Frankenstein's Legions (23 page)

‘The actual she-Lazaran is dolled up as a cantiniére. Not familiar with the term?  Well, you are excused: only in the French army could it happen. The wives and whores of the regiment have their own uniform: a delightful red, white and blue creation: skirt and pantaloons. Plus a sweet black bonnet with a red feather stuck in it. I doubt you could miss her, even if you tried...’

He realised he’d digressed too far, sounding almost human.

‘And her flunky is dressed as... a French flunky. Or so they delude themselves. Remember they have their oh so humorous carte de sejour, courtesy of the Belgians. William Tell indeed!  Plus false French papers purchased in the town. I instructed the forger who made them to provide top quality examples: they will pass muster. And they have weapons. The Swiss is free and easy about using them. Watch that.’

Care-worn man waited for a nod from each to signify they understood. All were armed, but experienced enough to realise that real skill lay in never firing a shot.

‘Insofar as we can guess their intent our Master thinks they’ll be thwarted. But either way pleases us. Now go.’

Care-worn man wished he had a glass of wine to toast his charges with as they went; off—yet again—at his bidding to face mad people in a world gone mad. However, alcohol, or indeed any indulgence, during a mission would have been that awful thing: unprofessional. It skewed judgement and urged impulses even on those who’d won life’s most difficult struggle: namely to control their own thoughts.

More to the point, Prince Talleyrand would not have smiled upon it—and in the intelligence field no more need be said.

Soon the clear-up team would take over the building to remove the slightest trace he’d ever been there, but meanwhile Care-worn man had a moment for reflection.

Surely he would get to crack a bottle of red one day?  Was that really too much to ask?  Perhaps there’d be opportunity during retirement (if he made it), or on his twenty-first birthday: whichever came sooner.

Sooner the better.

Chapter 22: COME FLY WITH ME

Julius spruced himself up—and found that wasn’t so easy with only one free hand. So, acting the part, he instructed Foxglove to adjust his busby and straighten his pelisse.

The little interlude, so natural seeming of a maimed but still dapper hussar, proud of his uniform and wounds gained in his country’s service, gave him opportunity to size up the aerodrome concourse. Again. This was his third survey on three successive days—though the first two had been in another persona.

Nothing had changed. Access to this public part was promiscuous, but beyond was an entirely different (and yet the same old) tale. National Guardsmen controlled the narrow entrance to ‘airside,’ as exclusive and hard to attain as the gates of Paradise. Papers were being demanded even of high ranking soldiers. Beyond them, just visible beyond the lattice barricade, civilian heavies kept a beady eye before yet another line of passport control. After that there was distant sight of the galloon pylons and windmill dynamos.

And Julius had heard entry control at ‘arrivals’ in France was even stricter!  Hence the second and madder-still phase of his plans.

Meanwhile, there were more than enough concerns to occupy the present moment. French law (or more accurately, power) ran the show here, and, though technically on Luxembourg sovereign soil, foreign rules pertained. Tight rules, straight out of the desiccated mind of Police Minister Fouché.

Everyone, Frankenstein included, had heard of the legendary control the Convention exerted over its citizens in order to remain in power, but it was still impressive—and daunting—to see it in action. Julius wondered if it was strictly necessary, now that the Convention’s internal enemies were all either Lazarans or definitively dead. There was even word that the vast ‘Civic Virtue’ re-education camps were closing for lack of business. If so, perhaps the Revolutionary government was now just making a point to keep things that way.

Whatever the reason, only serving soldiers got on to French galloons, and even then only those who strictly needed to. Except that Julius had heard one sentimental exception was made. A blind eye was turned towards those whose sacrifices to the People’s cause rendered travel difficult.

He lurched forward to the booking cabin, making a show of the stick that bore him and of pain bravely borne.

Deep joy!  He had deceived. The military clerk stood and saluted.

‘Monsieur?’

‘Three tickets to Paris, if you please. The first available flight.’

‘Your papers, please monsieur.’

The clerk read them.

‘Tell?  William Tell?’

‘Yes,’ said Julius Frankenstein.

‘No!’ protested Ada, less loud than she first intended, but still audible.

Julius had promised her he’d use their French papers, and right up to that moment he’d truly intended to. But the name on those had never really appealed to him, and, besides, were too easily forgotten. The instant Frankenstein arrived at the desk mischievous voices in his head (perfect mimics of his own voice) had spoken to him. Worse still, he’d listened.

The clerk looked up. ‘‘No?’ he enquired, after Ada.

Julius dismissed the protest as of no account.

‘My New-citizen sister fears flying,’ he said, adopting impatient tones. ‘Once we are in the waiting area I will beat her until she calms down.’

The clerk approved. He’d often wanted to do that to passengers.

Ada shut up and looked Lazaran-fashion hang-dog, apparently resigned to less-than-nothing status and taking to the skies.

Frankenstein’s new name was checked against a big book of undesirables and, of course, found absent—since William Tell’s insubordinate acts ended centuries ago.

That established, money changed hands and tickets were married to documents. ‘Mr Tell’ lurched off with his human baggage in tow.

‘William’/Julius was looking forward to a cup of coffee. It would invigorate him for (belatedly) explaining to Lady Lovelace and Foxglove his true plans. That he didn’t look forward to.

It all hinged on whether he could convince them of the legendary tightness of French entry control. And that therefore they’d be hijacking a galloon rather than just catching one like normal people.

If they swallowed that he’d go on to explain it was a childhood dream of his to command a galloon, and he could only thank Lady Lovelace for driving him on to realise it. Then, he’d outline his revised intentions for France, on the off-chance they’d succeed and survive. He had in mind wine and peace and a period of cloud-counting in a French village—whose name would not be vouchsafed to Ada. And when, probably after five minutes or so, he grew sick of that, he foresaw a further change of identity and enlistment in one of Neo-Napoleon’s ‘Foreign Legions.’  But Madam Lovelace would never know the upshot of that because they’d have long since parted company by then...

Finally, when all was said and done and confessed, coffee-cup still in hand in the departure lounge, he would wish his companions ‘a nice life.’  Goodbye rather than au revoir.

But before that exciting prospect there awaited the steely-eyed soldiers round the gate. The spiked barrier blocking it was never lifted till they’d given each passenger their seal of approval.

Not everyone was spoken to but Frankenstein merited a word. And a salute, which boded well.

‘Been in the wars, eh? said the one with the best pressed uniform and most luxuriant ‘Old Guard’ style moustache. All these sentinels was imitating, and maybe aspiring to join, that elite regiment. ‘Best-pressed’ was the first amongst equals.

Julius had prepared an entire alternative life story, spending a very pleasant afternoon constructing it in his room with history book and bottle of wine.

‘Moscow, Tunis and Naples,’ he said, successively touching truncated trouser leg, sleeve and eye-patch.

They were impressed: each had been big and bloody battles,—and better still, all victories.

‘Well then,’ mused Best-pressed, ‘you must have served under Marshall Treffault...’

‘No.’

‘What: a veteran like you?’ Best-pressed frowned. ‘At Naples?  Why not?’

‘Because,’ said ‘Mr Tell,’ ‘there was no Marshall Treffault at Naples. Or Tunis. Or Moscow. In fact, I’ve never heard of any Marshall Treffault.’

Best-pressed smiled.

‘Right answer. Because he never existed. Papers please...’

He perused the proffered carte de sejour, but not in any sceptical fashion. Frankenstein’s hopes rose.

‘A Swiss National, eh?’

That signified nothing. The Revolutionary cause, and then its conquests, had inspired or pressed men from all over Europe into the Convention’s armed forces.

‘That’s right.’

‘William Tell.’

More muffled jubilation. The name obviously rang no bells. Again, for Frankenstein ignorance was bliss. He gave thanks for defective educations. Gratitude lent his voice a certain flourish.

‘At your—and the Revolution’s—service, sir.’

A few more steps and he’d be free: free to indulge a long held fancy of directing a stately galloon through skies he had no business to be in. Or possibly ending the tedious succession of day after day in a blaze of glory.

Well-pressed was about to give his ill-informed blessing and wave them on. Until:

‘No!’

It was Ada again, in a reprise of her little scene before the booking desk. Except that here it wouldn’t be so little.

Julius leapt boldly into the deja vu.

‘My—Lazaran—sister fears flying,’ he started. ‘Once we are in the...’

‘No!’ Ada repeated, and Julius’ heart froze. He saw she was out of role, still a Lazaran because that was unalterable, but not ‘Mademoiselle Tell’ or any other subordinate guise any more. She was Lady Lovelace again, mistress of her own fate and all she surveyed. And, worse still, smiling.

Foxglove was impassive—but he was in on this. His eyes had just the slightest glitter when they locked with Frankenstein’s.

So, it transpired that just like Julius they had their own surprise planned. A trump card played before Frankenstein could explode his own bombshell about hijacking. The fox had been outfoxed.

‘He is not William Tell,’ said Ada. ‘Nor a hussar. Nor wounded. But Swiss, yes, we can grant him that much.’

No. The soldiers would grant him nothing except suddenly cold faces and broad hands upon his shoulder.

There was a ‘pepperbox’ revolver in Julius’ waistcoat pocket: eight bulky barrels of persuasion ready for use when aloft. Yet it had no relevance here on solid ground and surrounded. He’d be dead before fingers gripped the handle.

‘This is preposterous!’ he protested, and tried to stand up straight as best crutch and restraining hands allowed. ‘She’s mad-...’

Which was probably true and might have worked if he’d persisted, and bluffed better than any human had ever bluffed before. But far more likely was the loss of all dignity and the same result in the end anyway. Julius plumped for poise and silence.

He wasn’t even allowed that. A questing French hand detected his strapped up arm and ripped his pelisse open to reveal it. Thus encouraged, others located his doubled-up ‘missing’ leg. For the sake of completeness, even the eye-patch was ripped away. By then his gun had gone too.

Ada and Foxglove had taken a step back, putting distance between them and someone suddenly no longer of their company. The soldiers had permitted that, but wouldn’t smile on any further retreat. They had questions.

Like:

‘Who is he then?’

Ada looked at Julius and he at she. He could detect no bottom to the depth of her eyes or triumph.

‘I was about to say,’ she said. ‘He is Julius Frankenstein. Great-nephew of Victor Frankenstein, inventor of the Revivalist science. And therefore wanted throughout Europe. I suggest you arrest him. Your Government will reward you.’

Every uniform in earshot seemed to think that was an excellent suggestion and rushed to adopt it.

*  *  *

Care-worn man saw and heard all—from a safe distance.

As soon as Frankenstein was bundled away in chains he ordered each surveillance unit to stand down. For the moment they would drift back to the innocuous lives they lived when not needed.

Meanwhile, in his mind Care-worn man was already considering his report on the mission. For once he looked forward to the task—how sweet the words would flow!

He could tell Talleyrand all had gone well.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD:

MISCELLANEOUS DOCUMENTS

Being a selection of divers documents and source material presented for the interested reader to peruse at leisure, while those impatient to resume the story may do so
here
.

*  *  *

From
Decisive Battles of the Western World
by Sir Charles Oman (London, 1930)

Volume II: ‘The Second Battle of Agincourt, 1819’

‘…defining moment of the Second French Revolution, fortuitously fought on ground hitherto famous for a crushing Gallic defeat. On this occasion, the ramshackle post-Revolutionary French army, reinforced by elements of the old Imperial
Grande Armée
and Revolutionary militia of dubious military worth, necessarily took up a defensive stance slightly to the north-west of the historical battlefield. They faced an overwhelmingly stronger Austro-Russian invading force augmented by French Royalist echelons returning from exile.

The defenders of French soil and the newly re-stated ideals of “Liberty, Egality and Fraternity” can have little dreamed that at the height of battle and on the cusp of what seemed like certain defeat.’

*  *  *

From the (pre-publication and unedited)
Memoirs
of Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington
. (Five volumes. London 1830.)

‘…certain defeat and serve them right, when I heard that the d*mned rebel Frenchies had finally turned to fight at the old field of Agincourt. Naturally, I rejoiced like any decent Englishman would, and made all haste to get my army over there to do their worst. The omens all looked d*mned good.