CHAPTER SEVEN
In Which Passepartout Invents Edible Ink
"I see it!" Marion exclaimed excitedly, pointing out the observation window.
"It's straight ahead."
Verne moved away from the "wheel" of the Aurora and moved over to stand next to
her. She started to hand him the spyglass but he waved his hand. It really
wasn't necessary. He could tell from this distance that it was indeed the
League of Darkness ship. Only from this altitude it looked much larger and more
menacing than it had in the harbor at Calais.
"I don't think I've ever seen a ship that large." Marion replied. "Even the
ships that cross the Atlantic are smaller."
"Well, the League of Darkness never does anything small." Came Rebecca's
response from behind them.
Both turned to find her walking toward them. She had changed her clothes and
freshened up. And she did look more rested. But Verne could tell that she had
probably cried herself to sleep. Her eyes were rimmed in red and they appeared
somewhat bloodshot. He felt it best, however to not mention anything - at least
not in front of Marion.
"It must have cost a fortune." Marion said.
"Most probably a small one." Rebecca agreed as she joined them on the balcony.
Marion offered her the spyglass and she took it with a small smile. Unlike
Verne, she was very interested in seeing the thing up close. She put the glass
to her eye and gave the ship a quick once-over. It was indeed much larger than
any ship she had ever encountered. Well, except for the giant flying battleship
they had effectively destroyed in the Americas. That had been Count Gregory's,
too. She had heard somewhere that the mad man had had another one constructed
and wondered why he hadn't used it this time. Too auspicious she figured.
Especially if the Count wished his latest plan to remain a surprise.
"You have no idea what she is carrying, Jules?" she inquired. She had noted the
inordinate amount of cargo bay doors filling the entire center of the ship. It
was almost as if the rest of the ship had been constructed as an afterthought.
"No. And no one on the dock seemed to know either. I questioned several after
the ship left the harbor, but they didn't know or weren't talking."
"Hmmm." Rebecca reached up with her free hand and twisted one of the dials on
the spyglass, bringing the image into a sharper focus. She played it around the
deck again, noting that all the men on board were wearing the dark navy blue
uniforms of the League of Darkness. And there were many men on board. She
counted well over a hundred on the poop alone. That wouldn't include those who
weren't working or the officers inside the pilothouse.
And then her eye caught a man noticeably out of uniform. He wore white and he
seemed to be wondering the deck aimlessly. She reached up and twisted the dial
again and again until the man's face came into focus. And then she nearly
dropped the glass.
"Passepartout...."
* * * * * * * * *
Passepartout left the cargo hold with an overwhelming sense of fear and
forbodance. Although he did not have the particulars, he knew enough to reckon
that the Count had an ample amount of guns and explosives on this ship to equip
an army to take over a small country. Or maybe not so small. As far back as he
could recall, Count Gregory was not known to think small.
But what was he supposed to do with this newfound knowledge? He could not
discuss it with his master, and Miss Rebecca and Master Jules were several
hundred miles back in France and England. There was really nothing he could do.
He was only one man and this was a very big ship.
He wandered aimlessly for a while, deep in thought, and like earlier this
morning, found himself back up on the poop deck. He breathed in deeply as he
walked, feeling the roll of the ship beneath his feet and listening to the sound
of the water as it slapped against the hull. It had been a long time since he
had been on board a ship this large. A very long time indeed.
He continued around the ship until he stopped at the stern-most rail and leaned
against it. He could not be seen back here unless someone else came around the
building which was highly unlikely since there was nothing here save for the
rail he was now leaning against. At this point he really wished he had taken
the bottle of liquor with him.
"Passepartout get good and drunk and forgetting this happening." He mused to
himself.
But he could not and he would not. He had been in the employ of Phileas Fogg
long enough to know what drinking a little too much could do to a person. And
it would certainly not help in this situation.
He sighed heavily and looked heavenward, saying another silent prayer....and
stopped dead in his tracks.
"Mon Deui !" he exclaimed, thinking the deity worked rather quickly.
For up in the sky, barely visible through the clouds, was the Aurora.
* * * * * * * *
"Passepartout?" Verne exclaimed, his heart racing. "Where?"
Rebecca handed him the spyglass. "Look stern. He's dressed in white."
Verne grabbed the glass and put it to his eyes, focusing on the area that she
had pointed out. He waited for his eyes to adjust and then he saw the valet.
Passepartout suddenly glanced up, almost as if he knew they were there, and then
he saluted.
A smile crossed Verne's face. "He can see us, Rebecca."
Rebecca ran into the parlor and grabbed the other spyglass. "How can you be so
sure?" she asked as she came up beside him again and focused her own. She was
in time to see the valet wave. "Ah....Yes, I suppose he can."
"If only there was some way to communicate!" Verne exclaimed. He searched his
mind, knowing there must be something they could do to get a message to the man.
And then he got it. "Morris Code! We could use a mirror to send him a coded
message!"
Rebecca dropped her glass with a sigh. "Highly impractical, Jules. If we were
to catch the sun in any way, every eye on that deck would be looking upward.
Clouds or no clouds. And then we would lose the element of surprise."
At least she was beginning to think rationally, Verne thought. Which was a
whole lot better than her suicidal plan of this morning.
"What do we do now then?" Marion inquired.
Verne looked over at Rebecca. She caught his eye and crossed her arms. "Well,
Passepartout knows we are here now. If there is someway to get a message to us,
he will. I'll wait til this evening. If we get nothing, I am going down there,
Jules."
* * * * * * * *
Passepartout stood staring up at the Aurora for the longest of moments. His
emotions ranging between happiness, relief, and terror. While he was relieved
and quite happy that his friends had arrived and he was no longer alone, he
could not quite shake the terrible fear that Miss Rebecca knew about his
master's condition and that she was about to do something very stupid because of
it.
He had to find a way to communicate what he had found while on board and he
would have to do it quickly. And if he didn't want Miss Rebecca to come
charging down herself, he would also have to come up with a plan to get his
master and himself off the boat
Like Verne he thought of sending a message by Morris Code. But like Miss
Rebecca he rejected the idea because a flash of light would attract unwanted
attention. He was searching his mind for other possible alternatives when his
eyes fell upon the tray of food he had absently brought back up with him. And a
smile crossed his face. It would be a bit messy, but definitely worth the
trouble if it worked.
He dropped down to a squat and picked up a bowl from the first plate. Lunch
this afternoon had been nothing special. An assortment of sandwiches, a bowl of
soup, and a croissant. There was also a small bowl filled with a gourmet-style
type of fruit topping for the croissant. As he examined it, he found it's
substance thick and almost gel-like. Perfect for a washable ink.
He stood up and walked over to the backside of what would have been the first
floor of the crew's quarters. It was the only side of the building without
windows that - for the moment - gave him the privacy to do what he was about to
attempt. There was only enough "ink" for a few words so he would have to be
brief and decisive. He felt the need to let them know about his master that he
hoped would keep Miss Rebecca from doing anything rash. And he needed to have
them hold off on any action until he could figure out what to do. If they fired
on the ship from the Aurora they could very well blow up the ship and themselves
right out of the sky. And they couldn't bring the Aurora low enough to use the
wench to come aboard without risking the chance of being spotted. And if they
were spotted, security around Mister Fogg would make it impossible to free him.
He dipped two fingers in and wrote as largely as he could:
Fogg alive. Wait
He dropped the first bowl onto the tray and picked up the second and continued
writing:
for my signal.
And that was the end of the "ink".
* * * * * * *
"What was that you said about a message, Rebecca?" Verne inquired with a huge
grin as he watched Passepartout work.
Rebecca looked over at him then turned and put her own spyglass up to her eye.
She felt a stirring in her heart and a small chuckle of relief escaped her lips.
"What is it?" Marion asked. To her naked eye, all the men on the ship looked
liked ants crawling over the tiny deck. But she could tell by the expression on
both their faces that something indeed was happening below.
Verne handed her his spyglass. "Looked at the stern of the boat."
She put the glass up to her eye and trained it on the rear of the ship. She
could see an older, bearded man all dressed in white, standing at the rail of
the ship. Beyond him was a one-story steel building, painted white, with a
short six-letter message. A smile crossed her face as she read it.
"I think I may have underestimated our Passepartout." Rebecca commented.
"It won't be the first time," Verne agreed. For they had all at one time or
another underestimated the valet's immense expanse of knowledge and experience.
Marion glanced over at the pair. "So we wait for his signal?"
Rebecca nodded. "We wait for his signal."
* * * * * * * *
Passepartout had no way of knowing whether or not those in the Aurora could or
had read his message. He only knew he could little afford to leave it up for
much longer. If he were found here and now, there would be no telling of the
fates that were held in the balance. So taking the glasses of water from the
tray, he quickly washed all traces of the message from the building. Then
stepping all the way back to the railing, he checked to make sure not a spot
remained.
The surface practically shimmered in the sunlight. He smiled, hearing Mr.
Fogg's voice in his head saying, "Excellent job indeed, Passepartout."
But the smile vanished just as quickly as it had spread. He only hoped to be
able to hear those words again from his master. The doctor had not been so
positive about his master's chances for recovery. He had said the loss of blood
had been considerable. Passepartout did not have to be a doctor to see that for
himself. The bed sheets had been drenched with his blood, as were his clothes,
and the bandages that had been wrapped around him. He could not recall ever
having seen that much blood. And his master laying in that bed, pale as a
ghost, his lungs wheezing for want of air.
He was afraid to go back into that room. Afraid of what he might find once he
got there. But he would never forgive himself if he let his master die: alone,
in a cold, dingy cabin, surrounded by such evil men.
He bent over and picked up the tray and then tossed it over the edge of the
railing. It was long past lunch and he would look suspicious now carrying it
around with him. With a sigh he wiped his hands on the apron, then started
around the building and inside, heading for the galley where he hoped to make a
mild broth for his master to eat. Or a glass of water if he could not.
* * * * * * * *
"Please, Rebecca, you will wear a hole in the floor if you continue to pace so,"
Verne exclaimed, having watched her walk the expanse of the floor between the
observation window and the kitchen at least fifty times. The clicking of her
heels on the wooden floor was driving him to distraction and the look on her
face worried him.
"I do so despise waiting, Jules," she replied. "I was never really any good at
it."
"Must be a Fogg trait." Verne muttered. Phileas had the same problem, although
he had mellowed somewhat with age and experience.
Rebecca heard him and gave a little laugh. "Fogg curse more like it. I dare
say it's gotten us into our fair share of trouble."
"I dare say." Verne agreed, glancing up at her with a small smile on his face.
"Oh, all right, Jules." She stopped mid stride in the middle of the parlor,
twirled around and walked back to the observation window where she planted
herself in the chair she had pulled up earlier.
Verne shook his head and went back to reading from the pile of papers spread out
on the table before him. They were Fogg's notes on the investigation of the
robbery at the British Museum as well as reports from America and France on
theirs. He had just glanced through them but found nothing useful. It was the
papers written by Lord Marcus Baeuvin that simply fascinated him. His own
personal notes on the Crown of Souls and the three bloodstones themselves. A
great deal of what he read corresponded with what Marion had told him earlier.
But Baeuvin had a theory or two of his own that he hadn't either shared with his
daughter or she had deemed unnecessary to tell him.
Verne had gotten the distinct feeling that Marion didn't really believe in the
Crown of Souls or the power of the bloodstones. Like most people she probably
considered it the stuff of myth and legend. Her father, however, had not. He
actually believed that the crown was a powerful, mystical relic and was quite
capable of doing what it was believed to have done. Verne had his doubts. But
being a man of science, the thought of such an object enthralled him. There had
to be a logical, scientific, explanation behind the whole thing.
"You're just like my father," Marion explained as she took a seat on the bench
across from him. "Always with your nose in a book."
Surely not with you around, he thought to himself as he glanced up. She smiled
and suddenly the papers didn't seem so interesting anymore. He could sit and
stare at her all day. Could watch the way the sunlight caught the blonde
ringlets that framed her face. Or the way her eyes seemed to sparkle whenever
she smiled. The way she held herself aloft, yet seemed so fragile.
"There's nothing wrong with reading," Verne remarked, finally finding his voice.
"I thoroughly enjoy it."
"So do I, Mister Verne," she replied, "But there is much more to life than
reading a book. I have come to realize that people who can, travel, those who
cannot, read books. I would rather experience all that life has to offer
instead of reading about it." She leaned forward, with her arms on the
tabletop, "How long have you been traveling with the Foggs? I find it
positively intriging. Dashing off to Egypt without a moment's hesitation."
"It hasn't been all that romantic," he was quick to point out, memories causing
a shiver to run down his spine. "Danger always lies around the corner when you
are with the Foggs."
Over at the observation window, a small smile crossed Rebecca's face. Yes,
Jules, she thought, it always does. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Marion's face lit up, "Really? How fascinating. So this isn't just some
mission gone wrong. This is normal fare for them?"
Unfortunately so, he thought. He shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. "Normal
I suppose in some ways. But this is the first time since I've been around that
Fogg's been hurt. In fact, before today, I had always considered him
invulnerable."
Rebecca felt an ache in her heart. And so had I.
"He does strike you as so." Marion agreed. "Very much in control of the
situation."
Verne couldn't help but note the way her eyes gleamed as she spoke of Fogg. The
way her face lit up, and he felt his stomach roll. No, he whined to himself,
not again. Can't I for once get the girl?!
Rebecca glanced sidelongs at Verne. Seeing the pained expression on his face
and knowing exactly what he was thinking, she suddenly got up and walked over to
the pair. She graced Marion with a smile and put both her hands on Verne's
shoulders.
"Jules is being much too modest, Miss Baeuvin." she said. "If it had not been
for Jules, on several occasion I very much doubt we would have made it home
alive. He has become an invaluable asset to Phileas and myself."
Verne half turned and glanced up at the older woman. She caught his eye and
winked, then returned her gaze to Marion. "I really do believe that Miss
Baeuvin would love to hear about that time Adrianna Locke showed up on our
doorstep with that nasty little mummy of hers. If it hadn't been for Jules," a
wicked smile crossed her lips as she recalled that particular mission. "Well, if
it hadn't been for Jules' unique skills, Phileas would most probably not be here
today."
Verne felt his face flush as he, too, recalled that time. Although he would not
have called it a skill.
"Really?" Marion exclaimed, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "Do tell, Mr.
Verne. I rather like a good story. And it will pass the time, no?"
Rebecca giggled as she walked away. "Do tell, Jules. And don't leave out the
details. They make it so much more interesting."
* * * * * * * *
Passepartout stopped in the galley to find it clean and void of life. All the
dishes from lunch had been washed and put away until evening rolled around and
it would be time to serve dinner. Looking at his watch he realized that it
would not be that long before his cooking services would be required again. He
had spent much more time in the cargo hold than he had anticipated. If he hoped
to spend more than just a few moments with his master, he would have to hurry.
He found a bowl of left over broth in the icebox and put it over the fire to
heat up. He then found a pitcher and filled it with water, pausing only long
enough to drink a glass himself. He hadn't realized just how hungry he was
himself, having only munched on a piece of bread all day as he was wandering
through the hold. He found a serving tray and piled on another chunk of bread,
cheese, the bowl of broth and the pitcher and a mug. He would eat only after
having served his master.
He walked through the corridors relatively unaccosted towards the room where
Fogg was being held captive. Most of the cabins were empty save for a few where
he spied crewmembers reading or writing. It wasn't until he neared the large
room where he had assumed the crew would play cards and relax that he heard
many, many voices. Or perhaps it was better to describe it as many, many
grunts. He slowed his walk as he approached, unsure of what he would find.
The room was filled to capacity with perhaps fifty men in all. All of the
tables and chairs had been pushed back against a far wall, leaving the center
completely open. This is where a majority of the men were standing. Some of
them held weapons that they were wielding at other men holding weapons. Others
were fighting in hand-to-hand combat while the rest were gathered around the
tables examining test tubes and beakers.
The League of Darkness training room!
Passepartout suddenly decided that it was probably in his best interest to move
on before anyone glanced over and wondered why he was just standing there with
an open-mouthed stare. So he scurried past the open doorway and hurried on to
his destination.
The same two guards from this morning were still positioned on either side of
his master's doorway. They both eyed him for a brief moment as he walked down
the corridor, but said nothing as he passed by and walked into the room.
He found the room the same as he had left it. Not having wished his master to
wake up in a room in such disarray, he had picked up the bloodied vest and shirt
from the floor and had folded them neatly, placing them on top of the wooden
chest positioned at the bottom of the bed. He had thrown the bloodied bandages
into the trash receptacle, and returned the small table to a spot in the corner
of the room. It was this same table that he pulled over to the side of the bed
again and laid the tray of food upon.
With a heavy heart he lowered his gaze to the face of the man lying upon the
bed.
His master's usual sun-tanned color had all but faded to a pallid whiteness.
There was absolutely no color in his cheeks, save for the shadows in the
deepening hollows. His forehead glistened with perspiration and felt hot to the
touch. His hands were cold and clammy yet the hair on his bare chest was drench
with sweat and plastered to his skin. Occasionally he would murmur something
incoherent, moving his head as if observing something or thrusting an arm out as
if to ward off some unseen foe.
Passepartout shook his head sadly. He highly doubted his master was in any
condition to consume even the simple broth he had brought, but he knew he had to
give it a try. So with all care he lowered himself onto the bed, holding in his
breath, until he was settled relatively comfortably and not having caused his
master further pain.
"Master?" he whispered, loud enough for Fogg to hear but not loud enough to be
picked up by the two guards at the door. "Master, can you be hearing me?"
For the first few moments there was no movement from the bed. No sound.
Passepartout waited patiently, yet anxiously, reaching out to touch his master's
shoulder only after it seemed he would not awaken. Fogg moaned this time and
moved his head ever so perceptively.
"Master, I bringing food for you to eat. You must eat. Please be wakening up."
"Passepartout....?" came softly from his master's lips, but nothing more. His
eyelids did not flutter open nor did he attempt to move his head again. His
next breath caught in his chest and for a terrifying moment the valet thought he
had stopped breathing all together.
"Ma.....mon dieu!" Passepartout gasped, catching himself. He instinctively
grabbed Fogg by the arms and shook him. His master moaned and a hand reached
out towards his wounded side. The valet grabbed that hand and pulled it back,
placing it gently across his chest.
Well, it was obvious to Passepartout that his master was not yet ready for
anything to eat or drink. What he needed most right now was sleep. Perhaps he
would try again in the morning when he came by with the doctor to change the
dressing on the wound.
What to be doing with all this food, he pondered. It seemed like such a waste.
And he really hadn't eaten anything but that chunk of bread earlier in the
afternoon.
* * * * * * * *
Evening came very slowly for those aboard the Aurora that day. Verne had long
run out of stories and Rebecca had long run out of patience by the time the sun
disappeared.
"Jules, I cannot just sit up here like nothing is happening!" she exclaimed as
Verne attempted to appease her for the umpteenth time. "Despite what
Passepartout says, I know something is wrong. I can feel it."
"Rebecca..." Verne reached out to touch her arm, to offer some comfort, but she
shrugged it off.
"I wouldn't expect you to understand, Jules!" She went to put a hand to her
pounding head when she noticed it was shaking. She balled it into a fist,
smacking her leg with it, because real pain was so much better than the ache she
felt in her heart.
Verne reached out and gently grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her to face
him. "Try me, Rebecca. Just try me."
She looked into his eyes, searching them for the warmth and comfort she so
desperately wanted but could not afford to accept. She saw undying friendship
and love in those eyes that stared so innocently back at her. "I can feel him,
Jules. Right here," she put a hand to her heart, "I always have. Ever since we
were children. He's in pain and he's frightened. And I'm afraid I'm going to
lose him...." A small, crooked smile crossed her lips, "Do I sound as crazy as
I think I do?"
Verne shook his head. For in the back of his mind he could hear Fogg's voice
echoing her very words. "Rebecca is not dead, Verne. I would know it. I would
feel it."
He had known for a very long time now that there was a bond between the two
cousins. Not just a bond of family, but something deeper. Something the two
of them didn't even quite comprehend. Something the two of them were afraid of
because it would mean changes in their lives neither was ready to make. At least
not yet.
Verne smiled, "But I do understand, Rebecca. I really do. We will get Fogg
back and he will be all right. You are not going to lose him. We are not going
to lose him."
She looked at him, really looked at him. And then she did something he did not
expect at all. She kissed him. "Thank you, Jules," she whispered in his ear as
she pulled away and hugged him. He wrapped his own arms around her and held her
tight, feeling her tears on the back of his neck and the shuddering of her
silent sobs.
* * * * * * * *
For Passepartout, the evening flew by. There was dinner to prepare and then
to serve and finally to clear away. This meal by far drew the largest amount of
crewmen and it took a few hours to complete the entire process. By the time the
last dish was washed, dried, and put away, the valet was ready to collapse from
exhaustion. He simply could not go on anymore. Not only was he emotionally
drained, but now physically as well. So as the rest of the kitchen help filed
out of the galley, so went he.
Unlike the regular men who bunked in semi-private cabins, the kitchen help were
relegated to a few large cabins that slept eight in four bunk beds.
Passepartout waited until the others seemed settled into their beds before
finding an empty one and crawling in. He barely had time to pull the sheets
over his head, listening to the others as they rustled about the room, before he
was sound asleep.
* * * * * * * *
Marion kept to herself for the better part of the evening. She had witnessed
the emotional exchange between Rebecca Fogg and Jules Verne and had not wished
to intrude. There was obviously some sort of connection, an attraction no
doubt, for she had seen the looks exchanged between them. She had not heard
what sparked the exchange, she had been in the kitchen preparing a light dinner,
but she had come out in time to find the two kissing in the parlor. She had
quietly placed the tray she was carrying on the table and then quickly backed
out of the room.
That had been an hour or so ago. She was now standing outside on the upper
balcony, leaning on the rail, observing the nighttime sky. She couldn't believe
that any place could be more beautiful than this place, right now. She only
wished she had someone to share the view with. Someone to snuggle against in
the chilling breeze as they gazed up at the stars. His strong arms wrapped
around her to comfort her with his warmth.
She smiled. Someone like Phileas Fogg.
(
geocities.com/lady_of_sherwood)