William Dietrich - The Emerald Storm

“Sorry to hear of your difficulty,” I said, even though I wasn’t sorry at all. It wasn’t like the first consul deserved another million square miles. He’d bullied Spain into giving Louisiana back to France a couple years before, but the Spanish flag still flew in New Orleans because Napoleon hadn’t bothered to put anyone there to take possession. He was busy trying to hang on to France’s richest colony, the sugar isle of Saint-Domingue, by reinstating slavery to make its sugar competitive on the world market. As a result, that onetime paradise had become a charnel house. His policy was a complete betrayal of the ideals of the French Revolution, and stupid as well. It baffles me why people believe they can force on others what they’d never tolerate themselves.

Meanwhile, Tom Jefferson was the only one in the world crazy enough to actually want Louisiana. Having not seen the hell that is the American West, he believed it heaven, and mused about sending his secretary Meriwether Lewis to explore it. Promising to persuade Bonaparte to sell the place had won me a good bottle of wine with the president. Jefferson, like Franklin, was genius enough that he’d spent his diplomatic days in France learning to properly eat and drink. He later bought so much wine on credit that he’d assembled the best cellar, and worst debt, in America. The Virginian is also a far better conversationalist than the brusque Bonaparte, and by the time we got to the bottom of our bottle, I’d decided to vote him another term, if I lived to get the chance.

Napoleon had less patience for life’s pleasantries. He waved, and servants materialized to take his silver serving dishes away. Whether it was palace cuisine or infantry biscuits, he ate at lightning speed.

“So your nation, Gage, can benefit from European folly. I need you to go to the American negotiators and convince them that buying all of Louisiana is their idea. It will set the United States as a counterweight to Britain in Canada, and give me money to fight the English in the coming war. If I can’t control Saint-Domingue, Britain shall not control the Mississippi Valley. The United States will block English ambitions for France like a prodigal son.”

That’s not how my nation thought of itself, but I did see a deal could be to everyone’s benefit, including mine. I’d played a small role in ending an undeclared naval war between America and France back in 1800, and now I was go-between again. Napoleon wanted to unload an expanse he’d acquired with a stroke of a pen, before England’s navy took it from him. It appeared I could make everyone happy, except Britain.

“I’ll make my countrymen think in grand terms,” I promised. “Why purchase a mere city, New Orleans, when you could buy an empire?” My stomach growled from hunger. “What do you want for the dustbin, anyway?”

“Fifty million francs. Suggest double that, and they can take pleasure in bargaining me down. When I conquer London and put an end to the British navy, your country and mine will become the greatest trading partners in the world. Louisiana is a first step. This is an opportunity as significant as our revolutionary victory at Yorktown. I’ll fire every American dollar I receive at the English from the mouth of my cannons, and all of us can enjoy the spectacle.”

“Agreed. But after this service I’m determined to retire.”

“On what pension?”

“I acquired something of value in Tripoli I intend to sell.”

He eyed me with shrewd curiosity. “What is it?”

“No concern of the French government. A trifle, but enough to set my family for life.”

“That’s a remarkable trifle.”

“I’ve finally had remarkable luck.”

“You’ve been quite valuable at times, Gage, if annoying at others.” Napoleon had almost had me shot two or three times. “Realize that one doesn’t resign from destiny at will. Yes, you’re American, but when your interests coincide with France’s, then you become French. Do you understand?”

“I understand that’s exactly what I wish to retire from. I’m working very hard at being useless. Except for Louisiana, of course.”

“It’s important we complete this sale, Gage. You must stay in Paris until it’s concluded.”

“I understand. But given that I haven’t actually sold my trifle yet, I wonder if an appointment could come from all my hard work? Especially if you’re about to gain fifty million francs.” It’s always smart to look for crumbs from the diplomatic table. “A salary will convince American negotiators I truly represent your thinking.”

“Ha! If you wish to pretend partnership with me, you should adopt the habit of my most trusted agents.”

“Which is?”

“A discreet tattoo, signifying their loyalty.”

“A tattoo of what?”

“The initial N, surrounded by a laurel wreath.”

“You must be joking.”

“Life is filled with enemies. There has to be some way to tell friends.”

“Not by wearing another man’s brand.”

“It’s a secret legion.” He was annoyed that I wasn’t flattered. “Or you can have a more temporary badge, but you must give it back should you ever displease me.”

“What’s that?”

He opened a drawer in his desk and drew out a small medal on a chain. It was the same design as the tattoo but in gold, an ornament to wear around the neck. “Only a handful of agents are so favored.”

It would give me credibility, I supposed. I took it in my palm. Small, light, unobtrusive, and removable. “Not very much metal.”

“There are a million men who would pledge their lives for such favor.”

“I appreciate the honor.” I didn’t, but wanted to avoid insult.

“And your discoveries, when on missions for me, belong to France.”

“A last mission on Louisiana, in Paris, and then home. Something to buy bread would help in the meantime,” I persisted.

When it came to money, he could be evasive as a loan officer. “Get Louisiana for your president, Gage, and they’ll make you a congressman.”

So I worked to double the size of my homeland, arranging a meeting with Livingston to plant the idea of buying every savage-infested acre. We actually had something in common. Robert Livingston had been the grand master of Freemasonry’s Grand Lodge in New York before traveling to France. I was a Mason as well, although I didn’t tell him it was of the most casual and disreputable kind.

“It was Benjamin Franklin himself who introduced me to the precepts of your fraternity,” I said to ingratiate myself. “I’ve striven to live up to them ever since.” Striven, but not succeeded. “If my government could afford a modest salary, I might be able to linger in Paris to see the bargaining through. I’m a confidant of Napoleon, you know.” I showed him the pendant.

It helped that Livingston had struck up a friendship with my American colleague Robert Fulton after meeting the inventor at one of his “panoramas,” or huge circular paintings on such lurid themes as “city conflagrations.” Fulton charged admission to earn a living while designing unnecessary machines. We’d lost the tinkerer’s submarine Nautilus when rescuing Astiza and Harry from Tripoli, but now Fulton had a grander scheme for a contraption called a steamboat. It was to be two and a half times as long as his submersible, and painted bright as a carnival. It would be captained by a man called a mechanician and would go three miles an hour against the current, cutting the time for freight to go from Nantes to Paris from four months to two weeks.

Such speed seemed unlikely, but Livingston (a steam engine enthusiast who’d written to the inventor of that device, James Watt, in London) had joined Fulton’s project. The eccentrics were as happy as boys with a play fort, so to keep their favor, I quit pointing out that machines are expensive, heavy, and deafening. Like all men, the pair liked things that made noise, be it a lusty wench at full gallop, the crack of a cannon, or the headache-inducing thump of boiler and crank.