Slavery was an abhorrent practice—illegal in England, and not practiced on Mars at all. “But they all look almost exactly alike! How could one possibly enslave a being who looks so much like oneself?”
The expression that came over his face then mingled regret, sadness, and not a little anger. “Many enslave ones who look just the same.” He closed his eyes, looked down, and shook his head. “Even me,” he muttered to the floor.
Arabella took a moment to find her voice. “I … I do not understand.”
He looked up again, meeting Arabella’s eyes with his own, the irises so dark and the whites nearly yellow. They showed sincerity, trust, and pleading. “I was slaver.”
Arabella, shocked, said nothing.
“I was grumete, running boats for Portuguese,” he continued. “My people, Wolof people—proud warriors. Kept defeated enemies as slaves since time began. Portuguese came, we sold slaves to them. Worked with them.” He closed his eyes and shook his head again. “I was good grumete. Boat builder, steersman, translator. Never cheated, never stole. But Portuguese…” His eyes snapped open, and this time the anger was uppermost. “One day, I brought boatload of slaves. They took me too!”
“How horrid!”
“Thrown in hold with all the rest. Men I captured tried to kill me. I survived. Bound for Brazil, to work in mines. But ship was caught! HMS Solebay, Royal Navy Anti-slave Trade Squadron!” He touched a knuckle to his forehead. “Very grateful, joined Navy. Served as waister on Solebay, captured many slave ships. Learned English. Reached London, honorable discharge. Worked loading cargo, met Captain Singh. Joined Diana. You know the rest.”
“What an … astonishing story.”
“I do not tell many people.” A tear ran down the crease of his broad nose. “Ashamed.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she reassured him. “Even if you did, you expunged your shame with your Navy service.”
He seemed somewhat comforted, yet still the shame remained in his eyes. “Do not tell. Even Captain Singh.”
“I will not tell a soul. Not even the captain.” For once, she reflected, she had a secret to keep from him. But something Mills had said tickled at the back of her mind. “You said you worked as translator. You speak Portuguese?”
He nodded.
“How many languages do you speak?”
Mills’s eyes rolled upward, his brows furrowed in concentration. “Fourteen. Gowanna and Wagala will be fifteen and sixteen. Still learning.”
“If you would be so kind … I would like to learn with you. I am certain you have much to teach me.”
He gave her a smile. “Yes! We learn together. Better that way.”
“Yes,” she replied, returning his smile. “Better together.”
15
ESCAPEES
Weeks passed—weeks in which the men were worked harder and harder. The officers, too, endured privations; the crews of several additional captured ships were added to the plantation, and many in Marieville were forced to share their already-cramped quarters with the new arrivals. Many leisure activities were cut off; food became even more expensive, and lower in quality. Even the Venusians who reaped the benefits of the inflated prices seemed harried and vexed.
Arabella, short on sleep though she was, tried to match the men’s schedules, continuing to offer as much aid and comfort as she could to both watches of both Dianas and Touchstones. The guards learned her face, and no longer checked her papers unless a superior officer was watching.
Injuries became more common and more severe; supplies of bandages and medicines ran low and could not be replenished for any amount of money. Even the surgeon managed to injure himself; half-dead from exhaustion, he badly cut his own hand during an amputation. This pushed still more responsibility onto Arabella while he healed.
The men’s hardships weighed heavily on Captain Singh. He became even more secretive—plainly working hard on his people’s behalf, but not sharing his plans with Arabella. She saw little of him during the day, and when she did he was sullen, silent, and moody. At night he slept poorly, tossing and turning so forcefully as to wake Arabella even on those nights when she used the bed and he the floor, and he ate so little she became concerned for his health.
Fox, on the other hand, was filled with manic energy. He did every thing he could to raise his people’s spirits, cutting capers on the dirt between the barracks and encouraging the men to tell stories and play card games. He even organized a performance of Macbeth in the barracks, with young Brindle playing the part of Lady Macbeth. In Marieville he raced hither and yon, concocting scheme after scheme to regain his fortune or help his people to escape. But to Arabella his schemes seemed desperate and implausible, and none of them came any where near fruition.
And then one day around thirteen in the morning, the cannon on the lawn below the manoir boomed out three times. “What is that?” Arabella asked Lady Corey, with whom she was sharing an extremely light collation—little more than weak tea and bread with the crusts cut off.
Lady Corey’s eyes widened in alarm. “It means an escape. That sound alerts every Frenchman and filthy native within earshot that three good Englishmen have escaped, and reminds them that there is a bounty of fifty livres upon each of their heads.”
“Oh dear,” Arabella said, setting her tea-cup down. Ravenous though she was, the news made her lose her appetite. “I wonder who they are?”
“No one we know, I hope.”
The two of them sat in silence, regarding each other with anguished expressions as the sounds of pursuit rose on every side.
* * *
Five hours later Arabella, engaged in negotiations with a stone-faced Venusian over a shipment of badly-needed fresh fruit, heard raucous cheers in the street without; immediately she rushed out to see what was the matter.
A mixed group of Frenchmen, French-uniformed Venusians, and Venusians in native costume cheered and grunted as they pulled a one-wheeled cart through the streets. On the cart, tightly bound to upright stakes, were three Englishmen—their clothing soiled and torn and bloodstained, their faces bruised, the expressions in the eyes above their gags weary and hopeless.
To her horror Arabella recognized them. One of them was Bates, the man she had comforted through the surgeon’s work when his legs had been burned. The other two were Touchstones; she did not recall their names, but each of them had been friendly and polite to her whenever she had encountered them during the journey to Venus.
Against her will Arabella was swept up in the crowd who poured from every shop and public house, following the cart up the path to the manoir. Shouts from behind drew her attention—prisoners from the barracks, pulled from their duties or rest, being herded along by their guards. No one, it seemed, would be allowed to miss what would follow.
Arriving at the manoir, the mob packed itself into the small area of lawn. The scene was even more crowded than on the day of Fouché’s arrival, and Arabella found herself crammed shoulder to shoulder with French-uniformed Venusians in a hot, shouting, sweating, seething mass. The stink was appalling.
Fouché appeared on the verandah, and the cheers became even more enthusiastic. He raised his hands for silence, which came slowly and unwillingly. “Français, Anglais, Vénusiens,” he proclaimed, “amis et ennemis!” French, English, and Venusians, she translated to herself; friends and enemies. Behold the escapees who have just been recaptured, he continued; see the fate which awaits those who oppose His Imperial Majesty!
The one-wheeled cart full of battered Englishmen was drawn up on the packed earth to one side of the manoir steps. The Venusians pulling it set up the stops which kept it upright, and quickly withdrew. Meanwhile, at the other side, Fouché’s personal platoon—their uniforms immaculate, their order impeccable—brought up the cannon which had, only a few hours earlier, sounded the alarm of the men’s escape. With brisk efficiency they began readying it for action, loading it with grape-shot.
“No!” Arabella cried,
realizing with terror what was about to occur. “Dear Lord, no!”
For her trouble she found herself seized by those around her. Clammy Venusian hands clamped her mouth shut; others gripped her head so that she could not look away.
She did what she could: she squeezed her eyes tight shut. But she could not close her ears.
“Armez!” came the command. “En joue! Feu!” The last word was nearly obliterated by a terrific boom, the screaming roar of grape-shot cutting through the air, and a great exclamation from the crowd—victorious cheers around her, cries of horror from behind.
She could not stop herself opening her eyes.
The men were not dead, not yet. But they were horribly maimed, writhing in pain against their bonds; hideous whines escaped their gagged mouths.
Blood spattered the manoir’s whitewashed clapboards, twenty feet away.
A great roaring filled Arabella’s ears, and she fell unconscious.
* * *
No further escapes were attempted after that horrific display. All the prisoners seemed cowed, and focused their efforts on meeting the increasingly unreasonable demands placed upon them for more and more work. Even Fox became uncharacteristically subdued.
Captain Singh, for his part, seethed with silent rage. He became even more taciturn, but he carried himself rigidly upright and his eyes burned with intensity. He vanished more often and for longer periods, and refused to share his secrets with Arabella. “It is for your own good” was all that he would say. In response to this her inward sentiments roiled—torn between vexation at his reticence, respect for his devotion to the men, and loving concern for his health.
Whenever Arabella caught sight of her own face, reflected in one of the rare glass windows or a polished knife, it seemed a stranger’s—thin and wan and pinched, and horribly downcast. These moments were sobering, and served as reminders that, as Lady Corey repeatedly reminded her, her role as captain’s wife included the pretense of calm optimism. Whenever she noticed herself stooping or her brow furrowing—which was very often—she strove to pull her shoulders back and her face into a semblance of composure. As Lady Corey had promised it would, she found that the posture of assurance, even deliberately simulated, served to instill the genuine feeling in her breast.
The great lady herself seemed to glide though life, maintaining her habits of tea, cards, and regular strolls. But even she, Arabella noticed, had dark circles beneath her eyes, and Arabella strongly suspected she was not nearly as composed as she seemed. Nonetheless, her appearance of calm was reassuring to Arabella, and she strove to do the same.
* * *
One day Arabella arrived at the manoir to take tea with Lady Corey—tea, by this time, meaning literally tea and nothing else, and weak tea at that—and was surprised to find the great lady dressed for a walk in the woods and quivering with excited agitation. “I have discovered some edible mushrooms,” she said. “You simply must join me in collecting them.”
The prospect of this addition to their bland, repetitive diet was, indeed, attractive; even so, Arabella thought Lady Corey’s enthusiasm somewhat excessive. “Of course,” she said, and accepted the proffered basket and Lady Corey’s arm.
She was surprised to find that arm trembling.
“It is this way,” Lady Corey said, and stepped off with uncharacteristic vigor, nodding to the door guards as they passed.
They walked in silence—a most atypical silence—into the surrounding woods, until well out of sight of the manoir. At this point Lady Corey stopped, peered all about, then turned and took both of Arabella’s hands. “I have, in fact, discovered a patch of mushrooms,” she said, “but that is not the real reason I asked you on this walk.”
“I suspected as much.”
They linked arms again and proceeded down the path. “I have been working my way into the good graces of Fulton, the American,” she said in a low conversational tone. “It seemed to me from the deference given him by the senior French officers, especially Fouché, that his role here is far more significant than it seems—not only overseeing the technical operations of the iron plantation, which is his nominal position, but something else, even more important. And, by dint of … feigned interest in his person, shall we say, I have determined what that is.”
Again they stopped, and again Lady Corey looked in every direction. “It is a secret weapon,” she whispered.
“What sort of weapon?”
Lady Corey shook her head. “I do not know exactly. It is called”—she closed her eyes and concentrated—“une navver arian qui razze.”
“That would be … a something something that shaves?”
Lady Corey’s lips pinched together. “No, that is not quite right. Let me try again. Un naveer arian qui rassay.”
Arabella employed a tactic which had often proved useful in comprehending foreign languages—she “unfocused her ears” and tried to let the sounds wash over her mind uninterpreted. “Un navire arianne quirassée,” she muttered to herself, trying to translate Lady Corey’s butchered French into the original … and then something seemed to click. “Un navire aérienne! An aerial ship! But what does quirassée mean?”
“I do not know. But Fulton seems to believe it will make Napoleon absolutely invincible.”
“Quirassée, quirassée…” Arabella repeated … and again there came a mental click, like a locket snapping shut. “Cuirassée!” The word seemed familiar from her reading … she had encountered it in stories of the knights of old. “The word cuirass is found in English as well. It is … it is a piece of armor, one which protects the torso.” She blinked. “Un navire aérienne cuirassée would be an armored airship.” The vision that leapt into her head then—an aerial ship of the line, clad from stem to stern in shining steel—brought a chill to the back of her neck. “It would be completely immune to cannon-fire.”
Lady Corey positively blanched. “But could such a thing fly?”
“You said that Fulton is extremely clever.”
“He certainly believes himself to be.”
“Well then, perhaps he has found a way to make it fly … or, at the very least, he has convinced Napoleon that he has.” Even as she spoke, further pieces of information clicked into place. “To the extent of setting up this entire iron plantation to produce the vast quantities of iron needed to build it!”
“This could win Napoleon the war,” Lady Corey said, aghast.
In Arabella’s mind, a fleet of armored vessels descended on London, the cannon-balls of the defenders bouncing off their hulls like sand from a shurosh’s carapace. “Worse than that. He could dominate Europe … the world! All the worlds!”
The two women looked at each other in silent horror for a time. “We should at least make a pretense of hunting mushrooms,” Lady Corey said at last. “But then you must inform Captain Singh.”
“Indeed,” Arabella replied, and together they set off down the path again.
Again they walked in silence. But this time the silence was charged with anxious thought.
* * *
Arabella did not see Captain Singh again until supper, and even then there was no opportunity to share her information with him privately. She vibrated with agitated tension for hour upon hour, but he was constantly in hushed conference with one officer or another. Finally, when they were just about to go up to bed, she could contain herself no longer. “The heat to-day has been simply appalling,” she announced. “I must take the evening air for a bit, or I will never be able to sleep.” She put out her arm to Captain Singh. “Will you accompany me, husband?”
At first she feared he would not take the hint. But the slight stress she placed on that last word served its purpose, and after a moment’s consideration he inclined his head, muttered “Of course,” and excused himself from the table.
They passed through the gate—the guards there barely glancing at their papers—and strolled through the gathering darkness for a time, talking of inconsequentialities. When Arabella was cer
tain they were well beyond the guards’ hearing, she said, “I have news from Lady Corey.”
In response he merely nodded very slightly, continuing his measured pace.
She shared what Lady Corey had learned, and her own speculations about what it implied. To her surprise, he took the information in stride—it seemed that this intelligence was not news to him. Instead of expressing any amazement at the concept of an armored aerial ship, he immediately pressed her for details—how many tonnes displacement, number of masts, crew complement, and most especially how such a massive vessel was to be launched.
She did not, of course, have answers to any of these questions. But the matter-of-fact way in which he had accepted her intelligence, and the entitled manner with which he questioned her for more, caused a resentment which had been simmering in her breast for many weeks to come to a full rolling boil.
“I shall not,” she said, coming to a sudden halt upon the path, “divulge any further information unless you reciprocate.”
The pale light of the dim, setting sun reflected in his dark eyes, creating two sparks of light which vanished briefly as he blinked in astonishment at her outburst. “How do you mean?”
“I know that I am not truly your wife,” she replied, warming to her topic. “But I am your fiancée, and I had thought that we meant a great deal to each other. Yet ever since my arrival at Venus, you have treated me with distant formality. You do not take me into your confidences, you keep secrets from me, you make plans and rendezvous without even informing me who is involved.” She crossed her arms upon her chest. “I shall not put up with this behavior any further. If you desire my cooperation, you must treat me as a full partner in this enterprise. I have come all the way from Mars to Venus out of love for you, and I deserve no less.”
Despite her brave words, it was all she could do to keep her voice from quavering. For her anger at the way she had been treated was nearly equaled by the fear that her outburst would drive him away for ever—and that was a thing she did not desire in the slightest.
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