Truth to tell, though, he didn't understand much more about legs after a week of this than he did at the beginning.
A week. A week and a half. Every day, more and more often, he'd walk to the wall, squat down, and put his fingers into those finger holes. He'd pull the stone a little bit, or maybe sometimes more, and once or twice all the way out of the wall, wanting to slide through the hole and walk away to freedom. Always, after a little thought, he put it back. But it took more thought every day. And the longing to be gone got stronger and stronger.
It was a blame fool plan anyway, like all his plans, when you came right down to it. Calvin was a fool to think they'd let some unknown American boy have access to the Emperor.
He had the stone out of the wall for what he thought might well be the last time, when he heard the steps in the corridor. Nobody ever came along here this late at night! No time to get the stone back in place, either. So… was it go, or stay? They'd see the stone out of the wall no matter what he did. So did he want to face the consequences, which might include seeing the Emperor, but might just as easy mean facing the guillotine; or did he duck through the hole and get out into the street before they got the door open?
Little Napoleon grumbled to himself. All these days, the Emperor could have asked about the American healer any time. But no, it had to be in the middle of the night, it had to be tonight, when Little Napoleon had reserved the best box for the opening of a new opera by some Italian, what's-his-name. He wanted to tell the Emperor that tonight was not convenient, he should find another toady to do his bidding. But then the Emperor smiled at him and suggested that he had others who could do such a menial job, and he shouldn't waste his nephew's time on such unimportant matters… and what could Little Napoleon do? He couldn't let the Emperor realize that he could be replaced by some flunky. No, he insisted. No, Uncle, I'll go myself, it'll be my pleasure.
“I just hope he can do what you promised,” Bonaparte said.
The bastard was playing with him, that was the truth. He knew as well as Little Napoleon did that there was no promise of anything, just a report. But if it pleased the Emperor to make his nephew sweat with fear that maybe he'd be made a fool of, well, Emperors were allowed to toy with other people's feelings.
The guard made a great noise about marching down the stone corridor and fumbling a long time with the keys.
“What, fool, are you giving the prisoner time to stop digging his tunnel and hide the evidence?”
“There be no tunnels from this floor, my lord,” the turnkey said.
“I know that, fool. But what's all the fumble with the keys?”
“Most of them are new, my lord, and I don't recognize which one opens which door, not as easy as I used to.”
“Then get the old keys and don't waste my time!”
“The old keys been stripped, or the locks was broken, my lord. It's been crazy, you wouldn't believe it.”
“I don't believe it,” said Little Napoleon grumpily. But he did, really– he had heard something about some sabotage or some kind of rare lock rust or something in the Bastille.
The key finally slid into the lock, and the door creaked open. The turnkey stepped in and shone his lantern about, to make sure the prisoner was in his place and not poised to jump him and take the keys. No, this one, the American boy, he was sitting far from the door, leaning against the opposite wall.
Sitting on what? The turnkey took a step or two closer, held the lantern higher.
“Mon dieu,” murmured Little Napoleon.
The American was sitting on a large stone block from the wall, with a gap that led right out to the street. No man could have lifted such a block out of the wall with his bare hands– how could he even get hold of it? But having moved it somehow, what did this American fool do but sit down and wait! Why didn't he escape?
The American grinned at him, then stood up, still smiling, still looking at Little Napoleon– and then plunged his hands into the stone right up to his elbows, as easy as if the stone had been a water basin.
The turnkey screeched and ran for the door.
The American pulled his hands back out of the stone– except that one of them was in a fist now. He held out the stone to Little Napoleon, who took it, hefted it. It was stone, as hard as ever– but it was shaped with the print of the inside of a man's palms and fingers. Somehow this fellow could reach into solid rock and grab a lump of stone as if it were clay.
Little Napoleon reached into his memory and pulled out some English from his days in school. “What are your name?” he asked.
“Calvin Maker,” said the American.
“Speak you the French?”
“Not a word,” said Calvin Maker.
“Go avec me,” said Little Napoleon. “Avec…”
“With,” said the boy helpfully. “Go with you.”
“Oui. Yes.”
The Emperor had finally asked for the boy. But now Little Napoleon had serious misgivings. There was nothing about the healing of beggars to suggest the boy might have power over solid stone. What if this Calvin Maker did something to embarrass him? What if– it was beyond imagining, but he had to imagine it– what if he killed Uncle Napoleon?
But the Emperor had asked for him. There was no undoing that. What was he going to do, go tell Uncle that the boy he'd brought to heal his gout just might decide to plunge his hands into the floor and pull up a lump of marble and brain him with it? That would be political suicide. He'd be living on Corsica tending sheep in no time. If he didn't get to watch the world tumble head over heels as his head rolled down into the basket from the guillotine.
“Go go go,” said Little Napoleon. “Wiss me.”
The turnkey was huddled in a far corner of the corridor. Little Napoleon aimed a kick in his direction. The man was so far gone that he didn't even dodge. The kick landed squarely, and with a whimper the turnkey rolled over like a cabbage.
The American boy laughed out loud. Little Napoleon didn't like his laugh. He toyed with the idea of drawing his knife and killing the boy on the spot. But the explanation to the Emperor would be dangerous. “So you tried for weeks to get me to see him, and he was an assassin all along?” No, whatever happened, the American would see the Emperor.
Calvin Maker would see Napoleon Bonaparte… while Little Napoleon would see if God would Answer a most fervent prayer.
Chapter 12 – Lawyers
“You know the miller's boy, Alvin, is in jail up in Hatrack River.” The stranger leaned on the counter and smiled.
“I reckon we heard about it,” said Armor-of-God Weaver.
“I'm here to help get the truth about Alvin, so the jury can make the right judgment up in Hatrack. They don't know Alvin as well as folks around here are bound to. I just need to get some affidavits about his character.” The stranger smiled again.
Armor-of-God nodded. “I reckon this is the place for affidavits, if the truth about Alvin is what you're after.”
“That I am. I take it you know the young man yourself?”
“Well enough.” Armor-of-God figured if he was going to find out what this fellow was doing, it was best not to say he was married to Alvin's sister. “But I reckon, you don't know what you're getting into up here, friend. You'll get more than the affidavits you're after.”
“Oh, I've heard tell about the massacre at Tippy-Canoe, and the curse that folks here are under. I'm a lawyer. I'm used to hearing grim stories from people I'm defending.”
“Defending, eh?” asked Armor. “You a lawyer as defends people, is that it?”
“That's what I'm best known for, in my home in Carthage City.”
Armor nodded again. He might live in Carthage City now, but his accent said New England. And he might try some folksy talk, but it was a lawyer's version of it, to put folks off guard. This man could talk like the Bible if he wanted to. He could talk like Milton. But Armor didn't let on that he didn't trust the man. Not yet. “So when folks here tell you how they slaughtered Reds what never done nobody no harm, you can hear that without batting an eye, is that it?”