Julian Stockwin - Invasion

Fulton wheeled about. "That's it? No advances, no promises?"

"I do assure you, sir, that should you trust us with your naval secrets then the government will treat you with the utmost liberality and generosity in strict accordance with the importance of your inventions."

"And that's all?"

"At the moment, it is."

Fulton sauntered over to the window and looked out over the rooftops. "Are you seriously suggesting I pack my bags and leave on the strength of that?" he asked, continuing to gaze out.

Dread stole over Renzi: Fulton was not going to accept the offer and therefore he was going to walk off for ever. He had his grim instructions. Fulton was facing away, unsuspicious, and it was not in public. Would a protest that he had had no idea Fulton was any one but a common intruder fool the French long enough to buy him time to get away? He had so little time to think.

Rising silently, he tiptoed over to the bureau and eased open the drawer. The knife glittered up at him. With it he would end the life of one whose mind had dreamed of voyaging with Neptune, and had so brilliantly succeeded. Renzi reached for it but at that instant he became aware that Fulton had swung around. The man cleared his throat and said abruptly, "Yes, I will." He moved back across the room. "I trust you. We'll go back to England together."

Renzi went rigid, then his hand moved to the decanter. "A drink, then, Mr. Fulton?" he said huskily, and splashed cognac into two glasses. "To brighter times."

He'd done it! Against all the probabilities he had brought it off. Then despair flooded him. How were they to flee across France ahead of vengeful pursuers when he had only the sketchiest plan prepared? When they were seen together the conclusion would be obvious.

The solution, when it came, was an anticlimax. Renzi would find an excuse to return to England alone, using his diplomatic passport. At the last minute Fulton would arrive at Calais to join the cartel ship and they would leave together. Fulton's papers from the ministry gave him access to all the northern ports and, in any case, as a neutral he could not be prevented from leaving.

Renzi left it until the last possible moment. The tedious carriage ride with another petulant young lieutenant had been a trial—but finally, rising above the low Customs building ahead, he saw the upper yards of the cartel ship. His heart beat faster for it would mean the end to the nightmare.

He sat outside a nearby tavern in the warm sunshine where he was able to view the comings and goings into the building, and as time wore on for the evening sailing, he grew more and more anxious. There was no sign of Fulton.

It was impossible that he should return without him, but who was to say that Fulton had not arrived early and was at this minute in his cabin? Or that word had been sent from Paris to detain him?

They had let him alone to take his last fill of France, but when he passed through the gates and was processed aboard, there would be no turning back. In an agony of indecision Renzi waited until just two hours before departure; then he rose, paid the tavern-keeper and walked slowly to the hall.

There, he handed in his passport and other papers, which were notated, and after guarded pleasantries, he was escorted to his ship. He mounted the gangway and stopped to breathe in the familiar tang of tar, timber and shipboard odours, a poignant moment after his recent travails.

Nodding civilly to the dour captain, he enquired casually if any Americans were on board. It seemed there were not and none expected. It was hard to take and, with a sinking heart, Renzi watched the lines singled up, the capstan bars shipped for warping out.

Two hours had become one: in despair, he allowed himself to be shepherded below with the other passengers in preparation for the awkward manoeuvre out into the stream, hearing the clunks and slithers of rope-handling above, the business-like squeals of the boatswain's calls and sharp orders.

Then came the shuddering creaks as the hull took up after the lines were thrown off. It was all over. They were on their way out.

As the first dip and heave of the sea took the vessel, Renzi realised they were clearing Calais Roads. Shortly afterwards passengers were allowed on deck into a soft, violet dusk. The excited chatter of the others depressed him and he wandered forward to where the jib sheets were being hardened in. The lines were belayed, the seamen dispersed, and then he became aware of another, standing in the shadow of a staysail. The man moved towards him.

"You—where . . . ?"

"Thought I'd come aboard at the last minute, just in case," Fulton said casually.

"I didn't think—"

"As you would, Englishman. I'll have you know that an American is accounted a welcome guest in France, as would any true republican, which means I can come and go as I please."

Renzi swallowed his anger. "Just so. Now you are a guest of the King." He regretted the words immediately, but it was too late.

"We won a war so's not to bend a knee to a king—and I'm not about to start now."

Something made Renzi answer quickly, "Then why, pray, do you feel able to stand with us now?"

"You don't see it, do you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"As I said before, my inventions are for mankind—at one stroke to annihilate the present system of marine war by making it impossible for a navy bent on aggression to venture forth on the high seas. By this we create a guarantee of the liberty of the seas for all men, and where there is free trade there we will find the true sovereignty of the people."

"But—"

"Once the people have their emancipation they will throw off the yokes of oppression—your monarchs, politicians and other parasites with their standing armies—and at last stand free. Whoever makes my machines possible is of no account, so long as they are created."

Renzi paused. "Some would say that the submarine boat is a barbaric weapon that pits innocent seamen against a foe that can never be seen."

Fulton's face shadowed. "That may be true, but for the greater good it must be suffered. I have started a revolution in the minds of engineers that cannot now be stopped, and I must go forward to face my destiny, sir."

CHAPTER 8

"ARE WE ALL ASSEMBLED? Then we'll begin." Although only in his forties the prime minister, the younger William Pitt, wore on his face the effect of years spent leading England in the long wars against the French. This capable prime minister had resigned earlier on a matter of conscience but the lacklustre administration that had replaced his had stumbled on from an ill-advised peace treaty, through a hasty declaration of war to the current crisis. Now matters appeared to be reaching their climax but that did little to lift the mortal weariness that lay so heavily on him. The others in the cabinet room regarded him with concern.

"Sir, I feel I must express my profound sense of deliverance in seeing you once more in the chair that so rightfully belongs to you, at the helm of state in these parlous times. I'm sure I speak for us all when I say—"

"Thank you, Lord Harrowby," Pitt said, to the new foreign secretary, "but business presses." He looked meaningfully at the secretary of war. "My lord Camden?"

"Our confidential agent in the matter of the French plunging boat has just returned from France. I have to tell you he confirms the reports concerning its effectiveness as only too true, sir." There was a general stir about the table.

"Go on."

"It seems it is no mere philosophic curiosity. Before Napoleon and his admirals in Brest the inventor personally stalked a vessel from beneath the sea and exploded it to pieces in front of their eyes."

"Melville?"

The first lord of the Admiralty leaned forward. "Sir. If this device is ever perfected we stand under a near-insuperable threat. Our navy being unsafe even in its own harbours renders our entire strategic situation questionable. I cannot answer to the consequences."