Frankenstein's Legions (41 page)

Secondly, sunshine. Although no amount of sun seems to brown our charges’ milky skins, it is experimentally observed that maximising exposure to sunlight improves survival rate by 10% in early Harvest Homes. Hence the (at first sight) curious location of the sty high in the open air and exposed to Sol’s beneficent rays.

Project Posterity’s earliest productions were conducted in deepest and literally darkest secrecy, in cellars. The successes attending our labours were correspondingly dim. It was only the chance escape of a previously wasting infant, subsequently found to be much improved by an hours’ liberty in the Palace gardens, which alerted us to this free gift from Nature. Indeed, such was the pleasure attending this discovery that the negligent nursemaid responsible was spared the guillotine and merely lost her right hand...

... but the beneficial effect diminishes in respect of older Harvest Homes and it is proposed that when the first crop reaches the age of reason to progressively dress them in garments appropriate to their Imperial rank and dignity. Some element and hours of nakedness will always be desirable, but at other times they will walk among men robed in suitable splendour...

... Strangely however, though the sun blesses them, its absence, and likewise any inclement weather, does our Harvests no harm. Project workers will observe them bear the lash of storm and bite of frost with entire thermal indifference. Some have speculated that this is related in a way not presently understood to their icy natures...

... for yes, newly recruited servants of the Project will in short order observe Harvest Homes commit what may seem to them gratuitous acts of cruelty, to captive animals, to Palace staff and even to each other. At the same times they will find that mundane concepts of ‘right’ and wrong’ are not so readily subscribed to by our precious charges. Likewise, their expressions of opinion on various subjects may appear excessively pragmatic and unrestrained by the reins of piety or ideals.

If so, then it is our perceptions that are at fault and no correction or even contradiction is to be applied, let alone admonition. There is wisdom in such an outlook not readily perceived by the uninstructed, and a streamlined morality not suited to the common herd. Therefore, intervention may only take place if the discretion of the sty or Project is threatened, if decorum is excessively outraged or if permanent injury portends to either the Emperor’s offspring or Project staff.

On all other occasions, it has been judged permissible to allow free rein to the urges and outlooks of the Harvests. The reason for this is as follows (Nb. on appointment staff shall study the following, memorise and repeat it to their line manager and formally state their entire agreement):

Project Posterity is not an end in itself, nor the mere itching of scientific curiosity. It is the trumpet blast announcing a new era in mankind’s story!

One day—and it shall not long be delayed (if we are crowned with continued success)—the products of Project Posterity shall be revealed to the world and step forth to take their rightful place in the scheme of things. The role of ministers, advisors and generals shall be theirs. Yea, in the fullness of time, the intention is that they shall make the Emperor’s rule immortal by bringing forth Harvest Homes of their own!

Therefore, facing such a glorious destiny, we judge that it is good and fitting that their personalities should be so very in accord with the way of the world. His Imperial Highness himself has commented that in the normal course of things it takes a lifetime of experience and many hard knocks to acquire the clarity of vision required to conduct an Empire. How good it is then, he has graciously gone on to say, that the fruit of his loins have sprung from the womb already well adapted to statecraft!

The Empire we aspire to shall not be easy on those who oppose it, nor will it ever be considered forgiving, or christian or kind. But it will see things clearly and act accordingly, unrestrained by mere sentiment. Consequently, its dominion over mankind will not be short lived.

Be not deluded—instead be advised and rejoice:  Project Posterity aims not just at Imperial progeny. It lifts its gaze even above a deathless Imperial line. Citizens, our aim is immortal Empire!

Chapter 7: JOY IN HEAVEN?

Given his recent history of ‘correspondence received,’ Frankenstein wished people wouldn’t write to him any more.

When their hotel room grew claustrophobic Julius had gone for a walk. To justify it he’d risked visiting the Swiss Embassy in Rome, to draw on funds and change money at non-robbery rates. There was a letter waiting for him. The functionary thought he was doing Frankenstein a favour in bringing man and message together. Far from it. He received not even a thank you, let alone a tip.

On the plus side, such as it was, Julius didn’t think they’d located him—not yet. Otherwise, they’d have made their views known in far more direct form: a stab in the dark, or maybe kidnapping for leisurely torture. But pending that decisive day ‘they’ must have distributed missives, shotgun-style, to anywhere and everywhere a fugitive Swiss citizen with a famous name might resort. Accordingly, for security’s sake the letter had to speak in very general terms, but to Julius its brief contents were clarity itself.

Recognising the source, he broke the seal and opened it in the street so that its ill-will should be diluted by sunlight and the passing throng. That plan was only partially successful.

Minister Fouché had abandoned the anonymity he maintained during their intercourse at Versailles. He addressed Julius as ‘
tu’
and signed his sentiments by name.

‘Such a shame’ he wrote, characteristically weaving multiple layers of meaning from few words. ‘You stood to receive so many favours, to rise so high!  And yet still might...’

It’s said even the Devil can quote scripture and so it proved. Joseph Fouché had been a priest before he was a Jacobin persecutor of the church; the Revolutionary commissioner who’d packed priests and nuns into barges and sunk them in Lyon harbour. Then he’d effortlessly shed that skin to become a pillar of stability and Empire.

‘Luke, 15, 7’ said the letter, which Julius’s sound Church education instantly expanded into: ‘I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine persons, which need no repentance.’

Julius laughed at that, a merriment-free cynical explosion. Some of the passers-by looked at him; but not much or for long: Rome often attracted foreigners who talked to themselves.

‘In Heaven, maybe’ he mused aloud, conceding Fouché’s point. ‘But in the hell of Versailles?  I don’t think so...’

Julius was instantly proved right. The Emperor undid all his renegade Minister’s silky cleverness by adding a scrawled, venomous p.s. of his own. Surely Fouché was unaware of the postscript or the letter would never have been sent. It must have been intercepted and… augmented.

The Emperor’s only sacrifice to discretion was in continued use of code words.

‘Wretch!’ he wrote. ‘If you reveal what you know, if you so much as breathe word of my farm, if you cause harm to my herd, then I will—’

Words must have failed him at that point, or else passion overwhelmed, for the pen had blotted and the nib actually pierced the paper, leaving a jagged rip. Julius had a sudden image, perhaps infused into the very substance of the letter by its author’s emotional intensity, of himself receiving the same treatment.

There was more, till the exclamation marks ran out of page, leaving no space for a signature.

‘So believe me you ungrateful and traitorous VILLAIN, if you DEFY me in this matter, if you DARE, then I will do such things to you (I have not thought of them yet but I shall!!) that they WILL be worse than your wildest nightmares!!!!!!!!!!!’

It impacted less than it ought because Frankenstein had seen the Sack of Lille, and a great deal more besides. Which included the Emperor’s ‘farm.’ Consequently, some of Julius’ nightmares were very wild indeed

*  *  *

Back at their hotel Lady Lovelace was shuffling paper and too absorbed to hear Frankenstein’s news on his return, even if it involved threatening letters from Napoleon. In any case, she was ‘not talking’ to him since his confession confession. And that cold shoulder only commenced after she’d extracted a promise from him not to return to ‘that blurting box’ as she called it. Before that he’d been entirely blanked by her, as if he’d ceased to be.

Frankenstein found such an undertaking easy to give. It was clear there was no point or hope for him in the sacrament. He was past saving and wouldn’t go seeking reminders.

Right now and as usual, Foxglove served as Ada’s amen-corner and representative on earth when she was absent. He had his wooden leg unstrapped beside him and was resting his stump up on a stool, massaging its sore end.

‘Leave her be, sir, I should,’ he said. ‘Madam is engaged in important business.’

‘And this isn’t?’  Julius waggled the letter back and forth, more amused than annoyed. ‘Wild ravings against us from the greatest power in Europe, maybe even the world, and it’s not important?’

‘Not as important, sir,’ said Foxglove. ‘And if I may be permitted an observation; as I heard it read to me, the threats are against you, not us...’

Lady Lovelace didn’t deign to look up from her occupation, but took time to silently signal that a good point had been made.

Frankenstein checked the script and saw it was so.

‘True, very true,’ he conceded. ‘However, I suspect, Foxglove, that if Imperial vengeance catches up with us—or, as you correctly note, me—it will arrive as more of a bludgeon than a rapier. Indeed, I have every confidence it will err on the generous side and take in all manner of bit-players...’

Again, Ada indicated she was following the conversation and in agreement.

This was developing into a debate of rare intellectual honesty, for Foxglove accepted with a smile that Julius was right.

‘Mebbe so, sir, but all things duly considered, when you look at matters in the round, what more can they do to us they haven’t done already?’

He was looking at where his lower leg used to be, a zone that still troubled him with phantom itches and genuine sorrow.

That sacrifice had been demanded as soon as they sailed out of Trieste. When Julius despaired of repairing the sniper’s work he demanded the limb as the inescapable price for Foxglove’s survival. The case was too urgent to await dry land and a steady operating table. The ship’s surgeon concurred. However, even with that weight of professional advice, the ashen servant had looked to Ada for guidance.

She’d shrugged and said the decision was his alone. Julius didn’t wait for it and picked up the savage-toothed amputation saw.

Lady Lovelace held Foxglove down throughout and succeeded unaided in that. In other circumstances maybe three or four burly matelots might have been required.

The leg was dumped overboard, in the way of such things, and the last anyone saw of it was as a floating speck caught up in the tide taking them all into Venice.

Then Ada had seen fit to quip that Foxglove would probably be the first of them to set foot in Italy. And wasn’t it a pity he wouldn’t be attached to it at the time?

If ever the bond of mistress-servant loyalty was going to snap Frankenstein assumed it would be then. But no, through his fever Foxglove mustered a smile. And perhaps distraction from the poor man’s woes had been Ada’s intention in saying such a crass thing. Perhaps.

The ambush in Trieste had been fitting culmination to their flight across the continent. They’d been harried all the way, constantly on the verge of capture and sensing the questing feelers of secret services night and day. The lavish bribes they paid out to buy co-operation and silence also attracted attention at the same time, and so depleted their wealth that they arrived at the Adriatic as near paupers. They even looked the part for, en route, they’d slept under hedges as often as in beds. Their faces bore the sleepless, haunted, look that comes from too many moonlight flits and bad meals taken on the move. They now jumped at every hoof-fall, expecting the arrival of cavalry.

Traversing a world at war meant there was no shortage of soldiery passing by to give them palpitations. In some parts they were likely to be French, in others not; but the borders between the two were in constant flux. And even where there was no military, in those few regions at fragile peace or too devastated to be worth occupying, the spies and agents of the Powers were present, looking out to buy and sell people.

Trieste had been the closest shave of all. Unbeknownst to them, though much suspected, they were under observation from their arrival. As Ada and Julius subsequently reconstructed it, reinforcements must have been speeding there, probably complete with cages and implements-of-interrogation, to secure a live prize. However, when the fugitives made moves towards a ship all plans were off and their would-be captors acted with whatever came to hand.

A shot had rung out on the dockside. Foxglove slid to the ground, his face merely puzzled by withdrawal of support from a leg that till then had given a lifetime of loyal service. Simultaneously, from behind them came a cacophony of voices, some French, others fluent ‘international abuse,’ as men sped into the street heading in their direction.

So it came about that Frankenstein and co. took not the ship they’d intended to but the first to hand and ready to sail. Lady Lovelace dealt with ensuring its captain saw things their way whilst Julius got Foxglove below deck and examined the damage. Down there he heard Gallic curses beyond the hull but they stayed on the quayside, not drawing any nearer. Then as the ship got underway the external rage and menaces gradually receded into oblivion.

But it was a close run thing. Only a happy chance had directed their feet to an Austrian-flagged armed-merchantman. It had crew enough aboard to deter unwelcome visitors and a inbred inclination to refuse any French proposal, let alone threat. As such, it was their first stroke of luck in ages.