Not Less Than Gods (Company)

by Kage Baker

  “Rubbish,” Bell-Fairfax muttered.

  “Ah! I see you’re particularly affected. But you mustn’t allow it to distract you from the job at hand, you know.”

  Bell-Fairfax looked at him sidelong. Ludbridge only smiled.

  “One can’t despise whole nations,” said Bell-Fairfax, with some heat. “There are innocents everywhere.”

  “Really? Point to one of these smug, comfortable people and tell me which has a pure heart.”

  “You don’t know them. Any one of them might be a saint. Shall I feel contempt for them because you use words like smug and comfortable? That’s just the same as telling me the villagers didn’t matter, because they were yellow heathens. The clever use of words to reduce living people, for whom we ought to feel compassion, to mere ciphers who can be erased to suit someone’s purpose.” Edward kicked savagely at a stone in the path.

  Ludbridge raised his eyebrows. “Bravo,” he said. An infant, who had been staggering ahead of its parents along a grassy slope, tottered and fell. Its long skirts hindered its rise, and it went rolling over and over down the slope in a whirl of white lace. Edward jumped forward and caught it, swinging it up.

  “Here you are,” he said, smiling into the child’s eyes. The baby, too astonished to cry, stared back. “Here’s a pure heart, Ludbridge. Unless you’re a desperate criminal in disguise, baby? No, I didn’t think so.”

  He returned the infant to its father, who came running down the slope after it, and looked after them a trifle wistfully as they returned to the infant’s mother, who stood above them wringing her hands.

  “You never know,” said Ludbridge sotto voce. “Might grow up to be a burglar.”

  “Bollocks,” said Bell-Fairfax.

  They spotted their man carrying a tray of sandwiches and lemonade to a group of chaperoned misses. He wore a striped apron and was of average build, was in fact average in nearly every unmemorable feature of his person. A careful observer might note that his gaze darted to and fro as he performed his office, and his expression was perhaps a little uneasy; but these were the only things that marked him out in any way.

  “I think we’ll just go take a seat.” Bell-Fairfax strode toward the dining terrace. Ludbridge followed. They sat at a little table and waited. Minutes passed, and neither their quarry nor any other waiter came to wait on them. The waiters swooped perilously near, like swallows, and off again, pouncing on empty cups and saucers and whisking them in on trays, clearing away uneaten crusts, hovering attentively at the elbows of the respectably dressed; but they did not wait on Bell-Fairfax and Ludbridge.

  “Then again, it must be admitted that the attire of the common laborer does confer a kind of invisibility,” said Ludbridge.

  “So much the better, then,” said Bell-Fairfax, and rising to his feet he marched toward his quarry, who was scrubbing melted ice cream from a tabletop. As Bell-Fairfax passed, he set the gummed label on the man’s back and kept going. Ludbridge rose and walked past on the waiter’s other side, deliberately pausing to catch his eye. The waiter looked up, recognized Ludbridge, and started. Ludbridge grinned at him.

  “We are everywhere,” said Ludbridge.

  “Oh, bugger,” said the waiter, in a peevish voice. “Was it you?”

  “Not at all,” said Ludbridge. “A promising apprentice. Tootle-oo.”

  “Spa Road Station,” said Bell-Fairfax. “This is our stop, I believe.”

  “It would appear that way,” said Ludbridge. He rose and followed Bell-Fairfax as they stepped down from their carriage onto the platform at Bermondsey. There was an overpowering reek of raw sewage in the heavy air.

  “I assume that the Society has some confidence we won’t catch cholera?”

  “It would appear that way.”

  Bell-Fairfax grimaced. They made their way to Neckinger Road and, passing under the railway arches, walked on toward Jacob’s Island. The red sun was fading already, obscured by shrouds of fog that drifted up-river; there was no breath of wind to stir the reeking vapor between the high leaning houses or the canals that ran behind them. “Good God,” murmured Bell-Fairfax, holding his nose. “Why was there ever a spa here?”

  “It wasn’t like this, once,” said Ludbridge imperturbably. “Tanneries and docks here now; and all the poor who work in them, living in these teetering warrens. The human filth of their privies goes straight into the canals. When they require water in which to bathe or launder their clothes, or indeed to boil their dinners or drink, they simply draw up a bucketful from the canals. They’ll let it sit awhile to let the worst of the stuff precipitate down, if they’re not very thirsty, and pour what they mean to drink off the top. Filth seeps up and oozes through the floors, and in some cases the walls. This is the shop you want for cholera and typhus, my boy.”

  They came to the corner of Georges Row and started down it. Bell-Fairfax halted after a few steps, shaking his head like an alarmed horse. He groped frantically for his pocket-handkerchief. “There are corpses—I can smell them—” He started to tie the handkerchief over his mouth and nose.

  “That will make you rather conspicuous, won’t it?” said Ludbridge. “And of course there are corpses! Dead animals floating in the water; dead men and women shuttered up in their houses. What d’you expect happens, when people live like this? March on; you’ve work to do.”

  They proceeded on their way. Whitechapel and Spitalfields had been bustling by comparison, for Bermondsey was eerily silent. Not a soul moved anywhere, no drunken quarrels could be heard; only, here and there, a ghost-white child sat motionless on a doorstep, or on an upper stairway, with its sticklike legs dangling through the railings. Rifts and veils of poisonous gases hung in the air, heaviest at ground level.

  “Now, you might suppose,” said Ludbridge, “that the inhabitants of Whitechapel deserved their poverty. Drunkenness, idleness and all such vices. You couldn’t say the same of this place! The folk are thrifty, industrious souls, every one of them. They die like flies here, simply because they can’t afford to live elsewhere. You may blush at the memory of what we did to the Chinese, but see what our own people endure in our own nation!”

  “But something must be done for them,” said Bell-Fairfax, in a kind of strangled gasp.

  “Of course. Educate them, in order that they’ll know better than to drink from the canals? But what will they drink, then? Raze the whole district to the ground? But where will they live? Move them all, men, women and children, to the countryside? And how shall they live? They work the docks because they haven’t the education to do anything else. There are no easy answers, my son. And, should you discover one, you will find a host of men standing ready to call you a liar, because their continued wealth depends on everything remaining exactly as it is. Now, look sharp! You’ve almost missed your street.”

  They turned down a lane so narrow it was bridged across by the shop signs on either side. Above them the upper stories shot up black against the sky, smeared now with the red of sunset, and a deeper gloom was seeping down between the houses. Here and there a candle had been lit, burning low and blue for want of air.

  “There it is,” said Ludbridge, pointing at a sign: THE SHIP AGROUND. Bell-Fairfax, who was doing his best not to breathe, nodded curtly. The inn was a long gabled building, looming up out of the mud. It breathed out a fragrance of gin positively wholesome in that mephitic atmosphere. They hurried within and found their way to a dark corner.

  “Aren’t you going to go ask the barman if he’s seen your mate Jack?” Ludbridge inquired, returning from the bar with a glass of gin in either hand. Bell-Fairfax scowled.

  “I shan’t make that mistake again. He lodges here; sooner or later he must come in, or go out, and I’ll spot him.”

  “Assuming there isn’t an exit round the back,” said Ludbridge, taking a sip of gin.

  “How can you drink anything in a place like this?” Bell-Fairfax demanded, horrified. Ludbridge chuckled.

  “My dear boy, it’s only gin. Str
ong enough to stand off pestilence, I expect, and in any case I can’t imagine they wash the glasses here often. If at all.”

  “What’s become of Jack? He wasn’t down the shop this morning at all,” said a man at the bar. Bell-Fairfax sat straight but did not turn to look.

  “He kept in upstairs today,” said the barman. “Lazy beggar! Dropped the word as he was feeling sick. More likely there’s someone looking for him.”

  “Aren’t you the lucky fellow?” remarked Ludbridge sotto voce.

  Bell-Fairfax tossed the contents of his glass on the floor and rose to his feet. He stalked out, followed at a slight distance by Ludbridge. Once in the street Bell-Fairfax crossed to the far side—not that he gained much perspective thereby—and peered up at the windows of the upper stories. One window on the topmost floor was lit from within.

  “What’ll you do now?” asked Ludbridge. Without answering, Bell-Fairfax looked around. He spotted an open tenement doorway and ducked into it, vanishing into Stygian blackness. Ludbridge followed and just glimpsed Bell-Fairfax’s back vanishing as he swiftly climbed a flight of steep stairs. Ludbridge pursued at his best speed, up and up and up. Each landing was illuminated a little by feeble light from under the doors, enabling Ludbridge to keep Bell-Fairfax in sight. No tenants came out to inquire who might be running upstairs at such a pace; Ludbridge supposed a general listlessness made them apathetic.

  At the next landing Ludbridge spotted Bell-Fairfax silhouetted against a narrow window there. Puffing and blowing, he approached. Bell-Fairfax held up a cautionary hand. Ludbridge peered past him. They had an excellent view straight across the street, into the Ship Aground’s gable windows. Two were dark, but in the third they saw a man shaving himself by the light of a candle.

  “Ah! But how do you know that’s your man?” said Ludbridge. Bell-Fairfax only shook his head in reply. They watched, breathless, as with infinite care the man scraped away at his upper lip. At last he put down the razor and caught up a towel to dry his face. As he tossed the towel away, both Bell-Fairfax and Ludbridge nodded sharply. It was the subject of the fourth portrait.

  “He’s getting himself ready to go out for the evening,” Ludbridge observed in a whisper. Without a word, Bell-Fairfax turned and ran back down the staircase. By the time Ludbridge, following him, emerged into the street, Bell-Fairfax had vanished.

  Taking a guess, Ludbridge limped back across to the Ship Aground and made his way down an alley that ran along one side of it. Emerging into a foul muddy yard where privies leaned with open doors, he spotted a flight of outer stairs connecting with the inn’s second floor. Bell-Fairfax stood beneath them, peering upward. Ludbridge joined him.

  They heard a door close; someone came pattering down the stairs, and as he descended they recognized their quarry. Bell-Fairfax stepped out and, reaching up, touched the last of the gummed labels to the back of the man’s coat as he passed.

  Turning at the base of the stairs, the man came face-to-face with his stalkers. As if to underscore the moment, someone lit a bright lamp within, which shone out through a window and cast a square of illumination on their pale countenances.

  “Dear, dear,” said the man. “Not clever enough, was I? Hallo, Ludbridge.”

  “evening, Stayman,” said Ludbridge. “What do you think of my recruit?”

  “Damned effective.” Stayman grinned at Bell-Fairfax. “Well, youngster, welcome to Jacob’s Island! What d’you think of it?” He made a wide gesture taking in the filthy yard, the brimful privies, the night miasma rising from the stinking canals and ditches. “What would you give, eh, to scour places like this from the face of the earth?”

  “All I have,” said Bell-Fairfax.

  He was silent on the long walk home—for the last train had gone and no cabs would stop for them, even after they had crossed back over the Thames. Ludbridge watched him, whistling an air as they trudged along. At last Bell-Fairfax turned to him.

  “How often shall I be called upon to stick labels on people?”

  “Never, I should think,” said Ludbridge. Bell-Fairfax said nothing more, and after a few paces Ludbridge cleared his throat.

  “You said you’d give all you have to bring the longed-for day. The price will be higher than that, you know.”

  “Will it?”

  “Oh, yes. You will be obliged to pay out all you are, as well. All your notions of chivalry, honor, pride . . . any hope you had of winning a place for yourself in the history books. You won’t matter, d’you understand? Only the work matters.”

  “It’s no worse than what’s expected of a soldier, after all,” said Bell-Fairfax at last.

  “Precisely. You’re a soldier, in the subtlest of wars. And an act that would be criminal, when performed by a civilian for base purposes, is quite another thing when required of a soldier. I think you see.”

  Bell-Fairfax nodded. They walked on down the Strand.

  1850: To Strive, to Seek, to Find

  Greene reached out with his left hand, attempting to pull the globe nearer as he studied the paper on the desk in front of him. Bell-Fairfax, Pengrove and Hobson watched uncomfortably, each one wondering whether he oughtn’t push the globe within Greene’s reach, for as matters stood it was a good ten inches out of range. At last Ludbridge snorted and, getting up, shoved the globe on its stand toward Greene.

  “For God’s sake, man, mind what you’re doing,” he said. Greene peered over his spectacles, giving Ludbridge a severe look.

  “Our Customary Informant,” he said, “has advised us that Louis-Napoléon will stage a coup d’etat next year, and assume dictatorship of France.”

  Bell-Fairfax caught his breath. “When, sir?”

  “The second of December, in point of fact.”

  “The anniversary of Bonaparte crowning himself Emperor!” said Bell-Fairfax. “As well as the anniversary of the battle of Austerlitz, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Keen on dates, are you? Well, you’re correct. He’s keen on them too. The following year, on the same date, he’ll end the Second Republic and found the Second Empire. This will have consequences, of course. There’ll be a war.”

  “Are we to fight the Bonapartists in France, sir?” Bell-Fairfax sat perceptibly straighter. Pengrove and Hobson looked sidelong at him.

  “No,” said Greene. “We are not. We will be allied with the French against Russia.” Bell-Fairfax looked stunned. Greene went on: “According to our Informant, we will fight a singularly long, bloody and badly managed war. We will win, of course, but at considerable cost.”

  “We’ll be fighting for the French?”

  “With them, Mr. Bell-Fairfax. May I continue without further interruption?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Our Informant has pointed out that advance notice of the war presents us with certain opportunities, and has recommended a number of steps to be taken. These will profit the Society, of course, but it does seem to me that we—I speak as a mere Briton now, rather than a Society member—would benefit greatly by having superior intelligence regarding the theaters of conflict, as well.

  “And there is another matter . . .” Greene looked down once more at the paper on his desk. “I can’t imagine you’ll run into anything where we’re sending you, but orders are that all operatives should be briefed to keep their eyes open. You’ve heard of the Franklins, I assume?”

  “What, poor old Northwest Passage Franklin?” said Pengrove.

  “No!” said Ludbridge scornfully. “They’re a branch of our brotherhood in Philadelphia. Founded by Dr. Benjamin Franklin. Their inventor fellow.”

  “So he was,” said Greene. “We received a curious communication from them, the other day. There appears to have been a breach of security over there.”

  “That’s damned bad.” Ludbridge sat straight.

  “They’re not telling us much, of course, but what we have been able to ascertain from independent sources is that some young fool broke from their ranks and took his talents to
another organization.”

  Ludbridge grunted as though he’d been punched. Pengrove, watching, noted that he’d gone pale. “What other organization?” Pengrove inquired.

  “Exactly what we’d like to know,” said Greene. “And one can’t have renegades running about, after all; what are vows of silence for? So we had one of ours chase down their truant and sweat him for what we could learn. Which wasn’t much; some group associated with the old Burr conspiracy plans to have a go at conquering Mexico. Filibusters, they call themselves. Nothing Brother Jonathan can’t deal with himself, and he’s welcome to. The machinery’s another matter, of course.

  “As far as our man was able to learn, the truant hadn’t actually built anything for them yet, and we made certain nothing will be built. Still, we don’t know how much the chap told them, nor whether he took them any plans from the Franklins. So all men in the field are being advised to look out for Americans bearing suspiciously advanced weaponry or other technologia.”

  “So noted,” said Ludbridge.

  “And so, back to our own game. Three young gentlemen of leisure shall set out on an extended tour of the Continent and other places of interest, which will, purely by chance, include the scenes of the coming armed conflict. They will be accompanied by an older gentleman, perhaps a tutor or uncle—Silenus to a trio of Bacchuses, if you like. The young gentlemen will appear to be prime examples of British idiots. Wastrels, dilettantes, positively the last sort of creatures anyone would suspect of intelligence-gathering.”

  A silence greeted his statement. At last Pengrove put up his hand.