by Hunter, Seth
But at night he had only his thoughts and they were not good ones. He had seen no one for five weeks except his jailers—and once a surgeon who told him he had two cracked ribs and a crack on the skull which he knew already and to get plenty of rest of which there was no shortage. He knew he was in the prison of the Grand Châtelet, the ancient fortress on the river guarding the Port au Change, but he knew nothing of the world outside his cell. Nothing of Danton or Imlay. Nothing of Sara. He maintained the pretence of being a citizen of the United States, repeatedly demanding to see the American Minister—but to no avail. He was fed twice a day, once in the morning, once in the afternoon.
He tried to occupy himself with astronomy though in the absence of books and a sky this was no easy feat. He tried to remember the positions of the planets and the major nebulae in relation to the Earth. He drew them on the walls of his cell and wiped them off every evening so he could start again in the morning. And he devised a mental exercise that involved the imaginary exploration of the universe in a conveyance of his own invention which he called a Star Ship.
This craft was conical in shape and made from thin copper plates hammered on to a large wooden frame, much strengthened by interlocking struts and braces, and containing a number of compartments. To wit: a steerage and navigation room, living quarters and galley, a chamber with an inventive device for the disposal of waste, a storeroom and a detachable section at the rear for the accommodation of a large hot air balloon and the necessary equipment to inflate it.
The craft was assisted into the heavens by a series of giant rockets strapped to its side, each of which fell away when it reached the limit of its trajectory after first igniting its successor. In Nathan’s scheme of things, by the time the last of these was exhausted the craft would have risen far above the gravitational pull of the earth and would continue to move—consistent with the principles discovered by the late Sir Isaac Newton—at the same speed and in the same direction until some other force diverted it. Accordingly, Nathan had designed an ingenious system of magnets which could be raised and lowered and otherwise manipulated by means of several wheels or windlasses whose purpose was to lock on to the diverse magnetic fields emanating from the planets: not unlike the practice of mariners in following the trade winds. When the time came to return and the gravitational pull of their own planet caused the craft to drop more rapidly than was desirable, the crew would remove themselves to the detachable chamber at the rear of the craft, inflate the balloon by means of a small furnace, and float safely back to Planet Earth.
Nathan named this craft the SS Isaac Newton in honour of its main inspiration.
To further entertain himself he populated the universe it was designed to explore with various species of being, each with a social, political and religious system that enabled him to indulge his satirical views on their earthly equivalents. Thus he travelled his imaginary universe rather in the style of a Gulliver and to much the same purpose.
But it took an enormous effort of will to keep himself occupied and there were times when he would be reduced to shivering uncontrollably or rocking silently from side to side like a madman in an asylum.
At such times a terrible panic would come upon him and he would imagine staying here forever, forgotten, until finally he even began to forget himself and became something animal, inhuman. Insane.
He stood up and began to walk, or rather stumble, from one wall to another, at first in a crouching shuffle under his blanket but then gradually straightening his shoulders, until finally he was pacing as he had paced his imaginary quarterdeck on the Nereus until he had command of himself, as he had once commanded a sloop of war . . . I am Nathaniel Peake, he reminded himself sternly, master and commander of the sloop Nereus, of 16 guns. My father is Admiral Sir Michael Peake, of Windover House, Sussex. My mother is Lady Catherine Ann Peake of St. James’s, London.
He also said Sara’s name a lot. And conjured up an image of her.
He thought of the last time he had been with her . . .
But that made him too sad, too desolate. And so he stretched himself out on the hard wooden pallet and pulled the blanket around him again and thought of the sea. He thought particularly of Cuckmere Haven where he had played as a child and the tide sucking at the shingle and the sun on the white cliffs of the Seven Sisters . . .
He had slipped into a meagre doze flavoured by dreams of travelling through an immensity of space when his own small universe was filled with light. He raised an arm against the glare and was addressed by a single rude command: “Come.”
He was alarmed. This had not happened before—and after so many weeks he found himself strangely loath to leave the confines of his cell. But it seemed he had no choice in the matter. He slid his feet down from the pallet and stumbled through the door into a dimly lit corridor. There were two men. One with a lantern, the other with a short pike or halberd. Nothing more was said but the Lantern set off down the corridor and the Pike gave Nathan a shove to indicate that he should follow. In this manner they proceeded through the bowels of the Châtelet opening and closing doors, mounting a flight of stairs and finally arriving at another door which they did not open but upon which the Lantern rapped politely with his knuckles. A voice bid them enter.
A room that seemed vast compared to Nathan’s cell with a desk at the far end and a lamp upon it. Behind the desk two men, their faces in shadow. The only other furniture a chair about halfway between desk and door. Two windows, shuttered. And hanging down from the ceiling, a double length of chain.
You shall first show him the instruments of persuasion, then apply them, beginning with the least and proceeding by degrees to the worst.
Where had he read that?
“Set down the light and let the prisoner advance.”
A History of the Gunpowder Plot. The instructions of King James for the interrogation of Guido Fawkes . . .
“Sit.”
Nathan sat, squinting into the glare of the lamp. He was conscious of his beard and his filthy matted hair. He felt like an old man. He straightened his shoulders.
“Nathaniel Benedict Turner. Merchant and ship’s captain. Citizen of the United States of America.”
A not unpromising start.
One of the men was reading from a document which Nathan recognised as the American passport provided for him by the Second Secretary at the Admiralty. A little light spilled over on to a face that seemed vaguely familiar, though he could only see a part of it. The other man was entirely in shadow.
There was silence, as if they were waiting for him to confirm this information. Nathan licked cracked lips, swallowed . . .
“That is correct,” he confirmed. His voice sounded hoarse and strange. He had hardly used it in over a month. He swallowed again. “And as such I believe I have the right to know why I have been arrested and to communicate with the American Minister in Paris.”
“You have not been arrested.”
The voice almost echoing in the vast room.
“Then I will take my leave.” He made to rise.
“Sit down.”
The firm hand of one of the guards forced him back into the chair. The figure leaned forward and with a shock Nathan recognised the features. Commissioner Gillet, the man who had arrested Thomas Paine; the man he could have sworn he saw beneath the trees in the gardens of the Tuileries.
“Travel permit issued by Henri Santerre, Mayor of Le Havre, 2nd Germinal, valid for ten days.” His voice reflected the bored indifference of officialdom forced to inflict necessary but tiresome formalities but as he read on, it gradually rose in volume and became expressive of some emotion. “Certificate de Civisme issued by the Surveillance Committee of the Saint-Jacques Section permitting the said Turner to remain in Paris for up to six months for the study of astronomy.” He raised the offending document to the light so that his companion might share h
is incredulity.
“So you are a student of the black arts?” with a sneer. “And what is your particular interest? Sorcery or divination?”
“I believe you are confusing it with astrology,” Nathan replied. “Astronomy is more in the nature of a science and my own particular interest is in the exploration of the universe.”
“And this is what brought you to France.” The sneer permeated the voice.
“No. Not entirely. I sailed to France with a cargo of soap, running the British blockade at great risk to my ship and crew.” He was gaining in confidence, his voice in power. “However, when I reached Port Marat I availed myself of the opportunity to travel to Paris to study the works of Tycho Brahe which, as I am sure you know, are maintained in the Observatoire.”
“And is this why you were in the quarry near Porte d’Enfer? To study the works of some astronomer?”
What did they know? Who else had they caught? What had been said?
“I had . . .” His voice cracked. He coughed and tried again. “I had an appointment with the owner of the quarry to discuss the import of certain equipment which is not readily available in France.”
“You expect us to believe that?”
“I do not expect you to believe it but it is the truth.”
“What was the name of this man?”
“Le Mulet. Jacques Le Mulet.”
“And how did you come to meet him?”
It was probably best to tell the truth—in this instance at least—and it could surely do no harm.
“We were . . .” Another fit of coughing. This time he asked for water. “It is difficult for me to talk without—”
“Oh we can make it easier for you to talk.”
But the other man poured water from a jug on the desk and the guard brought it to him.
“Thank you,” he said. “We were introduced by an American shipping agent called Imlay.”
Silence. Was that an exchange of glances?
A different voice. Gillet’s companion, still in the shadows.
“And what were your dealings with Thomas Paine?”
Nathan raised his arm against the light but could not make out the features. The voice, however, seemed familiar. Where had he heard it before?
“I am sorry. I don’t know what you mean. I have had no dealings with Thomas Paine.”
“But you know who I mean?”
“Of course I know who you mean. He is a father of American independence and a friend of President Washington but I have had no particular dealings with him—except as a fellow guest of the Hotel Philadelphia.”
“You did not come to Paris specifically to meet with Citizen Paine?”
“No. Why should I?”
“That is what we would like to know, Citizen.”
Nathan spread his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “I supported the petition for the release of Citizen Paine from prison. As would any American, I believe. But I assure you I have had no ‘dealings’ with him. I cannot imagine what dealings they could be.”
“No? Well, perhaps we should allow you a little more time for you to think about it.”
Nathan allowed himself to become indignant. It was not hard.
“Citizens, I have been held without charge for over a month. I am a United States citizen. I demand, at the very least, the right to communicate with the representative of my government . . .”
“The American Minister has been informed of your arrest—on suspicion of smuggling.”
“Smuggling?” Nathan showed them his empty palms again. “What have I been smuggling?”
Had they found the gold?
“Again, we wait for you to inform us.”
“But this is nonsense. What would I be smuggling into France? I have made sufficient profit running the British blockade with supplies—essential supplies—for the Republic, why should I stoop to smuggling?”
“Then why did you wish to meet the man known as Jacques Le Mulet—a notorious criminal and smuggler?”
“A criminal? Is he a criminal? I had no idea. You have evidence of that?”
“You are not a lawyer, Citizen, nor are you here to question us. It is we who question you, is that understood?”
He waited for Nathan to acknowledge the rebuke before resuming: “The man known as Le Mulet has long been under suspicion. I ask you again, why did you wish to meet with him?”
“As I informed you, he wanted me to bring him some equipment from America.”
“What equipment?”
“We did not have a chance to discuss it. We had barely met when the quarry came under attack.”
Another silence. They know nothing, Nathan thought, or very little. They could not have found the gold or the letters to Danton.
Gillet spoke again. “I think you are lying. I think you were involved in the plot to free certain prisoners from the Luxembourg prison including Thomas Paine, Georges Danton and Camille Desmoulins.”
Nathan contrived to look shocked.
“However,” Nathan detected a sigh and the voice when it resumed sounded disappointed, almost sulky, “it has been decided that, in view of the lack of ‘evidence,’ you are to be permitted to return to the United States.”
Nathan stared into the light. Was this a trick? Despite the water his mouth felt too dry to speak but he managed a dry croak.
“Then I am free to go.”
“You will be taken under escort to Havre-Marat where you will rejoin your ship. You will meet with no one on the way, you will communicate with no one—”
There was an interruption from his companion: a muttered consultation behind the lamp. Then Gillet’s voice again, even sulkier:
“Apparently there is one who wishes to meet with you before you leave Paris. You will be escorted directly to his apartment and from there to the coast—”
Another muttered aside from Gillet’s companion.
Gillet addressed the guards.
“See that the citizen is made presentable. Take him away.”
“Who is it I am to see?” Nathan rose to his feet.
“You will find out when you get there.”
He was escorted to the door. It occurred to him that to be held for five weeks in solitary confinement and then released without charge merited at the very least a spirited protest—and that such might be expected of an American citizen. He turned at the door—but the protest died on his lips. Gillet’s companion was leaning forward bringing his face out of the shadows. It was the face of an old man with a long nose, thin lips and sunken cheeks, almost cadaverous in the yellow light of the oil lamp. And it was a face Nathan knew. The face of the man he had last seen presiding over the National Convention: Marc-Guillaume Vadier, chairman of the Committee of General Security. The man they called the Grand Inquisitor.
Chapter 33
The Carpenter’s Lodger
The coach headed west out of the city along the route taken by the death carts on their way to the Place de la Révolution. Nathan had to presume from the care they had taken with his appearance that this was not their destination. They had permitted him to wash and shave and equipped him with a new suit—almost certainly donated by one of their previous guests—which was not the usual preparation for a trip to the guillotine, though it could be Gillet’s idea of a joke. The commissioner sat opposite him with two gendarmes, presumably to ensure that Nathan did not take it into his head to leap from the carriage: a course of action which did in fact occur briefly to him as they passed Regnault’s studio in the Rue Honoré where Sara took her lessons in fine art. He peered eagerly out in the wild hope that he might see her on the street or in one of the windows but the shutters were up and the door closed. He saw Gillet looking at him with a smirk and wondered if there was some significance in this.
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br /> A short distance from the church where the Jacobins held their meetings they turned down a narrow alleyway, just about wide enough for the carriage, and into what appeared to be a builder’s yard, stacked with timber. Here the coach stopped and Gillet curtly invited Nathan to get out.
“We will wait for you here,” he said. He took a small pistol from his pocket and laid it on his lap. “And do exactly as instructed. I will have no compunction in shooting you should you attempt to escape—in fact it would give me a great deal of satisfaction.”
Nathan stepped down into the yard and looked about him. It was more of a carpenter’s than a builder’s with a not unattractive smell of sawn timber and varnish and glue. To his right was a workshop, more in the nature of a lean-to, where he could see several men and boys, presumably apprentices, sawing and hammering away. And directly in front of him was a house or cottage with a middle-aged woman sitting on the front doorstep washing vegetables in a pail of water and a younger woman hanging washing on a line. Nathan was mystified. Do exactly as instructed, Gillet had told him, but who was to instruct him if it was not Gillet himself?
He was not long in doubt.
“Citizen!”
He looked up and saw another woman on the balcony that ran along the front of the house at the level of the first floor. She summoned him with a wave.
