The Scarlet Code

by C. S. Quinn

  Preposterously he realises his cheeks are wet. What would Danton say, to find him weeping for the boys of France? Robespierre wipes his face with the edge of his sleeve, taking great care not to smudge or wrinkle the linen. He adjusts his clothes, straightens the coat, neatens the neckerchief. Order is restored, along with his purpose.

  If the gate is left locked, the knot of explosive tension will have been brought to the brow of the hill, only to tumble harmlessly back again. This he cannot bear.

  Carefully Robespierre turns the key in the filigree lock. Then he pulls back the gate. Versailles is now wide open, for whosoever might care to wander in.

  A moment later the gate swings open. Robespierre curls his fingers around the iron gate and clangs it loudly. Several sleepers open their eyes. One of the pacing women begins making for where the entrance to Versailles now hangs curiously ajar.

  Robespierre slips away over the courtyard. When he returns to the room of debating men, he is barely noticed. Only Danton turns curiously to his small friend.

  ‘Call of nature?’ growls Danton, sleepily rubbing the emerging stubble on his broad chin.

  Robespierre nods, pretending to be very interested in what the speaker is saying.

  ‘The piss-pots are through the other door,’ observes Danton, eyeing his friend. ‘Never known you not to use one.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘I pissed against the velvet curtains,’ says Robespierre finally.

  Danton takes a long look at his friend, then throws back his big head and laughs.

  ‘You never cease to surprise me, Max,’ he says, slapping Robespierre’s back hard enough to pitch him forward. ‘Just wait until I tell the others.’

  Danton turns back to the speaker smiling, then he presses his meaty hand to his forehead.

  ‘Mon Dieu, I nearly forgot,’ he says, ‘there was a messenger for you.’ His eyes slide to his friend, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘A messenger?’

  Danton nods meaningfully. ‘Well dressed. Lace, all that. Servant of a noble, I should say.’

  Robespierre is white. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Oh, he went looking for you a few moments past. If you go fast enough to the gardens, you should find him. He shall have to ride out that way, since the front is packed thick with bloodthirsty women.’ Danton adjusts his coat. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about? Saint’s blood, Max. Are you well? You’re sweating.’

  ‘The Pimpernel,’ hisses Robespierre, his eyes feverish. ‘The Pimpernel.’

  He sets off at a run for the vast palace gardens.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  AT MARLY-DE-ROI, POSSIBILITIES ARE FALLING AWAY FROM me, like the water tumbling from the mighty waterwheels. Time has run out. The courtyard door will be opened and the women will swarm into the palace. I press my palms into my eyes, trying to keep track of the many, many bad things that are about to happen.

  ‘We can board a boat,’ says Jemmy, putting a hand on my arm to urge me away. ‘Get to safety. Time enough to decide what to do after that.’ I shrug him away.

  ‘That is always your answer,’ I say. ‘Get out to sea. You belong on the ocean. I do not fit anywhere. I am too dark to be English, too fair to be African. I love women and men both. But Paris …’ I sigh. ‘Paris was the perfect flux. No one demanded I be anyone. And by the morning it will be destroyed. Every foreigner will be hounded from France. All those women and children slaughtered …’ My voice catches. ‘Robespierre has won.’

  ‘Then return to England,’ says Jemmy quietly.

  I walk to the edge of the wooden platform, where a rail guards the edge of the tumbling flow, and look down to the churning depths. After a moment, Jemmy joins me with a weary look.

  ‘England is trying to win France’s coastal slaving routes,’ I say quietly, staring down on to the churning water. ‘Atherton must have known and kept it from me. How can I marry a man like that?’

  A pained look passes across Jemmy’s face, as though he is trying very hard not to blurt something out. He takes a breath and frowns deeply. Seemingly from nowhere, a flask of rum appears in his hand.

  He unscrews the top and passes it to me. I take a long swig. It burns, reminding me of the cheap rum I always drink with Atherton. From nowhere, embarrassingly, tears rise up in an involuntary sob.

  ‘You mustn’t be too hard on your man,’ he says. ‘There is some truth in what the politicians say, Attica. Europe is in deadlock. Like it or not, the first country to stop trading slaves will be at a disadvantage to the others.’ He sighs. ‘Your Atherton seems like a clever fellow. Kind, too, I’ll wager.’ He sighs, lifting his eyes to the Heavens. ‘He is probably trying to do the best thing in an impossible situation.’

  ‘It’s not like you to defend him.’ I wipe at my eyes and take a juddering breath.

  ‘No.’ Jemmy takes the flask from me and takes two large gulps, wincing.

  ‘Salvatore was right,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t belong here, fighting this cause. Someone like me only confuses things.’ I lift my eyes to Jemmy. ‘My uncle has been telling me since I was a girl that my sex was a great blessing – I could do more for slaves in drawing rooms than wielding a knife like a man.’ I shake my head and tears fall. ‘I was too proud. I should have listened to him.’

  ‘You think you would have impressed those people, with manners and a fancy accent?’ says Jemmy. ‘I think you may have been fooling yourself there, Attica. I never met a girl less suited to eating fine dinners in uncomfortable dresses.’ He pats my hand. ‘Some people are born to talk and flatter, others are bred for action. You may take it as a curse, or work with what you have. Attica, you have done great good in France. You have rescued worthy people – speakers and radicals who would have been assassinated.’

  ‘How many have we saved?’ I demand. ‘Ten? Twenty?’ I wipe tears away fiercely. ‘Everywhere,’ I say morosely, ‘are men with the same idea. The end justifies the means. My whole life I have resisted it. Now I find I have been fighting for those people all along.’ I turn to Jemmy. ‘But now I come to realise something even worse. What if they are right?’

  Jemmy is silent for a moment.

  ‘They are right,’ he says finally. ‘But they are wrong, too.

  There is a place for all of it.’ His mouth twists. ‘Leading a crew of men into deadly places, you sometimes have to make decisions for the good of all.’ He breathes out. ‘But there is always one man,’ he says, ‘who goes against that. There is always one man, who will not leave others behind, who will fight to the death for what is right, and never give in. Every crew needs a sailor like that, Attica.’ The serious look slides away and he grins and takes another tot of rum. ‘Only one, mind,’ he concludes with a wink. ‘More than that and you won’t get enough loot.’

  I smile, despite myself.

  ‘When I left America,’ says Jemmy, ‘it used to play on my mind, too, that I was rootless. Then I came to realise this was my advantage. Same as you.’ He slaps my back. ‘You do not fit anywhere. Very good. Then perhaps you are a hero of two worlds. Go where others cannot.’

  A memory rises up, seemingly from nowhere.

  ‘My mother used to tell me a story about that,’ I say. ‘An African legend. A girl who could walk between realms. Through fire and water.’

  Something about that image speaks to me. We are divided from Versailles Palace by a river. As the crow flies, the distance is far less than by road. If I only could walk through water, like the girl in the story, there might yet be a chance to save the Queen.

  I picture the water, churning uphill, powered by the wheels. And then a real possibility strikes me.

  ‘Jemmy,’ I say slowly, ‘how good are you at building rafts?’

  ‘I can build a mighty fine raft, if you want to know,’ says Jemmy proudly. ‘Me and a few men once had to get through some rapids in a pinch and I—’ He stops talking suddenly, his eyes tracking to the white water bubbling beneath our feet. ‘Attica,’
he says, ‘you are not seriously suggesting what I think you are?’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  JEMMY IS FASHIONING A RAFT FROM PLANKS AND BARRELS, whilst I work on a system to get the waterwheels at maximum capacity.

  ‘Flow rate is height of the wheel multiplied by the length of the turning arm,’ I mutter. ‘But here the energy goes horizontal rather than vertical …’

  ‘No need to talk me through it,’ says Jemmy. ‘I’ve calculations of my own to make here.’

  ‘Shall I give you five buttons to count it out?’ I suggest. ‘Or will it confuse you?’

  ‘Very funny. This is numbers of a different kind, is all. Street learning rather than the book sort.’

  I return to my calculations, walking around the massive structures. I have a memory of discussing the failures of this particular invention with my father many years ago, but can’t bring to mind what the solution might be.

  Jemmy glances up as I walk to a set of levers and pulleys that operate the enormous turning structures.

  ‘If the wheel height is fixed,’ I say, ‘the turbine cannot be adjusted. Which only leaves the flow.’ My eyes wander to where the water enters the Marly machine, diverted through a huge wooden dam.

  ‘I think I have a solution to make the machine work faster,’ I tell Jemmy. ‘But I don’t think your little raft will withstand the pressure.’

  ‘Oh ye of little faith,’ says Jemmy, putting a booted foot on the makeshift raft, teeth gritted as he pulls a cord tight. ‘I’ve taken a raft like this over a waterfall before.’

  ‘The flow will increase at least tenfold,’ I say, looking at the already pounding water, the spray that hangs on the air.

  Jemmy takes a moment to eye the giant grinding waterwheels. ‘With a current like that, the water will split two ways,’ he says, eyeing the water moving uphill. ‘We will steer a path between the main flow streams.’

  ‘A raft can do that?’

  ‘Not usually. Fortunately, this one will be captained by the best sailor on the seven seas.’

  ‘Lest I forget.’

  ‘Attica,’ Jemmy looks pained, ‘what we are about to attempt … You must decide. Are you English in all this? Because there are many in your country who would consider rescuing the French Queen to be treason.’

  ‘I am growing to be more of your mind,’ I tell him, ‘when it comes to ideas of nation. Cups from the same ocean, is that not how you say it?’

  Jemmy doesn’t answer, but his expression is conceding.

  ‘Does this mean you want to stay in France?’ he asks finally.

  The question takes me completely by surprise.

  ‘I mean to say,’ he puts his hand to his mouth, coughs in an unconvincingly casual way, ‘if you were to marry and go back to England, it hardly matters what happens here.’

  ‘I want to stop Robespierre,’ I say truthfully. ‘I haven’t thought much past that.’

  The hope in his expression clouds and I feel guilty, though I don’t know for what.

  ‘Perhaps I do want to stay in Paris,’ I counter. ‘But first I must be sure there is a city to inhabit.’

  His mouth tilts up. ‘Then I must help you, to be sure,’ he replies. ‘For I am of the same mind. It’s impossible, the thing you suggest, but we might as well try or be damned. I’ve grown fond of Paris these last months.’ His eyes linger slightly too long on my face before looking away. ‘Whatever happens, it is a momentous day when the women of Paris march on their King,’ he says philosophically. ‘If we are timely, October fifth may even be remembered as bloodless. Sorry,’ he adds, catching my expression, ‘it would have been your wedding day.’

  My face feels tight. ‘It is no matter,’ I say, not liking the brittle tone to my voice.

  Jemmy gives the raft a friendly pat. ‘She’s all set. How are you planning on increasing the flow?’

  I bring Atherton’s little grenade from my hanging purse.

  ‘I’m going to blow up the dam.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  JEMMY AND I ARE EACH SAT ASTRIDE A PLANK ON HIS RAFT, which strains at its mooring like a dog on the leash as the water tugs us upwards.

  ‘It’s all about balance,’ Jemmy explains. ‘You ride it a little like a horse. I’ve given you extra ballast,’ he adds, ‘since you’re heavier than me.’

  I rock about on the plank, testing the structure.

  ‘It doesn’t feel solid enough,’ I say. ‘When I blow that dam, an extra ten thousand gallons of water is going to start turning those wheels.’ I tilt my head up, taking in their looming enormity. ‘That’s a lot of extra current.’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you there, Attica. I don’t think it very likely you’ll blow that dam. No insult to your man Atherton, but that little ball of metal can’t possibly be powerful enough. Not to mention, any momentum will be swallowed up the moment it hits water.’

  I shake my head. ‘That is a common misconception of grenades,’ I explain. ‘In actual fact, water magnifies the charge.’ I wink at him. ‘Book learning over street learning.’

  ‘It first has to explode,’ says Jemmy grudgingly. ‘Your Atherton doesn’t have a perfect history there.’

  ‘The problem is where to place the grenade,’ I admit. ‘I must have time to get back to the raft and climb aboard. The only solution is to throw it, which is not as accurate as I would like.’

  ‘Explosions are never perfect,’ says Jemmy.

  ‘Shall we give it a try?’ I pull the pin and heft the grenade as far as I can towards the back of the Marly machine. It drops into the water near the dam and vanishes in a very unprepossessing ripple.

  ‘It takes a few seconds,’ I tell Jemmy. ‘If you untie the mooring—’

  My suggestion is drowned out by a cataclysmic explosion. A tornado-like torrent surges upwards, then rains down wide enough to soak us to the skin.

  ‘The mooring …’ I gasp, but the explosion has already driven a great burst of energy to the enormous wheels, turning them full circle in a matter of seconds. There is a deafening boom of screeching wood and metal as the structure begins working at an unprecedented velocity.

  ‘You might have warned me,’ says Jemmy, eyeing the tidal-wave coming our way. ‘I’d have built a stronger raft.’

  The water sweeps us up like a giant hand, and surfs us along at breakneck speed.

  ‘Steady!’ shouts Jemmy. ‘Keep your balance! If you tip, this water will shred us!’

  He’s doing something I can’t see with the makeshift tiller, his face a mask of concentration.

  ‘I thought you said you’d taken a raft like this over a waterfall?’ I scream above the surging flow.

  ‘More of a rocky rapid,’ he admits. ‘Hold tight, there’s another surge.’

  A second wave hits, more scattered than the first, and the raft rocks crazily from one side to the other. I plunge towards the frothing water just as Jemmy grabs my wrist.

  ‘Too much ballast,’ he says. ‘I am sorry for it. You are heavier than you look.’

  The third wave hits, a broken mass of water, buffeting us so badly that even Jemmy’s sailing cannot keep the craft afloat. The raft flips completely, hurling us both into the water. I manage to catch hold of the mooring rope just as an icy tide closes over my head. In the tumult that follows I lose complete track of up and down, as the undercurrent drags me about. Then a jerk at my shoulder reminds me I managed to keep hold of the rope, and suddenly I break above water. I can see the upturned raft, dragging me upstream.

  Then a great black wall appears, blocking the way ahead. For a moment I can’t understand what I’m seeing. Then I make sense of it. I’m at Versailles’outer wall. The current has driven us full upstream in a matter of minutes.

  This is the tributary that divides the water through its various fountain routes beyond. Four massive tunnels swallow up the water. I’m trying to deduce which one I’m being sucked towards, when a ringed hand closes on my wrist and drags me to the side.

  I let go of
the rope, kick with my legs and turn to see Jemmy, perched precariously on a half-submerged ladder that is affixed to the canal-like bankside.

  ‘I’ve got you, Attica,’ he says. ‘Plenty of foothold here.’

  My feet hit the bottom rung, and I grab a secure handhold, relieved to be out of the tumultuous water. We climb to safety just as the raft smashes to pieces against the black stone wall.

  Jemmy takes off his hat.

  ‘May she rest in peace,’ he says.

  ‘That surge must have taken us at over twenty miles an hour,’ I enthuse, looking at the breaking water smashing against the dark stone wall. ‘The power of the grenade is above even what Atherton predicted.’ I am humming with the excitement of it all, making calculations in my head. Then I remember. Atherton kept vital parts of the mission from me. I’m not sure if I can ever feel the same way about him.

  Not that it matters. I remind myself. When he arrives at church tomorrow and you are not there, he shall never forgive you.

  I push the dark feelings away.

  ‘The original engineers must have planned access to this part,’ I add admiringly, taking in the clever way various ladders are placed. ‘And this almost a hundred years ago. The whole system really is a marvel. Enough capacity to withstand a ten-thousand-gallon surge.’

  Jemmy replaces his hat.

  ‘Plenty of time to make a mathematical study later,’ he says. ‘We have a Queen to save. I take it you have a plan?’

  I nod. ‘Find the way in to the passage. Rescue the Queen.’

  ‘You don’t know where the passage is?’

  ‘Most of these buildings follow the same kind of architecture.’

  ‘We should find Lafayette,’ says Jemmy. ‘He will be at Versailles. Likely he knows the ways in and out very well.’

  ‘You are not in earnest?’

  ‘He is in the palace, he must be,’ says Jemmy, ignoring my tone. ‘For all your contempt of him, you are now fighting for the same side.’