Frankenstein yawned. It was a bore to feign interest but their rendezvous was late.
‘How so?’
‘In that by time of our third request for conveyance, first Lewes then Rye, the news will have spread to every fisherman’s ‘spit n’ lean’ hut and foreshore in the south—for theirs is an incestuous world, bound into brotherhood by adversity and risk. Our concerns would be the subject of promiscuous discussion and, soon after, public knowledge.’
‘Really?’ That word again, this time expressing surprise.
Lady Lovelace nodded.
‘Really. As I say, on the third occasion of asking is my calculation,’ she confirmed.
‘I defer to you in the matter of calculations…,’ said Julius, unbelieving.
A distant splash and howl signalled that a Lazaran must have fallen into one of the deep drainage ‘guts.’ It was not as great an emergency as it might be, for one of the few benefits of revived life was lack of need for air. Shipwrecked Lazarans had been known to survive in the water for months, only finally coming to grief via rocks or sharks. In the past, escaping Lazaran slaves had dashed into the sea and, for all anyone knew of it, lived and failed to breathe under the waves still.
It was an enviable quality to possess—possibly their only enviable quality—when about to embark on a hazardous voyage. It merited mentioning to Lady Lovelace, if only to cheer her up.
‘Has it not occurred to you, madam, that you might safely walk to France?’
Obviously not. Ada grimaced and indicated her scarlet gown and just-so coiffure. Despite the premature streaks of grey she was proud and protective of her crowning glory.
Julius persisted.
‘I meant if you were not such a lady, if your appearance upon arrival was no consideration? In reality you have no need of a vessel as we do.’ He turned jocular. ‘Consider further, my lady: we mere living creatures are holding you back!’
Ada nodded and turned to look at him, deadly serious.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Now that I had considered. Often.’
Frankenstein suddenly felt a chill even deeper than the night’s. He’d just glimpsed a future master species different from his own.
‘All aboard!’ came a shout from seawards.
Chapter 11: A VISION OF VECTIS
Maybe it was his title that made Talleyrand think of the Isle of Wight. ‘Lord Vectis’: after the classical name for the place. The Prime Minister’s erudite little joke to match making him Island Governor too.
Well, let the great man and his cabinet laugh. If they crowned him King of Duck Island in St James’s Park, as per Ada’s fantasy, he’d take that seriously too. As ever, Talleyrand ate what was set before him and made the most of it. Made a relished meal of it, in fact. It was only who had the last laugh that mattered.
Talleyrand had never visited Wight and probably never would. However, full of good intentions now that he was solely responsible for a concrete somewhere, he’d carefully appointed a civilised man as manager. Someone thoughtful and a stranger to passion. Also someone who, as compensation for all the prodding and probing involved in getting the job, would be hugely rewarded for his troubles. Or, alas, punished likewise. Linked to that lavish salary was a clause spelling out that the penalty for corruption—even a shilling’s worth of corruption—was death. Labour laws in contemporary England had got to the stage where such contracts were commonplace—and quite legal. Many factories had their own gallows (to save time and bothering the State).
Talleyrand’s first assigned task for him (bar the prescribed sexual purgative each morning) was to rid the Isle of soldiers and other tax-eaters. They could remain in the fortresses central Government felt necessary, but nowhere else. In a well-run polity shepherdesses should be able to roam unmolested, and hard-working people work hard without robbery.
Then the Prince scoured all democracy from the Island whilst simultaneously inflating an illusion of it. Any number of ‘consultative councils’ and councillors were created: but with no real power but to feast and talk and keep themselves out of mischief. For Talleyrand did not just fear ‘crude and licentious’ soldiery and busy-body bureaucrats: he knew from personal experience that humans had to be protected from the political class no less than they were from pirates.
Of course, some social-cannibals are not susceptible to reason and, like foxes, do what they do driven on by urges. No blame therefore attaches: but neither is there point in appealing to their better natures. Lawyers were warned once about their behaviour and second time shot. There were limits even to Talleyrand’s tolerance.
Whilst still intact their bodies then hung in cages on the walls of Yarmouth and Cowes Castles. Thus, all arrivals to Wight were met with visible demonstration of its enlightened penal system. Swift, cheap, Justice, with a moral, and a 100% record of reform.
After that it was merely a matter of setting up first-rate free schools (bilingual, naturally) and then ‘Lord Vectis’ work was done. He and his manager could sit back and let things roll, relying on human nature. Just a century or so should see peace and prosperity become their default setting.
Because, in a perverse way, the Prince had a benign view of humanity (setting aside, of course, its obvious innate depravity). He had long observed that, left in peace and protected from bullies, the invincible trajectory of man was to prosper. Restrained from war and preying on one another, they couldn’t help themselves but build things: useful things like houses and businesses and families. And then they tended them like a garden, finally handing on the baton to loved ones or relatives before laying down to eternal rest, fairly satisfied. Or else drank themselves to death early.
It wasn’t glorious or noble, there was little drama and no poetry; and Talleyrand had no wish to join in himself, let alone, God forbid, socialise with such people. But he was convinced that this was what they really wanted—and, who knows: perhaps what the Almighty wanted too?
If there was one thing the Prince de Beavente, Lord Vectis, Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord was above all, it was polite. And it was surely polite to give people (and deities) what they wanted. Where possible. If he felt like it.
Word was that tax yield was now way up. People were moving there from elsewhere and native smugglers going straight, finding better, more relaxing, ways to make a living. All good signs. Soon there’d be agitation for a mainland link and Solent bridge—though he’d veto that: let Shangri-la remain its sweet self and require a little effort to get to…
Meanwhile, goodness knew what his manager did all day, sitting there in Carisbrooke Castle; twiddling his thumbs or playing with himself probably: but Talleyrand wished him well. He recalled from one interview (the fourth, or was it fifth?) the man saying he liked to read History. Well, thanks to Talleyrandian rule there were now free libraries on the Island that he could read his way through and grow even wiser (if not happier).
So, everything should have been fine and civilised and yet here Talleyrand was apparently visiting the place one morning, contrary to all intentions, and finding things—everything—gone so very wrong. Just as there was no sign of his manager anywhere there was excess signs of soldiers everywhere.
They straggled all over the place, discipline as eroded as their uniforms. And even civilians were in arms, brandishing weapons and acting like drunkards. And at this time of day too! Some of them looked like death-warmed-up. In fact, on closer inspection, they were.
Talleyrand couldn’t recall arriving (which was strange), or even what type of craft he’d sailed in. Presumably his secretary had arranged things. But then surely they would also have arranged for his reception. And not by a yelling rabble either. Yet all he could see through the strands of morning mist were men running hither and thither, all rudely ignoring him. It was worse than a Greek fire-drill!