The Tide Watchers (28 page)

Boulogne-sur-Mer, Channel Coast

October 28, 1802 (Afternoon)

T
HE
SOUS-PRÉFET
OF BOULOGNE-SUR-MER
looked up when a quick hard knock came at his office door, rather than the usual polite scratching. “Enter,” he said curtly.

His brows lifted when his secretary came in carrying a skinny, red-haired urchin in dirty clothing, his chest covered in blood. “
Citoyen
Masclet, this boy collapsed outside the building a few minutes ago. He insists on speaking to you before seeing the doctor.”

With distaste, Masclet noticed the lower-class clothing—a coach or boot boy—and the blood dripping onto his new carpet, but he waved his hand. “Speak, child.”

The boy opened eyes bright with suffering. “I was coach boy for Monsieur Jaulin,” he gasped, confirming Masclet's belief. “He's gone to kill the first consul.”

“Why?” Masclet didn't waste words. It didn't look like the boy had many left.

“Jaulin's papers are faked. He's Camelford. I saw his papers. That's why he stabbed me.”

“Where has he gone?” Masclet asked urgently. The name alone was enough to know this was the assassination attempt he'd been warned of. That mad Baron Camelford—

But the boy's head lolled on the secretary's shoulder, pale unto death.

He'd get no more from him in time. “Call a doctor for the child, and return. Make certain he has a room made up for him filled with every comfort until he recovers or dies.” He crossed to the desk to write an urgent message to be taken to the Camps de Boulogne.

The old coach bypassing Boulogne-Sur-Mer on the Dieppe-Calais road was plain, with two horses pulling it. The suspension on the wheels was poor, the squabs shabby. The man riding inside the coach smiled. He'd roughed it on too many campaigns to care, and no locals or travelers that passed the coach on the road gave it a second glance.

Napoleon had left Dieppe in his opulent coach—former consul Sieyes's favorite—pulled by matching chestnuts. He'd refused a new coach and horses on becoming France's sole leader. To waste funds on vanities when France was in such financial hardship was political suicide.

Two miles past the second checkpoint, he'd sent the coach back to Saint-Cloud, including his military trumpeters, his Swiss Guard, and armed outriders. One of his guards was of similar height and build. He wore his lord's clothing now and sat in the beautiful coach heading for Paris, while Napoleon climbed into the badly sprung coach awaiting him. His two favored drivers changed into the attire of ordinary coachmen and jumped up into the box. They'd picked up two new passengers another five miles up the road. Those two looked out each window while Bonaparte kept his well-known face out of sight.

So far as anyone knew, the first consul was returning to Paris. The spies who dogged his every step had been interrogated at the checkpoint behind Napoleon. Not having seen the exchange, they would catch up with and follow his splendid coach when it turned off onto the Amiens-Paris road. They'd only know the deception when it was too late. They'd only know the significance of Boulogne-sur-Mer when it was far too late.

“Pont-de-Briques ahead, my lord,” Mynatt announced, and with a sigh, Napoleon saw his favorite villa come into view. He wondered where his new assassins were at this moment. It looked like snow was coming.

Bivouacked in a gully amid the sand hills to the west of the Calais-Boulogne road in the deep night, Duncan was woken by a movement. He rolled out of the blankets and got into a crouching position, knife in his hand. Someone was pulling at the laces tying the tent flaps together. “Who's there?”

“It's me, lad.” A lantern lifted, and he saw Alec Stewart's face. “I'm glad you're already here near the road.”

Something in his voice alerted Duncan. Stewart would never compromise a mission by coming here without strong need. “What's wrong? Have you heard from Cal? Is it the child?”

Stewart smiled. “I did hear from Cal, as a matter of fact. Cal.”

Cal's face appeared behind Alec's. “The child's still safe, never fear,” he whispered, “but I met with my former friends the Jacobins two days ago. Furious at Delacorte, and without direction from Fouché, they told me about the plot here. I thought you might need my help.”

“And thank God for that,” Alec said. “Four of my men disappeared from their stations. They've been following the Gaillards, O'Keefe, and the other three conspirators the past few weeks, but now they've all disappeared. Boney's people raided Raoul Gaillard's cottage in Lille and found a cache of weapons, but nothing else. My men have had to leave the region—they were seen and described.”

Cal said, “It seems Camelford's here somewhere. They put up a five-hundred-franc reward just today for the capture of a man matching his description.”

Duncan was up and pulling on his boots. “We have to stop him, and anyone else who shows up. Unfortunately, there's also a problem with calling in my men.”

No experienced spy needed an explanation. Cal swore. “Then we're in the basket. D'ye suspect a double agent or a Frog?”

“I wish I knew. Alec's intercepted semaphore gave me some direction, but he's hiding himself well.”

“Things must be improving if you're calling me by my name at last.” Alec winked.

Duncan rolled his eyes, shook his head. “I've put my longest-serving men on the task of working out who was on duty during the exact time you intercepted the semaphore. I have seven on that semaphore duty on rotation. Since I began suspecting my men I've had two men on at once, one to code and one to be sure nothing is added or left out. But during the shift in question, there were four men on forecastle duty, all with conflicting stories as to why they switched places before the bell tolled. I have seven men I trust, but three are already on assignment.”

Cal swore again. “We'll have to take our chances with the ones you trust and hope to God we don't discover our rat on the road. Boney stayed in Dieppe last night, and several plain coaches also entered Dieppe overnight. I believe he'll switch out coaches and come here today.”

Duncan nodded. “I'll call my most trusted men in. Help me pack up the tent.”

The coach swerved around the corner, avoiding another rut in the back road. Napoleon barely noticed. He was a soldier who'd slept on the ground on bivouac with his men, led them into the hardest of sorties. A bad coach was nothing.

Just then the heavens let loose with a sudden, hard snowfall.

If I were going to assassinate me, it would be now,
he thought calmly.

Two minutes later a thud came on the ceiling. “My lord, there's blood staining the snow beside the road. I think it's a man,” his coachman—both drivers were fully trained soldiers—reported by hanging sideways off the box until his snow-flaked face was near the window.

“
Bien. Merci,
Mynatt.” He turned to the trained sharpshooters inside the coach with him. “Take him if he's alive.”

One of the men jumped from the coach. After a brief inspection, he kicked the body in the male parts. “He's dead, my lord, but not for long.” The man climbed back in, shivering. “The blood was cool, not frozen. The snow's covered the tracks.”

“
Bien.
” Were the conspirators falling out? Or had someone else entered the game? Camelford was the kind of arrogant inbred who'd kill a man for getting in the way of his plans, and he was stupid enough to be caught. “Keep on the lookout for any traces.”

The sharpshooters reconnoitered the area. “Sorry, my lord, but it's impossible to know without a thorough search, and this terrain would take hours now it's snowing.”

Yes . . . the terrain was bad for him, but
bonne
chance
for his enemies. Yet the mounting odds only made Bonaparte think better, react faster. He tapped on the coach to move forward. “Be prepared for attack.”

In the middle of a sudden snowstorm so intense that Fulton had spent the afternoon in the stable repairing
Nautilus,
a knock came at the kitchen door.

The white afternoon was softening to the indeterminate gray of pretwilight as Lisbeth scrubbed the kitchen table and butcher's block. Who could it be? In almost two months nobody had ever come here, and it wasn't likely to be the commander at the back door, not this day of all days. He had to be off somewhere foiling the assassination attempt . . . if there really was one.

Well, whoever it was, she felt some relief that she wouldn't have to
think
about Fulton's proposal for a little while—then her heart began pounding. What if it was—?

Don't be stupid. Alain wouldn't knock at the door.

Still, she slipped a cutting knife into her apron before she went to open the door.

A rail-thin stranger stood in the doorway facing her. His cheeks
were rough and red from walking through the snow. He wore a uniform of the French Army, but it was dirty and ragged, like his cloak. He had an uncertain smile and an empty sleeve where his arm had been. Covered in snow, he shifted from one foot to the other. “Mamselle, I-I have not eaten in some time . . . if you have anything, bread and cheese, or milk . . . ?”

The stranger couldn't look at her, but swayed on his feet.

“Oh, come in, m'sieur.” Taking his only arm, she led him to a chair by the fire and dragged the small table over so he could lean on it. “I made soup. There is plenty left.”

She laid an extra log on the fire, set the soup back to heat, and added the teakettle to the wide fire hook. Then she cut bread and took the butter from the pantry.

“Thank you so much for your kindness, mamselle. I-I do not like . . .”

She turned her head to smile at him. “I understand, m'sieur. If we cannot share what we have with a fellow man in need in these dangerous times, what sort of persons have we become?”

His return smile was no more than a humiliated stretching of lips. “I am Serge Mareschal, late of the Armée Française.” He waved his hand at his empty sleeve. “Now, I am nothing.”

Knowing how she hated pity, she forced it from her tone. “Don't say that, M. Mareschal. We are not defined by what we do or how we appear.” Knowing it for a lie—every society had hypocritical standards—she stumbled on, “All of us have value to our families, to our country, and to God.”

Mareschal shook his head, but didn't speak.

“I am Elise Dupont.” She sketched a dipping curtsy and made the tea. As she served him she asked, “Do you have a family, m'sieur?”

“My son is three and my daughter is five, and a third on the way,” he replied, in a tone of shame, wolfing down the food. Then he looked up, flushing dark red. “If-if you have some more soup to spare . . .”

“I will give you what I can.” Stifling a yawn—it had been weeks since she'd slept the night through, and now Fulton's proposal filled her
mind in quiet hours—she waved off his humiliated gratitude. “I have bread, cheese, meat, and milk as well as soup.” Another yawn; she felt slow and stupid. “All I ask is that you return the basket and stone jars. These are not my things to give. I'm merely the housekeeper here.”

After he'd eaten, Mareschal said, “I'll impose no further on your hospitality, mamselle.” Then he mumbled, “I am truly sorry, but I was given no choice . . .”

He stamped his feet, and two men rushed in from the back door. As Lisbeth screamed and tried to pull out the knife, they hit her on the side of her head. Her legs lost their power, and she sagged. Powerful arms took hold of her and dragged her from the house as everything went dark.

Fort Vauban, Ambleteuse Beach

October 29, 1802 (Afternoon)

S
WEAT BEADED LISBETH'S BROW
despite the intense cold of the room. It was ridiculous; she certainly didn't feel hot after being carried through a heavy dumping of snow without even being covered with her cloak. The soldiers who invaded the house had brought her to this old fort on the beach she'd passed so many times on her walks and left her in this half-frozen room in a chair far from the fire. Her hair was damp, her dress wet, and she couldn't get warm. The room was late medieval with its high, uneven whitewashed walls and thick, heavy beams. Wind whistled in from poorly fit windows and cracks in the walls.

“Madame, I asked you three questions. I expect answers.”

Lisbeth met the colonel's eyes, and for the third time, gave the same answer. “My name is Elise Dupont. I moved here recently from Abbeville.”

For a long minute Colonel Lebrun, a graying, portly man, just watched her. He was seated at a lopsided desk, his back close to the fire. “And the rest?”

She held in the urge to sigh. If this was Bonaparte's idea of a military interrogation, he needed to train his people better. “I don't know any Monsieur Borchonne. I am just a housekeeper, m'sieur.”

Lebrun seemed unmoved by her deliberate stupidity. “When the sun rises, you'll be escorted to Boulogne for more formal questioning. Best if you speak to me now, you know. It gives you a chance,” he said, his would-be encouragement touched with a calculating expression. “Because you see, if you're found to be in collusion with Jacobin or British spies, madame, you can expect the guillotine.”

Lying amid the sand grass less than two miles north of the Camps de Boulogne,
Camelford saw the coach heading his way. Right on time, exactly when and where Fouché had told him to be. Now all he had to do was lie still and wait.

He'd always found simple plans were the best. Such as killing a loudmouthed, red-haired thorn in his side to leave no traces behind of his weeks in Boulogne, or paying a struggling merchant today to take him out of Boulogne, smuggled in his carriage. Simple, effective, and the merchant's family would get a thousand francs in lieu of his safe return. He'd been a pig of a man in any case, chewing food with his mouth open, and spraying chunks of it on Camelford as he spoke. Such mannerless apes deserved death. No doubt his family would be grateful to him.

It was time; the coach was close enough. Squinting through the thickest grass he'd found in the field, he lifted one of four rifles he had with him and shot the front horse.

“We found no record of your life in Abbeville, Madame Dupont. Tell us why that is.”

Lisbeth tried to make her mind work, but she felt as if she'd run for miles. Her heart was fluttering like a bird in a cage it couldn't break. “I don't come from there.” She heard the quiver in her voice. “I come from Bergerac, in the Dordogne.”

“If you're from the Dordogne, why do you have a northern accent?”

“I . . . cultivated it.” She switched accents, speaking in pure Aquitaine French. Once more she blessed Grand-mère's “French accent” games. “My husband is violent”—she touched her scarred cheek—“and gives his mistress children. I am not barren, m'sieur, merely neglected. I can't go back to a man who despises me and refuses to give me a child.”

She'd selected her reason carefully during her sleepless nights. Violence was no reason to leave a husband in the eyes of the law, but Catholic traditions prevailed despite the Revolution. For a man to refuse to give even a hated wife a child went against the laws of God.

Yes, she'd chosen well. The uncertainty was clear in Lebrun's eyes.

“May I ask why you felt it necessary to check my background, m'sieur?” The fear in her voice wasn't feigned. “Is my husband trying to find me?”

“Madame, you are safe,” the colonel said in a crisp tone. “The first consul has asked us to interrogate every person recently come to the region.” At that moment a man ran into the room with a note. The colonel read it and looked up. She shivered at his expression.

“I require knowledge about your employer.” His voice was gentle; the look in his eyes, inflexible. “What is he working on in his stables with his odd-smelling smoke and his portable forge? We have already ascertained that his name is not Monteaux. I believe the American inventor Robert Fulton is reclusive and speaks fluent French.”

She shivered, as if he'd thrown cold water over her. Her head still pounded from the blow she'd taken in the kitchen, making her slow and stupid.

The colonel smiled: a chilling thing. It seemed Napoleon had trained his men well, after all. “What do you know about the death of Jean LeClerc, Madame Dupont? Or should I say, Madame Delacorte—formerly Elizabeth Sunderland, known as the British whore of Abbeville?”

Then he crossed the room and leaned over her, still with that smile that promised a more frightening future than a mere physical attack. “Now,
Elizabeth,
you'll start telling the truth.”

A shot took out a lead horse. As it fell the others neighed and reared.

The coach tipped to the right. The sharpshooters fell to the floor of the coach, dropping their rifles. Bonaparte threw his weight onto
the left side of the coach, dragging one of the shooters with him. The weight was enough to make the coach fall to wavering balance—

Boom!
Another shot sounded. Mynatt cried out and fell off the box.

Men fell in war; it was a soldier's reality. But Bonaparte prayed for
le bon Dieu
to keep his friend Mynatt alive. “Keep going, Beaumont,” he yelled to the other driver.

Beaumont yelled, “I can't, my lord, the lead horse is dead.”

A shot whizzed by his ear. If he hadn't had the glass removed yesterday, he could have been dead, injured, or panicking.

A good plan, this.
Simple and effective. They were prepared for me to fight.

Keeping in the shadows, the first consul—still a soldier first and foremost—snatched up a rifle, took aim, and shot. Having practiced since his teen years, he could shoot straight even in gathering darkness and under unsteady conditions. The man rolled in time and grabbed a second rifle. Recognizing the face, Napoleon snatched up another rifle, took aim, and fired. His attacker cried out and dropped the rifle, his shooting arm made useless.

Bonaparte kicked his sharpshooters. “Take that man alive.”

FROG-MARCHED TO THE COACH
by the sharpshooters that had rendered his arm useless with a single shot through the muscle—if he knew which one had shot him, he'd
kill
him—Camelford faced the man he loathed above all others. Before he could look down his nose at the Corsican piece of gutter trash, the two soldiers pushed him—
Camelford
—onto his knees.

Boney smiled down at him. “We meet again, Lord Camelford. Your cousin Mr. Pitt will be glad to know you've been recovered safely. You will be returned home . . . at a price.” The smile grew. “Last time there was no public consequence. Now, I will not be so forgiving. You will become famous throughout France and England as the man who couldn't kill Napoleon Bonaparte
twice
. The name Pitt will be synonymous with failure throughout England.”

Twitching, Camelford's gaze shifted. Bonaparte had had expert marksmen in the coach with him. Such a departure from his usual
method of aping Caesar or William the Conqueror, always needing to take the lead himself, showed a brilliance Camelford never thought he'd have to prepare for. A man so lowborn and lacking in gentility could be an excellent soldier, but when had he become such a brilliant tactician?

And a gutter-trash cabin boy had warned him that Boney would do something like this, damn his eyes! It was against the will of God that the lower orders outthink their betters. It was
intolerable
. Either the devil was with him, or Boney had a highborn Englishman in his pay . . . it was the only logical explanation, and he'd find out who, as soon as he returned to England.