SCENE TWENTY TWO Isle d' Tresor one week after Miguel, Jim & Co arrive in Richmond
There seemed to be no help for it, Jim was the center of everyone's attention in a room just outside Miguel's library, and soon he wished he was anywhere else. After sitting for most of the day in the middle of a circle of doctors, in fact, Jim wished he was any number of other places he didn't much care for. He'd never much liked doctor's examinations, and the ones he remembered getting from the 'doctors' in and asylum in Baltimore hadn't helped in that regard. More and more as the day wore on, Jim found that he wanted to do anything but talk about his health right now, and that was all these doctors wanted to talk about. Jim soon wanted very much to ask them if they would like to trade places, so that he could poke and prod, probe and repeat himself a dozen times, finding absolutely nothing new and getting absolutely nowhere.
Mainly they seemed to be fixated on his vision, or total lack thereof. Mainly they seemed to be obsessed with taking every imaginable observation and making every possible test on his eyes. And mainly, especially the newcomers to his case, they seemed pretty well indifferent to the observations and opinions Jim offered on that subject.
"I thought this whole thing was settled, before we ever got out of that real fun place up in Baltimore." Jim complained whenever he saw the chance to get a word in edgewise. "I thought the whole question was pretty well moot, by now. I'm stone-blind now, and I'm gonna stay that way, was what seemed to be the conclusion, then. So what the devil am I sitting here for now?"
"Major West," one of the doctors Jim didn't know began again, his whole tone of voice and manner so unctuous it made the former soldier squirm. "We're here today because conditions in that horrid place were not at all conducive to a proper examination of your eyes. At least that's what your uncle, Mr. Randolph, wrote my colleagues and myself, asking us to make these tests and observations, and for the latter, we need to ask you a few more questions."
"And you agree with them, and with my uncle now, Miguel? You agree, when you said before… You said I had no chance to see again, didn't you?" The former soldier demanded.
"Yes, that's what I said. And that being said, I can't in all honesty disagree with their assessment of that corner of hell in Baltimore, Torry." Miguel sighed. "It may be … although I'm not much in the habit of admitting it, it may be I was premature in giving you that prognosis."
"Circumstances alter cases, yeah, get that, figure that!" Jim muttered, very much disliking the idea of hopes being raised again to no purpose. Then he turned in the direction he'd last heard Macquillan and Jacques. "What about you, Prof, and you mon docteur ami? What do you think of all this rigmarole?"
"Mon enfant, I've never known you to turn down a risk, if the benefit to be gained counterbalanced that risk to any great extent." Jacques answered, clapping one hand on Jim's shoulder. "And having already read most of Miguel's research on his technique, that is, his procedure for replacing your corneas, I must admit, it might be worth the attempt. This procedure could make a substantial difference to your vision, restoring it to at least some extent, even to a significant degree, or none at all, depending on a great many variable factors."
"Yeah, not to mention it's a tad bit gruesome, to think about taking something from a dead man and attaching it to someone who's alive… in this case, me." Jim shrugged. "And what about you, Mac? What do you really think of this whole idea?"
"Well, Youngster, for one thing, it's a step up from the first way they tried this, back in the time of Galen." Macquillan chuckled, thinking he could lighten up their talk. "They tried using pig's corneas, back then."
Jim shuddered and made a wry face. "Yuck. Alright, Mac, you had your joke, and I think I remember reading that they really did that. Now, tell me what you really think."
"I really think it's dangerous as hell, and still might be worth trying, Jimmy." Mac replied. "But it's still up to you. It's still your life. You'd be the one taking a fairly good-sized risk, not us."
"Major West," the first doctor interrupted, silkily, making all Jim's nerves jump at once. "Your uncle expressed a deep concern that you have not been and are not now getting the care you truly need, which would go a long way towards effecting your recovery. I mean no offense to present company, as I am only relating what Mr. Randolph wrote. He simply feels, as he wrote to my colleagues and myself, that being with your remaining family, your aunt, your uncle and your cousins, would better facilitate your recuperation And that recovery is surely the key concern of all involved, as it would provide you the health and the spirit to undergo whatever procedures seem both practicable and promising."
"And for some reason known only to G-d and my uncle, he's not here to tell me all that, himself? Or do you know why he didn't make the trip, or even write to me, when he decided to send you fellows? He knows I've been reading Braille since I was nine. He learned it, along with me and Pauly, Jeanny and the other kids, that summer, to help out old Doctor Madsen. I'm a grown man, after all, not a child, and not an invalid either, which I thought he surely knew by now!" Jim fumed, liking this stranger and his colleagues less and less by the instant.
"Major West," another of the strangers said, in a similar oily tone.
"Mister West will do just fine and dandy, thanks. I'm pretty sure I'm well and truly RETIRED at this point." Jim frowned.
"Mister West then, the letter I had from your uncle indicated his grave concern for your overall health and well-being, sir. And only as one element of that profound concern did he mention the trouble with your sight."
"Well, there's YOUR problem, in a nutshell, Doctor. There's NO TROUBLE WITH MY SIGHT. I DON't HAVE ANY." Jim growled, standing up and rubbing at his aching forehead. "So, you gentlemen are just wasting your time and my uncle's money. And as generous as he can be, my uncle was also raised by my grandmother Jean Torrance Randolph who thought it was damning sin to throw good money after bad! So maybe you should write my uncle, and tell him I decided to send you packing. Yeah, that sounds like a fine solution to the whole danged problem."
"Mon enfant, you're getting another headache?" Jacques intervened.
"You could say that, mon docteur ami, a really fine and dandy one. What of it?" Jim asked, still rubbing.
" Nothing really. Only that this makes the fifth 'dandy" headache you've had in just four days, Torry." Miguel answered, as Jacques went on studying their friend. "That's either a very good sign, considering what these gentlemen have come to find out, or a very bad one, from my perspective, considering the increasing strength and frequency of this pain."
"Have you considered a good old-fashioned decapitation, as a certain means of treating the problem, yet, Miguel?" Jim asked, with a taut half-grin.
"No, James, we haven't. But we have had some very serious conversations on the subject of trephination." Artie chimed in, joining them. "You know, that's drilling holes in your head, to …"
"To let the evil spirits out." Jim finished. "And that sounds really good to me, about now, pal. But what I don't understand is how these headaches of mine, whether they're dandy or they're fine or they're just a damn all nuisance could be a sign of anything but my old allergy to too many doctors in the room."
"That's simple, Torry." Miguel answered, taking his turn back from Artemus. "You could be suffering these headaches because having improved your environment by a magnitude, including the kind and amount of your exposure to light, on a daily basis here, means you have retained some of the visual acuity, some of the visual field I thought you'd lost. That would be a positive development indeed. Or you could be having headaches as a delayed response to the multiple beatings you suffered during the period of your incarceration before Thomas and Artemus discovered you in that so called asylum. That would not be a particularly good sign, as it could indicate…"
"Brain injuries you can't do anything about… yeah, get that, figure that." Jim replied, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I still don't like sitting here all day being poked and prodded, and probed and tested. Can't we just let it go for now, Doctors? I'm pretty well used up, right now."
'Maj…Mister West," the third of the unfamiliar doctors said, sounding even more like someone's toady than the others. "We could put off our examination and tests for a period of time, of course. However, putting off the answers to these questions, the resolutions to these tests can only delay any hope of changing your condition, much less easing your ongoing ordeal and that easing is what your uncle expressly asked us to achieve, if it's possible at all. Your continuing recovery from what you've already endured, and your prognosis … are both in what seems quite clear to be increasing jeopardy whilst we delay. Don't you concur, Doctor?"
"I do indeed." The fourth doctor agreed. "Delay is the last thing we should advise at this juncture, sir. As we were given to understand the case, there has been far too much time elapsed following your severe injuries already… Mister West. To wait any longer could make any treatment plans we may devise, of little effect, at best."
"Well that's damned depressing." Jim sighed, and sat back down. "All right! All right! Let's get this over with! I don't intend to do this again, tomorrow, or any other day, Doctors. I don't care what you find or what other parts of me you want to check. You get me for the rest of the day, and then, I'm done!"
Jim felt over-done by the time they proceeded much further. He began to feel very much like a bug of some kind under a microscope's lenses, being examined by these scientist types, to determine if he was a healthy, helpful kind of insect, bacterium, germ or virus or whatever they were called, or a deadly, dangerous and on the list for eradication kind, the latter of which Jim began to hope for, in a self deprecating fashion. They wanted, they said, to rule out any further biological or pathological or physiological or as far as he could tell, anthropological, philosophical, chemical, sociological or anthropomorphically, and otherwise completely insanely illogical factors having to do with the relative health of his mind, his brain, his body and his senses. He wanted to rule out doctors in general, physicians in specific and specifically four out of the seven of these eagerly examiners ... permanently, but clearly he was not in charge here. They were.
So Jim settled for the first few hours for counting how many ways he could imagine of deactivating, deconstructing, decapitating and defenestrating his present tormentors, for the second few hours ways of alienating, disassociating, asphyxiating and drawing and quartering them, and for the rest of the day, only imagining ways he could fly, jump, run, skip, tunnel or fight his way out of their clutches. But he didn't. Instead, he sat on a chair in the middle of a room, being probed, prodded and poked, and questioned until Jim wondered when the Chinese water torture device, or the latest style in racks or isolation cages would be wheeled in. And he would have wished himself away, Jim thought, gleefully, the way the small Torrys did so well, except even then, they wouldn't stop asking him questions.
These physicians, only four of whom Jim knew, those being Miguel, Rob Harper, Frank's son, and Jacques, in fact kept asking him questions, probing and prodding his head, his eyes and his memory for hours. After awhile, they seemed to Jim to be asking the same questions over and over again. And they weren't giving him enough time to invent new answers. On top of that they kept warning Jim that their next test or probe or empirical trial might be painful; while he in fact became more and more numb as the day wore on.
"Can you see in this much light, Major?" Was the first question, each time; to which Jim unfailingly answered No, or No Doctor." Stoic would have very much liked to ask something on the order of "In how much light, Doctor?" or "Is there some kind of light in here?" But he didn't.
Next came: "Does this level of light cause you any pain, Major West?"
And at this, Schoolboy frowned as the light knifed into his eyes, and flatly answered, "Just some." He would have far rather answered "Just enough to make me feel like my eyes are a new kind of pincushion!" or "Define any please. It hurts like the very devil and I think that's probably not a good sign. What do you think?"
Third always seemed to be: "Have you had any increase or decrease in your visual acuity since you were injured, Mister West?"
And while he heard Miguel trying hard not to exclaim, or laugh, or both, Loyalist answered. "Not that I recall, no, Doctor." Jim wanted to laugh along with Miguel and then tell the unfamiliar doctors that he purely didn't remember or want to remember whole chunks of the last few years, and to ask them why they hadn't bothered to read his dossier to find that out!
Fourth question came from Mac, or Miguel or Jacques by turns and went like this: "Jimmy, Torry, James, do you recall any time in Baltimore when it seemed that your eyes hurt less than they do now?"
To which Effective kept on saying: "Maybe, on what may have been cloudy days, or when it stormed, especially during the winter, yes." And he wanted very much to tell them that he was still not sure when it was cloudy, foggy or rainy, except by the sound of the rain on the roof, the chill of a foggy day, or the swift shifts from some warmth to less, when there was cloud cover of some kind.
And last but not least, they asked: "Mister West, are you willing to undergo surgery on your eyes, when the odds are rather high that your vision will not improve, that you have will a painful recovery and that you may in fact not survive the operation?"
To which Jim kept saying: "No! And Yes! Damn it, I don't know! But it's my life, and my sight! So what the devil are YOU so worried about?" That was pretty much all he wanted to say at that point, only with a few more colorful phrases thrown in from the Quebecois he'd learned from Jacques, the Yiddish he'd picked up from Artie and the Spanish Miguel was fond of exercising his temperament in, when he was riled.
"Your life and your sight, Jim." Rob Harper answered, as quietly as Jim was loud.
"Yeah, I kinda got that, Rob. Sorry doctors. I'm afraid you're getting the short end of the stick as far as a patient, in this case. Are we done, or is it going to be my turn, anytime soon to ask questions?"
"Ask away, Jimmy." Mac said.
"What are the odds? You all keep saying they're not so good. But what are they? "Jim demanded.
"That you'll see again?" Macquillan asked.
"For starters, sure. What are my odds?" Jim asked, wondering if he wanted the answer, knowing Mac would never hold back the truth.
"Frankly, Youngster, not good. I wouldn't handicap that race, to tell you the truth." The Boston native answered, sighing.
"Okay. And what about you, Jacques, mon docteur ami. What are the odds that I'll get nothing more than a few more bad headaches and some serious bed rest from this surgery?" Jim challenged his friend, knowing he'd only get an honest assessment here, as well.
"Not good at all, mon enfant." Jacques told him.
"So far, so bad." Jim quipped. "How about you, Rob? What are the chances I could die during or soon after this kind of surgery?"
"High, Jim. It hasn't even been attempted in human subjects. And the laboratory trials have had only temporary success
so far. In other words," Rob faltered.
"In other words, I'm much more likely to stay alive, if I say no to these operations? You said there would have to be at least two, one on each eye, right?" Jim asked.
"Yes, Torry." Miguel answered. "What else would you like to know?"
"Why do you think I should chance it, Miguel? Why, when the man most able to perform it, most skilled in the technique, maybe because he invented it, can't do the surgery now? He can't do it now, because he spent two winters in a damp, cold corner of hell with a schoolhouse full of Littles named Torry?" Jim asked, swallowing hard, because he knew Miguel had no reason, or motive now to tell him anything but the facts.
"On the chance you might see again. You've never turned your back on a chance before now, Torry. Why start with this?" Miguel asked in turn.
"Because I'd rather be alive, and relatively sane, thanks, or at least as sane as I am now. And I'm not a big fan of lots of pain for no sure returns. Any other reasons I should change my mind?" Jim demanded.
"On the chance that you might see and get your life back again. The life you seemed so much to enjoy, once upon a time." Miguel suggested, and Jim could almost feel his gaze.
"I can't honestly remember much of it now, Miguel." Jim shrugged. 'so… here's my answer. No more tests. No more questions. No more observations. Go home, or go see my uncle, and tell him that's what I said: no, doctors, no deal and no surgery. Thanks but no thanks."
"But, Mister West!" All four of the newly arrived doctors chorused.
"Well, at least you finally got my 'title" right." Jim smirked.
"Please, Mister West," the fourth doctor went on, almost as if he couldn't keep from finishing his complaint. "Your uncle was most emphatic in his wish that you should seriously consider this surgery, which surely the good doctor could first instruct and then supervise other surgeons to perform!"
"I've already agreed to teach the technique to some of our friends, Torry, to Jacques and Thomas, for example, to your cousin, Jemison and young Robert, as well." Miguel advised. "But not to anyone you don't know, and therefore wouldn't trust, of course."
"And I would be glad learn such a technique, as would MY colleagues, if it could help my friend and, possibly, still others, in similar difficulty." Jacques added.
"For once, despite the damage to any earlier agreements to disagree, I'm with the doctor on this point, James m'boy." Artie added. "Surgery of any kind is nothing to fool with, as MOST of us learned, in the War. No offense, Mac, we all know you and the other field surgeons and medics did all they could. It simply was never going to be enough, in far too many cases."
"No offense taken, Artemus, because you're right." Macquillan agreed. "We had no idea, to start with, what we were getting into, and most of us had minimal training before we got there. We learned along the way, of course but…"
"But that is certainly not what Mr. Randolph wishes, Sirs!" The third doctor argued. "He's determined that physicians of his choice, those being my colleagues and myself should take charge of his nephew's care, including this vital surgery, from this point on! He was quite exacting on that point. And you may take the argument up with him, of course. But our understanding is that Mr. Randolph holds legal guardianship where Mister West is concerned, according to the expressed wishes of the late Stephen Arthur West. That being the case, we have come here in the role of Mr. West's physicians of record. We have all the proper documents, and the European training … "
"You can take those proper documents to court and try to make your case there, gentlemen." Mac insisted, glaring at the quartet. "You tell them, Jimmy… Youngster! Jimmy, what the devil's wrong?" Mac demanded as Jim shuddered hard and stood stock still.
Jim didn't answer. He was caught up in a memory from four years ago.
"I am Herr Professor Doctor Stephan Johannes Aynsley of Vienna, Madrid, Paris, Amsterdam, Zurich and Munich, Sergeant." The scientist replied, giving his full title as it would be if he were in Vien. "And I can do much more than fill your belly and cover your back. I can make you a focus of history. And I can, under certain conditions, restore your sight. But that will come later, as your reward."
West froze where he stood. He was certain Aynsley's promised restoration meant surgery. And anything remotely like surgery would expose his sham in two seconds flat, and likely kill him outright. But the beggar he counterfeited couldn't know anything of the kind. "Wah, ye're crazed!" West shouted, in character. "You cain't do that! Nuhbody can! Them docs, them docs at that field hospital said as much, all them years ago. An' b'sides, you're no doc!"
"But I am a physician, young man. And having trained not in this benighted country but in Vienna, Munich, Madrid, Amsterdam, Zurich, and at the Sorbonne in Paris; I am far better equipped and far more knowledgeable than those jumped up barber-surgeons could ever be!" Aynsley insisted, to West, he sounded coldly angry, as if his pride had been stung.
" 'm sorry, seh, it was wrong, real wrong of me to holler thataway. Them field docs, they hardly knowed a thing, that's certain sure." West answered in a suitably cowed tone, hanging his head and slumping his shoulders for emphasis. " But they tol' me, seh, they said mah eyes was plumb ruint. They said mah eyes were so much burnt -- nothin' could get me seein' ever agin."
"And they were both wrong and ignorant, just as you say." Aynsley replied.
"James!" Artemus called out, putting one hand on each of Jim's arms, trying to bring him back to full awareness, again.
Shuddering again, Jim shook his aching head and came around. Or rather, as his friends had learned to note, another of Jim's brothers came aware, and with strangers present, within the former soldier's wiry frame.
"Thanks, Temus, thanks. And thanks, Miguel, Prof, et mon docteur ami, merci, mille fois que merci, aussi." This brother, Blind Beggar from V Company said. None of the Watch trusted these strangers. They'd arrived with half a dozen letters supposedly from Jimmy Randolph. But none were in Braille. And that fact alone had been setting off small alarms in all the brothers' minds, every minute.
"See, gentlemen, the doctors I want handling my case and helping my recuperation are all right here in this room, excepting only my cousin Jemmy, who's back in Raleigh, just now. And my uncle's guardianship is what would have got me out of that damned asylum, if it hadn't burned down before he could even get the writ! But that being said, and my love, respect, and gratitude to my g-dfather goes without saying, as always, that guardianship was established just before my ninth birthday, when my Dad was deathly ill. He got well again, to our great relief. So, that agreement between my Dad and my g-dfather was never enforced, or even put to the test, until I was committed to that hell hole in Baltimore under false pretenses, and a false name, to boot. So what are you saying now, Doctors? Has my namesake decided I should've been locked up for crazy, after all? Or has he just forgotten I'm not a little boy in short pants, anymore?"
"Well, no, of course that's not the case!" The second stranger insisted. "But Mr. West, there's something here I'm not sure I quite understand. What namesake of yours, and what g-dfather do you have reference to?"
"Beggar" froze in place, his bright, blind gaze almost directly on that stranger's face. "Well, that does it." He said very quietly, in a tone almost as cold as his eyes were in this instant. "Who in the very devil sent you bastards here? Because I didn't think it could POSSIBLY be James Torrance Kieran Randolph, my uncle, who's also my g-dfather and my namesake. And you just proved me right!"
'Major… that is, Mister West, you much misunderstand…" The first of the strangers tried protesting. "We were asked to come here, asked to help you by a gentleman who corresponded with us, we never met the gentlemen … Well, it must have been another of your maternal uncles, then."
"Well, if that were so, that would be a very neat sort of a trick, wouldn't you say, James, m'boy?" Artie asked his partner, grinning fiercely at the now cowering quartet.
'Sir, I'm afraid I don't understand that remark at all." The third stranger said.
'Tell him, Artemus. Tell all these damn all fools just what you meant." Beggar suggested.
"Thanks, I think I will." Artie laughed, but with very little humor. "Doctors, if you really are doctors at all, it's simple, really. Jean Torrance Morrissey Randolph bore her two husbands a total of twelve children. And of those eleven, Danny, Victoria, Ian, Bess, Jimmy, Andrew, Jessamyn, Rachel, Rebecca, Leah, Sarah, and Timothy, only Daniel, Victoria and Bess Morrissey from her first marriage and ONLY Jimmy Randolph from her second, are still alive today. So if you've been corresponding with another of Jim's maternal uncles, you must have been holding séances. Young Andrew and Timothy Randolph died during a cholera outbreak, along with their sisters Leah, Rachel, Sarah and Rebecca when the boys were… I'm sorry, how old were they, James?"
" Drew was the oldest, he was fourteen and a half that year, Timmy was only eight. Leah Alys was twelve, the oldest girl, Sarah Jael was nine and a half…" Beggar recited the sad litany, like that of so many other families from that long past. "Rachel Micaela was my uncle Jimmy's twin, they were both six years old that year. My momma, Jessamyn Anne was only four, and Rebecca Jean was the youngest, she wasn't yet two years old, when she died. Momma, Becky, Jimmy and Rachel all seemed to come out of the outbreak alright. But Rachel died a few months later when whopping cough took a lot of the kids who were still getting well, and Becky … little Becky Jean, died leSsthan a month after her. So, just which of my dead uncles did you say you got those letters from?"
"Well, I … well, that is, we weren't actually in correspondence directly with any Mr. Randolph, you see… " The fourth stranger sputtered. "It was actually an attorney… an attorney, yes, by the name of Aubrey Dupree… or perhaps the last name was Lanier, or … my word, I'm not sure now I recall the name!"
Beggar almost laughed, except he could feel his brothers building up to a panic now. And that only fueled his anger more. Focusing on the quavering voice of the last intruder to speak up, he strode acroSsthe room until he was standing only a foot away. Then he raised one fist, as if he'd be glad to knock the stranger off his feet, without any further provocation. 'stop this doctor's colleagues, will you, fellows? I hear them trying to make a break for it. I think they're heading for the door."
"No problem, James." Artie laughed, and strode after the other three 'doctors'. "Gentlemen, I believe your presence here is going to be required for awhile longer, thanks." The former actor said, moving between the trio of strangers and the wide, high doorway of the mansion.
'Thanks, Artemus." Beggar said and turned his attention, and his bright, blind gaze almost directly on that intruder's blanching face. as that fourth "physician' gasped
"Now, back to the real questions left unanswered, here. For example, the addreSsyou have for this … attorney, the bona fides you have from him, where are those? Do you know anything about him, or his supposed client, my supposed uncle, at all? In other words, my first question still stands, 'doctors'! Who in the very devil sent you here? And since they were not in any way, shape or form anyone related to me, or connected with my uncle Jimmy, how in hell do they know where I am? How do they know what happened to me?" He demanded.
"I could not say, Mr. West. I give you my most solemn word, I could not begin to tell you how that could possibly be." The intruder answered. "I have only… my colleagues and I have only the correspondence from this … solicitor, or attorney, nothing more. I see you believe we misrepresented ourselves here, but that is not the case. We were told … by way of our correspondence with this Lanier, or Aubrey or … whomever he may truly be… that your uncle, a certain Mister Randolph, required our services, on your behalf. It never once occurred to myself or my fellow physicians, Mr. West, that there should be anything wrong in that."
"We have quite a lot of patients amongst us, and often take on just this sort of consultation for them, or for their acquaintances, at need. It never appeared to be anything out of the ordinary, at all. The gentleman's identity as such is truly none of our affair, under normal circumstances, at the least. The gentleman's attorney related to us that his client was … unable to addreSsthe matter in person, pressing busineSsmatters requiring his presence … urgently requiring his presence, elsewhere, just now."
"Yes, I'll bet they did. I'll bet I know who that client is… But that's none of your affair, you just said as much yourself! And I'd hardly call it a consultation, 'doctor", when you already stated you'd been retained as my new physicians by this man you never met, this man you don't know at all, not even his real name. I'd hardly call it consulting when you talked as if you'd been given charge over me, and any future medical care I might need. And I surely wouldn't call it a consultation when you went on for hours, pressing the idea that I absolutely should, I absolutely MUST have experimental, high risk surgery I'm not sure I even want!" Beggar said, his temper rising so fast and furious he was all but shaking with his rage and the terror this afternoon's session suddenly inspired.
Suddenly he was sick with anger to his core, realizing what these men came to Miguel's house to do. Suddenly Beggar knew, and with him, so did all the Watch, who had reached for them, who had tried yet another flanking maneuver against them, another preemptive strike. A mile wide block remained in place, he couldn't say their worst enemy's name, he couldn't bring their bitterest adversary's face to mind. But that didn't change a thing. There was no doubt any longer who wanted Jim West, that is, the Companies fully under his control, or wanted him finally dead. "He doesn't even know we're really here." Beggar whispered, more to himself, and to his brothers, than to anyone in the room. "Damn him! He doesn't know he's the one who brought us all to birth! But he'd be glad to be the death of every last one of our brothers, and all our friends! He'll still use anything at anytime, and anyone, anyone at all, TO HAVE HIS WAY!"
Artemus stood closest to Beggar and the stranger-doctor and now the former actor moved between them. Once more, he put one hand on each of his best friend's arms and lowered his voice. "James… well, that is, I'm not sure which of V Company I'm looking at right now… but…"
'Torry Sojer named me, I'm called Blind Beggar, or just Beggar, to save time." The Veteran answered, with a crooked grin, just as quietly. "Thanks, thanks again. Thanks for stopping me, Temus, I was about to act a lot more like one of D Company used to … and stomp that damn fool right into the floor!"
"Well, let the rest of us have a go at him, first, Beggar, alright?" Artie joked. "And I'd love to hear how you got named, another time. But I'm right now, I think I'm just going to try scaring some more of the truth out of this poor cretin. Just believe no one here will allow anyone, not anyone to harm you or your brothers, again, no matter what claims they try to make. That just isn't going to happen, not on our watch."
"We believe you, Temus. We all do. Go on, and let him have it. Maybe he does know something more, and maybe he'll be able to tell us what that is… That's only if our "non-uncle" didn't get within arm's reach of this stupid bastard. But if he did, all that really matters will be locked up tight."
"Behind a mental stone-capped redoubt?" Artie asked. "Yeah, I ran into one or two of those, myself. I think they're all gone… with Jacques and Jeremy helping and with … if you solemnly promise not to repeat this… the small doctor's help."
"I promise. We promise."
"But thank you, just the same." Miguel giggled, walking up beside the pair of friends. "Beggar, I'd like you to sit back down again, you're shaking like the willow trees in Ani's garden do in a high wind, just now."
"Surely. Get after him, will you, Temus." Beggar said, sitting again, but in a far more comfortable, winged Windsor chair by the fireplace, across the room.
"I'm getting, already I'm getting." Artie laughed. Then he turned somber himself, even grim, as he looked at the self styled physician. Mac and Jacques already had the other three under guard, duly bound, cuffed and gagged.
"Well, now you're going to talk to me, 'doctor", if you really are one, which I doubt." The former actor began. "And in case you weren't advised, I'll tell you now, I'm a special agent assigned to President Grant's security detail, and taking my orders from the Man himself. My name is Artemus Gordon, which your contact, this supposed lawyer may or may not have included in the dossier he gave you on my friend, James West. That doesn't really matter now.
What matters now is this: What you were unquestionably sent here to accomplish is at the least, what around these parts we call the attempted murder of a Federal Agent. And we don't like that very much, being Federal agents, ourselves, you see. And there's really no use denying that's what you came here to do. You spent all afternoon pressuring and pushing James with your lies and your fraudulent claims that his uncle urgently wanted him to have this high risk, experimental surgery."
"You spent hours and hours insisting this non existent, unknown, unavailable uncle, whose actual name you don't even know, wants YOU and your so called medical colleagues to perform this tricky procedure. You talked yourselves almost hoarse in fact, peddling the notion that YOU AND THESE OTHER THREE DIMWITS should take my friend and colleague, James there, put him under some kind of anesthesia, and then cut into his eyes, or whatever your unknown attorney's unknown client REALLY ORDERED YOU TO DO. And all the while, while we were listening and trying to understand why this was SO important, so damnably urgent to you, I was standing here thinking that you said nothing to show any medical knowledge, training or expertise at all." Artemus took a deep breath, reaching for and letting his own outrage inform his words, his voice and the stance he took, glaring at the shaking and quivering alleged doctor.
"In fact, I was standing here, most of the day, listening, and thinking you four don't know a hawk from a handsaw, no matter which way the wind is blowing, much less a scalpel from a syringe! So no matter what you were ordered to do to James, it would end up with him dead, not much doubt about that, is there? And that wouldn't be attempted murder any longer, you see… if we'd been mad enough to let you even try… that would be premeditated murder, 'doctor', murder in the first degree… And for that, of course, you'd all hang. And that murder, the murder of my friend James West, that's what you were truly sent here to accomplish, isn't it? His so called uncle is no kin and no friend of James, or of anyone, anywhere at all, and he wants my best friend stone cold dead. That's really what he told you he wanted done …oh, sorry, that's what his supposed, unknown lawyer told you this non existent uncle of James wanted done! I'm right about that, aren't I, 'doc'?"
"Your services were retained by someone so cruel, so murderous and so damn cowardly he sent you four cretins to do his murder for him, didn't he? And that's exactly what you came here to do, isn't it? You're all accomplices before the fact, as of this moment, now. You might as well admit it. You might as well tell us what you actually know about this utter coward. You were ordered to come here to Richmond, to this house and murder Jim West! Now that's the truth, isn't it? So just admit it, man, tell us the truth, and maybe you'll only get a life term!"
"Bu-b-b-but, no one said anyone was to die!" The intruder almost shrieked, collapsing onto the settee behind him. "No one … no one said anything of the kind!"
'Really? Well, what did they say?" Artemus demanded, keeping his manner stern, but turning to wink at Jacques.
'That Lanier, or Edmonds, or Dupree or Aubrey fellow, that lawyer! He said … he said this … this … young man… this young … Mister … West was a … He said this young man was a … a perjured… material witness against… against his client… Yes, yes, that's what he said! And he said this young … Mister West, was … not always… Now, please, I'm only repeating what he said… which was that Mister… your friend, Mister West was not always … entirely .. well, compas mentas… if you see what…what I mean…" The stranger said.
"Yes, we see very well indeed. What else?" Artie probed.
"What…what else? Well… well… And … well, he said this … supposed surgery … that was just another fraud… He said this alleged surgery … if it were done … done as his client … wished, would … result in … that young man being… unable… you see, unable to return to … testify … falsely, you see, against … his client… There was nothing said about anyone, anywhere intent on taking a life! There was nothing, absolutely nothing said about … this young man's death! He only … he only … well, he might have said…"
"He might have said what?" Mac demanded, taking his turn. "What else MIGHT this lying excuse for an attorney, who if I find him will be at the very least, imprisoned and disbarred… have said?"
"He said we should remember, and remember to tell anyone who asks… if the question should, unhappily, arise, that as with any surgery, any surgery in which the use of anesthetics is … required… the risk … the risk is there… as any … any surgeon knows… any surgery patient might … expire… And it can't be held against the physician… it simply can't… everyone…everyone knows that… "
"But he was wrong, so he was either misinformed himself or he was lying to you, Doctor." Miguel added, joining the partners in their interrogation.
"No, no, that's not true!" The now terrified physician insisted. 'surgery is always quite dangerous, surgery patients can often suffer fatal complications… "
"Indeed they can. But those complications, if they are not the work of pure chance, can be traced back to the surgeon or physician who caused them, by means of a well organized, competently handled autopsy." Miguel argued, smiling as he somewhat exaggerated the facts of the matter. "Any well trained pathologist or coroner can readily find the telltale signs of sloppy surgical methods, much less the evidence left behind by the wrongful use of anesthesia. I'm surprised, sir. I'm astonished, really, that with all your European medical training you don't know that. Wherever did you receive your medical degree, in some backwards, backwater principality or duchy that no one ever heard of?"
"I don't have to answer that!" The intruder shouted. "I don't have to say anything to you, you… That's what the attorney for this… this other Mr. Randolph told me! You're not a physician, it's not even possible you could be! You're just a fraud yourself, a fakir, a charlatan, pretending to be some sort of scientific genius! You're a …"
"A freak?" Miguel asked, laughing. "Come, come, you claim to be an educated man, surely you can do better! You could say I am an aberration, or a chimera, for example. You could call me an abnormality, a midget, or an alien creature. I've heard all those, and worse. You could claim I must be some sort of walking deformity, or per chance some sort of gnome, or troll, or a gremlin. If you wanted to be erudite you could say I would surely have to be called a lusus naturae, a monstrosity, or a mutant, in simpler terms. And if you wanted to show off your knowledge of the world, you could call me an ogre, a demon, or an archfiend."
"But in fact," Artemus said, coming back to the discussion after getting a better hold on his own temper. "If you were really a physician, you would already understand that what Miguel deals with every minute of every day of his life, aside from severe arthritis in his hands, his shoulders, and his hips, is a condition called hypochondroplasia. It's an autosomal dominant genetic condition, that results in short stature, with disproportionately short arms and legs, but as you can see, a "normal' head size.
It's a fairly common form of dwarfism, sometimes referred to as chondrodystrophy, which in turn is one form of skeletal dysplasia, a problem with bone growth or formation. No doubt you read up on that, at some point during your "European training". Right? Oh, and as regards those other slurs you tried casting at Miguel? He's not pretending in the least. He IS a genius. And he IS a remarkable physician. My best friend, James, who's sitting over there, trying to pretend we didn't just get into a discussion of mortality rates in surgery, pathology and autopsies involving the very worst case scenarios any of us can think of, wouldn't be alive, or sane, or particularly well today, without the doctor's intervention. And … it's just possible that … I wouldn't be, either."
Miguel listened to Artemus, and managed to do no more than blink in surprise at the agent's calm, quiet, entirely serious manner and tone of voice. Thomas Macquillan scratched at the back of his head, and otherwise gave no sign he'd heard anything the least bit odd. But Jacques rushed over to the former actor, peering at Artie as if he'd somehow sprouted two more heads from his neck, four more arms from his torso, or an extra pair of feet from his wrists.
"Mon ami, are you entirely well?" Jacques couldn't keep from asking. "Have you a fever, perhaps, or some type of infection? Non? Then perhaps you simply haven't been sleeping that well?"
"I'm fine, Jacques, maybe a little bit tired." Artie grumbled, turning away from his friend for a moment. "I just … all I did was acknowledge what you've been after me for some time to… well, admit. He did, and he's still doing what he promised, which is to help James recover. And when I had that one heart seizure, last year… he helped… He gave me those capsules… The ones Ani sent for, from one of her biochem students in England. The ones I kept joking were really meant to blow me to …"
A loud crash, followed by a series of smaller shattering noises, and then two more loud crashes, coming from the study just off the upstairs landing, another slamming crash, and then another stopped Artemus in mid sentence. And when Jacques would have joked that perhaps little Micah was moving furniture, he was stopped cold by seeing that Jim was no longer fuming in a Windsor chair by the fireplace. Instead, as they could all clearly hear, the former soldier was upstairs himself, shouting and cursing and slamming things around. As the team, except for Mac, hurried up to the study, they could hear several of the brothers voicing their anger and frustration, in multiple languages, ranging from Maryland-Virginia tinged English, through Quebecois French, with a minor incursion by an interesting Yiddish phrase, and more.
"Damn, Damne le, Damn, damn and damn! That's it, I've finally had it! Je n'y crois pas! Maudit! Pissieux! Salaud! Tu deconnes ou quoi? Cobarde! Sacrament! Cabochon! T'es pas game! Va te jeter en bas d'un pont! Chieux! Pissieux, encore! Tu es completement debile! Salaud, encore! Im hatipshut hayta etz, ata hayita chorshat kakal! " Jim shouted, not so much pacing the room as he was marching in a stomping, furious style, and thus knocking into and knocking over nearly everything he touched. The middle of the room was littered, barricaded by this time, with four upturned rugs, three overturned tea tables two small bookcases, with all their contents, a tall, narrow cupboard, and half a dozen chairs.
" Gealtan!" The former soldier went on, venturing into his maternal grandfather's Irish Gaelic, " Go mbeadh cosa gloine fut agus go mbrise an ghloine! caillteacha!Damnu ort! gaotaire! Do chorp don diabhal! caoch! Go stroice an diabhal thu! Titim gan eiri ort! Go n-ithe an cat thu, is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat! Go mbeire an diabhal leis thu! D'anam don diabhal!"
"Not on my watch, James." Artie answered, reaching the high, wide cathedral doors of the study. "Anyway, the devil I'm talking about already had his chance and lost."
"Go the hell away, Artemus! I'm busy building up a real good head of steam, right now! And blind as a pile of rocks I may be, and I may stay, indefinitely, I guess. But I still don't need any help cursing a blue streak about it or those damn all fools downstairs!" Jim shouted, and sallied into yet another language, the Welsh he learned from his father's parents. But then as he turned away from the direction of Artie's voice again, Jim's right foot caught in one of the carpet's and he toppled, too, still painting the air around him blue. "Alla t gwna ddim! Fi m am 'r darfod chan 'm ffrwynglyma! Rwy"n barod I roi'r ffidil yn y to!"
"Oh, no, oh great! That's old Pend, and Mord's probly with him, they've both been spoiling for a skirmish or two ever since we woke up in that damn all nuthouse." Courier groaned, joining the team outside the study. "I thought the Vs were in bivouac, trying to work out the logistics of most of "em not bein' able to see the noses in front of their faces! Now Oldest's saying he can't do anything? What got them all stirred up, again? What woke them up? Wait, you fellas weren't going at Oldest and the other Vs about that surgery idea again, were you, not again?"
"As it happens, Courier, yes, we were." Artie grimaced, striding across the obstacle course and reaching down to Jim, who was just now struggling to regain his feet. Across the room another Veteran, with bright blue eyes and black hair down past the collar of his antique Roman style costume, stood muttering decidedly Welsh imprecations, but otherwise, crossed his powerful arms across his chest and ignored the scene. Next to Jim was a sturdily built, angrily glaring D Company member, with thick, dark blond hair, molded features and wide grey eyes. This Defender turned to Artie, looking a lot uncomfortable all the while he also reached to help Jim stand.
"Cour's right, I'm called Mordred, of D Company, and thanks Temus. But you have to know Oldest purely hates a helping hand." He said.
"AND Oldest REALLY hates being talked about as if he's not right here in the same room, 'dred! I'm still right here! " Jim growled, and finally got up again, when Artie took his hand and pulled the younger man to his feet.
"Well, I guess we don't have to ask what happened in here, partner." Artie offered, trying hard not to chuckle. "And you look like you're okay. But when did you start cussing in Welsh?"
"Am 'm fam-gu s ben-glin! Buais am "n dri ar y pryd! Beth wnaeth I ti ddod?" Jim and the other Veteran both answered, frowning darkly. 'mae eisiau berwi dy ben! Rhywun s yn ystrancio arna!" Jim added.
"At your grandmother's knee? I'll bet she never taught you some of the words you've just been hollering loud enough for Mac's maiden aunt and his sister to hear, up in Brookline! Oh, and I'm here because I heard my best friend yelling his head off. And no, thanks just the same, I just had my head boiled last month, James. Na "ch re jyst I lawr I mewn 'r iselder ysbryd." Artie laughed at the surprise in Jim's eyes as he answered in the same language.
"Bydew "na "I wedi bod am 'm dad-cus ben-glin! Allai dyngu at gwna'r odiaeth "n sathredig fordwywr ai llong capten e bob amser cyffyrddedig chocha!" Jim growled, once more in Welsh.
" Oh, okay, your grandfather West taught you to cuss like a longshoreman. Okay. But nobody's playing tricks here, James. You're just down in the dumps right now. And after what those fools posing as doctors tried to pull, I'm not blaming you in the least. But you just tripped and fell over the carpet, partner, that's all. Hey, you could have been hurt a lot worse, if you'd fallen down that staircase, for example. You could have broken your neck, Jim."
"Do, fi m gostega "n fyw a Ca na ddrychfeddwl beth da sy. Gwisga t ddeud 'm gwisga " t sylweddola fel "n ffodus Dwi! Bopeth ydy "n amwyll a fel wi!" Jim answered, still grimacing, as the other Veteran just shook his head.
"Na, "ch re mo "n orffwyllog, Huchgapten. Canfyddi, hynfydais, myfi, a Fi erioed lifia "ch mewn 'r chyfyl. Yes, I will say you're fortunate. But no, you're not going crazy, Major. I'm quite sure of that. I've been there, numerous times myself and never…" Miguel answered, walking into the study, with Jacques help.
"And you never saw me in that neighborhood, Doctor?" Jim interrupted, still angry. "Maybe you just weren't looking down the right streets or in the right madhouses at the time. It seems to me that with everything that's happened, what I recall of it, I have every right to an insanity defense, about now!"
"If you'd committed any crimes during that time, I suppose that could be. As it happens, you didn't, and you're certainly as sane as anyone here, Major." Miguel insisted, beginning to laugh. "But I need to add this new piece of information to your dossier, too. You're multilingual, combining this with the French Jacques taught you, and I should have realized that. I knew your father's parents emigrated from Wales. They journeyed from Ludlow and before that, from Caerlon, as I recall, but not that you learned their native language as well as my own from your paternal grandmother. Now, with that settled, can you tell me why you decided against using that particular set of china, for this afternoon's tea?"
"I don't like the color scheme." Jim answered, finally starting to chuckle himself. "It's too dark."
"And I agree." Antoinette answered, joining the group. "They were a wedding gift from my stepfather's sister. And I love her dearly, but she has no color sense at all! But are you truly alright, Torry? And monsiegneur Pendragon, and you, M'sieur Chevalier Mordred, are you also unharmed? "
"Only my pride seems to have suffered, madame la reine." The black haired Veteran answered, bowing to Miguel's wife as if she were a queen.
"I fear most of us in V Company are still … literally feeling our way around, in these greatly changed … circumstances. We were in far more limited … surroundings, for quite some time. We're profoundly grateful to be freed in more ways than one, whilst we stay here. And we're not showing our gratitude to you and the doctor by wrecking your furniture, your belongings and your home. We would tender our deepest apologies, mum, if you will accept."
"And so will I, for myself and D Company, ma tres, tres cher reine Ani." Mordred replied, sweeping Ani a truly profound courtier's obeisance. 'tu est tres gentil, et…"
"S'il tu plait, m'sieur Chevalier," Ani, as some of the brothers had begun to call her, blushed and shook her head. "You must not turn my head with so much flattery. Our good king Louis might take objection… and banish you from Court. In any case, furnishings, carpets, china sets and such are entirely replaceable things. And I do not believe, in fact I know from what I heard of the discussion, that neither the carpets, nor the china roused your anger, mes cher amis. Non, it was those unfeeling fools sent by our Adversary."
" Adversary, that's a damn fine title for the old bastard, don't you think so, gentlemen and Ani?" Jim asked, frowning tautly, still tense as a coiled wire from the confrontation just ended. "He sent those cretins down here, to convince me to let them cut my head open… or at least my eyes for his damn all amusement! He sent those dullards down here, as if he really gave a damn what happens to me. Great Glory! He's the worst fraud of all! He always has been! He lies the way most people breathe, just to keep his damnable games and plots all up and running! He makes every demon, monster and devil in the world look like the Saints in Glory! And then, on top of everything else he's done to date, he set the whole, entire debacle that went on here today in motion, simply by telling those idiots that he's my uncle Jimmy! That's the only joy I can take in the whole rigamorle, actually."
"Torry, j"n'l' comprend pas ceci, j'mescuse. What do you mean? Why would you take any joy in such a difficult situation? And why don't you look very joyful if there is some reason for elation amidst all these trials? Did something happen before I joined your meeting?" Ani asked. "Was something said or done that you believe will so much disturb our Enemy?"
"Oh he's already plenty disturbed, ma plus cher reine." Jim nodded, his smile growing wider. "But the answer to your last question is yes. And our Enemy is the one who did it! The core of all the lies those so called doctors told us was that the man who sent them, who hired them claimed to be my uncle, Jimmy.
And that has already galled that Chief Liar more than anything I could ever do against him! He must have nearly choked on it by now, in fact! Why? Because, Ani, that Enemy, that Adversary, that old devil who really sent those damn fools here to plague me, ABSOLUTELY, ABSOLUTELY HATES MY UNCLE JIMMY! So it had to be like swallowing wormwood for Remy Boudin to pretend he's Jimmy Randolph, for Remy Boudin to even…" Jim answered. But then he went pale as milk, and froze where he stood.
"Jim? Jim, what's wrong…" Artemus demanded, and then he stopped and stared at the younger man. "Wait, James. Did I just hear you say what I THINK I heard you say?"
Vividly struggling, with a feeling of breaking through a block of ice, Jim turned towards his partner's voice and nodded stiffly. "I … I did… I did… I said… Rem… Remy Boudin… I said that old bastard's name! Ani, you're pure magic! You have no idea! You couldn't! I said that monster's name aloud! Ani, you're wonderful! You can't even imagine how HUGE that is!"
"That was then another of his barbarous mesmeric injunctions?" Antoinette guessed, as Jim reached towards her and clasped her arms.
"That was pretty much the strongest one, in fact, ma reine." Mordred answered. "The old madman has a kind of phobia, I guess you'd say, of having anyone use his name."
"But most of all, he wants no one to use his name in any connection whatsoever with his own vicious plots." Pendragon added.
"Jacques? Artemus? Go back downstairs." Jim insisted, grinning tautly. "I want at least one of those damn fools up here, as fast as they can move, as fast as they can be carried, carted, or dragged. Just get them here! And don't let Mac turn you down. I said I knew who sent them here and I do. But now they're going to hear it from me! Now they're going to get … a real earful!"
"No problem, partner!" Artie laughed and headed back down the stairs. A moment later, the former actor was back with all four strangers in tow, like a bunch of calves roped for branding, with Mac Macquillan close behind.
"Gentlemen," Jim said, frowning darkly in the direction he heard them. 'take a seat. I have a something to tell you, something that you're gonna turn around and tell the man who hired you, if you don't want to wind up in Federal prison for quite a long while. And I mean by that you're going to take this message directly to the man who ACTUALLY hired you, not some middleman, not some spear carrier and none of his supernumeraries, of which he's got quite a few."
"But, Mister West, as we said before, we were hired by a person who identified himself as your uncle's attorney." The first of the quartet of intruders interrupted. "And he… the person who approached us was very firm in his insistence that we would have no direct contact with his client. Aside from that, we only came here on this attorney's assurance that our help, our consultation and our expertise as physicians was required. In short, we were informed, quite compellingly, I might add, that you stood in need of medical care, and that your uncle was determined you should receive the advice and help you need."
"Oh, that part's right." Jim nodded. "He wants to help me. He wants to help me back into an asylum, where he put me to begin with. Or he wants me under his control, or both. And failing both of those, he wants to help me end up dead, as dead as a coffin nail, as my Welsh grandfather used to say. But he's not my uncle, as we already explained. He's no blood to me at all, I'm really glad to say.
So, this person lied to you. And I'm gonna set the record straight, right now. You see, I've known him now for more than thirty two years. And in all that time, he's pretended to be a very good, close friend to my uncle Jimmy, who's my g-dfather and my namesake, as I mentioned before. But, in all that time he's done all he could to get back at my uncle through me, for what reason, I have no idea. All I really know is that this person, the man who sent you here, very deeply hates my uncle. For almost all my life he's been trying one thing or another, one way or another to use me for some kind of revenge against Jimmy Randolph. Well, that's done. His business with me and with my uncle, that's all done. That's all over now. And that's a fairly big part of what you're going to tell him, from me."
"Here's the rest: This is what you're going to do- You're going to go down to this "gentleman's' home outside Atlanta, that's at what was his grandfather's plantation, called the Cadmea. And if you don't find him there, you're going down to the islands, down to Haiti, and find him there. It's January now, so I guess you should look there first, because he almost always spends the winters there where he was born, in Port au Prince. And when you get there, you're going to say you have a message from James Torrance Kieran West, a message for the man who's paying your salary, these days- He was named for his grandfather, just as I was named for my uncle, so his name is Gideon Alexander Remiel Boudin, the Second."
"That's right, you might want to note that down, as soon as you get the chance. I said his name is Gideon Alexander Remiel Boudin, the Second. But from the time I was just beginning to talk, he himself taught me to use a nickname my uncle gave him, more than forty years ago, to call him "Remy". You tell him that you heard me say his name aloud, his name, Gideon Alexander Remiel Boudin, aloud, three times in the space of less than two minutes time, without breaking a sweat! And you tell him, for me, you tell Remy Boudin that Jim West, or Torry West if he prefers, is not playing his game, not now, not ever, not any more."
"And if you do that, 'doctors', and if you don't get lost somewhere down in those islands on your way back, THEN I'll ask my friends here NOT to bring charges against you. I'll ask Mac and Artemus and Jacques NOT to arrest and charge you with nine or ten kinds of fraud, forgery, intent to commit perjury, gross misrepresentation, and practicing medicine without a license. Oh, and on top of all those, I'll ask my friends NOT to charge you with conspiracy to inflict grave bodily harm on a Federal agent. You see, I haven't formally retired from the Service… not officially, not yet. That's it. We're done. You understand now what you need to do. That's all I have to say. Get these bastards the hell out of Ani's house, will you, fellas?"
"It's as good as done right now, Youngster." Mac answered, taking two of the quavering, quivering quartet with him back down the stairs.
"Allons y, mes idiotes." Jacques added, chuckling and taking hold of the other two. "Apres vous, l' deluge, as I believe l' bon roi Louis Quinze once said."
"No, I think that was Madame de Pompadour who actually said that." Artie shot back, grinning widely. Then the dark haired, dark eyed agent turned back towards Jim. "Is there something else you wanted to tell those idiotes, James? Jim?" Artie asked again when the younger man stood wordlessly shuddering.
"No, no." Jim finally answered, still shaking a bit, feeling a huge release of long held tensions, and a new worry that seemed to take their place. "If they get away from Remy alive, they'll have done me a huge service, and I'll get the bonus of asking them to describe the look on his face. No, there's something else, partner, something else I should have … known."
"Well, what is it? What's wrong? Jim, you just faced down and beat one of the biggest … barriers you had. So what's the matter, now?" Artie asked, crossing the room to put one hand on Jim's shoulder.
"It's something I've known for more than thirty years and somehow still manage to forget, from time to time." Jim grated. "No matter how much he seems to lose in any given round, Remy always wins something. There's always something he gets the brass ring on! And this time… it's the Ls. This time they paid the price for the breakthrough… more like a breakout, really, all of you helped me make, today."
"Pero, que es mal, Torry?" Miguel demanded, too shocked for the moment to use his second, third or fourth languages. "Que pasado hasta esos ninos pequenos?"
"Nada pasado hasta Miguel. Ese no ella. Qué mal es qué creen , qué Remy causado ustedes crean, acaecer si cualquier de la Compañía cruzado el línea! Y son así derribado por ese , son ocultación. No , no comprendéis mi amigo! Esos ninos pequenos son ocultación , pareja de mí , derecho ahora! Pensan nuestro Papa justo maligno por muerto!" Jim replied in Spanish.
" Ese estado Remy's más reciente amenaza hasta nosotros todos , olvidó el? Pozo mis hermanos pequenos pensar YO haber olvidado ese ! Ahora , El Ls pensar nuestro Papá es ahora muerto! no son seguro! fueron ahora mismo huérfano! Nosotros deber hallazgo them! Hemos contado. juego cosas derecho! Ah, Dios! Justo cuándo Pensaba YO recogido algo derecho , por una vez! Son ocultación! Son aterrorizado!"
trans 1 [ French, Quebecois French, Yiddish]
Damn it, I don't believe this! Damn! Coward! Bastard! Are you crazy? Coward! G-d damn it! Imbecile! Go kill yourself! Coward! Coward, again! You're a total imbecile, and a bastard! If stupidity were a kind of tree, you'd be a forest!
trans 2 [Irish Gaelic]
Lunatic! May you have glass legs and may the glass break! you're worthless, damnation on you! miserable creature, wind bag! a blind fool! May the devil tear you! May you fall without rising! May the devil take you with him! May the cat eat you and may the devil eat the cat! Your soul to the devil!
trans 3 [Welsh]
Alla t gwna ddim – I can't do anything//Fi m am 'r darfod chan 'm ffrwynglyma – I'm at the end of my tether//Rwy"n barod i roi'r ffidil yn y tô. (I'm ready to put the fiddle in the roof / = to give up.)//Beth wnaeth i ti ddod? Mae eisiau berwi dy ben. -(What made you come? You need your head boiled / = read.)//Am 'm fam-gu s ben-glin! Buais am "n dri ar y pryd! – At my grandmother's knee! I was about three at the time!//Bydew "na "i must wedi bod am 'm dad-cu s ben-glin! Allai dyngu at gwna 'r odiaeth "n sathredig fordwywr ai llong s capten e bob amser cyffyrddedig chocha!//Well then it must have been at my grandfather's knee! He could swear to make the foulest sailor or ship's captain he ever met blush!//rhywun s yn ystrancio arna - someone's playing tricks on me//na "ch re jyst i lawr i mewn 'r iselder ysbryd - no you're just down in the dumps
Do , fi m gostega "n fyw a Ca na ddrychfeddwl beth da sy – Yes I'm still alive and I have no idea what good that is. Gwisga " t ddeud 'm gwisga " t sylweddola fel "n ffodus Dwi – Don't tell me I don't realize how lucky I am.//Bopeth ydy "n amwyll a fel wi – Everything's crazy and so am I
Na , "ch re mo "n orffwyllog , Huchgapten. Canfyddi , , Hynfydais , myfi , a Fi erioed lifia "ch i mewn 'r chyfyl -No, you're not insane, Major. You see, I've been there, myself, and I never saw you in the neighborhood,
[ trans 4: [Mexican/Norte Americano Spanish]
Nothing happened to them, Miguel. That's not it. What's wrong is what they believe, what Remy made them believe would happen if any of the Companies crossed the line. And they're so knocked down by that, they've gone into... No, you don't understand, my friend! Those 'little boys' are hiding, even from me, right now! They think our Poppa just fell over dead! That was Remy's latest threat to all of us, did you forget? Well, my 'little brothers' think I must have forgotten that, myself! Because the Ls think our Dad just died! And that means they're not safe! That means they're orphaned! We have to find them! We have to ... set things right! Ah, God! Just when I thought I got something right, for once! They're hiding! They're terrified! ]
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