The Steampunk Trilogy

by Paul Di Filippo

  “Property is theft, so to take from the rich is no crime.”

  “Bah! You may chop logic like Aquinas, but I warn you—and you too, Edward—that if you want to remain here, you will keep a civil tongue in your head and show some respect toward your employer.”

  Maurice muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Après moi, le déluge,” but Agassiz let it pass. Rising, the Swiss scientist said, “I have had a hard day, with distressing personal news, and you’ll excuse me if I retire early.”

  His four sympathetic assistants wishing him a restful night, Agassiz left the table.

  Cezar caught up with him in the hallway.

  “Louis, I dink I have a new lead on D’guzeri’s vhere-abouts—”

  “Please, Jacob, save it for the morning.”

  “Very vell. Zleep tight, und don’t let der horned znakes bite.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the middle of the night, Agassiz was awakened by a strange, albeit pleasant sensation. After a moment’s deliberation, he ascertained that it involved the application of someone’s oral equipment against his generative member.

  Reaching timorously down, he found Jane’s familiar braid, and relaxed.

  His climax was eminently satisfying, despite an image of Cecile flashing briefly before his eyes.

  When Jane was snuggled against him, Agassiz dared ask, “You’ve never done that before, my girl. Where on earth did you ever learn—”

  He stopped.

  He suspected the answer.

  But he did not want it confirmed.

  5

  A STICKY SITUATION

  THE MORNING POST contained only one letter relating to the search for the sorcerer. Unfortunately, it was from Hosea Clay.

  Sirs:

  I ain’t heerd from you in the past twenty-four hours, so I am forced to conclude that you are demandin of more proof that this slave is yourn. Herewith please find enclosed as of this date in response to yourn of the last, which I ain’t got yet, etc., etc., another token of its identity. Let this suffice to close our deal, before this creetur is plumb dismantled. Also, you owe for the table scraps with what I been sloppin it.

  Yourn,

  H.C.

  Regarding the unopened package which had accompanied the letter, Agassiz gave a shudder. Letter and package both soon followed the earlier correspondence into the stove. He would issue instructions to Jane to stoke the cast-iron Moloch red-hot tonight.

  Still in his robe, sipping coffee from a China cup decorated with celestial carp (Cyprinus carpio), Agassiz awaited the arrival of Jacob Cezar. The man and his monkey bride had been still abed when Agassiz arose, and the scientist had experienced distaste at the notion of disturbing them.

  The abomination they represented still rankled Agassiz. Every minute he had to remind himself that Cezar was a necessary link to the vast fame that awaited him, Agassiz, as the discoverer of the Cosmogonic Locus, the well of creation. When they captured T’guzeri, Agassiz would need Cezar to interrogate the sorcerer in his native Khoi-San language. But once they had wormed the information from the Bushman, the South African and his bestial mate would be expelled with a few choice vituperations, not to mention some well-deserved corporal chastisement, administered by Pourtales, perhaps, who was a strapping fellow.

  Hoping to get a little work done on one of his monographs in progress, Agassiz turned to his sideboard full of papers.

  There, atop one stack, where Jane had doubtlessly put it while straightening, lay his Mother’s letter about Cecile.

  What was to be done about his newly invalid wife? Exactly what did he owe her? Poor fond foolish Cecile. . . .

  She had never been the adjunct to his career that he had envisioned. There was no question, of course, of returning to Europe to succor her. Europe had plenty of competent doctors. He would send more money. That was it. A bank draft for a few hundred dollars extra would ease her confinement and make household life easier. Though it pained him to divert any money from his scientific enterprises, he would contact his banker right away.

  A knock sounded. “Enter, please.”

  Jacob Cezar, dressed in a new suit borrowed from Pourtales (the travel-stained outfit he had worn across the Atlantic had been deemed distinctly disreputable), advanced into the study. Agassiz was pleased to see that the Hottentot did not accompany him. Perhaps the South African was finally learning some manners. . . .

  “Are you ready now to hear mine insight about vhere Dottie und I dink D’guzeri might be?”

  “Yes, my mind is more composed this morning. Yesterday was an awful day. I can hardly imagine today will be so bad. Please, what have you deduced?”

  Cezar proudly stroked his tuft of chin-whiskers before announcing, “D’guzeri ist hiding vit der Underground Railroad!”

  Agassiz leapt to his feet. “Of course! What more natural place for a Negro to go to ground? Our prey has no doubt prevailed on the dimwitted Abolitionists to conceal him. It’s not hard to pull the wool over eyes full of stars, I always say. Well, well, this is splendid. He’s practically in our hands now. All that remains is for us to go to the nearest Underground Railroad Station, expose T’guzeri’s imposture and demand that he be handed over to us. It’s as simple as that.”

  Cezar waited for Agassiz to run down to silence. Then he asked, “You know chust vhere der nearest Ztation ist?”

  “Well, no, not exactly—”

  “I didn’t dink zo. Vhere’s dot leave us, den?”

  “I believe the Quakers are anti-slavery. Perhaps we could seek out a member of that sect and ask him?”

  “Dot’s like asking a Londoner picked at random to give you an introduction to der Queen Victoria! No, Dottie und I have a fellow in mind.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Villiam Lloyd Garrison, der publisher of der Liberator.”

  “I’ve heard of him. A regular rabble-rouser, that one. I understand that some years ago he was actually attacked by a mob here in the city who disagreed with his fiery emancipation rhetoric. I’d prefer to deal with someone more rational, but I suppose that anyone involved with the Underground Railroad is automatically disqualified. Well, shall we seek him out?”

  “Ja, chust let me get Dottie.”

  “Oh, come now, Jacob, is her presence really necessary? The fact that Garrison is an ardent abolitionist does not signify that he has forgotten he’s still a white man. I hardly think he cares to meet Negroes socially. A man can keep his private life separate from his politics, you know.”

  “No, vee need Dottie vit us.”

  Agassiz threw his hands ceilingward. “I won’t argue the point. But if you insist on bringing her along, at least let her wait outside Garrison’s office until we gauge his attitude.”

  “Zhure ding.”

  Soon, the threesome were making the ferry crossing to the wharves along Broad Street. The harbor, as usual, was exceedingly busy, a moving forest of masts. In mid-passage they were nearly swamped by a steam-powered paddlewheel vessel named the Jenny Lind.

  “Dottie und I heard der Zvedish Nightingale zing vun night at der Johannesburg opera. Zo beautiful zhe vas!”

  “You took that savage to the opera? What a waste! How could she appreciate such a sublime experience?”

  “Ach, you underestimate my vife. Besides, ist not music der universal language?”

  “Not for beasts.”

  Cezar was silent for a moment. Then he said with sincere pity. “Zomeday dese views of yours vill give you much pain, Louis. I zee it clearly.”

  Agassiz said nothing in reply.

  From Broad Street, they walked down Congress, took a left on Channing, and soon arrived at Devonshire Street. In the next block they found the building housing the headquarters of that incendiary journal, the Liberator.

  On the third floor they p
aused outside the proper door, stencilled with the paper’s name.

  “Now, remember what I said. Dottie must wait outside, preferably for the entire interview, so that we do not risk offending Garrison.”

  “All right already, chust go in.”

  This being the office of a public enterprise, Agassiz forebore from knocking and simply entered.

  The entire premises of the Liberator was a single cramped room overflowing with books and papers. A desk covered with a mishmash of pamphlets and broadsides occupied one corner. Behind the desk was seated a white man who had to be Garrison. In his lap was seated a black man with his arms around Garrison’s neck.

  Had the tableau consisted of Medusa and her sister, Agassiz could not have been more effectively petrified. His brain effectively suspended operations, much like the striking mill-girls of the Lowell Female Labor Reform Association.

  Garrison and his partner appeared unembarrassed at being caught in such a compromising position. “Welcome to the headquarters of a new world, gentleman,” said Garrison. “A brotherhood of all mankind. How may we help you?”

  “Mine name ist Jacob Cezar, und dis ist Professor Louis Agassiz.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Allow me to introduce my best writer and finest friend, Mister Frederick Douglass.”

  The black man got up off his partner’s lap with dignity and came forward with hand outstretched.

  Agassiz’s immobility shattered. With widened eyes, he began to back up mindlessly, until he hit the wall. His feet kept shuffling uselessly.

  Cezar diverted Douglass, clasping his hand. “You must excuse mine friend. He has had many droublesome dings happen to him lately, und ist a liddle on der edge. Allow me to zpeak for both of us. Vee are here zeeking contact vit der Underground Railroad.”

  Garrison’s attitude instantly hardened. “Why?”

  Cezar gave an abbreviated explanation of their quest. After Garrison had listened, he swivelled his chair to Douglass and said, “What do you think, Frederick?”

  “It sounds most unlikely. I tend to think these two are slavehunters, come to drag our brothers and sisters back down below the Mason-Dixon line.”

  “And so do I. Gentleman, your transparent subterfuge is an insult to our intelligence. Please go tell your masters, you Judases, that you have failed, and that they will not enjoy their heinous reign of blood, sweat and tears much longer. Soon, for a change, it will be they who will feel the lash!”

  “No, really, vee are not—”

  “Perhaps I could make an appeal.”

  Dottie had appeared in the doorway. The addition of this new player appeared to spark Garrison’s interest.

  “And who might you be, young lady?”

  “Ngldatu Baartmann, sir.”

  Garrison jumped up. “Not Ngldatu Baartmann of Capetown, whose astonishingly perceptive letters I have been printing lo! these many years!”

  Dottie looked modestly down at her shoes. “The same.”

  “Well, this is an honor. Why didn’t you two tell me you were connected with Miss Baartmann? This paints the picture in a whole different light. Of course, if Miss Baartmann says you need to contact the Railroad, then I have no compunctions about telling you.”

  “We do, sir.”

  “That is all I need to hear. The depot for Boston is run by Josephine St. Pierre Ruffin, out of her family business, the Ruffin Molasses Works in the North End. Do you know it?”

  “Vee can find it.”

  “Excellent! I wish you good luck locating this nefarious necromancer of yours. Farewell. And Miss Baartmann—keep those letters coming. You’re an inspiration to us all.”

  “A tribute to our race,” added Douglass.

  “The cause would be nowhere without your efforts, sir.”

  Gathering the still stunned Agassiz, Cezar escorted him downstairs. The air of the street seemed to partially revive him.

  “I told you vee needed Dottie, Louis.”

  “Never—I never thought I would live to see such a sight! Why, it makes your relationship look positively normal.”

  “Everyding ist relative, Louis. Dot’s vun of der lessons life teaches.”

  “Perhaps. But I am a teacher also, and I never employed the switch so rudely.”

  “Maybe you never had zuch a dumb ztudent.”

  “Harumph!”

  Journeying crosstown, Agassiz and his companions soon found themselves in the North End: a bewildering congery of crowded streets, formerly fashionable, now filling with Mediterranean, Semitic and Hibernian immigrants.

  “It seems a shame,” said Agassiz, “that the ancestral lanes of Revere and Franklin should be given over to these lesser breeds.”

  “Everybody needs a place to live. Und dese are der vuns who are building dis city.”

  “They could at least show some decency and live like civilized human beings. Look at this tangle of public laundry, for instance. Disgusting.”

  Agassiz waved one arm to indicate the many lines of drying clothes which were strung across the narrow streets barely above the level of traffic.

  “Vun must make do vit vot vun has.”

  “Following that philosophy, we’d all still be wearing soot and animal fat,” said Aggasiz, with a pointed glance at Dottie.

  “Your European ztyle of dress, Professor Agassiz, vould not last a day in der bush.”

  “I have no intention of dwelling in your wasteland. The sooner all such places are subsumed within Western civilization, the better off the world will be.”

  Ascending dirt-surfaced Salem Street, dominated at its head by the Old North Church, they maintained a prickly silence amongst themselves.

  Hull Street doglegged at the top of Salem, a further ascent.

  At the crest, they paused for Agassiz to regain his breath, resting at the gates of the Copps Hill Burial Ground. The Swiss mountaineer chided himself. He was getting too stout. Where was the young goat who had leaped across glacial fissures?

  They were now at the highest point in the North End. From here they could see Charlestown, connected to the North End by the longest bridge in America. Rearing up in that district was the newly erected Bunker Hill Monument, 6600 tons of stone in the shape of a proudly erect shaft denoting the nation’s potency.

  Dottie spoke. “I am glad to see this graveyard. Here is buried Prince Hall, a black soldier of the Revolution.”

  Agassiz harumphed again. “I prefer to note the cenotaph of Cotton Mather, a fine scholar.”

  “Look,” said Cezar, “dere’s der Ruffin company.”

  Across the way stood an impressively wide wooden structure several stories tall, wearing a signboard with molasses-gold lettering that proclaimed RUFFIN MOLASSES WORKS.

  “Let us introduce ourselves, using Garrison as our reference, and claim the scoundrel they are mistakenly sheltering. Should they refuse, we will simply threaten to expose their illegal setup to the authorities.”

  Inset into the large warehouse door was a smaller one. Agassiz tried the latch, but it was locked. He banged on the door.

  A narrow sliding panel shot violently back. Outlined by the opening was some fair freckled skin and a pair of fanatical blue eyes.

  “Go away! We’re closed!”

  The panel slammed shut.

  Agassiz tugged on a sideburn thoughtfully. “Something seems amiss here. I doubt if that gruff voice belonged to Josephine Ruffin. We must seek an ingress.”

  “Dottie und I vill go around dis vay, und you go der udder.”

  Aggasiz found himself venturing down a narrow alley littered with rubbish. In the lurking shadows, he was convinced he saw the glaring red eyes of pestilential rats (Ratti norvegici). He wished he had thought to avail himself of Pourtales’s alpenstock, with its sharp tip . . .

  Was that a small window above his head? It was. Now, i
f these discarded crates would serve as a platform. . . .

  The window was not secured. Agassiz raised it and cautiously poked his head in. The interior was dark, and he could not see much, but it appeared empty. He levered himself up and hung, half-in and half-out, for a moment. Then with an effort, he boosted himself all the way in, tumbling noisily and unceremoniously to the floor.

  Getting to his knees, Agassiz lifted his head.

  The barrel of the gun pointed at him approached in diameter the trunk of an Indian elephant (Elephas maximus). Or so it seemed.

  “Stand up,” said the shadowy figure holding the weapon, “and walk ahead.”

  Agassiz did as he was ordered.

  Followed by his captor, Agassiz debouched from the storeroom where he had fallen into a huge space illuminated by upper-story windows and dominated by three or four Brobdingnagian wooden vats, their tops accessible by catwalks around them. In one wall was the front door at which he had recently knocked.

  Slowly, Agassiz turned.

  The man holding the gun on him was clad entirely in black, from his flat, wide-brimmed black hat to his black cape, black trousers and black boots. In sharp contrast stood his pale face framed by longish red hair. Fierce and fiery mustachios half concealed his thin lips.

  “Who are you, sir?” asked Agassiz.

  The man threw back his head and laughed uproariously and not a little insanely.

  “My name is Anarchos! But the world knows me as Feargus Kosciuszko.”

  Agassiz gaped. So, here was the notorious Irish-Polish revolutionary Cezar had warned him of. And he had Agassiz at his mercy. The scientist stiffened his spine. He would show this Byronic Bakuninist that breeding would always have the upper hand over bohemianism.

  “What have you done with the owners of this business?”

  “Only what should be done to all capitalist swine. I have bound them, trounced them and locked them in their office upstairs. Do you object?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I object to such inhuman treatment, even of abolitionists—”

  Kosciuszko pounced. “Abolitionists! How do you know they are of that persuasion?”