The Barbed Crown (22 page)
“I’ll slip you so close we’ll smell their damned snails,” Johnstone added.
“It is the garlic one smells,” Pasques contributed.
I cleared my throat. “Sir Sidney, I thought you didn’t trust me after my poor performance as a spy in France?”
“Which is why I know you’re burning to prove yourself, Ethan. Sign on to make this work, and your friend Robert there gets a lucrative contract from the admiralty to build more of his devil machines.”
“Bully for him.”
“Sign on, and history turns a new chapter.”
“History will flip its own pages without any help from me.”
“Sign on,” he said, looking at me intently, “and you’ll win passage to Venice to find your wife and son.”
T
he French masts combed the sky like a line of dead timber, backlit by lanterns on the hills of Boulogne. The British ships were entirely dark, and we ghosted to attack on a light midnight breeze, planning to win the war not with blazing line of battle but secret weapons. The captains and sailors I met thought we inventors were eccentric at best and bound for bedlam at worst, but they were under orders to let us try.
Our mission was to set ablaze the line of ships guarding Boulogne, and then all the invasion craft inside the harbor. Our plan was to attack first with Fulton’s torpedoes, and then with volleys of Congreve’s rockets.
My job was to get things off to a rousing start.
It had taken nine agonizing months since returning to England to prove myself, lay new plans, and train for this mission, all the while with no word of my wife and son. I was wildly impatient to search for them, but Smith kept a close eye on me, and two warring nations stood in my way. So maybe this inventive warfare could end the conflict. My separation from Astiza had stretched to an eternity, but perhaps this night eternity would have an end.
Fulton built two pontoons connected by thwarts, with a long cylinder slung beneath that was packed with gunpowder. This was the torpedo. Each component floated, but lead sank this “catamaran” so that the top of the twin pontoons was barely above the surface of the water and the torpedo itself was entirely submerged to protect it from gunfire. Pasques and I straddled each pontoon like riders on horses, dressed in black with our faces coated with polish. Once released from our mother ship, we were to paddle with the tide to reach the anchor cable of a moored French naval vessel, tie on the torpedo, and paddle away.
“All that’s required is pluck and genius to reach the anchor cable undetected and set the clock ticking under the very eyes of the enemy,” Fulton told me after the catamaran was lowered over the side of the Johnstone’s
Phantom
, clunking ominously against its hull. “Having first landed and then escaped from France, you’ve demonstrated the skulking skills necessary. And your French companion there has strength.”
“I didn’t accomplish a thing. Pasques is helping out of desperation.”
“That’s because you didn’t have the aid of modern science, except for sympathetic ink. Now American ingenuity is on your side. We live in an age of invention and experimentation, and you’ve been chosen by fate to pioneer its wonders.”
Smith, who’d been rowed over from the flagship to witness our launching, seconded this endorsement by pumping my hand. “This time you have the chance to crush the entire invasion and write Nelson about how you did it, Gage. He’ll be wild with jealousy.” Smith and Nelson respected each other as warriors but were inevitable rivals for public acclaim. Nelson thought Smith a flamboyant and impractical dreamer, while Smith thought Nelson vain and annoyingly lucky, even though the admiral had lost an eye, a limb, his marriage, and any ounce of fat he’d once possessed.
“And why aren’t you paddling, Robert?” I asked the inventor.
“I’m the bow and you’re the arrow, Ethan. The quickest way back to Astiza is through the French fleet.” He pointed, as if I didn’t know which direction my renewed enemy was. “Start your lethal clockwork for love.”
So Pasques straddled one pontoon to prove himself to English service, and I straddled the other to end the damned war. If the invasion scheme could be foiled, Napoleon somehow toppled, Catherine captured, and peace returned, I could find my family without interference.
“Are you ready, Pasques?”
“More than you know, my friend.”
Once we got under way we said not a word, knowing how sound can carry across water. I pointed at a particularly promising dark shape, Pasques nodded, and we aimed our awkward craft at the warship’s anchor cable, which curved from its bow down into the dark sea. The French ships were anchored bow to stern to form a wall of cannon-studded wood. French land batteries flanked each side.
Our first problem was that the tide threatened to carry us past the intended anchor hawser, and only by digging in my paddle to pivot our ungainly craft at the last moment did I manage to snag the rope. Our stern kept swinging, so Pasques, who remained a poor swimmer, had to slide himself carefully forward to grasp the weedy cable in his big paws, holding us so we didn’t drift down on the enemy ship. I glanced up at the looming bluff of its bow. There was a knob up there that might be a sentry’s head, but no alarm was given. It was a cloudy night, and we were blotted out against a sea of ink. Or so I hoped.
It was eerie to rest there a moment. I could hear the creak of tackle, the mutter of French voices, and the slap of waves against hulls. I took quiet breaths as if it might make a difference. We hung just under the stern of the next ship in line, its stern windows a great bank of mullioned glass and the top of its rudder like the fin of a whale.
The rope to attach the torpedo to the ship’s cable was at the front of our contraption, so Pasques tied it off while I pried off a cover and set the timer.
“Have you set the fuse?” he whispered.
“It’s ticking.”
We had three minutes to escape.
When we pulled the pins to release each hull from the torpedo, they squealed.
“Qui est là?”
a lookout challenged.
Our catamaran came apart. The torpedo floated by itself. In theory, the line at its nose was just long enough to let it drift down on the ship. We backed with our paddles, my pontoon accidentally banging the explosive-filled coffer and making me wince. This was not as easy as it looked on Fulton’s diagrams.
A lantern lit.
“Anglais!”
There was a boom, and a foretop blunderbuss erupted, spraying an ark of musket balls at the shadow we made. Waterspouts sprang all around us, some bullets pinging off our lead-covered hulls.
“Merde
,
”
Pasques muttered.
Miraculously, we’d not been hit, but we were in it now. Shouts and bells sounded up and down the French line. Gunport doors lifted like lion mouths, and muzzles trundled forward to aim at British ships that couldn’t be seen yet. Muskets fired blindly into the dark, the stabs of light trying to find us. I dared not shout to my companion, but he was digging his paddle into the water as furiously as I was, both of us driving our separated pontoons that were as maneuverable as soggy logs. It felt like Napoleon’s entire navy and army were trying to take a bead on us.
The clockwork kept ticking.
Paddling as furiously as a Canadian voyageur, I seemed barely to budge a pontoon sheathed in metal and as easy to steer as a mule. I cursed that we hadn’t time to try this in England before our attack. The tide was carrying us down the French line even as we strove to work away from it. Our saving grace was that the current was so swift that the blind shooting was throwing up spouts of water well behind us now.
For an instant, I allowed myself hope. Maybe the crazy scheme would really work! I’d be a hero, Pasques would have a new country, and the British would send us on to look for Astiza, Harry, and a medieval artifact.
And then the Frenchman looked over his shoulder.
“The torpedo is following.”
I wrenched around. The bomb had somehow come loose from the anchor cable and was drifting merrily in our wake, almost keeping pace despite our furious paddling. It was only a hundred feet behind, as persistent as a duckling.
Ticking remorselessly.
“We need them to sink it!” I shouted in English. “Here! Shoot here!” I made a splash with my paddle.
“Imbecile!” my companion cried.
Cannon blasts erupted, the suck of their trajectory almost tipping me over. As a professional gambler, I was calculating that the torpedo was longer than my narrow silhouette and that such odds meant a cannonball might sink it before hitting me. There were slaps as several balls skipped off the waves. The French cannon flashes were answered by British ones. Both fleets lit up.
Sweet mother. We were caught in a crossfire.
I looked back. The torpedo was trailing as doggedly as a pet, a hundred and fifty feet back now but still drifting at a good clip. Huge plumes of water erupted around us. Lanterns and torches were being lit in the camps of Boulogne. I could hear bugles, bells, and the rumble of drums.
We’d got things off to a rousing start, but not in the way intended.
Then the torpedo blew up.
The ocean erupted. The explosion was gigantic, a geyser of water shooting upward as high as the French mastheads. The concussion sent out a clout of air that knocked both Pasques and me into the sea.
“Ethan!” The buffalo could barely float.
I could have abandoned him right then and struck out for the British, but that’s not my character. I’d recruited him to this madness and felt responsible for his carcass. So I swam in the policeman’s direction and found him thrashing, his pontoon lost in the dark. First Catherine Marceau, then the emperor, and now a floundering ox! I was becoming a regular Channel lifeguard. I came in behind so Pasques wouldn’t drown me with his flailing, reached across his shoulder to grasp his thick chest, and pulled him to me. I shouted in his ear. “I’ve got you! Lie still and I’ll float you!”
He kicked and thrashed instinctively. I half choked him. “Still, or you drown us both!” Finally, he quieted, floating sluggishly. Splashes continued to erupt all around us, metal screaming. Gunports flamed. Now what? The torpedo wasted, the French line intact, and the English fleet and Johnstone’s mothership half a mile of cold swimming away. If steering the catamaran had been awkward, towing Pasques was like dragging a barge.
The night was growing brighter. An ominous squadron of flaming English fireships bore down to engulf the French, but we’d failed to blast the hole they were intended to drift through. Flaming chips flew off the burning vessels as French cannonballs battered them. One, then two, began to sink. Behind, a flotilla of sloops, ketches, luggers, and longboats was sending up a barrage of Congreve rockets that drew scarlet arcs across the night. They were beautiful things, climbing into the sky and then scything down toward the French fleet like meteors. Hundreds of cannons were thumping in reply from the French shore. I could feel the beat of their blasts through the water.
The pontoons we’d been straddling had disappeared.
There was nothing we could do but swim for the French side. Maybe we could somehow slip by and sneak away on shore?
As we came between bow and stern of two thundering warships, Pasques waved his arm and exhaustedly shouted for help in French.
A péniche drifted to us, its crowd of anxious soldiers pointing their guns. My French companion reached and grasped its side. An officer peered at us.
“Gage? Is that you?”
General Duhèsme stared in disbelief at my exhausted face. Pasques floated like a bloated ox behind me.
“As a good double agent I’ve come to give warning,” I tried. “I’ve brought word from England that their savants are sending secret weapons against you.”
“That’s rather obvious, is it not?”
“Don’t listen to him!” Pasques said, coughing water. “It is I, Inspector Pasques, reporting to duty after sabotaging the British attack and capturing the notorious double agent and nefarious conspirator, Ethan Gage!”
“The devil you have. I just saved you.”
The policeman hung on the side of the péniche. “I cut loose the English torpedo from its attachment line while the idiot American wasn’t looking. I knew its explosion would toss us into the sea, and he’d be forced to rescue me. I’ve been looking to trap him since he kicked my balls in Notre Dame. Now I deliver you a turncoat and saboteur.”
Good heavens. The bastard switched sides as easily as I did, and looked smug about it, too. I suppose I should have been flattered by the imitation.
Duhèsme looked at us both in the water. “You’ve arrested Gage?”
“I brought him back from perfidious England.”
“It’s a sorry world when I’m more trustworthy than you,” I complained. “I deserve more loyalty, Pasques.”
“No, you don’t. The food was awful in Walmer Castle.”
The general looked from him, to me, and back again, finally shaking his head. “Excellent job, Inspector Pasques. And welcome back to France, Ethan Gage. While I enjoy your company, I suspect your treacheries have finally doomed you. You should have embraced one side, as I advised you.”
Rockets were crashing all around, most into the sea. Shouting French sailors were extinguishing those that hit a vessel. Their defensive line was holding.
I could hear rising cheers up and down the French line. The British must be drawing off. Our attack had failed.
Soldiers dragged me into the French boat, and the general regarded me with disappointment. “Don’t you know it is futile to oppose Bonaparte?”
“I wanted to go to Italy.”
“It is too late for that now.” The general glanced around as sailors beat at a score of fires. “So . . . would you rather be hanged, or shot?”
W
hat I lack in combat prowess and conspiratorial instinct I make up for in timing. I was saved from French execution by the emperor of Austria, or rather the decision by Francis II in August of 1805 to join Britain’s Third Coalition, declare war on France, and march for the Rhine. In an instant I turned from condemned spy to expendable emissary.
My destiny, it seemed, was to bounce endlessly between the two sides like a tennis ball in a king’s court, trusted by none and manipulated by all.
Thanks to the indecisiveness of French admiral Pierre de Villeneuve and the relentless pursuit of Villeneuve by British admiral Horatio Nelson, the last French opportunity to seize control of the Channel had been lost. Villeneuve claimed to have defeated Admiral Robert Calder in an inconclusive and foggy skirmish near Cape Finisterre in July, but followed up his “victory” by sailing away to refuge in Spain, an act of caution that infuriated Napoleon.
News of their navy’s failure, and the new Austrian threat, threw the army camps around Boulogne into frenzy. Even though Fulton’s torpedoes and Congreve’s rockets had not achieved any decisive result, Napoleon was forced to wheel his Army of England east to march for Germany and Austria. As his divisions departed, he got an idea to use me yet again. Instead of being shot I was being sent back to the enemy to keep England off-balance.
I was brought under guard to Bonaparte’s Boulogne pavilion again, which gave panoramic confirmation that the British attackers had drawn off and the French defenses were almost fully intact. Fulton’s and Congreve’s torpedoes and rockets had not proved decisive.
“Your diabolical attack was a failure, and Pasques has testified to your incompetence,” the emperor told me. “You’re lucky you were unsuccessful, Gage. Otherwise, I might have to make an example of you by executing you as a dangerous saboteur.”
“Yes, no need for that. I’m a simple sailor, fighting fair and square for passage to Venice.”
“Painted black and squatting in the water, as soulless as a snake? A sailor with no honor, I judge, with the manners of a murderer. Always I am tempted to shoot you, but your questionable character becomes useful when necessity intervenes. I need you to carry a message to the British Admiralty.” He glanced out the windows at the Channel waters, gray even on this day of August 29. “Besides, I haven’t forgotten you saved my life.” Napoleon had turned thirty-six two weeks before, more than eight months after his coronation.
“I haven’t, either,” I said, ignoring his insults and exhausted but vaguely hopeful at my reprieve. I’d caught Napoleon in a charitable mood. He was actually energized by the need to abandon his invasion plans and break camp. And why not? He’d been waiting for three tedious years for a chance to land a blow at his archenemy across La Manche, and his navy had delivered only frustration. Now he could fight a land war against the Austrians, the kind of scuffle he was comfortable with. “I only tried to blow up your fleet because I’m worried about my family.”
“Réal has briefed me about their escape, and how you put them in peril with your clumsy attempt to sabotage my coronation. Thanks to our double agent Catherine Marceau, we manipulated you instead of you manipulating us. Did you really think such a harebrained scheme could befuddle all of Europe?”
“We were led astray by bad advice from all sides. Say, do you know a fellow named Palatine, an elderly gentleman who scuttles about the catacombs?”
He didn’t bother to answer. Great men become accustomed to listening mostly to themselves. “Still, your temerity proved useful. My self-crowning became the talk of Europe. I’ve commissioned a painting of the dramatic moment. Maybe I’ll have David draw you in.”
“Looking resolute, I hope.”
“Surprised by my mastery. The painting is about me, not you.”
The fields around Boulogne were liquid with movement. The vast military camp was being dismantled, wagons loaded, arms slung, and regiment after regiment was tramping east. The terrifying threat of invasion was over! Villeneuve was hiding in the Spanish port of Cadiz, and the white cliffs of Dover remained as remote as the moon. Yet English ships dared not come closer, having been stung by the resolute French defense the night before. I’d hoped for peace, and here was stalemate. “Since I’ve failed so conveniently, would it be possible for you to send me in search of my family?”
“No. You can hunt for your relatives when my nation has secured a favorable cease-fire. I need a truce with Britain while I fight the Austrians, so I’m making you my special envoy. Our navies are disengaged, Nelson is reported to be sick, Villeneuve has betrayed my every plan, and no naval resolution is possible or necessary. You can save countless lives by telling England that my ambition to invade is over. Nelson can stand down. The game is a draw.”
Only over for the expedient moment, of course, and England would regard any truce as tantamount to a defeat. My mission was thus hopeless, and surely Napoleon must know this. So why was he sending me back to England? To buy time to keep his combined fleet of French and Spanish ships safe from British attack until the Austrian adventure was over. I was hardly worth a bullet to shoot, and even if I tangled only a few diplomatic threads, I might keep the naval contest in confusion until winter made a major showdown unlikely. So I’d use Napoleon as he was using me. I’d deliver any message he wanted and, rather than wait for a reply, demand passage to Venice from the English as reward for my heroic torpedo attack. I would squeeze everything I could from these scoundrels, and this time stay out of the line of fire and keep my money tucked under a mattress.
I am adept at making stern resolutions.
“Agreed,” I said, “but my investments have hit a rough patch. A diplomatic fee would let me better entertain key officials in London to press your case.”
“Always you are asking for money.”
“Your robes cost a hundred times what I need, and I did inadvertently make your coronation something of a triumph. I hope the Crown of Thorns has been put somewhere safe, by the way.”
He was a hard man with a budget. “No purse until you achieve a peace I desire. Then maybe France will vote you a medal.”
“I’d rather have some coins.”
“Ask your rich English friends!”
“Perhaps Pasques would care to accompany me?” I’d like to drag the rascal back to England and have him thrown into the Tower.
“The policeman has rehabilitated himself. He shrewdly led you on, all the while reporting to Réal.”
“Pasques is shrewd?” The possibility had never occurred to me. “Is there no one in France who can be trusted?”
“Only me, Ethan. I’m going to remake the world, elevating half of mankind and vanquishing the other. Which half will you choose?”
“The half that stays out of these quarrels entirely.”
“Impossible. Come to the globe and I will explain what you must explain to the damned English.”
We walked to a corner of the pavilion. A globe an impressive four feet in diameter had been installed since I last visited, broadening Bonaparte’s strategic aids from maps of southern England to a view of our planet. He turned it so that the Atlantic was in view.
“My admirals have failed me, Gage. Brueys, Bruix, Decrés, Ganteaume, Villeneuve, they’ve all disappointed one way or another. The strategic situation has always been simple.” His fingers jabbed. His hands are quite fine, and he’s proud of them. “Our fleet is scattered among several ports, and inferior when divided. Each harbor is penned by the British. But if we could ever combine, France could achieve temporary superiority in the Channel. An enemy that defends everything is spread so thin that it defends nothing, and the British are trying to defend all the world’s oceans. Yes, they have the better navy, but not necessarily the bigger navy in a single place at a single time. That’s the only secret to warfare.”
“Nelson is famous for concluding the same thing. At the Nile, he attacked just part of the French fleet so he was always outdueling your ships two to one.” I’d first met Nelson when his men fished me out of the Mediterranean following the Battle of the Nile. Even back in 1798, shot and shell from earlier battles had already left a sleeve empty and an eye sightless. He was relentless in action. When ordered to break off action at the Battle of Copenhagen, Nelson lifted his telescope to his blind eye in order to ignore the signal. He was a ruthless glory hound, but also a man who endured constant pain and chronic seasickness. England used his ambition to drain him.
“Perhaps Latouche-Tréville would have had the courage to take on Nelson,” Napoleon said. “He was my best ocean officer, but had the temerity to die. Now Villeneuve cowers. Two weeks’ superiority! That’s all I asked. But Villeneuve continually worries about what Nelson is going to do, rather than forcing Nelson to worry about what Villeneuve is going to do. This is a fatal error. By trying not to lose, you guarantee that you cannot win. Imagination deserts you. So now my men march toward Vienna instead of London. The gods of history shake their heads in disbelief.”
“I’m sure your admirals did their best.”
“My plan was brilliant. Villeneuve escaped Toulon when a gale drove off Nelson’s blockade. He met our Spanish allies and led Nelson merrily across the Atlantic to the sugar isles of the Caribbean. We had the ships to seize British islands and outduel the English fleet! But the coward lost his nerve. So he scampered back across the Atlantic to Europe. Even then, if Villeneuve had joined Ganteaume at Brest, we could have thrown more than sixty ships of the line into La Manche, outnumbered the English two to one, and conquered London. Eighty ships, if our Dutch allies joined us. And what did Villeneuve do? Break off the action with Calder and retreat to Spain. This is why I’m not shooting you, Gage. Your petty treacheries are nothing compared to the incompetence of my admirals.”
“It’s good to put things in perspective.”
“Villeneuve says his ships are in poor repair and his crews are tired and sick. Men are always tired and sick in war. This is why I must replace the imbecile.”
“So your fleet was bottled up in southern France at Toulon and now, after thousands of miles of sea voyages and a victory over the English, it’s bottled up in southwestern Spain? Just to make the problem clear.”
“You’re a strategist, Gage, smarter than the fool you play.”
“I try to see things clearly.” I was wary of giving advice, however. Sometimes it’s taken. Too much responsibility.
“So bring your perspective to the British. I know they’re as weary of blockading us as we’re weary of being blockaded. I suggest a truce. I’ll call off my invasion plans if they call off their blockade. My ships will stay in port. My invasion craft will rot in harbor. London will be saved. If they leave me to deal with the Continent, I’ll leave them to deal with the sea.”
I was doubtful. Once a navy assembles ships, it longs to use them. And yet, perhaps I
could
broker a truce. The war was ruinously expensive. Avoiding a climactic final battle would save thousands of lives, dozens of ships, and millions of pounds and francs. Napoleon was offering, in effect, to divide up the world. The English had feared the anarchy of the French Revolution, but this new emperor had ended it, making himself a new kind of king. Why not let him have his way on land if the British got the oceans and trade?
I gave an obedient smile, marveling at how fortune can turn. The night before I’d been cannonaded by two navies. Today I was envoy for an emperor. “I’ll suggest it.”
Napoleon put his hands on my shoulders, squeezing until I winced. “Convince Nelson to stand down. Balance accounts, make peace, and then go looking for this wife of yours. Serve France, and you serve yourself.”
“I’ll do my best. Say, if I can’t get more money, would a proper suit of diplomatic clothing at least be possible?”
