Danse Macabre

[Lordban]

Governor Lowe's Special Gift.

Elizabeth Balcombe
The teenager did what few others dared: she approached England's foe and became his friend





**​

March 21st, 1819


I know I shouldn't have started an argument with the captain of the Winchelsea at supper. Then we would never have heard the dreadful story of how we English are treating a man who, far from being the cold-hearted, ambitious and inhumane tyrant presented in so many newspaper accounts, is possibly the kindest and most sensitive man I have met.

Sir Harwood lost a hand at Aboukir against the French Navy, it is hardly surprising that he should enjoy scorning poor Boney so much. I managed to refrain from berating him for his tales, but I could not help shaking with anger. The captain must have seen this, for he began to tell one of the most disgusting accounts of the French Levantine campaign I ever heard, culminating with a description of the alleged slaughter of the prisoners and of the sick of Jaffa. I flatter myself I know a tad bit more than my fellow English-folk about these tragic affairs as I have actually managed to get Boney to share his version of this sorry tale with me.

My father was shocked to hear me retell the story with Boney's own words - they were not quite becoming for a young woman of my age - but our host only laughed and mocked me for my naiveté. The captain was much mortified when doctor O'Meara, who was attending to Boney when I dared and asked him about Jaffa, rose to the Sir Harwood's challenge and demonstrated the inanity of the lurid details we had been provided with in ample profusion.

The captain was much aggravated by the doctor's speech, and retaliated the Irishman was being sent home by Hudson Lowe because the Governor suspected him of being a sympathizer of "that wretched French General". Presently he added that he had now heard proof, and that the doctor should be thankful his only punishment was to be the severance of the link between him and "Monsieur Bonaparte". Then he went on to compliment the Governor's gesture of having a coffin specially prepared for the Emperor stored next to Longwood - on the very day his doctor sailed away from St Helena on the Winchelsea.

I broke upon hearing this. Not five days ago my father and I were with Boney in his garden. He had never looked so sickly, nor had I ever seen him this depressed. He knows he will not leave St Helena alive. He has known this ever since before his arrival, but never had I seen him so oppressed by the idea of dying on the island - nor had I, indeed, ever heard him mention his death once, not even last November, when we were really afraid for him. Hearing him say we would be hearing about his death soon after we got back to London nearly broke my heart.

It was this image of him I pictured in my mind as I heard captain Harwood boast of having brought that horrible gift of Governor Lowe's. He was abusing a kind man who has never been the monster we English said he was; our miserable and lonely prisoner: my poor old Uncle Napoléon. And the only gift England sent to ease his suffering during his last days was a coffin.

 

[Myth]

Hmm, this Balcombe girl is who Elise wants to impersonate isn't it? To get closer to Boney (and not Boney Fuller! That comes later. Maybe. ), she'd better move quickly, given that Napoleon seems slightly on his way out.

 

[Enewald]

That better be a bloody good coffin.

 

[Kurt_Steiner]

I bet that his hate is caused because there is not tea in St. Helene.

 

[cthulhu]

Bah! To hell with the Captain and Sir Harwood. The British hated Napoléon because he slapped them and their pesky proxies around for a decade.

 

[Lordban]

Hmm, this Balcombe girl is who Elise wants to impersonate isn't it?

Spot on

To get closer to Boney (and not Boney Fuller! That comes later. Maybe. ), she'd better move quickly, given that Napoleon seems slightly on his way out.

He does seem on that way

That better be a bloody good coffin.

You bet it is

I bet that his hate is caused because there is not tea in St. Helene.

Cargo ships sailing from China and the Indias often stopped at St Helena, odds are they left some traces of their passage

Bah! To hell with the Captain and Sir Harwood. The British hated Napoléon because he slapped them and their pesky proxies around for a decade.

Two decades! Toulon 1793 - Borodino 1812

The trouble with the British is they often win only one battle in their European wars: the last one

 

[cthulhu]

Two decades! Toulon 1793 - Borodino 1812

The trouble with the British is they often win only one battle in their European wars: the last one

Right you are, Monsieur. I was thinking of the Empire, but of course counting all his years of kicking reactionary arse, then oui, two decades.

But they win the last battle because all of Europe wear down their enemy first.

 

[Lordban]

The Calling of the Servant.

St Helena Island; April 1st, 1819.


The creature woke to the sound of scratching. Something was clawing and gnawing at the crate which protected the coffin which had been its home for the past few months.

The offenders were common rats. Their presence upset the stowaway: it had hoped to remain unnoticed, but if it disturbed too many of the rodents the commotion might attract human attention, and a scuffle with humans was the last thing it wanted. Any number of them might have been in the vicinity. The creature knew not where its crate had been deposited; only that it had arrived on St Helena Island and it was kept inside doors. Had the crate been discretely stored in a warehouse on the wharf? Entrusted to the vigilance of the soldiers of one of the barracks? Kept safely under wraps at the Governor's mansion? Wherever it may now lie, it was likely sentries were nearby: the coffin inside was meant to be an Emperor's last home, not that of a clandestine passenger.

The stowaway lifted the lid of the crate gently and then pushed it aside; it winced as it heard the humid wood's creak. One of the rats stopped its gnawing. It rose on its rear paws and leaned on the wood for support as it thrust its wet nose upwards, sniffing eagerly and hoping to smell food.

A pair of eerie red lights flashed in the inky darkness above, and a soft, menacing hiss rose from the crate. The rat jumped back with a squeak as the red light vanished. Its two companions froze. For a few seconds all went quiet as the rodents attempted to ascertain the threat they could feel hanging in the air.

Then the creature attacked. It swiped a long paw out of its hiding place, catching one of the rats and sending it flying through the air, until it hit a barrel and fell with a dull thud.

The other two scampered, and the creature pounced. Its long, shadowy mass landed on one rat with a sickly crunch of bone. Its claws reached the other and tore through its flesh. The victim whimpered with pain as the air filled with the coppery sent of blood. It whetted the hunter's appetite, and it would have succumbed but for the frustrating fact rats could not sate its hunger: this predator fed exclusively on humans.

The creature sliced the throat of its crushed victim with one claw, careful not to let its blood stain one of its garments. The eerie red lights moved about the small cellar as their killer arranged the rats' bodies, arranging them so that it would appear its victims had succumbed at the teeth of their kin. Satisfied with its work, the creature licked its fingers.

The creature looked around. It was moving in a narrow, low-ceilinged damp cellar built with stone. One of the side walls was lined with barrels and crates; among these latter was the one which contained the coffin. Presently the creature put the crate's lid back on, throwing furtive looks in the direction of the exit at the far end of the stairs. It was closed by a wooden door at the top of two slippery stone steps.


Once the creature had made sure no traces of its presence were visible on the coffin and the crate, it started for the door. The glow of its eyes vanished and it retracted its claws. Without these features, it looked perfectly human, and indeed no man who had ever seen it for what it was had ever lived to tell the tale. This predator was of a species which took great pains to ensure humanity would never learn of their existence, to the point their entire society revolved around the preservation of their secret. In ages old one of the creatures had dubbed its species' ploy "the Masquerade", a fitting choice when one knew these predators thrived among the populations of every city known to man.

They had, as we have glimpsed, unnatural physical qualities which made even the least of them the equal of the strongest man; their powers often extended far beyond the range of the physical, and it was especially the case among the elders of this breed. Being over three centuries' old despite its human looks, the lurker in the cellar was counted among the older predators, and where others would have had to resort to force to get past the obstacle of a barred door, this one merely laid a hand on the wood, and it closed its eyes.

Now it pictured the door in its head and bent all its thought upon it, 'till it could see the mystic strands hanging from the planks, frayed and elusive, yet immutable and eternal. Like a forester tracks a deer, the creature followed the door's trail through the thickets of time. It felt one hand, then a second, then a third, all pushing a bar through stout iron pegs. It stopped to study the hands, memorizing each one's feel. Then farther it went, searching for their familiar touch, and it found it once, then twice, then thrice. Three times there was the same man behind the hand, and each time one soul lay behind the man.

The hunter studied the soul's imprint, and then it returned to the present. Now its mind reached through space, probing for the quarry discovered in the dig through time. Soon it scented its prey: the man lay dormant near. Gently, almost tenderly, the creature tugged at his soul, beckoning to him.

The creature broke the connection after it felt the man stir. It stood on the door's side, its eyes trained where it would open. For it would open: the creature had bid the man to come to the cellar, and the man would heed the call of his new, inhuman master.

 

[Myth]

My goodness, that sounds like quite the frightening man-beast-thing. It's evil Wolverine with psychic powers to boot!

 

[Kurt_Steiner]

My goodness, that sounds like quite the frightening man-beast-thing. It's evil Wolverine with psychic powers to boot!

But hates Garlic. A bad habit if you ever go to France.

 

[Lordban]

Right you are, Monsieur. I was thinking of the Empire, but of course counting all his years of kicking reactionary arse, then oui, two decades.

But they win the last battle because all of Europe wear down their enemy first.

That's unfortunately an accurate summary and, one could add, a sound policy

My goodness, that sounds like quite the frightening man-beast-thing. It's evil Wolverine with psychic powers to boot!

But hates Garlic. A bad habit if you ever go to France.

The Garlic Connection is a Myth! (Not implying that garlic isn't widespread in France, nor that Myth is a frightening man-beast-thing )


A mini-update of sorts: in 1933 men didn't know what these man-beast-things were either - at least not according to the SS who investigated the scene at the Potsdam opera-house...

To: SS-Obf. O. Günsche.
From: SS-Ostuf. G. von Rath.
Date: 08/03/1933.
Ref.: Aktion SA-Stuf. Faber 03/03 E Stu. x Pots.SdH. x Fw. 05/03 R. x I/KP.


I. Clean-up of Potsdam SdH successfully effected. Several traps removed or triggered. Two casualties (listed below). Traps protected documentation, mostly ancient. Recommend further analysis for research of references to subject.

II. Have turned away KriPo inspectors, they threatened appeal to authorities. Request support from higher up, in accordance with orders to close information channels with KriPo/Sipo/Göring.

IIIa. Suggested procedure for preliminary analysis of subject followed. Faber suspicions confirmed. Unqualified disaster. 9 casualties, all due to subject's H2H action. Physical strength of subject abnormal (personally witnessed it seize and wield man-sized marble statue as weapon). Consider it imperative you personally interrogate witnesses & Faber. --appointments with SS-ReichsF. made. vR-Obf.

IIIb. Ordered extreme measures to prevent further casualties. Subject obviously extremely vulnerable to fire, was entirely cremated in seconds upon use of flamethrower. No body parts remaining. Sent over ash sample for analysis. Possibility unique chemical property involved. --transmitted to SS-ReichsF. vR-Obf.

IVa. Second interview with StuF Faber. He suspects subject was also vulnerable to sunlight and actively avoided it. Possibility unique chemical property involved.

IVb. Faber still shaken by experience but willing to operate with SS. Suggest organizing transfer from SA. --transfer documents sent to Gauleiter Goebbels. vR-Obf.

V. Platoon currently half-strength. Requesting relief on site ASAP to R&R and train new recruits. --denied, order SS-ReichsF. vR-Obf.


Oskar Günsche.
SS-Obersturmführer.



~~~~~~~~~~



Casualties/I.
Rot. Mark Stein, severed hand --removed from active service list. replacement sent. vR-Obf.
Mann. Franz Lübke, E. --removed from active service list. replacement sent. vR-Obf.

Casualties/III.
Stuf. Dr. Wilhelm Höss, E. --removed from active service list. replacement requested. vR-Obf.
Oscha. Wilhelm Rutz, E. --removed from active service list. replacement sent. vR-Obf.
Scha. Karl Hindemith, E. --removed from active service list. replacement sent. vR-Obf.
Mann. Erich Gross, E. --removed from active service list. replacement sent. vR-Obf.
Mann. Helmut Hanke, E. --removed from active service list. replacement sent. vR-Obf.
Mann. Christian König, nervous collapse. --sent to sanitarium. replacement sent. vR-Obf.
Mann. Ferdinand Meyer, E. --removed from active service list. replacement sent. vR-Obf.
Mann. Friedrich Wester, nervous collapse. --sent to sanitarium. replacement sent. vR-Obf.
Mann. Kurt Zimmermann, E. --removed from active service list. vR-Obf.

 

[Myth]

The Garlic Connection is a Myth! (Not implying that garlic isn't widespread in France, nor that Myth is a frightening man-beast-thing )

I'm actually just a plain old frightening man.

But at least we know that fire kills them! Fire kills most things.

 

[Enewald]

What report is that supposed to be?
The author is not clearly a German.

 

[daemonofdecay]

Just wanted to let you know that you've won the WritAAR of the Week award mate!

 

[Lordban]

I'm actually just a plain old frightening man.

But at least we know that fire kills them! Fire kills most things.

Duly noted Fire does tend to solve a lot of problems

What report is that supposed to be?
The author is not clearly a German.

German is only a second language for many SS who write reports

Just wanted to let you know that you've won the WritAAR of the Week award mate!

Thank you very much!

(I wonder how many Status points this one is worth on a character sheet )

 

[Lord_D]

Oooohh dinner time. I approve ^_^

Excellent writing

 

[unmerged(201662)]

Impressively done, subbed.

 

[Lordban]

Oooohh dinner time. I approve ^_^

Excellent writing

Thank you

Dinner? Where did you read about dinner?

Impressively done, subbed.

Many thanks, and welcome on board!



An update is on its way. There should be another three or four updates to finish introducing the setting, and then we'll concentrate on the Interbellum and on the beginnings of industry in France (which means updates on the Victoria game )

 

[Lordban]

That man is mine.

St Helena Island; April 1st, 1819



**​

As she crept past four English soldiers who kept watch on the path leading down to Jamestown, Elsie had to stifle a laugh. That was the third sentry post I have encountered since I left the house she remarked for herself, and who knows how many more of them there are on the plateau? The Little Corporal might just enjoy the attention of more Red Coats than does King George III himself.

Indeed the English had mobilized impressive resources to prevent the fallen Emperor's evasion. The garrison of the remote island had been tripled in size, and there were now two thousand soldiers either guarding Napoléon Bonaparte or ready to stop a party of rescuers from bringing him to the shores. There were never less than three ships of war anchored in James Bay, and an entire fleet had been divided into squadrons which patrolled every possible approach to the island. Nothing short of an act of war would make it possible to move Bonaparte away from St Helena - or so the English commanders believed. Elsie had bet their confidence would lead them to fail implementing measures like the minute inspection of all inbound cargo, and the bet had paid off handsomely - far more, in fact, than Elsie had expected. She had never imagined the fallen Emperor's jailer would actually have a coffin brought into the very residence of his illustrious prisoner.

Elsie's good humor evaporated as she turned her thoughts back to the questions which had been nagging her ever since the English servant she'd summoned had told her of her whereabouts. The opportunity Hudson Lowe had unwittingly offered her seemed almost too good to be true. Had anyone been aware of Elsie's plans to be safely brought to St Helena? What would such a person know of her plans? What were the designs which could justified another party having the coffin safely delivered to Longwood House? Who would benefit from those designs? Elsie did not intend to waste time searching for answers to those questions - in her isolation on St Helena it would have taken years, if not decades, to get the answers - if there were indeed any answers other than her concerns being due to her becoming paranoid. She would have to be satisfied as long as she did not find local evidence of plans which could stop her from taking Bonaparte for herself.


Elsie had already seen her quarry. No man could see her if she chose him not to, and it had been child's play to take a peek at Bonaparte before she had left Longwood.

She had been shaken to see the changes the past four years had wrought in the fallen Emperor. The Napoléon who had abdicated in Paris had been quite fit; the man she had seen was sickly, his breathing labored. Elsie had resolved to take measures if his condition kept deteriorating over the next few weeks. If she was going to remove Bonaparte from St Helena she had to secure passage off the island for them both, she had to find a suitable replacement for the fallen Emperor - one whose disappearance would not attract attention - and she had to arrange for the death and burial of the substitute before anybody would have a chance to suspect some foul-play.

All this would require a great deal of time, first to gather the information Elsie needed, then to design the plans themselves, and finally to implement those plans. How much time Elsie had at her disposal was not a factor dependent on Napoléon's health - Elsie possessed the means to extend his life by several years if it became necessary. Nor would the English on the island prove much of an obstacle: with her powers Elsie could literally make all of St Helena's residents her puppets, including Governor Lowe, and her take-over would remain unnoticed as long as no being gifted with similar powers interfered. Elsie had prioritized heading to Jamestown over asserting control of Longwood House to discover whether there was any real opposition - to Elsie, men might be tools, pawns, cattle, toys or minor annoyances, but she did not consider them as equals. After all, what predator shows real consideration for his food?

Whether there were some of her own Kindred resided on the island or not, Elsie could at least assume none had played a part in the delivery of the coffin to Longwood House: there were precautions any Kindred would have taken to make sure the coffin was empty, and none of the safeguards Elsie had used to protect herself from these precautions had been triggered. This made it highly likely that any local Kindred would be ignorant of Elsie's presence on the island.

But should some Kindred have made St Helena their home, it was better Elsie did not try to stay hidden from them. The Kindred were predators, and predators do not take kindly to strangers who prey on their hunting grounds without their assent. Tradition did not require Kindred to present themselves to the rulers of the domains they visited because it was fashionable or because it was a means to cement their elders' hold on their domains, but because it was wise. Upset predators could react violently. And Elsie had never liked violence.


Elsie reached Jamestown well after mid-night. In such a small town in the middle of nowhere there would be few residents who had reason to stay up this late. On the other hand, if there was indeed a Kindred residing on the island, he would have to have servants in Jamestown or in one of the surrounding abodes. Kindred were social predators, and though they pretended they did not exist, most of them had at least a few mortal retainers. Even if the Kindred himself did not reside in or near Jamestown some of his retainers would, and one among them would have the same sleeping patterns as their master, sleeping during the day and being active at night. It would not take all that long to sift that one through the few civilians who were still awake and about. By the end of the night Elsie would know whether her work on the island could proceed unhindered, or if she would have to take steps to prevent the interference of one of her Kindred. Either way, Napoléon would be hers.

He was her toy.

 

[Myth]

So, she was the it of the coffin. I had a funny feeling she would be. These Kindred sound like interesting people.