Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (35 page)

Mr Norrell gave a cry of horror. Even Lascelles blinked in surprize.

“Days later,” said Childermass, “when Clegg awoke he realized what he had done. He made his way down to London and four years after that he tumbled a serving girl in a Wapping tavern, who was Vinculus’s mother.”

“But surely the explanation is clear!” cried Mr Norrell. “The book is not lost at all! The story of the drinking contest was a mere invention of Clegg’s to blind Findhelm to the truth! In reality he kept the book and gave it to his son! Now if we can only discover …”

“But why?” said Childermass. “Why should he go to all this trouble in order to procure the book for a son he had never seen and did not care about? Besides Vinculus was not even born when Clegg set off on the road to Derbyshire.”

Lascelles cleared his throat. “For once, Mr Norrell, I agree with Mr Childermass. If Clegg still had the book or knew where it was to be found, then surely he would have produced it at his trial or tried to use it to bargain for his life.”

“And if Vinculus had profited so much from his father’s crime,” added Childermass, “why did he hate his father? Why did he rejoice when his father was hanged? Robert Findhelm was quite sure that the book was destroyed — that is plain. Nan told me Clegg had been hanged for stealing a book, but the charge Robert Findhelm brought against him was not theft. The charge Findhelm brought against him was book-murder. Clegg was the last man in England to be hanged for book-murder.”
³

“So why does Vinculus claim to have this book if his father ate it?’ said Lascelles in a wondering tone. “The thing is not possible.” “Somehow Robert Findhelm’s inheritance has passed to Vinculus, but how it happened I do not pretend to understand,” said Childermass.

“What of the man in Derbyshire?” asked Mr Norrell, suddenly. “You said that Findhelm was sending the book to a man in Derbyshire.”

Childermass sighed. “I passed through Derbyshire on my way back to London. I went to the village of Bretton. Three houses and an inn high on a bleak hill. Whoever the man was that Clegg was sent to seek out, he is long dead. I could discover nothing there.”

Stephen Black and the gentleman with the thistle-down hair were seated in the upper room of Mr Wharton’s coffee-house in Oxford-street where the Peep-O’Day-Boys met.

The gentleman was speaking, as he often did, of his great affection for Stephen.”Which reminds me,”he said; “I have been meaning for many months to offer you an apology and an explanation.”

“An apology to me, sir?”

“Yes, Stephen. You and I wish for nothing in the world so much as Lady Pole’s happiness, yet I am bound by the terms of the magician’s wicked agreement to return her to her husband’s house each morning where she must while away the long day until evening. But, clever as you are, you must surely have observed that there are no such constraints upon you and I dare say you are wondering why I do not take you away to Lost-hope House to be happy for ever and for ever.”

“I have wondered about that, sir,” agreed Stephen. He paused because his whole future seemed to depend upon the next question. “Is there something which prevents you?”

“Yes, Stephen. In a way there is.”

“I see,” said Stephen. “Well, that is most unfortunate.”

“Would not you like to know what it is?” asked the gentleman.

“Oh yes, sir! Indeed, sir!”

“Know then,” said the gentleman, putting on grave and important looks quite unlike his usual expression, “that we fairy-spirits know something of the future. Often Fate chuses us as her vessels for prophecy. In the past we have lent our aid to Christians to allow them to achieve great and noble destinies — Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, Charlemagne, William Shakespeare, John Wesley and so forth.
⁴
But often our knowledge of things to come is misty and …” The gentleman gestured furiously as if he were brushing away thick cobwebs from in front of his face. “… imperfect. Out of my dear love for you, Stephen, I have traced the smoke of burning cities and battlefields and prised dripping, bloody guts out of dying men to discover your future. You are indeed destined to be a king! I must say that I am not in the least surprized! I felt strongly from the first that you should be a king and it was most unlikely that I should be wrong. But more than this, I believe I know which kingdom is to be yours. The smoke and guts and all the other signs state quite clearly that it is to be a kingdom where you have already been! A kingdom with which you are already closely connected.”

Stephen waited.

“But do you not see?” cried the gentleman, impatiently. “It must be England! I cannot tell you how delighted I was when I learnt this important news!”

“England!” exclaimed Stephen.

“Yes, indeed! Nothing could be more beneficial for England herself than that you should be her King. The present King is old and blind and as for his sons, they are all fat and drunk! So now you see why I cannot take you away to Lost-hope. It would be wholly wrong of me to remove you from your rightful kingdom!”

Stephen sat for a moment, trying to comprehend. “But might not the kingdom be somewhere in Africa?” he said at last. “Perhaps I am destined to find my way back there and perhaps by some strange portent the people will recognize me as the descendant of one of their kings?”

“Perhaps,” said the gentleman, doubtfully. “But, no! That cannot be. For you see it is a kingdom where
you have already been
. And you never were in Africa. Oh, Stephen! How I long for your wonderful destiny to be accomplished. On that day I shall ally my many kingdoms to Great Britain — and you and I shall live in perfect amity and brotherhood. Think how our enemies will be confounded! Think how eaten up with rage the magicians will be! How they will curse themselves that they did not treat us with more respect!”

“But I think that you must be mistaken, sir. I cannot rule England. Not with this …” He spread out his hands in front of him.
Black skin
, he thought. Aloud he continued, “Only you, sir, with your partiality for me, could think such a thing possible. Slaves do not become kings, sir.”

“Slave, Stephen? Whatever do you mean?”

“I was born into slavery, sir. As are many of my race. My mother was a slave on an estate in Jamaica that Sir Walter’s grandfather owned. When his debts grew too great Sir William went to Jamaica to sell the estate — and one of the possessions which he brought back with him was my mother. Or rather he intended to bring her back to be a servant in his house, but during the voyage she gave birth to me and died.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the gentleman in triumph. “Then it is exactly as I have said! You and your estimable mother were enslaved by the wicked English and brought low by their machinations!”

“Well, yes, sir. That is true in a sense. But I am not a slave now. No one who stands on British soil can be a slave. The air of England is the air of liberty. It is a great boast of Englishmen that this is so.”
And yet
, he thought,
they own slaves in other countries.
Out loud he said, “From the moment that Sir William’s valet carried me as a tiny infant from the ship I was free.”

“Nevertheless we should punish them!” cried the gentleman. “We can easily kill Lady Pole’s husband, and then I will descend into Hell and find his grandfather, and then …”

“But it was not Sir William and Sir Walter who did the enslaving,” protested Stephen. “Sir Walter has always been very much opposed to the slave trade. And Sir William was kind to me. He had me christened and educated.”

“Christened? What? Even your name is an imposition of your enemies? Signifying slavery? Then I strongly advise you to cast it off and chuse another when you ascend the throne of England! What was the name your mother called you?”

“I do not know, sir. I am not sure that she called me any thing.”

The gentleman narrowed his eyes as a sign that he was thinking hard. “It would be a strange sort of mother,” he mused, “that did not name her child. Yes, there will be a name that belongs to you. Truly belongs to you. That much is clear to me. The name your mother called you in her heart during those precious moments when she held you in her arms. Are you not curious to know what it was?”

“Certainly, sir. But my mother is long dead. She may never have told that name to another soul. Her own name is lost. Once when I was a boy I asked Sir William, but he could not remember it.”

“Doubtless he knew it well, but in his malice would not tell it to you. It would need someone very remarkable to recover your name, Stephen — someone of rare perspicacity, with extraordinary talents and incomparable nobility of character. Me, in fact. Yes, that is what I will do. As a token of the love I bear you, I will find your true name!”

31
Seventeen dead Neapolitans

April 1812—June 1814

There were in the British Army at that time a number of “exploring officers" whose business it was to talk to the local people, to steal the French Army’s letters and always to know the whereabouts of the French troops. Let your notions of war be as romantic as they may, Wellington’s exploring officers would always exceed them. They forded rivers by moonlight and crossed mountain ranges under the searing sun. They lived more behind French lines than English ones and knew everyone favourable to the British cause.

The greatest of these exploring officers was, without a doubt, Major Colquhoun Grant of the 11th Foot. Often the French would look up from whatever they were doing and see Major Grant on horseback, observing them from atop a far-off hill. He would peer at them through his telescope and then make notes about them in his little notebook. It made them most uncomfortable.

One morning in April 1812, quite by chance, Major Grant found himself caught between two French cavalry patrols. When it became clear that he could not outride them he abandoned his horse and hid in a little wood. Major Grant always considered himself to be a soldier rather than a spy, and, as a soldier, he made it a point of honour to wear his uniform at all times. Unfortunately the uniform of the 11th Foot (as of almost all infantry regiments) was bright scarlet and as he hid amongst the budding spring leaves the French had no difficulty whatsoever in perceiving him.

For the British the capture of Grant was a calamity akin to losing a whole brigade of ordinary men. Lord Wellington immediately sent out urgent messages — some to the French generals proposing an exchange of prisoners and some to the
guerrilla
commanders,
¹
promising them silver dollars and weapons aplenty if they could effect Grant’s rescue. When neither of these proposals produced any results Lord Wellington was obliged to try a different plan. He hired one of the most notorious and ferocious of all the
guerrilla
chieftains, Jeronimo Saornil, to convey Jonathan Strange to Major Grant.

“You will find that Saornil is rather a formidable person,” Lord Wellington informed Strange before he set off, “but I have no fears upon that account, because frankly, Mr Strange, so are you.”

Saornil and his men were indeed as murderous a set of villains as you could wish to see. They were dirty, evil-smelling and un-shaven. They had sabres and knives stuck into their belts and rifles slung over their shoulders. Their clothes and saddle-blankets were covered with cruel and deadly images: skulls and crossbones; hearts impaled upon knives; gallows; crucifixions upon cartwheels; ravens pecking at hearts and eyes; and other such pleasant devices. These images were formed out of what appeared at first to be pearl buttons but which, on closer examination, proved to be the teeth of all the Frenchmen they had killed. Saornil, in particular, had so many teeth attached to his person that he rattled whenever he moved, rather as if all the dead Frenchmen were still chattering with fear.

Surrounded as they were by the symbols and accoutrements of death, Saornil and his men were confident of striking terror into everyone they met. They were therefore a little disconcerted to find that the English magician had outdone them in this respect — he had brought a coffin with him. Like many violent men they were also rather superstitious. One of them asked Strange what was inside the coffin. He replied carelessly that it contained a man.

After several days of hard riding the
guerrilla
band brought Strange to a hill which overlooked the principal road leading out of Spain and into France. Along this road, they assured Strange, Major Grant and his captors were sure to pass.

Saornil’s men set up camp nearby and settled themselves to wait. On the third day they saw a large party of French soldiers coming along the road and, riding in the middle of them, in his scarlet uniform, was Major Grant. Immediately Strange gave instructions for his coffin to be opened. Three of the
guerrilleros
took crowbars and prised off the lid. Inside they found a pottery person — a sort of mannikin made from the same rough red clay which the Spanish use to make their colourful plates and jugs. It was life-size, but very crudely made. It had two holes for eyes and no nose to speak of. It was, however, carefully dressed in the uniform of an officer of the 11th Foot.

“Now,” said Strange to Jeronimo Saornil, “when the French outriders reach that rock there, take your men and attack them.”

Saornil took a moment to digest this, not least because Strange’s Spanish had several eccentricities of grammar and pronunciation. When he had understood he asked, “Shall we try to free
El Bueno Granto
?” (
El Bueno Granto
was the Spaniards’ name for Major Grant.)

“Certainly not!” replied Strange. “Leave
El Bueno Granto
to me!”

Saornil and his men went halfway down the hill to a place where thin trees made a screen that hid them from the road. From here they opened fire. The French were taken entirely by surprize. Some were killed; many others wounded. There were no rocks and very few bushes — scarcely any where to hide — but the road was still before them, offering a good chance of outrunning their attackers. After a few minutes of panic and confusion the French gathered up their wits and their wounded and sped away.

As the
guerrilleros
climbed back up the hill, they were very doubtful that any thing had been accomplished; after all, the figure in the scarlet uniform had still been among the Frenchmen as they rode off. They reached the place where they had left the magician and were amazed to find he was no longer alone. Major Grant was with him. The two men were sitting sociably on a rock, eating cold chicken and drinking claret.

“… Brighton is all very well,” Major Grant was saying, “but I prefer Weymouth.”

“You amaze me,” replied Strange. “I detest Weymouth. I spent one of the most miserable weeks of my life there. I was horribly in love with a girl called Marianne and she snubbed me for a fellow with an estate in Jamaica and a glass eye.”

“That is not Weymouth’s fault,” said Major Grant. “Ah! Capitán Saornil!” He waved a chicken leg at the chieftain by way of greeting. “Buenos Días!”

Meanwhile the officers and soldiers of the French escort continued on their way to France and when they reached Bayonne they delivered their prisoner into the keeping of the Head of Bayonne’s Secret Police. The Head of the Secret Police came forward to greet what he confidently believed to be Major Grant. He was somewhat disconcerted when, on reaching out to shake the Major’s hand, the entire arm came away in his hand. So surprized was he that he dropped it on the ground where it shattered into a thousand pieces. He turned to make his apologies to Major Grant and was even more appalled to discover large black cracks appearing all over the Major’s face. Next, part of the Major’s head fell off — by which means he was discovered to be completely hollow inside — and a moment later he fell to bits like the Humpty-Dumpty person in
Mother Goose’s Melody
.

On July 22nd Wellington fought the French outside the ancient university city of Salamanca. It was the most decisive victory for any British Army in recent years.

That night the French Army fled through the woods that lay to the south of Salamanca. As they ran, the soldiers looked up and were amazed to see flights of angels descending through the dark trees. The angels shone with a blinding light. Their wings were as white as swans’ wings and their robes were the shifting colours of mother-of-pearl, fish scales or skies before thunder. In their hands they held flaming lances and their eyes blazed with a divine fury. They flew through the trees with astonishing rapidity and brandished their lances in the faces of the French.

Many of the soldiers were stricken with such terror that they turned and ran back towards the city — towards the pursuing British Army. Most were too amazed to do any thing but stand and stare. One man, braver and more resolute than the rest, tried to understand what was happening. It seemed to him highly unlikely that Heaven should suddenly have allied itself with France’s enemies; after all such a thing had not been heard of since Old Testament times. He noticed that though the angels threatened the soldiers with their lances, they did not attack them. He waited until one of the angels swooped down towards him and then he plunged his sabre into it. The sabre encountered no resistance — nothing but empty air. Nor did the angel exhibit any signs of hurt or shock. Immediately the Frenchman called out to his compatriots that there was no reason to be afraid; these were nothing but illusions produced by Wellington’s magician; they could not harm them.

The French soldiers continued along the road, pursued by the phantom angels. As they came out of the trees they found themselves on the bank of the River Tormes. An ancient bridge crossed the river, leading into the town of Alba de Tormes. By an error on the part of one of Lord Wellington’s allies this bridge had been left entirely unguarded. The French crossed over and escaped through the town.

Some hours later, shortly after dawn, Lord Wellington rode wearily across the bridge at Alba de Tormes. With him were three other gentlemen: Lieutenant-Colonel De Lancey who was the Army’s Deputy Quartermaster; a handsome young man called Fitzroy Somerset who was Lord Wellington’s Military Secretary; and Jonathan Strange. All of them were dusty and battle-stained and none of them had been to bed for some days. Nor was there much likelihood of their doing so soon since Wellington was determined to continue his pursuit of the fleeing French.

The town with its churches, convents and mediaeval buildings stood out with perfect clarity against an opalescent sky. Despite the hour (it was not much after half past five) the town was already up. Bells were already being rung to celebrate the defeat of the French. Regiments of weary British and Portuguese soldiers were filing through the streets and the townspeople were coming out of their houses to press gifts of bread, fruit and flowers on them. Carts bearing wounded men were lined up against a wall while the officer in charge sent men to seek out the hospital and other places to receive them. Meanwhile five or six plain-faced, capable-looking nuns had arrived from one of the convents and were going about among the wounded men giving them draughts of fresh milk from a tin cup. Small boys whom nobody could persuade to stay in bed were excitedly cheering every soldier they saw and forming impromptu victory parades behind any that did not seem to mind it.

Lord Wellington looked about him. “Watkins!” he cried, hailing a soldier in an artillery uniform.

“Yes, my lord?” said the man.

“I am in search of my breakfast, Watkins. I don’t suppose you have seen my cook?”

“Sergeant Jefford said he saw your people going up to the castle, my lord.”

“Thank you, Watkins,” said his lordship and rode on with his party.

The Castle of Alba de Tormes was not much of a castle. Many years ago at the start of the war the French had laid siege to it and with the exception of one tower it was all in ruins. Birds and wild creatures now made nests and holes where once the Dukes of Alba had lived in unimaginable luxury. The fine Italian murals for which the castle had once been famous were a great deal less impressive now that the ceilings were all gone and they had been subjected to the rough caresses of rain, hail, sleet and snow. The dining-parlour lacked some of the convenience that other dining-parlours have; it was open to the sky and there was a young birch tree growing in the middle of it. But this troubled Lord Wellington’s servants not one whit; they were accustomed to serve his lordship his meals in far stranger places. They had set a table beneath the birch tree and spread it with a white cloth. As Wellington and his companions rode up to the castle they had just begun to lay it with plates of bread rolls, slices of Spanish ham, bowls of apricots and dishes of fresh butter. Wellington’s cook went off to fry fish, devil kidneys and make coffee.

The four gentlemen sat down. Colonel De Lancey remarked that he did not believe he could remember when his last meal had been. Somebody else agreed and then they all silently applied themselves to the serious business of eating and drinking.

They were just beginning to feel a little more like their usual selves and grow a little more conversational when Major Grant arrived.

“Ah! Grant,” said Lord Wellington. “Good Morning. Sit down. Have some breakfast.”

“I will in a moment, my lord. But first I have some news for you. Of rather a surprizing sort. It seems the French have lost six cannon.”

“Cannon?” said his lordship, not much interested. He helped himself to a bread roll and some devilled kidneys. “Of course they have lost cannon. Somerset!” he said, addressing his Military Secretary. “How many pieces of French cannon did I capture yesterday?”

“Eleven, my lord.”

“No, no, my lord,” said Major Grant. “I beg your pardon, but you misunderstand. I am not speaking of the cannon that were captured during the battle. These cannon were never in the battle. They were on their way from General Caffarelli in the north to the French Army. But they did not arrive in time for the battle. In fact they never arrived at all. Knowing that you were in the vicinity, my lord, and pressing the French hard, General Caffarelli was anxious to deliver them with all dispatch. He made up his escort out of the first thirty soldiers that came to hand. Well, my lord, he acted in haste and has repented at leisure for it seems that ten out of thirty were Neapolitan.”

“Neapolitan! Were they indeed?” said his lordship.

De Lancey and Somerset exchanged pleased looks with one another and even Jonathan Strange smiled.

The truth was that, although Naples was part of the French Empire, the Neapolitans hated the French. The young men of Naples were forced to fight in the French Army but they took every opportunity they could to desert, often running away to the enemy.

“But what of the other soldiers?” asked Somerset. “Surely we must assume that they will prevent the Neapolitans doing much mischief?”