The Tide Watchers

by Lisa Chaplin

  “Napoleon’s ships look seaworthy.”

  “They are, but they’re too shallow for the kinds of storms we’ve been getting. This has been the year without an autumn in the Channel; it’s as if we went straight from summer to winter, especially at night. They’d have to launch in darkness to be hidden from British lighthouse keepers and the tide watchers—not me; tide watcher is a derogatory nickname for the Customs Land Guard, excisemen watching for smugglers,” he explained when she looked confused. And then he wondered how she'd heard his code name. Probably Alec or Cal. “That’s why they haven’t launched yet. They’re waiting for calmer weather.”

  “Could all these ships have been built here?”

  “This isn’t a major shipbuilding port.” He thought for a moment. “Most of them must have been built elsewhere and sailed here. He probably had a few built at each French harbor to avoid arousing suspicion and sent them here two at a time. They’re all built on similar lines.”

  “Any British patrol would assume they were seeing the same ships sailing,” she muttered, following his line of thought. “Did you notice that not all the ships have cannons set yet?”

  He peered through the window, making out some of the ships in the lit estuary. “Not even half are outfitted.” He snapped his fingers. “Of course—they couldn’t risk sailing brand-new ships, cannon-ready, from their home port to here; it would defy the terms of the Treaty of Amiens. They’d be assembling the cannons and fitting them here. That’s another reason why they haven’t yet launched. Assembling a Grande Armée and outfitting a fleet of new ships with the lightweight types of cannons they need not to weigh these ships down has got to be damned expensive, and France was almost bankrupt when Bonaparte became first consul two years ago. This is why he invaded Switzerland and is pushing the Americans to buy Louisiana. He’s desperate for the money. Even raping Piedmont and Parma of their wealth wouldn’t be anywhere near enough.”

  “Why was Britain not prepared for this? It seems crazy to trust Napoleon to hold to the terms of a treaty he made himself.”

  He shrugged. “Reaction to nine years of war. The government, the people want peace—and we knew the straits France was in financially. We felt safe.”

  “So Napoleon took advantage,” she said slowly.

  “Yes—and the ultimate commander who needs to stamp his authority everywhere didn’t come anywhere near Boulogne from the signing of the treaty until now: to keep the world from wondering what was going on here. If it hadn’t been for a deposed archbishop wanting revenge, and my search for you . . .”

  Another slow nod. “Until everything is almost ready to go . . . and it’s too late to stop him.”

  “Yes.” A brilliant double bluff, designed to keep the insecure blinders on the current British government. If it hadn’t been for Fouché’s power games with Boney, the archbishop’s anger, or Duncan’s determination to find Lisbeth, they’d never have seen this in time.

  Why had Fouché left it this late? What was his agenda?

  Then suddenly it came to him. “Boney came here because he knew about the assassination attempt. It was the only way he could come here and scatter any British spies, while deflecting the British from noticing what was going on. I’d wager my fortune Fouché told Boney about Camelford, and about us if it would benefit him. When Boney heard of British spies on the Channel Coast he had to divert our attention. The Americans have been stalling on buying Louisiana, and the fight to get into the Swiss banks has been harder than he anticipated. The ironwrights building the cannons would refuse to do the work without pay. Boney’s not stupid. Pressing them into unpaid work would mean he’d probably end up with inferior cannons, and the shipwrights wouldn’t have nearly enough lightweight iron for the job without the money up front.”

  As if reading his mind, Lisbeth murmured, “So that’s why they haven’t sailed yet?”

  He nodded. “Thank God the Americans stalled, and the weather’s been so foul this winter. Light ships like these can almost skate over the water, but they need reasonable calm.”

  “So then we have a little time. To stop this,” she said quietly, meeting his inquiring look.

  “Yes?” he prompted her. Seeing that distracted frown again, he knew her quick mind was working on something.

  She blinked a few times and yawned. “Can we use the submersible technology? Fulton told me Bushnell had ideas on how to use submersibles to sink British ships in the War of Independence.”

  “Go on, Lisbeth,” he urged again when her eyes glazed over. “How would you use the submersible? Lisbeth?”

  She shivered and whispered, “Um . . . in a way so Bonaparte won’t know Britain’s in violation of the treaty. No bombs.”

  He frowned heavily. “Have you any other ideas?”

  She blinked a few times and frowned. “If only Nautilus was repaired . . . but we must use what we have.” A hand fluttered up, indicating Papillon, and fell.

  Another yawn, and he almost yelled at her in his impatience. “But what can we do?” he prompted after a minute’s silence.

  She shivered again; her head jerked up and around. “I beg your pardon, I drifted.”

  The jerky rocking began again. With difficulty she rose and peered through the window. “I think there’s more than one ship coming. We’ll be crushed if we don’t move.” Looking all around, she made a little, tired sound. “There’s a short pier behind us and to the left, with an almost clear path to it.”

  They worked in silence until the craft bumped against something. “We’re against the riverbank. Bring her above the waterline. We need to tie her to the posts, keeping her out of sight beneath the pier.” Lisbeth’s voice was fading to nothing. From pale, she’d gone to a phantom in the failing light of the lantern.

  It wasn’t the time to keep pushing her about her nebulous plans. But if he took over the menial tasks, her clever mind would keep thinking it through. “I’ll do it.” He opened the hatch as quietly as possible. His back screamed in protest as he stood straight for the first time in hours. His arm muscles bit into him as he tied the ropes to a post at each side of Papillon for stability.

  He sat again, feeling the cold winter air flood in. Hearing a soft sigh, he turned to her. She was asleep sitting up, her head drooping onto her chest. She’d be in agony when she woke.

  “Lisbeth, wake up,” he whispered. “We’ll find a place to sleep.”

  Bleary eyes looked up in the low light of the lantern. “Bed?” she whispered, as if he’d offered her a vision of heaven.

  “Yes, bed, love,” he murmured, thinking briefly of their unfinished kiss, but both of them were well beyond that tonight. “But there are soldiers everywhere. You need put your dress on, quickly and quietly.” But she stared at him as if he’d spoken in Chinese, and he wanted to laugh. Bloody hell, he must be beyond anything to think of undressing a pretty woman and only feel tired. “I’ll help you, but you must do exactly as I tell you.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Boulogne-sur-Mer

  November 2, 1802

  IT HAD TAKEN OVER half an hour to reach the back alleys up the long hill of Boulogne toward the walled part of town, where the respectable people stayed. “We’re almost there,” Duncan said, squeezing the arm he held to encourage her. Every few steps Lisbeth stumbled on the skirt of her winter dress. He’d helped her pull it on over Mark’s old trousers, and she let him hold her arm, but absolutely refused to let him carry her, and she was right. He was in as much pain as she, and it would cause suspicion should anyone see them in the torch-lit streets.

  He could only thank God she always put the mission first.

  “I’ll make it,” she murmured, and stumbled. “I’m sorry,” she whispered when he lifted her to her feet a fifth time. Her voice was so faint he had to strain to hear her.

  How had she lasted so long? No other woman he knew could have endured what she’d put herself through, and she was apologizing for her understandable exhaustion. God knows he was barely any str
onger.

  Holding her by the waist now to keep her up, Duncan turned into an inn near the old town walls, where the better class of people stayed. Thank God it was only evening. Most inns remained open until at least eleven. After ten it was mostly men with a whore, but he doubted anyone looking at Lisbeth’s pale face, braided hair, and modest dress would believe that of her. Arriving this way was a disaster he couldn’t have prevented; there was no room to carry suitcases or bandboxes on board Papillon.

  He resigned himself to a night of little or no sleep.

  Reaching a respectable inn, he shoved the doors inward with his shoulder and walked through to the taproom where he’d find the innkeeper. “My wife is unwell, m’sieur,” he said to the oldest man behind the counter. “Do you have a room for us?”

  The innkeeper saw Lisbeth’s white face and ringless marriage finger, the fading lump on her head and the scar on her cheek. He looked for their baggage, and, finding none, a cunning expression came into his eyes. “We have but one room left, monsieur, but it is the most expensive in the house. Five francs per night.”

  “Don’t do it, mon coeur. He’s lying,” Lisbeth whispered, and he could only be grateful again she’d remembered the endearment, proving she could keep her head in tight corners. “We can go to the next inn.”

  He touched her arm. “I doubt the room’s usual asking price is more than three, but I’m in no mood to argue, ma chère.” He turned to the innkeeper. “Show us up.”

  The man’s brows lifted. “We expect payment in advance, monsieur.”

  Lisbeth made a small, hissing noise.

  Obviously the man knew something wasn’t right. With all that was hidden here, suspicion had to be bordering on paranoia throughout town by now. Duncan said, “You’ll get your money when I have made my wife comfortable. She is a poor traveler, even in the latest high-sprung carriage from London.” He’d seen one on the street, and hoped to God the man wasn’t clever enough to check who owned it—or that he already knew its owner.

  “I’ll have your bags collected for you. Do you require rooms for your servants?”

  “I sent them to The Cock’s Crow.” It was a far cheaper inn, and naming it made the innkeeper’s stance relax a little. “I’ll collect our luggage after I’ve settled my wife. I desire nothing to find its way into the pockets of light-fingered servants.”

  He didn’t know if his excuses were good enough, even delivered in the sneering tone of the nouveau elite. Before he could sleep, he’d have to steal baggage and clothing for them both, an army uniform, and weapons in case they needed to escape.

  The man’s face was bland. “Certainement, monsieur. This way.”

  Climbing the narrow, badly lit stairs to the third floor, Duncan felt Lisbeth’s body trembling more with each step. His own muscles burned as he began lifting her up by the waist to help. “Hurry, you creaking tub of lard. I’m in no mood to wait.”

  At last they were on the third floor. The innkeeper opened a door. “Here you are.”

  With a glance, Lisbeth made a sound of disgust. Duncan snapped, “I don’t know when the feathers were last changed, or the window opened. There’s dust everywhere, and the beams are too low above the bed. This is a room for a child of the working classes, not for my wife and me. Now show me a room that’s well aired and clean, or I’ll take my gold somewhere more deserving. This is your last chance, you crawling louse.”

  The innkeeper cringed, bowed, and turned to the room at the other end of the hall—but he seemed satisfied. The next room was clean, airy, and the bed looked comfortable. Lisbeth nodded, her face still haughty, but even paler than it had been a minute before.

  Duncan led Lisbeth into the room, sat her on the chair by the window, and turned. “Well, come here, I don’t have all night.”

  The chubby, balding man approached, hand outstretched. Duncan showed him the French travel papers he’d brought from bona fide spies on the ship, complete with a faux stamp as close to Admiral Latouche-Tréville as he could make it, then put two francs and five sou into his hand. “I doubt it’s even worth this much, but I don’t argue with underlings. Nor do I allow myself to be cheated. Accept this or we leave.”

  The man sighed, nodded, and took the coins.

  Duncan pushed another two francs into his hand. “Leave breakfast outside the door at seven. Lunch will be served at one. My wife and I expect privacy.”

  Now the man smiled and bowed again. Two francs was a fortune for breakfast and lunch at an inn like this. “Certainement, monsieur!”

  “Food worthy of a lady, with a pot of chocolate for her, and coffee for me,” Duncan snapped, vertigo gripping him. “Now go before I demand my coins back.”

  He disappeared. Duncan turned around to tell Lisbeth his plans, but she was already on the bed, lying above the quilt, curled in a ball on her side. Good, it would at least stretch the kinks out of her back. He tugged until the quilt was over her. He really ought to undress her, but he couldn’t manage it. Pulling off her boots was all he could do.

  Looking with longing at the bed, he sighed and left the room, locking the door. Moving with jerking puppet steps, he left the inn.

  Boulogne-sur-Mer

  November 3, 1802

  A knock sounded once, twice.

  Lisbeth woke with a groan. Thin winter light peered in through billowing curtains; the breeze held the tang of the ocean and the crispness of snow. Horses clip-clopped over the cobblestones outside. Hawkers called for customers to sample their wares. The wafting scent of meat and pastry, apples and apricots coming from a street pie vendor made her stomach growl.

  She moved, and her back seized. Frowning, she stretched her whole body, testing one muscle at a time until she’d stretched every part of her, taking a few luxurious breaths.

  Deep, rumbling breaths told her she wasn’t alone.

  Turning her head, she saw Duncan beside her, still fully clothed if his exposed arm was any indication. Beneath his lashes there were black smudges. He breathed through his mouth, making the half snores she’d heard.

  Looking down, she made a face at the sight of her crumpled dress, but it was still on. He had removed her boots and socks, leaving them to dry by a small fire.

  She walked to the door barefooted, shivering with cold as the wind bit through her dress. She struggled against crying out in pain as she moved the small cupboard away from the door.

  By the time she opened it the hall was empty. Though her muscles screamed protest, she picked up the tray left on the floor and brought it in, closing the door with her foot.

  At the soft slam Duncan jerked up, groping beneath the pillow, presumably for a weapon, but in seconds he was at her side, taking the tray from her. “Bonjour.”

  For no reason she could discern, she blushed. “Bonjour. I’m glad you slept, too. It makes me feel less guilty.”

  He shook his head, crossed the room, and pushed the cupboard back in front of the door. “Neither of us would have made it back without sleep and good food. Can you wash and change into the dress on the chair before we eat?”

  Including himself in the decision made her feel better. She saw a woolen dress hanging over an old wing chair. She nodded and asked, fumbling, “Um, can you undo my buttons?”

  He nodded and undid her buttons for her, brisk and without any lingering that would make her uncomfortable.

  When she was in her shift and stays, she crossed to the washbowl, shivering with the touch of crusted, semifrozen water, but it felt so good to wash the stickiness of dried sweat off her skin. She glanced at his averted face. “So we go with the night tide?”

  He nodded. “If possible, yes. Eat everything you can, and drink the chocolate. Bread and water isn’t good for either of us for more than a day.”

  She dried herself, pulled the new dress up, and rebraided her hair. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Watch out for your own portion.”

  He chuckled and came back to help her button up her new dress. Again, though his tone was war
m, his touch was impersonal, like a servant. “Go and eat,” he said when he was done. “I’ll wash and dress now.”

  She didn’t ask where the new clothing came from, or the small portmanteaux on the floor. When he came to the table, she didn’t ask why he was dressed as a French soldier. This was his world. To survive, she had to work with him.

  “The tide changed while I was out last night. The tide should return in two hours. Eat as much as possible now, to leave no chance of being sick by the time we’re back in Papillon.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, feeling stupid.

  “How are you feeling? In much pain?”

  Everyday questions, yet they felt so intimate, like a husband caring for his wife. “I’m much better after sleeping, thank you.” Her cheeks heated with a flicked half glance at the bed.

  He smiled at her, as if he knew what she was thinking. “The color of the dress suits you.”

  She smiled, liking the golden brown hue of it. “A uniform suits you.” She took a minute to stretch out her cramped muscles before reaching for the cutlery on the tray. The curtains billowed in a rising wind. She pulled them back and held them while he arranged the food.

  They ate in silence, more companionable than awkward. Yet since that moment’s kiss yesterday, her awareness of him had become acute. Their long waltz in darkness had led her to a shared desire at this, the worst possible time and place. Merely looking at Duncan, she felt such a sense of rightness, of belonging . . . if only it could be.

  But she knew better than to indulge in sentimentality. Not until he knew the truth.

  When they were done with breakfast, Duncan moved in silence to the door, opened and closed it. He checked the windows, looking around. “A storm’s on its way from the north. It looks like a hard one. But even if we don’t make it out until tomorrow, we need to be ready to escape at all times. We’ll have to take shifts watching the window.”

  Her brief foray into femininity was squashed by his practicality, yet she smiled. They were partners in this, equals, and he didn’t try to shield her.