward.” Narbonne's hauteur softened, giving way to an expression Duncan couldn't recognize. “He said, ‘Bring my daughter home as soon as your work is done.'”

A sword tip of hated emotion ripped the commander's belly. Kings and consuls, plots and counterplots turned urgent in circles in his mind. But Narbonne's words injected the unwanted vision of a plucky young woman, a scrappy little fighter with a hidden fragility and quaint self-respect, so strange given her current status in life; but he assumed someone her age—little more than a girl—needed her mother.

Eddie wouldn't have asked him to leave France unless he believed the king
could
be assassinated, or dozens of lords were in serious danger. Given all he'd learned today, that his mentor, a King's Man to the end, hadn't come to meet the archbishop himself was telling—but he hadn't asked him to bring his daughter home straightaway. So how ill
was
Caroline? Why hadn't Eddie told him?

Suddenly he remembered Flynn's report. He
must
have a man in place at Le Havre by tomorrow's sunset, or the whole mission could fail.

If half of what he'd heard today was true, the girl was his best means to discover Boney's plans. Her need for reconciliation with the family must wait. The choice had slipped out of his hands. He'd bend the girl to his will if need be—and there was only one way to do it.

The archbishop murmured, “Go with God, Commander.”

Indeed, God help him. He had the mission of his lifetime to set up, and a rat in his team. With Eddie, Leo, and Andrew unable to leave home, and Zephyr suddenly an unknown quantity, Duncan didn't have a bloody clue whom to trust. News of this caliber must be delivered to the Alien Office from a recognized King's Man, but he had no
time
to find one.

A face rose in his mind. A face that was like looking in the mirror, with scars in different places. He didn't like the man, but who else was there?

No matter how much you want to deny it, we are brothers, Duncan. If you ever need me, I'll come.

There was no help for it. He had to ask Alec.

Outside St. Pancras Church, London

August 19, 1802

M
ORE THAN HALF AN
HOUR
had passed since he'd tied and gagged the boy. He could start making a ruckus any moment.

From where he hid just inside the back entrance of the church, Lord Camelford tossed off the cassock he'd snatched from the unconscious underpriest and slipped out the doors. So that reprobate “Guinea-Run” Johnstone—no more than a common smuggler, despite pretending to be a reputable ship's captain—had at last come good with his information for sale. The archbishop had confirmed everything. Camelford knew he must get to France as soon as possible—but he'd been deported from Calais four months ago under the Rushworth false papers. He couldn't use his real name, since they'd put him on a “watch and deport” list.

He made a hissing sound through his teeth. Thomas Pitt,
Lord Camelford,
deported like a common felon . . . refused future entry into France. Bonaparte deserved death for that alone.

“Hie, you!” Camelford wheeled around. A sandy-haired boy with a freckled face and a black cassock stood twenty feet away, his face filled with suspicion. “What you doin' 'ere?”

Great God, the little guttersnipe couldn't even speak the King's English! But his sharp eyes bespoke intelligence—and unfortunately, with Camelford's height, harsh features, and hooked nose, when people recalled his face, they did so with accuracy.

It was as good an excuse as any. He was damned irritable with the heat in any case.

He loosed the knife from its sheath and flicked his wrist with the
expertise of long practice. The frustration in his chest lightened as the boy gasped—but he staggered, pulling the knife out of his shoulder.
Damn it, he ought to be dead.
“'Elp me, bruvvers!”

No time to think. Running so fast he stumbled over a crumbled headstone, Camelford jumped on the boy, stifled his second cry, snatched up the knife, and drove it into the thin chest.

Before he could enjoy watching the light fade from his eyes—the world was a better place with less rabble and Papists in it—the alarmed yell of another priest came. More missing of vowels and dropping of consonants. More east-end Catholic garbage! The lot of them were useful as only chimney sweeps, night soil men, or tuppenny whores. The whole district could do with a cleansing fire. Then their betters could do something useful with the area.

He sheathed his knife, ran to the fence, vaulted over and rolled down the embankment, got up, and kept running until his chest ached and his legs felt like rubber.
Reach
the Thames docks.
This upcoming assassination attempt on Boney was a golden opportunity for a true English patriot to make certain the assassins carried it through. For the British aristocracy to retain its supremacy, and to stop this infectious disease of republicanism, Boney must die.

WITHIN TWO HOURS CAMELFORD
was forty pounds poorer, but the three forgeries were in his pocket: identity papers and recommendations. By the time Commander Aylsham boarded ship, he'd discover his fourth lieutenant had decamped, but an experienced lieutenant had replaced him. In this time of demobbing, sailors and officers alike combed the docks looking for work. The letters of glowing recommendation for “Fourth Lieutenant Haversham,” written by Camelford's own cousin, former Prime Minister Pitt, and Lord St. Vincent of the Admiralty, would ensure his place on the ship.

Cousin Will wouldn't give him away . . . and in a few short weeks, Boney would be dead.

The first shot whizzed beside the boy's ear like an angry bee. Puzzled, the messenger swatted at it. He didn't connect the bee to the bang seconds before; why should he? But the second bang came from right nearby, and he fell to the ground with a terrified cry, groveling on the wet ground with his arms shielding his head.

“That was yer warnin', Sassenach boy. You been askin' where the Black Stewarts could be found? You found us. Now get off my land!”

The voice came closer by the moment. A native Londoner, the boy barely understood a word the old man said, but he got the danger right enough. He curled into a ball and lifted an oilskin packet with a shaking hand. “I'm just deliverin' a letter! Commander Aylsham sent me!”

For long moments, only the sound of the howling wind and pounding rain filled his ears. Then the man spoke, his accent clear and sharp. “Did you say Aylsham, boy?”

“Yes, sir! Me mam diden want me comin' all this way, but the commander promised
five pound
if I put this into Alec Stewart's hand, an' more if I bring 'im back to Lunnon quick-smart.
Five pound and more,
sir! It'll keep me family fed fer months!” The boy dared look up to the face now right in front of him and blurted, “The commander, he looks awful like you, sir, he do, but his hair's black, not silver. Sir, me mam need that five pound, she do!”

“I'd say she does—and she'll get it all and more.” The voice was softer, clearer, as was the old man's face. “Take this to Master Alec,” he said to someone inside, passing the packet along. He turned back to the courier, smiling, and pressed a coin into the boy's hand. “Ye've only an hour to make today's last ferry, but dinna fash yersel'. My grandson's a quick packer.”

Trouville-sur-Mer, France (English Channel)

August 25, 1802

T
HE STURDY YOUNG MAN
with light-brown hair tied back in a queue and worried eyes stood perfectly straight in front of his commander. “What if he doesn't fail tomorrow, sir?”

Despite his growing impatience to be gone to Abbeville, Duncan lightly cuffed his first lieutenant on the shoulder, with a smile. “He will fail, Flynn. He's not ready yet. But
you
are. I have every confidence in you. When you complete this part of the mission, follow him to the house . . . and make certain he can't hire any assistance at all.” He dropped a heavy purse into the younger man's hand. “Hazeltine will be in place. You just do your part.”

“If Mr. Fulton sees me around the new house, he'll know—”

“You don't go near the house, Flynn. Leave that to Hazeltine, and to me. Do your part, and by the time you have, the ship should be anchored off Ambleteuse, a manned rowboat in the river mouth between Ambleteuse and Wimereux after sunset every night after we arrive. Just hire a coach and return to ship.”

“But sir—”

“A horse awaits you southwest of the river mouth, at Les Planches. Take the Deauville road. You should reach Le Havre just in time for the test.”

Obviously recognizing dismissal in the note of impatience Duncan couldn't quite mask, Flynn snapped to attention and saluted. “Aye-aye, sir. I won't let you down.”

“I know you won't.” The torpedo testing in the morning provided a gilt-edged opportunity that might not return for months. Their mis
sion had a good chance of success . . . as long as Robert Fulton failed.

The moment the launch that took Flynn to the river mouth at Trouville was back and lashed into place, he ordered, “The marshes of Le Crotoy near Abbeville, before sunrise.”

His remaining lieutenants began snapping directions, and tired sailors ran to their stations.

The sun had barely risen above the hills behind the town when the sleek, fish-shaped underwater boat
Nautilus
came to the ocean's surface two hundred feet from shore.

American inventor Robert Fulton murmured a prayer
.
This was the culmination of years of hard work. Minister of the Marine Decrés had sent his secretary for this demonstration. Just weeks ago, he'd demonstrated his steam-engine could work on a small boat when the boat had traveled two miles down the Seine River near Paris. High on the excitement of official interest, he'd bragged that he could use a spring-propelled chamber inside his submersible boat to shoot the barrel bomb fifty feet in front and sink a ship. But the minister of the marine had sent his man at least two months too early.

After a failure off Brest to attach his little porcupine-shaped bombs he called
torpedoes
to a British warship, he had this last chance with the barrel bombs he called
carcasses
. If he could do it, the first consul himself would come for a private demonstration.

Even though he was stooped over, Fulton's head filled
Nautilus
's observation dome. Though he'd locked the hatch of the submersible boat only eight minutes ago, with the spring-propulsion equipment beside the pole down the center of the craft's belly, the usual propeller and rudder cranks and the pump on each side, it was an overly snug fit for three men. Fulton's clothing was already limp, and the stench of nervous sweat filled his nostrils.

Only a small lantern lit the gloom, easy to extinguish in case of fire.
As they broke surface, the late-summer sunlight hurt his eyes. Through the tiny observation dome's window, he saw his target. The long-retired frigate provided by the Ministry of the Marine sat on the calm tide like a ghost scow about fifty feet away. He scowled at it, his enemy of days. He'd been practicing since he'd received word of Decrés's interest.

“Blow up this time, you—dog.” Harsher words didn't come naturally to him. Though he was now a famed scientist, the child in him still wanted to check for the lightning bolts his childhood pastor in Pennsylvania vowed would hit him if he broke any of the commandments.

So why are you creating this instrument of death?

Thou shalt not kill, Robert,
his minister's voice whispered in his head.
Those who take up the sword will perish by the sword. Gaspard Monge is an atheist, Robert! Remember what St. Paul said: bad associations ruin good habits . . . do not become inventors of injurious things
. . .

Fulton thrust out his jaw. If his demonstration was successful, the English spies that dogged his steps would report to their masters, and England wouldn't dare resume war. God must surely smile on that? “Light the fuse, Nathaniel, and seal it. Release the carcass on my count, Fleuret.”

His assistant Nathaniel Sargent lit the two-foot-long fuse wick—three minutes burning time—pushed it inside and sealed the slender bomb with a thick cork. The entire bomb had been dipped in tallow to keep everything watertight. Sargent dripped hot tallow over the cork and pushed it in hard. A minute later, he pressed the wax and nodded. “It's ready.”

His bomb maker, Fleuret, pulled back the spring of the propulsion chamber as far as it would go—three feet, no mean feat in a craft so small. The spring gained strength.
One two . . . oh, please, Lord, don't let the fuse burn too quickly, it will kill us all . . . three four—
“Now!”

The spring hit the square of steel at the far end of the chamber, propelling the bomb-release catch. The bomb flew out of the chamber into the water—but it acted on
Nautilus
like the recoil of a pistol. All three men flew backward, trying to grab at the pole Fulton had soldered lengthways throughout the craft. He scrambled to his feet, looked through the
window, and began the count. “One hundred, two hundred, three—” Long before he'd made it to ten, he saw the little bomb bouncing to surface. “Back up and submerge as fast as you can!”

“How close?” Fleuret leaped across the craft to reach the pump after being thrown back. Sargent jerked the propeller cranks with the haste of terrified knowledge—disaster was imminent. Again.

“It surfaced by driftwood, only twenty feet away!” As Fulton dove toward the rudder, blinding light and a boom filled the submersible. The harmless driftwood became spear-shaped shards flying right at them. The windows shattered. A torrent of seawater cascaded in.

JAMES FLYNN WATCHED AS
twelve men rowed to retrieve what remained of
Nautilus
and its crew. Four men were pulling diving bells over their heads, attaching them to the underwater suits they already wore. Another two were tying grappling hooks to the launch boat.

Crowds milled around the shore, laughing at the American's latest disaster. Fulton had had many successes, and they'd been spectacular; but his failures, so ridiculed by their first consul, really were funny. But failing before Minister Decrés's secretary had killed any hope Fulton had left of funding from the first consul.

By the time an hour had passed, the shoreline was almost empty. The divers had found the sunken submersible, and it was being rowed back to land with the grappling hooks. The minister's man was long gone. Sundry spies—Flynn had noted royalist, Jacobin, and Bonaparte's and Fouché's ghosts in different places around the harbor—had left to report to their masters.

In his disappointment, Fulton seemed to need an outlet for his fury. Having draped a blanket across his friend's shoulders, the famous scientist Monge stiffened when Fulton spoke. Moments later Fulton stood frozen as Monge left, taking what was probably Fulton's last hope of gaining French funding with him.

Monge spoke to Fulton's assistants. Fulton stormed away when he saw the two men follow Monge to the carriage, trailing their wet blankets.

If there was ever a time to fulfill his mission, it was now. Flynn slipped down the docks, toward the inns, rather than the taverns and whorehouses behind the warehouses, in Fulton's wake. The man was too fastidious to consort with harlots, too religious to drink laudanum or frequent taverns. He'd guess it likely the American was drowning his sorrows in a coffeepot.

He ran the man to ground in a coffeehouse as expected. Looking like a bespectacled drowned kitten, Fulton was grumbling into a pot of chocolate. So Fulton had a sweet tooth—but his air of gloom told Flynn the chocolate wasn't giving much comfort.

Flynn approached as he'd been instructed, his released curls both halting any thought that he was a sailor and emphasizing his youth. He bit his lip over an eager smile, with the air of a puppy. “M'sieur Fulton, I am a great admirer of your work.”

With quiet precision Fulton put the cup down and refilled it from the pot keeping warm on a contraption over a fat candle stub. “I'd prefer to be alone, if you don't mind, monsieur. It's been a trying morning.”

“I understand,” Flynn said, sounding downcast. “I was there this morning, m'sieur. I was so hoping you'd make it. I wanted to say,
don't give up
. You're so close now—and it's obvious by what that man said as he climbed into the fancy coach, he thinks so too—”

Fulton's eyes blazed behind the goggles. “What did he say, and to whom?”

Flynn blinked. “I'm not certain who the other man was, m'sieur—he remained inside the coach. But the important man said your invention could most likely work in the hands of experienced naval engineers—”

Fulton whitened, and he huffed in choppy breaths. “Not until I am dead, Monsieur Decrés,” he muttered, his gentle eyes hard, “and you can bank on that, as surely as you banked on taking my inventions without payment!”

The inventor downed his chocolate and stormed out.

Left to pay the reckoning, Flynn chuckled. Mission accomplished, and far easier than he'd hoped. Fulton's paranoia had grown to legendary proportions as First Consul Bonaparte became more important,
and less inclined to pay for what he wanted. The American's excellent mind would ensure he disappeared before Boney's men came to confiscate his life's work. One of their French recruits awaited the inventor at home to make Fulton an offer he couldn't refuse.

Stage three was up to the commander, and the girl he'd found.