Invasion Read online

  The lieutenant spoke to the gatekeeper sergeant, who took Renzi in charge, gruffly telling him to follow. They went through the echoing gateway and upstairs, eventually entering a distinguished residence with hanging pictures and velvet curtains. With kitchen odours and the distinctive serge and leathery smell of soldiery, it appeared well tenanted too.

  They passed into a central corridor, then mid-way along the sergeant stopped and knocked at a door. It was answered by a well-dressed civilian. “Renzi? Do come in, old chap.”

  Warily, he entered the small room, with its single desk and visitor’s chair opposite illuminated by a mullioned gunport. “Sit down, make yourself at home. Tea, or . . . ?”

  Renzi declined refreshments.

  “Hobson, Aliens Office. You must be wondering why we’ve asked you here,” he began mildly.

  Renzi remained silent.

  Hobson went on, “We have the warmest recommendation from Commodore d’Auvergne in Jersey as to your probity and reliability, which leads us to consider whether in the matter of—”

  “No!”

  “—a particular and delicate service—”

  “I am never a spy, sir.”

  “—of the highest importance to the interests of this country, that you would consider—”

  “Understand me now, sir. I find the practices of spying repugnant to my character and odious in the extreme. Should you—”

  “Mr. Renzi. No one has mentioned spying that I recall. This concerns an entirely different matter and I confess I’m quite at a loss to account for your hostile manner, sir.” He paused, then resumed stiffly, “You will be aware of the humane and practical custom between belligerents of the exchange of prisoners-of-war, both of paroled officers and the common sort.”

  “I am, of course,” Renzi replied.

  “Then you will be as dismayed as His Majesty’s government at the abhorrent actions of the French in detaining our prisoners with no hope of repatriation in any wise, contrary to the usages of war, which, until the present conflict, have always served perfectly adequately.”

  Renzi knew of the unprecedented act of barbarism by Bonaparte at the outset of the war in seizing every Englishman, high or low, military or harmless tourist, and incarcerating them, along with their women. Was this to be some crazy rescue attempt?

  Hobson continued in the same tone. “There is to be noted a marked imbalance in prisoners held. At the moment we hold some three or four times as many French as they do ours, and it is our belief that this may be the means to bring Napoleon to a more rational standing on the matter.”

  “To negotiate?”

  “Quite so. Agreement has recently been reached with the French government through an intermediary for a diplomatic mission to be sent by us to explore the question.”

  “You wish me to—”

  “No, Mr. Renzi, we do not. The foreign secretary, Lord Hawkes-bury, has appointed a Mr. Haslip, lately of the Transport Board, to conduct the mission. It is his wish to be accompanied by one in the undoubted character of gentleman who, at the same time, might be relied upon to undertake the humbler—but nevertheless vital—tasks as they present themselves.”

  Despite himself, Renzi could not smother a cynical chuckle.

  “Come, come, sir. This is not an occasion for humour. Consider, if you will, the families of the unfortunates in the fortress prisons of France with no hope of release. The hardships they must daily face, the—”

  “I thank you for your consideration, Mr. Hobson, but I have to tell you I am perfectly content where I am.”

  Hobson steepled his hands in thought. “You do surprise me, Renzi. Clerk of a brig-sloop, now to be given the opportunity to visit Paris, the home of Diderot, Rousseau and Enlightened Man—and, while under diplomatic protection, to be quite free to take your fill of the sights and mingle in learned company . . .”

  He had Renzi’s avid interest now. This was another matter entirely. Savants of sufficiently adequate stature on both sides were—after considerable fuss at the highest level—sometimes given safe-conduct for the express purpose of furthering human knowledge and were thereby able to pass unhindered between warring nations. That he, unpublished and unknown, could enjoy the same privilege would be an incredible stroke of fortune.

  “Er, there is no question of my abusing such a position to engage in activities in the nature of spying, of course.”

  Hobson frowned in exasperation. “Mr. Renzi! This continual adverting to some form of espionage does you no credit at all. You have my word on it that no spying is involved. In point of fact, should you be so far in want of gentlemanly conduct as to undertake such on a private basis, then His Majesty’s ministers will utterly condemn you. You will go openly, under your own auspices and with stated diplomatic objectives, while no doubt you will be, from the first, subject to a form of surveillance by the authorities. Provided you are earnest and diligent in the discharge of your duties and refrain from being seen near locations of a military nature, I can see no difficulties pursuant to an interesting and rewarding experience.”

  “I shall proceed in cartel, as a full member of the mission to . . . ?”

  “Mr. Renzi, if you have a stated moral objection to assisting at such a level then please to let me know at this point,” Hobson said, with a touch of impatience. “I shall then be obliged to find another.”

  “No, not at all. I was merely—”

  “Then shall we continue? An accreditation to the mission requires more than a few diplomatic formalities, which should be put in hand without further delay. Mr. Haslip has let it be known he wishes to depart at the earliest possible opportunity.”

  “Of course,” said Renzi, hastily. “I shall immediately put my affairs in order in my ship and—”

  “There will be time for that later. Now, to the first. Do you wish to travel under your own name or another? Some feel it more congenial to their privacy to discourage curious prying by a foreign power.”

  “Oh? Then, er, ‘Smith’ will answer, I believe.”

  “Certainly. There are other details we shall need to record, and then, under your signature, these will be sent to Whitehall by special messenger for your formal accession to the body of the mission. I suspect Mr. Haslip will therefore wish to be aboard the cartel ship, departing this Thursday night from Ramsgate.

  “There may be final matters to discuss before you leave, so perhaps we shall meet once more on Wednesday. Oh, and as no doubt you have already been told, the invariable custom in these affairs is that complete secrecy is to be observed. Not even your captain must know.”

  He looked Renzi directly in the eye. “You have no conception of the villainous creatures who inhabit the nether world, ready to take advantage.”

  “Quite, quite,” Renzi said, with feeling.

  “You’re taking a holiday?” Kydd asked, in surprise, as Renzi assembled his bags in the larger space of the great cabin. “Where will this be, old trout?”

  Renzi fought with the temptation to mention casually that he intended to spend the weekend in Paris. “It did seem the most suitable opportunity, Teazer being under repair for the time being.”

  Light-headed with exhilaration at the prospect before him, he deliberated whether the old but finer blue coat would more suit in a Paris of fashion and gaiety, or was it to be the newer but sombre brown? In the end he decided that if he was to put up a decent showing as a diplomat then perhaps he would visit a fashionable tailor while he was there. After all, he was representing his country.

  Kydd would not let it rest. “Fine weather, just the ticket for a bit o’ sporting in the sun?” He tried again. “Do you have anyone to go with, Nicholas?”

  “You mean in the character of a female?”

  Kydd grinned. “I see, you wicked dog.”

  “No.”

  “Then where?”

  Renzi picked up one of the bags, as though checking its weight. Thwarted, Kydd stumped off to annoy the officer-of-the-watch.

  �
�� • •

  The day before the cartel ship was due to sail Renzi made acquaintance of Haslip. He was a humourless, pompous bureaucratic functionary but Renzi knew how to handle such as him.

  Hobson greeted him warmly. “So you’re leaving tomorrow for Paris? I envy you, Renzi. My position seldom allows me such diversions.” He closed the door. “Now, one thing has come up, old fellow. Do see if you can help us. While you’re in Paris there is one chap we’d like you to look up. He’s an artist, portraiture and such, the Duke of Devonshire and similar. Rather good, too—he’s hung in the Royal Academy, no less.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes indeed,” Hobson said smoothly. “You see, he’s an odd kind of cove, head full of strange notions, but we’d like you to let him know that we’re quite keen to see him back in the old country. I’ll let you have a sum of money to that end—you’ll sign and account for it in the usual way, of course, but we are rather concerned to have him return.”

  “You mean—to smuggle him back?”

  “Goodness gracious, no! He’s a citizen of the United States, a neutral, and is quite free to go where he pleases. Name of Fulton.”

  The cartel ship left the pier at Ramsgate in the anonymous darkness and was soon butting into a chill south-easterly. The passengers scuttled below to light and warmth, but Renzi stood on the foredeck, clutching a shroud and burning with indignation.

  He had been well and truly hooked, caught and landed. Dazzled by the daring thought of Paris in the summer he had not stopped to consider why he, Renzi, had been plucked out of obscurity to perform the task. The real reason for his visit turned out not to be spying but something infinitely worse and more dangerous. The stakes for him and England could not have been higher.

  This Fulton, or Francis, the code-name he sometimes went by, was an extraordinary man, possibly a genius. From childhood poverty in Maryland he had attracted early support for his painting talent sufficient to have him sent to England, where he had shone as a portrait painter. He had spent some fruitful years in Devon, then come to the attention and patronage of Benjamin West, the president of the prestigious Royal Academy. In the course of time he had been hung beside the great masters.

  On the continent the hideous excesses of the French Revolution had turned to power struggles and thence a fragile form of stability while energies were directed outward in war. With England convulsed in the bloody mutinies of Spithead and the Nore, Fulton had suddenly decided to leave and cross to France, where he had quickly taken up with the circle of expatriate radicals and friends of the Revolution who encouraged the blossoming of his growing republican idealism.

  Then, within months, word had trickled back to England that, extraordinarily, Fulton had presented plans to the Directory for a “submarine boat” for use by the French Navy against the British. Why and how a noted artist had turned his talents to such fancies was not explained to Renzi. Then, after a coup in 1799, Napoleon Bonaparte had become Consul for Life and his attention had been drawn to Fulton’s schemes. He had advanced the inventor funding to produce his first “submarine,” Nautilus .

  If reports were to be believed, Fulton had indeed built it and trialled it in the Seine, submerging with his crew for an hour before horrified witnesses, then triumphantly returning to the surface. It seemed a far from practical weapon of war, but when he later manoeuvred the submarine confidently about the entrance to Le Havre and then the open sea, and talked of fitting it with his new exploding “torpedoes,” there was no more doubt but that the sinister and deadly craft was about to rewrite the rules of war.

  He had been granted a personal audience with Bonaparte and had energetically begun to prepare plans for a bigger and more destructive submersible, but peace had been declared and development stalled. When war resumed, Fulton was well placed to demand what he would for a weapon that could be aimed directly at the one thing that denied the French domination of the world: the Royal Navy.

  Since Napoleon’s seizure of power, his network of spies and secret police had clamped a tight hold on the capital so reliable information was virtually impossible to get—but it did not take much imagination to realise that any maritime nation would be helpless against the possessor of such an instrument of destruction, utterly defenceless against something that could not even be seen. Who knew what was being promised to its inventor as Bonaparte gathered his forces for the invasion of England?

  Renzi’s task was simple: locate Fulton, detach him from the French cause and conduct him to Britain.

  The unfairness nearly choked him. Why should such responsibility be placed on his shoulders? On sober reflection, though, he realised he was uniquely qualified for the job. After his hard experiences in Jersey, assisting a spymaster, he knew what to expect of the French system; he was intelligent yet unknown to the French, and with considerable experience of sea service. Added to that there was his undoubted moral integrity, the demeanour of a gentleman and the fact that his naval record would even show service on the North American station. That was why he had been chosen.

  And it was a job that demanded the guile of just one man, not a force, and still less a full conspiracy. With numbers came the chance of betrayal, and the French would be merciless to any who threatened their trump card.

  In summary, his task was to find where the man was hidden in the great city and approach him with unanswerable arguments as to why he should betray and turn on his benefactors—after he had unavoidably revealed himself to Fulton as a British agent, of course. And this to the man whose intercepted letters had described England’s Navy as “the source of all the incalculable horrors” committed against the free citizens of the ocean and whose firm friend in Paris was Tom Paine, the notorious revolutionary.

  It was the stuff of nightmares, a near impossible objective but one that had to succeed.

  His mind reeled, his body oblivious to the cold and spray as they made for Calais and enemy country. He had no idea how he would begin: he was on his own with nothing but his wits and cunning.

  A white flag prominent at her foretop-gallant masthead, the cartel ship hove to in Calais Roads to await inspection. To Renzi, dazed with lack of sleep, it was utterly unreal. So recently Teazer had been fighting for her life in these very waters, trying to prevent ships entering. Now here he was, on an English ship, about to be welcomed into that same port.

  Soon they were making their way within a narrow staked passage through the mudflats, past the forts and into the inner basins crowded with invasion craft and dominated by the louring Fort Nieulay. Then came the sight of sour-faced douaniers on the quay, the sharp tones of the officer conducting exchanges and the indefinable odours of foreign soil.

  As his passport was minutely examined Renzi felt himself in an increasingly dream-like situation that was paradoxically insulating him against the dread of the reality into which he was being sucked.

  He and Haslip were separated from the others and conducted to a quayside office where their papers were checked yet again, then taken outside to a waiting carriage. A gens d’armes lieutenant helped them to board and, without comment, entered as well, signalling to the escort of two horsemen behind.

  It was the usual gut-rattling journey into the interior, relieved only by regular stops for refreshment and a change of horses. No one spoke. Haslip had not been made privy to the real reason for Renzi’s appointment and ignored him in a lordly way, while the lieutenant was not disposed to be friendly to an Englishman. Renzi stared out of the window at the flat, boring landscape, prevented from dozing by the gritty jolting—and the thought of the madness into which he was about to be plunged.

  His mind strayed to the last time he had been with Kydd before they sailed. It was soon after they had seen fit to inform Renzi of the true nature of his mission. Something in his face had sparked dismay in his friend: brushing aside Renzi’s light prattle of holidays, Kydd had gripped his hands and wished him all good fortune for wherever it was he was going.

  Villages became mo
re frequent; here, little had changed in the years since, as a carefree young man, Renzi had passed through France on his Grand Tour, and as they neared the capital, he felt a surge of exhilaration at approaching the legendary City of Light.

  The outer reaches of Paris were much as he remembered, and suddenly they were in the city. The same open spaces, narrow muddy streets and, rising above the stink of horses and coal-smoke, the enticing alien smell of garlic and herbs, always on the air. There were as many people on the avenues as before, but they were of a different kind, sombrely dressed and keeping to themselves as they hurried along. There were fewer shabbily dressed poor.

  Renzi recognised the rue St. Honoré and, close by, the ancient church of St. Roche. Then the massive stone columns and classical pediments of the Hôtel Grandime came into view, and the carriage swayed finally to a stop. The lieutenant asked them curtly to remain and bounded up the steps. He returned with footmen, and they were ushered inside.

  Conscious of a wary hush and hostile stares, Renzi completed the formalities, the eyes of the concierge flicking between him and the lieutenant. Their rooms were on the first floor, a larger inner suite and a smaller outer one, which he took for himself without comment.

  “I shall dine alone, Smith, and shall not want to be disturbed,” Haslip said importantly. “See that you’re able to attend upon me at ten tomorrow. Is that understood?”

  It suited Renzi well: from his rooms he could slip in and out quietly as he pleased, and that Haslip wished to remain in his solitary glory was even better. His meagre luggage arrived and, worn out, he flopped onto the musty four-poster and closed his eyes. He drifted off quickly but woke feeling stiff and cold. Immediately the dread of his situation rushed back but he did not allow it to take hold. He finished stowing his gear in the old-fashioned drawers and splashed his face with water.

  He patted his waistcoat pocket, and was reassured by the crackle of his passport. Then he went downstairs, with an air of jaunty defiance, ignored the watchful gaze of the concierge and strode out into the evening. Hesitating, he turned right, then walked purposefully along towards the vast Place Louis XV.