The Tide Watchers (47 page)

She frowned. “The white sail will be less noticeable in this mist.”

“Yes, but we can't use it until we're out of sight of the harbor.”

They prepared to shove off from the rocky cove
Papillon
was
wedged in. Opening the last sack, she saw a little barrel and frowned. “What's this?”

“You know what it is, and how to use it.” Duncan made a face and half shrugged as she stared at him in furious repugnance. “It may come to us or them, Lizzy. I swore I'd get you home to your mother, and I'm bloody well going to do it.”

A smothered little chuckle took him by surprise. She mock-saluted him, grinning. “Aye-aye, Commander.”

She knew him so well. Only weeks ago he'd hated that—now he loved it, relied on it.

Don't let them fool you, son. It's when they seem to be meekest and gentlest that a woman wields the highest power over a man. You can't do a damned thing about it, so you might as well enjoy it.
Eddie was so right. Even now Duncan was fighting the urge to smile at that cheekiness that was intrinsic in her.

“Duncan.”

The sharp word shook him. She was standing, staring south, holding the bilocular device to her eye. “The ships are turning back, signaling from ship to ship with lanterns. I can see flags moving on the lead ship.” She coughed again.

“Sit down, Lizzy, and wrap the cloaks around you. Take more medicine.” He stood, checking the lay of the rocks. “Use the rudder the moment you feel it come free.”

“In which direction?”

“Wait.” The highest rocks were barely submerged—damn, the tide was too low to help. They bumped against a rock. “Hold the rudder in hard against the craft! If it breaks off on the rocks we'll really be in the basket.”

They bounced off rocks, going nowhere. He had to feel around each rock to push off it gently, without hitting another too hard. “How the hell did we get inside this inlet at all?”

“I think the tide was still then. It's going out now.”

He saw with dismay she was right. He, the experienced sailor, had made the most basic and stupid of mistakes, forgetting to watch
for tidal changes. Rocks he hadn't noticed when he'd entered the inlet were visible now, sharp enough to split
Papillon
in two. “The fleet can't dock here, but the tide won't be back for hours. We have to be gone before the patrols see us.”

Helpless, he watched for the next hour as the ships slowly came ever nearer—but then, even in the thickening sea mist, he could see the lead ships were deeper in the water than they had been. “The fleet's sinking.”

“What did you say?”

He dropped down. “That's why they've come about. They're sinking!” Her face lit, but he held a finger to her lips. “The ships are heading this way. If they anchor near the island . . .”

Lisbeth's shining happiness faded. “Maybe if we spin slowly, we'd have momentum but not enough to damage her against another rock?”

“It's a good idea.” Grabbing at two of the highest rocks, he twisted his body, and spun as he released them. He tried again and again, and they barely moved.

The fleet changed tack, heading for the mainland, exactly as he'd do in their position.

The sun had sunk in the sky when shouts came on the wind, the splashes of rowboats put to the water; a long, creaking groan that wouldn't stop. With a ripping sound of rushing water and a jagged symphony of human screams, he saw the lights slowly dropping.

“Was that what I think it was?” Lisbeth sounded horrified.

“Four of the ships are going down. They couldn't get back in time,” he murmured in revolted fascination. “There are hundreds of men in each ship, and hardly any real sailors. It's every man for himself.”

“Stop,” she cried.

He looked down. She'd covered her ears with her hands and sat curled over herself in the lantern's uncertain light. “They're only a few miles out to sea. Most will make it back, or the town will send rowboats. And remember, we only sabotaged twenty-two ships. That means there are dozens of others seaworthy to save those in the ships that founder.”

There was a jerking motion as the outgoing tide pulled
Papillon
around a rock and into the sea. They were free at last—but Duncan couldn't stop the forward momentum. He pitched forward and curled over double as the brass rivets bit deep into his stomach. He scrambled to grab hold of the hatch and drop through it—but another thump came, and he whacked his back on the brass of the observation dome. Stomach and back seized in the grip of sudden pain, he grunted and let go of the hatch. It landed square on his head and he knew no more.

English Channel, Near Boulogne-sur-Mer

L
ISBETH TOOK HER HANDS
from her ears.
Papillon
was bobbing with the tide, bouncing against rocks. Then there was nothing but the splashing of water. Were they free? Duncan was neither bringing the hatch down nor setting up the sail.

“Duncan?” she called, uncertain. “Duncan, what's happening?”

No answer came.

Don't panic.
Gritting her teeth, she shook his legs. No response. She shoved his hip. Nothing. Grabbing him by the waist she tried to pull him in, but he got stuck at the shoulders.

She went cold with panic. What if he'd been shot? If she moved him, she could kill him. Her mind froze; she dithered for long minutes. If he were shot, he'd die either way; she had no choice. She pushed him, then twisted and pulled and shoved at him until she was swearing like a sailor, covered in sweat, and her arms were shaking with exhaustion. At last she heard a cracking noise and his body fell inside. His face was pale, but he was breathing. A thin line of blood trickled down his neck. She'd probably broken something getting him inside.

Pulling him around so he was curled in a ball on the wet floor of the submersible, she checked him all over, but the only blood was on the back of his head, oozing from a lump, the only holes in his jacket were tears from when she'd dragged him in. Sick with relief, she grabbed the sail from under the other side of the bench where Duncan had left it, and set it up.

The sounds of the sinking ships and screaming men made her fingers shake and fumble. The sudden descent into night, and the whis
tling cold wind, made it harder. But before she'd even set it, wind filled the little sail. She pulled the tiller hard right. One side of the sail pushed against her cheek as
Papillon
sprang forward, heading north.

Though the fleet hadn't moved and
Papillon
kept moving, the screams of the drowning men took a long time to fade.

Holding the tiller in place with an elbow, she tied the brass compass to her rope belt, so it hung by her waist. She turned the rudder to the right angle to maintain course.

Duncan hadn't moved. She put her hand to his nose. Thank God, he was still breathing.

The wind turned fickle. Checking the compass, she saw she was heading northeast, and adjusted the tiller. The craft moved around, and she drew a sigh of relief. Then she coughed; she could feel the pain begin. She took a massive slug of the medicine and wrapped herself up well.

Time passed without meaning. There was only the whistling of the wind on the skin of her frozen ears. The tip of her nose was numb. Her face ached, her arms hurt from shoulders to fingertips, and every breath was more painful than the last, but though it grew colder as night turned deeper, the coughing subsided. She hung on by grim will, moving only to correct course.

The wind screamed like the sounds of the men crying for help, the yells of others trying to save them.

What was the difference between her life and those of the French soldiers? They lived, loved, wed, and had children. They wanted to save their country, had to obey their leader. The only disparity lay in where they'd been born.

She sailed on, praying for the French soldiers' lives, praying she was heading in the right direction. Praying for forgiveness with half-frozen windy tears dribbling down her face. Making a deal with God:
I'll never hurt another living thing if I can have Edmond, and see Mama again.

No wonder Duncan seemed so haunted when they first met. No wonder Papa came home from every mission and slept for a day and drank too much brandy for weeks.

Fool! Just get Duncan to British waters!
Her world narrowed to tides and wind, cloud and moon and scudding mist, a compass needle, intense cold, and Duncan's slumped body.

“Don't you die on me,” she muttered fiercely, sailing as fast as the wind could take her.

Then out of the mist, a ship bore down on her. A flag flapped above the lit forecastle, and another from the flying jib: French flags.

She jerked the tiller right, the sail moved, and
Papillon
bore away. The little craft swung ferociously, up and down with the waves as the ship passed. Fighting a wave of nausea, she kept going.
Papillon
was tiny. With luck they hadn't seen her. But the ship moved in an arc; the port side faced her. A double row of cannon faced her, twenty-two oiled barrels blocking her path to England. The sound of pistols cocking simultaneously froze her blood. She turned the sails right again, heading east—

“Don't do it,
ma chère
. One cannonball will send your boat to the bottom of the sea.”

Lisbeth's hand froze on the tiller. With half her body above the hatch, there was nowhere to hide. She looked past the planks of the ship to the starboard. He was leaning far over the edge, smiling. In the light of the lantern he held she saw that beautiful face, now scarred like hers. Eyes glittering with the vengeance that no amount of killing had satisfied since he was fifteen.

Leaning even farther over the starboard rail, Alain called in a voice tight with fury, “Elizabeth Sunderland, I place you under arrest in the name of the first consul for an unprovoked act of war: the murder of hundreds of French soldiers.”

She closed her eyes; her hands shook with more than cold. For once it wasn't clever torture or manipulation. Alain was a loyal Frenchman to the bone. “Where were the first consul's ships heading, M'sieur Delacorte? Can I not protect my country as you do?”

“I will bring you to account,” he snarled. “You're still in French waters, and you killed a true French loyalist on your lover's ship. Our fleet would have brought freedom to an oppressed people and ended
the reign of a sad madman oppressing other nations to keep his useless soul in luxury, and self-satisfied lords taking the rights of the people.”

She'd never heard such passion from Alain. He truly believed all he said.

“Don't think the men that saved you before are so clean,” Alain went on in that furious tone. “I've been investigating them. A man of their description was responsible for killing seven children on the rue Saint-Nicaise, and another took part in the assassination of Czar Paul of Russia.” He lifted his lantern higher, smiling down at her. “Yes, I thought that would shock you. They must be turned in to the European Tribunal for trial. What are their names, Lisbeth?”

Overwhelmed, she shook her head.
It's not Duncan. It can't be Duncan
.

“Give me their names, and I'll let you see Edmond,” Alain called down, voice sweet. “Isn't that what you want,
ma chére
?”

Lisbeth closed her eyes. A few months ago, she'd have—

He's baiting me. He has no intention of fulfilling the promise. As soon as he has
Papillon,
he'll kill us both.

It might come down to them or us,
Duncan had said.

Her mind raced. The ship could outrace and outgun
Papillon,
but it couldn't change direction so fast. In the dark, beside the hull, they'd be forced to shoot blind—it might work.

Dropping as far down inside
Papillon
's hull as possible, Lisbeth released the tiller and added the propellers to the sails, heading hell-for-leather straight toward the ship, a tiny, onion-shaped boat blending into a deeper shadow of night.

In answer red fire came from the ship's gunwales. Being this small had its advantages. Cannonballs hit the water around her, but missed by enough not to sink her. Yanked back and forth, Lisbeth held on with all she had—but the cannonballs just kept missing.

Then she realized. Alain didn't want to sink
Papillon.
He wanted to deliver it as a gift to Napoleon—and that gave her the courage she'd almost lost.

The ship's bow faced full west as it turned around, men hanging over the rails to find her.

She had only seconds. A fresh gust of wind came from the south. She jerked the tiller to follow it.
Papillon
sprang forward, straight into the wide curve of the ship. They wouldn't shoot the cannons straight down or the ship would sink.

“Come, let's show them what we're made of!” She patted
Papillon
's brass coopering and yanked the tiller until she was almost beneath the ship. If the ship turned back north . . .

Even in the lee of the ship the wind was strong.
Papillon
leaped forward, heading east, but she'd only bought a little time. When the sun rose, they'd use pistols and rifles, and those would not miss. Alain might want
Papillon,
and Duncan delivered alive—but it was imperative she did not survive.

The ship's stern turned north, coming at her.

One minute. One chance.

After yanking the tiller to turn away from the ship for a few moments, Lisbeth used both hands to pull the barrel bomb, tinder, and flint out of the sack. With shaking hands she pulled the cork, lit the short wick. Without time to heat wax to make a seal, she pushed it back down hard.

Shots fired and cannonballs fell around her as she waited for the right moment to toss it.

She turned the tiller south as fast as the wind would take her. The ship came at her, and she threw it as hard as she could. In seconds the ship sailed right over the barrel. If the cork and wick got wet—

Papillon
almost overturned in the rocking waves as four cannonballs landed around her with hard booms. A bullet embedded in one of the propellers, and she cried out, eyes blinded by the flash as the wet wood exploded.
Papillon
jerked hard forward. She counterbalanced by jumping across Duncan's body, almost falling on him. The next shot would kill her. All she could do was keep moving. Small and dark,
Papillon
was hard to see and harder to hit.

If the bomb were going to explode, it would be any moment. She had to chance it. She jerked the tiller again, heading north. Shots and
cannonballs followed, churning the waves and slowing the craft. Yes, Alain wanted to bring the craft, safe and whole, to his leader.

A
boom,
and startled, pain-filled screams filled her ears. She turned her face: a brilliant golden-red flash flew up from the port side of Alain's ship, a false sunrise. A silhouette of a corner of the stern flared up in sudden clarity, men, sail, and mast. The ship rocked back.

Though she was on the other side of the blast,
Papillon
bucked like a horse being broken in. Less than twenty feet from the ship, Lisbeth held on for dear life, keeping
Papillon
on a grim nor'westerly course, wishing she could take her hands from the tiller and sail to block the creaking of breaking wood and the panicked screams of the sailors that filled her ears.

As if compelled, she turned to the carnage she'd wreaked.

The ship was listing badly to port side. Fire covered the corner of the stern. The ship would be at the bottom of the Channel in less than ten minutes.

Again she turned
Papillon
back toward true north, tacking around the hapless ship.

“What the hell's going on up there?”

The voice wasn't steady, but it was loud enough to hear over the wind. Her knees sagged, and she fell forward over the tiller in relief and joy. “I just bombed Alain's ship. It's sinking.”

“You did
what
?”

“We're close to British waters.” She felt him scrambling to move. “Hold still. It's hard enough maintaining balance with a sinking ship nearby and my feet stuck either side of you.”

He stilled. “I can't move my left arm. What happened?”

The irritable demand would have made her smile in any other circumstances. “I broke your arm or shoulder to get you back inside. I had to get you to British waters.”

After a few moments, he said, “I can't manage the sail. Can you get us there?”

“We're close,” she replied in grim determination, though in truth she felt frozen stiff and as shaky as an autumn leaf; she was coughing
again. “Can you manage the lower rudder?” she yelled, coughing again. She took the last swig of medicine.

She felt him move up to the bench. “Take these.”

It was her leather gloves; he'd fallen on them. She fumbled into them, warm from his body. For the first time in hours she felt her fingers.

She'd tacked around the fiery carnage that had been Alain's ship. A few rowboats were in the water, all heading southeast to the closest part of the French shore.

Setting her face, she turned north. “Turn the rudder west, toward the closest point in Britain. I think we might be near Dungeness.”

“My ship should have joined Nelson's blockade by now, at a point southeast of Lydd—the big promontory. Can you see any lights?”

She looked around. “Yes! There are lights about a mile due west!” Her voice cracked on the final word, and the coughing fit wouldn't stop.

“We're in British waters,” he yelled over it. “Go!”

Tears streaming down her face from coughing, she turned to England.

She couldn't believe she was home, not even when they reached a ship of the line. Dozens of cannons turned on them, and a cold voice demanded to know who the hell they were. Duncan yelled at her to sit, for God's sake, and she dropped down. Duncan struggled through the opening, gave the required code and showed the captain a curious little shape painted onto the dark sail to prove they were British spies.

It all felt like a strange dream.

Clapping, cheering sailors surrounded them as they were lifted by the bosun and helped to embark, then given brandy and blankets. The ship's doctor examined Duncan's head and strapped up his arm. The one-armed ship's captain introduced himself in beautifully clipped English and bowed to Lisbeth, but the unfamiliar face blurred before her eyes. Uncertain, she put out her hand, and coughed again. Duncan murmured a few words. The doctor hurried to her, and snapped orders to fetch the herbal medicine.