Arabella and the Battle of Venus

by David D. Levine

  Arabella grasped the rail and held tight, bracing to receive the impact of the French cannonballs.

  A moment later the French colors—the proud blue, white, and red ensign that fluttered in the artificial wind from the merchant’s pulsers—were drawn rapidly downward, pulled to the deck like water running down a drain.

  A great triumphal shout arose from Touchstone’s crew.

  Victory!

  Mouth agape, Arabella looked from the defeated Frenchman to the smiling Fox and back.

  * * *

  To Arabella’s continued astonishment, the French captain was all smiles when he came aboard, shaking Fox’s outstretched hand most heartily as he stepped to the quarterdeck from the aerial boat that had brought him across.

  Renaudin was his name, captain of the Fleur de Lys out of Marseille. “Good shooting, monsieur,” he said in thickly-accented English after the initial round of introductions. “Très bien fait.”

  Fox doffed his hat and bowed. “Your own men’s bravery in the face of clearly superior fire is also to be commended,” he replied. “I did not observe a single sign of trepidation through my glass.”

  Renaudin smiled blankly at Fox’s elegant phrasing, clearly grasping the sentiment though not the exact meaning. “Vos hommes sont très courageux,” Arabella translated.

  After Renaudin’s polite acknowledgement of the compliment, Fox continued, “I have taken the liberty of drawing up a standard plunder contract, in English and French, with only the description of the cargo to be filled in.” From his coat pocket he produced a thick sheaf of papers. “And the amount of the ransom, of course.”

  “Plunder contract?” murmured Lady Corey to Arabella.

  “I have no idea,” Arabella replied, as indeed she had not.

  Renaudin, obviously familiar with the concept, gave the document a cursory perusal. “Trente mille livres,” he said, which Arabella translated for Fox: thirty thousand French livres.

  Fox and Liddon conferred, converting the amount into English pounds. “I had hoped for rather more,” Fox said.

  “That is all my owners permit me to offer,” Renaudin replied, in French, with what seemed to Arabella a rather embarrassed expression. “It is the maximum the insurance will provide.”

  After Arabella had translated this for Fox, he said, “Surely your owners would rather expend a few thousand livres of their own money, over and above the insurance, rather than suffer the loss of such a fine ship? Perhaps a matching thirty thousand, to make sixty in total?”

  The French captain frowned, but calculation showed in his eyes. Certainly he was considering the degree to which his owners would hold him personally responsible for such a substantial loss. But from her own time running the household at Woodthrush Woods, which involved considerable dealings with shipbuilders and ship owners, Arabella knew that even the larger amount under discussion was less than a tenth of the value of the ship, never mind her cargo. “If I decline to sign,” he replied, “you would be compelled to take my ship by force, which neither of us would like, and risk her being re-taken before you could deliver her to Mars for condemnation.”

  Fox’s face reflected conflicted feelings as Arabella translated Renaudin’s words, but she herself felt that the French captain’s point was well taken. “We are,” she reminded Fox, “deep in French skies.”

  “With that consideration,” Renaudin continued, “may I offer ten thousand gold livres cash in advance, to make forty thousand in total?”

  Fox’s expression grew predatory, but he plainly saw yet further advantage to be drawn, as he immediately countered, “Perhaps twenty thousand cash, to make an even fifty?”

  To Arabella’s translation of the offer, Renaudin replied with an expressive Gallic shrug. “Tell him fifteen thousand, mademoiselle, for a total of forty-five. No more.”

  Arabella translated the offer for Fox, adding, “I believe we have found the bottom of his purse.”

  “Done,” Fox replied, and put out his hand.

  * * *

  At supper that night, Fox was in an expansive mood. He had invited Arabella and Lady Corey to dine in his cabin, and the wine was of an elevated vintage. The men, too, were in very good cheer, even the usually solemn Fitts.

  “I am surprised,” Lady Corey said, “at the enthusiasm of the men after this … anticlimactic conclusion. I would have expected them to be disappointed by the lack of battle.” She gestured out the broad stern window, beyond which the French merchantman’s undamaged pulsers turned steadily as the two ships drew ever further apart. Though both were bound for Venus, for obvious reasons they did not choose to travel together. “And Miss Ashby informs me that the amount of the, um, the ‘plunder contract’ was only a fraction of what you might have gotten for the ship and its cargo if you had captured it?”

  “That is true,” Fox replied. “If—if—we should manage to return her to Sor Khoresh and see her condemned as lawful prize.”

  “But surely your letters of marque guarantee that any French ship you may take is a lawful prize?”

  Fox shook his head. “There’s many a slip, my lady. Disputes over the ownership of the captured ship or the location of the capture, the presence of other nations’ cargo on board, mistreatment or alleged mistreatment of the prisoners, irregularities in the paperwork … any of these, and many more, can delay or even scuttle an apparently ironclad condemnation. Not to mention the fact that we would have to put sufficient men aboard the prize to fly her, defend her from recapture, and control the prisoners the whole way from here to Mars. That would be at least a quarter of our current crew—men we may need at Venus.” He took a sip of his wine, pausing a moment to savor it before continuing. “Much better, and far more civilized, to accept a smaller guaranteed payment.”

  This raised a question in Arabella’s mind. “I fail to see any guarantee, on either side. What assurance do you have that the Frenchman’s owners will indeed pay, beyond the fifteen thousand? And what assurance does he have that, having paid ransom to us, some other privateer will not come along and capture him?”

  “It is all spelled out in the contract.” He patted his jacket pocket. “Which asserts, in legally binding language in both English and French, that the captain has his owners’ authority to negotiate on their behalf, and declares to all and sundry that the ship has been granted free passage to Venus for the next one hundred and eighty days. If Monsieur Renaudin should be waylaid by any other privateer during that time, he need merely present the contract and they will be compelled to release him.” To Arabella’s dubious look he continued, “Any violation of this agreement is a breach of international law. If the owners fail to pay, the ship is forfeit, and subject to immediate impoundment by any English vessel in any English or allied port. And as for other privateers … a plunder contract of this type is an absolute, inviolable impediment to lawful prize. Only the most desperate privateer would bother to capture a vessel so encumbered—he would never see a penny of prize money, and would most likely find himself imprisoned in the bargain.”

  Arabella remained unimpressed. “Unless he destroys the contract.”

  Again Fox patted his pocket. “He would have to destroy all the copies. Not to mention killing the entire crew, who would otherwise falsify his story—an act of barbarity which, in and of itself, would be a barrier to legal condemnation.” He gave Arabella an arch look. “One might get the impression that you consider privateers a dishonorable lot, even after all the time we have spent together. I am mortified.”

  Against her will Arabella found herself smiling; she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin to cover it. “I meant no insult, sir. I merely wished to … to discover the particulars of this contract, of which I have never before even heard.”

  Fox waved a hand in airy dismissal. “Few landsmen have. They think the privateer’s life one of nothing but adventure, violence, evasion, and escape. But, between letters of marque, bills of lading, rosters, inventories, and plunder contracts, it involves, in fact,
more paperwork than any thing else.”

  After supper drew to a close, Lady Corey permitted a brief perambulation on deck before retiring. It was the first dog watch, the men conversing quietly as they caulked the deck. The seams between the deck planks had begun to ooze pitch in the heat, and regular caulking with oakum was required to prevent the sticky black substance from going every where.

  The Sun loomed dead ahead, huge and bright and blazing in a sky gone white with heat; Arabella’s hand at arm’s length was barely able to cover his searing face. But when she did cover it, another star became visible—a star that had been lost in the Sun’s glare, and itself grew brighter and larger each day.

  The planet Venus.

  10

  VENUS

  After her one summer in England—which she had after its end come to consider a form of Purgatory—Arabella had been certain that she would never again know such a misery of heat. But now she knew that at that time she had been far more gently used than she had known, for the vicinity of Venus seemed as much hotter than an English summer as England had been relative to Mars.

  The men went about nearly naked now, with only the barest scraps of cloth preserving a tiny shred of modesty. Even Fox, whose attention to couture was as meticulous as that of any man she had ever met, generally went stripped to the waist. Despite this gross indecency, the stifling conditions belowdecks were so intolerable that even Lady Corey spent most of her time on deck. She lived in her filmiest, most diaphanous gown, and fanned herself so vigorously that the breeze blew her from one rail to the other. And as for Arabella, she dedicated one cup of her allocation of fresh water each day to dousing her hair and wetting a cloth which she wore at the back of her neck.

  Venus grew larger and closer each day, and Fox had posted lookouts at the top of each mast, the bowsprit’s tip, and the pulsers’ hub. “We must discern any French ships before they make us out,” he said, “in order to avoid them and land without being questioned.”

  Captain Singh had said that he was at liberty in the fortress town of Thuguguruk. The port city of Wuknalugna lay nearby, and there they would land in the guise of Dutch privateers, allied to France. Once successfully landed, they would deliberately slow their victualing, watering, and other activities, buying time for Arabella and Fox to investigate the prison and formulate a plan to extricate the captain … while, Fox insisted, causing Napoleon as much distress as possible. But if they were intercepted midair, they would have a much harder time of it. As effective a fighter as Touchstone might be against French merchantmen, a contest with a French first-rate would surely prove a serious challenge.

  “I wish I could make out the continents,” Fox said, squinting through his spyglass at the approaching planet, which now loomed larger than Arabella’s spread hands thumb to thumb. Venus lay perpetually shrouded in cloud—a good thing, Arabella thought, else she would be even hotter on the surface—and so presented to the eye only a hazy gray ball swirling with meaningless patterns of wind and weather. And, as they were approaching her from the skyward side, most of that gray ball was further obscured by darkness. “Based on the charts and our chronometer—and, I must admit, with the help of your greenwood box—I place Wuknalugna just there.” He indicated a point somewhat sunward of the terminator. “I intend to time our landing so that we arrive after midnight local time, but early in our morning so that we are fresh for skullduggery.” He collapsed the spyglass. “But we must evade the French, brave the Horn, and fly below the cloud layer before we can be certain where on the planet we find ourselves.”

  “At least we will be able to walk when we arrive,” Arabella said with a sly grin.

  To that jibe Fox replied with nothing but a glare. He then turned away and demanded a report from the lookout at the main-top.

  Arabella had, without doubt, won their bet. Even with the delay incurred in the capture of the Fleur de Lys, they had arrived at Venus a full nine days earlier than Fox’s course would have achieved. But Fox had not yet conceded defeat—“We are not yet landed, Miss Ashby”—and, furthermore, refused to openly acknowledge the benefits that accrued to the officers and passengers from the pedaling they had done. Yet his sullen behavior when pressed on either topic showed plainly that he did understand that he had been bested, and by now she knew him to be enough of a gentleman that, though he might grumble about it, he would not default on his wager.

  Suddenly Arabella’s thoughts were interrupted by a cry from the larboard top: “Sail ho!” This was immediately followed by another from the bowsprit: “Sail ho! Five … no, six sail of ship!”

  The air of the quarterdeck immediately became electric, Fox and the other officers surging forward, peering sunward through telescopes or spyglasses, or shading their eyes if they lacked instruments. “D—n me,” muttered Fox, followed by an apology to Arabella and Lady Corey.

  “What is it, sir?” asked Lady Corey.

  Fox’s expression as he focused his spyglass was troubled. “Unwelcome news, my lady. French ships of the line, or I’ll eat my hat.”

  Arabella’s heart pounded, but she strove to keep her voice level. “May I see, sir?”

  Without a word, Fox handed over the spyglass. It took a moment for her to find the ships—to the naked eye they appeared merely white specks against the planet’s dark face—but with the device’s help she was able to make out six tiny forms, each looking like a six-petaled white flower. From this distance they appeared harmless enough, but she knew appearances could be deceiving. “Can we slip past them?”

  Fox considered the sun, the planet, and the sky behind them before replying. “With the clouds as they are, there’s a chance they might not have seen us yet.” He returned the spyglass to his eye, peering at the French ships. “We could turn about and pedal for all we’re worth, and return another—D—n! Excuse me, ladies.”

  A moment later Arabella heard a faint, distant pop. “Are they firing at us?” Even as she spoke, one of the distant specks seemed to flicker, followed shortly by the sound of another pop.

  “Signaling,” Fox replied, still squinting through the spyglass. “They’ve seen us, for sure.” He turned to Liddon, who floated at his shoulder in an attitude of grim expectation. “The Dutch letters of marque … are they ready?”

  “Aye, sir,” Liddon said, “but I can’t promise they’ll stand up to a French captain’s inspection. And with a squadron of that size they’ll have a commander—and all his staff.” He shook his head. “I doubt we can brazen it out, sir.”

  Fox clapped the spyglass shut. “Then we run for it.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Liddon replied, then turned away and called, “All hands to the pedals!”

  As the command was repeated down the length of the ship, reinforced by the bosun’s pipe, Arabella and Lady Corey found themselves being gently shepherded toward their cabin. “Must we run, sir?” asked Arabella of Fox, brushing an airman’s hand from her elbow. “After coming all this way?”

  Fox, though his attention was clearly elsewhere, did at least give her a considered reply. “We must, miss. Against six ships of the line we have no chance. But Touchstone was built for speed, and the men are in crack shape. We can certainly outrun six fat Frenchmen.” But an edge in his voice betrayed his uncertainty.

  The airman was growing insistent, and again Arabella removed his hand from her arm. “Then I will pedal with the rest.”

  Immediately Fox replied, “We can use every hand.” He nodded to the airman, who released Arabella’s arm, and turned to Lady Corey. “Will you be joining us as well, my lady?”

  It was at that moment that Arabella began to be afraid.

  * * *

  This time the screen, which had before been placed with gentle precision, was thrown up in perfunctory fashion, and the faces of the men performing the task were grim and fearful. Before, during the long days of pedaling to reach the Edmonds Current and again the northern trades, they had grumbled amicably; during the pursuit of Fleur de Lys they had been full o
f gleeful anticipation; but now they pedaled as though Satan himself were right behind them. And, indeed, he might very well be, in the person of Napoleon—or at least a squadron of his aerial navy.

  “Oh my stars!” Lady Corey exclaimed behind her. Arabella turned around to see her, and saw that her foot had slipped from the pedal again. It was at least the third time this had happened, no doubt precipitated by her considerable nervousness. Her face, Arabella noted, appeared pale and clammy despite the hold’s sweltering heat. Arabella withdrew her own feet from the pedals, which continued to turn, and went to help the older woman.

  “What will they do to us?” Lady Corey whispered, trembling. “If they catch us?”

  Arabella had no idea, but she firmed up her jaw. “We are civilians,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. “Under the laws of war, even the French must consider us inviolate.” This seemed to reassure Lady Corey a bit, but even as Arabella gave her a sip of water her own mind remained troubled.

  For many hours they pedaled, anxiety slowly draining away and being replaced with exhaustion. From time to time men came down from deck with food and water, but they brought no good news. The French were still in pursuit, were in fact gaining, and there was no sign of cloud or any other means by which they might be evaded.

  Lady Corey labored until she fell unconscious, collapsing with a low sigh and floating gently away from the still-turning pedals. Arabella assisted the surgeon and his loblolly-boy in getting her safely settled in their cabin, then returned to her station.

  On and on they pedaled, the men’s grim silence relieved only by the endless creak and clatter of the gears and belts.

  Finally Arabella too was defeated by exhaustion—so tired, she realized, that for some bewildered time it had been the ever-turning pedals that drove her legs rather than the reverse. It was only because of the screen that shielded her modesty that no one had noticed her state of complete stupefaction. Somehow she managed to extract herself from the pedals without injury, and to rearrange her clothing to a minimum of decency before coming out from behind the screen. She barely noticed the dispirited airman who took her place as soon as it had been vacated.