The Strangely Wonderful: Tale of Count Balásházy

by Karen Mercury

  Laughing freely now as the soldiers approached, Boneaux cried, “Then you must die the most ignominious death of a worthless freeboot—”

  Two soldiers jerked Boneaux by the arms, one of them shocked to see he held only half a bloody bicep in his hand. As Boneaux’s pistol was wrenched down, Tomaj took his shot, blowing a nice hole in the buffoon’s cheekbone. Unavoidably, Dagny’s face and shoulder were sprayed with blood, and a few soldiers, splattered by skull and brain particles, recoiled in distaste, dropping the body.

  Tomaj grabbed Dagny by her bloodied shoulder, and they sallied downhill as the soldiers milled in confusion. When Zaleski flew into their midst, cutlass flashing to viciously decapitate Boneaux, the soldiers scattered to the four winds, and that was the last Tomaj ever saw of the “Grand Frenchman.”

  “Come, my love, come,” Tomaj exhorted needlessly as they plunged into the forest to avoid the few rifle shots that tore their way.

  After a few hundred yards, they nearly collided with Sal and Broadhecker, who were jogging back uphill.

  “Run!” Dagny shrieked.

  Sal and Broadhecker altered their course. “Where’s Errol?” Broadhecker shouted.

  “Decapitating a dead man amid twenty of the queen’s soldiers,” Tomaj shouted back.

  “Oh,” Broadhecker called, undismayed. “So he’s all right, then.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  O DO ME JOHNNY POKER, DO

  ZALESKI CARRIED SLUSHY’S BODY BACK FROM THE rock shaped like Perennial Pete’s head, slung by his wrists around his neck like a cape.

  Hector was inconsolable, flinging himself atop the body and sobbing wretchedly, the sort of wailing that dredged up a few of the worst memories of Dagny’s life—well, perhaps her father’s death was the only tragic event she could compare to this murder that seemed to threaten to unhinge poor Hector’s mind. He howled and raved, and the only thing stopping him from grabbing every weapon he could find and returning to the rock to chop off Boneaux’s head again were the bilbo grips of Zaleski’s and Broadhecker’s four hands on his limbs.

  Dagny attempted to soothe Hector with her embrace, but he violently bucked her off, shrieking that she was as common as a barber’s chair, a bunter who had traded her commodity for worthless Frog trifles. He called her a Covent Garden nun who should be docked for all the misery she’d brought upon Barataria.

  “He don’t mean that, miss,” Zaleski insisted. “He’s just a bit touched with grief.”

  Broadhecker wasn’t so charitable, and he shook Hector relentlessly. “He’s a foul-mouthed little shit with no manners.”

  By this time most every man jack from Harmony Row had heard the news about Slushy, and all poured up the drive to Tomaj’s front portico. Hector had devolved into shouting with a reddened face streaked by tears that Dagny was nothing but a squirrel covering her back with her tail, a public ledger and receiver general open to everyone, a hedge whore, a laced mutton with—

  Tomaj strode from his library where he had been holding a levee with Youx, Sal, Zeke, Ian MacKendrick, and Rabelais. Dagny wasn’t afraid of Hector in his cups, but the sight of Tomaj, as inflated with rage as when he’d shot Boneaux in the head, had her trembling in her boots. His nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed when he honed in on little Hector. The crowd of over two hundred people stilled as Tomaj strode directly to Hector and dealt him a resounding backhand across the face that had the beggar lurching back against his shipmates.

  “Those are some fine words coming from the son of a whore,” Tomaj said, his voice shaking with anger. “If you cannot respect Miss Ravenhurst, you should at least show more respect for your mother.”

  Hector blubbered a bit more, but didn’t open his mouth again.

  Tomaj stalked across his portico grandly, a strange mix of wrath, sorrow, and pride in his bearing. Sal and Zeke came behind Dagny to put their hands protectively on her shoulders.

  “We all loved Johnny Slushy,” Tomaj told everyone. “Not just this first-rate hand here who came in through the hawse holes, who is now prostrate with grief. Slushy was a Jesuit given to intrigue and dissembling, a Merry-Andrew who frustrated and entertained us greatly, sometimes at his own expense.”

  He walked back to observe the body that Zaleski had positioned in a carefree manner, on its back with its hands crossed on its chest, even holding a white calla lily plucked from the garden. The crowd of mourners moved in closer up the stairs as Tomaj said in a less stentorian tone, “I met Slushy in Vienna. He was my valet when I was in the Hussars.”

  A servant on tiptoes paused with a spill in his hand, about to light a lantern.

  “I know everyone has wondered why I treat him with such contempt.” He lifted his head and addressed the assembly. “He came with my family when we were exiled from Hungary. In New York he was forced to find work as a bootblack to feed my mother, while I could only join the navy. One day my younger brother, who had been allowed to stay in Hungary because he coveted the title of count, came to New York and approached Slushy at his bootblack stand, accompanied by several Magyar toughs. On a mission from my father, they told Slushy he’d had a change of heart and wanted us to return.

  “What did János Kovács say to Izsak Balásházy? He told him what he thought we wanted him to say. ‘Your mother and brother are doing just fine, and don’t need your help.’”

  Tomaj looked back to Slushy. Far from being a “boy,” Slushy had been about fifty years of age, his bald pate covered only by brushing forward some wisps of silver hair. Now the corners of Tomaj’s mouth turned up into that sly smile Dagny thought she knew so well. “János knew only what he’d heard us rail, and he thought he was protecting us. He had no way of knowing that perhaps we would’ve entertained this offer, if my father was willing to overlook our Jewish heritage. When they demanded to know where we lived, János became more tight-lipped and silent. He would not let the cat out of the bag.” Closing his eyes briefly, his mouth became a thin line. “They beat him nearly to death …”

  He managed the vague smile again. “… for the extremely uncustomary crime of not telling everything that he knew.”

  Several people chuckled with fondness at memories, most of all Zaleski, who bared his carious teeth at his dead friend, and nodded in agreement. Hector, who had seated himself on Zaleski’s feet with no more energy to rave, burbled a laugh through his snot.

  “Errol,” Tomaj said in a cheery manner. “Why don’t you sing a proper shanty?”

  Wrenched from his reverie, Zaleski said, “Aye aye,” and stood. Broadhecker stood, too, as they’d been used to accompanying each other for many years, but were without the wavering falsetto of Stephen Miller, so they called forth the baritone Firebrand from the crowd.

  As they assembled and consulted in low voices, Dagny broke free from her brothers’ hands and went to stand by Tomaj. She dared to take his arm in hers. She wanted him to know she was grateful for the way he’d stood up for her before the entire complement of Mavasarona Bay citizenry. She nearly expected him to shake her off, but he placed his hand over hers and smiled down at her.

  The three shantymen agreed on a tune and arranged themselves just so about the corpse.

  Firebrand’s rich voice echoed down the gallery, vibrating the glass in the house windows, and some of the ramatoas burst out crying at the first few notes.

  Swing low, sweet chariot

  Zaleski and Broadhecker harmonized the chorus as though they were in church.

  Coming for to carry me home.

  A strangely cathartic dirge, unexpected emotions welled in various hearts. Zeke had gone to the portico’s rail and untied the Newfoundland, Stormalong, from where she’d been tethered to prevent her from following Tomaj to Pete’s Head Rock. She now padded silently over to Slushy and licked his face, trying to wake him up. Tears finally ran down Dagny’s impassive face when Stormalong sat, barked once at Slushy, and put her paw on his chest.

  Swing low, sweet chariot

  Coming for to carry m
e home.

  As their final notes trailed off down the corridor, people shuffled about and blew their noses into handkerchiefs. Tomaj patted Dagny’s hand and stepped forward to proclaim, “He must be buried within twenty-four hours. Bring him into the drawing room and on no account leave him alone.”

  Tomaj deliberately reached up and tore the right lapel of his fine velvet gentleman’s coat.

  He shouted, “Soldiers will be coming to Mavasarona Bay! Make no mistake—I’ve just murdered Paul Boneaux, and that’s a good excuse as any for the retributions against Europeans and anyone who isn’t Merina that we all know have been going on since the king’s murder. The only reason they didn’t follow Zaleski down here today was that he put the fear of razana into them by acting like a minegny trombiste. Anyone who doesn’t feel safe down in Harmony Row is welcome within the walls of Barataria. I only regret there’s not more room inside the house, but you’re welcome to encamp on the lawn, in the stables, on the portico here. I only ask that you be careful of your cook fires.

  “There’s a levee in my library.” Tomaj raised an arm and squinted to see into the growing darkness. “Frost, are you there? Smit, Hegemsness. Castillo, Firebrand, come with me.”

  Tomaj strode to the entryway as servants and ramatoas fell back for him. Unsure, Dagny followed in his wake as he touched Antoine Youx on the arm and leaned into him.

  “Antoine. You already know what the levee consists of, so organize the hands. Consult with Ramonja about feeding them, let out all the stores from the godowns, just make sure no one burns anything down. And don’t let anyone into the glasshouse, the monkeys won’t stand for it. Can you work with Zeke? Zeke, come, man, bear a hand. Assist Youx. Combine your hands and stores, can you? Youx needs your man Izaro, and any more like him.”

  “Got you, Count.” Zeke seemed to know exactly what Tomaj was talking about, and Zeke and Youx broke away into another group, their heads together.

  Dagny was an insignificant insect standing next to Tomaj. He waved an arm and commanded people. She wanted to fade away into the woodwork, to go upstairs, not into Tomaj’s chambers, because she didn’t dare, but perhaps Madame Rabelais would let her sleep on the carpet. Dagny was only a woman—a woman who had caused almost all of the heartaches now being visited upon Tomaj, and, indeed, Mavasarona Bay. Perhaps Hector’s words had sunk into her brain, and were now affecting her humors. She was only a squirrel with her tail covering her back.

  Still, she followed at Tomaj’s elbow, and in his milling he stopped before Hector, who had remained immobile standing over Slushy.

  Not insensitively, Tomaj told him, “Young man. I’ll expect an apology by bedtime.”

  Hector’s bloodshot eyes met Tomaj’s, and the youth nodded sullenly.

  Dagny wasn’t even certain that Tomaj knew she was swept up behind him. In the vestibule they pushed their way through a throng of men and ramatoas, men jumping up to see over others’ heads, a few of the more surly servants trying to keep the uninvited out by hollering louder than anyone else.

  All came to a standstill, though, when out on the portico Zaleski lifted his voice in fine fettle and belted:

  O do me Johnny Poker, come roll me down to Dover …

  The modulations of Broadhecker and Firebrand resounded out the chorus:

  O do me Johnny Poker, do!

  O do me Johnny Poker, come haul away the bowline

  O do me Johnny Poker, do!

  A rollicking shanty that was probably known shipboard by all hands, soon the men milling about in jittery frustration stopped in their tracks.

  Everyone turned to see Zaleski’s face lit up with a pontifical brilliance. Nearly everyone knew the chorus and chimed in, but all fell silent when Zaleski warbled out a new line, throwing everyone off guard by pitching two in sequence.

  O do me Johnny Poker, I bet ye are a rover.

  O do me Johnny Poker, the bosun’s never sober.

  All hands burst into laughter at that one, though the boatswain Broadhecker kept a straight face, taking his shanty duties seriously.

  O do me Johnny Poker, we’re men enough to mend her.

  O do me Johnny Poker, do!

  Laughing felt good. Between the limbs jostling Dagny, Tomaj’s hand snuck into hers, and he pulled her into the reception room, where the more serious men invited to the levee gathered. Ramonja was there, still attempting to throw platters of oysters onto the dining table that were quickly snatched up by the starving men, but his manner was shrill with hysteria, having lost his best kitchen companion.

  Dagny placed a hand onto Tomaj’s rent velvet lapel, and his warmth made her happier still. “Tomaj, I—”

  He bent down to speak into her ear. “I have to piss.”

  Before she could laugh, he’d spirited her away to that hallway where the touched ramatoa Peg had explained Tomaj’s portrait of Yves.

  “We’ll either break it or bend it,” Tomaj sang quietly to himself.

  It was relatively silent in here, and Tomaj pressed Dagny back against the wall gently, laying both his forearms on the wall above her head. The rapturous face of Yves loomed over his shoulder like an angel.

  “Dagny.”

  “Yes.”

  His hand cupped her jaw. “I love you more than life itself.”

  She had no thoughts, only waited.

  “This was bound to happen, Boneaux and I. We’ve been at loggerheads since he came to this island. I have no guilt or shame that I scragged him today. From the looks of those soldiers, they were about to scrag him, anyway. Perhaps that’s who I am, insensate. But I don’t want you to feel responsible. I just want you to know that we can’t remain here any longer.”

  He seemed tired. The gentle kiss that he planted on her mouth was loving and affectionate, as when she held him in her arms before he took a caulk late at night.

  When he pulled away, he squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them, looked at the wall above her head.

  She touched his flawless face. “You have to piss.”

  He laughed. “Stay here.”

  The entire plantation was awash with vigorous emotion. Zaleski’s voice shimmered through the thick coralline walls, and the words of businessmen boomed from the dining room as platters crashed and oyster shells clinked.

  Dagny remained plastered against the wall, regarding the painting of Yves. How has it come to this? she thought. Crazy governments. There is no place in this world for a democratic partnership of pirates. Tomaj was a utopian to think he could accomplish that… and he very nearly had.

  “Yves,” she breathed quietly to the painting. “Was it worth it?”

  The backhouse door banged open, and Tomaj came sailing into the dark hallway. Dagny had never seen him look so magnificent, as though all the heavy oceans he’d seen had been brought to bear upon his person.

  He gathered her in his arms, brushing her forehead with his hand. “Dagny. You must come to the levee. There, all will become plain. It will only take an hour, then we can retire, although Bellingham does owe you an apology, so we’ll have to see to that.”

  “I’m invited?”

  “Of course.” He kissed her forehead gently.

  “What’re you going to tell us at the levee?”

  Tomaj paused, his mouth still on her forehead.

  “We’re going to the Brazil.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  NEIGHBORS AND SOON TO BE FAMILY ONCE AGAIN

  THE BRAZIL HAD LONG BEEN A PASSION FOR TOMAJ, and during several recent conversations with Sal, he’d come to the inevitable conclusion that there they would find salvation.

  Since the murder of Paul Boneaux and Tomaj’s attendant escape from the clutches of Ranavalona’s soldiers, the queen had sent intermittent regiments to his gates. The soldiers clamored for Tomaj’s head, as well as the neck of the pirate crazy enough to chop off the head of a man already dead. There were simply too many people in Mavasarona Bay armed to the teeth, in particular the brutal American whalers whom the soldiers would not
harm, and they were able to repel the soldiers, but for how long?

  All in all, it was time to make sail for unfamiliar lands and found a new colony.

  Sal and Radriaka were kept constantly busy overseeing the stowing of Stormalong’s hold with celestine for the Italians. Tomaj reasoned when soldiers saw those operations they would relax, for would he cruise off for new ports and abandon his plantation with only celestine to succor a minimal crew of waisters?

  There were a few Malagasy pirogue skippers, accustomed to raiding in the Mozambique Channel, as well as captains of Arab sambuks from Zanzibar and up the Red Sea. From Zeke’s reports, they were engaged making a proper potmess of things aboard Boneaux’s frigate. Apparently all were sea lawyers often seen sword fighting on deck, no one willing to allow another to be captain, always fouling the cables.

  Tomaj handed the running of Barataria to Ian MacKendrick. He was an enterprising and missionary whaleman from Nantucket, weary after ten years of cruising to New Zealand, Australia, and New Holland. MacKendrick epitomized the ascendancy of the American whale trade over the English, with the peculiar American advantages of superior wisdom, daring, and zeal. As bluff as bull beef, as were all Nantucketers who had put in more than a year in the Pacific, MacKendrick was weary of risking his life for a few barrels of oil. Tomaj had to admit it was a tough life, stripping the “blanket-pieces” of blubber, with long poles bailing liquid spermaceti out of whale cases. “Trying out” was the most disagreeable and savage part of the whaling business. Tomaj and his men, who could cheerfully and lustfully hack a ship’s crew to pieces and spew their brains upon the deck with no more compunction than a spider lunching upon her mate, became nauseated with the stories of the huge mountains of flesh and blubber lying about the decks. Tomaj conjured up Dante’s images of the infernal regions from MacKendrick’s descriptions of the hissing boilers and vile cross-seas of flame from the furnace flues. “If this warn’t hell on a small scale,” MacKendrick said, “I don’t know what to call it.”