“Perhaps. You are English, by your voice. Your companion?”
Captain McNab spoke up in his French and the man winced. “He is best to keep his mouth shut. He must act deaf-mute.”
“But our papers identify us as cavalry officers . . . of Le Troisième Régiment des Lancers. We need to acquire suitable uniforms so we may walk about the city.”
“Suitable uniforms could be possible—but your friend must have a bandage and a duelling scar that prevents him speaking.”
Holmes looked at McNab, who seemed a mite put out. “You must do it for your country, Captain. Scots wha hae, and all that!”
Lord Bond awoke with someone’s hair draped across his face. He raised a sleepy hand and lifted some locks to peer at—blonde—it must be Elise’s. Yes, that was it. He had found her the previous evening in the best hostelry in Flushing, going under the name of Freiherrin Louise von Langenhorst—one of her usual false names.
He reached out to take one of her nipples in his fingers. After a little stroking and pinching she rolled away with a soft moan. His hand went down her body and strayed about until her eyes opened. He always marvelled how they shone bright blue even roused from sleep.
“Julian. What is matter? It is middle of the night.”
“No, it’s not. By the light against the curtains it must be the ninth hour.”
“So? I am tired. Go back to sleep.”
His hand slipped up the inside of her thighs. “How tired are you?”
“More than that. By God . . . did you not extinguish your desire last night? My body aches.”
He ran another finger down her pearl-white cheek. “Surely not. You must have been in a nunnery since I left.”
“I have no other lovers.”
Lord Bond laughed and rolled over onto her. “Not by comparison—eh?”
“Ach! Get off, you great horse-cock. No more until tonight.”
He continued to stroke her. “How long have you been Freiherrin this time? You have debts, of course?”
She shrugged. “A mere pittance.”
“This hostelry does not own the word. How long have you been here?”
“Ten days . . . two weeks . . . something like that. I was waiting for you.”
“How much?”
“A hundred francs should settle it.”
“That is more than the Admiralty allows,” he said, pinching her labia between thumb and fingernail.
“Ouch . . . you beast. You never pay as Admiralty—I am personal a . . . assis . . . What is word in English?”
“Secretary? You cannot write. Associate? As sociare is the word in Latin. It means to join—a very good idea, my love. Let us join again.”
She pushed him away and slid out of the bed. “No! Tonight.” She walked naked to the window, pulled the curtain aside to look out. “I can write,” she said wistfully, craning her neck to see down into the courtyard. “I can prove it by my letters to my dear husband in the East Indies.”
“But not well in English. Perhaps you had better write to your husband for a hundred francs—or perhaps keep looking out the window like that. I’m sure you could collect enough admirers in a single morning to pay off your debts.”
“Beast! That is why I hate you . . . what you say. You make me a trollop. Am I not good enough to be a Marchasa?”
“Perhaps in Italy, but the title is Marchioness in England. I should introduce you to my father—he might marry you.”
“Pah. What would I do with an old man?” She turned with a pout. “Where is your ship?”
“What, indeed? Perhaps you could lead him to heaven in ecstasy. Perhaps I should introduce you. The Nederlander is in the harbour. We must go aboard this afternoon—we must be in Antwerp tomorrow to link up with my other companions.”
“A Frieherrin does not sail in a hoogaar.”
“This afternoon you will be Mistress Paine, from New Bedford. I think I will send you to see the American Ambassador.”
“What is this New Bedford? I do not know it.”
“I will tell you all about it—I was there in 1811 for the Admiralty . . . when I sounded out the appetite for the war.”
Chapter Forty
Cannon Fire
Roberta and Sir Joseph Sydney Yorke stood with a group of Royal Artillery officers on Woolwich Common as the twenty-four pounder cannon was prepared. They had arrived at Woolwich earlier that morning after travelling from Westminster by river steamer. Brigadier General Hopkins, Lord Bond’s contact at the establishment, had met them at Woolwich Dockyard and arranged this final demonstration of the armour experiments.
“We have had quite consistent results,” General Hopkins said, “that show us that at normal sea combat ranges the two inch iron plate is resistant to shot from a twenty-four pounder.”
“What ranges have you considered, General?” the First Sea Lord asked.
“We understand that the French open fire at greater ranges than your people in the Royal Navy do, Sir Joseph. We found that at four hundred yards, the plates were barely scratched.”
“Two cables length, then,” Sir Joseph answered. “Not completely unrealistic for usual French crews, but when our ships press closer, the enemies’ range, too, is reduced. What have you found at ranges as short as yardarm to yardarm?”
General Hopkins smiled. “That is what we plan to show you today. This will be the most demanding test of all. The target you see here will be forty yards distant from the muzzle of the gun.”
“Before the cannon is fired, I should like to see the iron plate and the manner of attaching it to the target frame; if we might, General,” Roberta said.
The General turned to her with an indulgent smile. “I assure you we have taken the utmost care with our targets, Miss Stephenson, but I am perfectly willing—indeed pleased—to show you the fastenings.”
Sir Joseph laughed. “Lord Bond should have warned you how meticulous our Miss Stephenson is, General Hopkins. I do not doubt but that she has prepared herself with as much information as possible—the word among flag officers at the Admiralty lately has been amazement at her appetite for the experienced words of personal recollection.”
“I have been most grateful to all the officers for their patience at my questioning, My Lord,” Roberta answered. “They have given me a better understanding of the strength of solid timbers that must form our baseline for the assessment of iron.”
The two senior officers exchanged a glance. General Hopkins then turned to listen to a short, stocky major who came to him from the direction of the target. “We would like you to show us the target before we fire, Major. Is there time to do that safely?”
“Yes, General. I have yet to inspect and approve the powder and shot before it is supplied to the gunners.”
The General smiled at Roberta. “There, my dear. I’m sure you will find Major Thurston able to answer all your questions. Miss Stephenson has the management of a shipyard in her father’s business, Major. The query about the resistance of iron plates came to us from an Admiralty contract the Navy has with the yard.”
“Indeed.” Major Thurston both saluted and offered her a polite bow, and she responded by extending her hand . . . which after a momentary hesitation he shook. “If you would walk with me, Miss Stephenson, I will show you the target first.”
They walked across the intervening grass, steadily outpacing the senior officers even though they began a technical discussion. “I was sorry not to have seen the two inch plates before they were dispatched to Woolwich, Major.” Roberta said. “I did specify the order for them and made the delivery arrangements. Were you able to assess the strength of the plates? I was concerned that their strengths would show a difference between the direction of rolling and across the grain, as it were.”
“I believe that was a phenomenon we have seen during the experiments, Miss Stephenson. You have some experience with iron, then?”
She smiled. “Since I was about ten, I’d suppose. I was as much about the steam engi
ne workshops as I was in the drawing room. In those days we engineers had a great concern for consistency in the strength of the iron from which boilers were constructed. You must be aware of the number of serious accidents caused by boiler explosions.”
“Indeed, I am. It would seem that standards have improved with time, though.”
“That is due to a greater attention paid to the strength of the raw materials used. At our Clydebank yard I have ordered that all the iron supplied is visually inspected, and one piece of every ten has a sample taken and tested to destruction.”
“Hmm, it seems you are as thorough as we must be when accepting a new cannon into the service. Iron is a fine substance, but apt to hide some surprises within its fabric,” Major Thurston said as they reached the target. “You will see that the iron plate has been bolted to a wooden frame. This is to ensure the impact of the shot does not carry it away across the common. You may be interested to hear that we find the solidity of the wooden frame is a factor in determining the resistive power of the plate.”
Roberta raised her head to look at the frame. “That is very interesting, Major. I thank you for relating the observation. It will have a definite bearing on the way in which we attach the iron to a ship. This backing timber appears to about six inches in thickness. Have you used other thicknesses?”
“Not in a systematic manner, I’m afraid. The carpenters were instructed to use whatever timber they had to hand in the woodworking shop.” He stopped speaking and lowered his head in thought. “I can take you to see the remnants of the other experiments after this test. I have not ordered the disposal of any of the tested material to this date.”
“The damaged plates, too, will offer me much information.”
The two senior officers arrived to hear this last. “I hope you will not ask to have any of the plates carried back to the Admiralty,” Sir Joseph said with a smile. “I can just see the expression on the First Lord’s face when you set one down in his library.”
The men all joined in the laughter, and she attempted to smile patiently at their male reactions. She hoped to be able to see every scrap of evidence that would provide her with necessary information, and had actually been considering having some of the samples brought to the city for closer examination.
“If you are ready, My Lord . . . Miss Stephenson . . . I will go and examine the ammunition next,” Major Thurston said.
“And I will come with you, if I may,” Roberta asked.
Thurston seemed concerned. “I will explain my procedure, Miss Stephenson. If you will stand at a safe distance from the powder.”
When they reached an ammunition limber, some yards from the cannon, a sergeant jumped to attention to salute and open the caisson. The first thing Major Thurston did was to put on a leather smock to cover his uniform. “Not only a housekeeping matter,” he called to Roberta who stood several paces farther away, “I must cover any metal accoutrements on my uniform to ensure they do not create a spark that might ignite the powder.”
“Yes, I understand. We have had some experience with firing Congreve rockets from ships and have had to teach the rocketeers the safe handling of them.”
The Major reached inside and withdrew a tall glass flask. “This is a testing device I have designed myself. It has holes of specific sizes through which I will allow a sample of powder to pass. A measurement of the grains too large to pass through, as well as the grains of less than the required size for the weapon will assure me that the charge is correct for this cannon.”
“I see, Major. I can then be assured that the powder fired in all the experiments has been as carefully calibrated.”
“Indeed, Miss Stephenson. I can assure you that the powder fired in every test has been the strongest possible.” The major smiled broadly at her appreciation for one of the tricks of his trade.
They moved to the pyramid of cannonballs after the powder was approved. “These are all chilled cast iron, Miss Stephenson. We have found, over the years, that they are the strongest produced. These are the missiles we use to bring down stone fortifications.”
“Do you have a method to pick the strongest?” Roberta asked.
“Only an accurate measurement of the weight. Lighter missiles could have inclusions of unwanted impurities. These have already been weighed, and I have no criteria for choosing between them.”
“I see,” she said. “I expect these cannonballs would be stronger and more consistent than those regularly issued to a naval vessel.”
“I would agree that your expectation is likely accurate, but I’m afraid I cannot offer you any numerical assessment of the difference.”
The next action was to issue the gunners with the powder and shot, after which Roberta and the Major walked to an earth berm behind and to one side of the cannon. When they arrived they found the General and the other visitors already there. The Major addressed everyone. “Once the cannon discharges, I must ask everyone to lower their heads below the rim of the earth berm. This is to protect everyone from the possibility of being struck by flying fragments. We have had metal ripped off a plate during the tests . . . which luckily did not fly in the direction of the watchers on that occasion.”
Roberta watched as the gunners loaded the cannon. After the cannonball was rammed down the barrel from the muzzle, and the firing pan primed, all the gun crew except the sergeant with the firing lanyard withdrew behind the berm. Major Thurston stood at the end of the berm to look about to ensure no one had strayed into the firing range. The sergeant fixed his eyes on him and everyone tensed.
The Major raised his arm at the “Ready”, and brought it down quickly at the “Fire!”
The sergeant jerked the lanyard and stepped away from the gun carriage. Roberta watched as the powder flared in the priming pan and then the roar of the explosion, the huge gout of powder smoke, and the recoil of the gun, made her duck down.
A metallic crash announced that the target had been struck. Everyone stood upright to see the result. The dispersing cloud of smoke made it difficult to see clearly, but Roberta thought the plate looked intact.
“If everyone is ready,” Major Thurston said, “we can go forward to examine the result.”
As they walked closer Roberta fancied she could see some change to the plate but was puzzled as to what had happened. Only when they stood beneath it could she see that the cannonball protruded from the plate like a cork in a bottle. The crater formed by the impact had jagged cracks spread around it in all directions, and at the rear of the plate a small swelling in the iron indicated the location of the impact.
“Good Lord,” Sir Joseph exclaimed. “An excellent parlour trick, I do declare. I challenge you to repeat that, Major.”
He laughed. “I doubt it would happen often, My Lord, but I’m afraid I do not know whether to call that a failure or a successful penetration, Miss Stephenson.”
“I think that it might be our limit point for our successful armour,” she replied. “Nothing less than a two inch thickness of plate can be called proof, and a lower standard of powder than the carefully selected charge used here would give our crews a measure of assurance. However, I believe I see damage in the rear of the plate that tells me some fragments have been spalled off. Any one of them could kill or wound a man unlucky enough to be hit.”
The inspection of the plate continued and when they returned to the arsenal Major Thurston showed them the targets of all the previous shots. The detailed examinations lasted through the lunch hour and most of the afternoon. General Hopkins invited her and Sir Joseph to dinner and recommended they accept his offer of a night’s hospitality rather than attempt a return voyage to Westminster pier after dark—which they gladly accepted.
The evening Roberta spent was a pleasant one with the army and the navy officers relating tales from their varied careers and amusing secrets of colonial administrations in widely separated outposts around the world. When she retired upstairs to the chamber assigned her she readied herself for bed and the
n sat a moment to reflect upon the import of what she had learned from her visit.
She felt she would use Major Thurston’s observation of the effect of secure backing to the armour plates in increasing the resistance to the impacts. A thick wooden backing could prevent spalled fragments of iron from causing casualties inside the ship. As for the other matter, the proof of the French armour plates, she had no solution except the one Lord Bond and his team pursued. She had to know the thickness of the iron armour they planned to use on their ironclad.
Chapter Forty-one
Propositions
Lord Bond stood with the unilingual Bloggins in the stern of Nederlander as the canal barge drew nearer. He could see Nicholas van Aa standing in the bow of the craft but waited for him to hail before answering in Flemish. “You have the cargo, my friend?”
The barge slowed as the small deck crew, two young lads, lowered the lug sail to the deck. Van Aa tossed a line as they came alongside, which the Nederlander’s crew caught and belayed to a cleat near the anchor before taking the strain of hauling the barge to a stop. “That I do . . . and better than rocks. Twenty bushels of turnips that should earn a profit in Antwerp.”
Lord Bond frowned as he heard Elise, below decks, start laughing. Of course she would think his peddling vegetables to be funny. Perhaps he would let her sell them to see if she could earn enough to pay off her debts—if only he hadn’t been obliged to pay them himself before they could leave Flushing. Another problem preventing him from turning the joke against her was his need to start her spying on his Royalist allies—he had a strong suspicion that they had little interest in helping his people learn the secrets of the French steamships. The more they thought a new King Louis would rule in France after Napoleon, the more they would oppose English plans to weaken the country.
Van Aa climbed from the barge to Nederlander’s deck. “Are the turnips to your liking, My Lord?”
Bond shrugged as Elise’s imaginary market-woman’s impersonation came to him from below. “It will mean we have a reason to trade in the market, closer to the city centre, I suppose. The purchasers of building stone would be harder to locate.”
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