Frankenstein's Legions

by John Whitbourn

  Chapter 3: MOUSTACIOED ELOPEMENT

  In doing so Frankenstein sensed he’d passed a test. If he’d identified his correspondent correctly they were looking for someone who, when travelling from A to Z, wasn’t scared to skip B—Y. His cryptic response should be spot on. Granted, it was a lie, but that was only an issue for someone not already far from God’s favour.

  His way out was made easy for him. On the envelope there was, in another, more clerkish, hand, a return address: one of the myriad numbered postal ‘caches’ serving every Government purpose from the sublime to the sinister. To interfere with anything so sanctioned was a capital offence (like almost everything else in Conventionary France). Dumped in the Messengers’ office ‘out’ sack for tomorrow, alongside many others, a missive thus addressed would not invite notice or scrutiny.

  Julius rejoiced and reached for another glass of wine—even the sour stuff they served at the Mausoleum. He’d found a conduit to the outside world through which news of his continued existence might crawl! Would he take it? He most certainly would!

  By contrast, any reply to Ada’s plea needed subtle gymnastics (surely a contradiction in terms...) to reach her. He’d missed the chance to put a message in Foxglove’s hands and there was no way of knowing when or if another would arrive. All outbound letters to conventional addresses such as Lady Lovelace’s lodgings (wherever they might be) would be opened, poured over and censored to the point of death, if not beyond. And never more so than in the case of their intrinsically untrustworthy foreign ‘volunteer.’ That sure knowledge (plus absence of anyone to write to) was what had ‘inspired’ Julius to writer’s block so far.

  Today he let it deter him again. Answering Ada would only bring a hornets’ nest of trouble down around her pale pretty head, and whilst that had a certain appeal, Julius didn’t doubt a matching nest would be found for him too. Far better then to inflict on her the lesser torment of silence and unknowing. For a while, perhaps a long while, let her seethe in rented accommodation waiting for a word from him. It would do her spiritual good and also serve her right!

  Having absorbed what both letters had to say, Frankenstein tore them into digestible strips and proceeded to eat his words. They weren’t noticeably worse than the rest of breakfast…

  * * *

  The inwardly digested letters hadn’t even passed through Frankenstein’s system before his reply was replied to.

  It took the unconventional form of a tap upon his window soon after midnight. Which was surprising in itself, since he resided on the first floor.

  Even so, Frankenstein ignored it. He was turned on his side away from the window, just getting comfortable, half-asleep, and half-tipsy. And besides, odd night noises were the norm in the Mausoleum and none of them rewarded investigation.

  Except that this one was insistent and unwilling to be snubbed. The rap upon his windowpane was repeated, but with more force. Then again, harder. Extrapolate the series but a few steps forward and the glass would shatter.

  Not that Frankenstein cared greatly about that. One of the few pluses about his present abode was no requirement to pay for breakages. On the other hand, getting it repaired would take ages and much begging of surly artisans. Meanwhile, a draught would whistle through. On balance, Julius decided to turn over in bed.

  His first bleary thought was that there was a new Man in the Moon. Then returning consciousness clarified that. Handily silhouetted against the full moon was a man’s face, masked and urgent. He raised his fist, clearly threatening to put it through the window.

  Of course, Frankenstein had been searched and disarmed long before he ever got to the Mausoleum. Now he was left without so much as a letter-opener with which to defend himself. However, in present circumstances, gravity offered itself as his salvation. The man must be perched atop a long ladder. If he proved to be an unwelcome guest it would be easy to end their conversation by sending him back down the quick way. But for that Julius needed to arise.

  Arranging his night-gown into decency, Frankenstein crossed over and inserted his arms through the bars to raise the sash window.

  In these present strange days, the first thing you determined in any encounter was ‘are they living or not?’ That fundamental fact determined all subsequent intercourse, outranking even race or class. Society had Victor Frankenstein to thank for that

  His great-nephew checked. All the vital signs were there. The visitor lived and breathed. Burst capillaries on his cheeks flushed red with life-giving blood.

  Satisfied on that score, but still poised to launch the man into space, Julius addressed him.

  ‘Good evening, monsieur. How are you this fine evening? Ah…’

  A splendidly stylish start but spoilt by the ensuing feeble exclamation.

  For Frankenstein’s scrutiny had moved on to take in finer details. Beneath the black mask spouted a moustache of extra special luxuriousness. And in turn beneath that was an extra confident smile—of a kind unbefitting an ladder-trapped intruder into a terrible place. Supporting both features was a frame of splendid martial bearing.

  For the second day running Frankenstein made a sprightly leap from sparse facts to fascinating conclusions. Hence the ‘Ah…’

  The visitor smiled, approving of something. Several crucial teeth were missing, creating a gravestone image highly appropriate to the location.

  Finally the man spoke, in soldierly French. Their conversation was conveniently covered by shrieks and laments from the Lazaran pens, so constant as to be part of the aural scenery.

  ‘I’m well. And you, monsieur?’

  In the interval, Julius had recovered his poise—never far from at hand.

  ‘Likewise. To what do I owe this pleasure? Are you an assassin?’

  The visitor considered. Clearly it was a possibility.

  ‘Not tonight, monsieur. You were right first time with the ‘pleasure’ thing. My master requests the pleasure of your company.’

  ‘And who can blame him? Is it R.S.V.P.?

  The visitor shook his head regretfully.

  ‘Not as such. More like ‘come now.’..’

  Frankenstein deliberated for nearly a second.

  ‘Then I should be delighted.’

  Another smile in response.

  ‘Very glad to hear it, monsieur. You’re a bit bulky to drag along unwilling. Thank you for making my job so much simpler.’

  He waved to unseen friends in the darkness below. Further out in the courtyard Julius detected the stirring of bigger-than-human movement. Air displaced in a straight line from there to his window forced Frankenstein to notice cables attached to the bars.

  ‘I’d step away if I were you,’ said the visitor, starting to descend. ‘Take the opportunity to get dressed if you like. But don’t go too far...’

  There was a team of cavalry mounts, Julius saw now, being roused into action against the metal grid imprisoning him. As his eyes acclimatised, aided by the moonlight, he detected more masked men, urging the horses on. There were yet more around the ladder’s base.

  Frankenstein was about to pay tribute to all they’d so far achieved in silence, undetected in this heart of darkness, but then realised any words were redundant. Super-human was expected as standard in this regiment, and praise only cut in beyond that.

  He retreated into the room and threw on some clothes. All his other possessions had been stolen, leaving him free as a monk to move on at a moment’s notice.

  The cables braced, the bars buckled, the comparatively new (by the Chateau’s standards) mortar gave way.

  This, thought Julius, was the moment when all would go wrong. The Mausoleum would awake in all its ghastly glory, including swarms of guards. But no: his callers had every point covered. Naturally, the bars made protest at being wrenched from home but they hit the ground with barely a sound, muffled by some pre-laid padding. No voice was raised to query events, no musket spat.

  Yet there still ought to have been both. Discreet as the operation was,
no horse can understand the need for total hush, nor will masonry and metal ever fully oblige. There was noise that the sentries should hear.

  As he pulled on his boots Frankenstein waited for their intervention and the rip of bullets in the night. He waited in vain.

  Having vacated the ladder’s summit to make way for the bars, the masked face appeared again, gesturing impatiently.

  ‘Courage, monsieur. I shall save you from falling…’

  The implication of that worked better than threats. All Swiss are (or have to pretend to be) mountaineers. Frankenstein quit the room at speed, taking nothing, not even a rearward glance, and located the topmost rung with one questing foot. Aiming to impress he descended swiftly; so swift as to catch up with the masked man and plant a foot upon his head.

  ‘Monsieur!’ the man protested. ‘Have a care! We do not have enough time to hurry…’

  Reeling in that gnomic utterance occupied Frankenstein’s thoughts all the way to the gatehouse. En route, he was joined, one by one, by other masked conspirators, all moustachioed and confident as his initial visitor.

  That pretty much clinched it. Julius knew who they were and thus where he was going. All that remained was to get there. And if anyone could perform such a miracle these people could.

  In one sense they already had. By silvery moonlight Frankenstein discovered how they’d got thus far. The bodies of various sentinels were propped up by the gatehouse like trophies from a good day’s hunting. Their slumped posture was reminiscent of the Mausoleum’s less successful products, but unlike them these weren’t stirring at all. Bayonets pinned each one to the wall in a presumably post-mortem flourish: a message to those who might follow. And all this had been achieved in perfect peace!

  Julius felt like saying ‘bravo!’ but equally didn’t feel like attracting these terrible men’s attention. So he merely saw and grew wise instead.

  Bowing him through with the greatest respect, the ladder man ushered Julius into the gatehouse. There fresh horrors awaited. Some of its former inhabitants had been New-citizens of sturdy construction. Frankenstein even recognised several burly specimens as his own bacon-saving special productions. Or leastways he thought he recognised them: his handiwork must have taken a lot of second-time-round killing and multiple blows with sabres. The gatehouse was like a charnel house.

  Except that the living were also present. A batch of captives were kept under beady eye in one corner and Julius was intrigued. For reasons many and varied they didn’t have the look of French gaolers. If pressed to guess Frankenstein would have placed them on a parade ground in England.

  So it proved. Though they were blindfolded and gagged, one had apparently loosened his bonds. He sensed fresh arrivals and spoke out in faultless if frightened English.

  ‘Who’s there? What are you going to do with us?’

  Rather than answer, Julius’ escort simply demonstrated. He took up a discarded musket and plunged its fixed bayonet into the speaker. Years of practise shone through, just like the blood pooling into his victim’s tunic. The man died instantly, with barely a groan.

  It proved a cue. One by one the prisoners were taken to various parts of the room and dispatched. Then the fresh corpses were arranged in combative poses alongside pre-existing French dead.

  Again, wealth of experience paid off. If Julius hadn’t known better, he would have sworn from the emerging tableaux that a fierce little Anglo-French battle had swarmed through here. One in which the Mausoleum guards had acquitted themselves well.

  The Ladder man looked upon the scene like an artist. He wandered round, arranging a limb there, inserting weaponry into dead hands there.

  Eventually, he stood up and surveyed the finished work. The mark of a great artist is knowing when to leave a canvas alone.

  ‘It is good,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Someone had oiled the Mausoleum’s main gate. Normally they moaned like a choir of Lazarans with each and every opening, a deliberate feature of the security arrangements. Now they cracked ajar with hardly a protest.

  Flowing smoothly like the lubrication on the hinges, Frankenstein’s new friends poured through the gap with him in their midst.

  * * *

  The next morning, when all was revealed and certain tell-tale English artefacts found on the dead, the Mausoleum drew its own conclusions.

  Perfidious Albion had struck again; its cursed fleet delivering a raiding party onto France’s sacred shores to snatch a coveted Revivalist. English ships notoriously got everywhere they could find even a duck-pond to float on. You might go on to speculate it was just the sort of thing Neo-Nelson would and could do, damn his one remaining eye. There was no absolute proof, true, but the mission carried all the hallmarks of his audacity.

  In drafting the required report its authors upgraded that possibility into nigh certainty, and after that the insult didn’t seem so bad. Also, the records showed that Julius Frankenstein wasn’t so hot anyway and thus maybe the rostbifs had incurred heavy casualties for little gain. Aside from the slight of waltzing into the Mausoleum and then out again, the English were welcome to him.

  That interpretation was eventually accepted by the Convention. Heads would have to roll of course, but only token Terror was visited upon Mausoleum staff.

  A mere maiden’s kiss, a child’s slap on the wrist: just one in ten.

  Chapter 4: SPICK N’ SPAN

  ‘Welcome, monsieur, most welcome!’

  The chamberlain’s array of gold braid was dazzling and his bow exquisitely elegant, but Julius had seen it all before. Moments before in fact. It already seemed like an age since his cheerfully homicidal masked rescuers delivered him here.

  ‘The chamberlain before you said that,’ Julius replied. ‘And the one before him.’

  He indicated his route previous to the high double doors that now sealed them in this ante-room.

  This chamberlain went from soft to hard with a speed that put the male generative organ to shame. He showed the steel just below the velvet glove. His eyes glittered.

  ‘And they meant it,’ he said. ‘As do I. Rest assured, monsieur, you would not have got as far as me had you been found in any way wanting...’

  Which was both praise and a slap combined. Frankenstein didn’t know whether to feel honoured or offended. Not that it mattered in any case. His opinions in this palace mattered as little as those of the peacocks that patrolled its county-sized grounds. Even less probably. At least they were decorative and no harm to anyone...

  Elbow cupped in one hand, the chamberlain rested his chin for the duration of a close scrutiny of Julius. Contrary to Conventionary fashion, he still wore a short-wig and kept it powdered. Actually, he resembled a throwback to pre-Revolutionary days: a look likely to attract lynch mobs on the Parisian streets today.

  If so, the man showed no signs of unease. He was not a man of the streets; here was his place and he was at home in it.

  ‘Hmm,’ he pondered aloud, sounding like a slightly more effeminate Lady Lovelace. ‘Hmm...’

  Now Julius knew how the produce in an Ottoman slave market felt. He fought the urge to pose or disport himself to command a better price.

  ‘‘Hmm...’?’ he said in turn, as both mimicry and query.

  The chamberlain returned instantly from reverie-land to fix Julius’ gaze.

  ‘The eyes of a man,’ he said, ‘are a window into his soul.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Julius agreed. He’d lived too long to dispute it.

  ‘And yours,’ continued the chamberlain, ‘reveal a very dark vista...’

  Again, Frankenstein could not but agree. In his shaving mirror he daily saw what the chamberlain referred to.

  That gentleman’s elbow was now lowered, a decision arrived at.

  ‘Darkness may conceal all manner of dirt,’ he said. ‘Proceed into the next room and have it washed away.’

  * * *

  The instruction proved to be literal. To Julius’ amazement the room beyond the ne
xt set of double doors proved to be a bathing suite. Rather than yet more gilded courtiers, a team of white-clad flunkies, male and female, waited beside a steaming bath.

  ‘Disrobe, monsieur,’ ordered their captain, who incongruously wore a chef’s hat as badge of office. ‘Abandon yourself to our ministrations.’

  Willing or not, it was going to happen. It seemed routine and they seemed implacable. Also, amongst their number were bulky sorts for the lifting work, plus soldiers lining the walls (also uniformed entirely in white). Frankenstein realised that if he did not comply compulsion was on hand, and then he would lose his dignity as well as his clothes

  So, despite the presence of appraising ladies, Julius stepped forward and stripped.

  The water was warm and scented and, in other circumstances, might have been welcome. Less enjoyable, however, was being dunked and scrubbed by professionals of exceptional thoroughness. They were insistent on total immersion and cleansing of the most obscure corners. Meanwhile, extremities were periodically gripped and held so that nails and nasal hair could be radically clipped. Someone even brushed his teeth for him—whilst submerged!

  Then, as he surfaced short of breath, Julius caught sight through streaming hair of his garments being born away. For some reason the scene had a strong sense of finality to it.

  ‘What are you doing with my cloth—’ he started to say, before a strong hand on the top of his head plunged him under again. Simultaneously, practised fingers scurried over his head like an aquatic tarantula, questing for nits.

  Allowed back into light and air, Frankenstein took exception.

  ‘How dare you? I am a gentleman! I do not harbour livestock!’

  The inspector turned out to be a woman with arms like hams and face to match.

  ‘Makes no difference if you’re Pope or peasant, my dear,’ she informed him cheerfully. ‘Everyone gets the same treatment.’ Then she turned to address her colleagues. ‘He’s free.’

  Those was the only comforting words he was going to get. Other strong limbs lifted Julius out and onto fluffy towels on the floor. It was like being a baby again and long lost memories of infancy arose dusty from burial places in his brain, surprised as any Lazaran at being revived.