Frankenstein in London

by Brian Stableford

  One of the musketeers who had taken up a position in the bow discharged his weapon, far too soon—the mestizo canoes were still out of range. Mortdieu groaned wearily, as if he had half-expected such recklessness and did not care for what it portended. That gave Marie Laveau the chance to seize the initiative wholeheartedly.

  The young woman screamed at the musketeers and bounded forward to join them. She seized the other ready weapon from the second sniper and barked orders to the loaders, who revised their formation. Then she took up a lone position in the bow of the ship, musket in hand, reminiscent of one of the proud figureheads that French and English warships often bore, carved into the form of imperiously beautiful woman.

  Mortdieu groaned again.

  “No, General!” Ned said. “She was born and brought up in North America—my guess is that she’s a lot more familiar with guns than your islanders. If she’s a good shot…” He trailed off. The distance between the Outremort and the leading mestizo canoes, which were heading straight toward one another, had declined so rapidly that the smaller vessels were now within range.

  Marie Laveau put the first musket to her shoulder, took careful aim and fired. Without a second’s pause, she passed it backwards and took the next. With practiced ease, she put that weapon to her shoulder, aimed, and fired again.

  She was, indeed, a good shot. Her first two bullets hit the men standing in the prows of the two leading canoes, urging their comrades to row harder. Both stricken men fell into the sea, splashing loudly.

  The effect on the crew of the Outremort was sensational—the shots evidently seemed to them to be near-miraculous. Led by Jeannot, they cheered wildly. Even Mortdieu, standing helplessly beside Ned Knob, could not restrain a small exclamation of surprise and exultation.

  Marie Laveau was still shouting, pouring forth a torrent of speech. She was still shooting, too the electrified loaders were passing her the muskets as quickly as they could prepare them, and she was firing them in as fast a relay as Ned had ever witnessed. Some of the shots missed their targets, but it was the first two that had set an expectation, and the zambo behaved as if every one was striking home unerringly, guided by the loas. Nor was it only the zambo who were impressed. A significant fraction of the mestizos suddenly lost their appetite for engaging the Outremort and attempting to seize the vessel. Had all the paddlers stuck to their work with determination, they might have come through what was, objectively speaking, a very thin drizzle of gunfire and pressed home their attack, but it only required one in three to falter for the formation to break down and panic to ensue.

  Suddenly, the canoes ceased to be forces attacking with skill and discipline, and became ready targets for the Outremort’s armored prow. The racing steamship rammed into them, catching no less than three amidships and toppling their entire crews into the water. Nor did the mestizos’ troubles end there, for the zambo crews that they had been pursuing before they first caught sight of the Outremort had regrouped and come about, ready now to become aggressors in their turn.

  Marie Laveau’s shrill voice carried so well over the calm surface of the sea that the zambo in the canoes could hear her now, and they seemed less suspicious by far of whatever she was saying than the crewmen of the launch had been. They began to howl on their own account.

  The panic in the mestizo ranks was now unstoppable. Had they retained sufficient discipline to flee in good order, nine out of ten would have escaped, but they were in hopeless disarray. The steamship veered this way and that as Mortdieu began to shout instructions to the helmsman, colliding with one canoe after another. The spearmen aboard the larger vessel began to hurl their weapons, with the confidence of men inspired. Marie Laveau continued firing, her bullets striking home more often than they missed, despite the fact that most of her targets were no longer heading straight toward her, and thus presenting obliging targets.

  Ned was cheering too, caught up in the general fervor of excitement, alternating cries of “Montjoie Saint Denis!” with hurrahs addressed to Sir Francis Drake and the spirit of the British Navy, confident that the zambo would understand and appreciate both. Within minutes, the potential battle had become an utter rout, and the zambo in the smaller vessels were merciless in their mopping-up.

  Ned could not begin to count the dead, and was too hard-headed a realist to believe for a moment that the sea was turning red with blood, but he was glad to take note that not a single one of the Outremort’s crew was injured, and estimated that mestizo casualties on the water must have outweighed zambo casualties by at least eight to one.

  At last, the remaining mestizo canoes contrived to flee westwards, and the zambo, intent on killing swimmers, let them go.

  Marie Laveau was still shouting orders, and Ned observed, with a slight thrill of alarm, that the canoeists had now begun hauling bodies out of the water, for the sake of preserving corpses rather than rescuing living men.

  Finally, the young woman refused the next gun that was offered to her and strode back to the bridge, with a strutting gait that Ned thought quite magnificent. It was Ned that she looked at first, rather than the Grey General.

  “Did I not tell you that my people would come?” she said, triumphantly.

  “Yes, you did,” he agreed. “And now, it seems, you have an army at your beck and call. Might I ask what you intend to do with it?”

  “You shall see,” she promised, looking at Mortdieu now rather than her erstwhile companion. “You shall see what the power of vaudou can achieve, once properly unleashed.”

  Chapter Four

  Vaudou in Action

  “Well,” General Mortdieu muttered to Ned, as the Outremort resumed her shoreward journey, her speed reduced so as not to outstrip the enthusiastic escort that now surrounded her. “What will she do?” The Grey Man was speaking through gritted teeth, although he had been allowed to maintain his position of nominal authority on the bridge while Marie Laveau was moving about the deck, consulting with her new disciples.

  “How should I know?” Ned retorted. “I saved her life by accident, having not the slightest idea of what I might be unleashing. Can the zambo really take on Boyer, do you think? Could they really restore their own version of Tairo dominion to the island?”

  “Never,” was Mortdieu’s expert judgment. “They’re far too few, and too widely-despised. While Boyer is still weak, the consequent disorder can be exploited; the north country won’t be pacified for some years. The best the zambo can hope for, though, is to hold off their enemies and establish a defensible enclave—and that would be best done discreetly. If they were to become so troublesome that the blacks and mulattos came to the support of the mestizos, in opposition to them, they’d be annihilated.”

  “Is there any hope of their finding allies outside Haiti?” Ned asked.

  “The French, you mean?” the Grey Man replied. “None at all. France has every interest in keeping Boyer weak, but not at the expense of making any of his rivals strong.”

  “But the lady has recently been to France,” Ned pointed out, “and has come back ready and eager to undertake her mission. The people of France might not be as drastically divided as the people of Hispaniola, but it’s a troubled nation nevertheless, in which the enmity between Royalists, Republicans and Imperialists has by no means been laid to rest in the aftermath of military defeat.”

  Mortdieu’s eyes glittered, but he had to concede the point. “You evidently know more about the present state of France than I do,” he said. “Which of these forces do you think likely to support her, and how?”

  When the question was put like that, Ned could not immediately think of any alliance the would-be Witch-Queen might have been able to forge. Indeed, he could only think of one man in the whole of France who might have been willing to pledge her anything. He racked his brains to recall whether he had mentioned Henri de Belcamp’s name to her during their conversation in the dinghy, and concluded that he had not—any more than she had mentioned it to him. That thought caused h
im to glance at the young woman speculatively. To fill the silence, he said: “Has she any potential allies closer to home?”

  Mortdieu shook his steely head. “Tortuga has become a pirate stronghold again, as it was the golden age of piracy 150 years ago,” he said, “but the buccaneers are in no position to lend material aid to the zambo, even if they had any such desire. They’re a sharp thorn in Boyer’s side, because ships crossing the Atlantic invariably take the northern route along the line of the islands rather than taking long detours south to use the Guadeloupe Passage into the Caribbean Sea, but they’re no more than that, and owe their persistence to the fact that he’s reluctant to risk the depleted navy he seized from the French in an all-out attack on their heavily-fortified deep-water harbor. The maroons of Cuba feel no more kinship to the zambo than to the rival groups on their own island.”

  Ned shielded his eyes in order to study the rapidly-approaching coast. He guessed that the bay for which the Outremort was heading must lie to the east of Cap Haitien, almost due north of the Trou du Nord, not far from the notional border that separated Hispaniola into two indistinct halves. “Did Patou and Ross move further along the coast,” he asked, “or did they head inland?”

  Mortdieu only hesitated momentarily before saying; “Inland. The mestizos have cut them off, but they have zambo support too, so I doubt that they’ll be slaughtered any time soon. My own company’s in greater danger, for now—although I suppose I ought to hope that your friend’s fine display might change that—because the mestizos would be just as happy to get their hands on a steamship as the zambo would be to have a some good steel tools and heavy ploughs to replace those the French took with them when they abandoned their holdings.”

  The Grey General raised his telescope to his eye in order to study the shore. The beach was already thronged with people, and more were emerging from the forest to the east of the inlet to watch the steamship’s approach. Mortdieu scanned the distant company for a minute or more before saying: “They’re in an ebullient mood. The fact that we’ve won a rare victory over the mestizos has raised their spirits enormously. Your friend is sure of an extravagant welcome—although it’s likely that her performance will serve to stir the mestizos up like a nest of angry hornets. Can she really make zombies in profusion?” He had evidently taken note of the body-collection.

  “I don’t know,” Ned said, “but she surely intends to try.” His eyes flicked momentarily in the direction of the Sun, which was reddening as it descended toward the western horizon, but was still at least an hour away from setting. Then he adjusted his gaze downwards, and saw men moving along the western headland bordering the bay. He pointed them out to Mortdieu, and said; “Mestizos?”

  Mortdieu aimed the telescope. “Yes,” he said—but I doubt that there’s any danger of an attack this evening. They want to keep an eye on what’s happening, that’s all—they’ll need time to plan their next move.” He did not seem entirely convinced, and Ned could not help recalling his earlier remark about angry hornets.

  Ned saw that there were canoes off the point as well as scouts on land, but Mortdieu was right; they were not the advance guard of any attacking army, but merely scouts watching the Outremort return home.

  The steamship headed for an inlet in the centre of the bay, where a substantial stream ran between tall trees—although the land to either side of the inlet had been partly cleared in order that crops might be planted. There was a wooden jetty at which the steamship could moor, and as dusk finally fell, Mortdieu—still conducting himself as befit the master of the vessel—led Ned and Marie over a makeshift gangplank on to dry land. Once they were ashore, however, the Grey Man made no objection to Marie Laveau taking the lead in order to address the considerable crowd that had gathered here, and was still swelling as she spoke.

  Ned had no idea what she said to them, and he doubted that Mortdieu could make out more than the occasional word, but the crowd grew even more excited. Various individuals—females as well as males—began to peel off as they received specific orders of some kind, collecting others as they moved along the banks of the stream and into the forest. Some were armed with axes, machetes and spades, and Ned realized as he judged the quality of those implements why the people of Haiti had been so enthusiastic to renew the meager inheritance that they had acquired from the debris left behind by the fleeing French colonists.

  “What is she sending them forth to do?” Mortdieu asked.

  Again, Ned could only confess his ignorance, although he suspected that they might well be gathering the raw materials required for the manufacture of bokor. Then, however, he heard the name “Francis Drake” pronounced, and saw Marie Laveau gesturing in their direction.

  “What is she doing now?” Mortdieu wanted to know.

  “I think she’s telling them that you’re a reincarnation of Francis Drake, just as she’s a reincarnation of Queen Anacaona,” Ned replied, momentarily delighted that she had taken up his suggestion—and then he realized what the move implied. “That’s where she intends to look for support, I think,” he told the General, “not to the French or any of the other sectors of the population of Haiti, but to the maroons of the other islands. Her long-term ambition is to organize a Caribbean-wide movement, seeded here on Hispaniola.”

  “She’s crazy!” opined the General.

  “Yes, she is,” Ned agreed. “But what a madness! If I were you, General, I’d accept her gift with gratitude, no matter how reluctant you might be to take the name of an Englishman. You must have gone to some trouble to conceal who you really are, and if someone in Patou’s estranged company were to take it into his head to reveal the truth…” He stopped, as Mortdieu reached out and grabbed his arm.

  “You have no idea who I really am, Monsieur Knob!” he hissed, with naked menace in his voice.

  Ned had no wish to start an argument, so he bowed his head, released his arm gently, and said: “As you wish, General.”

  “No,” Mortdieu persisted. “I mean exactly what I say: you have no idea.”

  Ned would have enquired further as to what the Grey Man meant, but the crowd parted then, and he became uncomfortably aware of the fact that hundreds of eyes were staring at the two of them, expectantly.

  Marie Laveau stepped toward them, and spoke in a hushed tone, in English. “Please, gentlemen,” she said, “trust me to do what is best, for now. I will preserve your hegemony, General, so that you might have a disciplined army to lead if and when the time comes, but we must work together if anything is to be achieved. I have a demonstration to make, and preparations to put in hand. Bear with me, I beg you—and go to your hut quietly, for now, to eat and rest. You will have pride of place at the demonstration, I promise you.”

  As was only to be expected, Mortdieu was not at all pleased to be so casually usurped in his own headquarters, but he recognized that matters were out of his hands. He consented to walk away, maintaining his dignity. Ned followed him, meekly, but not before whispering: “If he is to be the new Francis Drake, my lady, what am I?”

  “Patience, Monsieur Knob,” she said. “You’ll be my ambassador to Germain Patou, of whose knowledge I might have desperate need within the week—but for now, rest and recover your strength. I have a long night still ahead of me, if I’m to strike while the iron is hot.”

  The evening heat was fierce as they moved through the village, seemingly more humid now that they were no longer out at sea. As Ned walked he was surrounded by a swarm of insects, which had emerged to frolic in the dwindling light. They filled the air above and alongside the creek—but they did not trouble General Mortdieu, who walked among them as if surrounded by a magical cordon sanitaire.

  There were a few more Grey Men among the crowd thronging the village, but not as many as Ned had expected or hoped to see. All of them seemed to be slow-moving, and some had living companions to guide them, but they were treated with evident respect by the zambo, who made room for their progress and bowed their heads as they went by.
Three came to meet Mortdieu, apparently expecting to receive orders, but Mortdieu was content to dismiss them without specific instructions. It was obvious that the mixed company that had fled Europe had divided unevenly, the greater fraction of the self-aware and physically-capable Grey Men having elected to go with Patou, presumably for the sake of the care and education that he could offer. The zambo who had adopted Mortdieu as a military leader clearly had not been able to replenish the stock of his peers.

  Mortdieu escorted his new ally to the largest hut in the village, which was built of the same coarse wood as all the others but showed some signs of architectural intelligence. Once they were safely inside, with the door closed behind them, Mortdieu took off his greatcoat and threw it aside gratefully, but retained his waistcoat and his saber. There was still something of the popinjay about him, even though he was no longer putting on a show for his ragged army.

  Ned observed that the General had appointed his residence as well as he could with the aid of such treasures as the Outremort had brought from London, but had not contrived to gather much loot left behind by the French. The Belleville would have been a fine prize, had he contrived to catch it first and take it—but the more Ned saw of the village and its people, the less convinced he was that the zambo would have been able to take the prize, even with Mortdieu to plan their strategy and lead them into battle in a steamship. That the Grey Man had enjoyed a great deal of prestige here was indubitable, but he had obviously been working against the tide of circumstance.

  “Eat,” said Mortdieu, as he showed Ned to his dining-table—an uncommonly sturdy item cut from good English oak. “Then you ought to rest, as the lady says, for you’re doubtless weary.”

  There were various fruits on the table, few of which Ned recognized, but there was no meat, and only poor bread made from maize. There was, however, a large pitcher of water and an earthenware cup, from which Ned drank gratefully before collapsing into a wicker chair and commencing a scrupulous investigation of the solid fare on offer.