Looking to the future (and assuming they had any) Julius could now see individual rockpools and flotsam accumulations on the beach. It looked as inviting as Eden after their eternity afloat. Even the early Lazaran arrivals, or bits thereof, could not detract from the lovely sight.
‘Now or never, boys!’ called Cowley, just audible above wave, wind and ripping wood. ‘Jump!’
‘I can’t see what all the fuss was about!’ commented Lady Lovelace as she stepped ashore, barely getting her boots wet (or wetter).
If his hands hadn’t been busy keeping his balance Julius would have pinched himself. In his experience, when things seemed too good to be true then they generally were. Yet, apart from a scraped palm courtesy of some barnacles, he made it to dry land unscathed. Ditto Foxglove and almost all of them. They even retained the essential baggage they’d refused to let Mariner heave overboard, plus all their portable wealth: the latter safely secured to their bodies in waterproofed money-belts.
The skiff retained vestigial structure long enough to surf the worst rocks, sacrificially absorbing the punishment they doled out, and in dying delivered its charges into merely waist-high water beyond. As related, Ada was extra-special lucky. The stubborn pair of spars on which she stood kept their form to the last gasp, allowing her to merely step off onto sand, as though even the cruel sea deferred to her sense of dignity.
Not only that, but their undertaking to ‘Stephen,’ the cutter officer, regarding the skiff was fulfilled without further effort or conscience searching. It had been a good old boat to them and they were belatedly grateful to it, but now, as per vow, it was no more.
All that spoilt things was a final wave, which reached into the still(ish) waters and snatched back two seamen. Like a spiteful child it lifted them up and smashed them against stone. Suddenly very relaxed, they surrendered to the sea and let themselves be drawn into its embrace. Seconds later they mixed with the skiff components and receded from view into ocean. No one gave them a second glance.
They were the past; the beach was the future. The survivors embraced it.
Alas, some who had preceded Lady Lovelace and co. wanted to embrace them. A host of Lazarans, many of them displaying grievous rock damage, were stumbling ashore, dripping water and attitude. Rough treatment might have softened their bodies but not their anger. They understood dimly but well enough. Warm humans had brought them to this: warm humans were the enemy…
The random scatter of Lazarans on the beach were still enough to comprise a ‘surrounding.’ It was time for clear thinking and clear direction of forces. The polite fiction about the chain of command which prevailed on the skiff was brutally jettisoned. Frankenstein cut through Third-lieutenant’s first hesitant ‘er…’ and took charge.
‘Form a circle! Anyone with any weapons?’
They could oblige with the first but not the second. Then Third-lieutenant recalled he retained a midshipman’s dirk tucked into his stocking. Julius snatched it.
The nearest Lazaran was the best of a pretty basic bunch: no patchwork at all and fairly similar to what he’d once been. Possibly even some memories of previous life and status lingered. Therefore he was ringleader of all the enmity. He reached out for the warm ones and beckoned others.
Julius knew the score: in such situations it is vital to something—anything—rather than nothing. Frankenstein surged and slashed. Third-lieutenant had kept his midshipman rank memento in good order. The blade cut clean through Lazaran trachea and jugular, not producing the normal claret spectacular but causing the head to loll at a crazy angle.
It served. The Lazaran leader couldn’t see straight any more—his world had gone all cock-eyed. Using the interval of adjustment, the ring of warm-bloods slipped past him.
Into the arms of more like him. Cowley succumbed to a malicious embrace and could not escape it. Other Lazarans caught up and joined the group hug till the confused bundle overbalanced and hit the sand.
Frankenstein could not restrain himself from a sidelong glance. The sand under where he presumed Cowley to be was staining red.
Foxglove felled one, two and then three foes who menaced his mistress. Julius saw the terrible blows leave knuckle imprints on targets’ faces or entirely flatten noses. It was very effective as far as it went but meant neglecting a boy Lazaran who had mounted Foxglove’s back to bite.
Third-lieutenant wrestled with the stripling undead to complete absence of effect. Only when teeth met bone and a scream produced was Foxglove’s sense of duty overruled. He reached back and stabbed a stiff finger into his tormentor’s eye. Julius couldn’t help but cringe when he saw it go in right up to the knuckle.
The boy fell off and Third-lieutenant kicked him. The reward for that was to have his leg grasped and held hard. Failing to drag himself away, he called out in panic.
His companions pretended not to hear. They would have abandoned him, no doubt about it, for self-preservation dissolves all hierarchies and decencies. ‘Every man for himself’ was only seconds away—always assuming anyone could be bothered to say the actual words.
That wouldn’t have looked good at the time or sounded well in retrospect. How kind, then, of the Deity or Fate or random events to send salvation.
Chapter 17: DON’T MESS WITH THE BELGIANS
Happily, at that moment friends came over the hill.
Less happily, with friends like these most enemies were redundant. The long drawn out agony of the stricken ship must have been seen and a robust response mobilised.
The line of lancers paused at the dune line to take the situation in—and seconds later plunged in.
It was a universally agreed precept that ‘turned’ Lazarans were no more use to anyone. Even the most miserly of slavers didn’t dare keep rogue Revived about them. Once they’d developed a taste for flesh and discovered that the warm-bloods weren’t invincible that was it. Sooner or later, one dark night when vigilance was low, new lessons learnt would be put into practice. There was the Marseilles Mutiny as terrible example, and the time it proved necessary to burn Liverpool…
That principle was an expensive one. In the West Indies whole islands had to be cleared and re-stocked when local rebellions broke out. Accordingly, liberal-minded plantation owners were frowned upon, and even run out of the place if particularly kind to their Lazarans. It only took one good apple to spoil the whole barrel, and then you were looking at months of massacres, not to mention ruinous expense. And that was just on smallish Caribbean islands. If the cancer set in on a continental land mass it didn’t bear thinking about.
Which is why the lancers didn’t ask questions. They simply piled in and skewered the scattering Lazarans with zest—and twelve foot plumed lances also.
Contrary to what you might expect, some Lazarans had highly developed survival instincts. Having already lost life once before was the most likely explanation. And with this bunch, escaping captivity and surviving shipwreck reinforced such sentiments. Added to that, the more rational undead present were disinclined to take on cavalry unarmed. Accordingly, the sensible elements fled in every direction.
The rest, the barely sentient ‘patchwork’ jobs and botched revivals, or those eaten up with universal rage, disputed ownership of the beach. They rushed howling at the new arrivals—and as a by-product left Julius and friends unmolested.
The horsemen met them at the gallop and transfixed a fair few. Then, having burst through and out the other side, they wheeled and returned to deal with the remainder. It was pretty simple work for trained men, as these appeared to be. Several saddles were emptied as they passed and comrades ripped to bits, but it didn’t seem to faze them.