The Tide Watchers

by Lisa Chaplin

  This cheeky horror of a Cockney child would never fit in.

  “So what’s your information on movements of troops, or any visits of state?”

  Mark scratched his head. Camelford shivered, imagining the creatures crawling through the boy’s hair. “Well, I ain’t quite sure what you mean, but there’s loads o’ blighters on the hill over that way. All those blokes what’re in uniform.” Mark pointed toward the hills. “They’re changin’ the guard mighty regular on the roads north, I hear. Makin’ sure the fellas is fresh. And load of ’em is talkin’ ’bout bein’ sent to some place tomorrow.” Termorrer, Camelford heard and shuddered. “Place is called port brick.”

  It’s Pont-de-Briques, you ignoramus—Boney’s stolen villa. “For what purpose?”

  But he already knew . . . and with the information he’d been waiting for the past few weeks now in his hands, young Mark had run out of usefulness.

  Open Waters, Audresselles, France (Channel Coast)

  October 27, 1802

  “How far, Elise?”

  Lisbeth peered through the window. Spending the night in the semidark, her muscles stiff and aching, eyes itchy with no sleep, even the uncertain light of early morning half blinded her. It took a few moments to make out the shape of the faux bomb floating in the choppy waters, with white dots painted on it to see in the gloom. “Twenty to thirty feet, I think.”

  Fulton sighed. “Three weeks, and we’re still at an unsafe distance.”

  At last she asked the question that had been on her mind for weeks. “Why are you teaching me to use Papillon? Surely if you repair Nautilus . . . the spring propulsion . . .”

  He slanted her a steady look, and she caught her breath. What was he not saying?

  The warm air felt stifling in her throat. Just looking at the fresh air through the window made her long to drink in cold, clean air. Fulton opened the hatch whenever he needed to reattach the barrel, but the air heated again in minutes. Exhausted and stinking of sweat, eyes stinging and aching, for the past three weeks now she’d been telling herself to put her mission first—more so than ever now, since the commander had left her with only a note.

  I need to concentrate on the other part of my mission for now. I trust you to fulfill your part without my constant attendance.

  T

  Of course the commander needed to concentrate on the upcoming assassination attempt on Napoleon; but that he trusted her to fulfill her mission without his constant attendance filled her with pride. She’d not let him down. “Perhaps if we made one more attempt—?”

  Fulton shook his head. “The patrols will be coming soon, and we’ve been up the night through. Tired people do not make the best decisions or aim well. Help me bring the barrel back, please, my dear.”

  Hiding her relief, Lisbeth held the rudder tight while he lifted the hatch of the observation dome to throw the hook-ended rope through a metal ring at the end of the faux bomb.

  After six tries they at last got the carefully-weighted barrel in. No point in wasting good wood, and it meant they wouldn’t be caught with real bombs if the French found them. The worst they could charge Fulton with was remaining in France without official permission.

  Fulton turned to the pump to submerge Papillon. Though he showed little emotion, she sensed his frustration, and shared it. “I’m sorry, m’sieur. I was so hoping to . . .”

  He weary smile had little to do with physical tiredness, but he said nothing.

  ON THE WAY BACK to Ambleteuse in the pony trap, he said, “Yesterday I received a letter from my friend Thomas Paine, who recently took a ship to America. May I share it with you?”

  Fulton had spoken of his friend Paine on several occasions in the past few weeks. A radical English pamphleteer who’d escaped death during the Terror because the guards mistakenly marked his door on the wrong side, he’d never learned the lesson of caution. Fulton often entertained her with tales of Paine’s more outrageous exploits. “Certainly, m’sieur.”

  With a little smile he said, “Some of it I will not bother you with, since it concerns friends of mine he’s met—republicans, and nobody you know. But this, I think you will like. He fancies himself an engineer. Please bear with me while I translate into French.

  “I hear of your sea trials with Nautilus. Though naturally I am sorry to hear of your tribulations in finding success, I must say, what are you about, my friend? I urge you to try the gunpowder I mentioned on more than one occasion. Used in the correct manner, it would propel the corpses to their destination while your craft remains at a safe distance—”

  Lisbeth’s burst of laughter had him chuckling. “Use gunpowder to propel an explosive device inside a wooden submersible? Is he mad, m’sieur? Does he have any idea of how careful we must be with a simple lantern, or in lighting any fuses so we don’t sink at sea?”

  “Paine does love to make things go bang.” Fulton grinned at her, making her feel warm and happy. The memory of their painful encounter faded more with each hour and day he treated her with such respect.

  “I would prefer I wasn’t one of those things, thank you,” she said, and laughed again.

  He read more of the letter to her, about Paine’s inventions and how they fared. “It seems he’s building iron suspension bridges now. I hear there’s even one in my home state of Pennsylvania. I’d love to see it,” he said, with a wistful sigh.

  “Do you think he’ll ever sell one of his own ideas?”

  His expressive face fell into gloom. “I wouldn’t presume to judge, considering I’ve only sold my art vista of Paris soon after I moved to France, and nothing since, not one invention. Though I still receive royalties from the art vista, it cannot sustain my work, only my life.”

  She nodded sympathetically. He’d first come to Britain, then France, on an art scholarship. He was a very talented painter, but it was his inventions that held his heart. Without the commander’s patronage he wouldn’t be here. It was a source of frustration for him to accept the help from a man he didn’t like. He never once displayed gratitude for the money and help given. It was most unlike him.

  Fulton went on, clouds still covering his expression. “Sometimes I think I’ll never sell a real invention. The only one that’s had any real interest—” He sighed and shook his head. “I couldn’t bear to go down in history as the maker of inventions that promote war and create widows and orphans.”

  “You won’t,” she said almost dreamily, cuddling into her blanket. “Your brilliance can’t be overlooked forever. Your submersible work, your work with steam engines for ships, is incredible. One day the world will know your name, and your inventions will be used around the world.”

  “Do you think so?” he asked, his eyes alight with eagerness.

  She smiled. “I know it. I can’t explain it, except that I believe in you and your work.”

  He patted her hand. “Thank you for your belief in me. I only hope I win the race. There are many others with similar aims to mine, especially in regard to steam engines for ships. Some have even made their engines work, if only briefly.”

  She smiled at him. “I know you’ll make it further and faster than anyone else.”

  They were almost home.

  Strange how it no longer felt alien to call the crooked house home. In the past few weeks, Fulton had made no overtures of any kind, nor given her those eager looks or asked her to call him Robert. He treated her as a working partner—and that allowed her to relax in the house and learn to appreciate its quirks.

  He’d wrapped her in a blanket, covering her damp, cold legs. Though the morning was chill with coming snow, Lisbeth felt comfortable, almost happy. She would be so much happier if she didn’t have to make reports on her work or betray her dear friend to save her baby. If Edmond were here, they would almost feel like a family.

  “Here we are,” Fulton announced, shaking her from her reverie. He stopped the cart, removed the blanket from her legs, and helped her down. “I’ll be inside soon.”


  “I made bread last night, and porridge. Breakfast won’t be long.”

  “With pots of chocolate?” he asked in blatant hope.

  She laughed and nodded.

  Over breakfast at the small table by the cavernous fire, he said suddenly, “You asked why we are now working on Papillon. I thought if you knew how to work her, then you can help me work with Nautilus when it’s repaired. You may even help me repair it—that is, if you would like to. In return for your time and lack of sleep, I would help you around the house.”

  Excited, she looked up from her toast, with a wide smile. “Would you really trust me so far? Oh, how I would love to help you repair Nautilus—”

  He smiled at her, but again, it held no sexual intent: it was a gentle thing, almost reverent. “You really are enthusiastic about my work, aren’t you, Elise?”

  She nodded, too exhausted to think about his expression, too thrilled that he respected her enough to make her a partner in his beloved work. “How could I not be so? The things I’ve learned . . . going under the sea—perhaps the first woman ever to do so . . .”

  “I should think you are,” he said, still smiling. Then he added, with clear hesitation, “So if I needed to leave France, would you agree to come with me?”

  Like a runaway team pulled up hard, she skidded to a halt. She felt her eyes growing big with apprehension. Entrap him. Do it for Edmond. But she couldn’t make the lie form. She liked, respected him too much: the first true friend she’d had since Georgy. “I . . . m’sieur, I thought you understood. I am not . . .”

  “I won’t distress you again by asking you to be my mistress, Elise.” He didn’t touch her or threaten her with any kind of intimate glance. He sipped at his chocolate, and she drew a sigh of relief. Then he added, “What I am asking, in my clumsy fashion, is whether you would become my partner in work—and in life.” He took her hands in his, looking into her eyes, and she saw the true affection there, the yearning. “Elise Dupont, will you do me the immense honor of divorcing your husband, and becoming my wife?”

  CHAPTER 33

  Boulogne-sur-Mer, Channel Coast

  October 28, 1802 (Afternoon)

  THE SOUS-PRÉFET OF BOULOGNE-SUR-MER looked up when a quick hard knock came at his office door, rather than the usual polite scratching. “Enter,” he said curtly.

  His brows lifted when his secretary came in carrying a skinny, red-haired urchin in dirty clothing, his chest covered in blood. “Citoyen Masclet, this boy collapsed outside the building a few minutes ago. He insists on speaking to you before seeing the doctor.”

  With distaste, Masclet noticed the lower-class clothing—a coach or boot boy—and the blood dripping onto his new carpet, but he waved his hand. “Speak, child.”

  The boy opened eyes bright with suffering. “I was coach boy for Monsieur Jaulin,” he gasped, confirming Masclet’s belief. “He’s gone to kill the first consul.”

  “Why?” Masclet didn’t waste words. It didn’t look like the boy had many left.

  “Jaulin’s papers are faked. He’s Camelford. I saw his papers. That’s why he stabbed me.”

  “Where has he gone?” Masclet asked urgently. The name alone was enough to know this was the assassination attempt he’d been warned of. That mad Baron Camelford—

  But the boy’s head lolled on the secretary’s shoulder, pale unto death.

  He’d get no more from him in time. “Call a doctor for the child, and return. Make certain he has a room made up for him filled with every comfort until he recovers or dies.” He crossed to the desk to write an urgent message to be taken to the Camps de Boulogne.

  The Road from Dieppe to Boulogne-sur-Mer, France

  October 28, 1802 (Sunset)

  The old coach bypassing Boulogne-Sur-Mer on the Dieppe-Calais road was plain, with two horses pulling it. The suspension on the wheels was poor, the squabs shabby. The man riding inside the coach smiled. He’d roughed it on too many campaigns to care, and no locals or travelers that passed the coach on the road gave it a second glance.

  Napoleon had left Dieppe in his opulent coach—former consul Sieyes’s favorite—pulled by matching chestnuts. He’d refused a new coach and horses on becoming France’s sole leader. To waste funds on vanities when France was in such financial hardship was political suicide.

  Two miles past the second checkpoint, he’d sent the coach back to Saint-Cloud, including his military trumpeters, his Swiss Guard, and armed outriders. One of his guards was of similar height and build. He wore his lord’s clothing now and sat in the beautiful coach heading for Paris, while Napoleon climbed into the badly sprung coach awaiting him. His two favored drivers changed into the attire of ordinary coachmen and jumped up into the box. They’d picked up two new passengers another five miles up the road. Those two looked out each window while Bonaparte kept his well-known face out of sight.

  So far as anyone knew, the first consul was returning to Paris. The spies who dogged his every step had been interrogated at the checkpoint behind Napoleon. Not having seen the exchange, they would catch up with and follow his splendid coach when it turned off onto the Amiens-Paris road. They’d only know the deception when it was too late. They’d only know the significance of Boulogne-sur-Mer when it was far too late.

  “Pont-de-Briques ahead, my lord,” Mynatt announced, and with a sigh, Napoleon saw his favorite villa come into view. He wondered where his new assassins were at this moment. It looked like snow was coming.

  The Northern Road to Boulogne-sur-Mer

  October 28, 1802

  Bivouacked in a gully amid the sand hills to the west of the Calais-Boulogne road in the deep night, Duncan was woken by a movement. He rolled out of the blankets and got into a crouching position, knife in his hand. Someone was pulling at the laces tying the tent flaps together. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, lad.” A lantern lifted, and he saw Alec Stewart’s face. “I’m glad you’re already here near the road.”

  Something in his voice alerted Duncan. Stewart would never compromise a mission by coming here without strong need. “What’s wrong? Have you heard from Cal? Is it the child?”

  Stewart smiled. “I did hear from Cal, as a matter of fact. Cal.”

  Cal’s face appeared behind Alec’s. “The child’s still safe, never fear,” he whispered, “but I met with my former friends the Jacobins two days ago. Furious at Delacorte, and without direction from Fouché, they told me about the plot here. I thought you might need my help.”

  “And thank God for that,” Alec said. “Four of my men disappeared from their stations. They’ve been following the Gaillards, O’Keefe, and the other three conspirators the past few weeks, but now they’ve all disappeared. Boney’s people raided Raoul Gaillard’s cottage in Lille and found a cache of weapons, but nothing else. My men have had to leave the region—they were seen and described.”

  Cal said, “It seems Camelford’s here somewhere. They put up a five-hundred-franc reward just today for the capture of a man matching his description.”

  Duncan was up and pulling on his boots. “We have to stop him, and anyone else who shows up. Unfortunately, there’s also a problem with calling in my men.”

  No experienced spy needed an explanation. Cal swore. “Then we’re in the basket. D’ye suspect a double agent or a Frog?”

  “I wish I knew. Alec’s intercepted semaphore gave me some direction, but he’s hiding himself well.”

  “Things must be improving if you’re calling me by my name at last.” Alec winked.

  Duncan rolled his eyes, shook his head. “I’ve put my longest-serving men on the task of working out who was on duty during the exact time you intercepted the semaphore. I have seven on that semaphore duty on rotation. Since I began suspecting my men I’ve had two men on at once, one to code and one to be sure nothing is added or left out. But during the shift in question, there were four men on forecastle duty, all with conflicting stories as to why they switched places before the bell tolled. I have sev
en men I trust, but three are already on assignment.”

  Cal swore again. “We’ll have to take our chances with the ones you trust and hope to God we don’t discover our rat on the road. Boney stayed in Dieppe last night, and several plain coaches also entered Dieppe overnight. I believe he’ll switch out coaches and come here today.”

  Duncan nodded. “I’ll call my most trusted men in. Help me pack up the tent.”

  Ambleteuse-Wimille Road

  October 29, 1802 (Afternoon)

  The coach swerved around the corner, avoiding another rut in the back road. Napoleon barely noticed. He was a soldier who’d slept on the ground on bivouac with his men, led them into the hardest of sorties. A bad coach was nothing.

  Just then the heavens let loose with a sudden, hard snowfall.

  If I were going to assassinate me, it would be now, he thought calmly.

  Two minutes later a thud came on the ceiling. “My lord, there’s blood staining the snow beside the road. I think it’s a man,” his coachman—both drivers were fully trained soldiers—reported by hanging sideways off the box until his snow-flaked face was near the window.

  “Bien. Merci, Mynatt.” He turned to the trained sharpshooters inside the coach with him. “Take him if he’s alive.”

  One of the men jumped from the coach. After a brief inspection, he kicked the body in the male parts. “He’s dead, my lord, but not for long.” The man climbed back in, shivering. “The blood was cool, not frozen. The snow’s covered the tracks.”

  “Bien.” Were the conspirators falling out? Or had someone else entered the game? Camelford was the kind of arrogant inbred who’d kill a man for getting in the way of his plans, and he was stupid enough to be caught. “Keep on the lookout for any traces.”

  The sharpshooters reconnoitered the area. “Sorry, my lord, but it’s impossible to know without a thorough search, and this terrain would take hours now it’s snowing.”