The last was a risk in itself, but was swift followed by a bigger one.
‘These are English sailors. They had taken us prisoner on their Lazaran carrying ship.’
Both eyebrows were raised in response to that. Which was better in its way than a lowered lance. Better still, lack of protest from Third-lieutenant vindicated the gamble that neither he or his men spoke French.
Julius relaxed. He had maximised his options, and taken all care. If things turned horrible now it was just Fate’s fault and none of his doing.
As his horse fretted and worried at its bridle, the officer chewed on his moustache for far too long. It was, to put it mildly, a tense moment.
However, such less than nimble decision making gave Julius some clues. It might be useful information if they survived.
Finally the man spoke, still in accented French.
‘Then they are our prisoners now, monsieur. Prisoners of war. But I think you are what you say you are. Probably. A neutral. Likewise your menagerie. Therefore, congratulations on your escape. And welcome to the Belgian Republic…’
Frankenstein had to restrain himself from visible glee at guessing right.
Chapter 18: A SWISS HERO EXHUMED
The organ loft and pipes were a nest of Lazarans. The high altar likewise. They crawled over them and each other like crabs in a barrel, devoid of decorum.
The few soaring intellectuals there who retained curiosity peeked out occasionally at the comings and goings in the nave; but mostly their own writhings and mountings and devourings were enough. Even more occasionally, a wild one would claw at the floor to ceiling wire fence separating the chancel from the rest of the church, but soldiers would prod them back with bayonets.
The Cathedral of Our Lady of the Sea in Zeebrugge had definitely seen better days.
As had Julius Frankenstein. In fact, he went so far as to say he’d never seen anything so hellish in his entire life—and that was saying something.
The plump Belgian official happily conceded it.
‘In the Republic we have not raised Revivalism to the art it is in France. Or even England. In the early days the Church forbade it—until the Republic forbade the Church, ho ho.’
He indicated the savagely deconsecrated edifice they stood in.
‘They’ll keep their opinions to themselves in future, n’est pas, monsieur, don’t you think?’
Not only was the official speaking French, in his own Belgic fashion, but evidently he was thinking French too. Julius had heard that the Belgians, though nominally neutral, were heavily infiltrated by French opinion—and French agents and ‘advisors’ too. It wasn’t quite a client state yet: Neo-Napoleon’s armies had swept by, not through. But once he’d settled the Austrians and Russians’ hash, and the Italians and the Greeks and Turks and the Eskimos too probably, then he’d be back. The Belgian Republic was simply embracing the future before it embraced them.
Certainly, their companions of the storm, Third-lieutenant and his men, had received precious little sympathy and plenty of kicks. The last Frankenstein had seen of them was in a farm cart being driven off to captivity or execution, they knew not which. Only his Swiss status and some rapid talking had saved him and Ada and Foxglove from the same fate. However, once that fact was established they weren’t even robbed.
Happily, inbred stoicism kept the Englishmen’s protests pretty minimal, but it was still distressing to see them taken away.
Julius should have intervened, he realised. These men’s seamanship had saved his life. However, the Royal Navy was not popular hereabouts (the coastal blockade and bombardments, press-ganging, being organised Reaction personified etc. etc.) and so he shamefully heeded Ada’s whispered ‘forget them!’
‘That’ll teach the swines!’ he agreed with the official, meaning the Cathedral’s former owners, not Third-lieutenant and company. He said it with false relish, re-routeing the self-disgust he felt in order to ingratiate himself.
‘No it won’t,’ chuckled the Belgian. ‘You can’t teach dead men!’ He mimicked a noose around his neck and gently swayed side to side.
Then, it struck home that his remark had double value in the context of this Lazaran academy. The man laughed all the heartier and all his bellies with him.
‘Well, maybe you can with this lot,’ he conceded when he’d done, indicating the heaving mass in the fenced-off Chancel. ‘But let me tell you, monsieur, it’s not easy.’
‘Do please tell,’ Frankenstein prompted. ‘I’m interested…’
‘Really?’
‘Certainly.’
The official started on his luncheon of bread and sausage and spring onions, unwrapped from what was surely a wife or mother-packed hamper. From time to time he wiped his hands on his orange sash of office.
For some reason it didn’t occur to him to offer any to his company. Julius and Ada and Foxglove remained standing, supplicants before his desk, whilst their host in this new country lolled back in his seat and noisily enjoyed.
‘Why is that?’ he finally asked through a mouthful. ‘Are you in the trade?’
‘I was. Monsieur, allow me…’
Frankenstein uncorked the hamper’s wine flask and poured. The official saluted him with it and sipped with surprising delicacy.
‘Well, you Swiss invented the whole business, didn’t you?’
Seeing the way things were going, Julius wouldn’t accept all the credit.
‘We did But it took the Convention to take up the baton and run, eh? As with so many things, the Revolution is the vanguard of human progress, n’est pas?’
The official almost purred. He even set down his baguette.
‘Absolutely, monsieur. I discern that you are a man after my own heart...’
It was not for want of trying. Julius was progressively adjusting his Swiss French into an imitation of purest Gallic tones, the better to stroke his new friend’s cultural cringe. It definitely appeared to be unlocking doors, and might even save them from shooting or life imprisonment, or whatever it was the Belgic Republic did with unwanted foreigners.
Though only half fed the official felt expansive, willing to make minor concessions to show he had a generous soul.
‘Well, our training procedures lag behind the more refined methods of other nations,’ he admitted, ‘but we’re catching up, you mark my words. My chef-régional thought of this...,’ he waved one languid hand to encompass the ex-cathedral, ‘and I think you’ll agree it’s a good idea. Bring ‘em back to life and straightaway cage them up in this big space which had become available. Then—and here is the genius, monsieur—let their own struggles weed out the weaker specimens, whilst at the same time allowing them to see humans come and go, to acclimatise them. That is why we use the rest of the building as an government office. Which is why you’re here. Which reminds me…’
The form he’d been filling in, now stained by spilt spring onions, had been quite forgotten in the course of conversation. Frankenstein was quite happy for it to remain so.
‘It’s brilliant,’ Julius exclaimed as diversion. ‘A cheap culling and training process rolled into one. What novelty! What economy of effort! You are to be congratulated, monsieur!’
The official modestly accepted only some of the praise.
‘It wasn’t my notion, not entirely: I only run the place…’
‘Any one can have ideas, sir,’ Julius greased on, ‘the trick is make them real. I think we shall hear more of you and this place! The English may have their Heathrow Hecatomb, the French their Mausoleum de Compeigne, yet I warrant this institution boasts the same success rate at one tenth the trouble!’
That almost overdid it. Both supposedly secret places Frankenstein had named were common knowledge but, even so, excess specifics awoke suspicion.
Or would have but for the second glass of wine Julius obligingly poured. The potential poison in their conversation was then purged by an inspired answer to a pointed question.
‘You seem to know
a great deal about Revivalism, monsieur…,’ said the official. He was guarded again.
Frankenstein looked soulful.
‘Alas, not through choice…’ He indicated Ada. ‘My sister… a sad case…’
The official had seen too many to regard any Lazaran, no matter how pretty, as anything but meat; yet he did Julius the honour of giving Ada a quick scan up and down.
‘No good for the army,’ was his judgement. ‘But I suppose you had your reasons…’
‘A mother’s dying wish, sir. They are as divine commands to dutiful sons. Otherwise, as you so correctly discern, I would never have bothered…’
If looks could kill Julius would have been eligible for the circus in the Chancel. Fortunately, by then the official’s glance had moved on and so missed seeing Ada’s death stare.
‘Well, you’ve got her well trained, I’ll give you that much, monsieur. Nicely silent. Maybe you could teach us a thing or two!’
He didn’t mean it. It was a joke between two men on the same wavelength.
‘Now, where were we?’ He was fussing with the paper storm on his desk again.
‘I believe,’ Julius prompted, ‘it was just a few more details and then we were off...’
Actually, that wasn’t quite so, but the official didn’t care to spoil this pleasant chat over (his) lunch by contradicting.
‘More or less, Mr...’ He consulted some paper. ‘Mr Tell. A few extra formalities...’
Julius’ mad mood had persisted beyond the beach debacle, drawing sighs from Lady Lovelace and reproachful looks from Foxglove. In the absence of any identification—all lost at sea, of course—he’d seen fit to test the official’s education by assuming the name of Switzerland’s best (perhaps only) known hero.
Happily, the man’s schooling and reading proved deficient. ‘William Tell’ duly went down on the carte de sejour being drawn up, reckless of all the problems it might bring later on.
‘And where do you intend heading?’
‘Home, I suppose,’ said Julius, sounding resigned. ‘The estate calls, and my dear sister, Miss Tell, is due back at her asylum.’
When the official looked on her again Ada constructed a rictus smile. She even bobbed a curtsey.
‘Most commendable,’ said the Belgian. ‘Most progressive. No other country I know of has institutions catering for family Lazarans. Everywhere else it is either field work or concealment in attics...’
The gaze had lingered and so Ada tried to look grateful.
‘Yes,’ Julius said to her, loud and slow as though to an idiot. ‘I said, yes: back to your sweet little room and cot, my dear. And the embroidery that keeps you busy. I said embroidery, yes...’
Frankenstein was getting a touch too embroiled in this farrago he’d created. The bare bones of his tale about a disastrous sailing holiday might pass muster before this uninspired bureaucrat, but surplus detail could break the spell. Foxglove applied the tip of his boot to Julius’ ankle.
Frankenstein transcended the pain without expression and also got the message. The official was none the wiser.
‘So,’ said Julius, when he trusted his voice again, ‘if you could make the carte valid for all points to the Swiss border, then we need take up no more of your valuable time.’
The official liked his time being deemed valuable. He poised his validating stamp above the document with extra added dignity.
‘I wish you bon voyage, monsieur, and better luck this time!’
The stamp crashed down and suddenly they were legal again.
* * *
They ought to have been grateful to Fortune for simply being alive, and to Frankenstein for their freedom. Not only that, but for the first time since Lady Lovelace rose again and Julius fled the Hecatomb, they were respectable once more—after a fashion. Albeit coated in the wrong names, they were entitled to be... well, to be. No one could legitimately hunt them for sport like they were vermin. It was a heady feeling not to have to skulk.
And yet Ada—and even Foxglove—were still minded to criticise Julius. For instance, for taking things too far and making a game of it all.
But before they could frame words it was brought home to both just how much his crawling had cost Frankenstein. Directly they were outside the Cathedral and out of sight, Julius sought a quiet corner and sicked his stomach up.
Lady Lovelace curled her lip at all the tiger noises and averted her eyes, but afterwards she said nothing. Naturally, Foxglove followed her lead.
Belatedly, Ada was reassured. There was dignity in travelling with a man of honour. But also comfort in finding his honour so flexible.
Chapter 19: NO MAN’S LANDS
‘ “Beginning near the Belgian town of Nieuwport on the North Sea, the system extends in a zigzag through France to the bastions constructed along the Swiss border just south of Pfetterhouse in the Alps”...’
‘How far is that?’ snapped Lady Lovelace, plainly far from pleased. Foxglove consulted the guide till he found the required passage.
‘…“totalling almost four hundred miles in length and consisting of never less than three lines of trenches on each side, the front occupies a band usually three miles wide, including ‘no man’s land’. Estimates vary but it is believed that the war zone contains no less than twenty-five thousand miles of trenchworks in total, more than enough to circle the Earth’s Equator”.’
Too far to walk then.
The plan had been to hit some isolated bit of French shore and work their way inland via unpopulated places. Meanwhile, they’d wait for inspiration to strike about contacting Neo-Napoleon. Now it was clear that the greatest war in the history of their species stood between them and their objective.
Standing on a high hill at a safe distance, the little group surveyed and were dismayed. A titanic plough had been through here but never returned to sew seed or turn the furrow. There remained a wound, a suppurating gash, the like of which Mother Earth had never suffered before. Nothing grew there and it reeked of death. And brimstone. And residual poison gas.
Though both Ada and Julius were temperamentally inclined to dark thoughts it had never occurred to either there could be such a wound upon the world. They’d read of course, they’d heard stories, even seen etchings in the news-sheets, but nothing could prepare for the reality. Even Foxglove was visibly shocked.
For his part, the Belgian coachman who’d brought them here no longer even looked. Once during his first trip conveying tourists had been enough. The wisdom in that was confirmed by the fact that no group ever requested a second visit. Nowadays, he just deposited people with averted eyes and headed back to comfort the horses. They could smell abomination even better than human noses.
‘Is this where they broke through?’ asked Lady Lovelace.
The coachman didn’t even raise his gaze.
‘No. That’s further down. Maybe fifty kilometres. But don’t bother: it’s all the same.’
Ada overlooked his blunt impertinence in favour of looking again. The prospect didn’t charm any better second time round—or third—or thousandth probably.
Meanwhile, their driver was off, without, be it noticed, being dismissed.
‘Just shout when you’ve finished,’ he said as he went. ‘I’ll be by the coach. And don’t go any closer. ‘Tisn’t safe.’
They got the strong impression it wasn’t so much that he cared about them, but that they hadn’t paid yet.
Julius understood why. It was ghoulish to ride out in smart brand-new clothes just to gawp at where so many, so very many, had died. He did not even have the excuse of lost loved ones to justify such a pilgrimage, for Julius’ country had wisely stood aloof—save for mere mercenaries who knew the risks. Likewise, his English companions looked like non-combatants.
‘It might not be for me to say, madam,’ said Foxglove, ‘but I do not think we should attempt to get through here...’
The French had managed it of course, but they were a People’s army, levee en mass, precede
d by unprecedented numbers of ‘New Citizens,’ and led by a military genius. Whereas they were merely three civilians. Their modicum of (hot) money might have helped them this far, but neither it or they could afford the quarter million casualties it cost Neo-Napoleon.
Actually, the true extent of the losses wasn’t known and might well be more. Most of the fallen had no grave—or not one they were allowed to stay in.
Frankenstein had assumed the plain hopelessness of this route would free Lady Lovelace from her mad plans. He should have known better.
‘Foxglove, you are right,’ she replied, and wickedly paused just long enough to wrongfoot her devoted servant. ‘It is not for you to say!’
Foxglove blushed and bowed his head.
Yet he had a point, and one that could hardly escape her. Even a blind man could have smelt it. Hell’s Mouth stretched for mile upon appalling mile between Lady Lovelace and her objective. She had to inwardly regroup before she could push herself on.
‘What precisely would you say are the dangers?’ Ada asked.
Thinking himself addressed, Foxglove flicked through his guidebook in search of a definitive answer. Lady Lovelace hissed and snatched it from him, flinging the thing away.
‘Do you mean me?’ enquired Julius. He’d been preoccupied, trying to outrun the horrible notion that a lot of the white gravel underfoot was actually bone fragments. And if so, should he spread the news?
Ada was as acid as she ever got: victim of an aristocratic upbringing. When thwarted she turned the whip on whoever was nearest to hand.
‘Who else, sirrah? There must be some reason for you to be here!’
He was not employed by her, he had no bonds of affection; even their history together was short. There was no reason not to play her at her own game.
‘Tush, madam,’ said Julius. ‘It’s perfectly safe. After the Great Breakthrough the lines were left unoccupied. Mostly. Some feral undead remain, so they say: a negligible few hundred thousand of them, getting their daily bread the Lord knows how. And certain timid commentators talk of millions of mines, and unexploded shells, and lakes of more than man-height mud, and shoot-on-sight galloon patrols, and...’
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