Frankenstein's Legions (45 page)

‘Precisely. And did they?  I tell you most solemnly sir and madam, they did not!  Instead, my dried up harpy of a wife led the mourning at m’funeral and poor Emma was left to starve. They wouldn’t even do that one little thing for me after I gave an eye and an arm and great victories to their cause...’

‘Disgraceful,’ commented Frankenstein—and not just to appease Nelson but because it was.

‘Terrible!’ the Admiral agreed. ‘Terrible. And then in seeking to live in the manner she merited my beloved was exposed to the insolence of creditors. She had to flee to Calais to escape them. There her end was one of grinding penury and neglect. Terrible!  And yet they have the brass nerve to then go and resurrect me and expect one to fight on as if nothing had happened!  They have no shame!’

‘Well, they don’t, do they?’ said Ada impatiently, as though an adult had come out with a childish statement. She fanned furiously away at the serum fumes wafting towards her till Nelson could hardly have mistook it. Frankenstein marvelled at her lack of empathy for someone in her own state who’d merely chanced to lie in the grave longer than she.

Still, Julius let it go. He been fearing she’d make reference to Lady Hamilton’s later addiction to the bottle and conversion to Catholicism.

Nelson leant forward. Lady Lovelace recoiled.

‘Let me tell you,’ he said, ‘in all confidence, they calculated wrong. Innocent Nelson gave all and asked for little but he got nothing—not even a new arm—said it’d ‘spoil recognition’!  Well, no more!  Now Nelson fights for himself! He sees the world differently!’

Frankenstein had heard stories to that effect. A new Nelson had returned to Britain’s service sure enough, but one less inspired by patriotism and with a pressing personal agenda. Rumour said his price for another Trafalgar was recovery of Emma’s body from the French and then her revival. In vain the British Government protested the Convention had exhumed her corpse from Calais and had it under close custody. Nelson’s unsympathetic response was ‘well, sort it!.’  Word was he’d give them a little while and then initiate negotiations with the French himself. And not only that, if they wanted the next battle to be another of his ‘annihilation victories,’ he was demanding a state wedding to Lady Hamilton, in Westminster Abbey, with all the Royal family there down to the last lapdog, and to hell with the Church of England’s objections!

You could hardly blame him, but there were also other rumours. Grimmer stories. Even during life he’d gone strange under the influence of Naples when lingering there with Emma. The influence of its corrupt court seeped in and bad things happened: massacres, summary hangings. Now here he was back in that City and nominally soulless!  The papers spoke of a ‘dark Nelson’ and darker-still deeds.

Maybe he could benefit from a spot of staring at the Sistine’s roof or calculation of exactly whose plan he conformed to. Meanwhile, Frankenstein was careful. He smiled and looked Nelson straight in the eye. There was no light there, and less kindness. For relief and comparison Julius turned to Ada.

Then he looked again.

She was different! A gleam enlivened her vision. Frankenstein’s stomach leapt. It had not been there before, he could have sworn it. Her eyes had always been beautiful but bore the standard Lazaran fish-gaze.

So did that mean... Was her returned ‘spark’ not only real but visible?

Gunfire, fortunately distant gunfire, disrupted conversation. Their coach jerked to a halt.

It was nothing unusual, for the sniping and hit and run raids on them had continued in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies exactly as they had in Papal realms; possibly more so. The difference was that the British forces were prouder—or more vindictive. They often went after the snipers, heading into the foothills to supply instruction and exact revenge. It made overall progress that much slower.

Nelson peered out of the window like a hound-dog scenting prey.

‘Aha!’ he said, not to them but purely to himself. ‘Aha!’

The Admiral already had a sword about his waist but came back into the carriage to collect a brace of pistols (no mean feat for a one-armed man). Gripped in his lady-like hand they appeared monstrous.

In the vacated space Frankenstein took the opportunity to window gaze himself. Some distance off muzzle flashes sparkled from a farmhouse and surrounding undergrowth. A veteran of such events, Frankenstein knew better, but the faintness of the associated ‘pop!’ ‘pop!’ did make the unfolding incident seem remote, almost irrelevant to people on the road. Unless they chose to make it so.

Nelson so chose. In fact, so eager was he that Julius was almost shouldered out of the way. Though resurrected as an emaciated frame, Nelson now possessed Lazaran strength.

Ada sighed theatrically.

‘Do you have to?’ she asked the Admiral, wearily.

He was still a gentleman, whatever else he might have become. Nelson reversed back through the carriage door and perched on the seat opposite.

‘No,’ he snapped, after cursory consideration. ‘I don’t have to. In fact, I shouldn’t. But I shall!  Damn duty!  I want to!’

Then irresistible urges carried him out of the carriage and he was gone, haring away weapons in hand and joy written all over his face.

‘Come on lads!  Last one to the enemy’s a nancy!’

Ages passed. The convoy had to halt while the skirmish lasted and any non-combatants must amuse themselves meanwhile.

Ada got her notebook out almost immediately and was soon lost in the re-found ecstasy of computation.

It was not a country Julius had a visa for and so was left to his own devices. Those quickly palled.

‘Can you see what’s going on?’ he called up to Foxglove.

‘Distant strife,’ came the reply from above and outside. ‘Puffs of smoke. Dead on the ground. Nothing special.’

There was little in that to occupy Julius’ thoughts—and nothing at all to merit bringing Ada to a dead stop.

Her pen suddenly stilled.

‘Oh!’

Lady Lovelace shut her book. She set it aside, forgotten. Then she looked up at Frankenstein, almost reluctantly, through the medium of those newly enlivened eyes.

‘I...’

‘What?’ said Julius, alarmed.

‘I...’ she tried again but faltered.

Frankenstein did not associate her with hesitation. It must be bad.

‘Are you well, madam?’

The gaze was maintained—but not as her usual tussle of wills.

‘I am not... unwell.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it, but you seem—’

She interrupted him.

‘Sorry.’

‘I said I’m delighted to hear it but—’

‘I heard you the first time,’ snapped Ada. ‘I said I’m sorry.’

Yes, that was it!  The inexplicable look!  She seemed sorry—which was why Julius had struggled to identify her predicament. In the context of Lady Lovelace, regret was so far down the list of possibles as to be invisible.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No, Julius, it is I who must beg your pardon. I’m sorry.’

It was his turn to have nothing to utter but ‘oh.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she pressed on. ‘It suddenly struck me. I have not been good to you. Or not as good as... I should. Or to Foxglove. Especially to Foxglove.’

Ada looked up to the presumed area where her servant’s posterior might rest.

‘I’ve been... I have been selfish. I’ve used you both. And that baby.’

Frankenstein gaped. Again words would not come. And Ada likewise—almost.

‘Awakening conscience!’ she said, equally to herself and him, utterly amazed. ‘Do you think... Do you think that this means...’

But now they were well beyond even Frankenstein’s range of experience and into terra incognito; vistas new.

‘I couldn’t say,’ said Frankenstein at last. ‘Maybe. But from what I hear tender conscience was not exactly your forte during life. In fact, the word is that it was a very small still voice indeed...’

Lady Lovelace freely admitted it with a nod.

‘I could always ignore it. But now...’

She didn’t dare say so but as a doctor Frankenstein was hardened to delivering stark judgements.

‘Full humanity...?’ he ventured.

Ada gingerly looked within—and flinched from a tender place. Her eyes widened.

‘No,’ she said, stunned, ‘more than human...’

Frankenstein realised he stood on the edge of scientific immortality, as great if not more so that his great uncle Victor. Spontaneous Lazaran remission!  The recovery by sheer force of will of all that had been lost with life!  No: more than all!

And all his to report and claim as his own if he wanted. As long as the species lasted his name would be remembered. A heady temptation!

But in the course of his mad career across the continent in Ada’s company Julius had changed too. Renown no longer blew so strongly upon his trumpet.

‘Do you regret it?’ he asked instead of all the obvious, dry, questions about how and why. ‘Are you sorry you studied the Sistine?’

Lady Lovelace looked at him again and for the first time Julius could see a soul behind the eyes. Her flesh might still be cold but she was not.

Everything was changed accordingly: not just with her or in the confines of the carriage but world-wide. The implications exploded and spread out like his Versailles Hellburner.

‘No,’ Ada answered, shocking herself. ‘No!’

‘Oh ho!’ said Nelson, returning at just the wrong moment and seizing with a death-grip the wrong end of the stick. ‘Turned you down has she, Frankenstein?  Never mind. Lazaran flesh is like cold pork anyway—and I speak as one so I should know. Terrible!  Be patient. Wait until you see the live ladies of Naples. Mmmmm!’

The Admiral smacked his blue lips.

‘De-licious!  Every one of ‘em soft-palmed and full-bottomed to a man—if you get m’drift. And if you’re famous enough they’ll even go with a deader!’

There was a great spray of blood across his tunic—apparently not his own—and he bore a darkly wet sack. Dumped upon the seat whatever was within immediately began to seep out and stain.

With an abrupt movement that made his companions jump, the Admiral rammed his sword pommel against the carriage roof.

‘On,’ he bellowed to those above. ‘On to Naples!  Take me to my ships!’

Soon there came the crack of whip and creak of harness, and off they set again.

‘Where were we?’ said Nelson, fidgeting to sit his thin frame comfortably. ‘Oh yes, you two. You three if you count the flunky up there...’

Again he thumped the carriage roof with his sword. Above them both Foxglove and the driver frowned in puzzlement—if they went any faster they’d leave the infantry behind. They reached a silent, tacit agreement between them that the noise hadn’t happened.

A pity, because Foxglove never enquired afterwards and learnt of his mistress’ ensuing vote of confidence. It would have swelled his loyal heart to bursting.

‘Oh, but I do count him,’ said Ada. ‘Never more so.’

‘Very commendable,’ said Nelson, who was known for his democratic impulses (when circumstances allowed). ‘Well, all of you then:
tria juncta in uno
. Three united as one.’

Frankenstein privately raised an eyebrow at Ada. They were flattered indeed. That was the Latin tag Nelson had coined to cover his curious
ménage
with Sir William and Emma Hamilton. Classical wrapping round a major social scandal of the day.

What did it matter now? All three of that torrid trio were dead (if not gone): all passion spent. Their little sins of the flesh were surely forgiven, because if not it suggested the Almighty was more merciless than man, His creation. Which was saying something...

‘The motto of the Order of the Bath, I believe,’ said Lady Lovelace.

‘What?’ said Nelson, recalled from reverie.

‘
Tria juncta in uno
, Admiral. ‘The motto of the Order of the Bath. Which you had the honour of owning, I believe.’

She could well believe it because Nelson actually wore its gaudy golden starburst on his breast along with a Christmas tree of other decorations. Although smeared with bandit blood it remained unmistakable.

‘S’right,’ said the Admiral. ‘Yes indeed.’

Frankenstein realised she’d spoken out of kindness. Ada had acted out of kindness! She’d wanted to spare the Admiral any embarrassment. Astounding!

‘The highest of honours,’ she added. ‘Dearly bought no doubt.’

England’s finest Revivalists might have been able to give Nelson back the semblance of life, but a new arm wasn’t included. Limbs lost pre-mortem couldn’t be regrown, and at the time it wasn’t thought politic to stitch another man’s arm on.

‘Very dearly...,’ Nelson agreed, and the residue of his lost right arm, his ‘flipper’ as he called it, stirred. But it was more likely he was thinking of all the bliss with Emma that duty had deprived him of.

Inspired by Ada, Julius joined in the mercy mission.

‘You were saying,’ he prompted, to get him back. ‘About the three of us...’

‘What?  Oh yes: you three. Well, apparently you’re special. Very special...’

He appraised Julius and Ada head to toe.

‘For some reason... That’s why I came in person. To have a look. And because I felt like it, of course. It seemed a challenge to get you back alive, never mind orders. Half of Europe mobilised against you poor three. Nelson knows an underdog when he sees one. I recognised a job calling for my supreme talents. Plus a holiday: the opportunity to do a little hunting...’

He held up the dripping sack. Julius and Ada shrank back.

‘Horatia, my daughter, has a birthday coming up. So I’ve got her a present. I think it’s a parent’s duty to see their children get ahead, don’t you?  Get-a-head. Get it?’

Nelson’s laugh was like dead trees creaking against each other in the wind.

‘Terrible!’ said Ada—and meant it. Fortunately, she was either unheard or ignored.

‘Anyhow,’ Nelson continued, dropping the trophy bag to foul a different bit of upholstery, ‘me being here, me saving you, has nothing to do with monsewer Talleyrand’s command!  Neo-Nelson doesn’t dance to his tune!  Quite the opposite in fact. He’s a Frenchman. ‘You should hate a Frenchman as you would the Devil’: that’s what I always told my new midshipmen. Because that’s what my mother taught me...’