Sail Away (10 page)

"And it was quick thinking, mademoiselle,” the doctor interjected, taking the story from her. “Dr. Colbert and I came, ostensibly to see if you were fit for dissection, and as soon as we realized you were still among the living, he raised a terrible row about their having left you in the street so long you were hardly fit to bother with. We took you inside Monfort's shop and performed surgery immediately. As soon as you could be moved, he took you back to get acquainted with the goats whilst I contacted some associates and located a suitable body to bury in your place."

St. John had a feeling he'd have to hear this whole story again, later. “How?"

"The mob, Christophe,” Zoe said. “The melee in the street ended in a riot, and they called in soldiers. There was no shortage of bodies, and when a man has been shot in the face, only a ghoul inspects him closely."

"And the ghouls are all down at the guillotine, aren't they?” He closed his eyes and realized how wrong his head felt beneath the bandage—hot and puffy, throbbing with every beat of his heart. He could well believe his skull was cracked. And then his eyes flew open as a thought sent a shock through him. “Zoe, my God-you went
out into a riot
to collect my body?"

"I did not see where you had been shot,” she said. “I thought perhaps you were only wounded, not dead.” Her little chin had a decidedly stubborn set to it. “And I was correct, was I not?” Heedless of the attending physician, she kissed him on the cheek.

Kit groaned. “Oh, dear Lord..."

"Mademoiselle,” the doctor remonstrated. “I beg you, do not excite my patient. He must rest."

"The spirit is willing,” Kit said, “but the flesh is quite incapable of excitement. I don't know how to thank you—both of you."

"Avoid any more heroism until we can get you healed,” the doctor said brusquely. “I shall fix you a draught; you must drink it down and sleep. Our next step will be to get you out of France. And you might remember, next time you consider running amongst the jackals, that they have no respect for your title!"

"I will, sir. Thank you.” Get out of France. Yes, as soon as ever he could. He should have gone with Philip, of course. But Philip was gone, and the ship as well, and he was stranded here, dependent on strangers. This doctor seemed a good sort, though. “Doctor—I don't even know your name—"

"That can wait until we get out of here. I'd as soon you didn't use it; ‘Doctor’ will do. And I've not used your Christian name out of presumptuous familiarity, but to remind us all that it is dangerous to be anything but a commoner in France, in these times."

"I see. Thank you.” He realized he was, once more, wearing nothing but his shirt. “I had some money in my waistcoat—"

"Gone,” Zoe said.

"Look in the lining of my coat, then, and the waistband of my trousers. There should be something, somewhere. I left my grip at the hotel, shall I write a note to them?” He knew he was babbling, but he'd seen how people were living. They'd saved his life, he did not want to be a burden. “When I get back to England I can repay—"

"Don't worry about money, young man. Rest now; you'll need your strength for traveling. We may need to move you far sooner than I'd like.” The doctor took his leave and Zoe went with him, but she returned a few moments later with a horrible-smelling brew that Kit drank more from a sense of obligation than any conviction it was good for him. It made him sleepy, though, and released him from pain into oblivion once again. He woke briefly from time to time, and found either the English doctor, Zoe, or her father nearby. The two medical men helped him with the undignified personal necessities and put him through the ordeal of changing the dressings on his wound; the pain wasn't as bad as listening to them discuss the technical details of the surgery and his progress. Other times, Zoe fed him and told him a little of what was happening in the outside world. None of the news was good. When she saw that he was growing restless, she would change the topic and talk lightly of her friend Angelique and the amusing things the “theatre people” had done in happier times. He asked her to speak in French, so he could become more fluent. He didn't tell her that he usually lost track of what she was saying as he focused instead on the music of her voice.

The days passed, but he was unable to keep track of them. The air grew colder, and once he saw snow falling outside the window. The wound in his scalp became infected and he was feverish for awhile, time dissolving as he drifted in and out of consciousness, his breath a cold contrast to the heat in his body.

But at least he was seldom alone. Sometimes it was the doctor, pouring vile concoctions down his throat with reassurances that he was doing as well as could be expected. More often it was Zoe, easing the fever with a compress of snow wrapped in a cloth. Once he thought it was his mother, but as Zoe wiped his face yet again and called him back, he realized that was just a very old memory from his childhood, when he'd had the measles.

Eventually the fever broke and he was able to stay awake for longer periods of time, though he still felt frightfully weak. When he was beginning to mend they let him know that France had declared war on England, making it even more essential that he get out of the country. The doctor's plans for escape were apparently progressing well, and Kit thanked God that Zoe and her father were going to come with them.

But nobody chose to entrust him with the details. He didn't blame them. He'd heard enough tales from emigrés to know that was how one played this game. The less the “passengers” in an escape knew, the safer they all were. And Kit knew that, at least for now, he would be nothing more than a passenger. In case of capture and torture, what he did not know could not be wrested from him. He had no delusions of heroism. The shape he was in, he would crack like a brittle twig.

He wondered about the doctor, who apparently had some useful skills in the shady side of politics as well as papers that declared him to be an American citizen, one Dr. Pierce of Providence, Rhode Island. But men of science formed their own society, outside the bounds of political machinations—or above them—and the doctor seemed to have nothing but scorn for France's ill-fated revolution. What he had actually been doing here in Paris, Kit had not presumed to inquire. He suspected that the doctor knew no more about Rhode Island than he did himself.

The one thing he had insisted upon, as soon as he had strength to do it, was to let his mother know that he was alive. The doctor had promised to see it done discreetly, so that no spies in London would learn that Kit was still in France. He was not wanted by the government for any reason, but the mob hatred of the aristocracy was such that he would likely killed for what he was, not who he was.

Kit hated being a helpless burden. He still felt resentment that Philip had apparently not even tried to recover his body. He knew that was unreasonable, of course—he certainly would not have wanted his cousin to risk death or capture if he had really been dead. And in fact he probably would have died if they'd made any attempt to rescue him—it was only the doctor's timely intervention and specialized skill that had given him a chance at survival. But to have been left in the gutter like so much rubbish...

Well, no point in agonizing over that. The doctor seemed to have the matter well in hand. By the time Kit was sufficiently recovered to walk around the little attic room where they'd hidden him, his mysterious savior had arranged for passage on a small trading ship bound for Portugal. Their eventual destination was a conference in the neutral port of Lisbon. “Dr. Pierce” explained ironically that since the New Republic of France had been criticized by other nations for persecuting its scientists, it had decided to polish its reputation by allowing Dr. Colbert to travel with his American friend to the meeting of a scientific society, so long as he left his daughter behind in Paris.

The doctor's retinue would be a curious one. “Dr. Pierce” had ostensibly been visiting France to consult with his colleague on a particularly interesting case, a half-wit servant who had been struck dumb after being knocked unconscious in a drunken brawl. This unfortunate had (so the story went) been privileged to receive the most modern trepan surgery, and his physicians had great hope that his speech would eventually be restored. Zoe, dressed in her oldest clothes, would play the part of the half-wit's wife, included in the party to tend to her afflicted spouse. The explanation covered the obvious physical damage, and relieved St. John of the need to speak the commoner's French that he couldn't manage—though he really thought that making him a half-wit was an unnecessary bit of embroidery.

He appreciated the doctor's good judgement on that score after he'd tottered down a flight of stairs, stopping more than once to rest. His injuries and convalescence had left him with no strength at all; having half his wits working would be an improvement. And when he first saw a scruffy wretch with a shaven head—the fever, of course—and nearly a month's untrimmed beard staring back at him from a looking-glass, he was reassured that no one would ever mistake him for the dapper, well-tailored Lord St. John who'd been shot dead in the street.

He had long since concluded that the doctor was some kind of agent, presumably for the British government, though his opinions were somewhat unorthodox. During their conversations, the physician had revealed a detailed knowledge of the political situation here in France, and although he admitted having had hopes that the Republic would be a success, he had been revolted by the violent excesses of the Citizens’ Committee. “All the potential, the possibilities for freedom and human dignity, and they have sunk to a worse level than the despots they overthrew."

"You are not a Royalist, then?” St John had asked.

"I think there may be better ways to govern, though at least our monarchy has Parliament to offset the excesses of power. Unfortunately, despite all that was admirable in France, the late King Louis had no such check, and he cared nothing for his people. But the new tyrants are worse—cannibals and hypocrites claiming to do the will of the French people. When you see a government persecuting its most intelligent citizens, my friend, you see a danger flag. They have let the mob rule—well, they will learn that the mob is a bloodthirsty beast. That villain Robespierre will eventually find it at his throat. God help France when this gang is overthrown—I feel sure something worse will follow."

The intensity of feeling in the plain little man had surprised St. John when he first saw it, but over time he came to recognize it as the source of the determination that made the surgeon's hands steady enough to go into a living skull and bring a man back from the dead. Kit wondered if he might know anyone who could find out more about the doctor, once he was back in England, then decided against it. If the doctor were involved in secret work, any inquiries about his identity might endanger him, and to make them would be a betrayal in itself.

Two things were clear: the first was that his rescue was only a footnote to some other effort that was prolonging their stay in Paris; the other was that the doctor operated at a level of considerable secrecy. Kit never left Dr. Colbert's home; in fact, he was never allowed below the second floor of the house. His exercise consisted of walking back and forth in the upstairs hall and climbing up and down the attic stairs. Once his eyes could bear light bright enough to read by, he was given books, but only during the day; no lights were permitted in the attic at night.

Zoe was a great comfort. She ran the little household with the assistance of a middle-aged housekeeper but spent as much time as she could up in the attic, keeping him company. She played both backgammon and chess with a skill that made him work to win, and he did so only a little more often than he lost. Kit had inquired obliquely whether she might be interested in resuming the close association they had begun the night they'd met, and learned to his dismay that the doctor had given her strict instructions regarding exertion of any sort. As his health improved, he began to wonder if those instructions were truly for his benefit or stemming from the doctor's respect for the proprieties. Either way, as a guest in the Colbert home, he could hardly persist with such an ungentlemanly line of inquiry.

Several anxious weeks passed before Zoe came skipping upstairs with the news that they would be leaving that night. The faithful Marie would be left with instructions to call the authorities in the morning and report the disappearance of her employer's daughter. Eventually, Zoe said, Marie would rent out the house and go to stay with her married daughter in Tours.

Events followed her announcement so quickly that by the time Kit caught his breath, they were on a little trading vessel sneaking along the coast. He didn't know how the doctor had gotten them past the inspection stops, but suspected it was a combination of hidden agents, well-forged documents, and bribery.

He had no opportunity to enquire. They had been at sea for only a little while before he was suffering from seasickness as he never had before the shooting, but he considered the queasiness a fair trade for leaving France with his head still attached to his body. The doctor established him in a swinging cot in a dim cubbyhole considerably less comfortable than his usual traveling arrangements, and gave him something to help him sleep through the adjustment.

Unfortunately, he never made the adjustment. He went on deck a time or two, hoping the change in air would help his body settle down, but it did not. The doctor's best guess was that this was an unexpected complication of his head injury. Solid food would not stay down, and Kit became heartily weary of soup. After a week of nearly continual sickness, the doctor regretfully informed him that if time did not cure him, he might wish to avoid sea travel once he was back in England.

Getting back to England anytime soon was looking less likely by the day. The doctor had hoped to be stopped by some official British vessel and transfer his passenger aboard, but although they twice had sight of English ships, both were engaged in battle with Frenchmen, and the captain of their vessel got them out of the way as quickly as he could. And so, with never an intention of going anywhere near the place, Kit found himself in the port city of Lisbon.