Frankenstein's Legions (16 page)

‘Signal four aboard,’ ordered galloon-commander (and sole living soul aboard) Lieutenant Neave. ‘No obvious cargo. South-east by east. I will continue close pursuit.’

Play upon the lantern’s shutters sent flashes to convey those words. A code had been constructed so simple that even the Revived conscript couldn’t muck it up. Whatever ‘Lazaranisms’ the signaller inserted, His Majesty’s Navy would get the gist of it.

When he joined that honourable service straight from school, Lieutenant Neave envisaged something more romantic than hanging beneath a bag of gas pedalled into motion by the undead. However, his promotion board had strongly hinted the ‘Fleet Air Arm’ was the place to be for accelerated progress, and he’d swallowed the poisoned bait. That they’d failed to mention career advancement usually came as a result of some poor devil spiralling to the ground in flames still rankled with him. He’d been wet behind the ears then, not making any connection between the power of modern artillery and the fragility and flammability of the gasbags called galloons. He ought to have guessed though, if only from the practice of putting just one live man per craft. The balance of motive and bombing and reconnaissance power was entrusted to expendable Lazarans—and not even the choicest of those.

‘Oh, shut up!’

Neave wondered if he wasn’t really addressing himself and his gloomy thoughts, not the crew with their infernal, eternal moaning. He’d had ample opportunity to get used to that, even blank it out, by now. Ditto the stench of serum and that... cold-pork smell the really bargain basement Lazarans gave off. If so, talking to yourself was maybe just another symptom of spending so many hours in the air, alone (or effectively so). It gave a man too much time to think.

Like thinking of how he’d once dreamed of a posting to the Mediterranean Fleet, or the Far East, where great things were being achieved in India, so it was said. There an enterprising officer with access to Lazaran troops could acquire a private empire amongst the native Hindoos and Mohammedhans who foolishly scrupled to raise such soldiery. Not to mention a harem of exotic houris. Far better company than clouds...

Mind you, his frustration had moderated somewhat when the great Lord Nelson was revived and given the Home Blockade Fleet command. Neave had to grant there was honour and stories for your grandchildren in serving under him, in whatever capacity.

At first some officers, especially the more pious, had grumbled about obeying a dead commander. About how there was no knowing where those orders really came from, and hinting it might be second-hand from the Devil himself. Then the all-clear came from Canterbury and put a stop to all that. Reassurance from the King and the Primate of the Anglican Church surely settled the matter. Leastways, that was how Lieutenant Neave silenced his misgivings on the subject.

Neave hadn’t met ‘Neo-Nelson’ yet; not even glimpsed him from afar, but he lived in hope of it. That prospect and having his own command at the tender age of twenty was surely enough for any man.

Well, that and a share of whatever prize-money was going. Which reminded him...

‘Drop,’ he ordered, and the sergeant Lazarans lashed their comrades till the even dullest got the message they should ease off their efforts. You couldn’t really hurt them but a whip still tickled…

Failing which, as last resort each pedalling bench was rigged up to deliver electrical impulses, powerful enough to kill a man or pain a Lazaran. Fortunately, they weren’t needed today. The Lieutenant was always sickened by the cooking fragrance their use produced.

The galloon dipped dramatically as gas was bled out, but all aboard were used to that. They weren’t the most robust or manoeuvrable of craft, nor their resurrected motive-power the finest tuned. It was a matter of judging your fall so that it didn’t turn into a plummet. Neave had seen that happen often enough in training to be wary of it ever after.

The outcome of the chase below was inevitable now and the cutter almost in firing range. Out of boredom and devilment Neave decided to curtail matters even more, and ‘chain of command’ be damned. The sooner it were done the sooner he could be done with present company.

There was also the tempting prospect of some righteous target practise. Though he bought brandy and tobacco from them like everyone else, Lieutenant Neave disliked smugglers as a breed. Unpatriotic types, evasive of naval service and taxes alike. Just like whores and lawyers they had their occasional uses, but that didn’t make them any less vermin...

Neave took up his carbine and cocked the special spark-minimising mechanism. Would the world much miss a smuggler or two, so long as at least one was taken to confess his crimes?  The Lieutenant consulted his conscience and decided ‘probably not.’

*  *  *

A consummate professional to the end, Mariner’s estimate proved spot on.

‘Ten minutes,’ he updated them, and even Julius had to concede it. The pursuing ship loomed large now and had hoisted visible signals which conceivably spelt out ‘stop,’ should you be in the know. Ominous activity at its bow could well be a fore-gun being readied for action.

Though Mariner had hoisted extra sail and heaved anything not nailed down overboard—even most of his passengers’ luggage—his main motivation now was in postponing the inevitable.

‘Can’t even hope for a straight hanging!’ he complained, though busy with hoisting what looked like pocket handkerchiefs as additional sprit-sails. ‘Coastal Blockade operates under Cinque Port laws!’

Julius wanted to sympathise, but lacked sufficient facts.

‘Which signifies what?’ he enquired, to pass the time.

‘The old way: cold and cruel,’ came Mariner’s reply. ‘No quick noose but staked out on the beach waiting for the tide…’

Even Ada, who should stand in least fear of that fate, shuddered. Though revival had put her beyond drowning her imagination functioned just as well as before.

It was not the nicest of pictures to conjure with as they sat there, just so much useless dead-weight, whilst Mariner cursed both Fate and them.

Therefore, the voice from above came almost as relief—after the initial shock.

Four heads traversed as one as they located the amplified sound. It came from a direction from which only seabirds should speak.

But seabirds don’t speak English (as far as is known). Nor make death threats.

‘Heave to or I fire!’ ordered Lieutenant Neave through his megaphone. A gun barrel levelled through the cupola side window proved and reinforced his point. ‘Lower sail and surrender!’

Till then their minds had merged the sound of the galloon with that of the waves, but now in beholding it they could separate the two. It had a gaseous hiss and Lazaran groan all of its own. Parchment faces peered incuriously at them from the few portholes.

Ordinarily, the Lion and Unicorn emblem on the craft’s side would have reassured, but no longer. Each in their own way, those aboard the fugitive skiff had put themselves beyond those beasts’ implied protection. In their persons they personified the very definition of ‘outlaw.’  Right now it felt cold and lonely in that zone. And wet too: the sea was getting up to match their stormy fortunes.

Perhaps by coincidence, or maybe miffed at being pipped at the post, the cutter now fired a warning shot. Perhaps. Its vibration ‘thwwwwm’ed by and split the air parallel to the skiff a mere two lengths off to port. Either the cutter’s gun crew were very sure of their skills or the ‘warning’ was of the killing kind.

Between not one but two devils and the deep blue sea, Mariner moved to obey. Cursing but compliant his hands headed for the sail ropes.

Julius neither judged nor condemned. Presumably, Mariner’s thinking ran along conventional ‘whilst there’s life there’s hope’ lines. The illogical optimism that rules most men said there might still be a few seconds of pleasure between now and when they shackled him to a foreshore for death by slow drowning. That slim hope alone made surrender the sensible option.

Frankenstein was not as most men. Nor, though Swiss, had he ever much cared for ‘sensible.’

‘Now might be the time, madam,’ he hinted to Ada.

‘It certainly looks like it,’ she agreed, calmly. ‘Time to die. Again.’

‘No, you misunderstand, foolish woman!  I meant for you to swim!’

He indicated the broad ocean expanse: and every direction her oyster.

Lady Lovelace sat up straight, offended.

‘I do not swim,’ she said, with finality.

‘You cannot?’  Julius was incredulous. He’d assumed that, the English being a notoriously sea-faring race, they were all semi-aquatic from their earliest years.

‘I did not say that,’ Ada answered. ‘I said I do not. It is undignified.’

Foxglove nodded confirmation.

One of Julius’ father’s favourite maxims was ‘never argue with policemen or lunatics.’  His son had imbibed that from earliest years, along with ‘Do what you want—but don’t whine about the bill.’

So instead he stood and took aim at the galloon.

Lieutenant Neave hadn’t been expecting that. No one had. Accordingly, his own shot went wild.

What with the waves and it being extreme range for a mere pistol, Julius’ reply was impressive. Its bullet shattered the pilot’s windscreen but not his head as intended. Lieutenant Neave was duly impressed, amongst other sentiments.

‘What the...!’ said Mariner. Death in many varied forms encompassed him on every side. A notion which had occurred to him oft times before now returned with the force of Divine revelation: Life isn’t fair...

‘Stop that,’ ordered Frankenstein, meaning the slackening of speed. The authority of education and class was backed by a second, still loaded, pistol.

‘One shot: that’s all it’ll take,’ Mariner advised, meaning the closing cutter, not Frankenstein’s far lesser weapon. ‘We’ll be nothing but blood and splinters...’

Even so, he withdrew his hand from the ropes sustaining their progress. Unlike the cutter’s cannon Julius’ gun was both near at hand and near his head.

‘Since we’re all good as dead anyway,’ observed Frankenstein, ‘I can’t see that it matters...’

Mariner deferred to the ‘logic’ therein.

Having got his way in that respect, Julius returned to the galloon question. Lieutenant Neave was frantically reloading as best his confined cabin allowed. Frankenstein took the opportunity to take extra careful aim.

Neave’s nerve snapped before Julius’ investment of effort could pay dividends.

‘Up!’  His command to the crew could be heard loud and clear through the pierced screen. ‘Up!  Damn y’eyes!’

Prow first, the galloon made an emergency ascension, gas valves being flung open as they came to hand, regardless of grace and stability. The Lieutenant, on whom Julius was drawing bead, was flung back into the unseen interior.

Frankenstein could have fired anyway, but now there was a new fish to fry. The cutter roared again and this time unmistakably in earnest. The heat of the ball as it passed not far above caressed all their faces. When they then looked up, as a natural reaction to still having heads, it was to note that most of the mast was no longer with them. Such was the force of the blow, it had not snapped or splintered but was simply swept away in silence.

Though most likely a fluke shot it did the trick perfectly. The sails descended like a eager bride’s nightie. Straightaway, the skiff’s speed bled away, courtesy of less than half a mast left for the wind to play upon. Simultaneously, akin to the canvas, all resistance went out of the craft’s contents.

Except for Julius that is. Regaining balance via the sudden loss of progress, and shrugging off a shroud-like corner of sail, he shifted aim to the customs cutter as it hoved to.

To outside observers it might appear the merest romantic gesture, but there was method in his madness. Frankenstein had taken on board Mariner’s intelligence about savage ‘Cinque Port penalties,’ and he really didn’t fancy being slowly nibbled to death by the tide. As he saw it, once the range closed he had a fair chance of dropping one of the gunners, or possibly even the captain should he show his face. With luck, that pointlessly taken life aboard the cutter might anger their conquerors enough to deal out swift ends. Like sinking them there and then. Or summary trial. Skilfully done, hanging could be quite quick, so he’d heard.

That was how Julius’ rational faculties justified the ‘gesture’—but they were just a decorative facade, designed to deceive. The simpler truth was he wanted to go in style, and here was the opportunity. ‘Never give your life away: sell it!’ was another adage of his father that he lived (but apparently didn’t die) by.

Or, deeper still, maybe despair ran in the family.

Julius’ smile as he sighted along the gun barrel should have been a massive clue to one and all, but trapped forever within his own skull Foxglove couldn’t see all these rich layers of meaning. He had to act on external signs.

Fortunately, Frankenstein’s mouth was clamped tight in concentration. There’d be no danger of bitten-off tongues.

Foxglove’s raised eyebrow queried. Ada’s nod approved. The servant’s fist met Julius’ jaw.

Chapter 14: A FESTIVAL OF FALSEHOODS

‘Well, I say he did!’

Julius didn’t recognise the voice. Curiosity made him open his eyes.

As well as the cutter, which had grappled alongside, there was a ship’s officer looming over him. More to the point, the man had the tip of a naval cutlass poised above Julius’ navel. He gave every indication of wanting to pin Frankenstein to the skiff’s deck like a collected beetle.

‘I give you my word of honour as a Lady,’ said Ada, off to one side.

‘A dead lady,’ said another of the boarding party. Ada huffed.

‘Well, really!’

It didn’t work. The homicidally inclined officer’s expression and posture remained unchanged. So Ada changed tack.

‘Very well then, if the oath of a person of quality is insufficient, perhaps you’ll accept the evidence of your senses. Where exactly is this pistol he is supposed to have pointed at you?’

Overboard, thought Julius: the second phase of Foxglove’s pre-emptive strike. Wisely though, he kept his theory to himself.