by Tim Powers
“You okay, Brendan?” Benner said for, Doyle realized, the second time.
“Yeah, sure, I’m fine. Jesus, what a jump, huh? Is everybody else okay? How about the horses?” Doyle was proud of himself for asking such unruffled, businesslike questions, though he wished he could talk more quietly and stop bobbing his head.
“Take it easy, will you?” Benner said. “Everything’s fine. Here—drink.” He unscrewed the top of a flask and handed it to Doyle.
A moment later Doyle was reflecting that liquor was even more effective than pain—or, probably, throwing up—in reconciling one to reality. “Thanks,” he said more quietly, handing it back.
Benner nodded, pocketed the flask, vaulted to the broken platform, and strode off it to where four of the six other guards were spading up a patch of earth and, with gloved hands, folding up the lead tent cloth; in so short a time that Doyle knew they must have practiced it they had buried the folded-up bale of fabric and scrambled back up to their places on the coaches. “You should see the platform,” Benner remarked, hardly panting. “A good three inches was sheared off the bottom of it when we jumped. If we hadn’t been up on it the horses would have lost their hooves and the wheels would each have a section gone.”
The drivers snapped the reins and the coaches moved unevenly forward off the crumpled boards and onto the grass. At a slow pace they began to make their way across the field.
In a few minutes they had reached a stand of willows that screened them from the road, and one of the guards jumped to the ground and sprinted ahead. Crouching, he glanced right and left, and made a patting, keep-your-head-down gesture; a few moments later an open carriage rattled past from left to right, headed for the city. Doyle stared after it in fascination, awed to think that the cheery-looking couple he’d glimpsed through the willow branches would very likely be dead a century before he was born.
The reins flapped and harnesses jingled as the horses advanced to the ditch and, with some effort and backsliding, pulled the coaches across it and onto the road. Wheeling around to the right they set off, and in a minute were rocking along at a good speed east, toward London. The coach lamps, which had fluttered and flickered during the jiggling passage across the ditch, settled down now to a regular back and forth sway on their hooks, casting yellow highlights on the horses’ backs and the brightwork on the coaches, but otherwise dimmed by the moonlight that frosted the trees and made the road glow like a track of palest ashes.
If your heels be nimble and light, Doyle thought, you may get there by candle-light.
CHAPTER 2
“I am borne darkly, fearfully afar…”
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
Above the crowded sidewalks the windows of the stately, balconied buildings of Oxford Street were all aglow with lamplight on this young Saturday evening; elegantly dressed men and women were to be seen everywhere, wandering arm in arm, silhouetted by shop windows and open doorways, stepping into or alighting from the hansom cabs that jostled one another for positions at the curb. The air was clamorous with the shouting of the cab drivers, the whirring clatter of hundreds of coach wheels on the cobblestones, and, a little more pleasantly, the rhythmic chanting of street vendors who had strayed west from the weekly fair in Tottenham Court Road. From his perch Doyle could smell horses, cigar smoke, hot sausages and perfume on the chilly night breeze.
When they turned right onto Broad Street Benner pulled one of his pistols—a four-barrelled thing, looking all spidery with its multiple flintcocks and flashpan covers—completely out of the leather sack and leaned his elbow on the coach roof with the gun very evident, pointed at the sky. Looking up front, Doyle saw that all the guards had done the same.
“We’re entering the St. Giles rookery,” Benner explained. “Some very rough types about, but they won’t interfere with a body of armed men.”
Doyle looked around with a wary interest at the narrow alleys and courts that snaked away from the street, most of them dark, but a few lit by reflections of some smoky light around a corner. There was much more street-selling here, on the main street at least, and the coaches passed dozens of coffee stalls, old clothes stands, and crates of vegetables watched over by formidable old women who puffed clay pipes and watched the crowd through narrowed eyes. A number of people shouted things at the two coaches, in so thick an accent that Doyle could catch only an occasional “damn” or “bloody,” but their tone seemed more jocular than threatening.
He looked behind, and then touched Benner’s arm. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quickly. “That wagon back there—behind the potato cart—the thing that looks like a Conestoga wagon. It’s been behind us ever since we got onto the Bayswater Road.”
“For God’s sake, Brendan, we’ve only made one turn since then,” Benner hissed impatiently. He did turn around, though. “Hell, that’s just…” Suddenly he looked thoughtful. “I believe it’s a gypsy wagon.”
“Gypsies again,” said Doyle. “They didn’t use to—I mean they don’t usually come into big cities much, do they?”
“I don’t know,” Benner said slowly. “I’m not even sure it is a gypsy wagon, but I’ll mention it to Darrow.”
The street narrowed and darkened as they rattled down St. Martin’s Lane and passed the tall old church, and the groups of men that watched their passage from low, dimly lit doorways made Doyle glad of Benner’s weapons; then it broadened out into light and festivity again when they came to the wide boulevard that was the Strand. Benner worked his complicated gun back into its sack.
“The Crown and Anchor’s just around the corner,” he said. “And I haven’t seen your gypsy wagon for the last several blocks.”
Between two buildings Doyle got a quick view of the river Thames, glittering in the moonlight. It seemed to him that a bridge wasn’t there that he’d seen there on his 1979 visit, but before he had time really to orient himself they’d turned into a little street and squeaked to a halt in front of a two-storied half-timbered building with a sign swinging over the open doorway. The Crown and Anchor, Doyle read.
Drops of rain began pattering down as the guests stepped out of the coaches. Darrow moved to the front, his hands buried in a furry muff. “You,” he said, nodding at the man who’d driven the forward coach, “park the cars. The rest of us’ll be inside. Come on, all.” He led the party of seventeen into the warmth of the tavern.
“Good God, sir,” exclaimed the boy who hurried up to them, “all of you for dinner? Should have let us know in advance, they’d have opened the back banquet room. But see if there’s enough chairs to settle on in the taproom, and—”
“We haven’t come for dinner,” said Darrow impatiently. “We’ve come to hear Mr. Coleridge speak.”
“Have ye?” The boy turned and shouted down a hall, “Mr. Lawrence! Here’s a whole lot more people that thought it was this Saturday that the poet fellow was to speak here!”
Every bit of color left Darrow’s face, and suddenly he was a very old man dressed up in ludicrous clothes. The muff fell off his hands and thumped on the hardwood floor. No one spoke, though Doyle, beneath his shock and disappointment, could feel a fit of hysterical laughter building up to critical mass inside himself.
A harried-looking man, followed by a pudgy old fellow with long gray hair, hurried up to them. “I’m Lawrence, the manager,” he said. “Mr. Montagu set up the lecture for next Saturday, the eighth of October, and I can’t help it that you’ve all come tonight. Mr. Montagu isn’t here, and he’d be upset if—”
Doyle had glanced, and was now staring, at the chubby, ill-seeming man beside Lawrence, who blinked at them all apologetically while the manager was speaking. In his mounting excitement Doyle raised a hand so quickly that the manager halted in mid-sentence, and he leaned forward and said to the man beside Lawrence, “Mr. Coleridge, I believe?”
“Yes,” the man said, “and I do apologize to you all for—”
“Excuse me.” Doyle turned to Lawrence. “The boy indicat
ed that there is a banquet room not in use.”
“Well, yes, that’s true, but it hasn’t been swept and there’s no fire… and besides, Mr. Montagu—”
“Montagu won’t mind.” He turned to Darrow, who was recovering his color. “I’m sure you must have brought suitable cash to cover emergencies, Mr. Darrow,” he said. “And I imagine that if you give this fellow enough of it he’ll have a fire built and provisions brought to us in this banquet room. After all, Mr. Coleridge clearly thought it was to be this evening, and so did we, so why should we listen to him out on the street when there are taverns about with unused rooms? I’m sure,” he said to Lawrence, “even Mr. Montagu can’t fault the logic of that.”
“Well,” said the manager reluctantly, “it will mean taking several of our people away from their proper duties… we will all have to take extra pains… “
“A hundred gold sovereigns!” cried Darrow wildly.
“Done,” choked Lawrence. “But keep your voice down, please.”
Coleridge looked horrified. “Sir, I couldn’t permit—”
“I’m a disgustingly wealthy man,” Darrow said, his poise regained. “Money is nothing to me. Benner, fetch it from the coach while Mr. Lawrence here shows us to the banquet room.” He clapped one arm around Coleridge’s shoulders and the other around Doyle’s and followed the bustling, eager figure of the manager.
“By your accents I surmise you are American?” said Coleridge, a little bewildered. Doyle noted that the man pronounced his r’s; it must be the Devonshire accent, he thought, still present after all these years. Somehow that added to the impression of vulnerability Coleridge projected.
“Yes,” Darrow answered. “We’re from Virginia. Richmond.”
“Ah. I’ve always wished to visit the United States. Some friends and I planned to, at one time.”
The banquet room, on the far side of the building, was dark and very cold. “Never mind sweeping,” said Darrow, energetically flipping chairs off the long table and setting them upright on the floor. “Get some light in here, and a fire, and a lot of wine and brandy, and we’ll be fine.”
“At once, Mr. Darrow,” said Lawrence, and rushed out of the room.
Coleridge had another sip of the brandy and got to his feet. He looked around at the company, which now numbered twenty-one, for three men who’d been dining in one of the other rooms had heard what was going on and decided to join the group. One had flipped open a notebook and held a pencil expectantly.
“As you all know doubtless at least as well as I,” the poet began, “the entire tone of English literature was altered, dropped into a minor and somber key, at the accession of Cromwell’s Parliament party, when the popularly styled Roundheads succeeded, despite the ‘divine right of kings,’ in beheading Charles the First. The Athenian splendors of Elizabeth’s reign, or rather her age, for her years embraced a combined glory of all disciplines that our nation has not at any other time seen, gave way to the austerity of the Puritans, who eschewed alike the extravagances and the bright insights of their historical predecessors. Now John Milton was already thirty-four years old when Cromwell came into power, and thus, although he supported the Parliament party and welcomed the new emphasis on stern discipline and self-control, his modes of thought had been formed during the twilight of the previous period… “
As Coleridge went on, losing his apologetic tone and beginning to speak more authoritatively as he warmed to his subject, Doyle found himself glancing around at the company. The stranger with the notebook was busily scribbling away in some sort of shorthand, and Doyle realized that he must be the schoolteacher Darrow mentioned last night. He stared enviously at the notebook; if luck’s with me, he thought, I may be able to get my hands on that, a hundred and seventy years from now. The man looked up and caught Doyle’s eye, and smiled. Doyle nodded and quickly looked away. Don’t be looking around, he thought furiously—keep writing.
The Thibodeaus were both staring at Coleridge through half-closed eyes, and for a moment Doyle feared the old couple was dozing off; then he recognized their blank expression as intense concentration, and he knew they were recording the lecture, in their own minds, as completely as any videotape machine could.
Darrow was watching the poet with a quiet, pleased smile, and Doyle guessed that he wasn’t even listening to the lecture, but was simply glad that the audience seemed satisfied with the show.
Benner was staring down at his hands, as though this was just an interlude, a rest period before some great effort to come. Could he be worrying, Doyle wondered, about the return trip through that slum area? He didn’t seem very concerned on the ride down.
“Thus Milton refines the question down to a matter of faith,” said Coleridge, bringing the lecture to a close, “and a kind of faith more independent, autonomous—more truly strong, as a matter of fact—than the Puritans really sought. Faith, he tells us, is not an exotic bloom to be laboriously maintained by the exclusion of most aspects of the day to day world, nor a useful delusion to be supported by sophistries and half-truths like a child’s belief in Father Christmas—not, in short, a prudently unregarded adherence to a constructed creed; but rather must be, if anything, a clear-eyed recognition of the patterns and tendencies, to be found in every piece of the world’s fabric, which are the lineaments of God. This is why religion can only be advice and clarification, and cannot carry any spurs of enforcement—for only belief and behavior that is independently arrived at, and then chosen, can be praised or blamed. This being the case, it can be seen as a criminal abridgment of a person’s rights willfully to keep him in ignorance of any facts or opinions—no piece can be judged inadmissible, for the more stones, both bright and dark, that are added to the mosaic, the clearer is our picture of God.”
He paused and looked over his audience; then, “Thank you,” he said, and sat down. “Are there any questions or amplifications or disagreements?” Doyle noticed that as the fire of oratory left him he became again the plump, modest old fellow they had met in the entry hall—during the lecture he’d been a more impressive figure.
Percy Thibodeau genially accused Coleridge of having read his own convictions into Milton’s essay, quoting in support some of his own essays, and the obviously flattered poet replied at some length, pointing out the many points on which he differed with Milton; “But when dealing with a man of Milton’s stature,” he said with a smile, “vanity prompts me to dwell upon the opinions I share with him.”
Darrow fished a watch from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it and got to his feet. “I’m afraid our party will have to be on our way now,” he said. “Time and tide wait for no man, and we’ve got a long voyage ahead of us.”
Chairs rutched noisily back from the table and people got to their feet and began fumbling arms through coat-sleeves. Nearly everyone, including Doyle, made a point of shaking hands with Coleridge, and Percy Thibodeau kissed him on the cheek. “Your Sara could hardly object to a kiss from a woman my age,” she said.
The woman Doyle suspected to be a celebrity spiritualist had, sure enough, begun to go into some kind of trance, and Benner hurried over and, smiling, whispered something to her.
She came out of it instantly, and allowed herself to be led by the elbow out of the room.
“Benner,” said Darrow. “Oh, sorry, carry on. Mr. Doyle—would you please go tell Clitheroe to bring the coaches around front?”
“Certainly.” Doyle paused in the doorway to take a last look at Coleridge—he was afraid he hadn’t paid enough attention, hadn’t got as much out of the evening as, say, the Thibodeaus—and then he sighed and turned away.
The hall was dark, and the floor uneven, and Benner and the unhappy medium were not in sight. Doyle groped his way around a corner, but instead of the entry hall found himself at the foot of a staircase, the bottom few steps of which were lit by a candle in a wall cresset. It must be the other way, he thought, and turned around.
He started violently, for a very tall man wa
s standing directly behind him; his face was craggy and unpleasantly lined, as if from a long lifetime of disagreeable expressions, and his head was as bald as a vulture’s.
“God, you startled me,” Doyle exclaimed. “Excuse me, I seem to have—”
With surprising strength the man seized Doyle’s hand and, whirling him about, wrenched it up between his shoulder blades, and just as Doyle gasped at the sudden pain a wet cloth was pressed over his face so that instead of air he inhaled the sharply aromatic fumes of ether. He was off balance anyway, so he kicked backward with the strength of total panic, and he felt the heel of his boot collide hard with bone, but the powerful arms that held him didn’t even flinch. His struggles made him gulp in more of the fumes in spite of his efforts to hold his breath. He could feel a warm bulk of unconsciousness swelling in the back of his head, and he wondered frantically why someone, Darrow, Benner, Coleridge even, didn’t round the corner and shout an alarm.
With his last flicker of bewildered consciousness it occurred to him that this must be the “cadaverous old bald-headed guy” that Benner had startled in his tent in Islington in 1805, five years or a few hours ago.
* * *
The evening’s ride, which Damnable Richard had been enjoying as a respite from the sweaty labor of melting down more of an apparently endless supply of Britannia metal spoons, had now been spoiled for him by Wilbur’s description of how their quarry had appeared in that field. “I sneaked out and followed the old man,” Wilbur had whispered to him as they waited on the driver’s bench of the wagon for their chief to return, “and he went through the woods slow, by stops and starts, carrying a couple of his weird toys—he had that clay pot with acid and lead in it, you know, that stings you if you touch the two metal buttons on top? He kept stopping to touch it, the Beng only knows why, and I could see his hand jump back every time when it stung him. And he had that telescope thing with rutter pictures in it.”
