Arabella and the Battle of Venus

by David D. Levine

  “Could it lift even more,” Arabella cried, excited, “if it were heated?”

  Captain Singh smiled indulgently. “Perhaps, but recall that hydrogen is highly inflammable. Any attempt to heat it would be very likely to result in disaster.” He shook his head. “The use of hydrogen for aerial ascent has been known to aeronauts for decades; in fact, the French made use of it as early as 1783. But even the French very quickly realized that the danger of fire or explosion with hydrogen was so great—even without heating it—that no sane airman would even consider it.”

  Arabella paced the short length of the chamber’s open floor, thinking rapidly. “But that risk of fire or explosion could be eliminated if the airship carried no cook-stoves or lanterns.”

  “Reduced, never eliminated. And a ship of war must, inevitably, carry cannon and other sources of combustion.”

  “But consider this: a ship lifted by hydrogen rather than hot air would require no launch-furnaces, nor coal-stores for landing. She could launch and land at will, any where at all. And she could float in the planetary atmosphere for ever, if desired, with no concern for her envelopes cooling. Napoleon might consider those advantages worth the risk of fire.”

  Captain Singh nodded slowly. “Indeed, if he were desperate enough. And hydrogen’s much greater lifting power would be valuable—nay, indispensable—in overcoming an armored ship’s great weight.”

  Arabella felt her eyes widening in shock then, as the implications of the captain’s words and her own suddenly became clear. “If Victoire is indeed lifted by hydrogen … she will never be equipped with lanterns or cook-stoves, and she requires no launch-furnaces! She could launch to-morrow!”

  The two of them looked at each other, the expression of dismay upon the captain’s face matching the one Arabella felt upon her own.

  They must escape, and immediately, to bring word of Victoire to England before the indestructible airship could be launched.

  But with Napoleon, and all of Fouché’s crack troops, attending the play, how could they possibly escape now?

  * * *

  After considering this thorny problem, and utterly failing to find a solution, Arabella and the captain agreed that the time had come to expand the conspiracy.

  They had known that this time was coming. Even though, for the sake of keeping the plan a secret, they had decided not to inform the crews of the escape plan until nearly the moment it sprang into action, they had known that they would need a set of trusted partners to help spread the word when that moment came. But now, when a pivotal aspect of the scheme had been compromised and the urgency of its execution was the greatest, those trusted partners—Stross, Richardson, Liddon, Gowse, Faunt, Young, Brindle, and the little midshipman Watson—were the ones who might possibly be able to devise some means to salvage the plan. And Fox, of course, who had been excluded from this current conference only as a matter of propriety.

  One of their planned partners, though, was now very much open to question. “Lady Corey will never trust me again,” Arabella sighed. “I am certain she understands I ruined her assassination plan deliberately; even if she believes it was an accident—and she is far too smart and observant for that to be the case—she will still be furious with me for spoiling her opportunity with my clumsiness. Not to mention the destruction of her dress.” She gestured at her own dress, the fine smooth silk still gleaming white.

  “I will approach her, then,” said the captain. “We can no longer exclude her from our plans; if nothing else, we are obligated not to leave her behind when we escape. The consequences to her, as a presumed conspirator, would be severe.”

  “Indeed,” Arabella sighed miserably. “I hope that you can persuade her to come along, despite the grievous harm I have done her.”

  “I am certain she will understand.”

  Arabella was far less sanguine on that matter. “Even if she does, I fear the whole attempt will go for naught. With Napoleon, Fouché, and all Fouché’s men at the performance, it becomes the very opposite of the distraction we had planned. We will have to find some other way to gather the people together, away from the majority of the guards, and very soon.”

  The captain’s face displayed his pessimism as to the possibility, but his voice was reassuring. “We will find a way,” he said. He paused for a moment, then spoke again. “In the meantime, I have a special request of you. It may be a thing you do not wish to provide, but I assure you it is of the utmost importance to our escape.”

  “You know that I will do any thing I can to benefit the escape.”

  Captain Singh nodded his thanks. “It concerns your dress.” Again he hesitated. “I wish to requisition it.”

  Arabella laughed aloud. “By all means!” Though the gown was exceptionally fine—the fabric was lighter and yet tighter than the best balloon envelope—it was freighted with unpleasant memories and she really had no desire ever to see it again. “You may do with the wretched thing whatever you wish.”

  * * *

  After Arabella had changed into her ordinary clothes, she and Captain Singh returned to the auberge’s sitting-room. Fox, Stross, Richardson, Liddon, and Watson were still present, having been among the group who had gathered that afternoon out of concern for the missing Arabella. Arabella and Captains Singh and Fox pulled the other trusted officers together in a quiet corner and, after bribing the hotelier Gugnawunna with some of Arabella’s last few gold livres to insure privacy, quickly conveyed to them in quiet voices the key elements of the escape plan.

  As Arabella had expected, Liddon and Stross were cautiously optimistic, Watson displayed the enthusiasm of youth, and Richardson was doubtful of the scheme’s chances of success but willing to follow his commander’s orders.

  “So,” Captain Singh said, “do we all know our parts?”

  All the men nodded their assent, except little Watson. “What am I to do, sir?” he piped.

  “I have a special assignment for you,” Captain Singh said, “which I will convey to you privately.” He looked around at the others. “Now … do any of you have any thoughts on how we might best escape the much heavier than anticipated guard, given the presence of Napoleon at the performance?”

  The officers exchanged glances, but none of them spoke up. Finally Watson tentatively raised his hand. “We might ask the people to wait until Napoleon and his entourage have departed, then make their escape?”

  Captain Singh shook his head. “The presence of so many prisoners loitering after the performance would surely arouse suspicion.”

  “Oh.”

  “Could we bribe the soldiers to let us go?” asked Stross.

  “Our finances have been nearly exhausted by the preparations for escape,” Arabella said. “Though Lefevre is certainly susceptible to bribery, now that Napoleon will be in attendance I fear that his price for such a significant service is well beyond our means.”

  “I see,” said Stross.

  The uncomfortable silence stretched out, to the extent that Arabella was nearly ready to concede that they would have no choice but to attempt to escape from beneath the very noses of Fouché’s best soldiers. But then she noticed Fox and Liddon casting significant glances at each other. “Have you any thing to contribute, sirs?” she asked them.

  The two men looked at each other, and Liddon nodded fractionally. “We might,” said Fox. “We just might. But we must consult with the rest of the Touchstones before we can say.”

  After another long silence, Captain Singh said, “Well then, gentlemen, I suppose we are as prepared as we are likely to be for the moment.” He folded his hands. “The performance is in three days, and every one knows their part.”

  “May Providence smile upon us all,” said Richardson.

  “Break a leg,” said Fox.

  * * *

  The following days passed in a blur. With Singh, Fox, and most of the officers now fully engaged in escape planning, responsibility for the play itself fell almost entirely upon Arabella. She called t
ogether as many rehearsals as she could manage, but that was fewer than they needed, and when the cast and musicians did meet they inevitably wound up with so many interruptions and repeats of the material that they never made it all the way through to the final act. Arabella herself, stage-managing the production as well as playing the part of Viola, was constantly forgetting her own lines; some of the musicians could barely carry a tune; and little Watson, playing Olivia’s gentlewoman Maria, kept tripping on his dress.

  “Act well your part,” Fox said to her at the end of yet another incomplete rehearsal. “There all the honor lies.”

  “I suppose it will have to do,” she sighed. She glanced around; finding the two of them momentarily well away from any one else, she muttered, “We may be the first theatrical company in history for whom the presence of an emperor and his empress in the premiere audience is the least worrisome thing about the performance.”

  Fox too looked around, then replied in an even lower voice, “Patience, Mrs. Singh. I believe I am very nearly ready to reveal a solution to our most pressing problem. Just two more signatures are required.”

  “Oh?” Arabella replied, raising an eyebrow, but Fox refused absolutely to say any thing more about the matter.

  Captain Singh came up to them then, and after a brief inconsequential conversation Fox bid them a polite farewell.

  After Fox departed, the captain spoke quietly. “I have met with Lady Corey and carefully sounded her depths.” Arabella looked to where the great lady stood at the other side of the room, going over her lines with Watson. Though she had continued to participate in rehearsals, her relations with Arabella had become entirely formal; they had barely exchanged a single word, other than their scripted lines, since the disastrous dinner with Napoleon. “Though she is, as you suspected,” the captain continued, “extremely upset with you for ruining her dress, she did not know that you deliberately disrupted her assassination attempt—which was entirely unpremeditated and opportunistic, by the way; she would not even have considered it had her knife not happened to be left behind when the fish course was cleared away. In fact, I believe she now considers your spilling of the soup as a fortunate accident, and that if she had actually carried through with her attempt she would very likely have failed, and wound up imprisoned or dead. So she has agreed to join our conspiracy, and I expect that you will return to her favor sooner rather than later.”

  “That is very reassuring news.”

  * * *

  Monday morning came—one day before the performance—and all was in readiness, or very nearly so. All save one very important detail: how the escapees would evade Fouché’s numerous, disciplined, and loyal troops.

  So far they had no plan other than to dash en masse to the swamps the moment the curtain closed after the players’ final bow, counting on surprise and numbers to permit a substantial fraction of the men to escape. But every one knew that many would be captured or killed, and they all still held out hope that some other solution could be found.

  Captain Singh had cautiously probed at Lefevre, in the hopes that his dislike toward Fouché might be fanned into a flame of outright rebellion. But even Lefevre was afraid of Fouché. “Not for five thousand livres would I oppose that man,” he had said. “Not even for ten thousand. Now, if you had twenty thousand … ah, but you do not have twenty thousand, do you?”

  After roll-call that morning, Arabella and Captain Singh were just leaving the square—quietly and worriedly discussing whether the number of airmen who would survive and reach Diana would be sufficient to capture, fly, and fight her—when Fox, Liddon, Gowse, and several of the other principal Touchstones approached them as a party. Their mien was serious, but they seemed determined rather than concerned. “A word, if you would,” said Fox. “It is a matter of some urgency.”

  They adjourned to the back room of Fox’s club, with several Touchstones standing guard outside to ensure complete privacy. Once they were seated, Fox reached into a pocket in the tail of his jacket—a hidden pocket, carefully shut with three buttons—and pulled out a thick sheaf of rather battered papers. “Please know that this is not offered lightly. This is a great sacrifice, but after much discussion we have all agreed that there is no alternative.” He handed the sheaf to Captain Singh.

  Even upside down, Arabella recognized it. It was the “plunder contract” Fox had signed with the captain of the Fleur de Lys—a promise from the captured ship’s owners to pay Fox for her release and safe passage. Arabella’s mind began to whirl at the implications.

  Captain Singh gave Fox a puzzled look, then turned his attention to the papers. He skimmed quickly through the sheaf—it was in two parts, the second being a French translation of the first—until he came to the last page, a hand-written addendum legally conveying the document, and the money which it promised, to Capitaine Lefevre. It carried several signatures—Fox’s being the first, largest, and most ornate—and dozens of X’s with names printed beneath, clearly representing the entire officer corps and crew of Touchstone, jointly and severally pledging their shares of the plunder.

  “Thirty thousand livres,” Captain Singh said in a wondering tone.

  “We actually negotiated forty-five thousand,” Fox admitted, “but the other fifteen were provided as cash in advance. Which was, of course, captured along with the ship. Fortunately, I was able to retain the contract.” He patted the tail of his coat.

  A coat which, Arabella recalled, Fox had offered to her to shield herself from the downpour as they had walked from the port to Marieville. No wonder the contract seemed battered. It was very fortunate that it was still even legible!

  At that moment her estimation of Fox’s bravery, intelligence, discretion, generosity, and selflessness was raised a hundred fold. “My dear Captain Fox!” she cried, clasping her hands on her breast. Her eyes filled with tears. She wanted desperately to kiss him. “Thank you so much!”

  “Indeed,” said Captain Singh, clasping the other captain’s hand warmly. “My most heartfelt thanks to you and your entire crew seem entirely inadequate.”

  “It is nothing that any loyal Englishman would not do,” Fox replied modestly. “Besides, we hope that His Majesty will compensate us for our sacrifice … should we survive.”

  “Indeed,” Captain Singh repeated, this time far more soberly. He looked around at the assembled Touchstones. “And I have every expectation that this donation will markedly improve our chances of doing so. I shall approach Lefevre immediately.”

  “Best of luck,” said Fox.

  “To all of us,” Arabella added.

  Captain Singh nodded his thanks for the sentiment. “But whatever happens, by to-morrow evening we shall be quit of this place … one way or another.”

  20

  PLACES, PLEASE

  On the morning of the performance Arabella woke long before the gray and muggy dawn. Perspiring upon the bed in the already-unbearable morning heat, with Captain Singh breathing gently in the chair and snores coming from the other side of the curtain, she lay with her mind racing. What would the day bring?

  Eventually the sky outside the window brightened, to the extent it ever did, and Captain Singh roused himself. From the dark circles beneath his eyes she realized that he had lain as sleepless as she, though they had both pretended otherwise. For a longing moment she wished that they had spent that time in something other than fruitless worry, but the opportunity had passed, and all she said was “Good morning.” They washed and dressed in anxious silence, then descended to breakfast.

  When the bell rang for roll-call, Arabella noticed that her breakfast, small and poor though it might be, was still only half-eaten. She sighed and began to rise from her place, taking a scrawny bread roll from her plate to eat on the way to the square. But before she could reach her feet, Captain Singh—still seated—stopped her with a touch on her wrist. “Stay a while,” he said, “and enjoy your tea.”

  She looked down at her tea-cup. The fluid within—which looked and t
asted like nothing other than warm, filthy water—was scarcely something she could enjoy. But Richardson and Stross, she noted, were also not moving from their places.

  Suddenly she understood, and sat down again.

  The other officers all finished their breakfasts, stood up from their chairs, and departed for roll-call. Several of them looked askance at Arabella’s table as they left, but said nothing. A few, puzzled, asked why the Dianas remained at their table, queries which Singh waved off with some vague comment. Even the Venusian servants seemed perplexed, and stood indecisively in the kitchen door, uncertain whether to begin clearing the tables or not.

  Eventually Arabella, Stross, Richardson, and Singh were the only ones in the room. They sat silently at their table, occasionally picking at the remains of their breakfasts.

  Half an hour passed before the sound of boots in the hall announced the arrival of four French soldiers. “You have missed appel,” said their leader.

  “We overslept,” Captain Singh replied mildly, buttering a piece of stale toast, “due to a late rehearsal last night.” There had been no such rehearsal.

  “This is a serious infraction,” the soldier continued. “You do realize this will cause your parole to be revoked.”

  “Oh dear.” He took a bite of the toast. “What a terrible hardship. Still, you do know that we are presenting a performance of Twelfth Night this evening, to an audience including Commandant Fouché, His Imperial Majesty Napoleon, and Empress Marie Louise. Given the importance of this occasion, may we request leave to perform as planned?”

  “This is … this is quite irregular,” the soldier stammered. “I must consult with Lefevre.”

  “Please do. I am certain he will acquiesce.”

  The soldiers looked at each other, quite baffled by the Englishmen’s behavior. Finally, with an expressive Gallic shrug, the leader departed, taking his men with him.

  “Well,” Richardson said, “we’re in it now.”

  Captain Singh set down his toast, missing only that single bite, and wiped his mouth. “Come, gentlemen,” he said. “We have a play to perform.”