The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

Prologue

ST. HELENA

APRIL 28, 1821

Lieutenant Pierre Delacroix cursed himself for his overconfidence. He had taken a huge risk by sailing into the predawn twilight, hoping to get just a few miles closer to the rocky cliffs on the north side of St. Helena before sunup. A British frigate, one of the eleven guarding the remote island, appeared around the coast and turned in their direction. If his submarine were caught on the surface in broad daylight, the mission to free Napoleon Bonaparte from exile would be over before it began.

Delacroix lowered his spyglass and called down through the hatch. “Prepare to dive the boat!”

Three men quickly lowered the sail in the gusting wind. With the bright sun at his back, Delacroix took one last look at the approaching frigate before ducking below and closing the copper hatch. His nostrils flared at the rank odor of fifteen men packed together inside the cramped quarters.

“Did they spot us?” asked Yves Beaumont, a frown cre

asing his forehead. Though he kept his voice calm, his eyes flicked incessantly toward the closed portal, betraying his anxiety. The experienced alpinist had nonchalantly stood on ledges at heights that would cause normal men to faint in fear, but the idea of submerging inside the confines of a hollow metal and wooden tube terrified him.

Delacroix had no such claustrophobia, one reason why he was the perfect man to lead the mission on the world’s first operational submarine.

“We’ll know if they’ve seen us soon enough, Monsieur Beaumont.”

They’d also soon know if the sub would be able to withstand submerging in the open ocean. It had been built based on designs American engineer Robert Fulton had used to demonstrate the concept of submarine warfare to Napoleon’s naval staff. Delacroix named his fifty-foot-long update Stingray.

Since casting off from the schooner that had towed the technically advanced vessel within sixty miles of St. Helena’s shores, the Stingray had sailed under cover of darkness. So far, the voyage had been uneventful, and the copper-clad oaken hull remained watertight.

Now it was time to find out if the harbor dive tests that the Stingray had passed with flying colors were matched by her performance under the high seas.

“All hatches sealed, Lieutenant,” said Ensign Villeneuve, Delacroix’s second-in-command. “The snorkel is closed and tight.”

“Ready on the ballast pumps.”

The sub’s two engineers prepared to work the manual pumps that would force water into the empty tanks. The rest of the twelve-man crew was in position to operate the crank that would turn the propeller at the rear, while Delacroix held the stick that controlled the rudder. Beaumont and their second passenger, who wore a black mask at all times to keep his identity secret, pressed themselves against the hull to stay out of the way.

With a deep breath as if he were preparing to plunge into the ocean himself, Delacroix said, “Dive the boat.”

The engineers cranked the pumps, and in a few minutes water began to break against the two windows in the Stingray’s viewing tower. The wood of the vessel creaked as it adjusted to the pressure pushing against it on all sides.

“It’s not natural to be in a boat underwater,” he heard one crewman murmur, but a sharp glance from Delacroix silenced him.

He waited until the external line attached to a float indicated they were submerged twenty feet below the surface, then said, “Hold here.”

The engineers stopped pumping. The Stingray held steady and the creaking ceased.

Now all they could do was wait. Except for an occasional cough from the crewmen, the Stingray’s interior was eerily quiet. Even the reassuring sound of water lapping against the hull was gone.

By now, the sun had fully risen, providing enough light through the inch-thick windows in the observation tower under the water so that a lantern was no longer needed to illuminate the sub’s interior. They should now be able to remain underwater for six hours before needing to either extend the snorkel tubes or surface for air.

Two hours into their vigil, a shadow passed over them. Delacroix, squinting through the window, could just make out the hull of the frigate not a hundred feet away, her sails shading the sub from the sun. All movement inside the submarine stopped as the crew waited for an attack, looking up at the ceiling as if they could see through it to the threat above.

Delacroix’s eyes were glued on the frigate for any clue that it was tacking in their direction. Instead, its course stayed straight and true. In a few minutes, it was out of view. Out of extreme caution, Delacroix waited another three hours before ordering the snorkel to be extended.