Napoleon Concerto is a “steam-punk” novel. Like Beethoven’s “Emperor” Concerto, the book is in three movements.

In this excerpt the protagonist, Wolfe O’Sheridane, accompanied by his partner, the American inventor Robert Fulton, finally arranges an audience with the Emperor.

At the Court of the Emperor Napoleon

One February morning, Fulton fussed with his neckcloth, decided for the third time it did not look right, stripped it off, and called for Touraine his valet to come tie another one. The scowling valet set the points at the proper angle and cautioned Fulton not to finger them anymore.

O’Sheridane entered the room, still in hat and coat, the scent of damp winter air on him.

“At least you are fully dressed. Is the model packed and ready? A berlin waits outside.”

“You are early. It is nowhere near ten of the clock yet. The audience is not until then.”

“Snotty time: long before you are supposed to do anything. On a ticklish business like this, a head start helps in case wrinkles arise, mishaps, unexpected shoals. Speaking of which, anything to report not shipshape or otherwise needing sorting out?”

“Not to my knowledge. I packed the model away in its case last night. It is in the foyer at this moment, ready for transport.”

“Smartly done. A quick café au lait and then off.”

Fulton scowled.

“I must tell Cook to brew coffee.”

“Already attended to. Mme Soultrait should have it ready in the foyer. Up sail.”

He darted out of the room. Fulton followed.

“You know you really test me at times, sir, upon my soul you do. Is this good manners in Ireland, to come into a man’s home and order his servants about as if they were your own?”

“Oh, come now, Bobbie. In the first place, they ain’t your servants, they are Joel Barlow’s. In the second, your ire simply shows how much you need a morning demitasse. You would have ordered one anyway. I simply anticipated you.”

Bemused into silence by this apparent logic, Fulton was further distracted by the heavenly scent of roast coffee beans from the wheeled serving table in the foyer. Equal measures of black Brazilian coffee, smuggled past an English blockade through an official license of the Empire, and the purest cream were poured into bone china cups. Fulton added copious sugar from a silver bowl, vigorously stirred by a tiny gold spoon with a filigree handle.

Café au lait downed, Fulton put on his green felt demi bateau and brown redingote. Outside, the usual morning gloom was lightened by a rare pallid sun. Hating the chill, Fulton hurried down the stairs and into the berlin, a huge, lumbering travel coach, the last word in luxury. Plushly upholstered in satin, there was enough room inside for eight adults. Fulton and O’Sheridane faced forward, the specially constructed pine box between them.

“I fail to see why we need a full-sized berlin for this. The expense is ruinous. A cabriolet would do.”

“Aye, and for the short distance we shall travel to the Tuileries, we could just as soon hire a porter with a barrow. Shame on ye, Robert Fulton, as proud of show and display as you are. Quit your bleating!

“We go to see the Emperor. Nothing but the grandest conveyance will do, as ye well know. A berlin will make a dash, I wager.”

“Have you had the honor of meeting the Emperor?”

“Cannot say as I have.”

“I had that privilege once, while he was still First Consul.”

“I know. More’s the pity. He’s certain to remember you. The memory will cast a cloud that will be difficult to dispel.”

Fulton sniffed.

“You have not met him. In his presence, the greatness of his nature, his innate brilliance and indifference to petty spite become manifest. He is above such things as recrimination.”

“But still a man for all that, as said the Scotsman Burns.”

“You shall see. Once the merits of our proposal are demonstrated, previous differences will be instantly forgotten.”

“D’accord. To that end, let me talk.”

In the course of this conversation, the berlin’s four horses traversed the short distance from the Barlow home to the Tuileries courtyard. The single sentry on duty at the public passageway at the palace’s central pavilion expected their arrival. He presented arms and let the berlin pass without challenge. Once past the pavilion, the coach slowly turned to the right and halted before the stairwell that led to the Imperial Apartments. O’Sheridane and Fulton got out of the coach with the box. A young aide-de-camp approached. Smartly turned out in a grenadier à pied uniform, he saluted and politely inquired their business.

“Messers O’Sheridane and Fulton for an audience with His Majesty.”

The officer consulted a canvas bound log and nodded assent. He consulted a small, thin watch that hung by a short strap from his breeches.

“You are early. C’est bon. His Majesty appreciates punctuality. Please follow this sergeant.”

They were escorted by a garde à cheval, his already impressive height further exaggerated by an enormous bearskin colback topped by a tall red plume. O’Sheridane and Fulton filed past a small ceremonial guard on the first floor, turned out at attention. They ascended a spiral staircase to the Emperor’s offices and quarters on the second floor.

A man with a ceremonial halberd and sword guarded the doorway. He admitted them into a large antechamber where several boys, imperial pages in red breeches, white hose, and green frock coats heavily frogged with gold, eagerly awaited commands or at least tried to give the appearance of doing so.

O’Sheridane strode past, a friendly grin and a twinkle in his eye, like a man in his own apartments. Fulton followed, shaking his head, already filled with misgivings. The sergeant led them to the next, smaller room. It was much more crowded with uniformed aides de camp and red-robed chamberlains. They busily went about various tasks, too professional to even glance at visitors. The sergeant saluted sharply, about faced, and exited the room.

“You are the Emperor’s audience for this hour?” a thin-faced chamberlain inquired.

“Indeed. Good day to you, M’sieu Chamberlain.”

“To you too, M’sieu. This way please.”

The chamberlain opened a door.

Fulton and O’Sheridane stepped into Napoleon’s salon, a hall with an arched forty-foot ceiling, furnished in Empire style. The fireplace took up most of the wall at the other end of the room and was surmounted by a mirror of equally titanic size in a massive gold frame. High walls were chased with gold. Imperial purple drapes hung from one enormous arched window framed in golden curlicues. Elegant furniture, precisely arranged sofas and chairs upholstered in imperial purple, let petitioners take their ease while they waited to ask the Emperor’s favor. A circular sofa in purple silk stood in the center beneath a twenty-foot three-tiered chandelier made of gold and cut crystal. Green bushy ferns sprouted from the sofa’s enclosure.

Fulton set down the box and was about to sit when O’Sheridane cautioned:

“Keep afoot and look lively. The Emperor will return any second.”

A door next to the fireplace opened. Everyone bowed.

Without announcement or ceremony, a man moved with a curious, pantherlike tread to a spot near the fire. Hands behind his back in unchangeable military habit, already fidgeting, he wore the undress green uniform with red facings of a colonel of chasseurs à cheval, his only decorations the Legion of Honor and two small medals. Of medium height, trim and agile, his skin was like polished ivory, the famous black forelock still full although already thin at the temples. He wore silk stockings and shoes sharp pointed enough to pierce the eye of a needle. Blue-gray eyes flitted across the salon.

“Who is next? Pronto!” his Corsican accent thick as garlic.

“Vene, vene, gentlemen, if you have matters to discuss, present them to me. If not, I bid you good day.”

“Of course, Sire,” piped the Irishman.

He approached Napoleon and bowed low again.

“Messieurs O’Sheridane and Fulton at your service, Sire, to discuss a matter the Emperor will find of the greatest interest.”

He fixed O’Sheridane with his raptor’s gaze.

“Mais oui. You are the rogue Irishman, the deserter from the English navy, the sometime rug seller.”

He laughed, a brief flash of strong white teeth.

“Indeed, Your Majesty. And England’s greatest foe, your own self excepted, of course.”

“You Irish have disappointed me before. I give them small pensions. They are content to waste them on bottles of Calvados like your Napper Tandy rather than fight or stir insurrection in your homeland. Are there not enough men among your race to throw off their English chains?”

“Ouais. There are, Sire, if they had something to fight with.”

“Excuses. And who accompanies you?

“Why, it is that charlatan, the American Fulton. I know you well, Monsieur Fulton. Coglione! Banditti! You cheated France out of many thousand of francs with your plunging boat. What do you have to say for yourself, you robber?”

Fulton bowed so low his head almost scraped the floor, straightened, and jabbered:

“Sire, there was a grievous misunderstanding on all parties’ part. I myself lost heavily in the venture. When it became apparent that-“
“What my partner means to say,” O’Sheridane interjected, “is that we hope to put past matters aside, to discuss instead with Your Majesty a matter of great import to the defense of France.”

“Bah. Basta! I do not know why I ever consented to this audience. I go too far to please those near me.

“What do you have in that case, Monsieur Charlatan? Some other mad scheme like that useless plunging boat? It will not do. Basta, basta! Too much of my time is wasted already.”

“If you would but hear us out, Sire. You may have had differences with Monsieur Fulton in the past, but you will not dispute that he is a brilliant man of science. I myself have performed services for you in the past.”

Napoleon was about to tartly respond but paused. He smiled, a closed curling of the lips, curiously reminiscent of his wife’s expression.

“I do recall. The siege at the ancient city of Ragusa. You helped Colonel Triquenot sink several Russian ships with 16^th century cannon you unearthed from nowhere.”

“We were lucky enough to find them in a long forgotten storeroom in the arsenal with a supply of stone cannonballs. A long ago gift from the Pope to help fight the Turks.”

“Put false modesty aside; such displays annoy me. You showed initiative and resolve. More, indeed more. You are the first in some time who can boast of sinking enemy warships for France!”

“Exactly the purpose to which I wish to speak today.”

“Molto bene. Since this pertains to maritime matters, the Minister of the Marine should be here. Send for Decrès.”

“Instantly, Sire,” a courier piped, a boy clad in gold embroidered green coat and breeches, white hose and gloves, and a white-plumed red bonnet. He ran from the salon at a furious pace, long wood staff of office held before him.

“In the meantime, proceed.”

“You have my gratitude, Sire, but I would make one further request. The proposal’s value as a military weapon depends in large part on secrecy. If Your Majesty would ask your staff to vacate the salon.”

“You tire my patience. You dare suggest my staff is disloyal?”

“Nothing of the kind, Your Majesty. I only ask in the same sense a commander and his chief of staff never discuss plans before enlisted men.”

“Oho, a good analogy! Very well, if I indulge you this far, a little more will prove no great loss. Have the room cleared and admit no one but Decrès until I say otherwise.”

“But, Sire! Protocol-“ protested an equerry.

“May wait at my leisure as should you,” Napoleon finished.

The equerry sensibly shut up, bowed deeply, and walked backwards out of the room, followed by the other court officials. Napoleon turned and fixed O’Sheridane and Fulton with his cold gaze.

“Now, gentlemen, will you get on with it? For your own sakes, I dearly hope you are not about to waste my time.”

“Certainly not, Your Majesty. Monsieur Fulton, if you will remove the model from its case.”

Fulton put the case on a nearby table, snapped the double latches on either side and pulled off the lid.

“Mon Dieu! Qu’est-ce que c’est?“ exclaimed Napoleon.

There was reason for the Emperor’s surprise. The half hull before him was unlike any other ship model, at first glance a dragon out of myth, a chimera drawn from fantasy, a limbless water reptile, but upon further scrutiny certainly a ship, only without sails or masts. Glass ports in the bow were protected by an arched carapace of overlapping plates like scales, the prow’s barbed ram a vicious snout. Tall metal funnels and the tricolor flag of France projected above the ship’s low silhouette. Screw propellers jutted from the stern just below the waterline.

“Actium. A steam-powered naval ram, the first of its kind.”

Napoleon walked up to the model. He removed an eyeglass with a short gold handle from his pocket and studied it closely.

“This is to be a modification of a current craft?” Napoleon inquired after a few minutes’ inspection.

Fulton, on tiptoe in anticipation of imminent great reward, was about to babble in his eagerness to answer any questions the Emperor might have. O’Sheridane deftly interposed.

“Your Majesty understands exactly. We have in mind constructing it from one of the hulks currently lying unused at the port of Boulogne.”

“The screws in the rear of the boat provide propulsion.”

“Again correct, Your Majesty. More efficient than sidewheels with the added advantage of being practically invulnerable to enemy fire.”

“You will require complex arrangements of gears for such a purpose.”

“If Your Majesty will permit me.”

O’Sheridane removed a panel near the stern. A precise scale model of the ship’s steam engine was revealed by the cutaway, mounted upon a beam on a bed of bricks. Rods and gears extended to the propellors.

“What speed will it attain?”

“At least 15 knots an hour in calm waters, Your Majesty, less if there is chop.”

“Do not exaggerate. 15 knots?”

“Sire, it is no tale.

“This revolutionary engine possesses numerous features enabling it to outperform any machine Mr. Watt or any other scientifique in England might devise. Even with a stiff wind dead astern and a full head of sail, the Actium will pace and exceed any English ship of the line.

“In a calm sea, she will simply run rings around them.”

“The ram is to be the only armament?”

“That and her speed and the armor plate.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Decrès,” said Napoleon.

“Vene! Enter!” he barked in a parade ground voice of such volume even O’Sheridane was startled, a man used to cannon volleys next his head.

Having hurried over from his offices at the Place de la Concorde, Admiral Decrès entered the salon out of breath. He walked with a sailor’s rolling gait, stiffened and rendered awkward by old unhealed wounds. Decrès bowed and grimaced as he did.

“I received your summons, Sire. How may I serve you?”

Decrès was a short, thick-set middle aged man in the full dress uniform of a naval flag officer, a dark blue tunic, edges encrusted with gold laurel leaves, a wide sash of office down his chest, the rest studded with decorations to include the Legion d’Honneur. He had a face like a capstan, rugged, blunt, and devoid of feeling or sympathy, especially for fools. Napoleon seemed glad to see him. A mischievous look on his face worried O’Sheridane.

“Decrès, tell me your opinion. Look what Monsieur Fulton, the mad American, has devised this time.”

The admiral grimaced like he had bitten into a weevil-ridden biscuit.

”That idiot, that cretin, is he still in France? Oh, mon Dieu, here he is before me. What sort of fucking swindle are you trying to foist on the Emperor now, you American fantasist? Toujours, tu m’emmerdes!”

“Now, s-s-s-see hear, Admiral,” sputtered Fulton, “I am mindful of rank, but, there is a limit-“

“Decrès, I asked you to look at the model, not to abuse M’sieu Fulton. Come, there are ingenious points of design, I will grant, ones you should see.”

The admiral gave the streamlined profile of the Actium model a cursory glance.

“It looks like a fucking abortion, something vomited out of a diseased womb that ought to be flushed down the sewer. That is no proper ship!”

He almost spat until he remembered where he was. The stink of failure was in the air. O’Sheridane must act.

““I fear I must differ with you, Admiral Decrès. The Actium will be a true ship, as fine and responsive a craft that ever plied blue water. Only she shall run on steam, not sail.”

“What do you know of the sea, Anglais?” snapped Decrès.

“Irish, not English,” said O’Sheridane. “Nine years in the Royal Navy is sufficient for a passing acquaintance with the subject, I will wager.”

“Do you not know this gentleman, Decrès?” the Emperor asked. “He is the famous Irish patriot O’Sheridane.”

O’Sheridane noticed the Emperor had promoted him from deserter to patriot and took some small comfort from that. Decrès was unimpressed, however.

“I have heard of him. So he proved in Ragusa he can lay a shore battery. What of it! Any naval officer worth his salt can do that. He shall not convince me either. Even if these mad schemes of Fulton worked, c’est impossible!”

“And why not?” the Emperor demanded.

“It violates all the laws of war! Why, I know of nothing more low than to sneak up upon the enemy and destroy their ships without fair warning.”

“Actium will not engage her foe in stealth. Like the ancient warships who fought in the battle she’s named after, striking a blow for a new world, she will sail openly in the water under French colors, challenging every foe before engaging them.”

“The Anglais would never countenance such tactics. They would be sure to hang the crew if they ever fell in their hands for such ungentlemanly warfare!”
“I stand under sentence to be flogged round the fleet if the Royal Navy gets its hands on me,” O’Sheridane replied.

“Hanging is lenient compared to that. Any man who sails with me will be a United Irishman already condemned, without qualm or compunction as to what he is about.”

“There! He has you, Decrès!” Napoleon interjected.

“So you would risk your own life in this strange craft, O’Sheridane?”

“A poor sailor and a worse gambler not to chance a strike at Britain, Sire.”

“Bravely said.”

The Emperor paced rapidly back and forth in front of the fire. The look on his face was preoccupied, his half smile noncommittal. O’Sheridane and Fulton were in agony during the Emperor’s brief bout of calculation. He at last paused and said:

“What do you want for this experiment? How many francs? Be reasonable or I will not even consider it!”

“500,000 francs.”

“Madness! A ridiculous sum. Your Majesty must not do this!” expostulated Decrès.

“And total control over the entire project until its completion,” O’Sheridane continued.

“That will be essential to maintain the element of surprise. I would also request that Admiral Decrès direct the Naval Prefect for the port of Boulogne to fulfill our requests without hesitation.”

“C’est fou. Wilder than Don Quixote tilting at windmills.”

“Done!” said Napoleon.

The three other men in the room were startled, Fulton and O’Sheridane too overcome with joy to speak while Decrès was simply aghast at the decision.

The Emperor walked around the half hull model again.

“I said when Monsieur Fulton’s steamboat went up the Seine that such an invention would change the face of the world. There is perhaps potential to this design.”

“Sire, I mean no disrespect, but you must reconsider. To entrust a huge sum to these foreigners, this adventurer and his charlatan conspirator.”

“Silence, Decrès! I have informed you of my decision. Have the necessary decrees entered by your Ministry. Keep them general and vague with no hint what the expenditures are for.”

Even a stubborn walrus like Decrès knew when to pull in his tusks in the face of the Emperor’s uncompromising will. He shut his mouth and curtly nodded his head.

“Bene! Monsieur O’Sheridane, I take it our discussion is now concluded?”

“Indeed, Sire, beyond my wildest expectations. Words cannot indicate my gratitude. Thank you for letting me strike a blow for Liberty and against my nation’s captors.”

O’Sheridane bowed deeply to Napoleon. Fulton belatedly did the same. The Emperor briskly nodded. He fixed O’Sheridane again, eyes darting query and challenge.

“I gamble at small stakes with you, Irlandais, because you have destroyed enemy ships by unconventional tactics before. How many French captains can say that, Decrès?

“Therefore I trust you with this petty king’s ransom at your discretion, in hopes you will sink more ships, British ships this time. I would rid France of these marauders who harry our shores like carrion buzzards.

“We are alike in having no love of Englishmen. But there will be an interesting discussion, Monsieur O’Sheridane, should your confidence in this strange craft prove unjustified.”

He stalked from the salon.

Decrès left in his own painful, crabbed manner. Fulton turned to O’Sheridane, face beet red with glee, about to break into song.

“Quiet, you fool,” hissed O’Sheridane, “do not throw a fit ‘cause you got a piece of cake. Later, we shall crow over champagne.”

Calmed by that caution, Fulton kept mum, put the lid back on the model, and left the salon with O’Sheridane.