“Divinities are inclined to do that when there is messianic labor to be done,” Ned murmured, covering his skepticism with an irony so gentle that it was hardly perceptible. “Even the Christian God—who had a long history of bullying his creations, if the Old Testament is to be believed—was prepared to grant incarnation to his son, before tiring of the game and forsaking him to crucifixion. You might read your lessons differently, Mademoiselle, but everything I know of gods suggests that they will always let you down in the end, having nothing but contempt for the Rights of Man.”
When the zambo had drawn alongside, thought, the pretty woman was very quick to speak to them in a language that Ned did not understand. He was reasonably fluent in French, which was the native language of Haitian whites and blacks alike, but this must have been a form of Tairo. The zambo in the boat, however, did not immediately fall to their knees and bow down before their would-be Queen. Although they were clearly excited by what she told them, some of them seemed to be treating what she said with the utmost suspicion. The crewmen were clearly not united in their opinion, for they immediately fell to arguing among themselves. Marie Laveau continued to harangue them, and seemed to be gaining the upper hand—although it seemed to Ned that she was not best pleased by whatever information they were giving her. The quarrel faded away though, and their rescuers eventually seemed willing to accept whatever instructions she was giving them
While this parley was in progress, the zambo men looked at Ned with even greater suspicion, but their attitude changed thereafter. Their chief eventually turned to him and asked, in French: “What ship cast you adrift?”
Ned was not ready to assume that the sailor was merely checking up on what Marie Laveau had told him; he had not heard the words “Belleville” or “Desart” anywhere in her discourse, and thought it possible that she had deliberately left that part of the explanation for him to give. “We were passengers on the French vessel Belleville,” Ned told him, “which was taken by pirates last night. I believe the pirate vessel was the Cayman, commanded by Amédée Desart.”
This statement did, indeed, seem to be news to the zambo, and caused some consternation among them. Some of them muttered apparent curses in the tongue that Marie Laveau understood.
“They’re angry,” she whispered to Ned, in English. “They were after the Belleville themselves, and are annoyed to have been forestalled. They did not expect me, as I had hoped, but once I can offer them proof of who and what I am, they will follow me. You must help me.”
Ned was not at all sure that he could see the necessity, but he was anxious not to offend anyone for the moment. “I’d never realized that agricultural machinery was of such passionate interest to pirates,” he muttered, before raising his voice to say, in French: “Will you take us to General Mortdieu? I have information to impart that will interest him.”
That cast a pall of silence over the zambo; they looked at him with new interest and even deeper suspicion. “What do you know of the zombie Mortdieu?” the man in charge of the launch asked.
“I met him once in London,” Ned declared, airily. “We crossed swords, briefly, but parted on reasonably good terms. I believe that I saved him some trouble on the wharf at Greenhithe. It’s to me, more than any other individual, that he owes his easy escape from England. He’ll be interested to see Gentleman Ned Knob again, I’m sure.”
Marie Laveau seemed to think that this particular stratagem was a poor answer to her demand that he must help her, but he took the liberty of touching her forearm. “Patience, Milady,” he said, in English. “These crude fellows might be reluctant to recognize you for what you are, but if Mortdieu has a zambo crew, he must have made an alliance with your people. Once we’re ashore, you’ll have your chance to spread the word. Trust me to serve as your protector for a while longer, where Mortdieu is concerned, and I shall be glad for you to serve as mine when the time comes.”
In the meantime the men from the launch had exchanged a few muttered comments in their own language, the upshot of which was that Marie Laveau and Ned Knob were welcomed aboard the launch and given a water-bottle from which to sip while the dinghy was taken in tow and they were rowed back to the steamship.
Once aboard the larger vessel, Marie and Ned were both hustled below decks to the chart-room, where Ned found himself face to face once again with the Grey General and would-be Emperor of the Resurrected Dead. Considering his condition, he looked well; the strange hue of his flesh gave him the appearance of a man of iron, further emphasized by the grey military greatcoat that he wore, despite the heat. His trousers were also grey, as was the scabbard of the ceremonial saber he wore at his belt. He had a manner to match his costume, and it was not surprising that the zambo were in awe of him—although, if Ned read their expressions correctly, familiarity had already begun to take the edge off that awe.
“I know you,” the General said, in French, and in a manner that left much to be desired in terms of courtesy. He was staring at Ned.
Ned bowed, in a slightly florid manner. “You owe me a debt, Monsieur, it’s true,” he replied, also in French. “You may consider it discharged, for we might well have perished before any other help arrived. In truth, I’m glad to see you for other reasons, too. I have news of your most successful counterpart, Victor Frankenstein’s first creation—the Adam of the new Grey race. You’re more fortunate than you know in having found us, for this is Marie Laveau, a direct descendant of Queen Anacaona, and a custodian of the secret wisdom of the zambo. There’s none more expert than she in the making of Grey Men, for she has been traveling in America and France, and has supplemented the knowledge of her tribe with further lore.”
General Mortdieu was very different from the zambo. He seemed to take all this aboard with uncanny equanimity, but there was a strange gleam in his eyes—which no longer had any of the dullness of death about them. He was evidently intrigued—more so, perhaps, by Marie Laveau than by Ned.
“Sit down,” the Grey Man growled, indicating two of the stools that were bolted to the floor beside the chart-table. Mortdieu evidently wanted to treat them as subordinates—perhaps even prisoners—but Ned judged that he was not entirely confident that he had sufficient autocratic authority, even aboard his own stolen ship.
Mortdieu turned to the zambo who had escorted the two castaways down from deck, and took one of them aside for a murmured conversation in French. This time, Ned did hear the words “Belleville” and “Desart” mentioned. Again, Mortdieu received the news without his grey face changing expression, and calmed his crewman with a few curt words. Then he raised his voice to issue the order to return to shore at full speed.
He returned to his own stool and sat down before addressing Ned, this time in English: “Tell me exactly how you came to be set adrift,” he ordered, curtly.
Marie—evidently having seen Mortdieu’s muted reaction to what Ned had said about her—immediately attempted to reassert her own authority. “I was traveling to Port-au-Prince aboard the Belleville, General,” she said, imperiously, in French. “I had undertaken a mission to Paris on behalf of my people. The Belleville was intercepted by the Cayman, a buccaneer out of La Tortue, captained by Amédée Desart. He had been hired to capture her cargo of agricultural machinery, by someone intent on making sure that it did not reach Jean-Pierre Boyer—perhaps the French government, perhaps the Americans, perhaps even Bahamians intent on improving their own production. Two mestizos in his crew, evidently having been forewarned by the same agent of my presence aboard, took it upon themselves to murder me, having already stabbed my bodyguard to death on deck. Monsieur Knob was kind enough, and valiant enough, to cut them down like the dogs they were.
“Desart would probably have murdered us both, but there was another Enghlishman aboard, with whom he was inclined to come to some kind of arrangement, and his intercession led to the small concession of our being set adrift. I’m glad to learn that Desart was not the only man ambitious to capture the machinery, and that my
own people knew its value. Ours is a rich land, if its plantations can be properly cultivated and managed, and the aftermath of the English war has increased the prices of tobacco and sugar very markedly. Can you pursue the Belleville successfully, do you think? She’s tacking into the wind, and might not find it easy to double the Pointe du Cheval Blanc in order to come into the Golfe de la Gonâve.”
Mortdieu shook his grey head, sadly. “I can operate in relative safety east of Tortuga,” he said, “but west of the isle I’m in hostile waters, and tackling a pirate crew rather than the Belleville’s merchant seamen would make the task difficult even in safer waters. I can’t risk the Outremort in a rash venture like that. News of the Belleville’s approach reached me too late, alas—she was almost 24 hours ahead of schedule, and Desart must have had the Devil’s own luck to catch her. Next time, perhaps…but I have a consolation prize, have I not? A direct descendant of Queen Anacaona, and a skilled maker of zombies, will surely help cement my alliance with your people—which is, I readily confess, a trifle shaky at present, and will not be assisted by my failure to capture the Belleville.”
“Forgive me for interrupting, General,” said Ned, “But is Sawney Ross aboard, by any chance. I’d be very glad of the opportunity to see him again.”
Mortdieu returned his attention to Ned. “No,” he said, after a slight pause. “Monsieur Ross is not aboard. Nor is Germain Patou. There has been…a parting of the ways. Nothing irredeemable I’m sure.”
But in the interim, Ned thought, no wonder you’re glad to meet a rival zombie-maker. Aloud, he said: “I’m sorry to hear that, General, but not overly surprised. Something similar has happened in Europe, where Henri de Belcamp is endeavoring to make his own new alliances. Frankenstein is being hunted from pillar to post by the Church and various States alike, and his new Adam—who prefers the name of Lazarus—is having some difficulty in negotiating a reconciliation with his second parent. The prospective conquest of death remains a direly controversial subject, not much assisted by the fact that nature’s Grey Men—the revenants popularly known as vampires—seem to be desirous of claiming the new secrets of resurrection for their own use and exploitation.”
“You have actually seen this…Lazarus?” Mortdieu asked, cautiously.
“Yes, indeed. We’ve fought side by side against the forces of the Roman Church and the Tuscan Light Cavalry. I don’t say that we emerged victorious, any more than you were truly victorious at Greenhithe, but we lived to fight another day. That’s a triumph in itself, in today’s world—and while we can continue our work, the spark of a brighter future remains alive.”
“Our work?” the Grey Man echoed. “And what, exactly, is our work?”
“The logical extrapolation of Jacobin science and Tom Paine’s politics,” Ned told him, forthrightly. “The firm establishment, in an Age of True Reason, of technologies of resurrection, which will eventually offer all living men the hope of a second life, and all Grey Men the prospect of a rewarding existence, as free individuals fully entitled to pursue their own destiny, without fear of superstitious dread and the violence that is its invariable accompaniment.”
Mortdieu’s face remained virtually expressionless, with the exception of his eyes, but Ned observed that Marie Laveau was looking at him in frank surprise, clearly unsure as to whether what he had just said was an honest declaration or deceptive bluster.
“Perhaps I was wise to spare your life, when I might have killed you in Purfleet,” Mortdieu observed—although that did not quite tally with Ned’s memory of their brief encounter under arms. “At the very least, you might make a useful ambassador to Patou’s party, just as your companion might be a useful intercessor with the zambo. Fate appears to have favored me, in commanding Captain Desart to subject you to trial by ordeal rather than committing brutal murder.”
“Your lucky star is with you still, it seems,” Ned muttered, half to himself, “Despite the eclipse that led to Waterloo.”
Mortdieu stiffened noticeably, and his strange eyes flashed fire. “Patou told you that, did he?” he hissed.
“No, General,” Ned replied. “I guessed. I’ve known Henri de Belcamp longer than you. I’m familiar with his obsessions—and his bloody-minded stubbornness. When he learns that you’re here, he’ll be eager to come to your aid. By that time, he might have a powerful society at his beck and call.”
“Monsieur de Belcamp and I did not part on good terms,” Mortdieu reminded him.
“Nothing irredeemable I’m sure,” Ned remarked, silkily. He felt, rather than saw, Marie Laveau stiffen in her turn, and realized that she too had guessed what he meant, and who General Mortdieu had been while he was a living man. Given the Haitians’ current attitude to the Emperor who had betrayed and toppled Toussaint L’Ouverture, that was bound to make her own task more difficult.
Mortdieu was interrupted then by his second-in-command, who came precipitately into the chart-room to make a report. Apparently, the way to shore was blocked by canoes, whose crews seemed to be intent on doing battle with one another.
“We’ve nothing to fear from canoes, Jeannot,” Mortdieu declared, letting his irritation show. “We can maneuver around them.”
His subordinate explained that the point was to help his own people—Mortdieu’s zambo allies—against their would-be mestizo attackers. He did not threaten mutiny, in so many words, but it was obvious that this was one instance in which Mortdieu was expected to serve the interests of the zambo rather than the other way around.
“Very well,” said the Grey Man, curtly, and then gave orders for the armory to be opened and guns issued to the crew’s marksmen—although he issued stern warnings against the wasting of ammunition, which Ned deduced to be in exceedingly short supply.
As the Outremort’s engine roared more violently than before, the General turned back to his guests and beckoned to them, inviting them to follow him on to the bridge. “Are you familiar with the lie of the land in the north-eastern part of Saint-Domingue?” he demanded of Marie, as they ascended the stairway.
“No,” she admitted. “I was born and raised in New Orleans; I’ve spent very little time in Haiti itself, and almost all of that in Port-au-Prince.”
“That’s a pity,” said the Grey Man. “We’re under siege, and someone with sophisticated local knowledge might be able to give useful advice as to how to lift it.”
“Mestizos?” Marie asked.
“Yes—if it were Boyer’s army we’d have been overwhelmed by now, but there were precious few mestizos with Jean-Jacques Dessalines at the battle of Vertières, and there’s a schism within the troops that were there. The mulattos think that Boyer has betrayed them—they expected to be given full rights of citizenship immediately, in return for their support, but Boyer’s dragging his feet, under pressure from the purist blacks. Boyer has more important things to think about than us—the fate of the Republic’s hanging by a thread.”
“As the fate of the French Republic was just a little while ago,” Ned could not resist remarking. “Is Boyer strong enough to save it do you think—with or without proclaiming himself Emperor?”
Mortdieu stared at him again, but they were on the bridge now, and the Grey Man postponed his reply in order to take stock of the situation. The coastline of Hispaniola was no more than a thin line on the horizon, but the expanse of sea ahead was littered with canoes—Ned counted 30 before giving up, and he estimated the total at something over 100. Some of them, he presumed, might have set forth on the rescue mission that Marie Laveau had optimistically anticipated—but if so, they had been swiftly pursued. He could not tell the members of one hybrid race from another at such a long range, but he judged from the way that the canoes were maneuvering that the mestizos outnumbered the zambo. Mortdieu’s muttered curses suggested that the General had come to the same conclusion, and would rather not have engaged such an enemy at present.
The Grey Man bellowed the expected orders nevertheless, instructing the Outremort’s helmsman
to change course and head directly for the mestizo “fleet.” Two musketeers took up positions in the bow, with four loaders in attendance, ready to maintain a relay of six weapons. A dozen spearmen ranged in support, but it seemed to Ned that their supply of javelins would run out even before the guns ran out of powder and shot. Any canoe rammed by the heavy vessel would be capsized or smashed, but Ned suspected that their paddlers might well be sufficiently skillful to avoid such disasters.
“Better hope that your loas are still on the alert, Mademoiselle,” Ned muttered to Marie Laveau. “These pirates might prove more dangerous than the last lot, and less inclined to be merciful if they contrive to board us.”
Mortdieu cursed again as he saw the reaction of the mestizos—which was not to scatter or turn tail, but rather to close ranks and redirect their attention to the new foe. They intended to give battle to the steamship—and take her if they could.
“My people will not allow us to be captured,” Marie replied, confidently—and made a megaphone of her hands in order to shout orders of her own, in her own language.
Mortdieu did not like that at all, and made as if to silence her—but Ned stepped between them.
“Let her be, General, I beg you,” he murmured. “You need her more than she needs you, for the moment, and she might be the best hope you have of getting though this sticky patch.”
One glance around the deck was sufficient to inform the General that his zambo crew were, indeed, reacting positively to the young woman’s exhortations—especially Jeannot, his first mate, who seemed to have been converted to her cult. However suspicious the men on the launch had been, they had spread the word around the crew that they had a vaudou priestess aboard, who was ambitious to be their savior. They too believed in the loas, and that the loas would determine the outcome of the impending skirmish, if they cared to act.
Frankenstein in London Page 4