Bloodmaster Scarlet, or
Ecarlate Maître de Sang in its original
French, is literary
oddity. Printing this
manuscript is the publishing world's equivalent to yelling
MacBeth in a
theater. The curse has even lead to it being dubbed "
The French Tale", a bastardization of the famous code for
Shakespeare's "
Scottish Play". Needless to say, few copies exist today. Both the story and the circumstances of its creation are
horrid tales which contribute to its mythically
bad reputation. The coincidences of
bankruptcy and death related to the known printed editions only serve to reinforce the original
bloody tale's appeal to
collectors.
Ecarlate Maître de Sang first appeared in
print on June 17, 1815, one day before
Napoleon's great defeat at
Waterloo. It was supposedly written by
Henri DuBeaucour, a minor French nobleman and ship's captain that was charged with the murder of his associate's daughter in a fit of
rage. Writing the story from his cell at
Charenton, DuBeaucour had hoped to use the money he earned to clear his name and escape his
wrongful imprisonment. He steadfastly denied he was
guilty of any crime. Many scholars note that while DuBeaucour was an inmate at the
prison from 1761 until his death in 1814, so was one
Donatien Alphonse Francois de Sade, better known as The
Marquis De Sade. Heated debate continues in literary circles about the true authorship. Most agree that Du Sade had some hand in the
work, but the details of events far removed from
French soil are far too accurate to be simple
guesses. Regardless of who the original
author was, the story is a work of
horrific detail, rivaling the works of
Poe and
Lovecraft in its bone chilling subjects and
gruesome detail.
It all begins in
1756.
King Louis XV was on the throne and his court was rife with
intrigue. By a complicated twist of
upper crust bloodlines, Young Henri is tangled up in the machinations of
Mme de Pompadour, one of Louis most influential adherents. Corruption and excess loom large at
Versailles. The
petulant king announces a contest of sorts. A fan of
exotic gifts and tales of
distant lands, he requests the commission of several expeditions to the
far flung reaches of the globe. The hangers-on at court fall over themselves to send men off to
Africa,
India and even the
Middle East, the treasures of which riddled the halls of the palace. Madame du Pompadour craftily uses her courtly influence to install DuBeaucour as captain of the
"Claire De Lune", a heavy masted supply ship that was setting out for
New France, the North American jewel of the French
colonial empire. Young Henri was glad to be free of the
pomp and
ceremony of court, and took to his new adventure readily. Sadly, the circumstances of his new employment are not entirely
on the level, as the
Claire De Lune's former captain, Rosaire Desailly, was removed with the help of
blackmail. His
hatred brewed in the pubs of
Lorient while Henri took his ship and crew to the
New World.
Henri arrives at
Montreal a changed man. Free of the bounds of stuffy
highbrow society, he revels in the frontier spirit of
Lower Canada. After months of burning his
stipend in the
alehouses and
brothels of the city, Henri has little to show for his
experience. Suddenly feeling the eyes of the
court on himself once again, Henri turns to his
liquor soaked friends at the
Broken Oak, a favored haunt.
Voyagers, just in from the fur season, are full of stories from the wild. Henri finds them eager for company, and even
competing to best each other for the most
fantastic tales. Watching a
fop like Henri scribbling their
lies on page after page was a welcome
distraction for these rough men.
Henri, however, was
nobody's fool. He sorted the tales of
devils and monsters from the real tales of the
wild, and of the mythical
Red Man, the
Natives that the Voyagers worked hand in hand with. While a book would likely impress the
King, Henri knew "the Madame" would have his head for a book of lies he could have written in France for
far cheaper. Pouring over his notes for much of the
bitter winter, Henri also put his
ear to the ground in the community. In the spring, Henri got his break.
The
Archbishop of Montreal, Etienne Montgolfier, caused quite a stir in the community by setting out a bounty on the head of the unknown murderer of
Marcel Laurentide, a Voyager lost during the last season.
Bounties were almost unheard of, especially those that could be claimed on regardless of the health of the
hunted. Henri plied the locals for the rumors that hid behind the story. Marcel Laurentide, also known as "
Skinner" Laurentide, featured in many of Henri's tales from the wild. Rather than hunt for themselves, Skinner and his band
murdered their way along the trade routes, taking
pelts from native bands,
raping and
hostages par for the course. That the Archbishop would shed a
tear over his death was
highly suspicious to Henri. Later, after many
strong brews and bottles of
harsh wine, whispers across a back table filled in the blanks. Skinner's sister
Manon, a long suffering
nun, had recently gone quite mad, hanging herself in a fit of grief. Rumors around the bar say it was after getting a dried up
half-eaten human heart in the
post. Henri, running low on funds and itching for a new adventure after the long winter, decides to take up the bounty. The rumor of the
heart in the box prove disturbingly true, and the sender was considerate enough to leave a
return address: the
Hudson Bay Company outpost at
Sheguiandah, a village on
Manitoulin Island.
Traveling the waterways of
Upper Canada for most of the summer season, Henri takes to writing his daily experiences. His journals of the trip catalog of the
wonders of the wild, tell of a growing
admiration for the aboriginal people, and show Henri's
ruminations on the murder of Laurentide. News from fellow travelers is sparse, but
telling. Skinner's band of
cutthroats disappeared just before last winter. A
Jesuit missionary traveling back to
Quebec City told Henri a strange tale the day before they left
Sturgeon Falls. His contemporaries working with the
Ojibwa people told tales of a
Mu-kwa-Man in the sacred land of
Manitou. It was a
ill omen, and many spent their days crafting
dreamcatchers to the neglect of their villages. Henri continued north to the Great Lakes, his own heart slowing filling with
dread.
Fall saw Henri and his band land at Sheguiandah. The Hudson Bay Company man,
Angus Campbell, offers a warm welcome, and an invitation to
dinner at his smoky
log cabin. At dinner, Henri shows Angus the box that drove
Sister Laurentide mad, and he
pales at the recollection. Campbell mailed the sealed box for the mysterious
bounty himself, before all the
trouble started. So begins Campbell's tale of "
Scarlet Jack".
The
Pikes, an Ojibwa tribe
local to area, had a rough winter. At the end of the last trapping season, a man from an unknown
tribe walked into the outpost. This was not unheard off in the days of
nomadic trappers, so no one thought anything of the
stranger. Mute or reserved, Jack never spoke a
word, but seemed to understand everything said to him. Always dressed in an tattered old
British Redcoat, Angus first met him when he sold his
canoe load of furs and traded some
items that proved to belong to Laurentide and his
cronies. Angus looked the other way on most
shady deals. The very next day, Jack returned with the package for
Manon, the address carefully scribed on the box, each letter
perfect, but made by a hand unused to
writing. Angus took
five cents and shipped it out without so much as a
second thought. He did warn Jack against having the
hairy scalps which he had tied to his
belt, but his objections where met with a
steely glare. The subject was dropped. Settling in for the winter, Jack made his camp just outside the wood
battlements of the
trading post. The other natives seemed uneasy about his presence. Just after the
first snow, the children started to go
missing. Parts of many where found after they disappeared in the
night, seemingly eaten by packs of
wolves. Several hunting parties where sent out after the
marauding animals, but they found little but tracks and mocking
howls. Turning to the
elders for answers proved
disastrous. The old medicine man told them all the myth of the
Wendigo, and instantly, the stranger was the object of a
witch hunt. A mob descended on Jack's little camp, lead by the
Chief himself. Accusations flew and justice was swift. The witchman had his hands
nailed to post in his camp, leaving him to die in the snow. No more children disappeared in the night and the Chief was widely praised for his
actions. No one went back to the
cursed grove where Jack was
surely dead. The eve of the next
full moon saw the Chief hung from battlements by his own
viscera. Huge claw marks scarred the
wooden pikes all the way to the top. The
medicine man went to check Jack's camp. He was sitting just as they had left him, hands nailed to post,
bathed in blood and
impossibly alive. He flashed a
smile at the old man. Much of the tribe left the
next day. Most of the tale came to Angus from the fleeing medicine man, who begged him to
leave with him.
Henri was beside himself with
joy. To return with both a
savage man for the
King to see and a
pocketful of the hefty church
bounty waiting for him in
Montreal would surely please the
Madame.
And such stories! His account of this adventure would sell all across
France. The next day, guided by Angus, Henri and his men made the trip to
Scarlet Jack's camp. Henri noted with a little foreboding that all their native guides had abandoned then in the night,
spooked by the talk of
witchmen and wendigos. The miserable creature that they found was no
monster. Still nailed to the post by
one hand, piteous Jack glared in fear at the men. His long
unkempt hair and
filthy body filled Henri with a momentary
concern: would this miserable thing live to reach
France? He tended his small fire with care, and someone was obviously leaving food and wood for him. Henri and Angus pried the
rusty spike from the post and weary, crippled Jack
cried with relief and
pain. After only a brief freedom, Jack seemed more
alive. His freedom was short-lived. Lashing his hands with
leather and reading the
bounty order from the Archbishop, Henri claimed Jack's live as his own. They set off for Montreal the same
day. The weary Jack could do little but
glare hatefully.
Misfortunes followed the group. Either because of the loss of their native guides or simple
bad luck, the journey back to Lower Canada was
murderously bad. Henri's notes tell tales of
wild animal attacks,
fevers, waves of
insects and attacks of
dysentery. The
fist of winter closed around them. The tone of the notes also
darkens as Henri becomes
impatient to return to
France. He wastes little
ink to describe Jack, only noting his complete lack of
rebellion and his vastly improving
health. The ragged wounds in his hands seemed to disappear in a
short time.
Ominous word from the outside world also seeps into the
journal. The outpost at
Deep River brought news of the outbreak of the
Seven Years War. An overnight camp brings word that massive
forest fires had swept
Manitoulin just behind them either by accident or purposely set to rid it of evil spirits by
superstitious natives. They found Montreal on the verge of
siege upon their return, which was continuously harassed by
English Militia. All these turns of fortune brought a
wolfish grin to Jack's face. Henri had him
beaten, often on little
context, to keep his joy brief. Hastily collecting the bounty and arranging passage for himself and his
new trophy to
Louisbourg, Henri vowed to flee this
cursed land.
1758 began with Henri
desperate to flee the
Atlantic fortress. Louisbourg was under siege by both the British Army and Navy. The
Claire De Lune ran the blockade by flying a
Dutch banner and slipping out into a
midnight storm under
full sail.
St. Elmo's Fire lit the masts of the desperate ship as it
fled the fire from British
warships. Damaged but not crippled, the crew piloted the ship through the
violent Atlantic, which seemed to be
conspiring to
sink them. Jack was locked in the
bowels of the
cargo hold. 4 men disappeared on the journey back to France, assumed
swept overboard. Jack seemed to gain
weight.
Broken masts, ripped sails and a
cannon shot hull carried the
Claire de Lune as far as the port of
Lorient, where she sunk at her
mooring, moments after the crew stepped ashore. Henri lost several of the gifts he had returned with for the King, but
relief still overwhelmed him. His
joy evaporated moments later when
Captain Desailly stormed the
pier, fresh from the
bar. Desailly, who had surrendered his life to
alcohol, erupted at seeing the
wreck Henri had returned in place of his ship. Brandishing a
pistol, he spat
obscenities at DuBeaucour. Vowing that his precious
trophy would never see the
King, Desailly shot Jack squarely in the face at
pointblank range. Effectively
decapitated, Scarlet Jack's body fell off the pier, into the
choppy waters. Desailly fled into the
city. Shocked and world-weary, Henri retired to a dockside
flophouse, vowing to have the authorities hunt the murderer Desailly down the very next
morning. He left his crew to
fish for the body.
Henri awoke the next morning to a
slaughterhouse scene. Captain Desailly's daughter,
Justine, lay in
bed beside him.
Mostly.
Copious amounts of blood coated the entire room, painting the dirty windows and giving the sunlight a glowing
red sheen. Justine's face was openmouthed in terror, and all her insides where scooped out and spread
meticulously about the room. Her eye sockets held coals from the
fireplace, black
tears tracing down her cheeks. Henri's arms were red to the shoulders, and his
hair was matted down with sticky
red goo. Fleeing the room in
abject terror, he caught his reflection in a passing
mirror. His
bedclothes and
body were painted with red
symbols and pictograms, just like those Henri had seen on the art of the natives of
New France.
Unhinged, he was quickly caught by local authorities.
Gibbering about a wild
Redman loose in the streets did little to help his
case. Tried and convicted for the
vicious murder of the daughter of man he had reason to
avenge himself on, Henri had little
hope. Many long years in the
asylum waited, his life spared only because of his station in
society.
Captain Desailly met his
grisly death soon after.
Gutted in a back alley, some
thug had forced the good captain to eat most of his
own skin, which his attacker expertly
carved from his body. One massive bloody
hand print was the only clue left at the scene, and its
impossible scale and
clawed fingers lead to its
dismissal. Rumors about the
Devil of Lorient persisted for many years. Not long after, similar stories sprang up, like the famous tale of
The Beast of Le Gevaudan.
The fall of Louisbourg, with the capture of
Quebec in 1759 and
Montreal in 1760, ended France's military and colonial power in
North America. Soon, the death of the
Madame and the rise of the 1791
French Revolution toppled the
throne. Henri followed the world from his
cell, watching the
wave of misfortunes that had chased him from that
blasted isle consume all of France. He grew to be a bitter and wizened
old man, wailing his was
the hand that pulled the guillotine rope on the entire country. If De Sade helped him with the manuscript found with his body in 1814 is still not
known, but the same
publisher that smuggled the work of the Marquis printed the first edition of Bloodmaster Scarlet.
Henri DuBeaucour never lived to see the benefits of his life's story of
horror. Discovered
dead at the desk at which he penned the
work, the last few pages of the original were penned in his own
blood, the black raven quill found stuck deep in his own
eye. His hands were nailed to his desk with
ancient rusty nails, and a large skinning
knife with the initials
SL engraved on the handle was stuck in his
heart.