Frankenstein's Legions (50 page)

Instead, Frankenstein and Ada and Foxglove and the crack cravat team served as Talleyrand’s sole mourners. Which was probably as he would have preferred it.

They stood and watched as the smoke from his burning rose far into the Surrey sky—and possibly as high as Heaven.

Chapter 15: WORLD LIBERATION DAY

From: 
Words that Changed the World—Great Speeches of Modern History

(University Press of the Sorbonne, Paris 1895)

‘…and I, being sentient although what is called a “Lazaran”, being possessed of that spark which makes a man a man and child of God, ask this. How can it be that we dare wrench from the grave that which the Almighty has taken to Himself? Do we know better than He?

‘Further, how can we presume to make that poor wretch our slave? Is it not an insult both to He who made us and he who was made? We outrage a being who was as we are; who is as we shall be.

‘And yes, is it not the gravest of insults to our dignity as a race that we should persist with this perversion of human ingenuity, that noble calling, which we call science?

‘Gentlemen of the Senate and Congress, Mr President, I put it to you that here, today, you have it in your power to sweep away this gross shame brought on our species, to start a new day when Life is reserved to those for whom Providence intended it!

‘And if I, the first—and perhaps through your intervention the last—of my kind can find it in my ransomed soul to make this plea, how much stronger comes the cry from my brothers and sisters revived to half-life, to indignity and ceaseless labour, to an existence—yes mere existence—devoid of dignity and any wider hope?

‘There will be those—I suspect in this noble-hearted Republic they will be few in number—but there will be those whose narrow souls say, “why should I liquidate my Lazaran plantations, my undead-worked prairies on some mere point of principle? Why should others, less scrupulous, derive a commercial advantage? For Heaven’s sake,” they might say, “we let our Negroes go, but still you’re not satisfied!”

‘But I have a answer for them, gentlemen, if I may make so bold as a mere Englishwomen to suggest one on your behalf. And it is this:

‘Your words are happily chosen: we do what we do for Heaven’s sake—and in hope of gaining it and God’s favour for our nation. But we also do it because our good name cannot be bought for dollars! We are patriots! We are Americans!’

—Lady Ada Lovelace’s joint address to the USA legislature and executive. May 1st 1840: immediately prior to the abolitionist debate of Emancipation Day.

*  *  *

‘But I have a answer for them, excellencies, if I may make so bold as a mere Swiss infidel to suggest one on your behalf. And it is this...

‘Yes, we do what we do for Paradise’s sake—and in hope of gaining it and Allah’s favour on the Ummah, the community of the faithful. But we also do it because our good name cannot be bought for the fripperies of this fleeting world! We fear the Day of Judgement! We are Muslims!’

—Dr Julius Frankenstein’s address to the Sublime Porte and Grand Mufti of Constantinople. May 1st 1840—immediately prior to the abolitionist fatwah of Emancipation Day.

*  *  *

Fortunately, publication was not so swift or widespread in those days. Ada and Julius’ suspiciously similar words were not immediately matched. They got away with it.

Surely Talleyrand would have looked down (or perhaps up) and smiled.

After which it came to pass pretty much as the Prince predicted, although it took decades. Napoleon would have cursed him all the more had he known—except what insult is there upwards of ‘shit in a silk stocking’?

Epilogue: TOMMOROW (& YESTERDAY) BELONGS…

The American Civil War whimpered to a close and anti-Revivalist laws were enforced both there and in the ‘Old Countries’ too. Peripheral aberrations aside, Revivalism became taboo in most civilised parts of the world.

Towards the end, even the lowest Lazarans grasped what was being done on their behalf and came over to the Abolitionist side. After that final victory was assured.

Granted, there were still grim patches and unfinished business. For instance, dark rumours spread of what was going on in Haiti and Martinique. The oppression there had very great and retribution likewise. What comes around goes around. Apparently, Lazaran former slaves had taken charge there and feasted on their former owners like farm animals: but in slow-motion, limb by limb. Restorative expeditions went in but failed to come out.

Also Japan emerged from its seclusion, learnt of Revivalism and decided they’d like to borrow that too, along with rifles and finance capitalism. No amount of persuasion could persuade them otherwise. So, no sooner had the ‘Great Powers’ steam fleets dragged Nippon out of purdah than they plunged it back again, via blockade and quarantine. Even so, there seemed a frightening amount of activity in those arsenals and cemeteries that could be glimpsed from offshore. Christendom couldn’t bombard a whole nation into submission. Or could it?  Some Admirals saw that as a challenge...

And as for what went on in the obscurity of the Brazilian jungle, the refuge of runaway Revivalists, the least said the better. No one went there any more, except bounty hunters and/or madmen. Sullen silence fell over much of the southern continent.

But France succumbed, eventually, which was the main thing. Napoleon and the Convention fell out, as such people always eventually do, just as Talleyrand predicted. In the ensuing interval of civil war the armies of the rest of Europe took their opportunity. As did Minister Fouché, whose ‘patriotic coup d-etat’ was a lasting success, not least for him. For a while.

But Napoleon’s final throw puzzled all...

*  *  *

At the end of all this madness and human inhumanity, Napoleon sat not on a throne but a folding camp-stool. That resting place for his bum in turn sat upon the Russian steppe on an autumnal evening. The sole advantage his famed tactical eye could discern from there was that snow was antiseptic.

For His Imperial Highness would have far preferred to be in the comfortable and germ-free environment of the Palace of Versailles, but Destiny decreed otherwise. The Emperor went along with that: because one thing you could say for the (ex) man was that he always ate what was put before him.

Mind you, if so, he was dining on a dog’s dinner. His normal insistence on strict protocol was suspended the same way as concerns about infection. Right now for instance, Napoleon Bonaparte was having to take unabashed criticism—indeed abuse!—from his Marshals and senior generals, the same ungrateful wretches he’d personally raised from obscurity to greatness and gold braid.

His children, his dynasty, should have been some support but weren’t. It transpired that loyalty wasn’t uppermost in their natures—unlike ambition. The Emperor-in-exile had been obliged to execute some for plotting and worse. Which was, when he considered it, an awful waste of all his effort, not to mention those traumatic ‘galvanic enemas’…

The first few were dealt with discreetly by poisoning their serum, but their depressingly frequent successors got to meet Madame Guillotine. There was entertainment for the rabble in that, so Napoleon reasoned, in thus seeing the high and mighty brought low. Not to mention a fable for all the family, with a strong moral and, most importantly, a hundred per cent record of reform.

So much for ‘reason.’  The policy did prove educational, but not in the way intended. The plots simply got more subtle and in the end, to avoid a King Herod style massacre of offspring, the Emperor was obliged to be forgiving. It ran contrary to his nature, but, looking on the bright side, served to keep him on his toes when advancing years meant natural brilliance might be dimming. However, family meals became a trifle fraught (and crowded) when bodyguards and food tasters easily outnumbered the guests.

But now that Napoleon and his army were on the march (or on the run, to be specific) there was no time for decorum. Family traitors were dealt with en route, and handy trees roped in to hang them from. It made a very public point but proved a bad idea in terms of time-saving. Lazarans, even this new breed of demi-Lazarans, took a frustratingly long time to die by strangulation. In the end, troops were called in to tug on the feet till the head came off.

Yet Bonaparte’s devilish luck still held. Even such sordid spectacles proved grist to the Imperial mill. As it passed by the army reflected that if the Emperor behaved thus to his own kin, then what mercy could others hope for?  Their resolve about marching into Muscovite mists temporarily stiffened.

However, like all moods, that passed, to be replaced by something more truculent as the first snows started to fall. Casualties due to cold began and mass desertions occurred for the hovering clouds of Cossacks to hunt down. Like some put-upon mule, the army slowed and then finally stopped dead without being told to.

The Emperor was equal to it. He knew that swine sometimes needed the food-pail rattled to tempt them on. The regiments were gathered round and megaphones set up for him to address as many as possible simultaneously.

For the occasion, the survivors of the Imperial family purges stood in a semi-circle around their father, radiating a personal chill to add to the winding-down-towards-winter steppe ambience. Their gold braid and lace and scarlet finery not only failed but actually highlighted their feeble frames and parchment faces. The whinging military wilted under their inhuman steady stare.

Even so, now was the time the generals found collective strength to hold their ground, to bring their private grumbling out into the open. The Emperor had carried them this far via a dazzling series of manoeuvre victories which left the Allied armies behind, bruised and baffled. That campaign right the length of Europe probably constituted the technical summit of his career—but what had it gained them or him in the long term?  Those enemy armies weren’t going away. They remained strong enough in conjunction to crush this last Grande Armée. It was even said a Neo-Wellington had been raised, in contravention of all the anti-Revivalist legislation, to supervise that end-game.

Meanwhile, deep in enemy territory, all Napoleon’s men could see was the scorched earth of Mother Russia and signs of the onset of that infamous winter that had swallowed an entire French invasion last time around.

‘What’s this?’ called out a junior general. ‘1812 all over again?’

That first brave voice of protest was supported—once he wasn’t immediately shot down. Murmurs mounted into cacophony.

The general thrust was that Napoleon was adding to the world’s sum of stupidity and that his rank and file were... well, concerned about this. Apparently, they were concerned to the point of mutiny and stringing him up.

Then Napoleon stood and, through pure personal force, silenced them—for a moment. Which was enough.

In deference to decency and Imperial dignity rather than to the cold, he was clothed in a wrap-around coat of cloth of gold. The Emperor drew it about himself and plunged one hand within to strike an iconic pose.

‘Frenchmen!’ he roared, in a voice not in keeping with his shrunken state. ‘Citizens! Friends! You have come with me this far. We have prevailed against invincible odds with the proverbial two men
et un chien
. You have shown faith!  And now I shall repay that faith. Men unborn will count themselves cursed that they were not here today. And that is because this day I will take you into my confidence—as friends do...’

The soldiers and all within earshot looked from one to another. This was new. During the Revolution and then under the Convention, the great motivator was fear. With the Emperor it was fear and orders. Plus excitement sometimes, from jumping aboard the speeding stagecoach of the Imperial project. But as partners? ‘Friends’ even?  They thought not. Here was heady novelty—enough to postpone the shouting and prolong listening.

Neo-Napoleon had perfect timing, both on the battlefield and as a demagogue. He’d paused for effect and then suddenly plunged in.

‘I have brought you back here to a purpose: an end; namely the end thirty years ago of my first
Grande Armée
. But also to a new beginning. That army, the biggest and best—present company excepted—army that France ever raised, is still with us. It lies here! The corpses of half a million elite warriors reside in pits from here to the outskirts of Moscow. They are as I left them—preserved in perfect state by that same cold which killed them. Do you not see?’

A few did already, and most had a glimmer. They looked around at the birch forest and each green bulge in the ground, seeing everything anew and replete with potential life—of a kind.

‘We have with us,’ the Emperor continued, his voice rising, ‘the last of Europe’s Revivalists: the cream of the Compeigne and Versailles factories. Elsewhere, they are all in disgrace or the grave! Now do you see?’

Now far more did. A buzz of excited chatter grew.

‘They—they—the dull, the reactionary, the mundane, have driven us to the fringes of civilisation, thinking that our dreams will die here. Little do they know. Little do they know me! Reinforcements await us for the asking. Unanswerable reinforcements! We shall revive them!’

All but the hard-of-understanding now understood. They cheered. Hats took to the air.

‘
Friends!
’ said Napoleon. For I now call you “friends”: a band of brothers!  Do we seek to conquer Russia?’

They weren’t sure. Some, carried away, yea’ed. The majority, unsure, hesitated.

‘No, we do not,’ the Emperor answered for all. ‘That can come later. That is mere detail. No, the reason we have come here, together, is to claim our own, our right! Today, a new army. Tomorrow, the conquest of old Europe. And then? Who knows? But I promise you this: there will be medals—and looting!  And burning cities! And willing women! There will be immortality. There will be purpose to life. There will be glory!’