David Golemon: Leviathan

To the United States Navy — the cooperation received from some nameless individuals was invaluable.

To the kind folks at General Dynamics — without their valuable insight into the future of submarines, this book could not have been written.

For Nicole Verdone and many, many others who keep this author grounded in reality.

Three years in darkness. Since Napoleon's coup in 1799, Roderick Deveroux had been imprisoned at Chateau d'If for refusing to reveal the secrets of his magical and mysterious designs for seagoing warfare. Without a trial — without so much as a word from his captors or his jailers — he was cast into the old castle's dungeons with the other supposed enemies of France. The fates of his young wife and father were as bleak to him as his own future.

Three years ago the new emperor himself had begged Deveroux for the designs, drawings, and mathematical calculations for his newest ships. The emperor had asked for them, then pleaded, and then finally threatened, but still Deveroux had refused to give the brutish little man what he desired: the design for an oil-fired ship that could drive the implacable British navy — the most powerful force in the world — from the surface of the seas.

As Deveroux lay against the cold wall of his cell, he could hear the sea far below crashing against the rocks of the small island. Roderick Deveroux knew his prison walls were coming very close to driving him insane.

The small door at the base of his cell opened, and his daily ration of meat and bread was pushed through atop a rusty plate. The meat was good, rich, and ripe, as Napoleon would not be pleased if his great prize died of malnutrition before he received the gift that would secure his place as master of the world.

The meal delivery was the same routine as always — he waited for the prison guard to close the trap before he allowed himself to move. This time however, the door remained open. Deveroux allowed his eyes to move toward the door and the still shadow beyond.

"Doctor, there is news from the outside. Perhaps after you hear it you will finally deliver to the emperor that which he desires."

Deveroux didn't move from the damp, moss-covered corner of the cell. He watched and waited.

"Your father has been executed for his monarchist leanings. It was done publicly in Paris."

Deveroux lowered his head and tried to bring to mind the face of his father, but found his memory failed him. His throat refused to work as he tried to swallow. His eyes filled with tears and he raised a hand to his bearded face and covered his mouth, biting his lip to keep the guards from hearing his anguish. The thought came suddenly to his mind and the question was out before he could stop it.

"My… my wife… is she—" He croaked the first words he had spoken in more than six months.

"Your wife? You fool, she committed suicide last year because she could not face the humiliation of your treason."

Deveroux wanted to scream but would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him break. Instead, he again bit his lower lip until blood oozed from his mouth, and then he buried his face in his hands. He remembered— they told me she was dead with my unborn child in her womb .

His decision was now an easy one. He would rather die than continue on in life without his family. As his tears dried, his eyes seemed to burn. He grunted to let the guard know he was there and listening. Then he rolled to one side, and slowly and cautiously slid the plate of beef toward him. He swatted the meat and bread from the plate and then harshly felt the edge of the thick tin in the darkness. He was afraid he wouldn't find what he was seeking, and then his trembling fingers found it — the outer lip of the plate had been worn to a sharp edge.

"The new emperor seeks my knowledge… still?" he asked.

"Seeks? He demands it, fool," the voice said from the far side of the cell door.

With shaking hands he slid his finger across the sharp edge of the plate once more, bringing the sensation he was looking for — the cutting of flesh.

Deveroux drew closer to the iron door, then he raised the plate and sliced the one area that would supply enough blood to be convincing to the captain of the guard — his head. He sliced deep and long through the ragged growth of hair, wincing as the plate's edge dug a deep furrow through his scalp. Soon he felt the satisfying flow of blood coursing down his forehead, and still he dug the sharpened edge deeper. There had to be enough blood to convince the keepers that Napoleon's prized prisoner was attempting to do the unthinkable.

As he lifted the plate from his head, Deveroux saw that blood was not only flowing but had begun to spurt, as he had dragged the tin plate through a small vein. He held on to the plate, moving the sharpened edge opposite his grip, and then lay down next to the food portal. He allowed his blood to splatter the iron of the door, and then he sighed and made gasping sounds. He reached up with his free hand and slapped at the growing puddle of blood, making sure it splashed into the corridor beyond.

"What—?"

"It is blood, Captain, the fool has slit his own throat."

The captain of the guard did exactly what Deveroux had hoped: He panicked at the thought of losing him to suicide. He could never explain that to the emperor. He heard the other man as he pulled keys in an attempt to get the door open. So, this was it, the moment of his death.

He never had any plans to escape, but neither did he have the courage for ending his own life, so he would force them to do it for him. A self-satisfied smile etched his wretched features.

"Hurry, you bumbling fool, he'll bleed to death!"

Finally, Deveroux heard the key slide home into the rusty lock. Then he heard the scraping sound as it turned, and then the hasp of the lock was thrown back, and then came the sound of a man straining to get the door open. He felt and smelled the first fresh air in over two years as it hit his face and he breathed it in, preparing himself, gathering what strength he could for the next few seconds — the last seconds of his life. He let his eyes flutter open and his eyes instantly felt the jab of pain from the candlelit corridor beyond.

He felt hands roll him roughly onto his back, and before the guard could react he swung the tin plate as hard as his atrophied muscles would allow. The sharpened edge came into contact with the man's neck.

The captain gasped as he watched the guard take a blow to his throat just as he turned the prisoner over. He straightened and started to shout for others, but Deveroux lashed out with his bare feet and caught the young captain in his left knee, bringing him down to the rough stone floor. Before the captain could fully react to the assault, the prisoner Deveroux had leaped blindly to his back and brought the tin plate solidly down onto the back of the man's head, imbedding the sharpened edge deeply into his skull.

Deveroux was crying as he rolled off the captain and lay still, listening for the footsteps that would signal his death. As he tried to bring his breathing under control, he opened his eyes to the glare of the candles. The pain in his eyes slowly subsided as he tried to focus on the darkened far wall. He swallowed and tried to stop his tears but found his control was lost. His hand tried to reach out and feel the chill stone beneath him for reassurance that the world was real; instead his hand hit the keys that had fallen from the guard, who was just at that moment taking his last, rattling breath.