The Frankenstein Papers

Chapter 11

About January 5,1783_I fear that I have again, as in my sojourn in the Arctic, lost track of days. Somewhere in the mid-Atlantic aboard a smuggler

I write this in the midst of what feels to me like a gale, and not knowing whether this ship will ever see land again or not. Even the most experienced sailors aboard are displaying unmistakable signs of alarm. The winter crossings, I have now learned, are notoriously difficult and dangerous, yet the possibility of profit which they hold out tempts many owners to risk their own fortunes and their sailors' lives in them.

Precisely what cargo we may be smuggling now, I have no idea. Nor am I interested in finding out. The evidences aboard are ell too plain that previous cargoes have been more shameful than any mere dead stuff packed into bales or hogsheads could possibly be. This ship must ordinarily be engaged in the slave trade, that infamous triangular voyaging of valuable loads: trade goods from England to Africa; slaves from Africa to Jamaica or other Caribbean ports; and molasses, rum, and other tropical produce from the Caribbean back to England. Is it possible that Saville himself is the owner of this vessel? For all I know, that may be so.

I had anticipated that, untrained as I am, I might encounter some difficulty in shipping as an ordinary hand. I see now that I might have managed it easily—there is always a need for recruits of any kind. No being in his right mind would choose the life of a common seaman voluntarily, had he any alternative other than starvation. But my lot aboard ship has been far easier than most.

My acquaintance, the sailor who recruited me, told me as we trudged toward our place of embarkation that the smuggler captain had heard of me and wanted me for his personal bodyguard. It was a thin-sounding story but I accepted it. And indeed my position ever since I came aboard has been anomalous—no real surprise to me, as that has been the case throughout that portion of my life which I can remember.

The captain was surprisingly amiable toward me from the start; but it is plain that he needs no bodyguard on his own ship. He impresses me as a businesslike and capable ruffian, quite competent to guard his own back as well as manage whatever affairs he finds in front of him. My thought is that he and his recruiting agent have some quite different use in mind for me later, when we have reached port. Whenever I question him about my duties he remains vague, urging me to "learn the ropes" and be patient. Meanwhile he has no interest in whether I really learn the ropes aboard his ship or not. And it is apparent that he and his officers consider me valuable. No one has sent me into the rigging, though I could probably cope with such acrobatics much more easily than almost any of the poor wretches who are actually ordered aloft in even the foulest weather.

I have visited the crew's quarters, before the mast, and they are horrible enough, but those in which the slaves are ordinarily penned up for the weeks of the westward trip, are almost indescribable. Not cabins, not an open room like the fo'c'sle, nor even cells, but mere shelves, lacking enough space between them for a human, even a child, to do anything but lie flat. The stench of those spaces, even now when they are empty, is overwhelming. There the human cargo must remain, packed together like so many hundred sticks of lumber, with only occasional periods on deck for exercise, during the weeks and months of voyaging. I feel a considerable bond with those poor folk; if any were aboard now, I think I should turn mutineer out of necessity. But on this voyage there are only the empty pens, round which the odor still clings of humanity penned up in a fashion that would be hideously cruel if practiced on the veriest brute beasts.

Not a single slave is aboard now; we are bound for England, and the practice has been declared illegal there, as the captain tells me, with a sprinkling of oaths to indicate his outrage. No law, however, prevents Saville and other Englishmen like him from enriching themselves in the three-way trade.

I have a small cabin to myself, or "cell" might be a better word for it. There are formidable fastenings on the outside of the door, though they are not used now, and I suspect that on some voyages my accommodations have housed particularly interesting, violent, or perhaps diseased samples of the human cargo. Not that diseased slaves are very often transported for any considerable distance, as they are naturally very difficult to sell. It is much more economical to put them over the side, once hope of a prompt recovery has been abandoned.

I have quietly, but I think efficiently, taken steps to insure that the formidable fastenings of the door are not suddenly employed to close me in some night when I am sound asleep. I have taken steps to weaken the door's hinges, using a marlinspike surreptitiously borrowed for the purpose; and I think that come what may, I shall be able to get out.

Most of my time is spent inside my cabin, for I have no real duties, and it is plain enough that most, if not all, of the crew do not care much for my presence aboard. But that attitude is no more than fair, for I do not care much for theirs.

Nor do I fear them. But there is terror in the wind and sea, against which my strength counts for little more than that of the weakest human; and I doubt that I shall live to see my goal.

Franklin. Is he again my goal, as he was in the summer of 1781, when I was determined to help my creator survive his imprisonment? (Saville was willing then to let Frankenstein stew in prison for some months. Teaching him a lesson was the idea, I suppose.) Or do I now seek vengeance only? If so, it will be better found, I think, in London.

In 1781 my visit to the venerable American renewed my courage and determination, even if it did not provide me with the answers that I sought. Simply to reach Paris, and Franklin, had required a considerable pilgrimage. To rehearse all the stages by which I progressed from the Irish coast to the middle of France would form a long and tedious tale, which under the present conditions I do not feel like trying to set down.

I do thank all the Fates who have me in their hands that so far, at least, I do not seem in the least subject to seasickness. Did my brain once know a sailor's art? And did my stomach, proof now against the elements, once digest the last meal of some hanged pirate? Oh my creator, why would you never tell me anything of these matters? Why did I not, years ago, take you by the throat and force you into speech?

The first communications to pass between myself and Franklin were written, and earlier attempts were doubtless discarded by his servants before he ever saw them. In any event, several were necessary before I could persuade a member of his household staff at Passy to pass my messages directly to the great man. Franklin enjoys a large house there, a private headquarters provided for him by the French while he remains the real ambassador of their American allies. Had it not been for the fact that a great many important communications must come to him in such clandestine fashion as I sent mine, and that his whole staff must be somewhat attuned to this method of conducting business, I might never have succeeded.

That first interview was difficult to arrange, but in the end my promise of inside information about the experiments of Frankenstein proved irresistible. I had warned my host in advance of my unusual appearance, though I thought it best to withhold any extraordinary explanation until he should be able to see me for himself.

At the beginning of our meeting he had two bodyguards with him in the room, well-armed and determined-looking men, who, Franklin told me, did not understand English; but when we had been talking for a quarter of an hour he dismissed the bodyguards, and became cordial, offering me wine and brandy.

Franklin began the private portion of our interview by saying: "Your story, Sir, is the most remarkable that I have ever heard—nay, let me amend that. The most remarkable which I believe on hearing to be substantially the truth."

"What I have told you is all the truth, Mr. Franklin. As nearly as I can remember it and tell it."

"Aye, I have said I believe you. The truth, as you have experienced it. But at the very least there must be more." Chubby, wheezing, old, but at the moment apparently healthy, he sat in his chair exuding an air of discontent brought on by my story.

"Yes sir, I am sure there is more. It was my hope in coming to you that you might help me to discover what it is. And, of course, that you might do something for my creator."

He shook his head. "I might—I might, I say—be able to exert some influence, to the effect of ameliorating the condition of this man you regard as your creator. But the results, if any, will be slowly produced, and indirect. And as for his trial, I fear my influence upon Irish justice will be negligible."

I shrugged. I felt exceedingly weary, but at the same time as if relieved of a burden. "I have done all I can for him, then."

We drank our wine, and talked. About science and philosophy, electricity and life. Many things. We were to meet again, but events intervened, in the form of Saville's agents, and I was forced to flee from Paris. But Franklin is a remarkable old man—or was. I hope that he is still alive.

This gale has not yet quite decided to drown us all. It seems we must await its pleasure.