For Our Liberty (31 page)

“What do you want?” he said, in English.

“To talk,” I replied, in the same language.
 

“About what.” he said, looking over his shoulder and then behind me.

“Your work, perhaps,” I said gesturing at the two boats.

“What about my work?” he asked, standing and carefully crossing from the cutter to the underwater craft and then to the shore. I walked up to him and held out my hand. He didn’t take it.

“I have a letter from a potential employer,” I said.

“I have an employer,” he frowned, wiping his hands on a rag and looking at me intently.

“I have heard that your employer has little interest in your work,” I said, staring back at him.

“That is not true. My ideas are radical, it will take time for them to gain acceptance, that is all,” he said, but I didn’t think either of us believed it.

“I have heard that your masters have dismissed your ideas.”

“They are not my masters,” he said, getting slightly riled.

“The people that I represent would pay you well.”

“I am not interested in money. I am a man of science,” he said emphatically. I had annoyed him so I changed tack.

“Well then, my employers would see to it that you could complete your work. This letter will explain everything,” I said and took the packet out of my pocket and held it out to him. Fulton looked at it with alarm but also with a small hint of hope. He hesitated and then took it from me.

“Why would I work for the English King, the enemy of my country? That is who you represent, is it not?” he asked, holding the letter as though it was something he found floating in the river and hadn’t yet identified.

“Yes, the Navy has heard of your work,” I admitted. “We were your enemy once, but you rebelled for freedom. How much freedom do you see in France?”

“The revolution was founded on liberty, as was my own nation,” he said, but didn’t sound very convinced or convincing.

“True, but what has been done with that liberty? I don’t think that all the people killed on the guillotine feel liberated. Bonaparte will make himself a king, just wait and see, and all the struggles of the people will have been for nothing.”

“And England is better? England is free from tyranny?” he asked scornfully.

“Maybe not, but we are willing to pay for your inventions and the French are not.”

“Do you think I am a mercenary?” he shouted, throwing the rag to the floor.

“No, I think that you are an engineer who wants his ideas proved correct,” I said, aware that I was raising my own voice.
 

“Why would His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, the most powerful in the world, want to buy my plunging boat or my steam cutter?” he asked, his tone heavy with sarcasm.

“Precisely because they are the most powerful Navy and wish to remain so. Britain is a country of scientists and engineers, even our Admirals look to the future. Look at the innovations that have been made in our manufactories, the discoveries of our scientists. What better home could you hope for?” I said. It was all absolute twaddle of course. The only future our Admirals looked to was their slow progression up the Navy list.
 

“True,” Fulton said, “there are many members of your Royal Society that I would like to see again.” He put the letter in his coat and took out his watch, nervously flicking it open and shut. “I must get back to my work. I have an appointment at the Ministry of Marine tomorrow. If they do not want to continue to fund my work then I may consider your offer.”

“Very well, meet me outside the Théâtre Montansier before the evening performance tomorrow night,” I said. “We’ll leave for England then, if you want to come.”

He didn’t look persuaded and I hoped the letter was more compelling than I had been. What he would do when he realised that the British government was as disinterested in his ideas as the French and only wanted to make sure no other country had access to his unlikely craft would be someone else’s problem.

“Agreed,” he said and finally shook my hand as he stepped back onto his strange craft. I left him to his tinkering, and tried to wipe the grease from my hands.

I walked back through the boatyards with a skip in my step. Whatever Fulton decided, my job was almost done. All I had to do was to come back that night and sink the two boats. Since one of them was designed to sink I didn’t think that would be too difficult. I planned do it before I met him at the theatre. That way with his craft destroyed even if he didn’t agree to come with me his work would be put back months if not years, with luck the Ministry of Marine would lose interest in the whole thing if they hadn’t already. Hopefully Dominique would soon be finding out more from Duprez.

I walked back along the quai and through the city gate. It must have been the relief at fulfilling the first part of my mission or perhaps thoughts of Dominique that made me miss the figure following me through the now crowded streets. My stomach had recovered its appetite and I stopped at a café in the Place de Greve. I sat at a table in the sun, looking across the river at the Ile de la Cité, and then I saw him. He was a small ferret-like man, his clothes worn and dirty, and when he took off his hat to scratch his head his scalp was bald and pink. I thought that I had seen him down on the quai, and as I thought about it perhaps in the boatyards as well. I instantly suspected that Fulton had been being watched but I had not seen the watcher. I practised my new yankee curses under my breath. The watcher stood idly at a street corner some fifty yards away and I waited for my food. Whatever I was going to do I felt sure that I would do it better with a full stomach and panicking now would only compound my many errors.

My bread, cheese and wine came quickly but I took my leisure over my lunch, firstly because the bread was fresh and the cheese nicely ripe, and secondly because I needed time to think. If Fulton’s watcher had sent a report to his masters that some unknown gentleman had given him a letter then all was lost. If however he had followed me and not alerted anyone else then there was still hope that I could salvage something from the mess I was undoubtedly in, if I was careful. More careful than I had been up to then at least. I sipped the last of my wine and left a handful of coins on the table. I walked towards the Rue Saint Denis and the maze of alleys that came off it as it neared the Seine. I hoped that I walked as I had before, in a preoccupied and foolish manner. The ferret-like man followed me, keeping far enough behind me so that I sensed his presence rather than saw him. The streets were busy and I had to weave my way past rowdy hawkers and sullen beggars. Everybody in Paris wanted your money, one way or another. I kept my sword-stick at the ready.

I entered a narrow street and the noise of the crowds and the traffic faded behind me. I trod carefully to avoid the worst of the filth and hoped that the lack of any other people on the street would not mean that my shadow would feel the need to keep a greater distance between us. I made a show of slipping and steadying myself, cursing colourfully and glancing back behind me. He was still there. Washing hung over the alley blocking out what little sunlight dared to penetrate the gloom. There was a burnt out row of workshops on the right and I began to unbutton my breeches as I nipped behind a derelict wall. My shadow could not hope to catch me more unguarded than when I was answering a call of nature and so I was not surprised when I heard the soft crunch of ash to my rear. I continued to pretend to be occupied.

I heard another step and turned, pulling the sword-stick blade out as I swung towards him. He had a knife in one hand and a look of shock on his face as my blade hovered over his Adam’s apple. He dropped the knife and looked into my eyes. He must have seen the hesitation. I should have killed him straight away and he knew it but I needed to know if he had told anyone about me.

“On your knees,” I demanded, pushing the point of the blade into his neck to reinforce the order. He did as I asked and sank slowly to the ground. I kept the sword close to his skin so he could feel the cold of the steel, and circled around behind him.

“Please,” he said, “don’t kill me.” His fear sounded genuine but I think we both knew we were each playing for time; me to get an answer and him for an opportunity to escape.

“Who have you told?” I asked, prodding the sword into the back of his neck until a bead of blood formed on his fish-belly skin.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir. I am just…”

He didn’t finish his sentence because I used the empty cane of the sword-stick to give him some incentive to tell the truth. He began to whimper and to hold his arm where I had hit him. I knew that every second I delayed in killing him raised the odds of someone seeing us, but whether they would do anything in this area of the city was doubtful. People would not live long here if they did not know to mind their own business. Still, I could not take the risk.

“I will ask you again, for the last time, who have you told? Your life depends upon your answer.” I flicked the sword to draw blood on his cheek. I did not feel proud of myself bullying that sad example of mankind. He was emaciated and obviously poor. He would be watching Fulton because that was all the work he could get. Unfortunately it had become a case of him or me, but still I vacillated. I had killed before, in battle, but never in cold blood. I began to doubt that I could.

“I swear to you, sir. I have told no one. Nor will I. Just let me go. I swear to God,” the passion in his voice and the pleading were compelling but just a ruse. In my weakness and indecision I let the sword drop, just a couple of inches but it was enough. He had grabbed a handful of ash when I had hit him before and now he twisted and threw it in my face. I saw him move in time to avoid being blinded entirely but I still lost valuable seconds spluttering and clawing at my face whilst his head cannoned into my stomach, doubling me over and making my sword fly from my hand.
 

I beat him on the back with the cane of the sword-stick and we broke contact, he staggered up and came at me again. I swung once more with the stick but he grabbed it with a lightning quick hand. I pushed the stick at him and while he was off balance let go of it and kicked him in the crotch, but missed any vital organ. He attacked, swinging his fists wildly. This time Gentleman Jackson’s training came, unbidden, to me. I danced away from his blows and followed each one with a swift jab to his face or side. Each blow made him angrier, more desperate and his punches less accurate. He fell to the floor but rose again, this time with his knife. He stabbed at me but he was blown and breathing hard, clutching his ribs. I side-stepped easily enough and finished him off with a right to his jaw that sprayed teeth and blood on to the wall. I grabbed him and smacked his head into the bricks again and again until he fell to his knees, a smear of crimson marking his progress down the wall. He wasn’t moving and a pool of blood was spreading beneath his head but I couldn’t stop myself kicking him repeatedly. Anger and fear were eventually replaced by exhaustion and regret. I stopped kicking.
 

I slumped down beside him, trying to get my breath back. I looked at him, wondering if he had a family. Would a wife and children wait in vain for a father to return that night? I stood unsteadily. Whatever regrets I had would would do him no good, I thought, and I needed to get my wits about me.

I turned him over and took his purse, emptied the few coins and then dropped it on his face as he stared sightlessly at the sky. With any luck anyone who found him would think this was just another robbery. I only hoped he had been telling the truth, that he had told no one. If he had lied then I would soon join him in the afterlife, and after what I had just done I did not doubt that, like him, I would be going to hell as well. Even if he had told me the truth, his masters would soon discover him missing and so I would have to conclude my business with Fulton on the morrow as planned and then leave Paris quickly. That meant that I had but one day to help Dominique find the traitor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The fiacre deposited me at the Rue de Clichy entrance of La Folie Boutin, with the cabby continuing to moan about going so far from the centre of the city. There was a queue waiting to get in to the Folie. It was said that ten thousand flocked to the gardens on summer Sundays and I think they were all in the queue before me, even though it was only a Thursday afternoon. There were fashionable ladies with expansive, and probably expensive hats, shop keepers with bulging stomachs, and tired looking mothers with hordes of ragged children running between people’s legs as the queue moved slowly forward. It was a hot day and the shaded walks, pavilions and fountains of the follies would offer some relief from the heat and stench of the city. I looked hard but couldn’t see any sign of someone following me but still I wished Dominique had chosen somewhere dark and hidden for our rendezvous rather than one of the most popular attractions of the city. After what I had so recently done, the gaiety of the park would not sit well with me.

When I’d returned to Fauche’s house Dominique’s note had been waiting for me. I’d barely had time to wash the blood from my hands and change my clothes before having to leave again. Fauche had inquired if there was any reason for my agitation but I didn’t tell him. I still couldn’t entirely rule him out as the traitor for one thing, and for another I felt a not unnatural disinclination to admit to killing a man. So I’d left as quickly as I could to meet Dominique.

La Folie Boutin, or Tivoli as some called it, has long since been closed. It never really recovered from Napoleon choosing to billet troops there prior to the invasion of Spain. The gardens covered almost twenty acres and contained mock ruins, shady avenues of trees, flowers in abundance, lakes and sculpted hills. The crowds were entertained by musicians, puppeteers and magic lanterns or they could take the warm thermal waters in the baths. At night the paths were lit by fire pots and the high hedges afforded many opportunities for private liaisons. It was a haven of frivolity and pleasure for many, and naturally I knew it well. The name Tivoli lived on later in other pleasure gardens nearby but the original closed in 1810.