The Difference Engine (38 page)

An inexplicable weariness of soul struck him, as the Zephyr rumbled on unchallenged through the macadamed streets. It was a very weariness of London, of the city’s sheer physicality, its nightmare endlessness, of streets, courts, crescents, terraces, and alleys, of fog-shrouded stone and soot-blackened brick. A nausea of awnings, a nastiness of casements, an ugliness of scaffoldings lashed together with rope; a horrible prevalence of iron street-lamps and granite bollards, of pawn-shops, haberdashers, and tobacconists. The city seemed to stretch about them like some pitiless abyss of geologic time.

An ugly shout split Mallory’s reverie. Masked men had scuttled into the street before them, shabby, threatening, blocking the way. The Zephyr braked to a sudden stop, the coal-wain lurching.

Mallory saw at a glance that these were rascals of the roughest description. The first, an evil youngster with a face like dirty dough, in a greasy jacket and corduroy trousers, had a mangy fur cap pulled low, but not low enough to hide the prison-cut of his hair. The second, a sturdy brute of thirty-five, wore a tall grease-stiffened hat, checked trousers, and brass-toed lace-up boots. The third was thick-set and bowlegged, with leather knee-breeches and soiled stockings, a long muffler wrapped round and round his mouth.

And then, rushing from inside a plundered ironmonger’s, two more confederates — hulking, idle, slouching young men, with short baggy shirt-sleeves and trousers too tight. They had armed themselves with spontaneous weapons — a goffering-iron, a yard-long salamander. Homely items these, but unexpectedly cruel and frightening in the ready hands of these bandits.

The brass-booted man, their leader, it seemed, tugged the kerchief from his face with a sneering yellow grin. “Get out of that kerridge,” he commanded. “Get the hell out!”

But Fraser was already in motion. He emerged, with quiet assurance, before the five jostling ruffians, for all the world like a school-teacher calming an unruly class. He announced, quite clearly and firmly: “Now that’s no use, Mr. Tally Thompson! I know you — and I should think you know me. You are under arrest, for felony.”

“That be damned!” blurted Tally Thompson, turning pale with astonishment.

“It’s Sergeant Fraser!” shouted the dough-faced boy in horror, falling back two steps.

Fraser produced a pair of blued-iron handcuffs.

“No!” Thompson yelped, “none o’ that! I won’t stand them! I won’t bear none o’ that!”

“You will clear the way here, the rest of you,” Fraser announced. “You, Bob Miles — what are you creeping round here for? Put away that silly ironware, before I take you in.”

“For Christ’s sake. Tally, shoot him!” shouted the mufflered ruffian.

Fraser deftly snapped his cuffs on Tally Thompson’s wrists. “So we have a gun, do we, Tally?” he said, and yanked a derringer from the man’s brass-studded belt. “That’s a shame, that is.” He frowned at the others. “Are you going to hook it, you lads?”

“Let’s hook it,” whined Bob Miles. “We should hook it, like the sergeant says!”

“Kill him, you jolterheads!” shouted the mufflered man, pressing his mask to his face with one hand, and pulling a short, broad-bladed knife with the other. “He’s a fucking copper, you idiots — do for him! Swing’ll choke you if we don’t!” The mufflered man raised his voice. “Coppers here!” he screeched, like a man selling hot chestnuts. “Everybody, come up and do for these copper sons-of-bitches —”

Fraser lashed out deftly with the butt of the derringer, cracking it against the mufflered man’s wrist; the wretch dropped his knife with a howl.

The three other ruffians took at once to their heels. Tally Thompson also tried to flee, but Fraser snagged the man’s cuffed wrists left-handed, yanked him off-balance and spun him to his knees.

The man with the muffler hopped and hobbled back several paces, as if dragged against his will. Then he stopped, stooped over, picked up a heavy toppled flat-iron by its mahogany handle. He cocked his hand back, to throw.

Fraser leveled the derringer, and fired. The mufflered man doubled over, his knees buckling, and fell to the street, writhing in a fit. “He’s killed me,” the ruffian squawked. “I’m gut-shot, he’s killed me!”

Fraser gave Tally Thompson an admonitory cuff on the ear. “This barker of yours is rubbish, Tally. I aimed for his bloody legs!”

“He didn’t mean no harm,” Tally sniveled.

“He’d a five-pound flat-iron.” Fraser glanced back at Mallory and Brian, where they stood astonished in the coal-wain. “Come down, you lads — look sharp now. We’ll have to leave your gurney. They’ll be looking for it. We have to hoof it now.”

Fraser yanked Tally Thompson to his feet, with a cruel jerk of the cuffs. “And you. Tally, you’ll lead us to Captain Swing.”

“I won’t, Sergeant!”

“You will, Tally.” Fraser hauled Tally forward, with a sharp beckoning glance back at Mallory.

The five of them picked their way around the squealing, choking ruffian, who rolled in his spreading blood on the pavement, his dirty bow-legs trembling in spasm. “Damme if he don’t take on,” Fraser said coldly. “Who is he. Tally?”

“Never knew his name.”

Without breaking step, Fraser slapped Tally’s battered top-hat from his head. The wrinkled topper seemed glued to the ruffian’s scalp with grime and macassar-oil. “Of course you know him!”

“No name!” Tally insisted, looking back at his lost hat with a leer of despair. “A Yankee, inne?”

“What sort of Yankee, then?” asked Fraser, scenting deceit. “Confederate? Unionist? Texian? Californian?”

” ‘E’s from New York,” Tally said.

“What,” Fraser said in disbelief, “you’d tell me he was a Manhattan Communard!” He glanced back once at the dying man as they walked on, then recovered himself swiftly and spoke with tepid skepticism. “He didn’t talk like any New York Yankee.”

“I don’t know nothing ‘bout any commoners. Swing liked ‘im, is all!”

Fraser led them down an alleyway crossed with rusty elevated cat-walks, its towering brick walls glistening with greasy damp. “Are there more like that one, in Swing’s counsel? More men from Manhattan?”

“Swing’s got a deal of friends,” Tally said, seeming to recover himself, “and he’ll do for you, he will, you trifle wi’ him!”

“Tom,” said Fraser, turning his attention to Mallory’s brother, “can you handle a pistol?”

“A pistol?”

“Take this one,” said Fraser, handing over Tally’s derringer. “There’s but one shot left. You musn’t use it lest your man is close enough to touch.”

Having rid himself of the derringer, Fraser then reached, without pause, into his coat-pocket, pulled out a small leather blackjack, and commenced, while still walking steadily, to batter Tally Thompson, with numbing accuracy, on the thick meat of his arms and shoulders.

The man flinched and grunted under the blows, and finally began to howl, his flat nose running snot.

Fraser stopped, pocketed his truncheon. “Damn ye for a fool, Tally Thompson,” he said, with a queer kind of affection. “Know you nothing of coppers? I’ve come for your precious Swing all by meself, and brought these three jolly lads just to see the fun! Now where’s he lurking?”

“A big warehouse in the docks,” Tally sniveled. “Full of loot — wonders! And guns, whole cases of fancy barkers —”

“Which warehouse, then?”

“I dunno,” Tally wailed, “I never been inside the bloody gates before! I don’t know the bloody names of all them fancy go-downs!”

“What’s the name on the door? The owner!”

“I can’t read, Sergeant, you know that!”

“Where is it, then?” Fraser asked relentlessly. “Import docks or export?”

“Import . . . ”

“South side? North side?”

“South, about middle-ways . . .” From the street behind them came distant shouts, a frenzied shattering of glass, and drum-like echoed booms of battered sheet-metal. Tally fell silent, his head cocked to listen. His lips quirked. “Why, that’s your kerridge!” he said, the whine gone from his voice. “Swing’s lads a-come back hotfoot, and found yer kerridge, Sergeant!”

“How many men in this warehouse?”

“Listen to ‘em breaking ‘er up!” said Tally. A queer variety of child-like wonder had chased all fear from his sullen features.

“How many men?” Fraser barked, boxing Tally’s ear.

“They’re knocking ‘er to smithers!” Tally declared cheerily, shrugging from the blow. “Ludd’s work on your pretty gurney!”

“Shut yer trap, ye bastard!” young Tom burst out, his voice high with rage and pain.

Startled, Tally regarded Tom’s masked face with a dawning leer of satisfaction. “What’s that, young mister?”

“Shut up, I told ye!” Tom cried.

Tally Thompson leered like an ape. “It ain’t me hurting your precious gurney! Yell at them, boy! Tell ‘em to stop, then!” Tally lurched backward suddenly, snatching his manacled hands from Fraser’s grip. The policeman staggered, almost knocking Brian from his feet.

Tally turned and screeched through his cupped hands. “Stop that fun, my hearties!” His howl echoed down the brick-work canyon. “Ye’re hurtin’ private property!”

Tom pounced on the man like lightning, with a wild spinning swing of his fist. Tally’s head snapped back, and the breath left him in a ragged gasp. He tottered a step, then dropped to the cobbled floor of the alley like a sack of meal.

There was a sudden silence.

“Damme, Tom!” said Brian. “Ye knocked his lights out!”

Fraser, his truncheon drawn now, stepped across the supine ruffian, and peeled one eyelid back with his thumb. Then he glanced up at Tom, mildly. “You’ve a temper, lad . . . ”

Tom tugged his mask free, breathing shakily. “I could have shot him!” he blurted, his voice thin. He looked to Mallory, with a strange confused appeal. “I could ha’, Ned! Shot him down dead!”

Mallory nodded shortly. “Easy, lad . . .”

Fraser fumbled to unlock the handcuffs; they were slick with blood from Tally’s lacerated wrists.

“That was mortal strange, what the rascal just did!” Brian marveled, in a hushed Sussex drawl. “Are they bedlam crazy here, Ned? Have they all gone ellynge, these London folk?”

Mallory nodded soberly. Then he raised his voice. “But nowt that a good right arm don’t cure!” He whacked Tom’s shoulder with an open palm. “Ye’re a boxer. Tommy lad! Ye blowed him down like a slaughtered ox!”

Brian snorted laughter. Tom smiled shyly, rubbing his knuckles.

Fraser rose, pocketing truncheon and cuffs, and set off up the alley, at a half-trot. The brothers followed him. “It warn’t so much,” Tom said, his voice giddy.

“What,” Mallory objected, “a mere lad of nineteen, layin’ out that brassy-boots brawler? It’s a marvel surely!”

“It warn’t any fair fight, with his hands bound,” Tom said.

“One punch!” Brian gloated. “Ye stretched him flat as an oaken plank. Tommy!”

“Stow it!” Fraser hissed.

They fell silent. The alley ended by the vacant ground of a demolished building, its cracked foundation strewn with bits of red brick and greying spars of splintered lumber. Fraser picked his way forward. The sky rolled yellow-grey overhead, the haze breaking here and there to reveal thick greenish clouds like rotting curd.

“Hell’s bells,” Tom declared, in a tone of thin jollity. “They can’t a-heard us talking, Mr. Fraser! Not with that almighty rucket they were making on my gurney!”

“It isn’t that lot worries me now, lad,” Fraser said, not unkindly. “But we might meet more pickets.”

“Where are we?” Brian asked, then stumbled to a halt. “God in heaven! What is that smell?”

“The Thames,” Fraser told him.

A thick wall of low brick stood at the end of the vacant plot. Mallory hoisted himself up and stood, breathing very shallowly, his mask pressed hard to his bearded lips. The far side of the brick wall — it was part of the Thames embankment — sloped down ten feet to the river-bed. The tide was out, and the shrunken Thames was a sluggish gleam between long plazas of cracked muddy shore.

Across the river stood the steel navigation-tower of Cuckold’s Point, adorned with nautical warning-flags. Mallory could not recognize the signals. Quarantine, perhaps? Blockade? The river seemed nigh deserted.

Fraser looked up and down the mud-flats at the foot of the embankment. Mallory followed his gaze. Small boats were embedded in the grey-black mud as if set in cement. Here and there along the bend of the Limehouse Reach, rivulets of viridian slime reached up through the gouged tracks of channel-dredgers.

Something like a river-breeze — not a breeze at all, but a soft liquid ooze of gelatinous Stink — rose from the Thames and spilled over them where they stood. “Dear God!” Brian cried in weak amazement, and knelt quickly behind the wall. With a sympathetic ripple of queasiness. Mallory heard his brother retch violently.

With a stern effort, Mallory mastered the sensation. It was not easy. Clearly, the raw Thames surpassed even the fabled stench in the holds of Royal Artillery transports.

Young Thomas, though he’d also gone quite pale, seemed of tougher stuff than Brian — inured, perhaps, by the chugging exhaust of steam-gurneys. “Why, look at this nasty business!” Tom suddenly declared, in a muffled, dreamy voice. “I knew we’d a drought upon the land, but I never dreamt of this!” He looked to Mallory with astonished, reddened eyes. “Why, Ned — the air, the water — there’s never been such a dreadfulness, surely!”

Fraser seemed pained. “London’s never what she might be, in summer . . . ”

“But look at the river!” Tom cried innocently. “And look, look, yonder comes a ship!” A large paddle-steamer was working her way up the Thames, and a very queer-looking craft she was indeed, with her hull flat as a raft’s, and a cheese-box cabin of sloping, riveted iron, the walls of black armor patched bow-to-stern with large white squares: cannon-hatches. On her bow, two sailors, in rubber gloves and nozzled rubber helmets, took soundings with a leaded line.

“What sort of vessel is that?” asked Mallory, wiping his eyes.

Brian rose unsteadily, leaned across the wall, wiped his mouth, and spat. “Pocket ironclad,” he announced hoarsely. “A river gun-ship.” He pinched his nose shut and shuddered from head to foot.

Mallory had read of such craft, but had never seen one. “From the Mississippi campaign, in America.” He stared beneath a shading hand, wishing for a spyglass. “Does she fly Confederate colors, then? I didn’t know we’d any of her class here in England . . . No, I see she flies the Union Jack!”