Which would only make Sir Percy’s writhe with secret anger all the more...
So, no, Talleyrand wouldn’t be told. Not out of any professional pride or anything like that, oh no. But because if he did then Talleyrand would be as wise as Sir Percy was—and that would never do!
The Spymaster rang for his secretary to help him compose wanted posters.
Chapter 13: OH, I DO LIKE TO BE BESIDE THE SEASIDE
‘What’s that?’
Frankenstein and Foxglove followed Ada’s pointing finger back to England.
‘A Martello Tower, milady,’ said her servant, once Julius had shrugged. ‘One of a long line of defences against the French.’
‘And that?’
They looked along the shore.
‘Another one, milady.’
‘And that?’
Frankenstein intervened to stop the madness. There was something about the minds of mathematicians that was not as other men.
‘A yet further ‘Martello tower,’ madam,’ he snapped. ‘If you would but address the wider picture you will observe the coast studded with them at regular intervals.’
Lady Lovelace lifted her head and looked left and right.
‘So there is,’ she conceded. ‘I never realised.’
It was probably true. In life Ada’s days had been spent in stately homes and salons, or in circumscribed localities, perhaps including far-flung Brighton and Bath during the ‘season.’ And then of course there were her ‘studies,’ confining existence to cramped little citadels of computation. Between her wealth and obsessions she had been completely insulated from the longest, grimmest war in the history of humanity.
Ever faithful, Foxglove was there to supply any lack.
‘I understand that the prototype is in Corsica, milady. Cape Mertelo by name. In 1794 it was observed to survive hours of pummelling from English ships and so the model was imported home. Over a hundred were thrown up along the south coast when invasion was thought imminent. Mercifully however, Lord Nelson’s crowning victory at Trafalgar saved them from being put to the test.’
Teetering on the verge of helpless giggles, Lady Lovelace tapped Foxglove on the chest.
‘Nelson’s ‘Victory’—oh very witty, Foxglove. Such drollery: I don’t pay you enough.’
‘Oh no, madam,’ Foxglove blurted hurriedly. ‘I’m quite content...’
For once, Frankenstein agreed with her. Unused to erudition amongst the lower orders, let alone laughter from Lazarans, he studied the pair anew. Ada picked up on that bewilderment.
‘He can read as well as box,’ she informed him. All amusement had suddenly fled like it was switched off. ‘One insisted. I simply won’t suffer ignorance around me...’
Julius speculated what it must be like to be a servant of Ada Lovelace—and the terrifying idea occurred she might now consider him in that category.
If so, she wasn’t the only one. The Mariner interrupted their conversation with typical Sussex lack of respect for superiors.
‘Oi, you,’ he barked at Julius. ‘Can you sail?.’
Suddenly it struck home they were on a frail craft upon a hostile medium, dependant on another’s skills. Frankenstein looked at the complex of cable and canvas above and the dark sea below—and quailed.
‘No,’ he replied. And then felt amplification was required. ‘I am from a land-locked nation. The need never arose.’
Mariner scoffed, as if disbelieving the existence of such men or places. ‘How about you?’ he asked Foxglove.
The servant shook his head.
As did the Mariner. ‘Save us...,’ he said, disgusted.
‘I can... a little,’ said Ada. ‘Mama kept a skiff upon our lake...’
It was as though the rolling ocean had swallowed her words whole. Mariner chose not to hear. If she only could, Ada would have gone pale with fury.
‘Well, girls,’ said Mariner, ‘if we sight the Law you’ll still have to pitch in all the same. Even landlubbers can help pile on sail or dump surplus weight. Listen for my word and then look bloody lively.’
He turned back to the rudder and spat into the sea. As far as Mariner was concerned his companions had ceased to be.
Such disrespect! Both Julius and Foxglove separately swore a settling of accounts—once they were back on dry land. Sadly though, whilst on his element, Mariner must remain usurper-king.
The degradation demanded refined conversation to wipe way the stain. Anything would do.
‘Concerning your Father, dear lady,’ prompted Julius, ‘I have heard intriguing hints from others but little from you...’
Ada continued looking back to land.
‘I have little to tell, herr doctor. To me he was but a portrait hidden under a green velvet curtain in the hall. Naturally, I peeked. A rakish devil—in Albanian national dress for some reason. Perhaps to show off his devilishly fine legs. Who knows? His was not a name to be mentioned to Mama. Yet she loved him still: on each wedding anniversary I know she drew the velvet covers aside and wept.’
Quite why Mama wept was a subject best not pursued. Ada changed tack.
‘The rest is public property, doctor: there is his poetry, and of course the legend: ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know’! That’s it! That’s all.’ Then she stared at him, hard. ‘And what of your father, you have not said much of him...’
In fact he’d said nothing at all, but small talk is not obligated by accuracy. Julius reluctantly dredged in the pool of memory: he disliked disturbing its deceptively still waters.
‘A fine father and plain military man,’ he said eventually. ‘Honourable to a fault, a credit to his nation and profession. He served with decorated distinction in many European armies, and in the Lebanon alongside the Maronites and Druze. Then he died in battle when the French stormed the Vatican. An eye-witness told me he... he threw his life away.’
‘Hmmm...,’ commented Ada, tentatively.
‘Yet it was not a French bullet that broke him but shame. Family shame...’
‘Oh...,’ said Lady Lovelace. Foxglove looked away.
Julius had forgotten that in present company displayed emotion was like public nudity. In fact, lost in recollection he’d forgotten everything external. Moisture clouded his eyes.
‘And your still more famous uncle?’ interjected Ada hurriedly. ‘What of him?’
Frankenstein returned from a private purgatory.
‘What of him indeed? A man bearing my name who bought a curse on his family and all the world. Whilst I was still a child his creation cut a swathe through my kin…’
Ada displayed her deep research, if not her sensitivity.
‘Yes, so one understands,’ she said. ‘The mere matter of Victor Frankenstein’s wife, brother and best friend. Plus, indirectly, the death of his own father and cousin—and ultimately…’
‘Ultimately,’ interrupted Julius: such that even the dead should have got the hint, ‘ultimately dear Uncle Victor did the decent thing and died. No, I never knew the man—and wish my family never did.’
Ada wouldn’t let go.
‘He reposes in the north I believe...’
Julius shrugged, implying he’d heard so but was indifferent.
‘An Englishman,’ he said, ‘Walton by name, kindly conveyed his carcass back from the Arctic and gave him undeserved decent burial. I know not where—nor care.’
‘Whereas his creation...’ The probe was as gentle as Ada got.
‘Walton says it intended a fiery death at the North Pole—and would mount its funeral pyre with joy.’
Lady Lovelace turned her head aside lest at this vital moment her eyes betray her.
‘The Pole you say? How so, I wonder?’
‘How what?’ asked Julius.
‘How construct a pyre? ‘Tis said the polar region is a tree-less place...’
At first Julius put it down to her scientific bent: a sad affliction always dragging its slaves to facts and pedantry.
‘It had a sled: if broken
up that presumably served as fuel...’
Then a less innocent explanation occurred.
‘You know!’ he exclaimed. ‘About the papers!’
Ada turned back and looked coquettishly at Frankenstein over her fan, eyelashes fluttering at full power.
‘One may have heard whispers...’
‘Pipe down there!’ hissed Mariner from the stern. ‘The Revenue sail silent and listen out, you know!’
A Frankenstein-deceived didn’t take orders from menials. The admonition sank unheeded into the sea.
‘You knew the creature stole my Uncle’s research papers and carried them about its person!’ he said. ‘You thought-’
Lady Lovelace was shameless.
‘I thought perhaps they might be retrievable. A second string to our bow should the present plan fail. One’s been awaiting an opportunity to broach the subject. When you mentioned my father...’
So Julius had brought all this unwelcome history on himself. He cursed the minefield of small-talk.
Ada was implacable.
‘Now, herr doctor, as I recall, this very first Lazaran had the notion of commissioning a bride for itself, is that not so?’
Julius now handled her questions like a viper.
‘Allegedly...’
‘Leastways, having perused its creator’s notes the creature believed it feasible: a life-mate to share its years. Therefore the papers were profound. It follows that the secret of the serum may be therein...’
‘Madam,’ said Julius, exasperated, ‘there is no secret: only a formula, widely known.’
‘So you say—and possibly speak the truth. Ah, but if one only had the inventor’s directions! Then who knows what additional wonders might be possible?’
‘Your ‘spark’?’ ventured Frankenstein.
‘Exactly!’ answered Ada, as if a slow pupil had at last caught up.
‘For the last time,’ interrupted Mariner, ‘shut your traps or I’ll...’
Foxglove dealt with the impertinence. He raised a fist and Mariner observed it was almost the size of his face and covered in scar tissue.
‘Just keep it down then,’ he compromised.
Down went both Foxglove’s fist and the volume. But it was in genteel deference to their pilot’s agitation rather than caution. Passions remained high.
‘You bang a broken drum, madam,’ hissed Julius. The monster’s ashes are scattered by the Arctic winds and any papers likewise.’
‘Perhaps. Though the French thought otherwise...’
So: she was as wise as she was wicked. Lady Lovelace had heard of the enemy’s secret Polar expedition to find the creature’s last resting place—and anything that might still survive in its pockets. The British Government were quietly alarmed about it, and Julius had been quizzed about the nothing he knew the minute he arrived in England. He recalled a surreal conversation with a spy-chief about the propensity of polar wind and snow to put fires out before they’d completed their destructive task. As if a mere military doctor might know!
Accordingly, a British force had gone in pursuit, just in case. Neither nation’s party returned, or so rumour said. Right then Julius wished Lady Lovelace with them.
‘Ahem…,’ said Foxglove.
‘Yes?’ answered Ada, giving permission to speak.
The servant cleared his throat.
‘My lady, As a mere ‘landlubber’ I am not sure of the correct terminology in this situation, but I believe it is something along the lines of ‘ship ahoy!’’
And he pointed to their left (or port).
Mariner swivelled like he was greased and then said something not fit for mixed company. Followed by:
‘You wouldn’t listen, would ye?’ He was full of a crazed admix of fear and fury which freed his tongue. ‘More noise than a wagon load of women! Bloody gentry! Ruination of the country and everyone! The Convention’s got it right: to the guillotine with the friggin’ lot of yer!’
‘Steady on, chappie...,’ Foxglove warned him, quite mildly in the circumstances.
Julius turned in the direction of all the fuss and couldn’t see what all that fuss was about. The sizeable ship was way off, even if heading in their direction.
Mariner wasn’t so deceived. He wanted—he powerfully desired—everyone aboard should share his concern.
‘Twenty minutes,’ he advised them, careless about shouting now. ‘One hour tops!’ He pointed accusingly at Lady Lovelace. ‘Then we’ll all be as dead as she!’
* * *
High above, the galloon kept them in sight as it had since they launched, describing wide circles round and round the suspect vessel. Where possible it scraped the undersides of low clouds, avoiding the moonlight even as it took advantage of it. There was no point in being sighted by the target even at this late stage.
Lantern semaphore kept the craft in contact with the customs cutter below. One towering intellect amongst the Lazaran crew was entrusted with its operation.
‘Signal four aboard,’ ordered galloon-commander (and sole living soul aboard) Lieutenant Neave. ‘No obvious cargo. South-east by east. I will continue close pursuit.’
Play upon the lantern’s shutters sent flashes to convey those words. A code had been constructed so simple that even the Revived conscript couldn’t muck it up. Whatever ‘Lazaranisms’ the signaller inserted, His Majesty’s Navy would get the gist of it.
When he joined that honourable service straight from school, Lieutenant Neave envisaged something more romantic than hanging beneath a bag of gas pedalled into motion by the undead. However, his promotion board had strongly hinted the ‘Fleet Air Arm’ was the place to be for accelerated progress, and he’d swallowed the poisoned bait. That they’d failed to mention career advancement usually came as a result of some poor devil spiralling to the ground in flames still rankled with him. He’d been wet behind the ears then, not making any connection between the power of modern artillery and the fragility and flammability of the gasbags called galloons. He ought to have guessed though, if only from the practice of putting just one live man per craft. The balance of motive and bombing and reconnaissance power was entrusted to expendable Lazarans—and not even the choicest of those.
‘Oh, shut up!’
Neave wondered if he wasn’t really addressing himself and his gloomy thoughts, not the crew with their infernal, eternal moaning. He’d had ample opportunity to get used to that, even blank it out, by now. Ditto the stench of serum and that... cold-pork smell the really bargain basement Lazarans gave off. If so, talking to yourself was maybe just another symptom of spending so many hours in the air, alone (or effectively so). It gave a man too much time to think.
Like thinking of how he’d once dreamed of a posting to the Mediterranean Fleet, or the Far East, where great things were being achieved in India, so it was said. There an enterprising officer with access to Lazaran troops could acquire a private empire amongst the native Hindoos and Mohammedhans who foolishly scrupled to raise such soldiery. Not to mention a harem of exotic houris. Far better company than clouds...
Mind you, his frustration had moderated somewhat when the great Lord Nelson was revived and given the Home Blockade Fleet command. Neave had to grant there was honour and stories for your grandchildren in serving under him, in whatever capacity.
At first some officers, especially the more pious, had grumbled about obeying a dead commander. About how there was no knowing where those orders really came from, and hinting it might be second-hand from the Devil himself. Then the all-clear came from Canterbury and put a stop to all that. Reassurance from the King and the Primate of the Anglican Church surely settled the matter. Leastways, that was how Lieutenant Neave silenced his misgivings on the subject.
Neave hadn’t met ‘Neo-Nelson’ yet; not even glimpsed him from afar, but he lived in hope of it. That prospect and having his own command at the tender age of twenty was surely enough for any man.
Well, that and a share of whatever prize-money was going. Which r
eminded him...
‘Drop,’ he ordered, and the sergeant Lazarans lashed their comrades till the even dullest got the message they should ease off their efforts. You couldn’t really hurt them but a whip still tickled…
Failing which, as last resort each pedalling bench was rigged up to deliver electrical impulses, powerful enough to kill a man or pain a Lazaran. Fortunately, they weren’t needed today. The Lieutenant was always sickened by the cooking fragrance their use produced.
The galloon dipped dramatically as gas was bled out, but all aboard were used to that. They weren’t the most robust or manoeuvrable of craft, nor their resurrected motive-power the finest tuned. It was a matter of judging your fall so that it didn’t turn into a plummet. Neave had seen that happen often enough in training to be wary of it ever after.
The outcome of the chase below was inevitable now and the cutter almost in firing range. Out of boredom and devilment Neave decided to curtail matters even more, and ‘chain of command’ be damned. The sooner it were done the sooner he could be done with present company.
There was also the tempting prospect of some righteous target practise. Though he bought brandy and tobacco from them like everyone else, Lieutenant Neave disliked smugglers as a breed. Unpatriotic types, evasive of naval service and taxes alike. Just like whores and lawyers they had their occasional uses, but that didn’t make them any less vermin...
Neave took up his carbine and cocked the special spark-minimising mechanism. Would the world much miss a smuggler or two, so long as at least one was taken to confess his crimes? The Lieutenant consulted his conscience and decided ‘probably not.’
* * *
A consummate professional to the end, Mariner’s estimate proved spot on.
‘Ten minutes,’ he updated them, and even Julius had to concede it. The pursuing ship loomed large now and had hoisted visible signals which conceivably spelt out ‘stop,’ should you be in the know. Ominous activity at its bow could well be a fore-gun being readied for action.
Though Mariner had hoisted extra sail and heaved anything not nailed down overboard—even most of his passengers’ luggage—his main motivation now was in postponing the inevitable.
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