Story: "Daredevil - Part 1 - The Mysterious Bracelets"

Napoleon, a survivor from the Mutiny of the Bounty, and a demonic killer in the cobblestoned streets of Toulon, 1793.

Waves tall as houses crash down, breaking over the sides of their open boat, filling their little shell with water only slightly less freezing than the bone-chilling winds, weighing down the already overcrowded, overloaded twenty-three-footer launch.

Working methodically, blow after blow, again and again, wave after wave, the sea wants to sink her. One of these nights, the sea will succeed, will swallow them whole. They know it. They don’t want to know it. They never speak of this knowledge. They don’t speak much at all, anymore. Not after forty days of this. The unrelenting.

And now the rain starts again, coming down hard and heavy, not that it matters, since they are already soaked down to their pruning skin, the nine of them bailing, hard-bitten, with unspoken desperation in their eyes, while another six are manning the oars, another two are lying out on the boards — one raving sick, one unconscious with exhaustion — and the steersman holds his white-knuckled grip on the tiller, as if the rudder, that insignificant piece of wood barely dipping into the immensity of the vast wild sea, could actually steer their course, could have even the slightest influence over their sealed fate.

The Captain, black-haired, ivory skin shining in the moonlight, a statue made of white marble, stands unmovable in the driving rain, defying the rough seas, making the men more than half believe that he, Captain Bligh, can conjure the winds and command the waves, like Prospero, like Jesus Christ Himself, and take them safely to port, somehow, saving all their lost souls.

Midshipman Samuel Job Lamb is one of the nine bailing. Cold, wet, shivering, unable to stretch his considerable length in this small space, his whole rawboned body cramping, his spare flesh betrayed and betraying him, his own sinewy muscles at war with his skin and bones, clenching his neck, back, arms, gut, thighs, calves in an anaconda-grip, twisting his tormented nerves, driving in deep spikes of the most intense pain. He runs a constant chant in his head as a hammering rhythm to his bailing, but more to keep his mind from churning on the unbearable pain and on the hopeless situation: an old shanty, every other word a vile cursing, grim sneer on his cracked lips, his eyes narrowed to slanted slits.

And he hears the wind cry out his name.

“Laaaamb!” The wind howls. “Laaaaamb! Laaaaaaamb!”

Something about that voice in the wind seems

so ….

* * *

THE MYSTERIOUS BRACELETS

TOULON, NOVEMBER 1793

… familiar.

Lamb woke at the knocking, the scratching on the door, the dream fading fast, so fast that within moments it was gone, washed away, as dreams are, even dreams of water, dreams of the sea.

“Lamb!” The voice was insistent, carrying, clear, piercing, though barely over a whisper.

moonlight through window
bare feet on november floor —
water-dreams fading

Lamb shuffled to the door, opened it, squinting with half-woken eyes down on the short, lean man.

"Carlo. What — "

Carlo Ramolino pushed his way into the room, the heels of his delicate hands punching, hard, into Lamb’s chest, driving the much taller man backwards. The sudden wiry strength from this slight frame was always surprising, even though Lamb had seen the small man in action in many a bar-fight before.

Carlo shut the door behind him, quietly, then turned his full-faced stare directly on Lamb, light grey-blue, deep-set eyes burning, nostrils dilated, a quiver on his thin, well-formed lips.

“Your help. I need. She dead.”

And now Lamb saw the bright-red blood, soaking down the front of the other’s white nightshirt.

“What? Dead? Who?”

“Antoinette. Dead. In bed. My bed.” Carlo spoke in fragments, his English atrocious. Lamb’s French was worse, his Italian and Spanish nonexistent, so he suffered Carlo’s broken English, and not without some amusement. Normally. But not tonight. Tonight promised to be without amusement.

Carlo, he thought. I still call him that, even though I know his real name now. Naboleone di Buenaparte. A Corsican name. A grand sounding name for such a small man. 

Lamb knew Naboleone's name and his mission, his true purpose here in Toulon: gathering information for the siege of the city.

A spy. But more, much more. This little man was the commander of the artillery assault on Toulon, at twenty-four years of age already a Major in the French Republican Army with command over thousands of men and the hundreds of cannon raining down death and destruction in the form of hot lead ball.

A high ranking officer, a rising star. And yet, Naboleone had personally taken on the charge of reconnaissance behind enemy lines, infiltrating the besieged city, wanting to see first hand perhaps, not trusting the reports from other eyes maybe, regardless, an act of bravery, an adventurous daredevil spirit that Lamb could only admire. Even though Naboleone was, of course, an enemy.

The enemy. Whoever he was, this as yet unknown artillery commander in the French Republican Army was proving to be ‘a formidable opponent, a military strategist of the highest order, brilliant, a genius, and, therefore, the gravest threat to the British Army’s position defending Toulon.’ This according to Lieutenant General Charles O’Hara, commander of the besieged British troops.

Lamb had suppressed a smile at O’Hara’s words, spoken without any awareness that the ‘genius’ was walking among them in the streets of Toulon, staying at the inn ‘Le Vieux Monde’, disguised as a Piedmontese dragoon. And what would that information be worth?

Perhaps, one day soon, he would sell Naboleone to O’Hara. Lamb hadn’t made up his mind yet about how best to take advantage of his knowledge, the winning way to play this particular hand. Up until tonight, Lamb had bided his time, considering his options. Now his finely honed instincts, his nose for exploitable opportunities, told him the time was right, that this night would bring him to the crossroad, the point where he could see the right direction ahead, make the most profitable choice.

“First things first,” Lamb said. “Let’s get you out of those bloody clothes. Whatever has happened, you best not draw the wrong kind of attention.” Lamb rummaged through his clothes, came up with a freshly laundered nightshirt and handed it to the little man, turned away to let Naboleone preserve his decency as the man stripped and changed.

“Merci.” Naboleone wadded up his bloodied garment, Lamb’s long nightshirt reaching almost to the floor on Naboleone’s short frame, his long, dark hair wildly tangled, not gathered in his customary pigtail, falling free down past his shoulders nearly to the middle of his back. “I … not … kill her. You believe?”

Lamb narrowed his eyes. Gave it a moment’s thought. Waited until he saw the telltale flair of the nostrils, Naboleone’s lips tightening into a furious-thin line. Then, finally, he held up both hands, palms out.

“Of course, my friend. Of course. Why would you kill Antoinette? Why would you kill anyone, other than traitorous Royalists and their helpers, us filthy British and our mercenary allies? Tell me what happened.”

“I wake up. She dead.” He made an impatient motion with his small, delicate hands.

“Dead how? Accident? She hurt herself, somehow?”

“No, sliced.”

“Sliced?”

“Like fish.” Naboleone made a cutting motion with the edge of his hand, sweeping from his throat down to his groin. “Sliced.” He said again, his expressive eyes opening wide. “Like so.”

“I see. And you just woke up with her next to you. Sliced. You heard nothing?”

“I had much wine.” Naboleone shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Much much wine.”

“Well let’s take a look. See what we have to deal with.” Lamb pulled on pants and boots, grabbed his coat, finally thrust the wadded-up bloodied nightshirt at Naboleone. “You take this. We might need it. And I sure don’t want it found in my room.”

They made their way down the narrow hallway to Naboleone’s room.

And there she was. Face angelic, beautiful as always, breathtaking in her perfection, cheekbones faintly flushed still, lips full, kissable, eyelids demurely closed, so he could count every perfect eyelash, blonde hair spilling all over the white pillow.

And sliced. Like a fish.

It was a good description.

Filleted.

Slit down the middle, skin pulled to either side, exposing the red innards. Blood everywhere.

“All this, and you heard nothing?” Lamb looked at Naboleone, whose lips were a tight line, shaking his head.

“Nothing.”

Lamb leaned over the woman. He knew her, of course. Antoinette Zephyrine Romain, one of the camp followers, ladies-of-pleasure, ‘courtesans’ they called themselves, though prostitutes, whores, was more accurate since their clientele was not, as far as Lamb could tell, the highborn, rather any reasonably clean soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, beggar-man, thief with a few franc in his money-purse, and ideally a few teeth left in his head, though the latter was by no means a requirement. Of course Naboleone was proud of his full complement of strong, white teeth, had more than a few franc to his name, and was, if not highborn, at least going somewhere, fast. But that was the exception. And, in fact, a secret. As far as Antoinette was concerned, Naboleone was just a soldier, a soldier named Carlo Ramolino, an ordinary man, just like Lamb.

Lamb, another one of her frequent customers. As frequently as he could scrape together the coin. But not tonight. He was broke. Not a shilling, not a sou. He couldn’t keep from thinking: what if he had been able to pay her fee this night? Would she be warm and alive next to him now? Would another unlucky wretch be lying here, gutted, in Naboleone’s bed? Or was it always going to be her night? Antoinette’s night to die.

He pulled out the rag that was balled up tight and jammed in her mouth, lips closed to hide it, creating that oddly peaceful tableaux of her face, in spite of the horrific violence and violation of her body. He lifted her head gently, his hand shaking slightly, and found that her throat had been slit, a deep gash, vocal chords severed. Between that and the gag, she would have been unable to make a sound. If she even would have had time to, before she bled out.

So it could all have been done quietly after all. If the killer had moved fast enough. Lamb mentally calculated it, pictured the moves necessary. It was possible. Difficult, but possible. Still, to do all of this, with Naboleone sleeping next to her. A madman, surely. Unless. He gave Naboleone a quick glance.

No. It couldn’t be.

Her arms were above her head, partially covered by the long, blonde hair, purposefully arranged that way on the pillow. As he moved the hair away from her milky-skinned forearms, he saw the finely crafted manacles that bound her to the bed post. Steel, with inlays made of sterling silver and pure gold, intricately made, handcuffs that were more like pieces of jewelry, mysterious bracelets. His crafty eye estimated the value of these unique implements. A fortune, just in the materials alone, and the craftsmanship. He grasped them, tugged on them, hard, feeling the heft and strength.

“I hope you know how to pick locks.”

Naboleone shook his head. “No.”

“These aren’t coming off.”

Naboleone bent down, examined the solid locking mechanism, the slender, but strong, links in the chain. Shook his head. Agreed: “She lock down. Lock down very strong.”

Lamb shook the bed post experimentally. “Damn. If this was the rickety bed in my room. You had to pick this one. Solid oak. It’ll take us half an hour or more to saw through it.”

“Much noise”

“Yes.”

“The sun, he rise soon.”

“Yeah, we don’t have time for that. It’ll have to be this.” Lamb reached down to his boot and pulled out the long, sharp hunting knife. Handed it to Naboleone, hilt first. “Lucky for you, she’s fine-boned, more bird than boar. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Moi?” Naboleone looked down at the knife in his hand, back up at Lamb, realization widening his pupils.

“Couper … Cut?”

“Yes, you, cut. Your room, your bed, your dead girl. Your job. Get to it. Sunrise in less than an hour.”

Naboleone gave him a look, eyes narrowed.

Lamb grinned. “Your choice, friend. You could try carving off just the thumbs and see if that would be enough so you can squeeze the hands through those bracelets. But if it was me, I think I’d just make it a clean cut, right at the wrists, chop off both hands.”

Ten minutes of sweaty, grisly, hide-carving, bone-cracking work, and the deed was done. Naboleone looked a bit yellow and he was covered in a sheen of perspiration.

Lamb put a hand on his shoulder. “Good work. Now, get dressed. We need to move the body before daylight. People will begin to stir in less than half an hour.”

Lamb wrapped up the two severed hands in Naboleone’s old blood-stained nightshirt and pocketed the valuable gold-and-silver-inlayed steel manacle-bracelets while Naboleone’s back was turned.

All this time, from the moment he’d been woken from his water-dreams and heard Naboleone say those words — ‘Antoinette. Dead’ — Lamb had held his blood in check, covered behind that flat affect that stood him such good stead at card games, in front of superiors, on the battlefield. But inside, he felt numb, cold to the core.

Thing was, he couldn’t have done what he just made Naboleone do. Couldn’t have taken the knife to that milky-white skin, couldn’t have cut off Antoinette’s perfect little slender hands, couldn’t have maimed her body in that way. Not the way he felt about her.

She had never known how he felt. How much he felt. He had never let her know. What good could that possibly have done? Nothing would have changed.

She would have smiled, perhaps. But business was business, and her business did not allow for attachments, not with a dirt-poor Sergeant in the 30th Regiment who would be gone one way or another as soon as Toulon fell … or the French Army ended the siege. She would have smiled, yes, perhaps with some sadness in her big, blue eyes, and then she would have moved on, after the transaction, to her next transaction, her next customer. That was the way of it.

So he had never told her how he felt.

And now she would never know.

But he shook it off. This ... thing ... in the bed was no longer Antoinette. This was just a problem. Time to solve it.

— END PART 1 - TO BE CONTINUED —

Click here to go to Part 2 of the story.