‘If you ask me, I think we should reserve it for an after tea stroll on Sunday. Our innkeeper tells me he expects good weather on Sunday…’
‘Foxglove, make him shut up.’
‘No, milady,’ said he. ‘It’s for your own good…’
Which was a turn up for the book. It impressed her more than anything Reason or Frankenstein had to say. Nimble as a ballerina, Ada re-evaluated her options.
‘We could get a ship,’ she suggested, burying Foxglove’s slave rebellion in silence. ‘Risk the Channel again…’
‘No,’ said Julius—and he had never sounded firmer.
‘No,’ said even Foxglove.
Ada thought on and remembered.
‘No,’ she agreed. But then: ‘Yet we have got to get through somehow.’
For a space, Frankenstein deluded himself he had an ally in Foxglove, but when he looked across at the man his gaze was avoided.
So, here he was alone again: the most unlikely ever ambassador for sanity.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why must we?
‘I refer you to the Council of Box Hill,’ snapped Ada. ‘It was all dealt with there. I got the distinct impression you were present…’
Indeed he had been. He’d not had voting rights, but he’d been an observer. And therefore complicit in the lunatic resolutions passed.
Julius Frankenstein looked behind him. There lay Belgium and, beyond it, using the eye of faith, Holland. Two statelets too crazed with commerce to realise the state they were in. Come the day the Convention could abide their offensive bourgeois presence no longer, they would be swept away in an afternoon: toy armies and all. It wouldn’t even take Bonaparte himself, but just one of his galaxy of star-generals, to deal with them in short order.
They would be juicy plums to pick. What little Julius had seen confirmed the legend that the Low Countries had exploited Lazaran economics about as far as they would go—even to the far side of the world in fact.
Belgic and Netherlands Lazarans dug dykes and forced the sea back, field by field, careless of casualties. Their treadmill power turned the windmills which dotted that reclaimed land. Then the money that earned bought merchant ships for which Lazarans were shipwrights, dockers and crew; making and ‘manning’ a fleet that carried forth manufactured goods and brought back riches. Naturally, or perhaps unnaturally, it was Lazarans who laboured twenty-four hours a day, chained to benches in the factories that made those manufactured things. Word was there were even undead explorer ships, completely expendable of course save for a living captain to report back, sent to seek out new lands—and markets.
In short, this was the virtuous economic circle that had let the Republics scale the moral high-ground and abolish slavery. They were bursting with the prosperity that came from bursting open the grave.
In the few short hours he’d graced Belgium with his presence, Frankenstein had seen as many Lazarans as living humans; perhaps more. Reports said Holland was worse. They were asking for trouble of course: sooner or later some Revived Spartacus would do the arithmetic and rise up, but in the meanwhile there was a lot of money being made. The French Convention, for all it was supposedly above things like worldly wealth, would thank the Lowland Republics for that in due course. When ransacked they would sponsor the invasion of some other countries, maybe other continents.
Telescoping down to personal considerations, the big question was: did Julius want to turn back and be a part of that, to await, albeit in comfort, the arrival of the inevitable in the form of the French?
Answer: no. Or NO! If the French were fore-destined it was better to go meet them now, on his own terms, at a time of his choosing. Which, however weirdly, meant his thoughts coincided with Ada’s.
Which in turn meant his thoughts must be wrong, though he couldn’t quite see how at this moment.
Therefore he cast about for other options. How about home?
That thought provoked a bitter laugh. Leaving aside the country-wide outlawry notice on him, the Helvetic Republic contained too many memories of murdered family. The first Lazaran of all had not only deprived him of kin but indirectly of Fatherland too. Even a Swiss firing squad was preferable to a moment’s actual residing and reflection there.
Which just left going forward. Which implied crossing the forsaken front-line before them. Which was impossible save for an army—and a army careless of its men’s lives at that.
Ada was still waiting for his response. She must have sensed he was at a cross-roads, for she never normally waited for anyone.
If it was going to be done, it was best done quick and get it over with. Frankenstein drew deep breath.
‘Upon reflection,’ he said with finality, ‘I see that you are right. France it must be.’
When she wanted, Lady Lovelace could fake sincerity like no other. She also thought she knew which strings made Frankenstein dance.
‘Well, that is where the ‘escape and adventure’ I promised you lies…,’ she said, in warm, welcome-home-prodigal-son, tones.
Julius only heard half of it: the ‘promised you lies’ bit: which happened to be the true portion, so he didn’t protest.
Thus are decisions made. Yet Frankenstein was still distracted, pondering whether he should tell all. About his terrifying vision.
It only took a further second. Being here, in this horrible place, emboldened him. Here, where so many lives had been thrown away like they were nothing, or less than nothing, put his own petty story into perspective. Why was he making such heavy weather of living a mere three-score years and ten, if you were lucky? One way or the other, not a great deal mattered much anyhow…
‘Live your life, Julius’ he told himself.
And so he said:
‘I have this idea….’
Chapter 20: FROM ON HIGH
Several scenes from a bird’s-eye view: an all-seeing, all hearing, but nosey bird, with no regard for people’s privacy.
‘Well, I think it’s a very bad idea,’ said Foxglove, before passion subsided and he remembered himself. ‘Milady…,’ he added.
‘But very stylish,’ said Frankenstein, knowing it to be a done deal anyway. ‘Bags of style!’
‘Indeed,’ concurred Lady Lovelace, not actually caring a damn about style or any other inessentials, but willing to conscript it to her side. She deemed no more need be said.
Nor need there. Foxglove’s outbursts were few and short (if not sweet), but came from the heart and with the best of intentions. The house-broken bruiser sat back and became like a statue again.
The undisputed good thing was their heading away from the terrible trenches. Less unanimous was their trajectory to the Free City of Luxembourg: as ‘agreed’—but only after argument and Julius putting his foot down. Deplored by all was the fact of their new inseparable companion.
The sinister sealed coach followed them at a discreet distance.
It had shown up not long after they arrived at the former frontline viewing point. Frankenstein noticed it directly and long before the others would. Products of their relatively happy national history, the English tended to be less skittish on such scores than continentals.
He’d let his companions in on the news directly after the great ‘what-next?’ debate. Ada had queried why they had to go all the way to Luxembourg to catch a France-bound galloon? ‘The Belgians have them too you know’ she’d said.
‘Because of that,’ Julius answered succinctly. With a flick of the thumb he indicated their new companion. ‘No, don’t turn round: they’re watching us. Just be aware we have company and act innocent.’