The Best of Kage Baker

by Kage Baker

Pinwale Bulger was a sailor and professional grotesque. He had taken a faceful of shot at the battle of Navarino, which had, as he was fond of telling anyone who’d buy him a drink, “spoiled his looks a bit” in that it had destroyed his right eye, cheekbone and ear. Having been discharged, he wandered Portsmouth with a bag over his head, charging a penny for a look at his injuries and tuppence to put the bag back on again.

  This paid so well that the representative from the Gentlemen’s Speculative Society was hard pressed to persuade Mr. Bulger to submit himself for surgical improvement, though Bulger was willing enough to become an agent when the Society’s principles had been explained to him.

  Nor need he have worried about losing his livelihood; for the doctors’ best efforts, while restoring his hearing and rebuilding his face, had been unable to make him look any less appalling. His prosthetic eye in particular, though affording him vision superior to the undamaged left one, tended to roll and stare unnervingly, and there was an audible shutter click when he took photographs with it.

  To conceal this he had developed a repertoire of tics, tongue-clacking and muttering to himself, which also helped disguise his transmissions to the Society when he sent them through the apparatus built into his ear. Muttering to himself had become something of a habit, unfortunately.

  “Do-de-do-de-dooo. Hello!” He waved cheerily to an ashen-faced pair of young gentlemen emerging from the Queenstown telegraph office. “Mr. Field and Mr. Bright, ain’t it?”

  They glanced at him and stopped, startled. “How did you know our names?” asked Field, the American.

  “Why, ain’t everyone heard of the great cable?” Bulger grinned at them. “I was wondering if you had a berth on that Agamemnon for an able-bodied seaman.”

  Bright, the Englishman, looked him up and down in disbelief. With a brief humorless laugh he replied, “If she puts to sea again. Just at present that is very much undecided, my good man.”

  “We’ll persuade them, never you fear,” Field told Bright. His confident expression faded as he regarded Bulger. “Ah…tell you what, sir: I’ll bet they’d be grateful on board for someone to help them clean up. The Agamemnon’s just been through some real bad weather. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have business elsewhere. Why don’t you go apply to the captain?”

  “Aye aye, yankee doodle,” said Bulger with an affable leer, and went tottering away to the Agamemnon’s berth. Field and Bright watched him go, shuddered, and hurried off to catch a fast boat to London, where they had the formidable task of persuading the Atlantic Cable Company’s board of directors not to abandon the entire project after two costly false starts.

  Bulger, for his part, went aboard and found the Agamemnon’s first mate only too glad to hire on someone to help clear several tons of coal out of the saloon, where it had accumulated during the most recent attempt to lay cable during a catastrophic storm. Whistling merrily, Bulger stowed his duffel, grabbed a shovel and was soon hard at work.

  ***

  “Nell Gwynn used these tunnels to visit Charles II, you know,” remarked Greene, as he led them downward.

  “Really.” Kendal put a hand to his ear to muffle the echoes of the porter, who went before them with their trunks on a handcar. Bell-Fairfax was obliged to carry his hat and bend nearly double to follow them. They had been descending steadily for the better part of a minute, under vaulted brick arches.

  “Oh, yes. Found a few interesting things when we excavated the club’s cellars! We cleaned the tunnels out and extended them a bit…quite useful, and never more so than now. Ah! Here we are, gentlemen.”

  Kendal heard Bell-Fairfax sigh with relief as they emerged into a vaulted chamber, brightly lit. It looked rather like a railway station, full of bustling men; but they were mechanics, rather than travelers, and the immense thing mounted on a track at one end of the chamber was not a locomotive engine but…Kendal peered at it. A wooden fish? A life-size model of a whale, perhaps, crafted in oak and copper and brass?

  Plainly the thing was meant to swim, for its track led down into the mouth of a tunnel, from which came the unmistakable reek of the Thames. “The Ballena,” said Greene with satisfaction. “Cost us a pretty penny, I can tell you, but she’s quite the finest of her kind. Considerable improvement over Bauer’s vessels, and rather safer. Ah! And here’s the Spaniard. Senor Monturiol! Tell him his passengers have arrived.”

  This last remark was addressed not to the man himself but to his clerk, who translated the remark. Senor Monturiol, a slightly built gentleman with sea-blue eyes, stepped forward and bowed. He said something to the clerk.

  “Senor Monturiol wishes to assure you that the Ballena is ready to depart.”

  “Very good!” said Greene. “Convey that I wish to introduce Mr. Kendal, our communications specialist.” Kendal bowed, extending his hand, and Monturiol clasped it briefly as the clerk chattered away.

  “And this is our diver, Commander Bell-Fairfax,” added Greene. Monturiol looked up at Bell-Fairfax, visibly startled by his height, but he bowed and said something courteous. Bell-Fairfax responded in Spanish, shaking his hand.

  “Senor Monturiol is a recent recruit for our continental branch,” said Greene. “A self-taught genius. He had the idea, we had the money, and the Ballena’s the result.”

  Monturiol said something in fervent tones, at some length. “The senor wishes to express his joy upon discovering a fraternity of brothers who use wealth, not for their own gain or to advance military objectives, but for the benefit of all mankind. He is honored and gratified to have joined your ranks, and to have the opportunity to develop his idea in your service,” said the clerk.

  “Very good,” said Greene. “May we go aboard?”

  ***

  They climbed a scaffold to step onto the upper deck, gripping brass handrails. The Ballena was the color of a violin, golden oak under thick spar varnish, polished to a glassy shine. Her two fore portholes, set with rock crystal panes, increased her resemblance to a living creature of the sea rather than a vessel. Monturiol led them to a hatch in a snub tower protruding from the top, and, opening it out, indicated that they ought to descend into its interior.

  Kendal and Bell-Fairfax climbed down sailorlike, followed awkwardly by Greene, Senor Monturiol and the clerk. Kendal found himself on a narrow walkway that extended the length of the vessel, though his view aft was blocked by a great many brass tanks and apparatus he could not identify. Uniformed engineers paused in their preparations there to stand to attention and salute.

  The whole was lit by a pair of glass tubes, filled with some sort of blue-glowing fluid, that snaked along the interior hull at roughly eye-level, held in place by copper brackets quaintly shaped to resemble starfish.

  Directly to their left there looked to be a lower hatch, to which Monturiol pointed and said something, then gestured forward. “The airlock for the diver,” translated the clerk. “If you gentlemen will proceed to the saloon, you will find it much less crowded.”

  “By all means,” said Bell-Fairfax, who was having to crouch once more. They sidled into the area corresponding to a ship’s forecastle and there congregated in a tight knot, as the porter carried in the trunks.

  “The saloon. Here are hooks for your hammocks,” the clerk translated for Monturiol. “Lockers for your trunks are under the benches. A sanitary convenience is in this cabinet.”

  “It seems smaller inside than it appeared from the outside,” said Kendal. Bell-Fairfax translated his remark, and Monturiol’s reply:

  “That is because we are double-hulled, for safety.”

  “You needn’t fear suffocation either,” said Greene, waving an arm at the machinery aft. “She’s got an anaerobic engine—produces oxygen, if you please! As well as driving an auxiliary steam engine to propel her. No need for sailors sweating away in close confines at a tedious cranking mechanism. Oxyhydric lamp running off a hydrogen tank, so as to light her way through the depths. She’ll descend a hundred and fifty fathoms with ease, and make
twenty knots regardless of the weather. Positively swanned her way through her sea-trials!”

  The porter had finished stowing the trunks by this time. With his departure, hands were shaken all around; Greene and the clerk departed. Monturiol’s valet, Arnau, closed and sealed the hatch. From that moment they were isolated from the world, and could not hear the order for launch; they only felt the jolt as all hands without lent their weight to pushing the Ballena down the ramp.

  Kendal scrambled to the starboard porthole. He looked down on bowed heads and straining backs for a moment. A lurch, and then the brick walls of the tunnel went sliding past, only to vanish in universal darkness as the Ballena entered the water. Her engines churned to life, with a vibration that entered Kendal’s spread palms where they pressed her inner hull. He felt a thrill of mingled terror and glee.

  Kendal turned from the window. Monturiol and Arnau had gone aft, Monturiol to the helm amidships and Arnau to assist the engineers. Orders were shouted in Spanish; suddenly the black beyond the portholes lit to a dim green. Bathed in the blue light from the illumination tubes, Bell-Fairfax had sat down and was straightening his back at last.

  “For God and St. George,” he remarked to Kendal, with a wry smile.

  ***

  They surfaced when they were well out into the Thames. Monturiol demonstrated the periscope that allowed them to peer above the surface, thereby avoiding collisions with ships. The young moon had long since set, but the periscope had been fitted with a lens that penetrated shadow, lighting the night with an eerie green glow. At half speed, they traveled downriver cautiously.

  By dawn they had rounded Margate and caught the gleam of the North Foreland light, winking pale across the water under the brightening sky. The Ballena moved out beyond the sands until she swam free in the open ocean. Monturiol gave the order to take her up to top speed then, and she cut through the blue world like a Minie ball from the barrel of a rifle, making for Ireland.

  ***

  Mr. Field and Mr. Bright having faced the investors, and Mr. Field having worked his eloquent miracle of persuasion, they returned to Queenstown and boarded their respective vessels with permission to make one more attempt to lay the cable. Mr. Field steamed away to the mid-Atlantic rendezvous point aboard the Niagara on 17 July as agreed, while Mr. Bright went aboard the Agamemnon, whose captain insisted on leaving under sail alone and never even made it out of Church Bay until the 18th.

  Mr. Bulger had ingratiated himself into a berth by then, since there was still no end of clean-up and repair to be done. It would be a stretch of the truth to say the rest of the crew became used to him, but, preoccupied as they were with catching up with the Niagara, they learned to ignore the sight of Bulger shuffling to and fro with a broom, a mop or a bucket of paint.

  He had noted one other crew member who sat apart from the other sailors in the mess and was given menial tasks suitable for a landsman. They were on the same watch; accordingly Bulger wobbled up to him and sat, at the evening meal on the fourth day out.

  “How-de-do!” He grinned companionably. “I’m Pinny Bulger. What’s your name, matey?”

  The other looked across at him and blanched. “A-Anthony Cheltenham.”

  “Is it! Well, ain’t that nice. Want some of this here plum duff?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Sure?” Bulger spooned up a mouthful and made ecstatic noises, rocking himself to and fro. “Oh, it’s fearful good! Well, more for me. This your first cruise, is it? Come to sea for your health, eh?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “That’s just what I done, when I was a lad,” said Bulger. “Made me the man you see today. This is a fine cruise we’re having, ain’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And just think what it’s in aid of! We’ll get into the history books, sure. I been down helping ’em unstick glued-up cable in the cable-holds, so it’ll run smooth. That’s a sight to see, all them miles of cable coiled up down there!”

  “Eleven hundred miles, as I understand,” said Cheltenham, looking at him more attentively. “Tell me, do you need any assistance?”

  Bulger’s right eye rolled madly a moment, until he brought it to focus on Cheltenham. He thrust his head forward and took a photograph of Cheltenham, chattering his teeth on his spoon to obscure the sound of the lens shutter. “Why d’you ask?”

  “I would dearly love to get a look at the cable, you see.”

  “Whyn’t you just take a peep at what’s on the forward deck, then? The guards would let you have a nice close squint at it, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen that, certainly, but…I should like to see all of it.”

  “I reckon you would!” Bulger gave a cackling laugh, and elbowed him. “Something to tell the grandkids about, eh?”

  “Indeed.” Cheltenham managed a friendly smile. “And I’d be happy to accompany you when next you—”

  Kendal to Bulger, Kendal to Bulger, are you receiving? Repeat, Bulger, are you receiving? called the silent voice in Bulger’s inner ear.

  “Aye, aye, receiving! Just a-sitting here having a chat with my shipmate Mr. Cheltenham,” said Bulger.

  “I beg your pardon?” Cheltenham stared at him.

  “I hears voices in my head. Don’t mind me, matey; just a little piece of scattershot from Navarino, what got left in my brains. Always makes me need to go to the water closet, though. Here!” Bulger thrust his helping of duff toward Cheltenham, as he stood up. “You finish it, matey.”

  He hurried off, crouched over with his hand to his ear, muttering to himself as he went.

  Kendal to Bulger! Did you say you’d found Cheltenham?

  “Right enough, I did, and him all eager to get down to the cable holds where there ain’t no guards to watch him. Hey diddle dido, my son John!” Bulger added, for the benefit of a sailor who passed him. “I reckon you’re in range, now?”

  We are directly below the Agamemnon. What’s happened? You ought to have been at the rendezvous point by this time!

  “Well, that ain’t my doing; Captain Preedy’s trying to save coal and ain’t firing up the boilers. Ring-a-ding deedle, you ladies of Spain!” Bulger reached the fore cable hoist and scrambled up to the recently rebuilt head, where he dropped his drawers and sat cautiously. “There! Now we got some privacy. But it’s the Cheltenham lubber right enough, and up to no good. Any chance Commander Bell-Fairfax can come topside and wring his neck?”

  No. Repeat, no. You’ll have to deal with him yourself. Take any measures necessary.

  “Aye aye, then. Orders is orders. Singing way-hey-hee-hi-ho!” shouted Bulger, as a foretopman slid down a stay within hearing range. “The way we’re proceeding, I don’t reckon we’ll meet up with the Niagara before the 29th. You lot got enough air and food and such down there?”

  Yes. We are all well.

  “Jolly good! Wish I could see aboard. Must be funny, looking out and watching the fishes swim by at eye level. As I was a-walking down Paradise Street—”

  ***

  Kendal signed off, rubbing his ear with a sigh of irritation, and turned his attention to the porthole once more. He was soothed and endlessly entertained by the blue world, with its steady progression of vistas of kelp forests, open sandy wastes and the occasional sunken wreck. Now and again they came upon fish who darted ahead a while, as though fearful of the chase, before falling back and being overtaken. Once they passed a great gray shark, with its dead black passionless stare, cruising slowly in the opposite direction. Even the occasional silver bubbles, rising from the Ballena’s passage, were diverting to watch.

  Monturiol and Bell-Fairfax had been absorbed in a game of chess, as one of the engineers manned the helm, but gradually set the game aside for conversation. Monturiol was a passionate speaker, undoubtedly eloquent in his own language. Kendal knew enough Spanish to pick out words like Exploration, Revolution, Rationalism, and Utopian. Monturiol’s blue eyes shone with belief as he spoke.

  For his part, B
ell-Fairfax answered with nearly evangelical zeal as regarded the Society’s objectives. There was a gleam in his pale eyes and a ring to his voice now as he orated on the Society’s behalf. The voice got inside one’s head, somehow, irresistibly. It made Kendal rather uncomfortable.

  “Sandwiches, Senor?” The valet was at his elbow, proffering a tray. Kendal accepted a sandwich and a glass of sauterne. The others broke off their discussion.

  “What says our humorous jack tar?” Bell-Fairfax inquired, unfolding his pocket handkerchief to serve as a napkin. Kendal related the substance of their conversation, which Bell-Fairfax then translated for Monturiol’s benefit. Monturiol looked horrified and said something emphatic.

  “Haven’t we enough supplies to get us through after all?” Kendal asked. “I should have thought Greene had planned for delays!”

  Bell-Fairfax replied to Monturiol in a conciliatory tone, then answered Kendal: “No. We’ve enough. He became rather exercised at the prospect of putting me aboard the Agamemnon, however.”

  “You assured him it wouldn’t be necessary?” Kendal held out his glass to be refilled.

  “Quite.” Bell-Fairfax had a sip of wine. “I expect Bulger will be equal to the task.”

  He set his glass aside and returned his attention to the chessboard. The blue light reflected coldly in his pale eyes.

  ***

  Bulger lay in his hammock, snoring to feign sleep. He had, that very morning, taken Cheltenham down to the cable-holds, and shown him the three lower decks, each with its vast coil of cable wrapped about a hollow center cone. He had been on his guard then, watching Cheltenham closely to see what he might do. Cheltenham had merely looked around, however, apparently satisfied to note how one got in and out.

  But now Bulger heard the rustle of Cheltenham’s clothing as he sat up, the barely audible creak as he climbed from his hammock. Bulger opened his prosthetic eye and watched, piercing the darkness as Cheltenham drew something from his sea-chest. Thrusting the object into his pocket, Cheltenham took something else from the sea-chest. A match flared briefly, a moment’s glow was quickly concealed; he had lit a shuttered lantern. Cheltenham took it with him as he climbed the companionway, his naked feet making no sound.