by Zoë Archer
It didn’t help, though, that Alyce Carr muddled his thoughts with her sharp tongue, incisive mind, and the fierce gray-green of her eyes. Getting distracted by a woman while on a mission was a cardinal mistake. He ought to avoid her. Except she seemed to be one of the best sources of information about the mine. She could be the mystery correspondent—though typewriters seemed outside of a bal-maiden’s financial means. And the way she spoke didn’t quite match the tone of the letter.
At the least, facing off against the constables brought him closer to her. She’d be a powerful ally.
Simon followed Edgar into the building that would serve as his temporary abode for the next few weeks. Of course, no one here knew that his time in Cornwall was temporary, and so he looked around the bachelors’ lodgings with the eye of a man settling into his new home.
“Here ’tis,” Edgar said with a sweep of his arm. “Our very own manor house.”
“Reminds me exactly of the Malwala Palace,” Simon noted.
Edgar chuckled. “Aye, I’m sure it does, even if I’ve never heard of the place.”
Two rows of wooden-framed cots ran the length of the long room. Coarse woolen blankets covered the horsehair mattresses. The beds were jostled next to one another in an attempt to cram as many men in one chamber as possible. Bare planks made up the floor, and dirt and smoke streaked the whitewashed walls. A battered kettle sat atop the single coal-burning stove in the middle of the room. Laundry draped from the exposed rafters—underwear and shirts hanging like ghosts.
Fifteen years fell away. The resemblance to an army barracks was uncanny.
Men sat on their cots or leaned against a few battered wooden dressers as they stretched and yawned and made the myriad sounds and gestures of men at the end of a long workday. Some eyed Simon with curiosity, and he caught a few whispers: “That’s the bloke who got Tippet riled.” “Heard he beat Tippet’s face in.” “Yeah, well I saw it happen—Tippet nearly blacked his eye.”
Simon quelled a smile. Gossip fed small communities as much as meat or bread did.
“There’s a free cot fourth on the left,” Edgar said. “You can take that one. Privies are out back, and the water pump and bathhouse are at the end of the lane, but most do our washing up at the change house at the mine. Can’t come tromping home covered in dust and dirt, even if we’re unmarried.”
More men came ambling into the lodgings, all of them wearing the haggard pall of weariness. Impossible to say how old many of them were. He’d seen it in London, he’d seen it in the army: an arduous life stole away years, stripping men, women, and children down to the bone, down to the core of themselves, leaving nothing but exhaustion and emaciated hope.
Murmuring greetings and exchanging nods, Simon made his way toward the empty cot. He stopped briefly now and then to introduce himself and tell his “history,” and was unsurprised to find that all the men he spoke with had been born in the village. A cloak of defeatism hung over the room. It wasn’t always like this. Even in the factories in Birmingham or the grim corners of Whitechapel, the human spirit had a special way of enduring, grabbing at brief pleasure and moments of beauty where it could.
The few hours he’d spent at Wheal Prosperity and Trewyn proved otherwise. These were beaten people, trapped by circumstances they couldn’t control.
He felt it—that need, pushing him, forcing him to balance the scales. It always shoved at him, as if the highborn blood that ran through his veins would eat through him like acid if he swaddled himself in privilege and indifference.
Simon set down his bags beside his cot. He nudged his tool bag under his bed, then began to unpack his minimal possessions into the dresser next to his bed. His working man’s clothes were part of an assortment of costumes, different identities his work for Nemesis might require. Fishmonger. Dockside laborer. Banking clerk. Rarely did he take missions outside of London. As he stacked his shirts, his fingers itched at the lack of a weapon. Traveling with his revolver or trusty Martini-Henry raised eyebrows.
Tippet claimed to care about the welfare of the town. Bollocks to that. Maybe the chief constable told himself that lie to reconcile his need for bullying—but that fiction would crumble apart in a moment in order to keep the villagers and miners under his control.
Did the people here ever fight back against Tippet and his bosses? What would happen if they tried? Of if Simon tried?
If it ever came down to it, Simon would find a way to arm himself. Gentleman by birth he might be, but he was also resourceful.
He set two photographs in his dresser, beside his clothes. One of an old man, and another of a young woman, both fair-haired like him, and both wearing neat but plain clothing. His “father” and “sister.” He’d purchased the photos from a secondhand-goods shop. In London, Harriet had even penned him a few letters, signing them, “Your sister, Nell,” and Marco had forged the postal marks. Those letters he set beside the photographs.
No books—that was a difficult sacrifice. Hopefully, there’d be newspapers at the pub. But Simon Sharpe, former soldier turned machinist, wasn’t a lover of literature. Laboring men who read were often viewed with suspicion as potential agitators. Reading led to thinking, and thinking led to dangerous ideas about equality and fairness.
He’d no doubt that one of the mining company’s spies would rifle through his belongings just as soon as they could.
The photographs gave nothing of his real self away. He felt nothing when looking at them. Two nameless strangers standing in for those he cared about.
Alyce suddenly popped into his mind. She shone in the darkness of this place. She worked just as hard as any of the men or women here—when they’d shaken hands, not only did he feel her calluses, but the strength in her arm and grip. Yet something within her continued to burn, some inner fire. Her people may have given up, but she hadn’t. Damned hard not to admire her fortitude. And it surprised him, but he wanted to know more about the woman beneath the brazen words and bold gazes.
So, had she sent the letter to Nemesis? It seemed hard to think of anyone he’d met so far who would have the grit to do so. He’d nose around mine and village further before asking. It’d be a bloody disaster if he revealed himself as an agent of Nemesis too soon, and to the wrong person.
What if she hadn’t written it, and he had to explain to her who he truly was? What Nemesis, Unlimited, was?
Staring down at the picture of his “sister,” an imagined conversation with Alyce ran through his head.
It’s just what the name promises, he’d say. Justice by any means.
Justice for who? she’d demand, which made him smile to himself. Even when she was a figment of his imagination, she didn’t lose her fierceness.
Those who can’t get it for themselves. Maybe because of their position in the social hierarchy. Maybe other circumstances. You’ve seen it yourself. It’s a sodding corrupt, inequitable world that sees too many people ground beneath the boot heels of the elite. So that’s what Nemesis does. Makes things a little more even, a bit more just. If someone can’t stand up for themselves, Nemesis does it for them.
Would she scoff at him? Think him a fool? Or a hero?
He smiled again. If anything, he was a little of both.
And God knew that the people of Trewyn were in dire need.
More men drifted into the lodgings. They were all ages, from men who resembled the craggy granite hills to boys who couldn’t yet grow a beard. Simon fingered the stubble along his cheeks. A scrubby veldt was the best he’d ever been able to coax out of his own facial hair. Not especially useful. Mustaches and beards served as a good disguises. But clean shaven, even he couldn’t deny that he resembled his gently bred ancestors.
A clock on the wall chimed the half hour. Almost as one, the men in the room stood or straightened from where they’d been lounging and filed out of the chamber through a door at the far end. Simon fell into ranks with them, following as they crossed a narrow corridor to emerge into another long room. The cei
lings were higher here, and instead of beds, rows of tables filled the chamber, but otherwise it looked exactly like the dormitory. A long trestle table stood at the end of the room. Tall, battered pots lined the trestle table, steam wafting up from their contents. Men already lined up at the table, waiting for their food.
As Simon entered the room, a man with large sideburns and an apron tied around his waist held out a hand to stop him.
“You’re the new bloke?” At Simon’s nod, he said, “I’m Kemp, the landlord.”
“Then you’ll be wanting this.” Simon handed him the scrip.
Kemp didn’t smile, but the frown bracketing his mouth lessened. “Queue up before it’s all gone.”
Someone waved at him from the line. Edgar, with several men standing with him. “Over here.”
“Oi,” a man snapped, “no cuts!”
“Be kindly to the lad,” Edgar answered. “It’s his first day.”
“I can stand at the back of the queue,” Simon offered, but Edgar brushed that idea aside as if it were a gnat.
“We’re giving you a proper welcome, and that’s final.” Edgar stared meaningfully at the objector.
“Today only,” the man grumbled.
Simon slipped into line. “You’re a gentleman.”
The muttered reply contradicted that statement—at least, as far as language went.
Fortunately, the queue moved quickly. Simon grabbed a bowl and cutlery, then made his way down the long table. Adolescent girls in aprons ladled stew from giant pots, moving like automatons, their gazes far away.
Once he’d gotten his food, Simon found Edgar and his companions already seated, and Edgar again waved him over. Simon sat between two of the men, who gave him polite nods and smiles.
“Thanks. I didn’t know where I’d be welcome.”
“A new face is always welcome,” Edgar said.
“We’ve heard each other’s stories so much,” another man said, “I can’t remember whose memories are whose anymore.”
“Don’t think anyone would want my memories,” Simon noted.
“Can’t be any worse than the time Fred got drunk and fell into the cesspit,” Edgar said. “He stank for a fortnight.”
Everyone but one man—Fred, presumably—laughed. He just poked at his food, muttering.
Simon chuckled. “Haven’t fallen into a pit of shit. But I’ve seen some bloody combat, and that’s not something a bloke wants living in another man’s head.”
“A soldier?” pressed one of the men. “Go on, tell us your stories. Anything’s got to be better than hearing Nathaniel talk about the one time he thought he ate rancid mutton but it turned out it wasn’t.”
“It tasted strange!” Nathaniel objected. “Gave me the winds something terrible, too.”
“Please spare us, Simon,” Edgar pleaded.
Simon couldn’t help but laugh. So, he talked of his military service—careful to omit any details that might reveal his origins. Some old soldiers liked to embroider their stories, make themselves into heroes. But being in the army was like any job—a job where you’d be bored to death for weeks, months, and then suddenly, men you didn’t know were trying to kill you.
He tried to downplay the action he’d seen, but the men seated around him stared, letting their mutton stew go cold and untouched.
“You’ve seen ’em, then?” Edgar asked. “The savage Zulus?”
“They’re no more savage than you or I,” Simon answered. “Courageous as hell. Never seen a more organized, more disciplined fighting force. Make no mistake, lads, their army’s as good as Britain’s.”
He’d buried the dead soldiers the Zulu had left behind at Isandlwana. The circling vultures, the buzzing of flies over hundreds of bodies, the scavengers both human and animal picking through the field. The stink of the corpses rotting in the sun had clung to the inside of his nose for months.
And he’d faced the Zulus, himself. But all he wanted was to eat his supper, flavorless and tough as it was, not blather on about the past.
The men gathered around him now fell silent as they contemplated the idea that any army—especially one that wasn’t European—could be the equal or even better than Britain.
“We’ve had a few lads go off and join the army or navy,” Edgar said after a long pause. “But most everyone who’s born in Trewyn stays in Trewyn to work the mine. We used to lose a few people every year, heading off to London or America, but”—he lowered his voice—“ever since they changed over to scrip instead of money, nobody can afford to leave. Got no means to pay our way out.”
“Ever thought about unionizing?”
The men’s eyes widened, and Nathaniel made a hissing, shushing noise. “Nobody says that word,” he muttered. “Not unless they want to get their face beat in.”
“A botched effort, then,” Simon deduced.
Edgar glanced around the dining hall, making certain that no one was eavesdropping, before speaking. “About a year after the changeover, we tried. Demanded that they go back to paying us with actual money. We even went on”—he lowered his voice to barely a whisper—“strike.” He shook his head. “The owners brought in thugs. Things got violent. Some good men died, more were hurt.”
“They said they’d bring in scabs if we didn’t get back to work,” Nathaniel added. “And this was back when the other copper mines were drying up. Everyone stayed.”
Alyce’s earlier words of caution echoed in his head. She’d warned him to leave before he got in too deep. Maybe she’d seen it, the strike. Maybe even took part in it. Then saw the brutality when the strike got ugly.
She’d have been fourteen or so, at the time. A young girl caught up in the middle of that madness. God, he hated to think it. Yet, if she’d seen that viciousness, it hadn’t crushed her spirit.
The other people of Trewyn, however, bore the scars of that conflict. Even now, years later, Edgar, Nathaniel, and the other few men seated nearby were ashen just speaking about it, their shoulders hunched, eyes darting from side to side. Anticipating retribution for simply speaking about unions and strikes.
Not all strikes turned bloody. They could be used as effective bargaining tools and the means for creating compromise, but clearly, the ownership of Wheal Prosperity weren’t interested in compromise. Just profit. Organizing the miners into a union wouldn’t solve the problems here. The threat of violence hung over the valley like a black snare, especially with the precedent already set. And the workers had bugger all for leverage—no strike fund to fall back on, no other work to escape to.
Edgar cleared his throat, and it was obvious from his expression that he wanted to change the subject. “You were with Alyce Carr earlier.”
Simon had mingled with the most worldly crowds in glittering ballrooms, was no stranger to the sophisticated pleasures of the bedroom, and spent weeks haunting the vice-ridden alleys of East London on assignment. Nothing shocked or embarrassed Simon.
Yet now he felt heat creeping into his cheeks.
It’s because I’m Simon Sharpe, he told himself. He’d blush at the mention of her.
“She showed me the way from the mine to the village,” he muttered.
The men around him chortled and sent one another knowing looks. “That’s a rocky hill to climb, lad,” Nathaniel said. “Mind, it’s a pretty hill, with all sorts of lovely … bumps. But rocky, just the same.”
Simon took a drink of beer. “No one’s willing to, ah, try the climb?”
“Oh, blokes have tried,” Edgar noted.
“What stopped them?” he asked with deliberate nonchalance as he loosened his grip.
“She did,” answered Nathaniel. “Turned ’em all down. Though, if you ask me, she did ’em a favor.”
“Mind,” Edgar said, pointing his fork at Simon, “a woman can’t survive in Trewyn unless she’s got some spine to her. But Alyce Carr’s got a little too much spine. Always speaking out, acting like she’s got the same rights as a man. Overly independent, if you ask me.�
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Simon gave a wry smile. “Thanks for the warning.”
It was a rare event when a woman could challenge him, who spoke so plainly and with such confidence. There were exceptions: mostly female Nemesis agents—and he never tangled romantically with his fellow operatives. Well—he’d tried, with Eva, but she’d been smarter than he, and turned him down flat. Years of being a gentleman’s son as well as a member of Her Majesty’s Army had taught him important lessons about when, and with whom, he could drop the disguise of decorous behavior.
The women he knew from his upbringing were taught at an early age to be ornamental, to make themselves agreeable to future suitors, to fill their time with social calls, parties, and the occasional useless charitable organization. He’d never really known women to be any other way—until he’d left the protective shelter of wealth and privilege.
Yet for all the strong and intelligent women he’d encountered over the years, Alyce wasn’t like any of them. Her defiance, her will—whatever it was, it kept her sliding back into his thoughts. Bold as she was, she held a core of mystery, a part she kept close to herself, a fist locked around her truest self. The lure of that mystery was irresistible—beyond just the job.
She was a firebrand, and clever. A dangerous combination.
She was also the best lead he had on how to take down Wheal Prosperity’s corruption.
“Eh,” Nathanial said with a genial shrug, “it’s no loss, lad. I’d rather have my freedom than be tied down to a wife.”
“The only woman who’d take you to wed would have to be blind and deaf,” Edgar goaded.
“And have no sense of smell,” added Fred.
Nathaniel scowled as the others laughed. “Here now, you’re saying you’d rather have to hand over your pay packet every week to a woman? Being accountable to her for all your waking hours?” He snorted. “I’ve already got managers and bosses telling me what to do all day. The rest of my time is for me, and no one else. And if I want to spend the rest of my night at the pub, then, by God, I’ll do it, and not have to explain myself to anybody.”
