The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [10]
“Please join us, Mr. Euler,” Franklin said.
A young man stepped into the light. His mild eyes, now blue, surveyed them all. “I am Leonhard Euler, gentlemen, and I am at your service.”
“You are accursed,” Penigault said. “I saw your eyes!”
“I was once accursed,” Euler said. “I was a warlock of the malakim, a pair of human hands to work their mischief. But I am no longer their tool.”
Penigault looked to Franklin for confirmation.
“So he claims,” Franklin told the Louisianan. “I once doubted him, but he has been a friend to us. Without Mr. Euler, we would all be dead or captive back in Charles Town.” Which does not mean I trust him, Ben finished silently. His brother had been killed by a creature like Euler, and that sort of thing was hard to turn his back on.
“Thank you, Mr. Franklin. Those are kind words.”
Penigault switched his regard back to Franklin.
“And you—you are a wizard, they say. The wizard of Charles Town.”
“I've been called that. I am a man of science, which is the most useful form of wizardry.”
“And can you stop these night-goers?”
“Not alone. But with allies, and the spirit of many peoples—yes. I believe I can.”
Penigault nodded. “I hope you can convince the king, then. I do hope you can.”
“You don't sound optimistic,” Voltaire noticed.
“There are reasons I prefer the marches,” Penigault said glumly.
“There she is, fellows,” McPherson said, “France in America—New Paris.” The ranger's voice held a note of good-natured contempt that Franklin hoped Penigault and his fellows didn't catch. After all, Penigault had not only guided them through the silty maze of the lower Mobile River but had obtained the canoes they now traveled in.
Franklin mopped his brow, grimacing at the slimy sweat that seemed to somehow ooze up from the river itself. He peered ahead to see what the ranger found worthy of his disdain. Not that he was expecting much. The last several leagues had taken them past villages—Indian, European, and Negro —more squalid and impoverished than any he had seen in the interior. While some of the habitants halfheartedly tilled wilted fields of corn, more came wading into the river, begging for food and brandy— especially brandy.
But even thus introduced, even with expectations lowered, to call the town he saw ahead “New Paris” required a breathtaking amount of wishful thinking.
The muddy shores sloped up from the bay, and houses, scarcely distinguishable from the Indian habitations he had grown accustomed to, spilled down to the water and even walked on stilts to mingle with dilapidated docks. At one long stone quay were moored a sloop, a frigate, two brigantines, and a ragged collection of canoes and pirogues— which, for all he knew, was the sum of the modern French navy. Beyond, south, he could see the squat form of Fort Condé commanding the mouth of the bay. It, at least, looked sturdy, though Franklin knew his eye for such things was questionable.
As for the city itself, the mud huts did give way to larger, more impressive dwellings as the eye tracked farther from the shore. And surmounting all of this was a truly … if not grand, at least bizarre structure. It looked like some idiot madman's attempt to construct a chateau. Never in London, Prague, Venice, or anyplace between had Franklin ever seen such a rambling monstrosity, half built of timbers, half of stone, decked in places with a mishmash of columns and towers that even to his untrained eye seemed completely wrong.
But, by God, it was big.
“Mon dieu!” Voltaire exclaimed. “It is a parody of Versailles itself!”
“I hope the real one looks a bit better,” Ben said.
“The real Versailles was in questionable taste, I'll grant you, though doing such questioning aloud once was a faux pas of the Bastille sort. Next to that—that thing—however, it was sublime.” He cocked his head. “Who rules here? Do you know?”
“The last I heard it was Philippe VII. Does that explain anything to you?”
“The former duke of Orléans? No, it doesn't explain much to me. He was a strange little man, flighty, not given much to serious matters, but not known