Kage Baker: Dark Mondays

Unfortunately, the royal prisoner, instead of waiting and being ransomed like a sensible man, took it into his head to try to escape. That, at least, was what they learned afterward from the servant.

It seemed he had seen an English play wherein one Juliet avoided an enforced marriage by drinking off a potion that made her look dead. She was buried in the family crypt, and woke afterward, and all had been well but for her true love not being privy to her plan and killing himself before she woke.

Prince Maurice (for this was he) having no true love to worry him, resolved to escape in this manner: to appear to die, and then have his servant break into the crypt and set him free. He sent the man, who had leave to do his marketing and his laundry and such, into the nearest village to ask whether a potion mightn’t be found to make a man appear to be dead.

There was a sort of herb doctor there and he had such a potion, all right, but it seemed the servant hadn’t explained proper as to what it was needed for.

All went off as planned until the servant broke into the crypt to free the prince, when he was found to be alive, indeed, but in his present unfortunate state. They were recaptured by the viceroy’s men, much to the viceroy’s dismay. He had just got word back from Spain that Prince Maurice was to be set free and returned to the bosom of his loving family, in the hope that King Charles would remember this little favor if he was ever restored to his throne.

So he wrote again, explaining what had happened. It was a great embarrassment to the Spanish, who were always ready to abuse common Englishmen but felt that those of royal blood ought to be given certain considerations. They decided to keep the matter a secret; as far as the English knew, Prince Maurice was dead anyway. And, who knew? Perhaps the effects of the drug might wear off and the prince might one day be more presentable.

This proved not to be the case, however. The years went on, and Prince Maurice was moved from one prison to another on the Spanish Main, and now and again a rumor got out that he’d been seen somewhere. Then it became public knowledge that his brother, Prince Rupert, had offered a reward to know his fate.

Well, the Spanish weren’t about to admit the truth, so the order went out that the matter was to be kept concealed. But then, some warden with a keen eye for the main chance saw a way he might turn a profit. He devised all the hugger-muggery with the boots, and wrote in secret to Prince Rupert’s agents to see if they were in the market for one lost prince, somewhat the worse for wear.

“And it has been much more difficult than we expected, señor,” said the Spaniard peevishly. “He is difficult to move about and to conceal, especially with those sons of whores the pirates making war on us, and then there has been the cost of his feeding. I hope you have brought the money, señor.”

Blackstone turned and shot him dead where he stood.

“Neat,” said John, in an admiring kind of way. “You get the prince and keep the money, eh?”

The sound of the shot brought men running to the hut, and in short order there were faces peering down through the trap. Prince Maurice just sat there; neither the shot nor the commotion that followed drew his notice.

It took rope and tackle to get the prince out of the cellar, but once he was set on his feet he’d walk, if prodded on the back, and stop if prodded on the front. The men crowded around him, curious, all save those who were busy in the cellar; and the less said about that the better.

“Aie! Il est un zombi ,” said Jago, looking horrified. “They are the misfortune.”

“What, you mean bad luck?” said John.

“We can scarcely have worse luck than he’s had,” said Blackstone. He saw Morgan approaching and went off to have a quiet word with him.

“Phew! He doesn’t half stink,” said one man, holding his nose.

“It is the smell of the living death,” said Jago. “The Indians on Hispaniola, they teach the médecins among the poor people how to make this. It makes slaves of the dead.”

“A dead man! Lord preserve us!” cried Bob Plum, backing up against the Reverend.

“This is sorcery,” the Reverend said, with his hands beginning to shake.

“It’s a big fat fellow who ain’t been washed in a month, more than likely,” said John. “And he ain’t no dead man.” He told them a little of the truth, and they were no less appalled.

“Prince Maurice!” cried Dick Pettibone. “Why, he was a lovely gentleman! Oh, to see him come to this !” He stepped close and shouted up at the prince. “Your Highness! Your Highness, do you apprehend me?”

The prince only stared. Whether there was some memory behind that egg-smooth countenance, of riding with his cavaliers at Lyme or piratical raids out of Kinsale, who can say? Morgan seemed to be wondering the same thing, as he approached and looked him up and down.

“Jesus,” he said at last. “We’ll fetch him along with us; but we are doing his brother no kindness, to bring him home so. Can he walk?”

John said he could, and pushed him a little; the prince started forward obediently, and likely would have kept going until he was in the river, had John not run ahead and stopped him. Morgan shook his head. “Jesus,” he repeated. “Very well; form up! We march on.”

The prince came with the Brethren, and only wanted for a bit of guiding now and then to keep him on the path. They camped that night at another abandoned village, where Morgan gave order that someone should wash the prince, as the smell was starting to offend even Brethren who’d gone a week without a bath or a change of clothes. Dick Pettibone volunteered, as did Bob Plum, once he’d been told that Maurice had been a good Protestant prince and none of your scurvy Papist gentry.

He proved a good beast of burden too. They found they could strap a pack to him and he’d bear it along without the least complaint. So they loaded him with powder and shot and he marched along of them. Blackstone started to object to this and then shrugged; for it really took more imagination than a man’s generally given to see that fat, staring thing as a royal cousin.

That night they found another village, but lately deserted, and camped there. Next day they came to another, about noon, and here had great luck: for Jacques found a cache of foodstuffs, sacks of wheat and plantains, hidden in a little cave. Morgan had the whole mess cooked into a sort of porridge and served out equally to all parties, even those like Hendrik Smeeks, who had been seen picking his teeth as they left Torna Caballos. Dick Pettibone took it on himself to feed the prince with a spoon, like a baby, and the poor creature opened his mouth obediently and swallowed too, but gave no sign that he understood anything.

They marched on, more easily, for the country was more open and there were little deserted farmsteads now and again. One of these made a good campsite that evening, with plenty of dry firewood stored in an outbuilding. The Brethren sprawled at their ease around fires and there was plenty of big talk and praises for Morgan, now that they’d had a few scraps of luck; for everyone assumed the worst was behind them.

The first sign they were in the wrong on the point came when they’d been marching an hour or two next day. The land began to rise, and the going became harder. Around midday they came on another little farm and discovered the barn loaded with ears of dry maize. Most of the men wanted to stop right there and grind it into meal for cakes, and it was only by drawing his sword that Morgan kept them from doing so. He gave them hot words, and there were surly looks and mutters. The maize was portioned out equally to every man, and awkward it was to carry too. There were some who fell to chewing at it whiles on the march, and not a few rash fellows broke teeth doing that.