Invasion Read online

  He emerged into its great spaces and slowed. This was now the Place de la Révolution and he was making pilgrimage to the spot where, just a handful of years ago, the guillotines had slithered and fallen before screaming crowds to end the lives of so many of France’s ancient nobility.

  The sense of loss of the older world was overpowering here, and he closed his eyes in melancholy. The feeling passed and he walked on rapidly—he needed the comfort of human company.

  Inside a nearby tavern it was warm and dark, dense with pipe-smoke. Low candlelight played on the animated features of couples and the babble of talk ebbed and flowed. Renzi found a corner table and settled quietly, letting the memories return. “Garçon!” The tapster seemed not to hear and he repeated the call more loudly. Astonished faces turned to him as the man stormed across. “M’sieur, un demi de bière, s’il vous plaît.”

  The tapster came to an abrupt stop and peered at Renzi. “Vous êtes anglais?” he said disbelievingly.

  Whether it was because of his square-cut English coat or his accent, Renzi did not know; but he was obliged to explain at length why an Englishman was on the loose in the Paris of Napoleon. In return he had to accept a scolding over his use of garçon and monsieur where now the egalitarian citoyen was expected.

  A nearby couple made much of moving to another table and, behind him, a noisy incident was probably another pair ostentatiously removing themselves from the proximity of an Englishman, no doubt for the benefit of hidden watchers.

  Alone, Renzi sipped his beer as the conversations started again and his thoughts turned to what lay ahead.

  It was near impossible, but a start had to be made. The hardest thing of all would be to locate the American. He had his freedom to move about, but that did not mean he could simply go up and ask where the submarine inventor called Fulton was. Even the slightest interest in matters not directly concerning his official purpose in France would be reported and seized upon jubilantly as evidence that he was abusing his position to spy. The Moniteur would trumpet to the world such perfidy against “his innocent hosts,” and the worthy cause of the hapless prisoners-of-war would irrevocably be lost.

  Renzi forced himself to concentrate: there had to be a way to Fulton if he had the wit to find it. Without question he was being followed. After Jersey, however, he was too wise in the ways of spying to try to shake them off. Once identified, an agent was a known quantity but, more importantly, a slick evasion would be the quickest way to guarantee the attention of Fouché’s secret police.

  The safest course would be to appear to make the most of his stay and move about, visiting and gaping. This would have them relaxing their surveillance and make furtive meetings more possible. He smiled wryly. Right at this moment he was where duty called— openly tasting the night life of Paris.

  There was movement under the candlelight by the far wall as a raven-haired chanteuse and a darker central European violinist bowed together and opened with a soaring peasant air from the Auvergne which took Renzi back to long-past days of gaiety and passion. The singer made shameless play of her charms and held the room spellbound. Despite himself, Renzi was caught up in the charged atmosphere and applauded enthusiastically.

  Then followed a sensual love lament. The tavern fell quiet as she held the audience with her tale of longing and suffering, loving and losing. Renzi couldn’t help a sudden rush of feeling; for some reason she was reaching him with a message of humanity and grief that rose far above the gross distortions of war. As the urgent, pleading harmony enveloped him, his mind rebelled: he was furious at the pitiless logic that said the ultimate course for nations in disagreement was to throw themselves at each other in a struggle to the death.

  He gulped at the intensity of his reaction but then an image of Teazer assailed him—the graceful being in whose bosom he had been borne while his theories had matured, destroyed without warning in a cataclysmic detonation, prey to a lurking submarine boat, her unsuspecting crew torn to pieces by the explosion.

  It was horrific, an unthinkable fate that might come to pass unless . . . In the warm darkness it was all he could do to prevent his helplessness coming out in a storm of emotion and overwhelming him.

  It was stultifying in the room: Haslip had resorted to a lengthy legal argument and was presenting it in a monotone. The French were led by an arrogant young firebrand, an earthy scion of the Revolution who clearly despised both the English and what he had to do, and did not bother to hide his impatience.

  The presentation droned on, and when they broke for refreshments Renzi went to Haslip to show him his notes and express support. He met nothing but self-importance and a pompous disinclination to listen.

  • • •

  In the afternoon the French deployed their own man, an arid word-grinder whose lengthy, many-tailed points were almost impossible to follow and summarise on paper. Renzi despaired. It was as if the opposite party was under orders to obfuscate and delay, and he was relieved when an appeal to an obscure medieval case-law finding was interpreted in opposite ways and it was agreed to retire for study and deliberation.

  His offer of assistance acidly declined, Renzi felt able to take time to get a hold on the situation. But before he did so he would indulge himself—just this once. He had noted a bookshop of some distinction further along the rue St. Honoré that it would be a sin to ignore, in this the Paris of Montesquieu and Diderot.

  It was, in fact, a grand palace of learning, ramparts of books stretching away, alcoves and desks for enquirers and stiffly dressed assistants attending the browsing public. He reached for a Voltaire and was soon contentedly absorbed in its earnest and learned preface, written by another scholar, praising the author as an epitome of the Enlightenment.

  An assistant came up to him. Renzi thought of his own studies. Clearly, now was the perfect opportunity to discover the works of lesser-known authors—and at source. In his best French he asked politely if it were known that the philosopher Johann Herder had published anything of note following the Ideen zur Philosophie which had so informed Renzi’s earlier searches for historical origins.

  “Je suis désolé, m’sieur,” the man said sorrowfully, clearly un-troubled by Renzi’s English appearance.

  An older man nearby removed his spectacles and cocked his head to one side. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” he said. “I could not but help overhearing. I rather feel he would be most offended were I not to make mention of his Briefe zur Beförderung der Humanität recently to print.”

  “You are so kind, sir,” Renzi said, with a bow. “I find Herr Herder at a refreshing distance from Goethe’s classicism.”

  “Are you then a scholar, monsieur? ” the gentleman said, with rising interest.

  “In the slightest way, sir. I am as yet unpublished, still to mature my hypotheses on the human condition.”

  “Then surely the swiftest way to an enlightenment is disputing with the author himself.”

  “‘Was ist Aufklärung?’” Then what is enlightenment? Renzi could not resist Kant’s pungent epigram. Then he hurried on, “And I should wish it possible, sir.”

  The man’s eyes twinkled. “Tonight you shall. It is the first Thursday of the month so there is a lecture at the Institut and I am sure your author friend will be there. Oh, may I introduce myself? Pierre Laplace, astronomer and mathematician.”

  Renzi was stunned. This was the very savant whose work on celestial mechanics and advanced mathematics had earned him the title of the French Newton—and, if he had heard aright, he was inviting him to the famous Institut to mingle with the finest minds of the age. “B-but I am English, sir,” he said faintly.

  “You may be a Hottentot for all I care. This night you shall be my guest, Monsieur . . . ? ”

  “Oh—er, Smith, Nicholas Smith.”

  “Quite so.”

  Close by, an anonymous individual continued to concentrate on his book—Renzi noticed it was upside-down.

  The lecture, on the taxonomic peculiarities of sea
weed, was persuasively delivered, and afterwards Laplace went in search of Herr Herder. However, it seemed that the elderly gentleman was ill and they dined alone.

  For some hours Renzi had been able to throw off his feeling of hopelessness, and taste something of what it must be to reach a level of recognition that would find him welcomed into the company of great thinkers such as these. Would his own contributions to knowledge ever achieve such greatness? “Sir, I must express my deepest sensibility at your kindness in inviting me here,” he declared sincerely.

  “Nonsense, monsieur. You will go from here with renewed purpose, a higher vision. This is what la belle France is giving to humanity—a world where all are equal, each may enter the Temple of Learning as a consequence of their gifts of logic and scholarship, never the circumstances of their birth.”

  “Sir, our Royal Society—”

  “Is prestigious but class-bound. In France we order things differently. Why, where would be your Genevan Rousseau, even your Pole Kosciusko had they not slaked their thirst for philosophies at the fountains of wisdom only to be found here in Paris?”

  Renzi murmured an agreement, and Laplace continued expansively, “Why, there are sages and philosophes from all corners of the world flocking here to be recognised—I honour these savants—and even original thinkers, like the American who came here desiring, of all things, to create a submarine boat.”

  “A—a what?” Renzi could hardly believe his ears.

  “A species of plunging boat that submerges completely under the water. A most amazing device. I have seen it myself, for I have the honour to count the inventor among my friends,” Laplace said.

  “It—it immerses under the water and stays there?” Renzi’s mind was flailing wildly. “Come, come, sir, this is hard to accept.”

  “No, it is true, monsieur, you have my word. I was able to intercede on his behalf to secure the funding—I have the ear of the Emperor, you know, and he was concerned even in these busy times to allow the gentleman to realise his undersea dreams.”

  “How generous,” Renzi said, as heartily as he could. “Can you conceive of it? A boat that swims freely in the realm of the creatures of the deep and allows the brave Argonauts aboard to view their disporting in safety and comfort. This is a marvel indeed.”

  “Quite so.”

  “And it may remain under the water for a—a period of time?”

  “I myself and three score distinguished witnesses observed its disappearance beneath the Seine to reappear whole, the crew unharmed, after a full hour had passed. And later the craft was transported down-river to the sea and he repeated the miracle. The submersible—he calls it Nautilus— may be relied upon to navigate unseen, travel many leagues at sea and carry quantities of men.”

  “A magnificent opportunity for science,” Renzi enthused. “Does it have a window at all? And how might the brave sailors breathe for so long in such confines? This is a mystery that must seize the imagination of even the most hopeless dullard. How I wish I might see this wonder of the deep.”

  “Ah. That may be difficult. I believe the inventor is under contract to our government for its development and, naturally, there is much discretion involved in such. It is tedious but governments being as they are . . .”

  Renzi allowed his disappointment to show. “I understand. Such a pity. In my old age I might have recounted how I set eyes on the first submarine boat of the age, and now my curiosity must remain for ever unsatisfied . . .”

  “A vexation for you. The pity of it all is that the man himself is most probably in the library below us. It is his practice that when he concludes at the ministry he invariably spends time there. He does treasure it for its quiet.”

  Catching his breath Renzi stammered, “To be here, when . . .”

  Laplace tut-tutted, clearly moved by Renzi’s ardent manner. “Sir, this at the least I will do. I will leave it to Mr. Fulton whether or no he desires to be introduced to one who stands in admiration of his work and prays that he might learn more. I believe the proctor’s office will be available to us at this hour, and thus you may discreetly satisfy your curiosity as he will permit. That is all I can promise.”

  It was an incredible stroke.

  CHAPTER 7

  IN THE BOOK-LINED, leather-smelling proctor’s office Renzi waited for Laplace’s return with pounding heart. It seemed an interminable time but suddenly he heard voices outside, then two men entered the room.

  Renzi got hurriedly to his feet. “Th-thank you, sir, so kind in you to see me.”

  The man was tall and slender, even graceful, but what caught Renzi’s eye was the intensity of his features, the large, dark eyes, intelligent forehead and quick, darting manner. “Not at all, my friend,” he replied, in a hardly noticeable American accent, then smiled. “And if I’m not mistaken in my reckoning, you’re English, sir.”

  “Oh—Smith, Nicholas Smith of, um, Plymouth in Devon,” Renzi stammered, hoping to appear overcome at being in the presence of such genius.

  “I know where Plymouth is, friend. I spent three years in Devon at my easel. Fine place to be. Now, be so good as to tell me how an Englishman is here in Paris unhung?”

  “Er, I’m assistant to the official mission concerning the exchange of prisoners-of-war—and by way of a scholar, but in the meanest degree,” he added, with a shy glance at Laplace.

  “A cartel man? So, not a son of Albion come to his senses and the Republican cause?”

  “Ah, not as who should say, sir,” Renzi said, aware that any pretence to radical sympathies as a means of penetrating a tight-knit group of expatriates of the Revolution would never stand scrutiny.

  “Pity. So what can I do for you, sir?”

  “Mr. Fulton, Monsieur Laplace was good enough to tell me something of your submarine boat, and I confess I’m quite overcome with the grandeur of your vision. To conceive of a craft that swims with the fishes, inhabits Neptune’s world like the native denizens—it is truly magnificent.”

  “I thank you, sir.”

  “Do tell—for I’m on fire with curiosity—when under the sea, do you see by light from the windows or is it a lanthorn or similar? I cannot imagine how it must be, warm and dry but fathoms down in the pelagic gloom lit only by . . . ?”

  “Foxfire, sir. Naught but your common foxfire!” At Renzi’s look of incomprehension he gave a boyish grin and said, “A lanthorn or candle produces vitiated air, not fit for a human. This foxfire, we get it from the woods after a season of rain. It glows in the dark, quite enough to conn our noble craft, sir.”

  “And you speak of air. Do you take a—a balloon or some such with you on the expedition, to release when the breathing becomes . . . difficult?”

  Laplace stood up. “Forgive me, gentlemen, I must attend to another matter. Do feel free to continue your discussion while I’m gone but, pray, do not leave this office together. It would prove . . . inconvenient for me.”

  Renzi could hardly believe his luck: was this his chance?

  His whole being urged him to make the move while he could— there might be no further opportunity. Yet a tiny voice of caution insisted that until he knew more of this man he stood a good prospect of being denounced as a British agent.

  Fulton moved to the proctor’s desk and sprawled in his chair, fiddling with a quill. “You’re both fascinated and in dread of the beast, am I right?”

  “Your Nautilus is a scientifical phenomenon of the first order and I’m finding it difficult to grapple with its implications for mankind,” Renzi said.

  “It is that.”

  “Then—then do you not fear that your wonderful creation might not be subverted to serve an other, baser interest?”

  “That of war?”

  “It might be supposed.”

  Fulton smiled cynically. “Then, Mr. Englishman, I have news for you. The entire reason for my inventing it is war.”

  “Sir, I beg you to elucidate.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Smith, to be an enemy to op
pression wherever it’s to be found. And the only guarantee of liberty for the individual is freedom for the nation. I see that there exists one tyrant, one oppressor, who sorely bears on the nations of this world, that has made perpetual war in my lifetime by bestridin’ the seas and robbing the world of its ancient maritime freedoms. Sir, I speak of the Royal Navy!”

  “Go on, sir,” Renzi said.

  “The rest then surely follows. Nautilus and her sisters’ll make it impossible for your damn navy to take to the seas. Their ships’ll skulk in harbour, a-feared o’ silent assassination, the people will rise up on their monarchy, and then the oceans will be free for all nations in amity to progress on their lawful occasions.”

  Was there any sign of madness behind the triumphant smile? If so, Renzi couldn’t detect any.

  “And that, Englishman, will be the end of war as we know it. No state will ever more hazard to set a fleet of ships a-swim with the intention of dominating the seas, which will then oblige each nation to live peaceable within the bounds nature has set it.”

  He spindled a paper lazily. “In course, I’ve taken steps to place the whole on a sound commercial footing, as you’d expect of a Maryland farming boy—there’s to be a bounty payable on every warship put down by my submarines and a royalty for each one built under licence. Self-funding, you see.”

  Renzi struggled to reconcile the stern political radicalism with the artless words of a backwoodsman. Was this the raving of an unworldly visionary or was the future to be this horrifying reality? He asked respectfully, “Sir, might we say your plans to this end are advanced at all?”

  “Do you mean, sir, is Nautilus ready for her destiny? Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte thinks so. He told me to my face to take her overland to Brest and there, before a quantity of admirals, I stalked unseen a ship—and blew her to smithereens with my torpedoes. That opened one or two eyes, I can tell you.”