Chapter 11

The Man Who Would Be King

Lieutenant Quenton Selby stood hatless on the deck of Clotilde, a soft Jamaican breeze refreshing his sweaty face.  There was no escaping the heavy, omnipresent humidity of the tropics, even at night.  His thinning hair had plastered itself comically against his scalp. It was an intolerable sensation, one he knew well from past voyages to the Indies and West Africa. Shrugging, he braved another gulp of sour red wine from his dwindling hoard.  At least it was cool.  He looked forward to restocking from the DeChiel’s splendid cellar.

His pale eyes sought the dim lanterns of Orenthia.  The guests had apparently departed.  Quenton had excused himself hour’s earlier, pleading toothache, which was a lie. But no one pressed him with insincere niceties; were, in fact, secretly glad to see him go.  He cared not a whit.  Inane salon chatter was not what drove him; he had far more intriguing things to occupy his time than rubbers of whist with tedious ‘polite’ society.

He frowned, fingering in his pocket the lump of paper discreetly passed to him by plantation owner DeChiel.  He wished he could decode the missive by touch alone, without having to strain his eyes deciphering DeChiel’s scrawling penmanship by candlelight.  Quenton’s own calligraphic skills rivaled those of the best printing press; he had a particular intolerance for bad handwriting.

He sighed impatiently, stuffing the note into the deepest corner of his coat pocket.  Whatever the farmer had to say could wait until morning.  He would have his customary nap of two or three hours then tend to the message in the kinder light of dawn.   He preferred short catnaps to longer stretches of sleep that left him feeling weakened and groggy, and uneasy because of it.  He had never slept much, even as a child.

His mother often commented on that fact, when she was sober enough to notice.  From infancy to youth, sitting ramrod straight in his bed at darkest midnight, she marveled that his pale eyes never seemed to close, never drooped with puppyish fatigue that so warmed the hearts of other mothers in her set when discussing their own adorable moppets.  But Lady Lucinda Bronson nee Selby rarely troubled herself over Quenton’s ever-present insomnia.  To her, his alertness merely substantiated her claim that he was an unusually sensitive and brilliant child.  Certainly he was a marvel in all things scholastic; his academic achievements were beyond reproach. Even Quenton’s exacting father grudgingly admitted as much.

And Colonel Lord Miles Averill Bronson was no easy man to impress.  His own tactical brilliance and fearlessness in battle was directly responsible for his impressive status in His Majesty’s Royal Army.  Neither nepotism nor cronyism tainted his spectacular rise to colonel.  He took his medals and praise with no false modesty whatever, knowing he had earned such honors by virtue of his superiority; that he was, indeed, a man to be admired.  The local gazettes dubbed him “The Black Wolf”, and never tired of detailing every thrilling account of Lord Miles Bronson’s doings: his brute physical strength, his courage and savagery, his swashbuckling self confidence in the most trying of battle conditions.

His son Quenton inherited none of these traits, to Lord Miles’ eternal disgust.  The lad’s pale coloring and rather flaccid, toadish visage took after his wife’s side of the family, the Selby side, Navy people.  Quenton so physically deviated from his black haired father’s handsome robustness that Lord Miles sometimes cherished the notion Quenton was not his, had actually been sired by a covert rape of his wife, an easy feat, given her penchant for brandy and laudanum.  This idea soothed rather than enraged him. Beyond that first year of his brilliantly contracted marriage to rich, well connected Lady Lucinda Selby, he was gradually finding he had less and less use for her.

Divorce was out of the question.  There were no failures in Lord Miles Bronson’s life.  His wife managed to present him with the required son and heir, and Lord Miles kept chambers separate from her and the child’s, with a succession of serving girls and comely maids who came and went with clockwork regularity.

It was one of Quenton’s first memories.  Hearing strange grunts and mewling coming from the forbidden bedchamber, young Quenton opened the door to find his father and a kitchen girl mother-naked on the bed, hunched in the throes of what appeared some heinous death-clinch.  His father had risen like a Cerebus, retaining just enough sanity to snatch on his dressing gown and order the screeching servant from the room.  Six-year-old Quenton Bronson received a beating from which he regained consciousness two days later, urinating blood.  He walked with a slight limp afterwards; further demonstrating, in his father’s opinion, the weakness of the Selby strain within the hearty clan of the Bronsons.

Oddly, Quenton idolized his father – almost as much as he hated him.  He envied Lord Miles’s seeming omnipotence, his aura of complete power, a notion that was reinforced by terrified looks on the faces of the servants whenever his father entered a room. If summoned, they never failed to quiver rather nicely, like his breakfast jelly.  It made a heady impression, as if his father held the very power of life or death with a turn of his thumb.  Quenton had always enjoyed his studies of Rome’s mighty emperors.

Quenton Averill Bronson wished very much to be like his father.  He strove to emulate him in his childish way, ordering servants about with impunity; even his own mother was not immune from his rather spectacular tantrums.  But Lady Lucinda Bronson was gradually falling into the numb opium dream that began with a glass or two of claret in the morning, ending at dusk, often comatose, with huge goblets of brandy or gin and copious doses of laudanum.  If there was a time Lady Lucinda ever caressed, cuddled, or disciplined her young son, Quenton could not recall it.

As he grew older, he became more observant of the goings-on at Wolf’s Head, the Bronson estate.  Beautifully situated on a hillside overlooking the crowded sprawl of London, its semi-remote location fostered the effect of a kingdom unto itself, complete with fawning earls and obedient serfs. Quenton knew quite well that his father regarded the female staff at Wolf’s Head as his own personal brothel.  No one was particularly surprised when one of his favorites, finding she was pregnant, began a “lord it” attitude over the other servants and was found, within a month’s time, floating in a nearby pond, a length of rope tight around her graceful neck.   There was no inquiry.  It was assumed that the silly wench had opted for suicide rather than advertise her shame.

Similarly, no questions were asked when his mother, abed in her chamber for two days, was at last discovered by Quenton himself, dead from a self-inflicted slashing of her wrists and throat.  She had left a venomous note in her graceful handwriting, a vituperative attack on Lord Miles, the only vivacity of spirit she had shown in years.  There was no mention of her son, Quenton.

After his mother’s death, her brother, naval commander Lord Hallward Selby, petitioned that his treasured sister’s child be taken into his care.  Miles Bronson, the blackguard, had ruined his beloved sister – and Lord Hallward would be damned if he would witness the further ruination of her only son. Lord Miles ignored the alternate pleas and threats.  Quenton was his property, as much as his cattle or his coach;  he doggedly set about to counteract the weak Selby influence he suspected lay at the core of Quenton’s inability to ride, shoot, or to do anything connected with the dashing force that came naturally to the heroic Bronson clan.

But Quenton was simply not fodder for a soldier.  He was afraid of the horses and their great champing hooves; his ticking eyesight and perpetually sweating palms made his pistol skills more laughable than laudable.  In fencing practice with Lord Miles, he managed to sustain a severe facial wound from his ear to lower lip, a scar he would carry for the rest of his life. The only quality he exhibited that might remotely make for a good officer was a growing ability to intimidate the servants with vicious displays of rage that were rather awesome to behold.  He might yet have a talent for discipline and delegation, as a superior should.

With this in mind, Lord Miles made sure his son was in tow to witness the not infrequent punishments meted out at Wolf’s Head.  And for this, Quenton was a most apt pupil.  He once saw his father savagely beat a male servant for some fancied neglect of his horse; the man’s injuries were so severe he died the next day.  Again, neither accusation nor inquiry arose.

When he was sent off to school, Quenton incorporated these lessons into daily life.  He even added a few flourishes of his own.  He delighted in studying the smallest of details relating to classmates, teachers and surroundings; his memory for trivialities was breathtaking, and he used his observances to his best advantage. He had a genius for picking allies; usually boys who were not endowed with his own brilliant social status and wealth; young men whom, through subtle, pointed comments targeting their secret self-doubt, might see in Quenton the possibility of living life above the usual constraints of scholastic regulations:  immune from teacher’s edicts, free to bully and exploit less ambitious fellows to their own monetary gain and prestige. 

Quenton was obsessive in his steadfast pursuit of a particular end.  When he could not achieve his desired outcome through conventional means, he had no compunction about using tactics of blackmail, if he could find sufficient ammunition, or extortion, if able to coerce some of the taller, stronger fellows to aid him.  The cruelty that dominated his childhood was fertile ground for his complete ruthlessness.  He seemed to have a morbid fascination with pain and suffering.  Displays of absolute control made him happiest.  He never passed on an opportunity to buoy his grandiose notions of self.

He quickly learned that money spoke volumes.

Boys who might have bullied him were coerced into acting as toadies with inducement from Quenton’s generous purse.  Later, though still accepting of bribes, this same core of louts were always seen by his side like a pack of bull mastiffs, enjoying the fear inspired by the mere presence of their “leader”.  Quenton was not at all physically intimidating, but he was exceedingly sneaky and clever, able to outwit schoolmates and headmasters with a propensity for keeping one step ahead of the game always. 

Unbeknownst to Lord Miles Bronson, Commodore Hallward Selby had discovered Quenton’s whereabouts.  He often visited his treasured nephew, bringing gifts, money, and loving regards from Lady Selby and his girl cousins.  It was the only display of familial love Quenton had ever experienced.  Such affection moved him not in the least, but he saw where Uncle Hallward and his family might be of use at a later date, and filed away the kind words and veiled insults to his father along with his private arsenal of information.

Time went by.  Quenton grew not one whit taller or stronger, but in the eyes of those around him, he was a formidable power to be reckoned with.  He was seldom seen without his squad of brutes.  Even some of the teachers gradually fell in line, turning a blind eye to his doings and heaping praise and honors for his mathematical prowess and uncanny ability to remember the most trivial historic dates.

Socially, no one dared flout him.  One dimwitted fellow, new to the school, made the grievous mistake of insulting Quenton in the presence of a gaggle of schoolmates, going so far as to knock him to the ground.  He was immediately set upon by the toadies and pummeled so severely he remained in bed for nearly a week.  No one would identify his assailants.  The unlucky lad was quietly transferred to parts unknown and politics went on as usual.  For Quenton, his school days were the realization, in a small way, of his personal zenith; to be all that his father embodied at Wolf’s Head: ruler of his private, self-contained kingdom, accountable to no one, an army beside him and serfs below.

Of course, when standing at the head of anything, one must constantly watch out for a knife in the back.  Quenton developed paranoiac tendencies Lord Miles never had.  To his mind, he was surrounded by enemies, or imagined enemies. He learned to divide his peers into predators or victims.  To assure his continued safety, he began amassing informants among the smaller, quicker lads who willingly gathered facts and secrets from classmates and teachers for use by Quenton if the need arose.

Despite his omnipresent entourage, Quenton Selby remained a loner.  When not in public, his favourite occupation was reading, studying.  He devoured whatever literature he could find on history and empires, particularly delighting in the exploits of the Roman rulers: Caesar; Nero: Caligula.  Lord Miles seldom sent for him, seemed, in fact to have given up on his dream of turning Quenton into a brilliant military light.  With his son gone, Lord Miles was free to return to the carefree days of his bachelorhood, though he still forbid contact between Quenton and his Selby relations.  The young man spent his holidays at school, immersed in his studies.  It was nothing.  He had always preferred books to people.

On the joyous day of his majority, Quenton received from his Uncle Hallward the graduation present of a large sum of money, and a renewed invitation to reside permanently with the Selby family.  He would be treated as a son, and sponsored in a heroic career with His Majesty’s Royal Navy.  As Quenton’s father had not contacted him in over a year, the young man at last took matters into his own hands and cast his lot with the Selbys.

He demurred at entering the Navy so quickly, however. It had been a grueling nine years of school, with nary a break in between. Quenton insisted he be allowed a grand tour before devoting himself entirely to the service of king and country.  Lord Hallward was overjoyed.  He happily gave in to Quenton’s petitioning for an additional sum of travel money, and eagerly began the machinations that would place his beloved nephew on “Aneas” as Acting Leftenant, bypassing the customary position of midshipman.

At the time, nothing could have interested the boy less.  He managed, by way of forgery, to procure additional monies from Lord Miles’s own bank account and with his newfound riches embarked on a rather sordid, reckless spree.  By years’ end, Quenton had landed in Paris, establishing French residency in order to escape his many creditors.  His cohort in this adventure was a Parisian Comte who was only too happy allowing Quenton to live on his bounty, finding the young Lord Selby, like himself, shared an avid interest in the writings of the Marquis de Sade. 

Feeling he had at last found a kindred spirit, Quenton devoted himself to this new, fascinating lifestyle.  It perfectly suited the man he had become: unbound by any moral creed, his acts, no matter how horrific, sanctified by the ideology he had created for himself.  For him, the ethics of ordinary society did not apply.  His was a most malignant narcissism: remorseless: incapable of pity for the suffering of others. To the contrary: the code to life he had forged, born of the savagery that dominated his early life, had now become the source of his keenest pleasure.

His cruelty was unbound.  The Comte’s palatial home became the scene of many a debauched revel.  Prostitutes and kitchen maids were scavenged from Parisian streets, some willing, most, unwilling.  Quenton discovered he had a marked preference for such women rather than the noble ladies of his own station.  Such human flotsam would be less likely believed should they choose to take their rather terrifying accounts of the Comte’s “parties” to the local authorities.

As for physical intimacy, male or female, Quenton had little desire.  If the truth were known, he was quite unable to perform, even if he had wished. This condition, coupled with his lurid fantasies, urged the impulses of his libido to their most supreme gratification purely within the private arena of his twisted mental landscape.  He had no need for physical love – for him, the zenith of autointoxication came at the sight of his victim reduced to impotent rage or hysteria.  At such times, he felt himself become one of Rome’s mighty emperors, and this satisfied him beyond anything that the world might have to offer.

In time, Quenton and Comte deSalle were obliged to flee to Paris to England, a ‘cooling off’ period.  Quenton had reinstated contact with his Uncle Hallward Selby; his father had remarried and sired several healthy sons.  Lord Miles had expressed to the Selbys a specific desire to never again lay eyes on Quenton Averill Bronson.

Taking this development in stride, Quenton managed to wheedle a subsidy from the Selbys in order to pay off his debts and return to the bosom of his loving “true” family; his mother’s people.  He took the Selby name and vowed to his uncle that, soon as his debts were clear and his good name restored he would be proud to submit to the grooming of his person to enter the glorious service of the Royal Navy.  In addition to debt, there were certain records to be expunged.  While Lord Hallward quietly took charge of the finaglings, Quenton and Comte deSalle embarked on one last spree.

They found the soul of discretion in Annabelle MacKenzie.  She had demanded a pretty penny for the activities they wished to engage in and though, in the aftermath, she was often bruised and bleeding, she made no mention of their sessions to anyone. At least, as far as they knew.

He had had no plans for murder.  But with her acquiescence to rougher and rougher treatment, the temptation became too great: he became obsessed with the idea of crossing the final taboo; he wanted to feel the sensation of taking a life.  It was all that he imagined and more.  For the first time in his memory, he felt truly god-like, omnipotent.  The thrill of the deed was heightened by the notion that his father might find out what he had done.  Let him taunt “weakling” and “coward” now!

The reality was Annabelle’s blood soaked body and the Comte’s frantic counsel that they leave the room quickly as possible without being seen.  This they accomplished quite easily.  Quenton recalled that once well away from the Duck and Dog Tavern they had strolled to their hotel and had a large, leisurely breakfast.  He had idly scanned the papers for mention of the crime, half hoping he would be identified as the murderer.  But the killing remained unsolved, it’s scanty coverage dwindling away disappointingly after a mere week.  He was free to return to his Uncle Hallward Selby with a record pure as new snow.

To the surprise of all, Quenton proceeded to become a nearly model officer.  He kept largely to himself and his books; under the tutelage of his doting uncle he excelled in the difficult skill of navigation.  His head for details and inconsequentials was astonishing.  By year’s end, he was able to recite the bulk of the Articles of War from memory.  He wielded his genius like a blade, conscious of his intellectual superiority, enjoying his powerful position under the umbrella of the Selby family name.

He built a reputation as a man who could get hard word out of even the most runagate division.  His distrustful fellow officers treated him with wary respect, and only rarely talked behind his back; rumors of unsavory activities ashore, and his advocating of unduly harsh punishment against any sailor accused of even the slightest infraction. 

Quenton was nearly always present at the administration of such punishments.  Indeed, he seemed to take a disconcerting pleasure participating in such acts: his eyes radiating a peculiar, hot gleam, exhibiting to his somewhat shocked fellow officers a disturbing augury of suppressed perversion that lay at the bottom of the man’s soul, if soul he had. 

It was this aberration of character responsible for Quenton's inability to obtain promotion. With each denial, his frustration mounted. He flew into rages before his cowed relatives, blaming everyone in their sphere for his inability to rise beyond Acting Leftenant. At last, by means of subtle bribery, Quenton was offered the post of 4^th Lieutenant. He was grateful enough for his uncle's efforts to actually attempt some measure of contraol over his tantrums, and to keep his record untarnished. In a way, he discovered the truth of the old adage: "One catches more flies with sugar than with vinegar." He crafted a superficial, calculated charm of sorts; a sham cordiality and interest in his fellows that counterbalanced his sadistic tendencies. The Admiralty warily agreed with Commodore Hallward that Quenton had at last conquered his baser impulses. He served dutifully on the Aneas for two years, rising to 3^rd Leftenant.

Not satisfied with his slow progression, Quenton petitioned his uncle to take over the family’s slaver “Cerebus”. The captain had fallen ill, and with Britain’s enemies ever on the increase many seasoned officers were now serving in the Royal Navy.  Good captains were at a premium.  Lord Hallward agreed.  Quenton would gain valuable experience and have a plum chance to prove his mettle as ship’s commander.  Arrangements were made and Quenton Selby, a goodly crew, and Comte deSalle as “passenger” set sail for Africa.

Once on open ocean, Quenton’s messianic complex returned: monstrously.  His appetite for brutality was beyond all reason, startling even the Comte.  He never seemed to tire of gratuitous abuse, whether perpetrated on the slaves or on his own crew.  Before embarkation, he had stretched the hands’ flour for biscuits with sawdust: upon reaching the Gold Coast he sold off a sizable share of their rations, pocketing the cash.  As a result, food was nearly depleted before they were halfway to Jamaica.  It was at this juncture that Quenton decided to remedy the matter by lashing 72 slaves to the anchor cable and ordering it dropped.

The starving crew decided to take matters into their own hands. Quenton’s informants foiled the mutiny: a few ne’er-do-well toadies that he regularly permitted to gorge from his private stores. The kingpin of the dissidents was roped to the mainmast, and for several hours Quenton practiced his pistol skills.  The remaining mutineers were chained in the hold with the slaves, on a ration of water only.  Out of fifteen men, four returned alive.

Quenton was not held accountable. Mutiny was an irredeemable crime, and the toadies testified to the aborted plot.  But when Quenton tried to collect insurance on the “dispatched” slaves, the London courts went into an uproar.  Threatened with the charge of murder, Quenton withdrew his petition, letting his beleaguered uncle clear up the damage.  It took a pretty penny to do so.  Lord Hallward allowed himself the luxury of openly castigating his nephew and angrily withdrew his sponsorship.

But the cherished desire to see Quenton carry on the illustrious Selby name within the Royal Navy eventually eroded his ire.  Commodore Lord Hallward Selby was promoted to Admiral and Quenton managed to ride his coattails, accepting the offer to serve on the newly built Clotilde as third lieutenant.  His fellow officers were not surprised by this quicksilver promotion.  Frigates Clotilde and Orenthia had been largely constructed with monies generously donated from the Selby coiffures.  It galled Quenton that his dead mother’s people demonstrated such largesse concerning the His Majesty’s Navy, when he himself, after the “Cerebus” affair was now being kept on a niggardly allowance, barely enough to keep suitably clothed, let alone amass a savings of any sort.

But he dared not reproach his Uncle Hallward on the matter.  He knew he had come within a hair’s breath of losing all Selby support after his demotion from “Cerebus”.  By now, he had perfected the art of dissembling.  Renewed pleas for tolerance and forgiveness won out.  But he was still given only enough money to keep himself reasonably tailored and fed.

Hope surged anew with the death of Lord Miles Bronson.  His father had become mellow in old age.  He was happy with his young wife, and had managed to produce a brood of healthy sons, as black of hair and robust as himself.  His turnabout of character did not extend to Quenton, however.  Upon hearing that his father had cut him entirely out of his will, Quenton’s rage escalated to near madness.  It took every scrap of self-control to stop from arriving at Wolf’s Head with loaded pistol in hand and killing everyone in sight.

He managed to squelch his desire for revenge long enough to weigh the consequences.  He had seen a larger world: a piddling shared inheritance was simply not worth risking prison.  His father’s wealth was a pittance compared to what he might achieve on his own, if he set his wits to work.

And so it began.  Patiently, he saved what he could of his pay, investing in a small merchant ship.  He focused on luxuries, transports of coffee, spices, sugar, silk – and what slaves he could crowd into the small hold.  He handled his business from afar, with Comte deSalle’s aid, still retaining his position as 3^rd Leftenant on Clotilde.  The only lapse in fair play was his instruction that sawdust be rubbed into the skins of his slaves to disguise wounds from the beatings.  No one appeared to notice, and Quenton made tidy profits enough to eventually purchase a merchant fleet of his own.   He even managed to regularly donate large amounts of money to various charitable institutions, having at last come to an understanding of the tactical benefits gained by improving one’s public image.

Lord Hallward was once more won over by Quenton’s efforts.  He petitioned for his nephew’s advance to 2^nd Lieutenant.  Surprisingly, he was again promoted.  This played perfectly into Quenton’s hands. The 1^st Lieutenant on Clotilde, a certain Lawrence Blaylock, was a plump, fussy bachelor, nervous and shy.  Though he outranked Quenton, he was nicely intimidated enough to bow to the authority of the Selby name and it’s connections, consulting Quenton in lieu of taking initiative on his own, in effect, providing Clotilde with not one 1^st Lieutenant, but two.

Clotilde’s Captain Berwick seemed unaware of Quenton’s machinations, or pretended that he was.  Among his peers, Berwick was known to be a man firmly ‘in the Admiral’s pocket’.  He was a cold, distant fellow, high-nosed and pretentious, a competent enough captain but far more openly concerned with the trappings of wealth and power than his fellow officers thought proper.

For his part, Quenton was satisfied with the appointment of Captain William Berwick to Clotilde.   Admiral Hallward Selby was one of Berwick’s few intimates; the captain had only become acquainted with Quenton himself a year or so after the Cerebus affair.  Berwick never entirely believed the rumors circulating around that incident; his only comment on the matter was made in confidence to the Admiral after an elaborate dinner at Selby Manor, when he expressed his profound admiration for neophyte Captain Quenton’s ingenuity in heading off the attempted mutiny.  As Lord Hallward refilled his port, a look passed between the two that made crystal clear the understanding that Berwick would forever remain one of Quenton’s few supporters.  Ever after, Berwick, somehow, was never denied any special goods, services, or appointments he might request from London’s notoriously tight-fisted Admiralty.

In this way, the naval life of 2^nd Lieutenant Lord Quenton Averill Selby was as pleasant and profitable as could be, under the circumstances.  But it still was not enough to quell the niggling urge to see manifest his dream of a self-contained kingdom. Soon – within a year’s time.  Quenton Averill Selby had plans – and the Royal Navy was unwittingly going to help him.

The Man who would be king, continued...