Two traverses did the trick and after that it was a merry chase along the shoreline, making a game of how many fugitives could be spitted on one stick. Frankenstein was queasily reminded of a kebab dinner he’d once had in Constantinople.
But stronger still, he was reminded of what a fragile bag of flesh the human frame is—and the alive variety yet more so than the Revived kind. There was little to distinguish them in their present drowned-rat state from the Lazaran horde, except perhaps pinker skin— and in Ada’s case not even that. They couldn’t just assume they would be immune from the rough justice being meted out to the mutineers.
Already, individual lancers were starting to notice the knot of people trying to pretend they were invisible. You didn’t need to be Nostradamus to foretell that things were about to take an unfortunate turn.
‘Screen her!’ Frankenstein instructed Foxglove. ‘Don’t let them see her face.’
How refreshing it was to deal with the swift of understanding! Without so much as a ‘wot?’ the servant complied. He no longer had his top hat but even without it was tall enough to serve as a human shield.
‘And you…,’ Julius addressed the trembling Third-lieutenant, ‘step forward—your uniform might count for something.’
There was no time to wait for comprehension. Frankenstein grasped the youth’s collar and dragged him along.
‘Wait!’ Julius tried it in French, since that seemed the best bet. Certainly, the lancers were resplendent enough in green and gold to number in that nation’s army. ‘Wait! We are not like them! Or with them!’
But several soldiers had already couched their lances to pedestrian level. Their mounts pawed the sand, awaiting the word
Julius repeated in German and, for good measure, Italian. You never knew—they might be men from one of the French conquests. It could do no harm. Only one thing was certain: this side of the Channel speaking English wasn’t going to do them any favours.
One of the lancers advanced—but at a walk. Frankenstein and his captive put on a burst of speed to meet him more than halfway, to maximise mutual visibility.
‘See?’ (French again) ‘See?’ Julius pinched his cheek to produce a blush. ‘We are living. They were our enemy. You have saved us!’
The man exchanged words with one of his comrades, but Julius couldn’t catch it. Either the distance was too great or it was a language not in his repertoire. The man spoken to shrugged.
Such battle as remained had moved to the outskirts of vision. A sort of peace had returned to the beach save for a few lancers ambling about, pig-sticking those undead who wouldn’t lie still. Those not engaged walked their horses over and gradually formed a loose circle round Frankenstein and friends.
Foxglove, Ada (still shrouded) and the remaining sailors caught them up. There was minor comfort in huddling close.
Julius bore up under the scrutiny. It was not in his nature to beg, nor, he thought, good policy at present. In the context of being soaked and shivering and he-knew-not-where, it was a brave show.
Which was rewarded. One of the lancers, an obvious officer from the extra epaulettes and gold braid, rode close.
‘Hello.’
He spoke French, but accented in a way Julius failed to recognise.
‘Good day, sir,’ said Frankenstein in kind, bright as he could.
The hand which held the lance wavered side to side, equivocating.
‘It may be, it may not. For you, that is. I have not decided. What are you?’
Third-lieutenant was going to say something but Julius nipped it in the bud by treading on toes.
He chose words carefully; most salient facts first.
‘We are living. Victims of the sea. And of mutinous Lazarans.’
The officer raised one eyebrow, in a not-unfriendly ‘you don’t say…’ manner.
So far so good. Julius moved on to specifics.
‘I am Swiss. A neutral. With me are my manservant and Lazaran sister.’
The last was a risk in itself, but was swift followed by a bigger one.
‘These are English sailors. They had taken us prisoner on their Lazaran carrying ship.’
Both eyebrows were raised in response to that. Which was better in its way than a lowered lance. Better still, lack of protest from Third-lieutenant vindicated the gamble that neither he or his men spoke French.
Julius relaxed. He had maximised his options, and taken all care. If things turned horrible now it was just Fate’s fault and none of his doing.
As his horse fretted and worried at its bridle, the officer chewed on his moustache for far too long. It was, to put it mildly, a tense moment.
However, such less than nimble decision making gave Julius some clues. It might be useful information if they survived.
Finally the man spoke, still in accented French.
‘Then they are our prisoners now, monsieur. Prisoners of war. But I think you are what you say you are. Probably. A neutral. Likewise your menagerie. Therefore, congratulations on your escape. And welcome to the Belgian Republic…’
Frankenstein had to restrain himself from visible glee at guessing right.
Chapter 18: A SWISS HERO EXHUMED
The organ loft and pipes were a nest of Lazarans. The high altar likewise. They crawled over them and each other like crabs in a barrel, devoid of decorum.
The few soaring intellectuals there who retained curiosity peeked out occasionally at the comings and goings in the nave; but mostly their own writhings and mountings and devourings were enough. Even more occasionally, a wild one would claw at the floor to ceiling wire fence separating the chancel from the rest of the church, but soldiers would prod them back with bayonets.
The Cathedral of Our Lady of the Sea in Zeebrugge had definitely seen better days.
As had Julius Frankenstein. In fact, he went so far as to say he’d never seen anything so hellish in his entire life—and that was saying something.
The plump Belgian official happily conceded it.
‘In the Republic we have not raised Revivalism to the art it is in France. Or even England. In the early days the Church forbade it—until the Republic forbade the Church, ho ho.’
He indicated the savagely deconsecrated edifice they stood in.
‘They’ll keep their opinions to themselves in future, n’est pas, monsieur, don’t you think?’
Not only was the official speaking French, in his own Belgic fashion, but evidently he was thinking French too. Julius had heard that the Belgians, though nominally neutral, were heavily infiltrated by French opinion—and French agents and ‘advisors’ too. It wasn’t quite a client state yet: Neo-Napoleon’s armies had swept by, not through. But once he’d settled the Austrians and Russians’ hash, and the Italians and the Greeks and Turks and the Eskimos too probably, then he’d be back. The Belgian Republic was simply embracing the future before it embraced them.
Certainly, their companions of the storm, Third-lieutenant and his men, had received precious little sympathy and plenty of kicks. The last Frankenstein had seen of them was in a farm cart being driven off to captivity or execution, they knew not which. Only his Swiss status and some rapid talking had saved him and Ada and Foxglove from the same fate. However, once that fact was established they weren’t even robbed.