The Tide Watchers (27 page)

“No need for threats, Commander,” Fulton interrupted, sober. “Elise is a lady. I will treat her as such at all times.”

Duncan stilled. “I understand.”

And, damn it, he did.

Fulton nodded once and left the tent without a farewell. Detente declared, each getting something he wanted. Neither trusting the other an inch. Lisbeth both their neutral ground and their battleground.

Left alone, Duncan didn't unroll his blanket; sleep was more impossible than ever now. Assassination, invasion, and war crept closer with each sunrise, a few men and one brave girl attempting to hold back the tide with a small underwater boat.

Neufchâtel-Hardelot, Channel Coast, France

September 27, 1802

Y
OUR PAPERS AND PERMISSION
to enter Boulogne-sur-Mer,
s'il vous plaît,
monsieur.” The soldier held his hand out.

Now neatly bearded with foppish curls and wearing the latest in clothing for the rising businessman in France, Camelford kept his face in the shadows. Much as he hated taking the advice of an impertinent Cockney boy, he had little choice. “Marcus.”

The cabin boy hopped down from the box, his face inquiring. Aching to yell at someone, or to scratch this beard that disguised his features, Camelford made himself wave a languid hand.

Mark spoke in rapid French. In seconds, the soldiers' suspicions softened. Aylsham's Cockney boy had been right—again—and Camelford gnashed his teeth.

He didn't object to low-class boys cleaning chimneys or sweeping streets. He didn't mind Frogs if they lived in France. But his blood boiled when he remembered he couldn't find out where to kill Boney without that bloody ugly French nobody Fouché, who had the nerve to call himself a spymaster. Camelford burned alive every time little Frog soldiers blocked his path here, demanding his papers as if they were somebody. And the mere thought of strutting little Corsican soldiers taking over the French army, and then walking into the rightful position of kings . . .

But by far the worst indignity was being forced to leave this ill-bred, rude-spoken Cockney cabin boy to deal with the soldiers every few miles.

None would
dare
question him this way in England; a mention of his name and title and he passed almost anywhere. Entry to most other
places could be bought—apart from insipid, death-by-marriage places he'd never attend, like Almack's Assembly Rooms. He'd marry one day, but not to some frightened little debutante in a white dress and pearls. His cousin Hester Stanhope was intrepid, deeply interested in the politics of the day—and half a Pitt. She'd already rebelled against her stupid revolutionary father, Earl Stanhope. She was perfect. She'd broken it off with him once, but he hadn't given up hope yet.

But he couldn't get home until he'd killed Boney—that jumped-up Corsican usurper calling himself the first consul. But how the hell was he supposed to kill the strutting little martinet if he couldn't get into Boulogne? He hated needing Mark. It
infuriated
him.

“Your papers and permission, Monsieur Jaulin?” the soldier asked, with more respect than he'd shown before the cabin boy's interference. Damn the boy . . . Camelford pulled out the set of stolen papers from Aylsham's ship and passed them over.

“Is everything in order?” he asked after a minute. “I have important business to conduct in Boulogne for the first consul.”

The young man flushed and returned his papers. “
Oui,
monsieur, all is well. You are related to the Jaulin shipping family in Boulogne?”

“Would I be here if I was not?” The impudent bastard frowned at his tone, and Mark frowned from behind him and mouthed,
Apologize
. Damned if he would! “My brick is cold and I am tired. I have important business, and this is the third barrier I've encountered today.”

“
Oui,
Monsieur Jaulin.” The young soldier sounded chastened.

Camelford turned his gaze ahead, refusing to acknowledge the soldier's farewell wave. He was too busy stifling the urge to kill them all . . . especially Mark. But he'd got inside Boulogne-sur-Mer, and that was all that counted. From now on, he'd take control of matters.

Tethered to land by four ells of long rope tied to iron stakes was the tiny submersible Fulton had pulled from beneath the water and
into the small, deep cave beneath a short cliff. “This is
Papillon,
” he said with unmistakable pride, lifting the lantern. “I made her myself by hand, after the model created by David Bushnell. Mine is a little wider and taller, so it can accommodate two.”

Mouth parted in amazement, Lisbeth walked around the little submersible boat, hardly caring that her dress and boots were wet from the incoming tide. Almost onion shaped, the little craft looked like a fat wine barrel, with tight-packed dark beams and brass coopering around her top, bottom, and middle. He'd opened the entrance hatch directly on top of the craft, with horseshoelike stairs made of beaten iron leading to it. A rudder was a third of the way down on one side, two propellers nearby, one above it, one below. An odd-looking contraption, a twisted piece of metal Fulton called the torpedo-attaching screw, sat sticking out beside the hatch. The air tube was like the end of a trumpet emerging from inside the observation dome, a foot above the hatch, but Fulton had modified it so it could be pushed higher from inside. Two small rounded windows curved around the brass at the top of the observation dome.

“The windows make it possible to view the outside world when we are at the surface,” he explained when he saw her staring at them. “I am trying to make some form of movable telescope so I can see from beneath the waves. Come, my dear, and I'll take you on a voyage such as you've never known before.” Taking her by the hand, he led her around the craft to the horseshoe steps. “Take your time and do not fear, I am right behind you.”

She was wet to the knees by the time she worked up the courage to set a foot on the bottom rung—and she understood why Fulton had insisted on her wearing her oldest dress and highest boots for this journey.

“I will help you.” With his supporting hand at the small of her back, her confidence grew, and she took the next step. The next she took alone.

Soon she was looking down into the craft that would take her beneath the ocean.

“Courage, Elise,” Fulton said softly. “I know you have enough to spare. Swing your feet in, and drop down onto the bench. There's a pole inside for you to hold on to for balance.”

Drawing a slower breath, she put one foot inside the hole, and the other. Sitting at the hatch's opening, she breathed again, and dropped down.

Holding the pole, she sat, looking around in wonder. There were levers and cranks and other contraptions, making space limited. She wouldn't be able to stand up straight once the hatch was closed, especially with the little wheel beneath to lock it from inside.

Fulton soon dropped down beside her, proud as a new father. “Isn't she wonderful?”

Awed, she nodded. “How did you manage to get this all the way out here?”

He didn't look at her as he released the quadruple-plaited ropes and unfurled the black sail. Then the tide did its work; like a little sailboat,
Papillon
flew ahead with the wind. “I . . . had it moved when I first came to Ambleteuse.”

Fulton really dislikes the commander
. There was a downward slant to his mouth and displeasure in his eyes just thinking of how the submersible had been moved. To soothe him, she asked, “But how does this boat sink?”

“I'll show you, once we're in deep waters.”

This is my mission.
She nodded and waited, but her stomach quivered with nerves.

Once they'd reached open waters, he packed up the sail and closed the hatch. “Now I'll show you the pump.”

Without fresh air, Lisbeth held her stomach with both hands, fighting the roiling.

“Here, my dear.” From his pocket Fulton fished out a small sack and held out a thin white stick. “It's a confectioner's treat, made to my special order. It's flavored with chamomile, peppermint, and wintergreen. You suck on it to relieve
mal de mer
. The first few times inside a submersible boat can be a nightmare for the uninitiated. If
these don't work, I have others made with ginger and chamomile.”

With a smile of real gratitude, she took the sticks—and to her surprise, they did help the nausea to subside.

“To submerge
Papillon,
you use the pump to bring seawater into storage tanks set in the keel. It's hollow beneath our feet.” Fulton worked the little, fat pump, and the submersible sank smoothly downward. “The weight of the water makes us drop farther below the waves.”

A single lantern lit the entire cavern. She was inside a fat little barrel dropping beneath the ocean. The tight-packed wooden beams lined the copper-riveted outer shell, held in place on the inside by bent ribs of dark wood and more copper, the coopering holding everything together.

Fulton moved two of the levers and cogs, explaining which was a propeller and a rudder.

The windows of the observation dome were half the size of portholes in a ship, and useless to see anything underwater. The little chamber was heating up fast, though the night was cold and the waters almost frozen. Lisbeth's wet legs were warming so fast she tossed off her cape.

There were ropes coming out from each end of the pipe. A single hook hung from the pipe, holding the lantern in the exact center of the chamber, to throw light in every direction and keep the lantern away from anything that could burn.

“How do we go back up?” Knowing this felt vital to keeping from panic.

“To resurface,” Fulton corrected as he worked the pump lever up and down, “I let the water out again by moving the lever in the opposite direction.”

She shook her head. “You're truly ingenious, m'sieur.” She was
beneath the sea
. It was unnatural and terrifying—yet there was an element of vivid
life
in this courting of death.

Fulton worked levers to make the boat move. “The original genius doesn't belong to me. David Bushnell's was the first working ‘turtle.' During the American Revolution, he attempted to use barrel bombs
to sink British ships—but he didn't invent the idea of filling the keel. Leonardo da Vinci worked on submersible boats, but a sixteenth-century English innkeeper named Bourne thought of bringing water into the keel to make the capsule submerge.”

It was time to do more than passively learn what she could. “How can I help?”

“We need balance. Stay there for now.” Fulton grinned at her. “It's exciting, isn't it?”

“Amazing.” She stared wide-eyed at everything. “Terrifying. Wonderful.”

“I've lost that awed feeling.” He sounded wistful. “The first few times, it was like I engaged in hand-to-hand combat against the sea. I felt so alive.”

That was
it
. She'd never felt so alive as this moment.

“But I needed to change perspective. Twice the windows of
Nautilus
broke after the barrel exploded too close.
Nautilus
is heavy and sinks quickly. We had to escape and swim to the surface or drown.
Papillon,
being lighter, will take longer to sink.” He chuckled, as though risking their lives was a joke.

“See the propeller cranks behind you? Turn only the lower one.” He prompted her gently, “Elise, turn the crank. We need to be moving before I consult the compass.”

Lisbeth snapped her mouth shut, found the crank, and turned it without knowing what she did, for only three words pounded in her brain.
I can't swim.

If there were another accident today, her heavy skirts would pull her down. This frigid black water would be her grave. An anonymous death, soon forgotten.

Two years ago the girl she'd been had despised the conventional things in life. She'd wanted to save the world, or at least
see
it as the men in her family had. But now, locked inside a floating tomb, the last shreds of her wanderlust dissolved; the child Lisbeth waved her final farewell. All she wanted was an ordinary life with her baby.

But what if war came and the commander needed her for other
missions? His promises might never come to fruition. She could be stuck in France for years, with no papers, no way to save Edmond, no friends apart from Fulton, and no way home.

Home.
She wanted a home of her own—her baby, and a husband who valued her—but that was for a distant future. If she didn't concentrate, she could die tonight without seeing Edmond or holding him again. Mama might never hold her grandson.

“Elise, the mechanism is delicate. Your movements must be smooth and constant.”

Fulton's admonition pierced her consciousness like a honed knife. She jerked to a stop as cold crept through her veins like the cobwebs of a spider in the snow. She panted as if she'd run a race.

“Smooth and constant,” Fulton repeated very gently.

Refocusing again, she said, “I beg your pardon, m'sieur. I-I was thinking . . .”

“It's natural to think of life when you understand how easily you could lose it. Even to think of painful memories reminds you you're still alive.”

“Yes.” The word grated from her throat.

As if emphasizing Fulton's words,
Papillon
bucked. Gasping, they both grabbed the pole, even though the ropes around their waists anchored them to their seats. “I warned you that would happen.” Though he was even kinder now than before, Fulton didn't look at her—and she wondered whether it was sexual disappointment, or if he really cared for her.

Boulogne-sur-Mer

October 25, 1802

N
O, ME LORD, I
keep
tellin'
yer, you can't go out into the town no-how. Someb'dy killed me poor mate Peebles t'other week. There's bully boys runnin' round in Frog getups, demandin' papers off everybody and lookin' for foreigners.” He pronounced it
furriners
. “You'd blow yer chimney piece and lob off some bleeder's head for sure. I'm just a little fella. Nobody's lookin' at me. I can get just about anywhere you need.”

Interned at an inn in the old town high above the harbor, Camelford glared at Mark. This had been going on for weeks now. Stuck inside this second-rate inn, eating in his rooms, pretending to be sick, while the boy came and went at will. The impertinent brat loved to bring him information, proving his worth, believing he'd become indispensable—that he'd become one of Camelford's permanent staff when he returned to London.

There was no chance of that. All those in his employ were respectful of their lord, very well aware of their station in life, and grateful for everything given them.

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.

“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?”