And he explored his own body with that doodlebug, and the bodies of the other prisoners, trying to find what it was that Alvin saw, trying to see deep. He experimented a little on the other prisoners’ bodies, too, making changes in their legs the way he’d have to change Bonaparte’s leg. Not that any of them had gout, of course—that was a rich man’s disease, and nobody in prison was rich, even if they had money on the outside. Still, he could get a mental chart of what a more-or-less healthy leg looked like, on the inside. Get some idea of what he needed to do to get the Emperor’s leg back in good shape.
Truth to tell, though, he didn’t understand much more about legs after a week of this than he did at the beginning.
A week. A week and a half. Every day, more and more often, he’d walk to the wall, squat down, and put his fingers into those finger holes. He’d pull the stone a little bit, or maybe sometimes more, and once or twice all the way out of the wall, wanting to slide through the hole and walk away to freedom. Always, after a little thought, he put it back. But it took more thought every day. And the longing to be gone got stronger and stronger.
It was a blame fool plan anyway, like all his plans, when you came right down to it. Calvin was a fool to think they’d let some unknown American boy have access to the Emperor.
He had the stone out of the wall for what he thought might well be the last time, when he heard the steps in the corridor. Nobody ever came along here this late at night! No time to get the stone back in place, either. So... was it go, or stay? They’d see the stone out of the wall no matter what he did. So did he want to face the consequences, which might include seeing the Emperor, but might just as easy mean facing the guillotine; or did he duck through the hole and get out into the street before they got the door open?
Little Napoleon grumbled to himself. All these days, the Emperor could have asked about the American healer any time. But no, it had to be in the middle of the night, it had to be tonight, when Little Napoleon had reserved the best box for the opening of a new opera by some Italian, what’s-his-name. He wanted to tell the Emperor that tonight was not convenient, he should find another toady to do his bidding. But then the Emperor smiled at him and suggested that he had others who could do such a menial job, and he shouldn’t waste his nephew’s time on such unimportant matters... and what could Little Napoleon do? He couldn’t let the Emperor realize that he could be replaced by some flunky. No, he insisted. No, Uncle, I’ll go myself, it’ll be my pleasure.
“I just hope he can do what you promised,” Bonaparte said.
The bastard was playing with him, that was the truth. He knew as well as Little Napoleon did that there was no promise of anything, just a report. But if it pleased the Emperor to make his nephew sweat with fear that maybe he’d be made a fool of, well, Emperors were allowed to toy with other people’s feelings.
The guard made a great noise about marching down the stone corridor and fumbling a long time with the keys.
“What, fool, are you giving the prisoner time to stop digging his tunnel and hide the evidence?”
“There be no tunnels from this floor, my lord,” the turnkey said.
“I know that, fool. But what’s all the fumble with the keys?”
“Most of them are new, my lord, and I don’t recognize which one opens which door, not as easy as I used to.”
“Then get the old keys and don’t waste my time!”
“The old keys been stripped, or the locks was broken, my lord. It’s been crazy, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Little Napoleon grumpily. But he did, really—he had heard something about some sabotage or some kind of rare lock rust or something in the Bastille.
The key finally slid into the lock, and the door creaked open. The turnkey stepped in and shone his lantern about, to make sure the prisoner was in his place and not poised to jump him and take the keys. No, this one, the American boy, he was sitting far from the door, leaning against the opposite wall.
Sitting on what? The turnkey took a step or two closer, held the lantern higher.
“Mon dieu,” murmured Little Napoleon.
The American was sitting on a large stone block from the wall, with a gap that led right out to the street. No man could have lifted such a block out of the wall with his bare hands—how could he even get hold of it? But having moved it somehow, what did this American fool do but sit down and wait! Why didn’t he escape?
The American grinned at him, then stood up, still smiling, still looking at Little Napoleon—and then plunged his hands into the stone right up to his elbows, as easy as if the stone had been a water basin.
The turnkey screeched and ran for the door.
The American pulled his hands back out of the stone—except that one of them was in a fist now. He held out the stone to Little Napoleon, who took it, hefted it. It was stone, as hard as ever—but it was shaped with the print of the inside of a man’s palms and fingers. Somehow this fellow could reach into solid rock and grab a lump of stone as if it were clay.
Little Napoleon reached into his memory and pulled out some English from his days in school. “What are your name?” he asked.
“Calvin Maker,” said the American.
“Speak you the French?”
“Not a word,” said Calvin Maker.
“Go avec me,” said Little Napoleon. “Avec...”
“With,” said the boy helpfully. “Go with you.”
“Oui. Yes.”
The Emperor had finally asked for the boy. But now Little Napoleon had serious misgivings. There was nothing about the healing of beggars to suggest the boy might have power over solid stone. What if this Calvin Maker did something to embarrass him? What if—it was beyond imagining, but he had to imagine it—what if he killed Uncle Napoleon?
But the Emperor had asked for him. There was no undoing that. What was he going to do, go tell Uncle that the boy he’d brought to heal his gout just might decide to plunge his hands into the floor and pull up a lump of marble and brain him with it? That would be political suicide. He’d be living on Corsica tending sheep in no time. If he didn’t get to watch the world tumble head over heels as his head rolled down into the basket from the guillotine.
“Go go go,” said Little Napoleon. “Wiss me.”
The turnkey was huddled in a far corner of the corridor. Little Napoleon aimed a kick in his direction. The man was so far gone that he didn’t even dodge. The kick landed squarely, and with a whimper the turnkey rolled over like a cabbage.
The American boy laughed out loud. Little Napoleon didn’t like his laugh. He toyed with the idea of drawing his knife and killing the boy on the spot. But the explanation to the Emperor would be dangerous. “So you tried for weeks to get me to see him, and he was an assassin all along?” No, whatever happened, the American would see the Emperor.
Calvin Maker would see Napoleon Bonaparte... while Little Napoleon would see if God would Answer a most fervent prayer.
Chapter 12 -- Lawyers
“You know the miller’s boy, Alvin, is in jail up in Hatrack River.” The stranger leaned on the counter and smiled.
“I reckon we heard about it,” said Armor-of-God Weaver.
“I’m here to help get the truth about Alvin, so the jury can make the right judgment up in Hatrack. They don’t know Alvin as well as folks around here are bound to. I just need to get some affidavits about his character.” The stranger smiled again.
Armor-of-God nodded. “I reckon this is the place for affidavits, if the truth about Alvin is what you’re after.”
“That I am. I take it you know the young man yourself?”
“Well enough.” Armor-of-God figured if he was going to find out what this fellow was doing, it was best not to say he was married to Alvin’s sister. “But I reckon, you don’t know what you’re getting into up here, friend. You’ll get more than the affidavits you’re after.”
“Oh, I’ve heard tell about the massacre at Tippy-Canoe, and t
he curse that folks here are under. I’m a lawyer. I’m used to hearing grim stories from people I’m defending.”
“Defending, eh?” asked Armor. “You a lawyer as defends people, is that it?”
“That’s what I’m best known for, in my home in Carthage City.”
Armor nodded again. He might live in Carthage City now, but his accent said New England. And he might try some folksy talk, but it was a lawyer’s version of it, to put folks off guard. This man could talk like the Bible if he wanted to. He could talk like Milton. But Armor didn’t let on that he didn’t trust the man. Not yet. “So when folks here tell you how they slaughtered Reds what never done nobody no harm, you can hear that without batting an eye, is that it?”
“I can’t guarantee I won’t do any eye-batting, Mr. Weaver. But I’ll listen, and when it’s done, I’ll get on with the business that brought me here.”
Now it’s time. “And what business is that?” asked Armor.
The man blinked. Already batting an eye, thought Armor. That was right quick.
“I told you, Mr. Weaver. Getting affidavits about Alvin the miller’s son.”
“In order to tell people in Hatrack River about his true character, I remember. The thing is, out of the last eight years, Alvin spent seven in Hatrack, and only one here in Vigor Church. We knowed him as a child, you bet, but lately I’d say it’s the people of Hatrack River as knows him best. So the way I see it, you’re here to get a picture of Alvin that folks in Hatrack don’t know. And the only reason for that is because you need to change their point of view about the boy. And since I know for a fact that Alvin is respected in Hatrack, you can only be here to try to dig up some dirt on the boy in order to do him harm. Have I just about got it? Friend?”
The lawyer’s sudden lack of a cheerful smile was all the confirmation Armor needed. “Dirt is the farthest thing from my mind, Mr. Weaver. I come here with an open mind.”
“An open mind, and free talk about how you defend people and all so as to make folks think you’re on Alvin’s side, instead of being hired to do your best to destroy folks’ good opinion of him. So I reckon the fact that you’re here means that Alvin’s friends better get somebody else to go around collecting affidavits in his favor, since you won’t be satisfied until you dig up some lies.”
The man stiffened and stepped back. “I see that you’re rather a partisan about the matter. I hope you can tell me what I said to give offense.”
“Why, the only offense you gave was thinking that because I’m not a lawyer I must be dumb as a dog’s butt.”
“Well, no matter what conclusion you have reached, I assure you that as an officer of the court I seek nothing more than the simple truth.”
“Officer of the court, is it? Well, I happen to know that all lawyers is called officers of the court. Even when they’re hired by a private party to do mischief, because you sure as God lives wasn’t hired by the county attorney down in Hatrack, because he would’ve give you a letter of introduction and you wouldn’t have tried none of these pussyfooting prevaricating misrepresenting shenanigans.”
The stranger put his hat back on his head and pushed it down right firm. Armor suppressed the impulse to reach out and push it down still firmer. As the stranger reached the door, Armor called out one last question. “Do you have a name, so we can inquire with the state bar association about any outstanding actions against you?”
The lawyer turned and smiled, even broader than when he was trying to fool Armor. “My name is Daniel Webster, Mr. Weaver, and my client is truth and justice.”
“Truth and justice must pay a damn sight better in New England than it does out here,” said Armor. “You are from New England, aren’t you?”
“I was born there, and raised there, but saw no future for myself in that benighted backward place. So I came to the United States, where the laws are founded on the rights of man instead of the dynastic claims of monarchs or the worn-out theology of Puritans.”
“Ah. So nobody’s paying you?”
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Weaver.”
“Who’s paying you, then? Ain’t the county, and it ain’t the state. And it sure can’t be Makepeace Smith, since he’s got him hardly four bits to rub together.”
“I’m representing a consortium of concerned citizens of Carthage City, who are determined to see that justice prevails even in the benighted backwaters of the state of Hio.”
“A consortium. That anything like a public house? Or a brothel?”
“How amusing.”
“Name me a name, Mr. Webster. I happen to be mayor of this town, such as it is, and you’re here practicing law, after a fashion, and I think I have a right to know who’s sending lawyers up here to collect lies about our respected citizens.”
“Do you own a gun of any kind, Mr. Weaver?”
“I do, friend.”
“Then why should I reveal the names of my clients to an armed and angry man of a town that is so proud of being a nest of murderers that they brag out the whole story to any unfortunate visitor who happens by? Also, mayors have no right to inquire about anything from an attorney about his relations with his clients. Good day, Mr. Weaver.”
Armor watched the Webster fellow out the door, then put on his hat, called out to his oldest boy to leave off soapmaking and watch the store, and took off at a jog up and over the hill to his in-laws’ house. His wife would be there, since she was the best of the women at doing Alvin’s Makery stuff and so was in much demand as a teacher and a fashioner of—much as Armor hated it—hexes. The family needed to know what was going on, that Alvin had enemies from the capital who were spending money on a lawyer to come dig up dirt about the boy. There was no way around it now—they had to get them a lawyer for Alvin, somehow. And not no country cousin, either. It had to be a city lawyer who knew all the same tricks as this Webster fellow. Armor vaguely remembered having heard of this man somewhere. He was spoke of with awe in some circles, and having talked to him and heard his golden voice and his quick answers and the way he made a lie sound like the natural truth even to someone who knew it was deception, well, Armor knew it would take some finding to get them a lawyer who could best him. And finding was going to be complicated by another problem—paying.
Calvin had no idea what he was supposed to do upon meeting the Emperor. The man’s title was a throwback to ancient Rome, to Persia, to Babylon. But there he sat in a straight-back chair instead of a throne, his leg up on a cushioned bench; and instead of courtiers there were only secretaries, each scribbling away on a writing desk until an order or letter or edict was finished, then leaping to his feet and rushing from the room as the next secretary began to scribble furiously as Bonaparte dictated in a continuous stream of biting, lilting, almost Italian-sounding French.
As the dictation proceeded, Calvin, with guards on either side of him (as if that could stop him from making the floor collapse under the Emperor if he felt like it), watched silently. Of course they did not invite him to sit down; even Little Napoleon, the Emperor’s nephew, remained standing. Only the secretaries could sit, it seemed, for it was hard to imagine how they could write without a lap.
At first Calvin simply took in the surroundings; then he studied the face of the Emperor, as if that slightly pained expression contained some secret which, if only examined long enough, would yield the secrets of the sphinx. But soon Calvin attention drifted to the leg. It was the gout that he had to cure, if he was to make any headway. And Calvin had no idea what caused the gout or even how to figure it out. That was Alvin’s province.
For a moment it occurred to Calvin that maybe he ought to beg permission to write to his brother so he could get Alvin over here to cure the Emperor and win Calvin’s freedom. But he immediately despised himself for the cowardly thought. Am I a Maker or not? And if a Maker, then Alvin’s equal. And if Alvin’s equal, why should I summon him to bail me out of a situation which, for all I know right now, might need no bailing?
He sent his
doodling bug into Napoleon’s leg.
It wasn’t the sort of swelling that Calvin was used to in the festering sores of beggars. He didn’t understand what the fluids were—not pus, that was certain—and he dared not simply make them flow back into the blood, for fear that they might be poisons that would kill the very man he came to learn from.
Besides, was it really in Calvin’s best interests to cure this man? Not that he knew how to do it—but he wasn’t sure he really ought to try. What he needed was not the momentary gratitude of a cured man, but the continuing dependence of a sufferer who needed Calvin’s ministration for relief. Temporary relief.
And this was something Calvin did understand, to a point. He had learned long ago how to find the nerves in a dog or squirrel and give them a sort of tweak, an invisible pinch. Sometimes it set the animal to squealing and screeching till Calvin almost died from laughing. Other times the creature didn’t show pain, but limped along as if that pinched limb didn’t even exist. One time a perfectly healthy dog dragged around its hindquarters till its belly and legs were rubbed raw in the dirt and Father was all set to shoot the poor thing to put it out of its misery. Calvin took mercy on the beast then and unpinched the nerve so it could walk again, but after that it never did walk right, it sort of sidled, though whether that was from the pinch Calvin gave it or from the damaged caused by dragging its butt through the dirt for most of a week Calvin had no way to guess.
What mattered was that pinching of the nerve, to remove all feeling. Bonaparte might limp, but it would take away the pain. Relief, not a cure.
Which nerve? It wasn’t like Calvin had them all charted out. That sort of methodical thinking was Alvin’s game. In England, Calvin had realized that this was one of the crucial differences between him and his brother. There was a new word a fellow just coined at Cambridge for people who were ploddingly methodical like Alvin: scientist. While Calvin, with dash and flair and verve and, above all, the spirit of improvisation, he was an artist. Trouble was, when it came to getting at the nerves in Bonaparte’s leg, Calvin couldn’t very well experiment. He didn’t think a strong friendship would develop between the Emperor and him if it began with the Emperor squealing and screeching like a tortured squirrel.
ALVIN JOURNEYMAN Page 18
