Frankenstein's Legions (20 page)

But several soldiers had already couched their lances to pedestrian level. Their mounts pawed the sand, awaiting the word

 Julius repeated in German and, for good measure, Italian. You never knew—they might be men from one of the French conquests. It could do no harm. Only one thing was certain: this side of the Channel speaking English wasn’t going to do them any favours.

One of the lancers advanced—but at a walk. Frankenstein and his captive put on a burst of speed to meet him more than halfway, to maximise mutual visibility.

‘See?’ (French again)  ‘See?’ Julius pinched his cheek to produce a blush. ‘We are living. They were our enemy. You have saved us!’

The man exchanged words with one of his comrades, but Julius couldn’t catch it. Either the distance was too great or it was a language not in his repertoire. The man spoken to shrugged.

Such battle as remained had moved to the outskirts of vision. A sort of peace had returned to the beach save for a few lancers ambling about, pig-sticking those undead who wouldn’t lie still. Those not engaged walked their horses over and gradually formed a loose circle round Frankenstein and friends.

Foxglove, Ada (still shrouded) and the remaining sailors caught them up. There was minor comfort in huddling close.

Julius bore up under the scrutiny. It was not in his nature to beg, nor, he thought, good policy at present. In the context of being soaked and shivering and he-knew-not-where, it was a brave show.

Which was rewarded. One of the lancers, an obvious officer from the extra epaulettes and gold braid, rode close.

‘Hello.’

He spoke French, but accented in a way Julius failed to recognise.

‘Good day, sir,’ said Frankenstein in kind, bright as he could.

The hand which held the lance wavered side to side, equivocating.

‘It may be, it may not. For you, that is. I have not decided. What are you?’

Third-lieutenant was going to say something but Julius nipped it in the bud by treading on toes.

He chose words carefully; most salient facts first.

‘We are living. Victims of the sea. And of mutinous Lazarans.’

The officer raised one eyebrow, in a not-unfriendly ‘you don’t say…’ manner.

So far so good. Julius moved on to specifics.

‘I am Swiss. A neutral. With me are my manservant and Lazaran sister.’

The last was a risk in itself, but was swift followed by a bigger one.

‘These are English sailors. They had taken us prisoner on their Lazaran carrying ship.’

Both eyebrows were raised in response to that. Which was better in its way than a lowered lance. Better still, lack of protest from Third-lieutenant vindicated the gamble that neither he or his men spoke French.

Julius relaxed. He had maximised his options, and taken all care. If things turned horrible now it was just Fate’s fault and none of his doing.

As his horse fretted and worried at its bridle, the officer chewed on his moustache for far too long. It was, to put it mildly, a tense moment.

However, such less than nimble decision making gave Julius some clues. It might be useful information if they survived.

Finally the man spoke, still in accented French.

‘Then they are our prisoners now, monsieur. Prisoners of war. But I think you are what you say you are. Probably. A neutral. Likewise your menagerie. Therefore, congratulations on your escape. And welcome to the Belgian Republic…’

Frankenstein had to restrain himself from visible glee at guessing right.

Chapter 18: A SWISS HERO EXHUMED

The organ loft and pipes were a nest of Lazarans. The high altar likewise. They crawled over them and each other like crabs in a barrel, devoid of decorum.

The few soaring intellectuals there who retained curiosity peeked out occasionally at the comings and goings in the nave; but mostly their own writhings and mountings and devourings were enough. Even more occasionally, a wild one would claw at the floor to ceiling wire fence separating the chancel from the rest of the church, but soldiers would prod them back with bayonets.

The Cathedral of Our Lady of the Sea in Zeebrugge had definitely seen better days.

As had Julius Frankenstein. In fact, he went so far as to say he’d never seen anything so hellish in his entire life—and that was saying something.

The plump Belgian official happily conceded it.

‘In the Republic we have not raised Revivalism to the art it is in France. Or even England. In the early days the Church forbade it—until the Republic forbade the Church, ho ho.’

He indicated the savagely deconsecrated edifice they stood in.

‘They’ll keep their opinions to themselves in future,
n’est pas, monsieur
, don’t you think?’

Not only was the official speaking French, in his own Belgic fashion, but evidently he was thinking French too. Julius had heard that the Belgians, though nominally neutral, were heavily infiltrated by French opinion—and French agents and ‘advisors’ too. It wasn’t quite a client state yet: Neo-Napoleon’s armies had swept by, not through. But once he’d settled the Austrians and Russians’ hash, and the Italians and the Greeks and Turks and the Eskimos too probably, then he’d be back. The Belgian Republic was simply embracing the future before it embraced them.

Certainly, their companions of the storm, Third-lieutenant and his men, had received precious little sympathy and plenty of kicks. The last Frankenstein had seen of them was in a farm cart being driven off to captivity or execution, they knew not which. Only his Swiss status and some rapid talking had saved him and Ada and Foxglove from the same fate. However, once that fact was established they weren’t even robbed.

Happily, inbred stoicism kept the Englishmen’s protests pretty minimal, but it was still distressing to see them taken away.

Julius should have intervened, he realised. These men’s seamanship had saved his life. However, the Royal Navy was not popular hereabouts (the coastal blockade and bombardments, press-ganging, being organised Reaction personified etc. etc.) and so he shamefully heeded Ada’s whispered ‘forget them!’

‘That’ll teach the swines!’ he agreed with the official, meaning the Cathedral’s former owners, not Third-lieutenant and company. He said it with false relish, re-routeing the self-disgust he felt in order to ingratiate himself.

‘No it won’t,’ chuckled the Belgian. ‘You can’t teach dead men!’  He mimicked a noose around his neck and gently swayed side to side.

Then, it struck home that his remark had double value in the context of this Lazaran academy. The man laughed all the heartier and all his bellies with him.

‘Well, maybe you can with this lot,’ he conceded when he’d done, indicating the heaving mass in the fenced-off Chancel. ‘But let me tell you, monsieur, it’s not easy.’ 

‘Do please tell,’ Frankenstein prompted. ‘I’m interested…’

‘Really?’

‘Certainly.’

The official started on his luncheon of bread and sausage and spring onions, unwrapped from what was surely a wife or mother-packed hamper. From time to time he wiped his hands on his orange sash of office.

For some reason it didn’t occur to him to offer any to his company. Julius and Ada and Foxglove remained standing, supplicants before his desk, whilst their host in this new country lolled back in his seat and noisily enjoyed.

‘Why is that?’ he finally asked through a mouthful. ‘Are you in the trade?’

‘I was.
Monsieur
, allow me…’

Frankenstein uncorked the hamper’s wine flask and poured. The official saluted him with it and sipped with surprising delicacy.

 ‘Well, you Swiss invented the whole business, didn’t you?’

Seeing the way things were going, Julius wouldn’t accept all the credit.

‘We did  But it took the Convention to take up the baton and run, eh?  As with so many things, the Revolution is the vanguard of human progress, n’est pas?’

The official almost purred. He even set down his baguette.

‘Absolutely,
monsieur
. I discern that you are a man after my own heart...’

It was not for want of trying. Julius was progressively adjusting his Swiss French into an imitation of purest Gallic tones, the better to stroke his new friend’s cultural cringe. It definitely appeared to be unlocking doors, and might even save them from shooting or life imprisonment, or whatever it was the Belgic Republic did with unwanted foreigners.

Though only half fed the official felt expansive, willing to make minor concessions to show he had a generous soul.

‘Well, our training procedures lag behind the more refined methods of other nations,’ he admitted, ‘but we’re catching up, you mark my words. My
chef-régional
thought of this...,’ he waved one languid hand to encompass the ex-cathedral, ‘and I think you’ll agree it’s a good idea. Bring ‘em back to life and straightaway cage them up in this big space which had become available. Then—and here is the genius,
monsieur
—let their own struggles weed out the weaker specimens, whilst at the same time allowing them to see humans come and go, to acclimatise them. That is why we use the rest of the building as an government office. Which is why you’re here. Which reminds me…’

The form he’d been filling in, now stained by spilt spring onions, had been quite forgotten in the course of conversation. Frankenstein was quite happy for it to remain so.

‘It’s brilliant,’ Julius exclaimed as diversion. ‘A cheap culling and training process rolled into one. What novelty!  What economy of effort!  You are to be congratulated,
monsieur
!’

The official modestly accepted only some of the praise.

‘It wasn’t my notion, not entirely: I only run the place…’

‘Any one can have ideas, sir,’ Julius greased on, ‘the trick is make them real. I think we shall hear more of you and this place!  The English may have their Heathrow Hecatomb, the French their
Mausoleum de Compeigne
, yet I warrant this institution boasts the same success rate at one tenth the trouble!’

That almost overdid it. Both supposedly secret places Frankenstein had named were common knowledge but, even so, excess specifics awoke suspicion.

Or would have but for the second glass of wine Julius obligingly poured. The potential poison in their conversation was then purged by an inspired answer to a pointed question.

‘You seem to know a great deal about Revivalism,
monsieur
…,’ said the official. He was guarded again.

Frankenstein looked soulful.

‘Alas, not through choice…’  He indicated Ada. ‘My sister… a sad case…’

The official had seen too many to regard any Lazaran, no matter how pretty, as anything but meat; yet he did Julius the honour of giving Ada a quick scan up and down.

‘No good for the army,’ was his judgement. ‘But I suppose you had your reasons…’

‘A mother’s dying wish, sir. They are as divine commands to dutiful sons. Otherwise, as you so correctly discern, I would never have bothered…’

If looks could kill Julius would have been eligible for the circus in the Chancel. Fortunately, by then the official’s glance had moved on and so missed seeing Ada’s death stare.

‘Well, you’ve got her well trained, I’ll give you that much,
monsieur
. Nicely silent. Maybe you could teach us a thing or two!’

He didn’t mean it. It was a joke between two men on the same wavelength.

‘Now, where were we?’  He was fussing with the paper storm on his desk again.

‘I believe,’ Julius prompted, ‘it was just a few more details and then we were off...’

Actually, that wasn’t quite so, but the official didn’t care to spoil this pleasant chat over (his) lunch by contradicting.

‘More or less, Mr...’  He consulted some paper. ‘Mr Tell. A few extra formalities...’

Julius’ mad mood had persisted beyond the beach debacle, drawing sighs from Lady Lovelace and reproachful looks from Foxglove. In the absence of any identification—all lost at sea, of course—he’d seen fit to test the official’s education by assuming the name of Switzerland’s best (perhaps only) known hero.

Happily, the man’s schooling and reading proved deficient. ‘William Tell’ duly went down on the
carte de sejour
being drawn up, reckless of all the problems it might bring later on.

‘And where do you intend heading?’

‘Home, I suppose,’ said Julius, sounding resigned. ‘The estate calls, and my dear sister, Miss Tell, is due back at her asylum.’

When the official looked on her again Ada constructed a rictus smile. She even bobbed a curtsey.

‘Most commendable,’ said the Belgian. ‘Most progressive. No other country I know of has institutions catering for family Lazarans. Everywhere else it is either field work or concealment in attics...’

The gaze had lingered and so Ada tried to look grateful.

‘Yes,’ Julius said to her, loud and slow as though to an idiot. ‘I said, yes: back to your sweet little room and cot, my dear. And the embroidery that keeps you busy. I said embroidery, yes...’

Frankenstein was getting a touch too embroiled in this farrago he’d created. The bare bones of his tale about a disastrous sailing holiday might pass muster before this uninspired bureaucrat, but surplus detail could break the spell. Foxglove applied the tip of his boot to Julius’ ankle.

Frankenstein transcended the pain without expression and also got the message. The official was none the wiser.

‘So,’ said Julius, when he trusted his voice again, ‘if you could make the carte valid for all points to the Swiss border, then we need take up no more of your valuable time.’

The official liked his time being deemed valuable. He poised his validating stamp above the document with extra added dignity.

  ‘I wish you
bon voyage
,
monsieur
, and better luck this time!’

The stamp crashed down and suddenly they were legal again.

*  *  *

They ought to have been grateful to Fortune for simply being alive, and to Frankenstein for their freedom. Not only that, but for the first time since Lady Lovelace rose again and Julius fled the Hecatomb, they were respectable once more—after a fashion. Albeit coated in the wrong names, they were entitled to be... well, to be. No one could legitimately hunt them for sport like they were vermin. It was a heady feeling not to have to skulk.