Story: "Daredevil - Part 6 - "A Skirmish of Wits"

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

This is Part 6 of the story.
If you haven't read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 , or Part 5 yet, please start there.

A SKIRMISH OF WITS

TOULON, NOVEMBER 1793

Hard-soled boots clacking on paved cobblestone streets, echoing in the fog. Lamb thinks he can tell the direction the sound is coming from, follows the sound, quickly, stopping periodically to listen.

Yes, there it is again. And is that a black smear, a black beard, a flash of red hair? Does he hear their voices again? He moves faster, following, the echoing footsteps and muffled voices leading him back down towards the harbor.

* * *

And then he was there, suddenly, at the edge of the harbor, stopping abruptly, realizing that he had almost hurried himself off the jetty, into the cold, dark waters. A cool wind from the sea momentarily cleared the fog, like the puff of air from a giant’s lips, making a hole in the mist, an enormous smoke-ring, revealing a tall ship towering up above him.

Seeing the high masts brought him back, in his mind, back to the ‘Bounty’, a vivid memory of … climbing the rigging, clambering up sea-slick ratlines — eighty feet, ninety feet, hundred feet above the waves — alongside the old salty sea-dogs and the young gentlemen, and all the other sailors under his command, showing them he was more than just a soft officer, more than a dandy wearing the Midshipman’s smart blue coat, that he could hold his own with any of them. Samuel Job Lamb, only fifteen years old, not even highborn, not one of the young gentlemen, just a press-ganged street urchin, but now freshly made Midshipman, placed in command by Captain Bligh himself, alongside the other young Midshipman, Peter Skinner. From a fine family, was Peter, a proper young gentleman he. Peter is Fletcher Christian’s favorite. And Christian is yelling encouragements … to Peter. Christian does not so much as look at Samuel, and this makes Samuel’s anger flash red and hot. Lamb almost loses his footing on the slippery ratline, almost falls to the deck, hundred feet below.

* * *

And then he remembers a time before, months before his promotion, when he was a mere Able Seaman, wearing the ordinary sailor’s baggy trousers and short jacket. He was just one of many, one of a baker’s dozen of Able Seamen mustered aboard the ‘Bounty’.

Young Able Seaman Samuel Job Lamb is eating a coconut, juice running down his face, and suddenly Master’s Mate Fletcher Christian is standing in the doorway to the storage hold, that disapproving look on this face, as if Christian was better, as if Christian had never been tempted. And Peter Skinner is hiding in the shadows of the hold — it had been Peter’s idea, stealing the coconuts — and Samuel Job Lamb takes it all, on both of their behalf, the scolding, the disappointment, the promise of terrible punishment if this is ever, ever, ever repeated. Damn Fletcher Christian, damn him to hell. It was just a few coconuts. And damn Peter Skinner to hell, the coward, licking Fletcher Christian’s boots, taking advantage of Samuel’s unforgivable breach of trust. Peter pretending he was Samuel’s better, when he was really a liar, betrayer. Peter denying Samuel three times, before the cock crowed. Peter, the Judas.

* * *

Lamb came back to his senses, realizing that he had walked all the way back to the inn ‘Le Vieux Monde’ completely lost in these memories. The fog was still thick. As he pushed the door open and entered, a fine mist of fog swirled in with him.

Freund and Jean were the only ones in the large room. Even the fat innkeeper had found something better to do. Old white-bearded Freund looked to be asleep, a half-eaten leg of lamb and crumbs of bread and cheese in front of him, grains of salt strewn all about.

Lamb stalked over to their table.

“Who was he? The man. The man with you and Christiane.”

Jean glanced up at Lamb, eyes just a little — not too much, not so much that it should seem theatrical — widened, that pretend-perplexed look on his face: whatever could you mean; how much have you had to drink, my good man?

Lamb slammed both his hands down on the table.

Freund snapped awake, the odd pink-blue eyes focusing, shaking his head. “Christiane?”

“Yes, Christiane.” Lamb looked straight at Jean. “Where is she now? Who was the man in the fog, with you and with her?”

Jean leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, looked Lamb up and down, smiled a soft smile full of sharp teeth and canary-feathers. “Are you sure you don’t already know?”

Lamb sat down, hard. He felt deflated. What the hell was Jean getting at?

“What the hell are you getting at?”

Jean shook his head. “Never mind. Evidently I was wrong. And, for the record, I have no idea what you’re getting at.”

“I saw you.”

“In the fog?”

“Yes.”

“With Christiane, that tall, redhead woman? The one who is not a camp follower? Well, she follows the camp, I suppose, or, rather, she follows the camp followers. Christiane, the camp-follower-follower, the whore-runner, the pro-prostitute? Her?”

“Her.”

“And some other man?”

“You know damn well what I mean. I saw what I saw.”

Jean grinned. “You did? And what exactly was that?”

“The three of you talking.”

“Oh, well. Talking? How ominous. Talking? My, my.”

Lamb leaned closer, one hand sliding down to his boot, bringing up the large hunting knife, the one he had lent Naboleone earlier this evening to commit his butchery on Antoinette’s corpse — cutting off her slender hands.

“I’ve had enough of your games, Jean. What’s your name? Jean de Vienne? That is ‘Jean from Vienna’, and, Jean, you sound as English as me, so I guess that’s really ‘John’, right? So, ‘John, who most recently came from Vienna’, from Mozart’s deathbed, who are you, really?”

The black-bearded man shrugged. “John.” He nodded. “Yes, that name will be just fine, if you prefer. Or Jack, Evan, Iain, Sean, Ivan, Jens, Juan, Giovanni, Yannis. If you have a Germanic preference you may call me Johannes … or Hans.”

“Just like Mr. Freund, hmm? Freund, German for ‘Friend’.”

“A student of languages, I see.” Jean/John/Hans gave Freund/Friend a gentle nudge with his elbow, and a wink.

“I think he’s catching on, Friend.”

Freund stroked his long white beard, thoughtfully.

“Really? Sounds pretty inconclusive to me. Ramblings. Something about Mozart and Vienna, someone named John and his friend, a German friend maybe.” Freund smiled, winked at Lamb. “I really don’t know what to make of it.”

A skirmish of wits, Lamb thought, but his knife would slice through that. He turned the blade in his hand, catching the pale morning sunlight, just now beginning to pierce the fog, in a sharp glint on the steel.

Freund looked at the knife-blade with a little smirk, then turned to Jean. “I think I’m going to take a constitutional, walk off some of that rather rich meal. You two look like you have a few more things to talk about. Carry on.”

“Leaving so soon? It’s just starting to be fun.” Jean waved at Freund as the tall, spare man unfolded himself, got up, stretched his back, cracked his knuckles and his neck, and headed out the door.

As the door closed behind Freund, Jean turned back to Lamb. “So, Christiane, you want to know who she is?”

“Oh, you do know her? You don’t even bother to deny it.”

“Why should I deny it? Yes, I do know her. I know her well.” Jean leaned forward. In a low voice, even though it was just the two of them in the room: “Christiane is Beatrice’s older sister. That’s why she is always hanging around the camp followers, following them.”

“Makes sense.” Lamb saw it now. He hadn’t before. “They both have that rather unique shade of red hair. And I’ve noticed how Beatrice reacts to Christiane.”

“Exactly. Christiane is here to bring Beatrice back. To the fold, so to speak. But no luck, so far.”

“Hmmm. And the man in the fog?”

“What man?” Jean flashed his white smile, made whiter by contrast with that dark curly beard.

“I am not amused.” Lamb turned the knife in his hand again, studied it, thoughtfully, then looked up, caught Jean’s eyes. “I know there was another man with you and Christiane.”

Jean stifled a yawn. “Really? How did he look?”

“No games, now. You and I both know, there was someone there.”

“But you didn’t see him?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t need to ask you, now would I?”

“So you have no idea who he is?”

Lamb gritted his teeth. "No. Obviously not. What kind of stupid — "

“Well, then,” Jean interrupted, leaned back, took a sip of wine, his eyes twinkling over the rim of the cup, “you, my little lamb, are in for a surprise.”

— END PART 6 - TO BE CONTINUED —

Click here to go to Part 7 of the story.