CHAPTER SIX
In Which Fogg's Life Hangs In The Balance
"Really, Miss Fogg, as I said before. We simply do not have the man power
available to scour all of London for one missing man."
Rebecca's face flushed in anger as she reached out and grabbed Chattsworth by
the lapel, pulling him so close he could feel her breath on his cheek. "This is
just not any man, Sir Jonathan. This is Phileas Fogg. And he would not be in
this predicament if it had not been for your telegram." She let go of his
jacket and shoved him away. "Now I suggest you get busy and call up all the
agents in the area. Or," She stared right in to his eyes with a veracity
Chattsworth had seen in only one other person - her cousin Phileas. "Would you
prefer that I march right over to the palace and tell the queen herself what has
transpired. Hmmm?"
She stood there, waiting. Waiting as she had been for several hours. And she
was in no mood to wait anymore. It was early morning and she was tired. But
she would forgo sleep for weeks if it meant more time to search for her cousin.
She and Marion Baeuvin had spent the better part of the night, combing the
cemetery and beyond for any signs of Phileas and the men who killed Jackelton.
They had come up empty. She needed help to search the ports and rail stations
and anywhere else he could have been taken. Jackelton's murderers would be
burdened with an injured man, which meant there'd more likely be witnesses to
their passage. But the longer they waited the less chance they'd have of
finding them within the city limits.
Chattsworth was also tired and in no mood to be tossed about like yesterday's
trash. He had been awakened from a sound sleep much too early for his liking to
be told that his presence was demanded at White Hall immediately. He'd barely
had the sense to dress properly before hopping into a carriage and being driven
with break-neck speed to headquarters only to find the emergency pertained to
the one man on this planet whom he would be all the more happy to never see
again. To him, this botched assignment only lent validation to his thoughts
that Phileas Fogg was a drunkard, a gambler, and very much a hothead - three
things one should never find in an agent for her Majesty's Secret Service.
Perhaps her majesty would come to her senses now and let him conduct this
investigation as it should be conducted.
"And what makes you think anything has happened to your cousin, Miss Fogg." He
inquired with a rather bored air. "Perhaps the blood is not even his. Perhaps
he injured the man who murdered Mr. Jackelton and is now in pursuit of him. As
simple as that. Fogg will either show up with the man or not."
Rebecca was wont to tell him that she knew the blood was Phileas's - of that she
had no doubt. But she also knew that Chattsworth would never understand the
bond she had with her cousin. Ever since they were children, one was always
aware of the other. When one was injured, the other hurt. When one was
heartbroken, the other consoled. When one was happy, the other laughed. And
now she hurt - unbelievably so - for she knew her cousin was very near death,
more so than he had ever been before. And pained because she had no idea what
she would ever do without him.
"I know the blood is his." She finally replied, breathing deeply to keep her
emotions in check. "Phileas would never have left that alley of his own accord
without his jacket or his sword."
Chattsworth leaned on the top of his desk, "And you are positive of this, Miss
Fogg. You would stake your career here at the agency on that?"
She leaned on the desk as well, her face barely a centimeter away from his. "I
am staking my cousin's life on that, Sir Jonathan."
Chattsworth was the first to back down, as Rebecca knew he would. The man was a
politician not a man of action. His appointment to the Service several years
ago by Sir Bonafice Fogg had surprised her for that very reason. Sir Bonafice
had explained to her that in today's society one had to take all things into
consideration - including politics - and Jonathan Chattsworth was one of the
best politicians in the country. Besides, he had gone on, it was inconceivable
that the Queen would allow someone of Chattsworth inexperience to head an agency
such as the British Secret Service should anything happen to him anyway. On
that account he had been wrong, dreadfully wrong. He hadn't counted on the fact
that his successor - his own son Phileas - would decline the offer, leaving
Chattsworth as the only possible alternative.
"Very well, Miss Fogg. I will give you a day to continue your search with as
many men as I can spare. After that I'm afraid, we will have to give up. Even
the Queen will have to admit that if he does not show up by tomorrow morning
that he will not be showing up at all."
Rebecca opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and clamped it
shut again. It would get her absolutely nowhere to argue with the man now. But
she was positive that after all was said and done, she was going to show him
just how wrong he was.
She nodded. "Thank you, Sir Jonathan. I will be taking the Aurora up to see
what can be found from the skies. You will keep me apprised of your findings?"
"Yes. I will have Boggsworth coordinate the search from here. The Queen has
asked for an update on the investigation. I will hold off reporting to her
until the morrow. But then, I'm afraid, I will have to turn it over to someone
else."
Rebecca deemed the remark unworthy of a comment. He was only baiting her, as he
was always wont to do with her cousin. Phileas, however, had the sharper
tongue, and could always rise successfully to the challenge. She was just too
bloody tired and cranky to bother. So instead she turned and left the room,
slamming the door hard enough to make sure the self-portrait hanging above his
desk would tilt.
* * * * * * * *
Jules Verne followed the League of Darkness ship as far as the dock would allow.
And still there was no sign of Passepartout - either on the ship or on land. As
he stood there watching helplessly as it coasted out of the harbor, a horrifying
thought occurred to him. Hadn't one of the men said something about curious
onlookers being thrown into the water? What if someone had actually been found
on board? Would they have done something even worse? Here his imagination
began to run wild - with thoughts of poor Passepartout being weighted down with
something and being thrown overboard only to sink and drown!
"Majestic ship, is she not?" a voice suddenly inquired from behind him.
Verne twirled around then, once again expecting to see the blue uniform of the
League of Darkness. Instead he was confronted by a gentleman in less terrifying
dress. Although not dressed nearly as impeccably as Fogg, he was at least
better dressed the Verne, which meant he was not a man of leisure, nor a
struggling student, but possibly a worker in one of the finer offices in Calais.
He was slender and fine-featured, with large grey eyes set over high cheekbones
and a long narrow nose. But none of that stood out more then his hair. The
color of ebony and shining like moonlight, it cascaded down to his shoulders and
back in wavy ringlets.
"Uh, yes..." Verne almost stuttered as he shook himself back to reality. "It's
larger than any ship I have ever seen."
The man nodded. "The same here. I noticed it here this morning as I came into
the city for work. I could not help but come down to the harbor and catch a
closer glimpse."
"You have been here all morning?" Verne inquired.
"Oui. For several hours."
"Then you have seen all that has gone on?"
The man smiled. "You are full of questions, young man. But yes, I have seen
all that has transpired upon the ship."
Verne's face flushed, "Then allow me to ask one more, sir. Did you notice
anything unusual?" He would have preferred to be a little more discreet with
the rest of the question, but he had precious little time to be anything but
direct. "Say someone being thrown overboard?"
This time the man laughed, a nice friendly laugh, and he patted Verne on the
shoulder. "No, I have seen nothing of the kind. I did see several people who
had gotten a little too close be thrown into the water, but they were all fished
out. No harm done except to their pride."
Verne was relieved, and he was certain it showed on his face. Passepartout had
not been discovered and thrown overboard, nor was he anywhere to be found on
shore. That could only mean that he was still onboard...for reasons he could
not fathom. His only hope of finding out lay with the Foggs and the Aurora.
Both of which he would have to wait on. He glanced up at the man and stuck out
his hand. "I thank you kind sir for your time."
The man smiled and took the pro-offered hand. "You are quite welcome, young
man."
And with that Verne turned around and headed back to the city where he would
await the arrival of the Aurora.
* * * * * * * *
"Excuse me," the doctor replied turning his head slightly to look at
Passepartout, "did you say something?"
Passepartout quickly, if not eloquently, caught himself and pulled his gaze away
from the pale, familiar face that lay unconscious on the bed before him. He
caught the doctor's eye and shook his head. "Only mon dieu, monsieur."
"Yes, he is in dire straits I am afraid. Sword caught him clean through. And
these b-stards only thought to bring in a doctor this morning. He's been
bleeding all night."
Passepartout took a seat on the edge of the bed, careful so as not jar the
patient. He was wont to reach out and touch the man, to shake him, to make sure
he was more alive than he appeared. For at the moment, except for his labored
breathing, Phileas Fogg looked like a dead man on a bier.
"What can I be doing?" he asked softly, restraining himself.
The doctor sighed. What could they do? He was a simple practitioner, pulled
out of his office by two men dressed in naval officer's uniforms. He was told
they had a sick man on board their ship who was in need of urgent care. He was
then spirited off to this ship with only his medical bag, which contained no
where near what he would need to help this gentleman.
The wounds were deep for the sword had gone all the way through. He would need
his needles and thread to stitch them up - neither of which he had with him.
Antiseptic to clean out the wounds once he got all the bandages off. They might
be able to use alcohol - if a bottle could be found onboard. But that would not
help if there was internal bleeding or an infection set in. The only thing they
would be able to do for the man then was to make him as comfortable as possible
until he passed on.
He glanced over at the instruments he had laid out on the table. He had so very
few to work with. But he could improvise. He would have to, if his patient
stood any chance of surviving the day.
"We need to soak these bandages off the wounds." He finally replied. "I will
need a bottle of alcohol to cleanse the wounds. And since I have nothing to
stitch them up with afterwards, we will have to cauterize them. I will need you
to heat up these instruments - possibly in the kitchen - for this purpose. And
then I will need you to hold him down for this will be very painful. After
that, the bandage will need to be changed daily and some of this salve applied
before redressing it. That is all I can do for him. He will need plenty of
rest if he has any hope of surviving."
As the doctor spoke he soaked a cloth in the hot water, wrung a good deal of the
excess water out, then laid it very gently on the remaining square of bandage on
the front of Fogg's side. The added weight caused Fogg to groan and he moved
his right hand automatically toward the source of renewed pain. Passepartout
quickly reached out and grabbed it, appalled at how cold and limp it felt in his
own warm hand. He had never seen his master so weak and helpless, and it scared
him. Scared him beyond description.
"It will take a while for the water to soak the bandages loose." The doctor
replied. He reached over and selected two long, slender, metallic rods from the
tabletop then handed them out to the valet. "Take these and heat them in the
fire until the ends begin to glow and then hurry with them back here. We cannot
afford to let them cool."
Passepartout nodded and accepted the rods. With mounting trepidation he left
the room and hurried back to the galley. This time he found the room occupied
with several men emptying boxes and putting things neatly away. He paid them
little mind as he went directly to the fireplace and stoked up the fire.
Several turned to watch him, but somehow he didn't care a chance. His mind was
bent on one thing and one thing only. He cared very little what would happen to
him now for he had meant exactly what he had said to Jules Verne earlier that
day. His job was to take care of his master....regardless of the consequences
to himself.
As he shoved the rods into the fire a loud whistle blew, signaling the ship's
eminent departure.
* * * * * * * *
Rebecca had the carriage make one stop before continuing on to the Aurora. And
that was at Number 7 Saville Row. Her cousin's London home. She had no idea
what she hoped to find there, perhaps Phileas sleeping off a hard night with a
story to tell of how he had captured the thieves and murderers single-handedly.
How he had sustained an injury - "just a scratch" he would assure her - but that
it had not slowed him down in his pursuit. And she would have smiled and
humored him and demanded to see the "scratch" for herself. He would feign
insult and tell her he was all right, really all right. And as always she would
believe him. She always believed him, because somehow he always ended up being
all right.
And she prayed to God that this would be no exception.
But he hadn't been there. Hadn't been there for some time for the mail was
still piled up on the floor and the newspaper was still sitting on the stoop.
She had automatically picked up the newspaper and mail and had placed them on
the table in the foyer where Passepartout would see them the moment he walked
in.
Passepartout....
She banished the thought from her mind before it caught hold. She would wait
until she knew exactly what was going on before worrying the poor man. Let him
enjoy his holiday with Jules. He deserved it after everything that she and
Phileas had put him through these past several years.
It was as she was leaving that her eye caught the address on the uppermost
envelope on the pile of mail. It was a telegram from Calais. Nothing unusual
about that, but the address stuck in her mind all the way back to the Aurora.
She got out of the carriage and absently made her way toward the Aurora when she
noticed a figure standing beside the door.
"I thought I told you to go home," she exclaimed, almost angrily. "I can handle
everything from now on."
"I want to help," Marion Baeuvin replied. "I need to help. I somehow feel that
this is partly my fault."
Rebecca waved her hand in the air, "Don't be ridiculous. This is no more your
fault than it is your father's."
"Yes, it is, don't you see? If it hadn't been for me going into the tavern, you
would have stayed outside with Phileas and he would not have faced those men
alone."
"If it had not been for you I would not have been there in the first place. I
would not have been able to help him and I would not have a clue as to where he
was or that anything had happened to him at all." She stopped and gave the girl
a small smile. "So you see. It is not your fault at all. Now please go home
so I can continue my search."
"On this?" Marion asked, waving her hand at the Aurora. "Will you be able to
steer it and search the ground at the same time?"
While waiting for Rebecca to return to the Aurora she had taken a look around
the outside of the dirigible and knew for a fact that someone steering it could
not possible devote their time to an intricate search of the ground below.
"I told you I can handle this on my own." Rebecca replied as she brushed past
her to the door of the Aurora.
Marion raised an eyebrow. "You're going to let your pride come before your
cousin's safety then?"
That stopped Rebecca dead in her tracks. She turned back around, gracing
Marion's back with a some-what hostile glare. "What do you know of my pride?"
Marion didn't need to feel the heat of the stare, she could hear it in the other
woman's words. She turned slowly, unsure how far she could push this. "I know
that you cannot possibly scour all of London and the countryside on your own.
You are running on no sleep, I, at least, have had a few hours. And like it or
not, I'm a part of this. I do care what happens to your cousin. If you don't
take me with you, I'll just search for him myself."
Rebecca almost dared her to try. What did she care if the girl got herself into
trouble? She'd already told her several times to go home. She couldn't be
responsible for every person who decided it might be a little exciting to follow
her around.
Problem was, she did care. And she did need the help - as frustrating as that
was to admit.
"Fine." she finally answered, turning back to unlock and open the door. "Enter
at your own risk."
Marion couldn't hide the grin. She had felt so ashamed at her own cowardice
back in the tavern, now she would get the chance to make up for what she felt
she had caused. For, despite Rebecca's comments to the contrary, she felt very
responsible for what had happened to Phileas Fogg.
"Oh, this came for you while I was waiting." She replied as she followed Rebecca
into the Aurora. "It's a telegram."
Rebecca turned, "From White Hall?"
"No, from Calais."
Calais? Who did she know in Calais? Who did Phileas know in Calais?
She walked over and took the telegram from the younger woman's hand. As she
looked at the envelope she noticed that it had indeed come from the same
address. She opened the envelope and unfolded the paper inside.
A smile crossed her face as she reread it, just to make sure it said what she
thought it did.
"Good news?" Marion said, hopefully, noting the expression on her face.
"Very good." Rebecca turned and headed to the front of the dirigible, a certain
lightness to her step.
Marion followed. "We have a destination?"
"Oh, yes. We're going to Calais."
* * * * * * * *
Verne was uncertain of how long he sat at the café in Calais or how many cups of
coffee he consumed while there. He even could have sworn that he had fallen
asleep at some point. But little of that matter the moment he caught a snippet
of the conversation at the table behind him:
"What is that?" he heard a voice inquire.
"It's one of those dirigible balloons I believe." Another responded.
He jumped out of his seat, threw some coins on the table and scurried out of the
café as fast as his legs would carry him. Once outside all he had to do was
follow the pointing fingers to see the Aurora and the spot where she was bound
to land. She was headed for an empty grassy knoll just east of the city.
Verne ran as fast as he could through the increasingly crowded streets, hoping
to reach the grassy knoll before Fogg put the Aurora down. He didn't want to
chance losing them should they instead go in search of him. His heart was
racing as he ran, not from the exertion, but from the anxiety of the situation
and the relief that they had finally arrived. He couldn't recall being any
happier to see the dirigible in his life.
He reached the edge of the city just as the Aurora put down and sprinted the
rest of the way, arriving just as the door opened. And he came to a sudden
halt when a beautiful young girl walked out. She smiled at him and he somehow
forgot himself in her beauty.
"Jules, it's impolite to stare," came Rebecca's voice from beside him.
"Huh...?" He jumped at the nearness of her voice and twirled to find her
standing beside him. He hadn't even seen her exit the Aurora.
"You're staring," she said with a smile. "It's impolite."
"Uh, I'm sorry..." he practically stuttered in that way she found so endearing.
"Quite all right." She swept her arm toward the other young woman. "Jules, this
is Marion Baeuvin. Marion, may I introduce Jules Verne."
Verne's face flushed as he stuck out his hand and she took it, warmly shaking
it. "Nice to meet you, Miss Baeuvin."
She smiled again and he almost lost himself a second time. But Rebecca gave him
a small prod in the side, which brought him round before he made a complete fool
of himself.
"The boat?" she inquired, anxiously looking off toward the harbor. "Where is the
boat?"
"It's gone," Verne waved his hand off in the direction the ship and gone. "It
left the harbor shortly after I sent the telegrams."
She tried to keep the disappointment from showing on her face, but her lower lip
trembled despite her best effort. Her heart started to ache again. She was
unsure how much more of this pain she could handle. She took a deep breath,
forcing the sob back down her throat. "And Passepartout?"
"On board the ship...I think. He was only supposed to check it out. But I
think he went on board because he wasn't on the dock when I came back. I don't
know why he didn't get back off...unless he was discovered..." He let the rest
of the sentence trail off, unwilling to lend voice to his worst fear.
Rebecca bit her lower lip as it started to tremble more noticeably. At least
Phileas would not be alone. "I know why," she said finally as she turned to
walk back to the Aurora.
Verne grabbed her by the arm and twirled her back to face him. "But how..."
She looked him straight in the face and he noticed the tears welling in her eyes
for the first time. A single one spilled down her cheek as she spoke. "Because
Phileas is aboard that ship...and he is dying."
* * * * * * * *
Passepartout had found a bottle of alcohol stored in the pantry while waiting
for the rods to heat up and slipped it into the pocket of the apron beside his
"weapon". It didn't take long after that for the two metal rods to heat up.
He pulled them out of the fire the moment they started to glow and turned to
walk out of the room. Several eyes turned to watch him, but again no one said a
word. Perhaps it was best not to ask. Or perhaps it was the look on the
valet's face as he met those stares. The look of a man barely in control of his
emotions.
He left the galley and proceeded quickly to the room where his master lay...how
close to death, he could not say, but close. Closer then he had ever been.
The doctor had managed to soak the remaining bandages off the entry and exit
wounds, leaving exposed two raw and bloody areas. Passepartout stopped short as
he saw those ugly lesions marring his master's smooth skin. They would leave
scars. Very ugly scars.
"Ah, you have returned," the doctor replied half turning at a sound in the
doorway to find Passepartout standing there. "Bring them over here"
Passepartout forced his legs to carry him forward, his eyes focused only on
those two terrible marks. Blood once again flowed freely from them, drenching
his pale skin, white shirt and the sheets beneath him. The valet swallowed
hard, resisting the urge to vomit.
The doctor took the rods from his hands and pointed to the head of the bed with
one. "You will have to lift him up off the bed so we do not burn the sheets.
And perhaps you should remove the shirt as well. It will be useless should he
survive, the blood will never come out. And from the looks of him, he is a very
meticulous dresser."
Passepartout nodded to both the instructions as well as to the description - it
fit his master perfectly. He walked around to the head of the cot and knelt
down upon it, his knees on either side of Fogg's head, then he slid his hands
very carefully beneath his master's shoulders and gently began to lift. Fogg
let out a loud groan and moved his head, his body tensing slightly.
Passepartout tried to ignore the groans of pain that followed, lifting until
Fogg was almost in a sitting position, the back of his head resting comfortably
on the valet's shoulder. Together he and the doctor managed to pull the shirt
off.
The doctor unstoppered the bottle of alcohol then held it very close over Fogg's
stomach. He poured a little at first, a stream that splashed against his
stomach and then rolled down his side. Fogg tensed and cried out as the alcohol
played across first one wound and then the other, some dripping inside. He
fought against Passepartout, but the valet held on, until eventually his master
ceased struggling and drifted into silence again.
Then the doctor moved closer, positioning the rods, one above the exit wound and
one above the entry. He glanced up at Passepartout. "I need you to hold him
tightly. If he moves, I'll end up burning more than the wounds."
"Understanding." Passepartout replied, his voice barely above a whisper. Still
Fogg's head moved at the sound of his voice and the word, "Passepartout" came
softly from his lips. But then the rods came down - hot metal on soft tissue -
and anything else his master might have said was lost in the scream that
followed. Fogg's back arched as he continued to scream in pain and agony, the
smell of burning flesh permeating the air...
And then suddenly everything was quiet as Fogg's body went slack and his head
lolled heavily against Passepartout's shoulder. The valet held back the whimper
of fear that threatened to escape his lips and found his hold on his master
tightening. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer.
The doctor, having failed to notice the look on his assistant's face, pulled one
of the bowls from the table and began to apply the salve inside to each of the
wounds. Then he took some clean bandages and wadded them up, placing one on
each wound. And as Passepartout continued to cradle the patient in his arms, he
wrapped a length of gauze around his waist and fastened it with tape.
"All right. That is all we can do for him now," the doctor replied. "You can
lay him back down."
But Passpartout was wont to let go. He would have preferred to stay just like
he was until his master woke up and told him to fetch him a cup of coffee - two
lumps of sugar, thank you. Or even a glass of claret. At this point he didn't
particularly care which. Even "Passepartout, you're an idiot" would have
brought a lightness to his heavy heart.
But there was nothing. Just the raspy sound of his labored breathing as he
struggled for each next breath.
* * * * * * * *
"You're sure Fogg is on that ship?" Verne asked some time later as he was
steering the Aurora out over the open sea in pursuit of the League of Darkness
ship.
Rebecca nodded her head. He couldn't see her face from where she stood at the
observation window, spyglass glued to her eyes, but he could tell she was still
very anxious. Her hand, hanging at her side, was clenched in a tight fist and
her body was taut like a pulled wire.
"I was not so sure before. But after I received your telegram I knew. I just
knew" she replied. "He's on that ship and that's why Passepartout stayed."
"And what do we do once we catch up to the ship?" he asked, already knowing the
answer but hoping she had more sense than he gave her credit for in a situation
like this.
"We'll wait til night fall and then you'll hover over the ship until I get
onboard and bring them both back."
She didn't have more sense then he gave her credit for.
"Rebecca, that's suicidal." he exclaimed. "That boat was crawling with them.
And don't you think they'd have Fogg locked up somewhere tight?"
"I may have to kill everyone on board that ship, but I will bring Phileas out of
there!" she replied with a tone that brooked no argument.
"And what of Passepartout?" he asked. "Don't you think that perhaps he's
working on a plan of his own. One that won't be totally destroyed should you
show up all of a sudden on a suicidal mission? You could end up killing both of
them as well."
"Passepartout is a good man," she said. "But he knows nothing of situations such
as these."
"Are you so sure, Rebecca? Are you so sure? He got on board that ship without
being seen and he's still on it. And I know in my heart that he will do
everything within his power to take care of Phileas. If there's a safe way off
that ship before it reaches port, Passepartout will find it and he will use it."
The fist unclenched and he saw her body visibly relax. When she finally turned
around to face him he could see just how tired she was of carrying this whole
thing on her slender shoulders. Yes, she could handle anything the Agency threw
at her - even on no sleep - but couple that with the emotional stress she was
now under, and anyone would crack. Anyone.
"The boat has at least a couple hours head start on us, Rebecca." Marion replied
as she came up beside the other woman and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Why don't you go get some sleep. I'll take over here and I promise you I will
call you the moment I spot the ship."
A small smile crossed Rebecca's face. "I don't think I could fall asleep even
if I did lay down."
"But you won't know for sure until you try. At least give it a try."
Verne nodded his agreement. "She's right, Rebecca. Go lay down before you
collapse. You'll be no good to Phileas if you can't function."
Rebecca graced him with a tired look. They were both right and she knew it.
She just didn't want to admit it. Didn't want to admit that she was only human.
She finally nodded, her eyelids feeling heavy all of a sudden. "All right. I
suppose you both may be right. But if I'm still awake fifteen minutes from now,
I'm coming straight back down and I'll hear no arguments to the contrary from
either of you."
Verne grinned. "If you are still awake in fifteen minutes I'd say you weren't
human and begin to worry."
Rebecca actually smiled for the first time since he had given her the news of
the ship's departure. She walked up to him, kissed him lightly on the cheek,
then continued on towards the spiral staircase which would take her up to her
room. It would be the last the two would see of her for several hours.
* * * * * * * *
Passepartout heaved a heavy sigh as he left his master's room. He wanted to
chance one last glance towards the bed, but fought the urge. It wouldn't do to
let the two guards standing on either side of the door to know he cared at all
what happened to their prisoner. The doctor had forced some alcohol down Fogg's
throat for the pain and for the moment his master was sleeping peacefully.
The valet walked down the corridor without a thought of his destination and soon
found himself up on the poop deck for the first time since the ship had departed
the harbor at Calais. She was going at a good clip now after having finally
gained the open seas. The deck pitched and rolled slightly as he walked, her
towers steaming, their metal shining brightly in the early afternoon sun. Sea
gulls wheeled overhead, an aerial escort, their shrill cries cutting through the
steady slap of water against her prow and the steady rumble of the wind.
Passepartout clutched a stay, bracing against the roll, hair streaming in the
breeze. It was almost exhilarating after what he had been through the past few
hours: there was a pure excitement to sea travel that stretched his mouth into
a smile of remembrance as he felt the spray of water dash his face and his lungs
filled with fresh air. For the briefest of moments he was able to forget what
was happening and just live for the moment.
But only for the briefest of time.
There was quite a bit of activity on the deck at this hour and if he wanted to
avoid any unnecessary confrontations, he would be best to go below decks and
find a place to sequester himself until he could chance another visit to his
master's room.
He decided first, however, to take a trip once around the poop deck and check
out the lay of the land. To be as prepared as possible when the opportunity
arose for him to get his master and himself safely off the ship - one hoped -
before it docked in Egypt. Most of the sailors were preoccupied with the job at
hand and most paid him little mind as he passed. Those who seemed to take
noticed, noted the uniform he wore and figured he had probably come up for a
quick breath of fresh air.
As he walked the deck he noted several things. The crews' quarters and galley
were all found in the stern of the boat. The pilot house and officer's quarters
were to be found in the bow. Everything in between was taken up by the hold.
He noted at least 10 good sized cargo doors along the poop. Whatever cargo they
carried on to Egypt provided solid ballast, for the ship rode low in the water.
But what cargo did she carry?
There was only one way to find out. He had to get into the hold. Which would
be impossible from the deck for each of the doors was secured with a lock and
very thick chains. No, his only hope of discovering what was secreted below was
to find the man door. So with determination he hurried past the pilothouse and
started back towards the stern. Lunch would be served soon and if he was to
keep his cover secure, he would have to act the part.
And that fit in perfectly with his new plan!
* * * * * * * *
"Do you know much about the three bloodstones that were stolen?" Verne asked,
finally breaking the awkward silence that had reigned since Rebecca's departure.
Marion dropped the spyglass from her eye and turned around to face him. She
nodded. "Yes. My father was obsessed with them and the crown. Anything he
could find on the artifact he read and reread. It got to the point that I read
them just to be able to talk to him."
"The crown?"
"The Crown of Souls. The three bloodstones once adorned it. You see, the
original artifact was created by an evil magician by the name of Daglan for the
Pharaoh Amenhotep. It was a crown made of gold and platinum and the three
bloodstones were set on its crest. Daglan named it the Crown of Souls because
it was capable of absorbing the soul of a dying person. Specifically the soul
of a person the wearer of the crown has killed or whose death he was ultimately
responsible for. Amenhotep wore the crown into all his battles, absorbing the
souls of hundreds of thousands of people."
She walked away from the observation window and began to pace as she spoke.
"But it wasn't just the crown, you see. The crown was more an amplification
device, which made it capable of pulling in the soul. The real power was in the
stones. The bloodstones would contain the essence of the absorbed soul. So
long as the bloodstone of healing was in the crown the wearer would never become
sick. So long as the bloodstone of protection was intact, the wearer could
never be harmed or killed. And so long as the bloodstone of Vitality was
secured, the wearer could not be beaten."
She stopped then and looked at him. "And the crown worked like a charm until
the day Amenhotep's party was attacked. His horse was spooked and it threw
him. As he fell to the ground the crown slipped off his head and was lost in
the mist of the forest. He was not killed then, but some weeks later, as he led
his troops into battle, he fell to an enemy's sword and died."
"But what became of the crown?"
"The attack in the forest had been planned by the Pharaoh of Cush in an attempt
to steal the crown before Amenhotep arrived to meet the Cushian army in battle.
It was successful. One of the warriors managed to escape the attack alive and
deliver the crown to the Pharaoh of Cush. Once he had possession of the crown
the Pharaoh had it immediately disassembled and buried in a ritual ceremony.
Where it remained until an archeological dig found it."
Verne nodded. He could now see why Count Gregory would be so desperate to get
his hands on such an artifact. Once he had it reassembled, he would be
completely invincible. And given it's mystical properties in healing he
probably also hoped it would be able to renew his broken body.
Marion resumed her pacing. "My father was part of that dig. He was there when
they found the box containing the crown and he was able to decipher the
hieroglyphics on it warning of the power of the crown should it ever been
reassembled. Monsieur Mariette did not believe in all that hokum and quickly
dismissed it. My father believed in it very much. So when he discovered the
three boxes containing the stones he replaced them with three ordinary stones
and presented them to Mariette. When he got back to England my father dispersed
the stones to three separate museums."
"The British Museum, the Louvre, and the New York Museum in the states." Verne
ventured.
"Yes. Which is where they remained until this week when all three were stolen
within days of each other."
"But how did Count Gregory discover that the three stones given to Mariette were
not the three bloodstones?" Verne mused aloud.
"Those stones were proven long ago to be just ordinary stones. Mariette thought
perhaps the real ones had been stolen by grave robbers. He was only interested
in the crown as an archeological find anyway." She shrugged her shoulders. "All
would have been fine had the Louvre and the New York Museum not decided to pick
the same year to tout their massive Egyptian artifact collections which
contained bloodstones found in Cush. It was in all the major newspapers in both
countries. I suppose if one had resources in both places and put two and two
together, it wouldn't be that hard."
"And if one knew your father was at the site, they would just naturally believe
he had the third."
It made perfect sense. Verne was well aware that the League of Darkness had
resources spread throughout the world. Something of this magnitude would have
been a mere pittance to them. And arranging for the stones to be stolen by
museum workers wouldn't have been all that hard to orchestrate. It was almost a
perfect plan. Count Gregory just hadn't anticipated the Foggs' involvement.
Or had he?
There were still so many unanswered questions running through his mind. Why
hadn't his men just killed Fogg when they had the chance? Why go to all the
trouble of having him kidnapped?
Unless of course, Count Gregory had some other plan for him? Something they
hadn't yet discovered....And than it hit him, hit him very hard. Fogg was a
dying soul.....
* * * * * * * *
Jean Passepartout was pleased with himself. Very pleased. His plan had worked
brilliantly and now he was standing in front of the open man door that would
lead him into the bowls of the ship's cargo hold.
It had been easy. Almost too easy. He had made it to the galley in time to
help prepare the noontime meal. Then while every one was busy serving, he took
a tray with several plates and silently slipped out of the kitchen. If he were
to be stopped he would simply say he had been dispatched to serve the two men
guarding the prisoner and had become hopelessly lost. On a ship this size, that
would not have been so hard to believe.
So here he was, standing in the doorway, gazing into the massive innards of the
ship. He took a few tentative steps inside, glancing to his left and right for
anyone guarding the wares. But there was not a soul to be found. It became
quite obvious to the valet that the League felt no need to station guards
anywhere but at the door of a very injured prisoner.
As he walked about the cargo hold, his footsteps echoing lightly, he found boxes
and crates piled almost to the ceiling and battened down with thick metal
chains. But on occasion he would find a smaller stack and would wander over to
check one out.
In the first pile of crates he found guns. All makes and models. From pistols
to rifles. And in smaller boxes beside them he found gunpowder and ammunition.
In the second pile he found more boxes of gunpowder and dynamite and chemicals
that could be used to make more explosives.
And as he stood there, under the poor light of hundreds of lanterns reflecting
off of thousand of boxes he felt a chill of terror run down his spine. There
were enough guns here to equip a huge army. And enough explosives to blow up a
major city.
And it was heading straight for Egypt and into the hands of Count Gregory.
(
geocities.com/lady_of_sherwood)