“Now, take a look at this walking stick. A simple twist of the silver knob and voilà.” A razor-sharp knife sprang out of the tip, transforming the ebony stick into a bayonet.
Quin cocked a brow. “Tory pigs on a skewer. My favorite dish.”
Johnson gave him a bland look. “You forget, Stanton. As far as most of Boston is concerned, you are a Tory. You may need this stick to protect yourself from some overzealous patriots.”
“You have a point, no pun intended.” Quin frowned, recalling an incident when a group of patriots had tarred and feathered a Tory merchant for refusing to sign the nonimportation pact. He twisted the silver knob, and the knife receded into the walking stick.
Johnson continued, “We’re also experimenting with small explosives that can be thrown after they’re lit, but we’re experiencing a delay in their manufacture. The man who was working on them blew his hand off.”
With a gulp, Quin sneaked a sidelong glance at his employer. “How inconsiderate of him.”
“Yes. Now, let’s move to the backseat while I demonstrate the latest addition.”
Quin grabbed his wig from the backseat and tossed it onto the front one. Once they were seated, Johnson reached up to pull on a looped silken cord hanging from the ceiling.
Immediately, a trapdoor over the front seat swooshed open. A heavy iron bar fell out and slammed onto the cushions and the wig with a muffled thud and a puff of lavender flour.
Quin winced. “Ouch. That would really hurt.”
Johnson nodded. “Aye, guaranteed to knock a fellow traveler unconscious. Just in case you find yourself in poor company. Now, help me put it back. ’Tis rather heavy.”
After helping him, Quin pressed on the trapdoor ’til he heard a distinct click. He eased back, wary of being caught underneath in case the heavy rod decided to drop unexpectedly. He lifted his flattened wig. “Perhaps it killed the lice.”
“There’s one more item in the experimental stage. A submersible vessel, operated by one man. I believe you are just the man to help us with it.”
“Why? Did the others lose their hands?”
Johnson sighed. “Pray, don’t be ridiculous, Stanton. There is no danger to your hands, only a slight chance of drowning. You do swim well, don’t you?”
CHAPTER TWO
Monday, September 18, 1769
“You call her the Turtle?” Quincy studied the egg-shaped submersible that bobbed like a cork in the Charles River. “She’s rather small.”
“Yes, only seven feet in depth, and the ballast tanks occupy the bottom portion.” Johnson looked Quin over. “ ’Twill be a tight fit.”
Quin winced. Damned tight. “How do I move her about?”
“There are two propellers attached to hand-cranks inside the vessel. The propeller on top controls your descent. The one on the side beneath the surface of the water will control your horizontal movements. The rudder is operated by foot.”
“I see.” Quin removed his sky-blue velvet coat and laid it on the grassy riverbank. “Assuming I can move her about, how will I know where I am?”
“The vessel is equipped with a depth gauge and a compass, surrounded with fox-fire phosphorescence,” Johnson explained. “ ’Tis dark inside, of course.”
“Of course.” Cramped and dark. With a silent curse, Quin dropped his tricorne and wig onto the ground. “What are those openings on top?”
“Vents to supply the Turtle with air. In theory, once you submerge, the vents will close.”
“In theory?”
“It hasn’t been tested. Until now.”
“Splendid.” Quin unwrapped his lacy silk cravat and tossed it onto his coat. “How does she submerge?”
“There are two ballast tanks, fore and aft. You’ll open valves on the bottom to allow water into the tanks—”
“And then, you sink. That makes sense.” Quin rolled up his sleeves. “Do I dare hope there is a way to ascend?”
Johnson gave him a slightly annoyed look. “Of course. You will eject the water with two brass pumps, operated by foot. Unfortunately, they haven’t been tested in this particular situation.”
Quin frowned at his employer. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“Yes, once you submerge and the air vents close, your supply of air will be limited.”
“How long will I have?”
Johnson shrugged. “We’re not quite sure. It hasn’t been—”
“Tested,” Quin interrupted him. “I understand. Next you’ll ask me to test some milk to see if it has turned?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Stanton. I need you in good health.”
“If you don’t kill me first.” Quin strode onto the small pier. Two men in a rowboat waited for him.
“Good luck,” Johnson called.
Quin nodded and stepped into the rowboat. He must have been crazed to agree to this. The two men rowing the boat certainly looked at him like he’d lost his mind. He glanced back at his employer. Johnson had gathered his discarded clothes and was taking them to the coach.
The rowboat pulled up alongside the Turtle. Constructed of oak planks, she was reinforced with iron bands and covered with pitch. The rowers unhooked the ropes that had kept the submersible tethered a distance from the pier.
Quin scrambled on top and lowered himself through the open hatch. A wooden beam extended across the middle of the Turtle with a leather seat centered on it. Straddling the beam, he sat.
He studied the interior, memorizing the location of each instrument so he could find them in the dark.
He looked up. Damn, the hatch would close less than an inch above his head. Given the size and number of devices to work, the Turtle was better suited for an octopus than a man. He reached for the hatch and hesitated.
The sky above was blue with only a few wisps of clouds. He swallowed hard. So ’twill be dark. You knew that. The metal scraped as he slid the hatch into place. His eyes adjusted to the dim light that filtered through the air vents. He turned the side propeller’s crank, moving the vessel away from shore.
“No wonder they call her a turtle. She has to be damn slow. God help me, I’m talking to myself.” He cranked for what seemed a long time. In spite of the air vents, it seemed stuffy inside.
He checked the compass. “We’re headed in the right direction. Let’s try to submerge.” He opened the valves.
The water came in, gurgling and sloshing as it filled the tanks beneath his feet. He could feel the vessel sinking. The vents overhead shut, enveloping him in darkness. He should be grateful the vents didn’t leak, but the blackness surrounding him felt oppressive. The phosphorescence around the compass and depth gauge glowed an eerie green. He reminded himself this was merely a machine, and he was in control.
Still, he fought an odd sensation of panic as he sank into a world uninhabited by men. He gripped the cold metal of the hand crank by his head and rotated it to control his descent. The air about him grew thick, pressing down on him like a cold blanket. Was it his imagination or was it difficult to breathe? How long would his supply of air last?
The walls felt like they were closing in. Ridiculous. He couldn’t even see the walls. Concentrate. He checked the depth gauge. The Turtle had proven her ability to sink. He closed the valves to the ballast tanks, then went back to working the cranks.
Suddenly, the Turtle tilted backward. Quin slid down the beam and knocked his head against the back wall.
“Damn!” He pulled himself forward and read the depth gauge. The vessel was still sinking. He held his breath and listened. Yes, the stern tank was still taking on water. This explained his lopsided position.
He twisted the handle again to shut the valve. No luck. The depth gauge showed increasing descent. He opened the second valve to fill the forward tank. The Turtle regained her upright position, but continued to sink. The air grew thicker. A
pain throbbed in his ears.
Finally, the Turtle stopped. He assumed the tanks were full. A thick silence surrounded him in the darkness, interrupted only by the sound of his breathing. Would he know if he was out of air before it was too late? Damn. Would he be able to ascend? He closed the valves. If they were both working this time, he could eject the water and rise to the surface. He worked the pumps with his feet.
With a sudden lurch, the Turtle rolled onto her back.
He slammed against the back wall. “Damn it to hell!” The valve on the stern tank hadn’t closed.
Water dripped onto his face. With his hands, he examined the air vents by his head. In the Turtle’s tilted position, they were starting to leak. Eventually, the whole vessel would fill.
He couldn’t reach whatever was wrong from the inside, the inside of a dark, watery tomb. What were his choices—drowning or suffocation? No, he could abandon ship. It was the only way. He took a deep breath and reached for the hatch.
It wouldn’t budge. He fought a surge of panic. Remain calm. Reserve your air. There was no choice on this. He would have to purposely flood the Turtle in order to open the hatch.
He skimmed his fingers along the interior ’til he located the first set of vents. He shoved the flaps open and water poured in. Damn, it was cold. He found the second air vent and pushed it open. More cold water gushed in. His heart thumping, he forced himself to wait patiently as the water level crept higher and higher up his legs.
It was taking time. Would he run out of air to breathe before he could escape? And if he couldn’t move the hatch, he would drown. Johnson’s prophetic words echoed in his throbbing ears. There is no danger to your hands, only a slight chance of drowning.
The water soaked his breeches where he sat, straddling the beam. He shuddered as the water level reached his waist. His chest. When the water lapped at his chin, he took a deep breath of air and tried the hatch.
It opened.
He hauled himself through the opening, against the current rushing in, and swam for the surface ’til he broke through. The sky welcomed him with fresh and glorious air. He gulped it down. The sun glinted off the sparkling water. Thank you, God. He was alive.
The rowboat floated by the pier. The men stared at him, surprised by his sudden appearance.
“Bring the ropes back,” Quin shouted. “I’ll dive down and tie them off.”
“What happened?” Johnson yelled from the shore.
“She rolled over to play dead.”
Quin dove four times to the Turtle to attach the ropes. These were harnessed to oxen on the shore, and slowly, the beasts dragged the vessel out of the river.
Resting on the riverbank in his sodden clothes, Quin watched the men cart the Turtle off to a nearby barn. The rays of the sun were suddenly blocked, and he turned to see Johnson standing beside him. “You were right. There is a slight chance of drowning.”
“We’ll have the problem fixed before you try again. For now, I suggest you change. You’ll find some dry clothes and a towel in the hidden compartment of your coach.”
Quin hefted himself onto his feet. So Johnson had known he might have to swim for it. That damned Turtle.
He trudged toward the carriage, his feet squishing in his wet shoes. “Be sure to fix the problem before we move the Turtle to her new home. I wouldn’t want to swim from the bottom of Boston Harbor.”
He had changed into dry breeches and a cambric shirt when Johnson hopped into the coach and rapped Quin’s walking stick on the ceiling. The coach jolted to a start.
Quin fell back against the seat, his foot stuck in the air with a silk stocking halfway on. “Why the hurry, Johnson? I haven’t finished dressing.” He tugged the hose past his knee and tied the garter.
“Redcoats are nearby. We need to return to Boston.”
“Fine.” He slid on his other stocking. “You do realize these rivers will freeze over in a few months?”
“Of course. The storm that blew through on the eighth put us behind schedule, but we’ll have the Turtle ready and hidden in the harbor before winter sets in.”
Quin shrugged on his brocade waistcoat. If he had to abandon ship again, the water would be very chilly.
“Her name is Virginia Munro.”
Quin paused with his hands on one of the many buttons of his waistcoat. He glanced at his employer who was staring out the carriage window with a blank face. “Excuse me?”
“Her name is Virginia Munro, daughter of James Munro, a farmer from North Carolina.” Johnson shifted his gaze to Quin. “Do you wish to know more?”
As Quin fastened the buttons of his waistcoat, he considered feigning ignorance, but he knew exactly to whom Johnson was referring. How many times in the past three weeks had he found himself staring out a window, picturing a pair of bottle-green eyes and a turned-up nose? He met Johnson’s watchful eyes and knew it was useless to pretend. “I told you there was no need.”
“But you didn’t mean it.”
Sighing, Quin wrapped his cravat around his neck. “Her father will not let me near her.”
“Her father left, headed south. I assume he has gone home.”
Quin paused in the process of tying the cravat. “She stayed in Boston?”
“Yes. She and her sister are staying with their aunt, Mary Dover, the widow of Charles Dover.”
“The merchant?”
“Yes. I believe he did business with Stanton Shipping in the past.”
“Aye, my uncle did a great deal of business with the man, though I could never understand why.” Quin thrust his arms into the sky-blue velvet coat. “Dover was a snide and grouchy old bastard. And a Loyalist.”
“Your description is accurate.”
“The aunt is a Loyalist, also?”
“It would appear that way.”
Quin recalled the young woman’s words aboard The North Star. She had given every indication of sympathizing with the Colonials. Even her name was patriotic. Virginia.
“The aunt is in mourning, but I hear she’s accepting invitations to Loyalist social functions.”
“I see.” Quin stuffed the ends of his cravat into the top of his waistcoat, where the top three buttons remained undone. His heart was beating fast, but he attempted to appear nonchalant. “They might attend the same parties as I.”
“Most probably. I felt I should warn you beforehand and remind you of your priorities.” Johnson eyed him as if he were an errant child. “You’re to look for information, not a pretty face. What we need is written proof that the British army came here not to protect us as they claim, but to suppress us.”
“I understand, sir.” Quin pulled on an uncomfortable pair of shoes. If he saw her again, he would still be trapped in his role. How could he possibly impress her when he behaved like a pompous ass?
Johnson glanced out the window. “We’re approaching the Neck.”
Quin leaned out his window for a better examination of the narrow strip of land that led into Boston. “Damn. Redcoats, ahead.”
“We’ll have to stop.” Johnson rapped the cane on the ceiling. “Find out what’s happening.”
“Yes, sir.” Quin reached for the door handle as the coach slowed to a stop.
“Your wig, Stanton.”
“Oh, right.” Quin plopped the wig onto his head with a grin at his employer. “You know, as my servant, you should open the door.”
Johnson raised his eyebrows. “Very well.” He exited and waited by the open door.
Quin stepped out of the coach and into his role. “I say, a lovely day for a ride in the country, is it not?” Presenting a lazy smile, he quickly assessed the situation.
A dozen British soldiers blocked the road leading into Boston. A man in plain homespun clothing, his wrists and ankles tied, sat beside the road.
Quin glanced over his shoulder a
t Johnson. “Don’t just stand there, old man. Make yourself useful.” He flicked his fingers at him. “Go . . . do something. Write a letter.”
Johnson bowed his head. “Yes, sir, Mr. Stanton.” He climbed back into the carriage.
The leading officer came forward, his scarlet woolen coat richly embellished with gold epaulettes and buttons. A crescent-shaped silver gorget hung around his neck, matching the silver-mounted pistols that jutted from his belt.
The officer bowed. “I apologize for the inconvenience, sir. We’re stopping all traffic in and out of Boston. Caught this one here, trying to desert.” He motioned to the man in restraints. “Some local people were helping him, had him hidden in their cart.”
Quin widened his eyes as he removed his snuffbox. “Sink me! ’Tis a crime to leave Boston?”
The officer’s face hardened with an irritated expression. “He’s a British soldier who tried to desert.”
“Oh, my! Now, why would a man do that? The uniforms are so dashing, don’t you know. I absolutely adore the bright colors. And those drums you play—so exhilarating. Mon Dieu! My heart goes pitter-pat.”
“You don’t say.”
“Would you care for some snuff? ’Tis a special blend we call Grey Mouton. Captain . . . ?”
“Captain Breakwell, and no, thank you.” The officer gazed over Quin’s shoulder with a frosty look.
Quin took a pinch and sneezed into his powerfully perfumed handkerchief. The mixture of musk oil, licorice, and ambergris was a foul concoction Josiah had proudly discovered and poured onto his master’s handkerchiefs.
Quin blinked to keep his eyes from watering. “I say, I was thinking of having a suit of clothing made for me in the military style. I hear the ladies positively swoon over a man in uniform. Have you found that to be true, Captain?”
Breakwell clenched his jaw. “You are free to enter Boston, sir. There’s no need to detain you further.”
“Oh, how kind of you.” Quin waved his handkerchief in the air, dispersing noxious fumes under the captain’s pinched face. “I say, what will you do with that man over there?” He eyed the captured man’s homespun clothing and shuddered. “Quelle horreur! It should be a crime to dress like that. I would suggest you put the man’s tailor in the pillory.”