Frankenstein in London

by Brian Stableford

  “Really?” Ned said, in his turn, trying to put on a smile to match the physician’s. “What’s that?”

  “We want you to join us on an expedition to Port-au-Prince. We want to petition President Boyer for the use of a ship to take us to another island, and we think that your powers of persuasion, added to our own, might tip the balance in our favor.”

  Ned was reminded of the old proverb, which counseled keeping one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer. Trelawny apparently did not want to leave him alone, as a loose canon rolling around the deck of his newly-improvised scheme. “Mademoiselle Laveau has just told me that you do not want to take me with you to you new safe haven,” he said, coldly.

  “That’s true,” Patou said, with perfect serenity. “What we need you to do is to serve as one of the English government’s ambassadors in Port-au-Prince—and, if you feel that the two roles are compatible, as Lord Byron’s ambassador too. We anticipate that diplomatic relations between Lord Byron, England and Haiti might well improve in the near future. We would be very glad to know that you are here—and so, I think, will President Boyer.”

  “You intend to leave me here as a hostage!” Ned exclaimed.

  “Certainly not,” Patou was swift to retort. “For better or worse, you’re the only man here who’s acquainted with all the interested parties—including Mademoiselle Laveau, who will presumably elect to stay. You’ll be invaluable to President Boyer and it will be very useful to everyone else to have such a contact within the Presidential Palace. This is a great opportunity for you, Monsieur Knob.”

  From one point of view, Ned could see, it was a great opportunity, offering unprecedented prestige. Indeed, he could not quite comprehend why his gut reaction was so bluntly antagonistic to it. Nevertheless, he did not want to remain in Port-au-Prince, even if it offered him an opportunity to play Francis Drake in Marie Laveau’s insane plan for a Caribbean-wide maroon revolution. What he said aloud, by contrast, was: “In that case, gentlemen, it will be a pleasure and a privilege to accompany you both to Port-au-Prince, and assist in your negotiations with the President and his government.”

  “Excellent,” said Trelawny—whose poniard was back in its sheath, Ned observed.

  “Mademoiselle Laveau is not as poorly as we had been led to expect,” Patou said. “You must have done an excellent job of sucking the snake-venom out of her wound, although I had always suspected that to be a dangerous and ineffective stratagem. At any rate, there’s no reason why we should not set out immediately—as soon as you can be ready.”

  “I have no bags to pack, alas,” Ned remarked, wryly. “I’ll be at your service, gentlemen, as soon as I’ve thanked General Mortdieu for his hospitality.”

  “There’s no need,” Trelawny said. “General Mortdieu has agreed to accompany us. We shall be a four-man delegation.”

  Ned was taken aback by that, but tried not to show it. “Where is Mortdieu?” he said, stalling for the sake of a moment to think.

  “He had some business to transact with his zambo allies,” Patou told him. “I believe he’s on the shore somewhere—but he has already agreed to our terms. He and I have had our differences in the past, but nothing irredeemable, and he’s a reasonable man. We’re both of one mind now as to the best course to take.”

  Privately, Ned doubted that, but he doubted that Mortdieu would confide in him, if he were secretly harboring a different scheme of his own. “Have you considered the possibility,” he asked, warily, “that if you deliver the General into Boyer’s custody, along with yourselves, he might think it prudent to take us all as hostages?”

  “Nonsense,” said Trelawny, serenely. “He’s the President of the world’s youngest nation, and a man of honor. He has far too much need of new friends to risk making any new enemies. What on Earth are those fellows getting so excited about?”

  The “fellows” to whom Byron’s agent had referred were zambo warriors, who were running back and forth to seize weapons, and rouse their exhausted companions to action. The drums had also started up again, beating furiously and calling forth echoes from the east—or perhaps answering signals coming from that direction.

  There was no sign of Mortdieu, but Ned was sure that whatever was happening would not have caught him napping. Automatically, he moved toward the shore, craning his neck to see what was happening there.

  For a moment or two, Ned thought that the mestizos must be returning to the attack—but the attention of the men responding to the alarm did not seem to be directed westwards at all. They all seemed to be gazing in the opposite direction.

  Ned had to take a dozen more paces to find a position from which he could look out along the shallows in an eastward direction, at the shore of the headland. In spite of the trees growing on the spur, he could see the topsails of a medium-sized vessel tacking landwards in a labored fashion, trying to make headway toward the west.

  Behind the fluttering sails, the cloud-mass now filled more than half the sky, although its bulk was still moving south-eastwards. The sailing-ship was forced to tack very awkwardly in order to make progress, but she was a sleek vessel, apparently capable of running closer to the shore than the captain of a larger and more heavily-laden ship would have dared to do.

  “What ship is that?” Patou asked, sharply. “Where on Earth is she headed?”

  “It’s the Cayman,” said Trelawny, who had seen the vessel before. “She must be running for Tortuga—but whoever’s in command, it can’t be Desart. She’ll never make it. Look at all those blessed canoes!”

  Ned saw that the zambo were, in fact, taking to the sea in droves—and finally, he saw Mortdieu, urging the warriors on from the strand as he took up a position in the prow of a canoe himself, carrying a brace of muskets. Evidently, the Grey General had not yet given up hope of obtaining a ship of his own, and he was prepared to settle for a pirate sloop if his steamship had gone for good.

  “We’ve got to stop him!” was Trelawny’s reflexive reaction—although it must have been as obvious to him as it was to Ned that the bird had already flown.

  “I think the vessel’s master is prepared to face up to spearmen canoes,” Patou said, “rather than head into open water. To do that would only make it easier for her.” He pointed further east beyond the headland, at a larger vessel, further out to sea, which appeared to be tracking the Cayman’s course in the same labored fashion, zigzagging ponderously in order to catch the unfavorable wind.”

  “That’s no hunter trying to give chase,” said Trelawny, mournfully, having seen that vessel before as well. “That’s the Belleville. That’s Desart’s too, now. They’re coming to attack us—and I doubt that those canoes can defend us!”

  The truth, Ned, realized, was that both vessels were in flight from an as-yet-invisible enemy, and he had no doubt that if the trees on the headland had not been blocking his view, he would have seen more sails in the distance. Desart really had overplayed his hand in making his bid for the Outremort.

  Was it possible, Ned wondered, that the Cayman’s master could find no alternative harbor to Mortdieu’s bay, and really believed that he could fend off the zambo? If so, the fool was sadly mistaken. The ship undoubtedly had guns, but it would be direly difficult to target canoes with cannon. And where was the Outremort? Perhaps the pirate was attempting to use the steamship to slow down Boyer’s pursuers, taking advantage of the fact that it was much more maneuverable against the wind. Unable to outrun the naval vessels while the latter had the wind in their favor, and trapped beneath the hostile land and the storm-swept ocean, Desart might well have decided that he had no alternative but to make a run along the shore for Tortuga, even though the odds were clearly against him.

  Ned did not believe that the zambo could possibly capture both the Cayman and the Belleville, and would have to endure a bloody battle if they attacked only one—but the wind was in their favor, at present, and the Cayman would not want to be delayed, for at least one of Boyer’s vessels would surely be able
to escape whatever delaying tactics the Outremort might adopt.

  “Damn him!” Patou muttered, presumably meaning Mortdieu. “Well then, let’s allow him to play his own game. We don’t need him. There’s no reason for us to wait. The faster we three can get to Boyer, the better.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Ned protested. “We need to know how this turns out!”

  “He’s right,” said Trelawny, reluctantly. “We don’t have to care—but we do need to know. We can go to Boyer without Mortdieu, if necessary, but not without knowing what has become of him.”

  The Cayman doubled the eastward headland, but did not head for the inlet. Instead, it continued to make what headway it could toward the western headland.

  “Desart’s hoping that the mestizos will attack the zambo again,” Ned guessed. “He’s desperate to find any allies he can, and he thinks that they’ll take heart from the cover his cannon can provide—but he has no idea what the effects of last night’s battle were. If the mestizos have been driven far enough back…” He left it there, because that was obviously the case. No second fleet of canoes had taken to the water to engage the zambo, whose light vessels were already maneuvering to surround the laboring ailing-ship. A storm of gunfire erupted from the Cayman’s deck, including several cannon-blasts, but the zambo did not take many casualties, and there were simply too many canoes, moving too rapidly.

  A nest of angry hornets, Ned thought. The pirate’s trapped—nowhere to go, nothing to be done. The Belleville’s her only hope now.

  The Belleville’s master, however—who was doubtless armed with a telescope—had a clear view now of what was befalling the Cayman. Had she had better wind to aid her, the Belleville might have been able to join the battle swiftly and turn the tide, but Desart had divided his crew three ways, and had obviously been reluctant to take on too many new men in Tortuga, so both the ships now in trouble were undermanned. The Belleville did not come to the Cayman’s aid at all; her master tried instead to sail across the mouth of the bay to round the western headland. The pursuing vessels, however—there were two, not one—were now clearly visible.

  “They’re going to put into shore on the far side of the headland,” Trelawny judged. “They’ll have to abandon the ship and make a run for it inland. If they’d stuck together…but they’re pirates, after all, not navy men.”

  Patou was still watching the Cayman, which was now trying to come about. Her decks were shrouded by a pall of gunpowder smoke, but there were fewer gunshots now; the muskets and cannon could not be loaded swiftly enough. The canoes were all around her, and the boarding-parties were already swarming up her sides.

  “Like an ox run down by a pack of wolves,” the physician muttered. “She’s delivered herself to Mortdieu like a sacrifice. Her master got everything wrong—far more enemies than he hoped to find, and no help at all.”

  “It won’t work to our disadvantage,” said the ever-inventive Trelawny. “The capture of a pirate vessel is a major event in these parts, and it will delight Boyer, who must be desperate for a victory over the buccaneers after the interception of the Belleville. If we can deliver the Cayman to him, even without Desart…”

  “But we don’t have the Cayman,” Patou pointed out. “Mortdieu dies—or will have, within the hour. The question is, what will he do with her?”

  “He’s already agreed to our terms,” Trelawny said, with some asperity—but Byron’s man had to know as well as Patou did that any agreement Mortdieu had made before would be null and void if the Grey General captured the pirate vessel intact.

  “You might not need to make an agreement with Boyer at all,” Ned pointed out. “If the Cayman remains seaworthy, Mortdieu might be willing and able to take you to your new safe haven without the need for further diplomacy.”

  Patou seemed far from delighted by this prospect, and Trelawny scowled—but both men shook their heads in denial. Even if Ned were right, that would have put Mortdieu back in control, which neither of them wanted. They knew, however, that there was little or no possibility of Mortdieu taking permanent control of his prize. The warships sent to hunt the Cayman down had hunted her down, and Boyer’s captains would not allow Mortdieu to keep her simply because his pack had brought the quarry down in advance of their arrival.

  The three of them stood together and watched the battle, which was fast and furious, although it almost seemed to Ned to be happening in slow motion, so impatient was he to discover its outcome. The guns were no longer blazing—the combat was hand to hand. The pirates were undoubtedly hardened fighting-men, but the zambo had experience of their own in that respect, and the weight of numbers soon swung in their favor as more and more warriors clambered on to the deck.

  Ned saw Mortdieu climb aboard in his turn, and could actually hear the sound of the General’s voice carrying over the water, as he shouted demands for the Cayman’s crew to surrender.

  Apparently the pirates could see the inevitability of the situation as clearly as everyone else. Everything went quiet as they laid down their arms.

  The Belleville was out of sight now behind the western headland, and the two pursuing vessels were heading toward the bay at a good clip, cleverly catching the wind to sustain their course.

  Ned had expected Mortdieu’s men to bring the captured Cayman to the jetty where the Outremort had long been moored, in the expectation of a rapturous welcome, but that was not what happened. As soon as the sails were under control again, the ship came around and began to tack in the other direction, heading out to sea, albeit at a snail’s pace.

  “He’s raising a white flag!” Trelawny exclaimed. “He’s surrendering to Boyer’s ships!”

  “Wise man,” Patou muttered. “If the warship had caught up with him while he was still in the bay, trying to make for the jetty, its master might well have given the order to open fire on him. Boyer’s men will take the ship anyway, in the end—better by far to make him a present of it meekly.”

  They watched the distance between the two vessels decline by degrees, and then saw the Cayman put out a launch. The Grey General was clearly visible in its bow.

  “He’s making a ceremony of his delivery,” Patou observed—but there was a slight edge of anxiety in his voice. He was obviously anxious as to what diplomatic overtures Mortdieu might be able to make, now that he had established himself as an enemy of the pirates and, in consequence of the situation, an ally of the Republic.

  “There’s nothing more to see here,” Trelawny said. “Should we make our way westwards, to see what has become of the Belleville?”

  “Best not,” Patou opined. “The mestizos might be in dire disarray, but any step beyond the limits of the village might be dangerous, and the westward headland’s theirs. We have no alternative but to wait for news from the General—which I’m sure he’ll be only too eager to send, now that he seems to have the upper hand again.”

  “But he doesn’t!” Trelawny protested. “I’m the only one who can negotiate with Boyer on Byron’s behalf.”

  Patou touched him on the arm then, suggesting that he turn around. Ned turned too, and saw that they had not been alone in watching the battle. Gathered behind them was a silent crowd, in which a dozen Grey Men were attended by as many as 200 zambo, almost all of them women. Now that the battle was over, the vast majority were staring at the three Europeans. Marie Laveau was making her way through the crowd, which parted reverently as she passed. Her injured right arm was obviously still painful, but she was walking proudly, as regally as she could. Ned realized that everyone in the crowd knew that she had been bitten by the mamba as well as shot, but here she was, utterly undaunted. Mortdieu was not the only one whose temporarily-dented prestige had now been restored.

  “Be careful, Monsieur Trelawny,” Patou murmured. “You have made enemies here as well as friends.

  As if taking her cue from this remark, Marie Laveau spoke in her own tongue to two of the remaining zambo warriors, who immediately stepped forward to take Trelawny b
y the arms. The action was more symbolic than aggressive, but its meaning was clear. Trelawny was a prisoner again.

  “Now, Monsieur Patou,” the Witch-Queen said. “Let us discuss my terms for the return of your company to the bay, and the future of our mutual campaign.”

  Although he had not been taken prisoner, even in symbolic terms, Ned was extremely annoyed to be excluded from the subsequent discussion in Mortdieu’s hut, in what seemed to him to be a monumentally unfair fashion. Once again, he had no alternative but to kick his heels and wait to see what others decided.

  “What will happen now?” Sawney Ross asked him, having sidled up to him while he indulged his chagrin.

  “Who can tell?” Ned replied. “Marie is ever anxious to strike while irons are hot, and is evidently unprepared to wait for Mortdieu’s return to set her own plans in motion again—and we cannot even know for sure whether Mortdieu will return. If the captain of the warship is not inclined to bargain with a zombie, he might well decide to clap him in irons and take him back to Port-au-Prince. On the other hand, Mortdieu’s zambo might conceivably be clever enough to capture the warship as well as the Cayman, if that is what he’s ordered them to do. By the time the second warship can capture the Belleville and take her in tow, Mortdieu might be in a position to challenge that one too. If he has trained enough zambo to be sailors, he might then set off in pursuit of the Outremort. He was a bold commander in life, and death does not seem to have mellowed him at all.”

  The first possibility he had mentioned was by far the more likely, in Ned’s estimation, but he was almost prepared to believe anything, now.

  Chapter Eight

  Doubtful Conclusions

  “How do you want all this to come out, Sawney?” Ned asked, as the two of them sat idly on the jetty, while the sunset turned the lingering remnants of cloud blood red. The heaviest rain-clouds had, as predicted, passed the island by, shedding their burden out to sea in copious deluges whose distant atmospheric effects had been visible on the horizon. There had been no more than a shower in the bay, which was now deserted, and Ned had followed the example of the zambo in emerging from shelter again as soon as the rain had stopped. The Cayman and the ship to which Mortdieu had surrendered it had both sailed eastwards, tacking as best they could against the oblique wind. The canoes that had returned to shore had brought no news of Mortdieu’s negotiations or his ultimate fate. Marie Laveau was now firmly in control of the little colony.