Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  Surprised, John looked back. The other three already had reached the summit and were now talking easily among themselves, apparently unconcerned about the two lagging behind.

  “Monsieur...” the soldier began, something conspiratorial in his manner.

  Annoyed by the attempt at fraternization, John gathered new strength from somewhere and pulled ahead by a step or two, and called back brusquely, “I'm sorry. I don't speak - ”

  “But I do,” the soldier said with surprising facility.

  John looked back again, his mind turning. If the man could understand English, he must have overheard everything that had been said down in Elizabeth's cell.

  “No fear, monsieur,” the soldier said, his manner, as always, surprisingly mild and reassuring. “I hear all,” he said, “but say nothing. I swear it.”

  “I don't know what you mean.”

  “You must hear me,” the soldier went on, drawing yet closer. Too close for John's ease.

  “I have-”

  “You have nothing,” the soldier countered. “Nothing that matters here, in this place,” he added, his voice suddenly growing harsh.

  Shocked by this new tone and curious as to why the other three were purposefully leaving them alone, John turned to confront the man once and for all so that he could complete his climb out of this miserable pit and move on to the most important tasks ahead.

  “Sir, hear me out,” the soldier said now, so close to John he was required to do little more than whisper. “Your female friend,” he went on, pointing back down the steps, “is doomed. There is nothing you can do to bring her back, for she is already dead.”

  “No.”

  “Yes!” This was accompanied by a strong hand on John's arm, one of both restraint and support, as though the Frenchman was trying hard to convince him of something. “Now, if you truly care for her,” the man went on, his voice still low, “there is one course of action which you must take.”

  “W-what?” John stammered, hearing the stammer, feeling the terror behind it. Who was this man? Then a thought occurred. He was offering John an escape plan. For money, of course. Why not? Here obviously was a wealthy Englishman who wanted to change the course of fate.

  “I must ask you to say a word of this to no one,” the Frenchman whispered, glancing up the steps at his three comrades, who were still chattering and laughing among themselves.

  “Of course,” John snapped. “What is — ?”

  ‘These are painful matters to discuss.”

  “Please, what...?”

  “Her execution, as you know, is set for Tuesday.”

  Execution...

  John gaped at the word, still wholly unable to comprehend or accept the reality behind it.

  “How you say, sir? Will you... witness execution?”

  “There will be no - ”

  Quickly the man lifted both hands, as though in an attempt to stay John’s anger. “In the event that there is,” he went on, clearly choosing his words carefully and now backing a step away, “you must know how it is done. Our instructions on the first round are to aim only for the extremities. The arms, hands, feet, legs, if you comprehend. On the first round,” the man went on, quietly talking madness, “death seldom occurs. The prisoner is not relieved of his agony until the second and sometimes even the third round, when our commander instructs us to aim for the heart.”

  For a moment John felt the steep dark stairs swirl about him. He glanced down and saw them liquid, as though underwater. In the other direction he saw the three soldiers had disappeared altogether.

  “Do... you comprehend, sir?” the soldier asked.

  No, John didn’t comprehend, and said as much. “Why are you telling me this? As I said, there will be no - ”

  Suddenly, with new aggression, the soldier stepped back down to John’s level and with one hand pushed him roughly against the cold wall. “You do not hear well, sir,” he whispered fiercely, all earlier traces of sympathy and compassion gone.

  John started to protest the rough treatment, but was not given a chance.

  “You think you can strut in here and make your claims regardless of French law. You English...

  As the sentence dissolved into a sneer, John held his position a moment, then said abruptly, “If you'll excuse me...” He purposefully brushed past the man, in the process conveying he was no longer interested in what he had to say, when in truth he was more interested than ever.

  The odds on Charley Spade reaching Calais, crossing the channel, making his way to London, locating Mr. Gladstone, obtaining from him an official letter of protest, then returning here — all within seven days — was unlikely to the point of being impossible. But a simple escape plotted by someone who knew the inside workings of the prison as well as the outside — that might work.

  The soldier allowed him to climb laboriously upward for three steps before he stopped him — as John knew he would.

  “My price is one hundred louis,” he demanded, with just a touch of belligerence in his voice.

  John stopped his climb and looked back. “For what?” he asked. “You've not stated the nature of your service.”

  Quickly the man shook his head. “I have stated it,” he said. “On the first round we are instructed only to aim for the - ”

  “Enough!” John shook his head, not wanting to hear it again.

  The man shrugged. “For one hundred louis I will personally give you my word my first bullet will go directly into her heart.”

  Stunned and sickened, John tried to speak and could not.

  “I tell you, sir,” the Frenchman said, stepping close at the very time he should have put a safe distance between them, “people think the firing squad is superior, kinder than the guillotine.” Calmly he shook his head. “Not true. The blade kills cleanly, instantly. But bullets...” Again he shook his head, a look of mock sadness on his face. “I have seen men scream for the coup de grace, their flesh ripped open, standing in pools of their own blood.”

  John closed his eyes.

  “Did you hear this time, sir?” the soldier prodded foolishly. “One hundred louis will buy you one clean bullet directly through the center of her breast.”

  There was nothing else for John to do but to stop the obscene mouth from speaking further obscenities. The only way to accomplish that was to destroy the man behind the mouth, and since he had a weapon, the heavy silver-headed walking stick, he lifted it quickly before the mouth could start talking again. The element of surprise combined with his sense of outrage, and he delivered one stunning blow to the side of the man's head, dislodging the grin as well as the man's footing.

  The soldier buckled briefly, went down on his knees, a convenient position for John, who with extraordinary calmness stepped forward to deliver blow after blow to the man's upper body, sometimes striking his head, then his shoulders, now his arms, which had been raised in meager defense, multiple blows which caused rivers of blood. John wondered, even as he pursued the man down another step, why he didn't cry out for help.

  Then he did, a raucous shriek accompanied by a continuous stream of outraged French. Still John lifted the walking stick and let it fall where it would, feeling genuine relief each time it struck bone, delighting in seeing the man cower on the step below him.

  Did you hear, sir? One hundred louis will buy you one clean bullet directly through her heart.

  So engrossed was he that he failed to hear the rush of boots coming down the stairs behind him. The twin grips on his shoulders were of such strength they literally seemed to lift him until he was airborne, in fear of falling down the steps over the very man he had beaten senseless. But the same hands that lifted him also supported him and roughly turned him about and half-pushed, half-shoved him to the top of the stairs.

  They were all talking at once, and he couldn't understand a word. No matter. What he could understand and what brought him the greatest pleasure of this miserable day was the quick backward look which he stole from the top
of the steps at the man who had so offended him.

  Now the soldier sat, hunched and bowed, on the step where he had fallen, blood pouring from his nose, the corner of his mouth, his forehead, the tops of both hands — a steady stream.

  I’ve seen them standing in pools of their own blood.

  So have I, John thought with pleasure, and even managed a smile for the three soldiers who now pushed him roughly ahead.

  At that moment one of their rifles made a stabbing gesture in his ribs, the message clear, requiring no translation. Suddenly the exertion of the beating, the sense of terror he'd struggled against since his arrival in this place, the remembered sight of Elizabeth helpless, frightened, joined forces and conspired against him. The strength in his legs failed him and he went quickly down on his knees.

  As the French chatter increased around him, he felt the rifle barrels prodding his ribs, back, and neck. Though he could not lift his head, he knew what was going to happen seconds before it occurred: the rifle butt lifted with a curse high in the air over John, who struggled up to his knees. With another curse it was brought down full force against the side of his head.

  His skull felt as though it had been split open by the single blow. A seductive blackness was coming closer to the center where thought and consciousness resided. Perhaps for a few moments it might be best...

  Welcome the blackness, a voice of wisdom urged.

  He did.

  For two hours Bates had maintained a constant vigil beside the bed in the low-ceilinged second-floor chamber of Monsieur Du-Camp's questionable lodging house in Rue Saint Jacob, praying Mr. Eden would wake up, then praying he wouldn't, for then Bates would have to give him the bad news.

  Now he kept a close eye on the large purple swelling on Mr. Eden's left temple and wished Charley Spade would hurry and get back with a physician, but he didn't hold out much hope. There were no private physicians left in Paris, according to Monsieur Du-Camp, only “citizens' physicians.” Bates shook his head, trying to understand. All of Paris now seemed to be suffering from a very messy and inefficient egalitarianism.

  God, how Bates hated it, all of it — from this dark, cramped chamber which smelled of ancient cabbage, to the fulsome sense of democracy itself. No two men were sent into this world by their Creator the same.

  He shuddered as the cold rain pelted the filthy window glass, and he saw again in memory that most fearful spectacle which had been inflicted on him a mere three hours ago as he'd sat awaiting Mr. Eden's return from his first visit with Miss Elizabeth in her cell at La Rochelle Prison.

  Bates had known it would go hard for Mr. Eden, but he'd had no idea how hard until he'd heard a scuffle just coming in the door of that unspeakably filthy front corridor at La Rochelle. He had looked up in apprehension and had seen Mr. Eden suspended, lifeless, between two French guards, blood flowing in a steady stream from a wound on his forehead, his feet dragging.

  But the bloodiest specter of all had been trailing behind, another soldier who continuously fought off the support of his mates, halfwalking, half-stumbling but always pushing forward in demented outrage, ready to inflict more harm on Mr. Eden. And he would have, too, had not the overall ruckus brought the mincy-stepping little General Montaud scurrying from his comfy quarters, his chalk-pale cheeks ruddy as a Welshman's with anger over the turmoil at that moment taking place in his prison.

  Bates, of course, had gone instantly to Mr. Eden's side and relieved one of the soldiers of his support. As the other had stepped away as well, and as Bates was not equal to Mr. Eden's deadweight, he'd had no choice but to let him slip, as easy as possible, to the floor.

  As he'd struck ground, Mr. Eden had given a reassuring groan, confirming life if not dignity — it was the combination of the two that was so difficult to achieve.

  Bates had run to the front doors, had cried out for Charley Spade, who still sat patiently beneath a mountain of lap robes in the cold steady drizzle of the day.

  True disgrace when a man of quality, one of the most powerful men in England, was treated so barbarically by foreigners, and then at the end of the day could not find even a decent and comfortable lodging. Never had Bates seen this most unique phenomenon close at hand, an entire society straining with all its energy and with all its might to become common.

  At that moment he heard a slight noise at the door and looked up, hoping to see Charley Spade's broad welcome face and, trailing behind, a competent physician. But the longer he kept his eye fixed on the oak door, the more convinced he became he'd imagined the noise. Either that or a curious chambermaid had been sent to spy on the “English” by Monsieur DuCamp.

  “Mr. Eden,” Bates called softly, daring to shake the rain-damp shoulder. “Mr. Eden, can you hear me?” Bates tried again and, receiving no response, stood stiffly and walked to the single narrow window. On the opaque glass it appeared to be raining coal dust.

  The scene on the street below was a frantic, blurred chaos of grays, browns, and blacks, people hurrying every which way to avoid the rain, which had increased with nightfall. The intersection directly to his left was a clogged, hopeless bottleneck. Several soldiers were trying to bring order to the glut of rain-slick carriages and wagons, but without success thus far.

  Confusion everywhere he looked, rampant confusion. Again he sniffed disaster in the moment, the day, the times, and thought the best action he could take on behalf of them all would be to load the still-senseless Mr. Eden aboard the hired mourning carriage and give Charley Spade instructions to head for the channel at the fastest speed. After General Montaud's parting order today, there was absolutely nothing more to stay for. Perhaps if he could remove Mr. Eden before consciousness returned, it might be easier...

  He froze, still listening, and it came again, a soft moan from the bed, signaling...

  “Mr. Eden, please. Can you hear me?” he called out, and was rewarded with the pale face upon the pillow turning once, then back in the opposite direction. Then at last a good healthy groan accompanied by a healthier curse, “Goddammit!” as one hand went gingerly up to the swollen goose egg on his left temple.

  Mr. Eden winced at first touch, as did Bates sympathetically. Finally Bates guided his hand away from the injured area. “I wouldn't, sir,” he said gently. “It was quite a blow.”

  “Eliz...” Mr. Eden tried to say, and something — either the effort or the thought — robbed him of sufficient breath and he closed his eyes, then made a logical request. “Brandy, Bates, please. Just one.”

  Bates moved immediately toward his trunk, where he had packed a bottle of brandy for medicinal purposes. Quickly he found it, poured a portion into a mug from the washstand, and extended it to Mr. Eden. When he didn't take it immediately, Bates carefully slipped his arm beneath Mr. Eden's head and elevated it enough for the man to sip.

  And sip he did, drained the mug and made a face at it, shook his head once at the burning liquid, and though gasping for breath, found the energy and will to remain elevated.

  “Are you — ?” Bates began.

  But Mr. Eden merely lifted a restraining hand as though to say he couldn't answer questions and move at the same time. Still seated mid-bed, his legs spread askew before him, he raised his head laboriously and appeared to be looking in all corners of the narrow room.

  “Charley...”

  “...has gone to fetch a physician for you,” Bates replied.

  In response to the announcement concerning Charley Spade's destination, Mr. Eden looked displeased and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  “I... found her, Bates,” came the mourning voice out of the bleak expression. “She was...” As he tried to describe what precisely he had found in the dungeon cell at La Rochelle, his voice broke.

  “Don't think on it, Mr. Eden,” Bates advised kindly, still dividing his attention between the man sitting on the side of the bed and the liquid flow of humanity on the street below the window.

  “I can't get it out of my mind, Bates,” Mr. Eden con
fessed quietly. “She bears no resemblance to...”

  Again Bates nodded, pleased he was talking but wishing he'd talk on some other matter. “Come on, sir,” he interrupted. “Let's make ourselves ready. There is nothing more for us in this godforsaken place...”

  At that Mr. Eden looked square at him, shock registering on top of pain. “What are you talking about, Bates? As soon as Charley arrives I have the most important errand of his life awaiting him, because if he is successful, I shall personally see to it that he never wants for anything again in this lifetime.”

  At this extravagant promise, Bates stopped, having run into a self-made barrier of envy and resentment. Why should Charley Spade get such a rare opportunity? “I … don't understand, sir,” he said honestly, and tried to read Mr. Eden's face, but it was difficult.

  The man again had fallen into a close scrutiny of the floor, his mind apparently fully engaged in planning. “Bates,” he called out, still not looking up, “what is your opinion of Charley Spade's capabilities?”

  A curious question. “I... don't...”

  “Is he capable?”

  “Of what, sir?”

  Anger surfaced for a moment and did apparent damage to his head. “Of … functioning,” he said at last, gently holding his head as though trying to hold it together.

  “Yes, of course. In a limited way,” Bates responded, still baffled. “Can he read?”

  “Yes.”

  “Write?”

  “Yes.”

  “He'll serve.” Mr. Eden nodded, concluding the bewildering exchange. Then on the next breath with a wave of his hand he asked Bates to fetch his writing pad and clear the bureau, as he had “a most important letter to write.”

  “Sir, I think you should know - ”

  “I know damn well what I should know and what I must dol” he exploded.

  Bates had seen it too often before to be shocked by it. “No, sir,” he began rigorously, and might have been allowed to finish, except at that moment there was a knock at the door, the door was pushed open, and a very wet, very miserable Charley Spade stood there with a foolish announcement.