Story: "Daredevil - Part 8 - Blinding Hate"

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

This is Part 8 of the story.
If you haven't read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 , Part 5, Part 6 or Part 7 yet, please start there.

BLINDING HATE 

TOULON, NOVEMBER 1793

“So, Sergeant Lamb, you were there?” Standing by the window at the General’s quarters, in the command room, in bright sunlight, General O’Hara’s face was more florid than usual, red as a tomato, in fact.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Both women. Both of the … whores?” Did he lick his lips at that last word?

“Yes, Sir.”

“Damned odd.”

“If you say so, Sir.”'

“Well, didn’t you think, Lamb?”

“Sir, I happened to be there. That was all, Sir.”

“But, you did know them. The … whores … I mean.”

“I did, Sir. They frequented the neighborhood of the inn where I am quartered.”

“Yes, the inn, hmmm, why is that exactly? Is it customary to house our officers in private lodgings? Not encamped with the soldiers?”

Something about the way O’Hara says this, the challenge in his voice, the narrowing eyes, is as if he is judging Lamb, assuming there is something there, some infraction, some scheme, some little act of dishonesty. Lamb was, once more, filled with distaste for the man, so tangible it was a physical sensation, an indigestion of the soul.

“I believe we are quartered all throughout Toulon, Sir. A gesture to the populace.”

“Let them make a profit from us, eh?”

“Exactly so, Sir. The siege provides few other opportunities, evidently.”

“Both blondes. Hmm.” O’Hara played with his side-whiskers, curling the coarse white hair around a stubby fingertip, a habit that was rapidly becoming, for Lamb, a source of unbearable irritation. “Maybe, heh heh, he has a special liking for the blonde ones, hmm?”

“We could speculate, Sir.”

“As you say.” O’Hara gave him a sour glare, displeased that Lamb was not playing along. “Speculate. Hmm. And what do you … mmm … speculate … is going on with the French Artillery?” Changing the subject. “You have been surprisingly accurate, so far.”

“Just observation and deduction, Sir.” When, in fact, Lamb’s uncanny accuracy at predicting the focus and targets of the French Artillery has absolutely nothing to do with ‘observation and deduction’ and everything to do with the very detailed information Naboleone is passing along to him. All part of the little Corsican’s plan.

When Lamb first came forward with information, his ‘clever little guesses’, it was not provided directly to General O’Hara, nor was the information particularly memorable, involving just a few small observations on the concentration of French firepower, delivered offhand to Captain Brereton. In this way, Lamb did not draw undue attention to himself, but over time, with more and more ‘clever little guesses’ — Brereton’s term — the word started spreading among O’Hara’s command staff.

Now Lamb is viewed as something of a savant, with an inexplicable nose for predicting the focus of the French Artillery and the movements of the French Revolutionary Army. He has daily sessions with O’Hara and his command staff, sharing information, considering points of strategy. All according to Naboleone’s plan. Lamb has proven himself, and his ideas are now accepted as gospel. He has earned the right to unconditional acceptance.

Today, he is ready to bait the trap.

“Here,” Lamb said, a long index finger pointing to the location on the large battle-map filling the table. “This is their weakness, their blind spot, our opportunity.”

O’Hara leaned closer, peering at the map. “The Convention.” Referring to the artillery battery immediately West-Northwest of Toulon, on the West side of Mount Faron. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ve observed that, in spite of its excellent position and the range of its cannon, they are using the ‘Convention’ less and less, and when they do, it is not very accurate. I think they have a problem with leadership there. That makes it ripe fruit for us. If we could capture it, we would secure the entire West side of Toulon, create a corridor for reinforcements and supply, not just relying on the harbor, adding a defended land route. We could even, if we were to be so bold, Sir, attack Ollioules,” referring the village north of Toulon where the French revolutionaries quartered their command staff. “Take the fight to them, so to speak. Cut off the head of the snake, and whatnot.”

“Hmmm.” O’Hara placed both hands on the map, taking it all in. “I like it,” he said finally. “Do you have any opinions on when?”

“Soon, very soon,” Lamb replied. “I believe they are getting ready for a push. That will be a perfect opportunity for a surprise preemptive attack, when they expect us to dig in for defense.”

“You think they are about to attack?”

“I believe we will see heavier artillery bombardments within the next two days, three at the most, then the attack by the infantry. They have been testing our perimeters, looking for weak spots. You’ve heard the reports of skirmishes. Each day in a different location. I’m sure that is what they’re doing. And I believe they will come from the East, though possibly the Southwest.”

“I suppose we could help them make up their mind.”

“Yes, give the word, quietly, to your most trusted Captains, to appear weak, fall back under attack in the East, over the next few days.”

“That should do it.” O’Hara played with his side whiskers again, considering. “Yes, herd them to the spot we would like them to attack. We can secretly fortify our positions there, while appearing weak.”

“And as they amass troops there, it also leaves an opening for us to exploit, in the West-Northwest. We can punch through, take advantage of their weakness at and around the ‘Convention’ battery, and capture it.”

O’Hara put a hand on Lamb’s shoulder. “This is marvelous, my good man. If this works, and I do believe it has a damned good chance, I will put you in for battlefield promotion. Lieutenant Lamb, hmm? How does that sound?”

“Very good, Sir.”

“Now, tell me more about those whores.” O’Hara’s smile was oily, lips closed, a bit of moisture in the corner. “Antoinette, was that the little blonde one? The one with the bright blue eyes?”

“You knew her, Sir?”

O’Hara’s eyes went up and to the left. “Mmm, yes. You could say that. I did. I most definitely knew the whore Antoinette.” He focused back on Lamb. “Tell me again. What did she look like in that fountain? You say her eyes were open? That is the most extraordinary thing. You know they say that the last moments of life are captured on the retina, frozen there, like a tracing from a camera obscura. One wonders what one would see if only one could peer closely enough into her dead eyes. Hmm?”

Lamb had a sudden image of O’Hara with Antoinette, the old boar, his white whiskers, his florid face, with Antoinette, beautiful Antoinette. The blinding hate, the urge to hurt, to reach across the table and put his hands around O’Hara’s fat neck, to strangle the man, watching that florid face turn a deeper shade, red as a beet, red as blood, it all welled up in Lamb, so strong he had to grip the map table, knuckles turning white, and force control of his breath before replying.

“A most diverting thought, Sir. Unfortunately I did not bring along my camera obscura.”

O’Hara guffawed. “Well, maybe the next dead whore, then, what?”

* * *

Leaving O’Hara, Lamb felt a tightness in his chest, a tense strain on his muscles, a jittery plucking at nerves, and then, suddenly, smoothly, it all left him, as if he had been a bow, the string drawn back to the point of highest tension, now released, the arrow flying true to its aim.

O’Hara would take charge of the sortie himself, to take the ‘Convention’ artillery from the French, to earn that personal honor and glory. He had shared this information with Lamb.

Oh, happy day. This was even better, so much better, than he could have hoped for.

He knew what awaited O’Hara.

It was evening, the sun had set, darkness reigned, street-lanthorns lit, candles in the windows, as he walked back to the inn, back to tell Naboleone the wonderful news. O’Hara would rush headlong into the trap. Toulon would fall. Naboleone would be on his own path to glory, taking Lamb with him.

Rain began to fall.

Just a light, refreshing shower, repelled by his heavy oilskin coat. In his euphoric state, it felt refreshing, even with the cool mistral wind coming in from the sea.

He felt awake, alive.

* * *

Rain. He remembered the day of the mutiny on the ‘Bounty’. It had rained all night, and the air is fresh at dawn April 28, 1789.

“Murder!”

It’s Bligh shouting, as Fletcher Christian gives the order to lower the launch.

Make your choice. Who do you side with?

Samuel sees Peter Skinner there, beside Fletcher Christian, Peter joining the mutineers, and it is so clear, the choice Samuel must make, so clear that it feels like no choice at all, like he’s just acting out a play, following the script the Great Playwright has already written for him. Press-ganged once more, this time by his hatred for Peter Skinner and Fletcher Christian, Samuel steps to Captain Bligh’s side.

“I am with you, Sir.”

Bligh is tied up, wearing only his nightshirt, rousted from sleep by the mutineers, shaking with righteous fury, but he smiles as he turns his attention fully to his young Midshipman.

“Good, Boy. Very Good.” Bligh’s raspy voice is not much more than a whisper, hoarse from shouting at the mutineers.

Fletcher Christian holds a bayonet to Bligh’s chest, the point pricking through the cloth of Bligh’s white nightshirt, a small red blood-stain soaking through the fabric.

Christian leans in close to Bligh, speaking so low, only Samuel, who stands right by, can hear:

“I am in Hell — I am in Hell.”

Bligh looks surprised at the sudden emotion in his Master Mate’s voice, and begins to reply, but then Fletcher Christian turns around and, in a loud voice, brisk and confident, gives the order that all those who stand with Bligh are to be put into the launch and cast loose on the open sea to make their way to nearest land.

The men go over the side, and in no time, the launch is so overcrowded, so low in the water, that only a few inches of freeboard is showing.

Bligh and Samuel are the last to be placed in the boat.

As the ‘Bounty’ casts off, Bligh stands up in the launch and his voice rings over the still water, yelling out to the mutineers:

"Never fear, my lads. I’ll do you justice, if ever I reach England."

* * *

And so he did. He did them justice.

Of course they didn’t get everyone. They didn’t get Fletcher Christian, and a good many of his men, but they got enough of them. Enough to set an example. Fourteen mutineers, brought back on the ‘Pandora’. Four died on that wretched ship, chained in the hole, in ‘Pandora’s Box’. Of the ten who survived the journey, a good enough number went to the gallows, danced for the hangman, at the end of that long rope.

Lamb smiled. Horrible as the open-boat journey had been, his choice, staying with Bligh, had been the right one. And his choice now, throwing his lot in with Naboleone, was also the right one. He could feel it in his bones.

The fog was rolling in from the sea again, and there, under the street-lanthorn, he saw … what did he see?

Who did he see?

The fog was swirling around the lanthorn, and Lamb could swear he saw a man, a shadow of a man.

Yes, there it was. The same as last evening, early this morning. And there was something so familiar about the shape, the tall, thin, emaciated shape. Freund?

Lamb moved quickly, but not quick enough. By the time he had reached the street-lanthorn, the figure was gone, melted into the darkness.

* * *

In the darkness of Toulon’s streets, the killer stays in the shadows, away from lighted windows, away from street-lanthorns, walking with that slight limp, hunched over, searching, searching, stopping periodically, raising his head to the mistral wind, as if catching a scent.

He finds her, waits for her outside the inn ‘La Tortue Verte’. When she exits, alone, the killer follows.

She is careful to walk in the light of the lanthorns, looking around furtively, walking fast. The killer is equally careful to stay out of view, and the fog is assisting him in this, covering him.

He gets very close. So close that he can touch her. So close that all he needs to do is reach out.

She never notices.

Not until he does, finally, reach out, hand covering her mouth, stifling her scream, as he forcefully pulls her into what will be her last embrace.

— END PART 8 - TO BE CONTINUED —

Click here to go to Part 9 of the story.