Chapter Forty-seven
Roberta was anxious to go up to the weather deck and see the effect of her Antiochus on the French ship once the bridge telegraphed “stop” and Captain Worthington spoke to her on the voice tube.
“I am having reports from all the divisions, Roberta, please inspect all your crew for injuries.”
“I have, Captain. I have one engine-room rating burned when the shock of our collision threw him against a hot cylinder. Do we have others?”
“One marine gunner killed and three injured when a cannonball entered the starboard 32 pounder casemate. There may be more injuries from men not properly braced when we hit, and we may yet pick up French wounded from the water.”
“Is it possible for me to come up on deck now, or will you need the engines? I really need to see the effect of our ram.”
“I thought you would. I have ordered the deck officers to heave-to half a cable from the wreck.”
When she reached the weather deck, she looked downstream where the Regent was making all steam to overcome the schooner’s head start. To her eyes the thunder clouds and winds were driving the Susquehannah at well over ten knots, but its passengers and crew were certain to find themselves in sight of the Bellerophon before reaching the open sea.
She turned her head to look at the ironclad. The smashed hull on the starboard side was under water with the other floating against it with a heavy list, still attached to the ruins. Smashed and fallen masts and yards lay strewn across the decks. As she had anticipated, the iron girders joining the two hulls appeared to have held the load, but the iron sticking up from the sunken wreck told her the fastenings to the wooden hulls had failed. The remains of that ship were never going anywhere.
Four or five ship’s boats were in the water around it, picking up crewmen in the water and taking them to the floating hull. The smoke from one funnel revealed that one of its boilers was still working―she could hear a steam pump within the hull sending the water flooding through the damage being shipped out overside.
Captain Worthington joined her. “I think they can look after themselves if we leave.”
“You will not take the enemy captain’s sword?”
He looked over at the wreckage. “I hardly think it necessary, there is nothing left to fly his colours from. These people can look after their own rescue, and I am anxious to give chase to the schooner.”
“Just give me the word and I will have steam for you in minutes.”
By sundown, they found the Bellerophon, the Astrea, the Regent, and the Susquehannah anchored off Neuzen. The Bellerophon raised a signal for all officers to come aboard as soon as Antiochus joined them, and Maitland sent a boat of his own to fetch Worthington and Roberta.
He received them in his day cabin and introduced them to Watson, a Marine lieutenant. “My First Lieutenant is aboard the American ship at this moment, but he has sent Watson back because of some problem. Please tell them, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, Captain. The ship’s master and the gentleman himself say the craft is chartered by the King of Spain and his entourage only, bound for America. The Master says we are breaking international law by hindering their right of passage.”
Maitland shook his head. “Our orders say nothing about the King of Spain―Napoleon’s elder brother Joseph, I am told. None of the allied countries have ordered him to be arrested. I rather think we have no right to do more than stop and inspect―but I smell a rat.”
“Indeed, Captain,” Roberta said. “Why would the King of Spain receive the protection of France’s most powerful battleship?”
“Indeed, Lady Bond, my own thought exactly. But I am given to understand that you have met the Emperor Napoleon. Would you recognize him again?”
“I most certainly would, Captain.”
“Fine. Then would you accompany we three Captains to the American ship?”
“Three captains?” Captain Worthington said.
“Yes. I want ranking witnesses for everything we might find necessary to do when we get there.”
When Roberta arrived aboard the Susquehannah, she was escorted to the passenger deck and stationed between two large marines. “I shall ensure you see all of the French detainees,” Maitland said, “but I think it best if they are not introduced to you.”
A large group of men and women were brought in, and the captains were soon in discussion with several men in military uniforms bedecked with medals. The most important among them was addressed as “Your Majesty”, and he certainly had a Bonaparte face and carriage, but he was not Napoleon.
Maitland came close to her. “No, Captain, this is not the Emperor,” she said. “He very likely is Joseph.”
Maitland went back to the others, and the discussion became more heated―in several different languages. It seemed that among the King of Spain’s effects were several chests of jewels emblazoned with Spanish crests. They all disputed the Navy’s right to inspect them.
Maitland and the other captains withdrew for a discussion, and while they were out of the cabin, a new man joined King Joseph in conversation, standing with his back to Roberta. This man turned away as soon as the British officers opened the cabin door to return.
Before he could leave the cabin, Roberta instructed the sergeant of the Marines to stop him. Some dispute ensued and no less than three field marshals confronted the abashed sergeant.
“What is all this?” Captain Maitland demanded.
Roberta answered. “Would you permit me to come closer to the gentleman in the middle of this confrontation, Sir?”
The man himself turned. “I think that will not be necessary,” he said in French. “So, Madame Américaine, do you intend to ruin my plans again?”
“I am afraid I must, Your Majesty,” she answered. She turned to the British captains and addressed Maitland. “Now, Sir, I believe our confusion may be dispelled―this is the Emperor Napoleon.”
Napoleon shook his head. “No more, I say. I believe the title of Primiere Consul of the Republique is all that is left to me. And who are you, My Lady, who is most certainly not Américaine?”
Roberta had to pause. Who was she at this moment? Should she answer to the title bestowed by her marriage or had it been annulled? “I am the daughter of Mr. George Stephenson, the designer of railways. I am the manager and chief engineer of his steamship yard on the River Clyde. Last year I was the spy who uncovered the secrets of your steamships.”
Napoleon’s discovery did not end the discussions aboard the Susquehannah. Napoleon and his entourage―most of the passengers aboard―were desperate to learn what Britain would do with them if they gave themselves up.
Captain Maitland was somewhat equivocal. “Our orders are to secure the person of the late Emperor and to bring him to England, but they say nothing of the British Government’s intentions. I am to inform you that if you offer to surrender yourself on terms, the Government will not allow you to enter the country before such terms are agreed.”
“But a surrender upon terms means that Britain will protect the person?” Napoleon asked.
“Yes.”
Count Bertrand spoke. “And will that also be applicable to his entourage?”
“I understand so. All of you who come to Britain aboard the Bellerophon will be under the Government’s intention that the person shall be protected.”
The French party was not pleased with what they were offered but in their circumstances could demand no other. Only the position of Joseph Bonaparte was better―they had no reason to prevent him, his people, whatever was in the crest emblazoned caskets and baggage, from continuing their voyage to America in the morning.
It was late when Roberta and Captain Worthington returned to the Antiochus. They stood on the weather deck looking at the small flotilla anchored in company and protected by night sentries rowing around them in ships’ boats. The afternoon storms had ended, and the moon was sometimes visible through light scudding clouds.
“The war is over,” Worthington observed. “The Admiralty will have little interest in us when peace is declared.”
“I know,” she said, “but the yard still has one spiteful to complete with Archimedean screw propellers, and there is still the prospect of the steamship for the Black Ball Line.”
He looked at her. “Why did you introduce yourself to Napoleon that way?”
“Because I will not know who I am until I learn the decision of the Bishop’s Court―and also that it was only when Napoleon asked me that I remembered I had not opened the second letter I received from the mailbag on Bellerophon.”
“Will you open it now?”
“I must, but . . .” She laid a hand on his arm. “I am frightened at what it may not say.”
“No, I believe you may be apprehensive, but I do not credit your fear. Come over to this lantern.”
Roberta’s hands trembled as she withdrew the letter and looked at it. The original writer’s address had been covered or lost. She ripped open the folds of paper and read.
“What does it say?” Worthington asked.
She held it out to him and spoke the words. “The salutation is to Miss Roberta Stephenson. The letter is very short—‘you have your freedom. May the Good Lord be with you’. It is signed ‘T’.”
“Just, T?”
“For Tiverton. It is the Marquess’ signature.” She looked into his face. “Oh Alfred, my marriage is over. I am a free woman again.”
After a long and frustrating day, Lord Bond was hard put to maintain a neutral face for the man who sat in the chair he had lately occupied as Chargé d’Affaires in the well found and comfortable office he had spent good money of his own in equipping. He sat in the smaller chair before the desk, held his tongue, and nodded as Marie-Sophie put a commiserating hand on his arm.
The man seemed to delight in his words. “Yes, My Lord. I see your difficulty, but the Countess is not a British subject. I really do not see what I might do to help you.”
Bond regarded Lord Fauntleroy, his replacement in Paris and the new ambassador to be, with a jaundiced eye. Why would Lord Liverpool send this fop, above all others, to him? It would not have mattered so much if he had known of the problem that would descend upon them while he was in that seat and might act with authority. He looked at Marie. “I suggest we look at the other option, my Dear. We will get you out of France one way or another.”
He had started the previous day with Fouché, who also must have taken great delight in refusing to see him about the matter. He had merely directed them to apply to some lesser official, knowing that they would all be replaced in a week or so, and the whole process started again. No doubt a deliberate snub intended as a measure of revenge for the spying a year ago.
Going back to the source of the problem, they had been astounded to find trouble in the very place he had expected their supplication to be easiest. The courtier assigned to such matters as recognizing the rights of nobility in the Count of Provence’s household―the Count being none other than the future King Louis XVIII―had recalled some dispute concerning the widow’s husband.
“Did your husband not leave Britain as a supporter of the Corsican, Countess?”
“Hardly a supporter, Monseigneur,” she replied. “He had the intention of using the influence of some man within the administration of the Consulate to recover some of our lost estates.”
“But you were both living in Britain as émigrés at the time. To leave the place where you were safe under agreements between the Royalty of France and the British Crown and to return to France under the Consulate was a treason in the eyes of the French Crown.”
“Am I then, condemned to be considered as an enemy of my country, Monseigneur?” she asked in a soft voice.
“No. Of course not. But the investigation to clear you of wrongdoing may take some little time. I can add your situation to my dossier and inform you when you may be called to testify.”
Bond and Marie regarded one another silently. Bond was not beaten yet, he determined, but time was of the essence, and his only option would also bring a raft of problems with it.