“You see, she comes willingly enough,” Lacombe said with a smirk.
“Let her go, Monsieur. Take me instead. I vow to give you no trouble,” Nicolas pleaded. Lacombe chuckled softly.
“Not likely. But don’t worry, with all the gold and jewels I’ve stolen from you fine lords and ladies, we’ll be able to live quite admirably, the two of us. And when I’ve spent this loot, she’ll earn a pretty penny for me when I sell her virtue to any that can pay to take it. She’s young and sturdy. I imagine she can take hundreds on her back before she’s too used up to be of interest. And there’s always other openings, if the front gate’s too sore from overuse to be accommodating,” Lacombe hissed, smiling wickedly at Sérolène, who visibly blanched at the unspeakable degradation Lacombe planned for her. I must do as he says. No matter what the cost, if it will save the life of my beloved, she resolved, resigning herself to her fate. A deep black hurricane of fury twisted and churned in Nicolas, the seed of the storm that had been midwife to his birth yawning monstrously inside him as his rage threatened to spin out of control. Lacombe merely tightened his grip on his prisoner, continuing his taunts.
“She’s too good for a half-nigger like you, in any case. Yes, I know the trash your whore of a mother is, despite your pretty airs and fine manners. In a way I suppose I’m doing you both a favor,” Lacombe said, laughing at his tortured logic, having learned all that he needed to know of Nicolas from Madame Dupluie. A brief sliver of moonlight pierced the surrounding haze, illuminating the deck where they stood, warning Lacombe that it was time to stop talking and time to start moving.
“Stand by the railing there!” Lacombe ordered Sérolène, modifying his plan again, now that he had another and more dangerous hostage to contend with.
“When I order you, you’re to climb down to the launch -- use the handholds on the other side. If you hesitate or make a sound, I cut his throat! Understand?” Lacombe hissed. Sérolène nodded, moving to the railing as she was ordered, her steps sluggish and shambling, like the fabled zombies the blacks of her home always spoke of to frighten disobedient children.
Nicolas knew that he was out of both time and options. He couldn’t allow Sérolène to leave the ship, no matter what. If he did, everything would be lost. But his sword was in his cabin, his left arm virtually useless, and he had no weapons about him whatsoever. He was hopelessly trapped. He knew that Lacombe would use him to ensure that Sérolène made her way compliantly down to the launch. Once that was done, there was no more reason for Lacombe to keep him alive.
His fencing master had always told him that in times of desperation, when he was hopelessly cornered, the secret to victory and the key to his style of fencing was what he called “the body of a rock.” Time and again, Nicolas had asked his master to explain, but he had only replied that when the time came, the realization he needed would come to him. Nicolas had spent many sleepless nights trying to unlock the puzzle, with no success. It didn’t make sense. A body was soft, made of flesh and blood -- how could it possibly become a rock? Rocks weren’t alive; they didn’t care what happened to them. What could his master have possibly hoped to teach him? As he watched his beloved shamble slowly towards her doom like the living dead, the answer struck him with the force of a thunderbolt. Because the rock was not alive, it had no concern for life or death; that was its secret! At last he understood the true meaning of his master’s puzzle. Nicolas knew then, with infinite clarity, what he must do.
His own life, he realized, was over. The only question remaining was the manner of its ending. And was there a better way to conclude his short existence than in sacrifice for the one person he cherished above all things? It was an enormously empowering realization. He looked desperately at Sérolène as she stood at the railing, preparing herself to descend. He willed her to turn toward him so that he would at least have a parting glance of her face to send him on his way to oblivion. The clouds shifted above him, an opening in the fog appearing overhead, allowing a shaft of strong moonlight to reach the deck, bathing them all in its pale ethereal glow. Sérolène turned; saw Nicolas’ face clearly in the cool light of the moon and knew, in her soul, what he would do.
“Go now!” Lacombe hissed, irritated that she had not yet begun her descent. In that instant, Nicolas acted, abandoning all attachment to his living flesh. He became the body of a rock, his entire purpose redirected to only one thing: the utter destruction of his enemy, whatever the cost. Turning his chin to the right, he ignored the pain of the blade as it sliced across the side of his neck, missing the jugular but leaving a long deep gash in its wake. Forcing his right arm up through the temporary gap made by his shifting position, he jerked his head backward, smashing Lacombe in the face and stunning him, his satchel of stolen loot falling to the ground where the contents began to spill out around them.
Sérolène screamed, her shriek piercing the night air with its desperate shrillness. Lacombe, enraged that Nicolas should fight back and seeing his carefully laid plans crumbling before his eyes, slashed and stabbed wildly with his dirk, wounding Nicolas again and again in the sides, the arms, and back as he sought with his left arm to regain control of his wildly struggling opponent, whose own left arm was unusable. He stabbed Nicolas so deeply in the thigh that the blade caught there, driving Nicolas to the ground in pain.
“Run, Séro!” Nicolas shouted, hearing the sound of approaching voices and footsteps, his right arm and hand a bloody mess from the many knife-strikes of his assailant. With Nicolas down on one knee, Lacombe’s path of escape was clear. The satchel of loot lay on the ground before him. All he had to do was pick it up and make his way with all haste into the waiting launch, but he wavered, his desire for the vicomtesse and his hatred toward Nicolas for daring to resist him, clouding his judgment--his mind unable to decide between freedom or vengeance. Sérolène screamed again; the fog penetrated by the light of torches as the men of the ship awoke to come to her aid.
“You bitch! I’ll kill you!” Lacombe screamed in rage, ignoring the fallen Nicolas as he lunged forward to silence Sérolène’s screams once and for all. It was his most serious, and his last mistake.
Nicolas screamed with unfettered primal rage as he willed himself to one last Herculean effort. Pulling the blade from his own thigh as Lacombe moved by him, he compelled his legs forward with all the strength that remained within him, his right arm making a wide sweeping arc; stabbing Lacombe in the chest with such force that the villain was lifted off his feet as Nicolas’ desperate surge carried them both forward toward the railing of the boat. With his dying grasp, Lacombe reached malevolently for Sérolène’s throat, tearing the lace fichu from the neck of her gown as the force of Nicolas’ lunge carried them both past the still-screaming vicomtesse and over the railing. Before she could even turn to look, both had gone over the side, the splash as they struck the water the only indication of their continued existence as the mist swallowed them up along with the remaining light.
“Nicolas!!” Sérolène shrieked, moving to the railing in an attempt to locate him in the darkness. In the next instant, Sérolène was surrounded by frantic men and torches.
“What’s happened, Mademoiselle?” the capitaine demanded anxiously, horrified at her shrieks and the blood smeared across her face.
“It’s Lacombe! He’s robbed everyone! He tried to kidnap me but Nicolas stopped him. They fought and both went over the side! Help him, help him please!” Sérolène wailed.
“Man overboard! Get those sails down and weigh anchor. Cut that launch loose. All hands on deck! I want search boats in the water. Now!” the capitaine thundered, ordering two of his men to immediately secure the pouch of stolen loot that now lay revealed in the light of the torches; coins, jewels and other valuables strewn haphazardly around where it had fallen.
The sailors hurried to comply, the deck a frenzy of action. Alarm bells sounded throughout the ship, the drums beating the call to station. Everyone ran up to the main deck as fast as they could to see what
was happening. Julienne, who had been awakened by the screams and had noted with horror her cousine’s missing form, was one of the first up on deck, running forward with only a thick dressing gown to cover her as she saw Sérolène surrounded by the capitaine and the ship’s officers.
“Dear God, Lena, what’s happened?” Julienne asked frantically, wiping away the blood on Sérolène’s face with her gown as Sérolène clung to her in desperation.
“Lacombe tried to kidnap me! He’s robbed everyone, you see. Nicolas surprised him and ruined his escape. They fought and now they’ve both gone over the side!” Sérolène wailed.
“Where’s my husband? He must be made aware of what’s happened,” Julienne exclaimed as the rescue boats were lowered into the water, torches burning brightly.
“Oh! Lacombe struck him on the head and dragged him into one of the cabinets on the first deck near his cabin,” Sérolène recounted.
Julienne’s eyes were wide in shock. Some men who had heard the words of the vicomtesse rushed to look for the missing comte. A circle of support and protection now formed around both Sérolène and Julienne as the marquis came up on deck along with the Salvagnacs; all were clustered together in astonishment as the situation was explained to them. A groggy Francis soon joined them, having been liberated from his enclosure, his senses only somewhat restored. Julienne clung to him in relief, her tears flowing freely as she thanked providence for the safe deliverance of her husband. If there were any doubts that they loved each other, they were now firmly erased by the heartfelt emotion each felt on seeing the other.
“Oh, Francis! I was so frightened that something had happened to you,” Julienne cried out in stunned relief.
“I’m all right. But what on earth has happened here?” Francis asked. Julienne explained as best as she could what Sérolène had told her.
“Dear God! I must go with the men to help search!” Francis declared.
“Francis! It’s too dangerous!” Julienne pleaded with him, desperate that he should not risk himself in such a way.
“It’s my brother out there. Don’t you understand?” he exclaimed, sick to his stomach at the seeming disaster that had befallen them. He turned to try and gain a place in one of the boats not yet launched, but a hand on his arm stayed him.
“No, Francis, you must remain here with us. I do not doubt your devotion to your brother, but I beg you to think also of me. I could not bear the loss of both my sons,” the marquis said. The grim expression on his father’s face settled the matter, Francis moving to embrace the marquis, their grief surpassed only by that of the vicomtesse, who was visibly ashen and distraught.
“Signal the other ships with lanterns! Ask any and all who are able, to come to our aid,” Capitaine Closon shouted from his position on the rear deck as he began to oversee the rescue operations.
There were many lights on the water now as the search boats attempted to find any traces of the men lost to the sea. Voices could also be heard calling about in the darkness, but none was heard in reply. The principal passengers were huddled into the main stateroom to await the results of the search, the buzz of gossip everywhere as the extraordinary chain of events was explained to all. Everyone was asked to go and search lockers and safe boxes for missing belongings, many returning to declare that they had in fact been robbed. Everyone wondered what would put Lacombe up to such a thing, many of those who had shown him favor now declaring that they had never liked the look of him or trusted him. Once all the lamps had been properly restored aboard the ship, the bloodstains in the corridor seeping from underneath the door of Lacombe’s cabin led the crew to the body of the Baron de Ginestas, whose murder was also announced to everyone.
“Well, all’s well that ends well. I always said he had a suspicious air about him. Now he’s gone over the side and hopefully he’ll drown as he deserves,” Madame Dupluie declared cavalierly, being one of the few passengers who had too little for Lacombe or anyone to bother with. The other passengers regarded her in silent outrage, none having forgotten that in addition to losing their possessions, two men had gone into the sea, and another had been slaughtered like an animal.
“Really, Mother, how can you be so cruel? Have you not a thought for the feelings or the sacrifices of others?” Virginie spoke up in open rebellion against her mother, who, seeing the looks on the other faces in the room, reluctantly admitted her error by employing what was for her, the very unaccustomed practice of remaining silent. Appalled by her mother’s behavior, Virginie rose from her place to sit next to Sérolène who was being comforted by the Baronne de Salvagnac and Julienne, the baron remaining on deck to lend what moral support he could to Francis and the marquis.
“I’m praying for him too, with all my heart,” Virginie avowed sincerely. Sérolène could only reply with a grief-stricken nod, her entire frame wracked with deep, choking sobs, her face streaked with the copious outflow of her tears and the reddish remnants of Ginestas’ smeared blood. The sound of her lamentation was so pitiable that it pierced even the most hardened of hearts.
“Come, my darling, let us return to our cabin to await the hoped-for news of the chevalier’s recovery. I beg you not to despair. It’s been quite an ordeal that you’ve experienced but do not forget the man that he is. I’m sure your valiant knight will soon be with you again,” Madame de Salvagnac whispered soothingly to Sérolène, who allowed herself at last to be led away from the grim center of the recovery efforts by her aunt and Julienne.
The crew continued their search well into the early hours, boats remaining on the water even as the sky began to lighten with the approach of dawn. The thick mist however, refused to relinquish its hold on the ship and the area about it, hampering the rescue efforts. Most of the passengers, having recovered what they could of their belongings from Lacombe’s treasure satchel under the watchful eyes of the crew, had gone back to their own habits and routines with relief, happy that the scope of the calamity had now been limited exclusively to the Montferrauds and the unfortunate Ginestas. Toward midday, after a long but unfruitful search, the capitaine addressed everyone who still remained upon deck whose relationship to the missing compelled them to remain on watch with the searchers.
“I urge you all to get some rest. We are doing our best and will remain on station as long as we can. Of course the more time that passes, the less chance we have for a happy result. Given the currents, the temperature of the water, and the obscurity of the weather, I wish to caution you all that if we do not have success in the next few hours, the odds are very much against us,” Capitaine Closon reported somberly.
The marquis and Francis nodded their understanding, but were determined to stay awake until something should be learned, one way or the other. Despite their resolve, the day’s search yielded no success, and as night fell without any signs of either man, they reluctantly and exhaustedly went off to bed. The search continued throughout the night and the following day with no improvement in results. By the morning of the third day, even the most optimistic had resigned themselves to the worst. Their fatalism was confirmed when the capitaine was at last forced to recall all the boats, signaling to the rest of the convoy, which had also remained on station to aid in the search, that they had given up all hope of recovery. Both Lacombe and Nicolas were now officially missing and presumed lost at sea.
“Is that a signal from the Belle Claire, Capitaine?” one of the junior officers asked as the last of the search boats was recovered. Closon looked across at the coded flags that flew from the rigging of the other merchant ship.
“It appears so. What’s your reading of it?” Closon asked. The young officer, a former seaman who had been provisionally promoted in the wake of Lacombe’s treachery and betrayal, scanned the coded flags to decipher the message; his first test of command.
“Relaying message from Pomerol. Body recovered. Sending for identification. Wait arrival of launch,” the newly promoted officer said.
“Dear God. As if they haven’t suffered eno
ugh. Whoever it is that’s been found, there can hardly be any hope for the other. I suppose I’ll go deliver the unpleasant news to the marquis. God give them all strength. They’re going to need it,” the capitaine declared.
The marquis turned his head at the soft rapping on his cabin door, every moment filled with excruciating regret as he progressed slowly through his waking nightmare. All the plans and schemes that had seemed so important to him only a few days ago were now little more than fanciful dreams. How he regretted not spending more of his time on the voyage with Nicolas, instead of holed up with the baron. There were so many things he wanted to say to his son, and now it was all too late. Much as he wanted to hope, he was an experienced enough seaman to know that there was no use in denying the fact that his son was gone.
“Come in,” Blaise said softly. The door opened to reveal the somber face of Capitaine Closon.
“Sorry to disturb you, Monseigneur, but we’ve had a message from the Pomerol. They were the farthest ship south and they’ve found a body. After three days in the sea, I expect it won’t be in very good condition. It’s being brought aboard by launch to be identified. We’ll need you and perhaps the comte as well to certify things, if it is him. But even if it’s Lacombe they’ve found, well…the chances are very remote that…” the capitaine trailed off.
Love and Honor Page 41