“Lie back,” Ned advised her. “I’m glad to see you’re awake, for you had a narrow escape. The bullet tore the flesh of your arm badly, but I was more afraid of the snakebite. I sucked out as much poison as I could, but I feared that I might have been too late.”
She tried to stare at him, although she had difficulty focusing her eyes. “You really do seem determined to save my life, Monsieur Knob,” she whispered, hoarsely. “I thank you—although the snakebite would not have killed me.”
“Why not?” Ned asked, suddenly wondering whether the performance had been a trick, and the snakes harmless.
“Immunization,” she murmured, letting her head fall back on the pillow. “A wise precaution. Vaudou priestesses in New Orleans keep mambas too. Tiny doses, over time…accustom the flesh.”
But I have had no opportunity to immunize myself with tiny doses, Ned thought. Still, I had to try to suck the poison out. I’m a gentleman, after all. If I continue in this vein much longer, I might yet qualify as a hero. Aloud, he said: “I’m glad to hear it, your majesty. Even so, Mortdieu has gone to fetch Patou, if he can. It’s pandemonium out there—you enraged the mestizos this afternoon, and now they’ve enraged the zambo in their turn. A patient siege has turned into an all-out war.”
“The zambo will win,” she murmured.
“I’m afraid that there’s no guarantee of that, Mademoiselle. A more gradual approach might have served your experiment a little better, for it will take days—will it not?—for any of the dead that might rise again to emerge from their muddy holes like flies from their chrysalids. Do you really believe that electric eels might substitute for Patou’s Voltaic piles?”
“Who knows?” she countered. “I have every faith in the loas—but they are never too proud to accept a little assistance. They will not let my wound fester, for I have work to do on their behalf.”
“Even so,” Ned observed, “they might appreciate a little assistance from Germain Patou, if Mortdieu can reach him and persuade him to come.” Having ascertained that she was not about to slip back into unconsciousness, he gave her a drink of water, and he asked: “Who did you see in France, Mademoiselle? What alliance did you try to forge there?”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Monsieur Knob,” was her reply.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose you think that’s for the best.” He watched her eyes very carefully as he pronounced the final phrase. She did not react in the slightest. “Tell me,” he went on, “have you ever heard of an organization that names itself Civitas Solis?”
This time, her eyes did narrow slightly. “I’ve heard talk of it in New Orleans,” she admitted, cautiously. “The Society of Jesus played an important part in pioneering the southern states on North America, and is rumored to have other societies within it, or which overlap it.”
“Wheels within wheels,” Ned observed. “I only know them by rumor myself, although two of my dearest friends have had contact with them. Such are the complications of life, alas, that the two friends in question consider themselves mortal enemies, and it will take more than the humble endeavors of a man like me to bring about a reconciliation. One of them was born Comte Henri de Belcamp, although he uses many other names, including Tom Brown, James Davy, Percy Balcomb…and John Devil. Was the idea of representing General Mortdieu as a reincarnation of Francis Drake, in the hope of uniting all the maroons in the Caribbean into an army of liberation, really your own, Mademoiselle? Was it even your own idea to represent yourself as a reincarnation of Queen Anacaona, in order to start that revolution in Haiti?”
She was almost too weak and weary to smile, but she contrived a faint grimace of amusement. She took advantage of her condition, however, to refuse an answer.
“You have been playing games with me, Mademoiselle,” Ned said, suppressing his annoyance. “You knew who and what I was before you set foot on the Belleville. You had the advantage of me all along. Why did you not tell me that you knew him, and were working with him? Why, for that matter, did he not tell me?”
“You’ve taken the King’s shilling, Monsieur Knob,” she murmured. “You answer to Gregory Temple.”
Ned sighed. The life of a double agent was never simple, especially for one who often did not know himself which side he was really on. He could hardly blame others for not trusting him, when he was not sure that he could trust himself.
“You do know, I suppose, that Henri’s utterly and completely mad?” he said. “I might serve two masters, both with some reluctance and under some duress, but he has half a dozen masters competing for supremacy within himself. He’s a genius of sorts, but his grand plans have a nasty habit of going awry—to an extent that makes even God seem reliable. Many men, so far as I’ve been able to observe, can easily qualify as their own worst enemy, but only in poor Henri’s case does that amount to a veritable army ranged against him. He has exceedingly grandiose dreams, but he’s never yet brought any of them close to fulfillment—and the manner of their failure makes him an exceedingly dangerous playfellow.”
“This time,” Marie Laveau insisted, “we will succeed. It needs an empire to change the world.”
“And to reconcile the world to the pursuit of successful resurrection by Jacobin science,” Ned supplied, “it will require an empire in which the reborn dead are honored, and welcome among the ranks of the living. I’ve heard the speech. That was doubtless the train of thought that brought the Outremort to Haiti, and directed the eyes of John Devil and Lord Byron to the same target—but Haiti has not responded as we could have wished, has it? Trelawny’s chances of making a compact with Boyer are surely as remote as your chances of rousing the zambo to successful revolt—and the schemes cannot both succeed, can they?”
“And what is your plan, Monsieur Knob?” she demanded, adding: “There is, of course, no need to ask what Gregory Temple’s plan might be.”
Gregory Temple’s plan, Ned knew—or, rather, his obsession—was to track down John Devil. Even the kidnapping of his grandson, which had forced him into temporary alliance with his arch-enemy, had not turned him aside from that quest. Temple kept Ned on a leash, even though he knew perfectly well that Ned was also reporting to Henri, precisely because that gave him a connection to monitor and follow. But what, indeed, was Ned’s own plan for achieving the objective he had represented to General Mortdieu—and, incidentally to Marie Laveau—as ours? How did he indeed to bring about a world in which Jacobin science was free to seek and perfect a technology that would guarantee an opportunity for resurrection to everyone?
“I’m no grand strategist, Mademoiselle,” Ned told her. “I just try to get by from day to day, lending a hand whenever and wherever I can, administering tiny pushes in the right direction.”
She managed a slightly fuller smile. “For which I’m grateful, Monsieur Knob,” she said. “I owe you more than one debt now.”
The zambo drums, which had been silent since the furious zambo had launched themselves into an all-out attack on the mestizos, suddenly started up again. At first there were only a handful, whose sound seemed to be coming from the seaward side of the village, but their signal was taken up almost immediately by dozens more, and then by hundreds, as the message they were attempting to relay spread southwards and westwards, urgently and—if Ned was any judge of tempo—desperately.
“What’s happening?” Marie demanded.
“I don’t know,” Ned told her, “but if I can judge the message by its tone, the battle hasn’t gone well.” He went to the door of the room and looked at the main door of the hut, where the zambo keeping vigil had already begun to melt away. “What does it mean?” he shouted, in French.
One of the zambo—presumably one of Mortdieu’s crewmen—came into the hut. “We have no guns, Monsieur,” he said. “We have no more than a handful of warriors to defend the village, and all in disarray. We must flee. You and the lady must come with us, else all is lost. We will protect you.”
Ned could see that it was no time
for argument. He nodded his head, and ran back to the bed. He picked Marie up, just as he had when she had fallen by the fire. Short as he was, he had strong arms, and legs that could run for miles.
“Hold on to my neck, Mademoiselle,” he said. “This might be a long chase.”
He was wrong, though; he had hardly got to the threshold of the hut when gunfire blazed, and the man who was waiting there for him collapsed in a heap. To go outside would have been to risk instant death, and Ned had no alternative but to fall back to the table, which he overturned unceremoniously, in order that the tabletop might make a shield of sorts. He was careful, though, to snatch up the lantern from the tabletop before he tipped the table over, and set it down on the floor nearby, so that it could still illuminate the room. He deposited Marie behind the makeshift barricade, and then looked around for a weapon. Unfortunately, Mortdieu had returned his saber to its sheath before leaving, and the best he could find was a rusty machete.
“You must not let the mestizos take me,” Marie said, urgently. “My people will defend me to the last man, but if it all comes to naught, and capture is inevitable, you must slit my throat yourself.”
Ned glanced at the rusty blade of the machete, and knew that there would be nothing neat about any slit it made. The drums were already falling silent again, and he knew, too, that the pretty woman’s romantic faith in the willingness of “her people” to give up their lives for her was wildly exaggerated. She did not really know them at all, and—more crucially—they did not know her. Even if her demonstration had not ended so abruptly, they would not have been ready yet to hail her as a messiah. Now, they were running for their lives, leaving her to whatever fate their enemies might have in store for her.
The guns continued to blaze: the enemy obviously had far more of them than the zambo would have been able to muster, even if their warriors had not been lured away to avenge the mestizos’ surprise attack.
Ned calculated that he had a couple of minutes, at the most, to decide on a course of action. He decided that he would have to fight, futile as it was. He, at least, would have to give his life for his cause—and, under the dictatorship of circumstance, for the pretty lady. That would, at least, lend a tiny element of nobility to what would otherwise be an ignominious slaughter.
He set himself, therefore, to defend the upturned table to the death, ready to use his blade even if the first man through the door had a musket already raised.
In fact, the first man through the door did have a musket already raised—and the second one too—but the intruder was not so stupid as to charge forward thereafter. Both men stepped briskly aside, covering Ned with their weapons, while two other men stepped through the breach they left.
Both of the newcomers seemed to recognize Ned, although he only recognized one of them: Lord Byron’s emissary, Edward Trelawny.
“What the Hell are you doing here?” Trelawny demanded. “Where’s Mortdieu?”
Marie stood up beside her protector, towering over him by nine or ten inches, striking the attitude of a true queen. Trelawny’s companion looked for an instant as if he had seen a ghost, but recovered very rapidly. “Damn it!” he said “The steamship must have picked them up.”
Ned realized that the speaker must be Amédée Desart, and that the present attack on the village was not being carried out by mestizos at all, but by buccaneers from Tortuga, equally avid to possess the Outremort.
“Byron hired the mercenaries who attacked the Belleville?” Ned exclaimed, utterly astounded.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Monsieur Knob,” said Trelawny. “His Lordship would never have done any such thing. He understands full well that death is the currency of diplomacy, but that very understanding leads him to be miserly in his negotiations. Needs must when the Devil drives, however, and I have taken the opportunity to hire the cut-throats on His Lordship’s behalf, on the grounds that it is better by far to have their firepower with us than against us. Again, where are Mortdieu and Germain Patou?”
“Safe,” Ned replied, trying to contrive a sneer. “Out of your reach, at least. The only persons here who are capable of making contact with them now are Mademoiselle Laveau and myself—but I doubt that you’ll find it easy to persuade us to help you, in the circumstances.”
Chapter Six
Awkward Negotiations
“I’m not your enemy, Monsieur Knob,” Trelawny said, coming forward to stand in front of the upturned table—though not quite within striking distance of Ned’s machete. “I saved your life aboard the Belleville. Captain Desart wanted to slit your throats, but I persuaded him to let you go.”
“Let us go!” Ned protested, utterly outraged. “Cast adrift in a dinghy, without oars—condemned to a slow death instead of a quick one.”
“I knew that the zambo would come to your rescue, with or without the steamship,” Trelawny said smoothly. “It was, at any rate, the only chance you had, and I obtained it for you.”
The pirate captain seemed to feel that this discussion was a waste of time. “We have to go now,” Desart said to Trelawny. “We have the steamship. If we linger, the zambo will try to take it back—or the mestizos will try to seize it. I’ll be at full stretch as it is, having to split my crew three ways. I told you before the attack that it would have to be swift. We may have the guns, and all the powder we need, but they have the numbers and they’re in an angry mood. Bring these two along, if you want to—although we’ll only end up wasting a perfectly good dinghy casting them adrift again—but we have to go now.”
“We came to get Mortdieu and Patou,” Trelawny said.
“No,” Desart corrected him. “You came to get Mortdieu and Patou. I came to get the steamship.”
“But I’m paying you!” Trelawny protested.
“In promises,” Desart said. “Your purse was already mine by right of capture, along with everything else you possess, including the clothes on your back. You promised me that your master would pay a handsome ransom for the talking zombie and the French physician, but they’re not here, so you have nothing left to offer—not today, at any rate. If you want to come with us, you can—but if not, you can stay here. Time was only on our side for a matter of an hour or so, and that’s run out.”
Trelawny should not have been in the least surprised by this turn of events, in Ned’s opinion—especially given the kinds of company that Byron had been keeping of late—but the Englishman was clearly at a loss. “Go with him,” Ned advised him, jeeringly. “I’m sure that he’ll have dinghies to spare now that he has the Outremort as well as the Cayman and the Belleville. He’s surely too much of a gentleman simply to cut your throat.”
Desart laughed at that, loudly enough to prove that he was not devoid of a sense of humor, while things were going well for him. “Last chance,” he said to Byron’s man, who made no move to turn and join him. Ned saw the pirate shrug his broad shoulders, and make the slightest of gestures toward his two musketeers—and then the three of them ran off into the night, doubtless enthusiastic to save their powder and shot for more urgent targets.
Ned was glad to know that he was no longer in immediate danger of death, or facing any necessity of cutting Marie Laveau’s throat with a rusty blade, but he was not in a trusting mood. He pointed the tip of the machete at Edward Trelawny’s breast, and said. “Give me that poniard you’re wearing at your waist.”
Trelawny still had the nerve to look hurt. “I’m not your enemy, Monsieur Knob,” he said, again. “Did we not agree, during the crossing, that we’re on the same side?”
“That was before you made a pact with a pirate,” Ned pointed out.
“I had my own life to save, as well as yours,” Trelawny protested.
“And you succeeded,” Ned said. “Now, hand me that poniard, or I’ll cut your treacherous heart out.”
For a moment, it seemed as if Trelawny might jump backwards and draw his weapon, ready to engage Ned in a fencing match. Had he done so, he might well have won—but he was not prep
ared to take the chance. Meekly, he lifted the long dagger from its sheath, holding the hilt between his thumb and forefinger, and handed it to Ned—who promptly threw the rusty machete away.
“What now?” Trelawny asked.
“Now,” said Ned, “we wait. If you behave yourself, I might refrain from telling Mortdieu and Patou that you tried to sell them to Desart, at least until Mortdieu recovers from his fury at discovering that he’s lost the Outremort. Without the steamship, his fragile authority over the zambo will likely crumble away completely—but there’s scope yet for a fruitful alliance between Mademoiselle Laveau and Germain Patou.”
“But they’re not here,” Trelawny objected.
“They will be,” Ned promised. “Not until mid-morning, in all likelihood, and maybe not until mid-afternoon, but they’ll be here. In the meantime, we’ll just have to hope that the zambo have chased the mestizos away, or that they can defend the village successfully now that the pirates have gone.”
Marie had become rather unsteady on her feet, but she managed to walk back into the bedroom with a substantial measure of dignity and lie down in a ladylike manner. Ned was glad to observe that the crowd around the hut was already beginning to thicken again, although the steamship’s engine had only just roared into life, and the vessel could not yet be far from the jetty. There were no more gunshots sounding, and no more drumbeats echoing in the trees.
“Sit down,” Ned said to Trelawny, having brought another chair from the outer room.
Byron’s agent obeyed. Having regained his composure, he said: “Our arrival in these waters seems to have triggered quite a reaction.”
“It’s surprising what a hold full of agricultural machinery can move men to do,” Ned replied. “That’s evidence of the benefits of civilization, I think—worthier by far than squabbling over gold trinkets and silly jewels, as the pirates of old used to do. Don’t you agree, Mademoiselle?”
Frankenstein in London Page 7
