Then it grew odd. Then worrying.
Foxglove proved to have a perspective-glass tucked inside his waistcoat. He drew bead with it.
‘Ah.’
Another one of those rich English words, capable of conveying a thousand different meanings.
This version mixed warning with disappointment, albeit decently restrained. The ‘ah’ stayed calm and level—not that that signified not a great deal. Foxglove’s stiff upper lip could have sustained suspension bridges.
‘Well?’ said Ada. ‘Well? Ah!’ That ‘ah’ signified disgust and irritation, courtesy of a refreshing wave right in the face.
Foxglove had been debating whether to say, but his Mistress’s query left no room for manoeuvre.
‘Alas, milady, I fear this newcomer labours in as much difficulty as we. Possibly more so.’
‘Give me that!’
She snatched the glass and, parting her sodden locks with one hand, used the other to see for herself. That left her vulnerable to the sea’s rough ways but the view proved fascinating enough to risk it. Lady Lovelace stood firm, most unladylike, legs akimbo, and surveyed her to her heart’s discontent.
‘Perhaps I might talk to them,’ she ventured, though sounding un-Ada-ishly hesitant. ‘Kin to kin…’
‘No,’ ordered Foxglove, in a rare reversal of roles. ‘Begging your pardon, milady, but I cannot allow that. They are in no mood.’
Ada screamed in fury and flung the petite telescope away.
Because he’d been poised for such a tantrum, but still making a most impressive lunge, Frankenstein caught the thing before the sea could have it. Then he took his turn.
All became clear. A running fight was taking place aboard the vessel—or, more accurately, was drawing to its close. Lazarans had charge of most of the ship now, save for the crew’s last stand on the poopdeck. A few men in naval uniform, white-faced as their Revived foes, traded blows with insuperable numbers and were forced back, step by step, to the stern. Elsewhere, in the taken part of the ship, Lazarans were taking vengeance on their former masters. Captured sailors were being forced through the rigging—turned into minced meat—or else just eaten alive. They were women and children, presumably passengers or officers’ family, amongst them. It was not the nicest view Julius Frankenstein had ever beheld.
So, the 100% malevolence hypothesis proved correct. Now, just when they’d rather it weren’t so, the waves saw fit to bring the two ships together. And they’d been spotted at last. Ranks of rank Lazaran faces stared at them from the ship’s rail, or peeked out from open gunports (open in this weather—that should have been a clue long before!). They wailed and beckoned, but not, Frankenstein thought, with his best interests at heart. Some mounted the rail, ready to jump and board.
He’d seen enough and Foxglove got his glass back.
There was the option of clutching at straws, like proposing paddling away with their hands. Or else they could just await developments, retaining residual dignity. Julius plumped for the latter and sat down.
Lady Lovelace would have reproached—maybe even attacked—him, claws to the fore, had not further company arrived. A ship’s boat, even smaller and more wave-distressed than they, rounded the mother vessel’s stern. Sailors pulled professionally on its oars, accumulating distance between them and Lazaran nemesis, despite all opposition. For, quite aside from the sea’s best efforts to capsize the craft, ex-men rained down missiles on them as they passed. Frankenstein saw one oarsman slump down, brained by a brandy barrel from above. A comrade directly took his place at the oar—and tipped the useless body out.
Ada saw that too and was intrigued enough to comment.
‘How could they be sure he was dead?’
The answer was they couldn’t, but it remained unsaid. Scruples had gone overboard before the sailor had.
Such clear-sightedness did the trick. The row-boat negotiated the danger-rich passage round the ship’s stern, though threatened by each successive wave with being smashed to splinters against its towering side. Then gradually they drew beyond the range of hand-propelled Lazaran enmity and only musketry and cannons remained to worry about.
Evidently, the mutiny aboard was too young yet for that sort of advanced, co-ordinated, action. Or, just as likely, they might be really raw Lazarans: transported for training elsewhere. Either way, using firepower might still occur to them shortly. Julius hoped to be somewhere else—even if only via death—by then.
Meanwhile, the contents of the skiff had a decision to make. The row-boat had seen them and was heading in their direction. Compared to that mere cork in a barrel, the skiff must have looked like a hundred-gun ‘ship of the line’ and highly attractive in present circumstances.
The question was, should they share those attractions? Was there space enough aboard the skiff without bringing forward the hour of sinking to now? On the other hand—and the trouble with life was that there always was another: a second or even third hand to trouble your thoughts—some genuine maritime expertise wouldn’t go amiss. Presently they were mere playthings of the storm, not going anywhere, or leastways nowhere of their own choosing.
And yet who were these men? Was it wise to welcome them aboard in out-numbering numbers, all unknown? They might well be slavers or, worse still, legitimate authority. They might prove to be as ruthless as Ada and hurl the original occupants overboard to save themselves…
It was a conundrum, of the sort that should be susceptible to the awesome powers of human reason. It certainly ought to have been vulnerable to Lady Lovelace, with her trained scientific mind.
In the event, she looked at Julius and he looked at her and neither could decide. The row-boat drew ever nearer.
So Frankenstein tossed a coin.
Chapter 16: ADA WALKS ON WATER
‘Jolly decent of you. We wish you well.’
The third-lieutenant was being ironic, which made a change from the shocked silence of previous hours—and a change, Julius supposed, was as good as a rest.
Frankenstein also supposed both responses were the lieutenant’s armour against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Not yet sixteen by the looks of him, and yet here he was directing his very own vessel—the skiff. Or so Third-lieutenant deluded himself.
The boy was wasting his breath addressing his former ship and its new Lazaran owners. They couldn’t hear his mock blessing across such a distance and through such a storm. Not that they would have listened anyway: they were too busy decorating their prize ship with dead men and bits of (therefore dead) men.
The bright side of having to witness it was that, with no hand attending wheel or sail, the frigate was being driven before the wind straight towards the rocky coast; kindly going before the skiff to see if the way was safe. Hence Third-lieutenant’s mock gratitude.
It wasn’t safe. There are few sounds so gut-wrenching as the bottom being ripped out of a ship, even if it’s not actually the wood beneath your feet. Add to that the lamentations of the doomed Lazarans on board and there was quite a symphony to chill the blood. It made even the tempest sound benign.
‘Bound to be,’ said one of the able-seamen, as he adjusted what little sail it was safe to raise. ‘When they’re well lodged on we’ll tack round the larboard of them. They’ll block the worst of wind and wave.’ Then he remembered the niceties. ‘If you’re agreeable, sir?’