Asimov's SF, February 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

Miss Collingwood flared up. “Ben, Lieutenant Clavell is one of my father the Admiral's most trusted colleagues. He's risked his life to come pluck you out of the sea—"

  "And passed up on my chance to do something about these damn French tonight.” He gazed around at the oceanic battle scene.

  "So it would pay you to show some respect, in the days and weeks to come."

  Days and weeks? I stared at them, my mind racing. Needless to say I had no idea why I had been press-ganged, and not for the first time. I looked back to where that milky disc was subsiding into invisibility. I said, “I have always been suspicious of coincidences. Tell me there's a connection between two extraordinary events: the presence of yon marine beast, and my rescue from the cold waves by a beautiful maiden and the next Nelson."

  It's hard to say which of them bristled more. Anne said, “Robert Fulton said you were a faithless swindler but no fool, and I can see he's right. Yes, Ben, we need your help to deal with the Phoebeans—one specimen of which upended you, when it should, we hoped, have been taking on the French gunships."

  "Phoebeans ... [Later the author had me spell the term for him.—A.C.] Some classical allusion, no doubt."

  "'Phoebean’ means ‘of the moon,’ Hobbes,” Clavell said.

  "So yon beasts are from the moon?"

  "No,” said Anne. “Though the first savants thought so, and the name stuck. In fact the Phoebeans come from much further away—"

  "And most of us heartily wish they'd go back there,” said Clavell.

  "England, and indeed all mankind, faces a much more serious threat than even the rampaging of the Corsican. A second invasion—an invasion from the sky! That's the possibility that the King's Grand Council has instructed my father to deal with—and that's why we need you."

  In actuality this strange news struck me as no more bizarre than some of the wilder ideas I had heard cooked up on the fringes of Bonaparte's court. “I don't see how a man who can build a sub-oceanic boat will be of much use against a pack of sailors from beyond the air."

  She smiled. “Oh, we want you to help us build a much stranger boat than even your Nautilus, Ben. You'll see. And I believe you'll find it an honor to serve."

  Clavell inspected me closely. “But I have a feeling you aren't a man much motivated by honor, are you, Hobbes? You're like your mentor Fulton, who tried to sell his inventions to British and French, whoever would open the purse widest. And I'll say this—if Fulton hadn't got himself killed in a French raid on the London dockyards, where he was running tests of a new apparatus, we'd have left you to drown in the Channel tonight."

  That was the first time I heard it confirmed that Robert Fulton was dead. He was a decent enough man, in my eyes, even if he had taken all the credit for the work of others. [I have no way of confirming the author's allegations against Robert Fulton—who in turn had often maligned Hobbes. I myself attribute such remarks to the combative relationship of two talented individuals.—A.C.]As for Clavell's barb about honor, my view is that if you have to choose between one empire of madmen and another, your only duty is to yourself and to your own.

  This interval of conversation was soon over, for we were approaching our destination. The canvas was hauled in, and the boats were put in the water, and I prepared for my own first descent upon an English shore.

  * * * *

  V

  Worthing, so I was later informed by Anne, is a popular resort in Sussex, and in the summer if you want bathing machines and polite company you'll find them there. But the tide was high that winter night, for Napoleon's admirals had chosen to land when it was so, and our boats pitched us onto a shore of shingle and sea wrack and banks of aging weed that stank like rotting flesh. As we tramped up the shingle I could see very little of the town itself, and I would learn that all along the coast of southern England that night the watchmen were dousing the lights and folk were drawing their curtains, so the country turned a blacked-out face to the invaders.

  And a musket cracked, out of the dark. I pride myself I was first down on the stones.

  The bosun held up a lantern and waved a navy ensign. “We are friends!” he whispered urgently. “From His Majesty's vessel the Terrier, on urgent King's business..."

  Ragged-looking fellows appeared from the dark, not wearing any kind of uniform, wielding muskets that looked like farmers’ fowling pieces. I could see which one had fired the shot, for he held his musket like a club; perhaps he hadn't had time to reload—or perhaps he didn't know how. After a brief negotiation, we were allowed to pass.

  Clavell hauled me to my feet, without much consideration, and we walked on. “Militia men. You would know all about that, Yankee. Raised as part of the Duke of York's grand plan for the defense of England, along with fortifications around London, and defenses for the ports, and seventy-odd gun towers strung along the coasts of Sussex and Kent."

  The Duke of York, as it happened, was a son of the King. I peered at the farmers’ boys. “This, to fight off Napoleon?"

  "They're all we've got, and a doughty lot,” Clavell said, loud enough for the men to hear.

  Well, I took a certain bitter satisfaction at the fear evident on the faces of these Englishmen, the first I had encountered on this shore, for I had seen such fear on the faces of my own countrymen when Napoleon's army had started its march up the Mississippi in the Year Three. The British had done damn little to help us fight him off then, and if it was now their turn, a part of me thought, serve them right.

  We reached an unprepossessing marina at the head of the beach, where a group of broughams waited, black-enameled and all but invisible in the gathering dark, with the horses snuffling in their harnesses. Anne, Clavell, and I hurried to the second vehicle in the line. Within, by the light of a lantern, an older man sat waiting for us, wearing a uniform of white trousers and a richly embroidered deep blue jacket; he said nothing as we boarded, and expressed no surprise at seeing us turn up at this rendezvous, after such a perilous journey. Before I was settled, the driver's whip cracked, and the brougham wheeled about and rattled into motion—taking us, I judged, north and away from the coast.

  Clavell sat by me, stiff and silent. Anne sat with the older man, and she murmured to him, “Papa.” In response he patted her hand—that's all, a small gesture. People say the British are reserved, but I don't hold with that; they feel as deeply as the rest of us, but see no need to shout about it.

  Well, that single word, “Papa,” told me who I was dealing with. Rear Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood was in his late fifties, I learned later, yet he looked older, with sparse grey hair pulled back from a dour face and the lines deep around an unsmiling mouth, and he sat stiffly, as if his old bones were uncomfortable even at rest. His most striking feature was a pair of blue eyes of extraordinary paleness, like windows set in his head. Yet they flickered, restless.

  At first he spoke to Clavell. “Went it well, Lieutenant?"

  "We made our mission, sir, as you see,” said the junior. “But the Ogre is on his way, as we feared. Have you news of the landings?"

  Collingwood snorted. “Well, that's a damn fool question, my lad, as I have spent the day sitting in this rattling brougham waiting for you. We should be in London by the morn, and more may be clear then.” He turned those brilliant eyes on me. “And you are Hobbes. Do you understand where you are?"

  "England,” says I cheekily.

  "At least you have a trace of spirit. The south coast of England, but we head north. The road is a good one. We'll refresh the horses at Horsham and Dorking and Kingston, but my aim is not to stop before we reach London, and we'll beat the French to it, I trow, for even Bonaparte's armies cannot move so fast as that. Do you know who I am?"

  "Admiral Collingwood. But I thought Villeneuve knocked all the English admirals on the head in the Trafalgar action—including Nelson.” Thus I goaded him, to a glare from Anne.

  Collingwood's expression was stern. “I wasn't at Trafalgar. Indeed, I have not been to sea for some years. Not sinc
e the Phoebean activities on Mars were detected, and the Grand Council urged the government to act, and I was seconded for the project by the Minister of War..."

  Mars? The planet Mars? Questions bubbled in my head, but the Admiral was not a man to be interrupted.

  "Would I had been at Nelson's side in Trafalgar, or leading the line with him! I saved the man's life, you know, in the action at Cape St. Vincent in ‘97, but I could not save him at Trafalgar. And if I had served we might be keeping the French at bay tonight.” All of which sounded arrogant of the man to me—but who am I to say he was wrong? “Damn this business of the Phoebeans! Sometimes I think it is a diversion we cannot afford—a war on a second front. And yet, if I had not been called home from the sea I would have seen even less of my beloved home—and, who knows? Perhaps Anne and her sisters would never have been born."

  "Oh, Papa—"

  "And if my own father had been flush enough to afford to purchase me a better career I'd not have ended up in the navy at all, what? Ifs and buts aside, here's a certainty—the Phoebeans struck once before, in ‘20, and they will venture beyond the ice line to strike again—unless we make a stand now. And that's what this is all about, Hobbes.” I understood nothing of this. “And how goes the French war in America?"

  I shrugged. “I've been away some years. You must know better than me. Napoleon has his marshals camped around Manhattan. He extracts our wealth to pay for his ventures elsewhere. Every spring a new army is raised, but if we've dislodged him yet I've not heard it."

  "It's a bitter conflict, so I'm told. A case of strike and run, and no quarter given. So it must be when a war is so uneven. I was in Boston in ‘75, if you want to know. Yon rebels were a damn sturdy lot, I'll give them that, who ran the redcoats ragged. But the revolt was an upsetting of the sensible order of things, which I have always seen as my duty to prevent contaminating the English body politic. And what has been born of the French and their own dreams of liberty? The Corsican, that's what! I wish you Americans well, you are a sturdy young nation, but it's to be hoped you never birth a Napoleon of Boston or Rhode Island.” He glanced at his daughter and at Clavell, who looked grey with fatigue. “We really must try to sleep. Here, Clavell, there are blankets in the trunk under your seat, and flasks of water and whisky, and I think some biscuits..."

  So we talked no more, and ate and drank a bit, and settled under our blankets as separate as bugs in their cocoons. And as we clattered through the English night, I dreamed of Collingwood's strange blue eyes, and Anne's brave prettiness, and the French fire descending on the country behind us, and I thought of the Phoebean as it rose from the sea under me—and of Mars! I wondered how all these strange elements would shape my life from hereon—if, indeed, I could stay alive.

  * * * *

  VI

  We arrived in London before the dawn, yet the city was already busy.

  We went in search of orders and information to the Foreign Office, and then to Downing Street, and across Horse Guards to the Admiralty, and then through St. James's to Piccadilly. Having seen no city grander than Baltimore, I found my head quite turned around as we ran about that mausoleum of smoke and marble. All these offices of government and the military were as busy as you would expect, with runners dashing to and fro with messages, and Collingwood himself was called into Downing Street to speak to Pitt, the Prime Minister. I got a great sense of urgency, of a hub of empire thrown into crisis. But it was alarming to see carriages and broughams being loaded up with boxes of papers and elderly ministers, evidently in preparation for flight.

  And yet away from the great temples of government, as the city woke, it must, I sensed, have felt like any other morning—the carts and drays rumbling over the cobbles, the news men and milk men yelling their wares, the water wagons spraying the streets to keep the dust down—even though Bonaparte was already charging up from the coast, and by nightfall none of this might be the same.

  At last we reached Albemarle Street, where, Collingwood's main home being in a northern town, he kept a house that had been bequeathed him by Nelson himself. Little was made of it while I was there, but in the days that followed, detail by detail, I deduced something of the relationship of the two famous sailors—Collingwood the senior by ten years, grave and competent, physically stronger and less prone to illness and heat, and Nelson the vain one, the glorious and imaginative one, who had had to be saved by his brother in arms more than once. How Collingwood missed him! [I have published a full account of my father's life and achievements, including his relationship with Nelson.—A.C.]

  Collingwood led us to a spacious drawing room where more military men waited, and the air was laden with wig powder and cigar smoke, and empty decanters stood about, for they had evidently worked through the night. A table was covered in maps, and Collingwood made straight for it with his bits of news garnered from the ministries, and he and his fellows immediately began to draw bold charcoal lines on the charts. They spoke gravely, these men of privilege and power—and every so often they would lapse into French, for many of them shared an education in a country now their enemy. As they worked runners would come bearing more messages, and Collingwood and the others would scribble notes to be taken away.

  One oddity in this company was an older woman, plainly dressed and plain of face, perhaps in her fifties, who sat quietly by a window, her hands folded on her lap. I scarcely noticed her at the time. She was, I would learn, Miss Caroline Herschel, sister of the famous astronomer.

  And in the middle of all this a dog bounded in, a big, loose-boned mongrel who made straight for Collingwood, to be greeted by a tickle from that stern admiral. This was Bounce, and much beloved.

  There were a few domestics hovering, and Anne snapped out orders for breakfast, coffee and a replenishment of the whisky decanters. Then she turned to me. “You will be a guest here—at least for now; I don't know how long we will stay. Make sure Parsons serves you with an adequate breakfast. If you need to sleep, a change of clothes ... I myself will bathe, I think, while I have the chance.” She glanced at her father, his reading glasses on his nose and leaning on the table as if bringing relief to rheumatic joints. “As for asking him to rest, I know it's futile. If you will excuse me, sir—"

  I nodded, too weary to cheek her, and she withdrew.

  Clavell was at my side. “Can you read a map, Yankee?"

  At the table, I recognized a detailed plan of the south of England, but I waved a hand. “Not with all this scribble. What's the news?"

  "That the Corsican has landed. Well, you knew that.” He pointed to blocks of scrawl at the Channel ports. “Seven army corps, all more or less deployed around London. Each corps comprises infantry, cavalry, artillery. The first under Bernadotte is at Chatham. The fourth and fifth under Soult and Lannes came in via Dover and Folkestone, the second and third under Marmont and Davout came through Portsmouth, and the sixth and seventh under Ney and Augereau landed at Plymouth. We believe all of these are bound for London, save Ney, who is driving north, probably intent on Bristol."

  "And what of your defenses?"

  He pointed to more scribbled blocks. “Here are our army groups, as of a few hours ago, at least. You have Sir Hew Dalrymple facing west, Sir John Moore in the east, and in the centre Colonel Wellesley waiting for the second and third corps."

  "A colonel?"

  "Probably a battlefield general by now, I shouldn't wonder. A good man, from Irish nobility. Made a name for himself out in India—though his brother was governor-general there. Well, we'll know the wisdom of that appointment soon, for I expect battle to be closed within hours, if not already. The French like to march without a baggage train; they provision themselves from the country, and it makes for a rapid advance."

  And, I knew from experience in America, it was hellish to have your family and your home in the way of such a locust-like advance. “What are your prospects?"

  "As long as we had supremacy of the sea, we were protected by the Channel. And if Nelson h
ad been at sea yesterday, perhaps Napoleon would have launched his armies east, not west, for one day there will be a reckoning between this ‘usurper’ who killed a Bourbon prince, and the crowns of Prussia and Austria and Russia ... But he is not in Germany; here he is in England, for he evidently means to settle his western flank before he confronts the east. Do you Americans still call our soldiers ‘lobster backs'? England's a lobster with a tough shell—but it's damn thin, and once breached what's inside is pretty soft."

  "You ain't hopeful."

  He shrugged. “Look at their faces—look at Collingwood's. I am confident England will survive this brutal assault in the long run. I am less confident about the course of this day."

  Now Anne rejoined us. She was out of her mannish jacket and leggings, and wore a sober but flattering dress of rich purple velvet, and with her blonde hair up and powder on her face I was struck by her attractiveness—I don't say beauty, for she was no Venus, but she had a strength and composure in her regular features, and a spark in her eyes not unlike her father's icy blue that quite caught the breath.

  Clavell bowed to her and asked after her health—but she took my arm, and I felt a quite unreasonable surge of pleasure. “Now I'm refreshed we have much to discuss,” she said.

  I ventured, “You're the first English girl I ever met, you know, and not at all what I expected."

  "Am I to be flattered or insulted?"

  I glanced at her boldly. “Right now, in this fancy room, in that dress, you look the part. But not twenty-four hours past you were hauling me from the wreck of my Nautilus."

  "You can blame my father for that,” she said. “The Admiral never wanted his daughters to embrace the life of a gentlewoman—a round of elegance, housekeeping, dress, of neighbors and dance and music and the season—a life of nothingness. He encouraged us to study geometry and languages and the philosophies, and the practical arts—he wanted us to learn how to survive, he said."

  "If the Ogre is loose in England, he was wise. Well, I find it blasted attractive."