Story: "Daredevil - Part 11 - Flames of Wrath"

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

This is Part 11 of the story.
If you haven't read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 , Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 or Part 10 yet, please start there.

FLAMES OF WRATH 

TOULON, NOVEMBER 1793

“Yes, Sir, General O’Hara,” said Lamb, leaning over the map, where two silver markers were placed, one by Fort Malbousquet, Southwest of Toulon, and one by Fort Ste. Catherine, east of the city. “This is where they will attack. I’m sure of it.”

“When?”

“Certainly within the next three days. Most likely tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Tomorrow is Saturday, November 30. It marks the 100th day anniversary of the French ‘people’s army’, the ‘levée en masse’, the universal conscription of all unmarried able-bodied men between the ages of 18 and 25, which created the French military machine. It’s a symbolic day of birth for the French Revolutionary Army.”

“How do you know these things?” O’Hara looked at Lamb with an odd expression. Part awe, part suspicion.

Lamb shrugged. “I have interrogated prisoners of war. These little facts stick in my head.”

… though in actuality, it had been a half-joked suggestion by Naboleone, when they could not come up with a plausible reason for Lamb ‘knowing’ the day of the attack.

‘Putain de merde! We just make up day with meaning.’ Naboleone had tossed out, swigging down wine. ‘How you say … un geste symbolique.’*

‘A symbolic gesture.’

‘Oui, exactement! Symbolic gesture. Important day from past.’

‘Say, that’s not half bad. Which day? Something to do with your great revolution? That would make sense, right?’

And so they had made a game of it, drinking, laughing, coming up with an event that seemed plausible. They had practiced Lamb saying it so often that now he half-believed it himself. It rolled off his tongue, matter-of-fact and effortless. And he could see that O’Hara bought it, swallowed the bait whole.

O’Hara would launch a preemptive attack on the French fort ‘Convention’ on November 30.

All according to Naboleone’s plan.

Lamb changed the topic.

“Sir, I wanted to give you an update on the situation with the prostitutes.”

“Yes?”

“Since we discussed it last time, I mean. It seemed a topic of interest.”

“Well, more of a distraction, my good Sergeant. We need to keep our focus on the war effort, not the goings on in the underbelly of Toulon, what?”

“Quite, Sir. I just thought you’d like to know, since, well, you knew the one, Antoinette,”Lamb rambled on, getting the words out fast, before O’Hara could cut him off. “There were four prostitutes that were always seen together: Antoinette, Destine, Esperanza, and Beatrice. Now three of them have been killed, leaving only the last one, Beatrice. So, I took the liberty, along with a few of the men from the regiment who have … enjoyed … her company, and we placed her in a sort of protective custody, if you get my meaning.”

O’Hara waved him off. “That is the job of the Toulon gendarmes. We can’t get involved in these civilian matters.”

Lamb put on a show of being chastened. “Uh, yes, I understand, Sir. We just thought. For the good of the public peace, and all, Sir.”

“I’m sure it was all with the best of intentions, Sergeant.” O’Hara narrowed his eyes. “And where is it you’re holding her, in this … protective custody?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Sir.”

“What do you mean, Sergeant?”

“I don’t know where she is, nor even where she will be. But I do know when she will be. Sir.”

“Are you being deliberately obstinate, Sergeant?”

“No, Sir. You see, Sir, we reckoned that it would be best, all around, if none of us actually know where she’s being kept. Safer that way for her, and … for all of us. This killer is a bad lot. None of us too anxious to get in his way, if you catch my drift, Sir. So we take turns. What I meant was that I do know when she will be handed off to the next of our lads for safe keeping. That will happen tonight at 10 p.m., precisely, Sir. It will be up to the next lad to decide where he takes her to keep her safe. This way there is no specific place we’re holding her. It’s up to each of the lads. Hide and seek. More unpredictable. Harder to suss out. That’s the way we worked it out, Sir.”

“You only know a time, not a place? What the blazes! This scheme of yours is flawed, Sergeant. What’s to stop this game of musical whores to go on forever, the whole Regiment enlisted to dance the eightsome reel with the redheaded Jezebel until doomsday? How would you ever put a stop to this?”

“Ah, well, I do know one other thing, Sir. I know which of the lads is up next, since I am the keeper of the roster. It’s young Jennings, Sir. Jennings at 10 p.m. He’s taking over for Huggett. Only the two of them know the place they’ve agreed to meet, and how. We use civilians as go-betweens to effect the handoff, an added protection. As close to foolproof as I’ve seen. But I can always break the chain at any point by giving the word to the next man in the chain. Do you want me to intercept with Jennings, Sir? Tell him the thing is off.”

O’Hara seemed to be giving this some thought.

“Hmmm. Hmmm. Well, what could it hurt to keep the streets of Toulon safe for one night, before our attack on the ‘Convention’ tomorrow at daybreak. Keep the peace, and all that, what?” He looked stern. “But, then put a stop to it in the morning, you hear? All hands on deck for the attack, so no lollygagging, passing the whore around, after sunrise tomorrow.” O’Hara smiled. “See, I’m not an unreasonable man. Jennings you say? At ten tonight?”

* * * 

At dusk, the four of them met, as pre-arranged, down by the jetty: Lamb, Jean, Freund, and Skinner.

“I talked to Zajac,” Freund started. “Used a similar ploy to the O’Hara bait, though a little less complicated. Let it ‘slip’ that Jean and I are keeping Beatrice hidden, and that he will hand her over to me at eight p.m. by the Fontaine-Lavoir de Saint-Vincent at the Place Saint-Vincent.”

“And I talked to Tarun,” Jean said. “Same story, except Freund handing Beatrice over to me for safe-keeping at nine p.m. by that same fountain at the Place Saint-Vincent.”

“O’Hara has the message from me,” Lamb said. “You’re right, a little more complicated. Had to have a reason why I couldn’t just click my heels and bring Beatrice out of hiding. If O’Hara’s the one, he needs only to follow Corporal Jennings, who I’ve instructed to go to the fountain at the Place Saint-Vincent, at ten p.m.”

“Good,” Jean said. “How about your little Corsican Friend.”

Lamb swallowed hard. “Yes, damn-all, I felt like a traitor, but yes. At eleven p.m. Though I really can’t believe he could be the one.”

Jean shrugged. “We’ll find out at eleven.” Skinner said: “And what if none of them take the bait? Then what?”

“Then,” Jean replied, “we keep looking, keep setting the trap, while keeping Beatrice safe.”

Freund had brought a flagon of wine. He raised it, slim pale fingers around its neck. “Here’s to catching the big fish on the first try.” He drank deeply and handed the flagon to Lamb.

The wine tasted sour in his mouth and went down like a lump of lead, just sitting there, heavy in the pit of his stomach.

Oh, not Naboleone, he thought. Not my little friend.

Not only had he thrown his lot in with the small Corsican, but he had grown accustomed to the little man, his amusing mannerisms, his endearing broken English, his pride, his sudden flair-ups of anger — the ‘flames of wrath’, Naboleone’s temper, so much part of his personality — and then his charisma, his brilliance, his strength. Lamb truly admired the man.

Well, no use worrying over it.

This night would tell.

* * * 

The eight p.m. hour came and went, no Zajac.

“Aaawh, too bad,” Freund whispered. “That big, bald bunny. I sort of had my money on him.”

Skinner gave Jean a look, as to say ‘does this fellow always joke at inappropriate times?’

Jean shrugged, as to reply ‘am I my Freund’s keeper?’

Beatrice was clearly very cold, shivering in her thin dress.

Lamb took off his coat and put it around her narrow shoulders. She looked up at him, smiled, grateful for this small kindness.

“Shhh.” It was Jean, whispering, low: “Who goes there?” In the light from the lone gaslight, they saw a figure approaching. A shadow, hunched over, moving with a bit of a limp.

It was just ten minutes before nine p.m.

And there he was, coming closer. Long dark coat. Head down. He was looking around surreptitiously. And there, yes, they could see his face clearly in the flickering yellow light from the street-lamp.

White hair, goatee.

Tarun.

He stopped, looked around, walked all around the fountain, and Lamb could swear it was as if he was sniffing the air, catching a scent. Then he disappeared into the shadows. Waiting.

“I think we’re on, dear,” Jean whispered. “You ready?”

Beatrice nodded. Lips pressed tight. Grim resolve.

Jean put his hand on her shoulder. “We won’t let you out of our sight, Beatrice. Be brave, my sweet. This is necessary. We must catch him at it.”

“We shall,” she said firmly, though there was a tremor at her throat. “They must be avenged, mes copines pauvres, my friend-girls so poor, murdered by this bête, animal sauvage, how you say?”

“Beast. Savage animal.”

“Oui, exactement! We must catch this beast-animal-savage. Tonight!”

Jean left, and a few minutes later, they saw him come from the east, having gone around in a half circle, and he was making a show of looking around everywhere, except the place the rest of them were hiding. He sat down at the edge of the fountain, waiting.

“Beatrice, let’s do this.” Freund stood up, took her hand, and they made their way towards the fountain, towards Jean, from the other side, the west side of the Place Saint-Vincent. With her short stature, bright red hair, his tall, thin figure, long white hair and beard, and holding hands as they were, they looked like a grand-père and his petite fille, walking together.

At the fountain, Jean and Freund embraced, as if they had been apart for a while, then Jean put his arm around Beatrice.

“Come with me,” they heard his voice ring out. “I will keep you safe now, ma chere.” And the two of them walked off together.

Freund returned to the watching party, and they waited just a few minutes, before Tarun emerged from the shadows, following Jean and Beatrice.

Lamb, Skinner, and Freund quietly followed Tarun.

Down the cobblestoned streets they went, Tarun with his slight limp, keeping his careful distance to Jean and Beatrice, staying in the shadows, out of sight, and his three pursuers doing likewise, staying just behind, following.

Then, all of a sudden —

— it happens.

Out of the shadows, the hulking figure comes, like an enraged ox, barreling into Jean, knocking him into a wall, knocking the air out of him, knocking Jean’s head into the wall with such force that they can hear the sickening whack-crack from fifty yards away. Jean appears to hang there, up against the wall, for a few beats, then he comes down, limp, unconscious, in a heap. The assailant turns around, and they see —

— the bald head.

Zajac.

Beatrice runs, stumbles, flees, arms flailing, scream caught in a choked sob, running towards her friends.

Tarun is between her and safety.

He puts out a long arm.

Stops her, dead in her tracks, holds her still.

Covers her mouth to stifle her scream.

Zajac is there, grabbing Beatrice’s ankles, then, together with Tarun, the two of them begin carrying her between them, dragging her away, fast.

But not fast enough. Not fast enough for Skinner.

Skinner, tall, thin beanpole of a man, crosses the distance in such a short time, an eye-blink, that everyone is taken by surprise. He throws himself at Zajack, knocking him away from Beatrice, her feet dropping to the ground.

Then Lamb and Freund are there, and they both take hold of Tarun, who seems stronger than two men his size, and yet they manage, somehow, to wrestle him to the ground, holding him down.

Beatrice tumbles to the ground with them.

Skinner seems outmatched by Zajac, who has taken a pugilist’s stance, Broughton’s Rules.

Then, back to consciousness, Jean comes up from behind, draws the large hunting knife, Lamb’s hunting knife.

“Stand still, now.” Jean has the tip of the blade just touching Zajac’s back, kidney-level.

Zajac drops his hands down.

Skinner steps forward, grabs Zajac by the lapels and gives him a beautiful head-butt.

Zajac’s legs buckle, and he’s down for the count.

Tarun, writhing like a boa constrictor under Lamb and Freund’s grip, muscles taut, lips drawn back from bared teeth, bellows:

“You don’t know. You don’t know His strength, His power. He will have His way with all of you. Every single one of you. Asmodeus will eat your souls.”

Beatrice, who has recovered her balance, aims one dainty foot, encased in a pointy-toed leather boot, perfectly at Tarun’s chin, the kick landing sudden and mule-strong.

Tarun’s head snaps back, his teeth clacking together, and he’s out cold.

* * * 

“So, you caught the bastard, hmmm?” It was after midnight. O’Hara was preoccupied with finalizing the plan of attack on the ‘Convention’, but looked up from the map, squinting at Lamb.

“Yes, Sir. Two of them, actually. Two dragoons, two mercenaries, from one of the Neapolitan regiments.”

“My congratulations, Sergeant. I wanted to tell you, I was a bit hasty earlier today. Hmm, yesterday, I suppose. Of course it was tremendous initiative of you to protect the whore … the … woman, Beatrice. The redhead. And it paid off, hmmm? Caught the blackguards, the German mercenary, the Neapolitan dragoon, what was his name …”

“Tarun, Sir.”

“… and his accomplice with the Slavic name?”

“Zajac, Sir.”

“Well, you have certainly gone above and beyond the call of duty, contributed to keeping the peace among the civilian populace, hearts and minds, protecting the rear guard, and all that. I will certainly add that to my report, when recommending you for promotion to Lieutenant, after the successful conclusion of the ‘Convention’ business.”

“Which is this morning, am I right, Sir?”

“Yes. Before sunrise.” O’Hara slapped a palm down, hard, on the map. “By Jove, I feel it in my bones. This will be the decisive shift in the battle.”

“May God bless our valiant troops, Sir.”

“Yes, yes.” O’Hara had already moved on, waving Lamb off, good-naturedly. “I will give your best regards to Captain Brereton.”

* * * 

“Here they come, Major, just as you predicted.”

It was still dark. An hour or more before sunrise, close to five a.m., but their eyes were dark-adapted from staying up since midnight, staring, waiting.

“Yes, Sergeant, yes. We are prepared.” Naboleone grinned, slapped young Sergeant Andoche Junot on the back. “Let us feast on English hearts today. I hear they are more tender than a baby deer’s.”

Sergeant Junot laughed.

Naboleone felt a hand on his shoulder, turned around to look directly up at the piercing eyes of General Jaques Coquille Dugommier.

“So, Colonel, all according to your plan?”

“Colonel?”

“Well, after today.” The tall, spare, white-haired General had a thin smile on his lips. “Assuming you fight as well as you strategize. Let me see you in action today, and if all goes as you plan, and if you lead men in the heat of battle the same way I have seen you train them and motivate them, you will no longer be a Major, … Major.”

“Yes, Sir. Here they come, the British.” Naboleone pointed towards the small hill, some distance away from their concealed position in the woods. “Let them have their little victory.” He grinned.

“And the men up there?” Dugommier nodded in the direction of the hill, the battery of twenty-four cannon they had named the ‘Convention’.

“They will put up a token fight, then quickly retreat in pretend disarray. This will be no surprise to O’Hara and his troops. They have been led to believe that the ‘Convention’ has poor leadership, bad morale, and is generally a company of misfits, undisciplined and cowardly.”

“Do you expect losses?”

“Minimal, Sir. If any. Those are my men up there.” Naboleone’s voice was thick with pride. “They know what to do. Just enough resistance, then abandon their posts. We have collected corpses from our skirmishes over the last few days, and positioned them around the ‘Convention’. It will seem to the British, when they take the fort, that they have already massacred a great many of our troops, and they will not bother to pursue the small remnant running away.”

“Very good. One hates to see good men sacrificed, even if the ruse is part of such a brilliant strategy.” This was one thing, among many, Naboleone appreciated about General Dugommier: he truly cared about the troops. “How long do we wait before springing the counterattack on the British dogs?” And this was the other: Dugommier was a true fighter, a warrior, the bravest man Naboleone had ever encountered, outside himself.

“Until les fougasses go off,” he said, then explained a bit further, realizing that this part of the plan, new as it was, he had not yet briefed with Dugommier. “We’ve buried ordnance filled with black powder and large, sharp rocks, triggered by long wires connected to flintlock.”

“I see. Havoc. Mayhem.”

“Yes, Sir. A dozen men are hidden in different positions around the ‘Convention’, ready to trigger the fougasses, all at the same time, on the signals of my two most trusted Captains, each in command of one side of the hill.”

“Marmont, de Muiron?”

“The very ones.”

“Brave men. Good men.”

“The best.”

“God bless them. And God bless all our troops today.” Dugommier, a good catholic, crossed himself and kissed his thumb.

“Then,” Naboleone continued, “as the fougasses explode, hurling their hail of sharp stone, bloodying O’Hara’s troops, throwing them into a momentary chaos, we will launch our counterattack, and we will not stop until we have run over them, then taken their own fortification at Malbousquet. From then, it will be a matter of a few weeks, three at the most, before Toulon falls into our hands.”

“A glorious day for the Republic.”

“Glorious.”

“And for a certain Major.”

“For a certain Colonel, hein?”

“Colonel Naboleone di Buenaparte.” Dugommier bent his long frame, leaning down, speaking close to Naboleone’s ear. “We have our eyes on you. I do. Augustin Robespierre does, and what’s more important, so does his brother, Maximilien, and the whole Committee of Public Safety. Your future is bright. But that name. Na-bo-leon-e. Eh? Buena-part-e. Hmmm? It is not quite … French. It’s a constant reminder, you see, and makes you seem like something less than patriotic. My advice is you should give some careful thought to that … name … after the battle today. Yes?”

The General straightened again, turned around, walked away.

Naboleone frowned.

Well, he may be right at that.

Why not?

Why not be French, even his name, French?

Now that he knew the faithless heart of his first love, Corsica. She did not deserve him. France was his mistress now.

* * * 

“And so I ask, like gentleman, what he want. If he need anything. At all. And he say. He say … Oh wait. Like so.” Naboleone straightened in the chair at the inn ‘Le Vieux Monde’, suddenly ramrod straight, arms stiff at his side, pushing his chin down into the hollow at the base of his neck creating a good facsimile of a double-chin, bugged out his eyes, held his breath until he turned quite red, puckering his lips slightly, and it was, Lamb thought, an uncanny imitation of O’Hara’s expression of furious apoplexy.

“Ahem, Hmmmm. To be left alone and to owe nothing to pity.”

The voice was so much like O’Hara, so eerily accurate, so British, so free of the heavy accent and the twisted grammar that normally came out of Naboleone’s mouth, that Lamb caught himself at the verge of looking around the room for the real O’Hara.

Naboleone let out a long, infectious belly-laugh, and Lamb could not help but join him.

“So,” Lamb said finally, gasping for breath, “You really captured O’Hara? Really, truly?”

“Really truly. Early this morning, they attack. They take the fort. We fire fougasses. We take back ‘Convention’. We fight for seven hours. We attack Fort Malbousquet. Is too hard. The Fort it has les chevaux de frise, the how you say, the spikes of wood. There we stopped. Must fight other day. But we catch O’Hara. And he much surprise. Much humble.”

“You realize he was captured once before.” Lamb grinned at the thought. “In the war on the Colonies in America. Captured by their General, George Washington. Oh, this is peerless. That bastard O’Hara has been taken captive first by the revolutionary Colonials and now by the revolutionary French. He’s not a professional solider, he’s a professional prisoner of war. Hah hah hah!”

“Ah, Washington, il est admirable!” Naboleone took a long swig of wine.

“Have to admit I agree. Brilliant man. Beat us fair and square. Now what? What about O’Hara, I mean?”

“He is mine. I keep until Toulon taken. Maybe longer. Maybe always.” Naboleone’s eyes flashed. “He most casse-pieds. He annoy. Jail cell good place for him.”

Lamb raised his glass. “May O’Hara rot in French jails.” He took a long swig. “May he make the acquaintance of Monsieur Guillotine.”

Naboleone raised his glass, joining Lamb in his toast.

“And you, my friend, catch le grand rat, le salaud, hein?”

“Two rats, actually.” Lamb explained about Tarun and Zajac.

“Two rats in one trap, hein? Tres bien, mon ami. Tres bien!”

“Yes, and there they sit, in the trap. The streets of Toulon are safe.” Lamb took another swig of wine.

The innkeeper brought a whole cooked chicken, placed it in front of Naboleone.

“Well, one of the rats is in the trap.” It was Jean’s voice. He had moved quietly. Now he pulled up a chair and sat down. “The big bald rat has escaped the trap, I’m afraid. The streets of Toulon are no longer safe.”

Lamb almost choked on the wine, managing to spit most of it out before it went down the wrong pipe. “Escaped? How, in God’s name?!”

“Ask the Toulon gendarmes.” Jean shrugged.

“But … this is … it’s terrible.”

Naboleone ripped apart the whole cooked chicken, hands to maw, in big jagged chunks, like an animal, a predator.

Jean put a hand on Lamb’s forearm. “Yes. It is. I didn’t mean to sound flippant. I agree. This is a very bad thing.”

“And Beatrice, my God, she believes she is safe. She is back out there. Out on the streets.”

“You are right.”

“I’m right? I am RIGHT? Is that all? I’m right? That’s all you have to say?” Lamb stood up, knocking his wine over, red spilling over the table, running down, pooling on the floor. “And you just sit there. How can you just sit here? We must go out there.” He pointed towards the door. “We must find her, let her know, protect her. We must catch Zajac, again. We must!”

Naboleone looked up at him, a piece of white chicken meat at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry, mon ami, too much wine. Much too much. Useless now.” And his eyes were, in fact, swimming in his head. He was quite inebriated. There were only bones left of the chicken.

Without a word, Lamb turned on his heels, walked out of the inn, slamming the door behind him, leaving Jean and Naboleone alone by the table.

* * * 

Beatrice was walking away from her latest assignation, heels clicking on cobblestones, copper clinking in her coin-purse, the smile of the newly pecuniaried on her lips, enough there to even save a little, perhaps. It had been a good night. It didn’t hurt — she felt guilty even thinking it, but nevertheless it was true — that the competition for her services had been reduced by three.

She shook her head, wiping the smile off her face, crossing herself.

Mon Dieu, I did not mean to think such a thought. My poor Antoinette. My poor Destine. My poor Esperanza. May your souls rest in peace.

And consumed with these penitent prayers, she does not hear the footsteps behind her. The footfall of a man. A man with a slight limp.

Had she heard, she would think nothing of it, so sure that the killer — the two killers — could no longer be a threat, would no longer menace the streets.

And the steps behind her come a little closer. A little closer. A little closer.

All the time, closer.

— END PART 11 - TO BE CONTINUED —

Click here to go to Part 12 of the story.