‘Can’t even hope for a straight hanging!’ he complained, though busy with hoisting what looked like pocket handkerchiefs as additional sprit-sails. ‘Coastal Blockade operates under Cinque Port laws!’
Julius wanted to sympathise, but lacked sufficient facts.
‘Which signifies what?’ he enquired, to pass the time.
‘The old way: cold and cruel,’ came Mariner’s reply. ‘No quick noose but staked out on the beach waiting for the tide…’
Even Ada, who should stand in least fear of that fate, shuddered. Though revival had put her beyond drowning her imagination functioned just as well as before.
It was not the nicest of pictures to conjure with as they sat there, just so much useless dead-weight, whilst Mariner cursed both Fate and them.
Therefore, the voice from above came almost as relief—after the initial shock.
Four heads traversed as one as they located the amplified sound. It came from a direction from which only seabirds should speak.
But seabirds don’t speak English (as far as is known). Nor make death threats.
‘Heave to or I fire!’ ordered Lieutenant Neave through his megaphone. A gun barrel levelled through the cupola side window proved and reinforced his point. ‘Lower sail and surrender!’
Till then their minds had merged the sound of the galloon with that of the waves, but now in beholding it they could separate the two. It had a gaseous hiss and Lazaran groan all of its own. Parchment faces peered incuriously at them from the few portholes.
Ordinarily, the Lion and Unicorn emblem on the craft’s side would have reassured, but no longer. Each in their own way, those aboard the fugitive skiff had put themselves beyond those beasts’ implied protection. In their persons they personified the very definition of ‘outlaw.’ Right now it felt cold and lonely in that zone. And wet too: the sea was getting up to match their stormy fortunes.
Perhaps by coincidence, or maybe miffed at being pipped at the post, the cutter now fired a warning shot. Perhaps. Its vibration ‘thwwwwm’ed by and split the air parallel to the skiff a mere two lengths off to port. Either the cutter’s gun crew were very sure of their skills or the ‘warning’ was of the killing kind.
Between not one but two devils and the deep blue sea, Mariner moved to obey. Cursing but compliant his hands headed for the sail ropes.
Julius neither judged nor condemned. Presumably, Mariner’s thinking ran along conventional ‘whilst there’s life there’s hope’ lines. The illogical optimism that rules most men said there might still be a few seconds of pleasure between now and when they shackled him to a foreshore for death by slow drowning. That slim hope alone made surrender the sensible option.
Frankenstein was not as most men. Nor, though Swiss, had he ever much cared for ‘sensible.’
‘Now might be the time, madam,’ he hinted to Ada.
‘It certainly looks like it,’ she agreed, calmly. ‘Time to die. Again.’
‘No, you misunderstand, foolish woman! I meant for you to swim!’
He indicated the broad ocean expanse: and every direction her oyster.
Lady Lovelace sat up straight, offended.
‘I do not swim,’ she said, with finality.
‘You cannot?’ Julius was incredulous. He’d assumed that, the English being a notoriously sea-faring race, they were all semi-aquatic from their earliest years.
‘I did not say that,’ Ada answered. ‘I said I do not. It is undignified.’
Foxglove nodded confirmation.
One of Julius’ father’s favourite maxims was ‘never argue with policemen or lunatics.’ His son had imbibed that from earliest years, along with ‘Do what you want—but don’t whine about the bill.’
So instead he stood and took aim at the galloon.
Lieutenant Neave hadn’t been expecting that. No one had. Accordingly, his own shot went wild.
What with the waves and it being extreme range for a mere pistol, Julius’ reply was impressive. Its bullet shattered the pilot’s windscreen but not his head as intended. Lieutenant Neave was duly impressed, amongst other sentiments.
‘What the...!’ said Mariner. Death in many varied forms encompassed him on every side. A notion which had occurred to him oft times before now returned with the force of Divine revelation: Life isn’t fair...
‘Stop that,’ ordered Frankenstein, meaning the slackening of speed. The authority of education and class was backed by a second, still loaded, pistol.
‘One shot: that’s all it’ll take,’ Mariner advised, meaning the closing cutter, not Frankenstein’s far lesser weapon. ‘We’ll be nothing but blood and splinters...’
Even so, he withdrew his hand from the ropes sustaining their progress. Unlike the cutter’s cannon Julius’ gun was both near at hand and near his head.
‘Since we’re all good as dead anyway,’ observed Frankenstein, ‘I can’t see that it matters...’
Mariner deferred to the ‘logic’ therein.
Having got his way in that respect, Julius returned to the galloon question. Lieutenant Neave was frantically reloading as best his confined cabin allowed. Frankenstein took the opportunity to take extra careful aim.
Neave’s nerve snapped before Julius’ investment of effort could pay dividends.
‘Up!’ His command to the crew could be heard loud and clear through the pierced screen. ‘Up! Damn y’eyes!’
Prow first, the galloon made an emergency ascension, gas valves being flung open as they came to hand, regardless of grace and stability. The Lieutenant, on whom Julius was drawing bead, was flung back into the unseen interior.
Frankenstein could have fired anyway, but now there was a new fish to fry. The cutter roared again and this time unmistakably in earnest. The heat of the ball as it passed not far above caressed all their faces. When they then looked up, as a natural reaction to still having heads, it was to note that most of the mast was no longer with them. Such was the force of the blow, it had not snapped or splintered but was simply swept away in silence.
Though most likely a fluke shot it did the trick perfectly. The sails descended like a eager bride’s nightie. Straightaway, the skiff’s speed bled away, courtesy of less than half a mast left for the wind to play upon. Simultaneously, akin to the canvas, all resistance went out of the craft’s contents.
Except for Julius that is. Regaining balance via the sudden loss of progress, and shrugging off a shroud-like corner of sail, he shifted aim to the customs cutter as it hoved to.
To outside observers it might appear the merest romantic gesture, but there was method in his madness. Frankenstein had taken on board Mariner’s intelligence about savage ‘Cinque Port penalties,’ and he really didn’t fancy being slowly nibbled to death by the tide. As he saw it, once the range closed he had a fair chance of dropping one of the gunners, or possibly even the captain should he show his face. With luck, that pointlessly taken life aboard the cutter might anger their conquerors enough to deal out swift ends. Like sinking them there and then. Or summary trial. Skilfully done, hanging could be quite quick, so he’d heard.
That was how Julius’ rational faculties justified the ‘gesture’—but they were just a decorative facade, designed to deceive. The simpler truth was he wanted to go in style, and here was the opportunity. ‘Never give your life away: sell it!’ was another adage of his father that he lived (but apparently didn’t die) by.
Or, deeper still, maybe despair ran in the family.
Julius’ smile as he sighted along the gun barrel should have been a massive clue to one and all, but trapped forever within his own skull Foxglove couldn’t see all these rich layers of meaning. He had to act on external signs.
Fortunately, Frankenstein’s mouth was clamped tight in concentration. There’d be no danger of bitten-off tongues.
Foxglove’s raised eyebrow queried. Ada’s nod approved. The servant’s fist met Julius’ jaw.
Chapter 14: A FESTIVAL OF FALSEHOODS
‘Well, I say h
e did!’
Julius didn’t recognise the voice. Curiosity made him open his eyes.
As well as the cutter, which had grappled alongside, there was a ship’s officer looming over him. More to the point, the man had the tip of a naval cutlass poised above Julius’ navel. He gave every indication of wanting to pin Frankenstein to the skiff’s deck like a collected beetle.
‘I give you my word of honour as a Lady,’ said Ada, off to one side.
‘A dead lady,’ said another of the boarding party. Ada huffed.
‘Well, really!’
It didn’t work. The homicidally inclined officer’s expression and posture remained unchanged. So Ada changed tack.
‘Very well then, if the oath of a person of quality is insufficient, perhaps you’ll accept the evidence of your senses. Where exactly is this pistol he is supposed to have pointed at you?’
Overboard, thought Julius: the second phase of Foxglove’s pre-emptive strike. Wisely though, he kept his theory to himself.
‘Our galloon scout swears he was shot at...’ However, Ada had hit home. A slice of reasonable doubt now entered the officer’s tone.
‘All those solitary hours, up in the sky,’ Ada insinuated, ‘with only the Almighty and Lazarans to commune with... I dare say the imagination can run riot. And besides, his is a very junior branch of your heroic service...’
The officer considered. Flattery from a pretty, albeit Revived, woman? It sufficed to sway his decision to the one he knew he ought to make. The sword withdrew.
‘Very well, I am a merciful man; your companion shall live. For the moment...’
‘Not only merciful,’ Ada gushed, ‘but also a most gallant officer...’
Julius was learning a lot, even though laid out on deck. Firstly, Lady Lovelace had pledged her honour to a downright lie, and now she was tugging men along by the tassel. He was duly warned.
‘Hello,’ said Frankenstein, raising himself on one elbow. Speech powerfully reminded him of the pain rampaging round his jaw. It felt loose in places and stiff in others. His voice sounded off-key.
Since ascending from the horizontal didn’t provoke retaliation, Julius went the whole hog. He rose to his feet.
‘Good evening to you,’ he slurred, slowly getting the measure of his teeth and tongue troubles.
‘And to you too, sirrah,’ replied the officer and tipped his bicorne hat. The gesture was pretty perfunctory but still reassuring. Plainly they were amongst civilised men.
One scan of the balance of boarders soon revised that notion. The rank and file sailors looked feral and hungry. One was a jigsaw puzzle ‘patchwork Lazaran’—the lowest, worst kind. If their commander should choose to depart...
‘You are no ordinary smuggler, sir,’ said that officer to Frankenstein. It was a cross between a compliment and accusation.
‘Indeed no,’ Julius agreed.
‘They must be the ones, Stephen,’ said another officer, from back aboard the cutter.
Arms resting nonchalantly on the ship’s rail, this second man surveyed their prize and shook his head sadly. ‘Has to be. Blast and confound them...’
‘There’s no contraband aboard,’ agreed the first officer, also with a twinge of regret. ‘If you discount these three...’
His friend did. ‘I said I saw it on daily orders. A Swiss, a she-Lazaran and a bruiser. Now tell me my dear fellow, how many of that combination d’ye reckon are in the Channel tonight?’
The boarding party commander looked at the prisoners and ticked them off the list one by one. He didn’t want it to be true but facts refused to dissolve.
‘Can you sail?’ he asked Frankenstein.
‘Yes, I can,’ Julius lied instantly. Lady Lovelace and Foxglove did well to keep a straight face.
The officer didn’t necessarily believe it but he accepted it.
‘Then you can sail her away.’ It wasn’t permission but an order, with overtones of ‘be quick about it before I change my mind.’
‘Hey!’ shouted Mariner, intuitively leaping ahead of the conversation. ‘This ‘ere’s my vess-’
It was stylishly done. In one fluid motion ‘Stephen’ drew a cocked pistol from his belt and to Mariner’s head without even bothering to look at the man. It rested on the suddenly sweating brow.
‘Shut up,’ said the officer quietly—so Mariner did.
‘This one’s known to us,’ their captor continued. ‘Contraband or no, he ran from due authority. So he’s ours. But you can keep the boat. I’ll arrange for a jury mast to be rigged, which will get you where you’re going, assuming it’s not too far. However, I must have your solemn vow: on arrival, burn or wreck this wretched craft. It’s smuggled enough for one lifetime...’
It was obvious Mariner burned to say something but a pistol overruled the urge.
So they weren’t going to die (again in Ada’s case), or not yet anyway. A tidal bore of relief thundered down three nervous systems and arrived as bubbly, irrational, joy.
‘I swear by my father’s life,’ said Frankenstein.
And strangely that sufficed! And would have even if they’d known said parent was pre-deceased.
Many commentators blamed the French Revolutions for the horrors of the modern age, and innovations such as mass conscription, ‘total war’ and the liberation of the evil genie of Revivalism from its bottle. Most of the rest blamed the evil legacy of the ‘ancien regime’ and pre-Enlightenment ‘superstition.’ However, one feature of former Christendom not quite extinct on either side was ‘the word of honour.’ Even in present decadent times it remained bankable and might well remain so for some while, until the bank balance of Christian culture went definitively into the red. Thereafter, cheques drawn on it would bounce—and ever more spectacularly.
But that was not yet, and the quaint notion was still subscribed to (in principle, ‘all other things being equal’) by the civilised classes—if only because they might one day need it themselves to get out of a tight corner.
And, right then, at that precise moment, out on the anarchy of the open sea, there was the added attraction that it was the only meaningful contract around.
So the officer nodded and smiled and allowed himself to be fooled.
The gun was taken from Mariner’s head and used instead to point at the wounded mast. Orders were issued to the air with all the blithe confidence that comes from long command
‘Repair this.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said various voices.
The gun then airily returned to indicate Mariner.
‘And hang that.’
* * *
By then Lieutenant Neave was halfway home, both his galloon and pride punctured. Which was bad enough, requiring the tedium of repairs and an ‘I regret…’ report, plus probably some teasing in the officers’ mess. What he didn’t know, and still had some precious hours of blissful ignorance about, was just how much trouble he really was in.
If he had known, he might have fairly blamed his upbringing. The boy Neave was never much encouraged to read, and Eton only encouraged his abstention from learning. Accordingly, he never saw the point of reading ‘Daily Orders.’ Which was fair enough and true much of the time—but not the day that Talleyrand had a hand in them.
It was rotten luck. As a result, all that ‘good education’ and all those ‘contacts’ went to waste and Neave never did prosper in the Service. When it was reported what he’d so nearly done with his carbine and gung-ho ways, his copy book was well and truly blotted. Not that the Navy understood the need for fuss and lightning bolts from on high, but bolts there were and they had to hit someone.
Consequently, Neave shuffled up to meet retirement many years later as the never promoted (and thus unmarried) custodian of an old-army-blanket store in Ballymena. Soon after that, a disappointed man and still a mere lieutenant, he wasn’t that put out to meet the Grim Reaper.
His memorial in Rochester Cathedral glossed over his career and instead lied about his piety.
&nbs
p; Chapter 15: HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY. DISCUSS
So, poor Mariner needn’t have worried about a slow death on the beach. His captors’ thwarted law enforcement instincts didn’t let him get that far. Lantern lit, he was writhing from the cutter’s yardarm before his former passengers were out of sight.
You might have thought the man would be grateful for that small mercy, but sight and sound suggested not.
Julius looked on as they departed and, now it was too late, protested.
‘But the man broke no law,’ he said. ‘Not today anyway. ‘Can they just do that?’
There was no reply. They just had. Modernity stared them in the face. Efficient super-streamlined justice.
Ever meticulous, Foxglove gazed at the ghastly scene and asked Lady Lovelace if she might ‘say something appropriate?’
‘Certainly,’ Ada answered crisply. ‘How about: goodbyeee!’ And she waved to the dying man.
Then she rounded on Julius.
‘Why in God’s name did you say you can sail?’
Julius was used to her blustering by now. Compared to the swelling sea and darkening sky it was nothing.
‘I thought, madam,’ he said to tease, ‘that you doubted the existence of our Eternal Father. How interesting that you choose to invoke him now, in this time of peril…’
Peril indeed. In a distinctly double-edged development, the cutter was heading off; its grisly example still visibly doing the yardarm dance. Granted, the prospect of arrest receded with it but directly the grapples were detached and the far larger ship’s stability removed, it was brought home to the skiff how much the sea had risen. They were now rocked back and forth as though in a cruel step-mother’s cradle. It became hard going to keep your feet. Overhead, the night clouds promised nothing promising.
Lady Lovelace ignored his theological gloating. Instead, she clung both to her point and the patched mast; indicating with a furious face the unpromising scenario all around.
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