by Alex Grecian
“Not so ill as all that, sir,” Hammersmith said.
“I thought I was moving awfully fast.”
“I did think I’d lost you for a bit there, but then you materialized out of the snow before me. Your dark overcoat was easy enough to follow.”
“Ah, you must have caught up at the bend in the road. You’ve got a better sense of direction than I have.”
“You can’t have thought I’d let you go out alone in this.”
“I didn’t think at all. Just wanted to get here.”
“You weren’t planning to go down that well, were you?”
“I believe I was.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“It probably is. There’s a body down there, I’m sure of it. Maybe three bodies.”
“They’ll keep.”
“The baby might be down there.”
“Little Oliver.”
“Yes, little Oliver.”
“Still, let the storm pass.”
“And there’s a church full of sick people. We need to find out what they’ve got so Kingsley can go about curing them.”
Hammersmith nodded. “I’ll do it, then.” He peeled off his coat and let it drop in the snow.
“Don’t be a fool, Sergeant. You’re so weak, you can barely stand.”
“I told you. I just needed a rest, and now I’ve had it.”
“After running through that storm? Look at you. You’re weaving where you stand. You can barely stay upright in this wind.”
“You’re not ramrod straight yourself, sir. It’s a strong wind.”
“And you don’t like tunnels, Nevil. Enclosed spaces.”
“Nobody likes tunnels.”
“Someone must. A village full of miners.”
“Where are they when we need them?”
“Sick.”
“Where’s Constable Grimes? This is his village. He should do this.”
“I haven’t seen him yet today and I don’t want to wait.” Day said. “I’m going in, and I’ll brook no more argument. Besides, I need you up here to make sure I get back.”
Hammersmith stared at him for a long moment without speaking.
“It’s an order,” Day said. “You’re staying here. Now put your coat back on.”
There was another silence, and then Hammersmith reached for his overcoat. “You’ll stay in constant contact with me as you go,” he said. “You’ll shout out to me the entire time.”
“I’ll be glad to.”
Hammersmith shrugged his coat on and buttoned it. He stepped closer, and they both stood at the lip of the well, their knees touching the stone wall. Day was on guard, mildly worried that Hammersmith might try to jump in. His sergeant was often too impulsive for his own good. But much of Hammersmith’s energy seemed to have drained from him, blown away by the bitter wind. They peered down into the well, but there was nothing to see. Nothing but inky blackness.
“How deep do you think it is?” Day said.
“Deep,” Hammersmith said. “Judging by the water levels round here, I’d say maybe two hundred feet. Maybe more.”
“That’s deep enough.”
“There may be nothing down there to find, sir.”
“I pray that there isn’t. But we have to find out.” Day said. He sighed. “Here, hold my flask for me, Nevil. I’d better get going before I lose my nerve.”
40
Freddy Higgins sat slumped in his seat, unconscious, rocked to and fro by the sway of his carriage as the horses raced down the only real road in Blackhampton. They chuffed and clopped through the snow, their steamy breath trailing behind them, streamers in the dim gaslight that lit the silver-grey afternoon.
The horses knew the village. One of them was four years old and had grown up here, been raised by Freddy from birth. The other had come from Wolverhampton, sold to the blacksmith in return for services rendered, and had been on loan to Freddy for more than a year. The younger of the two tended to pull ahead and then adjust for the gait of the older horse. They made the turn in the road easily, even though neither of them could see it buried in the snow, and pulled up short at the church, nowhere else to go. The younger one whinnied and bucked, and the carriage shook on its axles.
A moment later, the vicar Brothwood appeared at the double doors, hugging himself against the cold. He took one look at the motionless boy in the driver’s seat of the carriage and turned around, disappeared into the darkness of the foyer. Long seconds ticked past, and then Dr Kingsley emerged, summoned by the vicar. Behind him, Henry Mayhew lumbered into view. Kingsley hopped down the wide snowy steps of the church and checked Freddy’s pulse. He turned and pointed, and Henry came to him, taking the steps all at once. The giant lifted the sick boy from the carriage and turned and carried him into the church.
Kingsley lingered. He frowned at the carriage and at the horses, unsure about what to do with them. But his concern was for the human beings moaning inside, and he could hear them even through the blowing wind, and so he left the horses there stamping in the cold and went back inside to tend to young Freddy.
41
The well’s roof protected a simple pulley system with a thick rope that extended down into the dark. Hammersmith reached out and grabbed the rope. He bent a loop in its length and tied a bowline knot, then yanked it up snugly against the pulley assembly. He stepped back and cupped his hands, blew on them, and rubbed them together.
“That should hold,” he said.
“Do you want my gloves?” Day said.
“You’ll need them.”
Day looked at the rough length of rope and nodded. “I suppose I will,” he said.
He brushed snow from the stone ledge and sat down, gathered the ends of his overcoat around his legs, and swung around so that he was looking into the well. There was nothing to see. The curved irregular wall extended down a few feet and then faded to black. It was impossible to gauge how deep it was.
“Give me a stone.”
Hammersmith looked around him. The landscape was smooth and white. He shuffled away to where he imagined the side of the road to be and reached his bare fingers under the thick blanket of snow. Watching him, Day winced in sympathy. Why didn’t the sergeant own a pair of gloves?
It took Hammersmith a bit of searching, but he finally fished a small stone from under the snow cover and brought it to Day at the well. Hammersmith’s fingers were bright pink and dripping wet. He handed over the rock and then jammed his hands into his pockets to warm them.
Day dropped the rock into the well. It fell out of sight, and they both listened. They heard it clatter once, twice, a third time, stone on stone. Then a soft distant sound that might have been a splash.
“Well,” Day said, “I suppose that tells us this thing isn’t deceptively shallow.”
“I had hopes,” Hammersmith said.
Day smiled. “No point in waiting longer, I suppose.” He looped the rope around his right hand and tested his weight, then pushed off from the lip of the well and swung out so that his feet rested against the far side. The well was wide enough to accommodate him easily, but still felt constricting. The back of Day’s overcoat scraped against the far side as he lowered himself. He kept his knees bent and walked himself down, the rope held tight in his left hand. He let out a bit of slack at a time, running it up through the loop in his other hand. He worked his way downward, inch by inch, the rope burning the palms of his hands through his gloves and squeezing his fingers tight together. The light faded so gradually that he didn’t notice when the darkness closed around him completely. He simply worked at lowering himself into the ground and put all thoughts of the miles and miles of earth around him out of his head. The stone walls inside the well were jagged. River rocks had been fitted together around the shaft centuries earlier, but there had been no care taken to keep them smooth or regular. The wall wasn’t meant to be seen or touched, only to keep the well from falling in on itself. Day found ledges and niches for his boots, which made the jou
rney easier, but he took care not to get his toes caught.
He didn’t want to end his career in a Black Country well.
He stopped after what seemed an eternity and braced his back against the wall behind him, his legs locked and his feet flat against the stones across from him. He didn’t release his grip on the rope, but he let it go slack. His arms ached and his legs were sore. He could no longer see anything of himself; his own body was invisible to him in the darkness. He looked up and held his left hand above him, and the silhouette of the tip of his thumb completely blocked the pale grey circle that was the opening of the well. He still had no way of knowing how deep the well was or how much farther he had to go to reach the bottom of it. He looked down and around and up again, but there was nothing to see except that circle of light far away.
“Hammersmith! Nevil!” Day’s voice echoed and bounced around him, frightening in its starkness. He could hear panic rising in it.
The sergeant’s voice floated down to him, amplified by the well, so that he might have been dangling on another rope next to Day. Or even waiting for him somewhere down below. “I’m here.”
“Thank God!”
“I haven’t left. But I haven’t been able to see you in quite some time.”
“You’re looking?”
“I am, but it’s no use.”
“I can’t see you looking.”
“Do you see my head at the top of this thing?”
“No.”
“I’m here,” Hammersmith said again.
“I must be deep if you blend in with the daylight up there.”
“Do you want to come back up?”
“No,” Day said. He wasn’t sure he could climb back up if he tried. His arms hurt and his chest felt tight. He had assumed that Hammersmith would help get him back to the surface by pulling on the rope, but now he wasn’t sure Hammersmith would be strong enough to do the job. Perhaps if the well weren’t so deep and the sergeant weren’t so sick. Still, there was no point in stopping. They would figure out a way to get Day back up when he was all the way down.
He slid his back against the wall and let more slack go through the loop, lowering himself again.
“Keep talking, Nevil,” he said.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Anything, man, just give me something to concentrate on aside from this hole in the ground.”
“I’ll do my best.” There was a long period of silence, and Day thought that the sergeant had misunderstood him. He didn’t want to have to ask Hammersmith to talk again. It would make him seem weak and frightened. Then: “Sorry,” Hammersmith said. “We’ve been joined by others up here. People from the village.”
Day was overwhelmed with relief at hearing Hammersmith’s voice. He grinned and spoke to the tiny circle of light far above him. “There are still people in the village?”
“Apparently not everyone is sick.”
“How many up there?”
“Three,” Hammersmith said. “Two strong men, both of them miners, and a woman. They heard us out here. Curious about what we’re doing.”
“Did you tell them?”
“A bit of it. Not much to tell yet.”
“Not much to do yet, either, but don’t let them leave.” Day took a deep breath and blew it back out through his mouth. Now there were people who might be able to help Hammersmith pull him back up. A lucky break. He took another deep breath and noticed a change in the air. He could smell something. Water? Decay? Something organic at any rate, something aside from cold stone and his own sweat.
“I might be reaching the bottom of this thing, Sergeant,” he said. His voice moved around him, back and forth against the stones, loud and hollow and eager-sounding. “It feels warmer down here.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Just wait.”
He opened his hands a fraction and moved faster down the well until he felt his palms burning through his gloves. He tried to clamp down on the rope, but he was falling too quickly. He pushed his feet out and caught the opposite wall, but slipped and fell farther, his head now below his feet, traveling upside down toward the bottom of the well. He panicked and lost his grip with his left hand, grabbed at the stones beside him. There was no purchase to be found there, and he plummeted faster. The vertical tunnel vibrated with a deep roaring noise, and some small part of him realized that he was shouting.
There was no one to help him.
It was the realization that he was utterly alone in the dark well that brought him back to his senses. The rope was still looped around his right hand, zipping out below and above him. He kicked out his feet again and pushed against the wall and tucked his chin against his chest and slammed his back into the stones behind him. At the same time, he clenched his right fist and found the rope with his left hand, wrapped it around his forearm, around his elbow, back around his hand another time. His descent slowed and then suddenly halted, yanking his arm up and out. There was a jolt and a flash of pain in his shoulder, and Day gritted his teeth, braced himself sideways against the walls of the tunnel. He concentrated on catching his breath. One in, one out, one in, one out. He could hear his heart beating. And he could hear Hammersmith’s voice, small and tinny, from somewhere far above him, no longer amplified, too distant to have been audible above his own howling.
“Sir? Sir, are you all right?”
“I’m here, Nevil!” He had to shout to send his voice hurtling upward toward that pale little spot that represented the sky.
“What happened?”
“I decided to take the express route to the bottom!”
“Can’t hear you well, sir! I’m coming down there!”
“No, Nevil! Stay where you are!”
“You’re okay?”
“I’m fine, I think! Fell and hurt my shoulder, but I’m okay!”
“Is it broken?”
“I don’t. . Wait a moment!”
He repositioned himself, made sure he was wedged solidly, feet against one side, back against the other, and let go of the rope. Immediately, his hand felt cold and his shoulder began to throb painfully. He tested it, moved it in small circles, back and forth. Agonizing pain, but nothing broken, so far as he could tell.
“It will heal, Nevil! I’m going on!”
“Carefully, sir!”
Of course, carefully. “Yes, thank you, Nevil!”
Day looped the rope around his left hand now, letting his tender right shoulder hang loose and naturally at his side, and walked himself slowly downward, scraping the back of his overcoat against the stones behind him. He was breathing hard again and grunting, and the sound was unsettling, but he was his only company. He could hear Hammersmith talking up above, but he couldn’t make out the words.
A moment later, the seat of his trousers began to feel cold, and he gradually realized that he was wet. The thought crossed his mind that he had lost control of his bodily functions, but then the wetness spread out across his thighs and up his spine, and he realized that he had backed into a cold pool. He adjusted his grip on the rope and eased his legs down and splashed into the well water. He kicked his legs and windmilled his aching arm and let out a huge whoop of triumph. The thought crossed his mind that he was now trapped at the bottom of a well in the middle of nowhere, and he smiled to think that, despite his circumstances, he had never been so happy to be alive.
“Sir!”
“I’m all right, Nevil! I’ve reached the bottom!”
“Is it iced over?”
“Not at all! It’s still warmer than it is up there, but the water’s cold!”
“Hurry! You can’t stay there!”
“Are you sure? I’d love to stay!”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Nothing, Sergeant! A little humor!”
He paddled around in the narrow space, taking care not to lose track of the rope. He bumped into something hard and felt its contours with his free right hand. It was the bucket. He used it to brace himself, w
hich freed up his left hand. He kicked in a small circle, running his hands over the walls. The stones here were smooth and damp, polished by centuries of water. There was a thick organic odor wafting up from the water, like a warm stagnant soup. The bucket thunked into something, and Day turned toward it and reached out. His gloved hand brushed against a handful of moss and he spidered his fingers, feeling outward until he realized that the handful was too delicate to be moss. He groped at the object and felt a soft curve, a small bony ridge. The moss was hair, and there were pliable swellings under it. Day realized he was holding his breath, praying that he had found an animal of some sort, a squirrel or a badger that had taken a tumble into the well. But as his fingers continued to explore, he knew what he had found and his heart sank.
“Nevil!”
“I’m here, sir!”
“I think I’ve found him, Nevil!” Day said.
He turned the object over in the water, dead and limp and yielding.
Yes.
“I’ve found Oliver Price!” he said.
INTERLUDE 2
ANDERSONVILLE PRISON,
CONFEDERATE GEORGIA, 1865
The dead wagon rolled out through the high gates of the Andersonville stockade. Calvin Campbell was in the bed of the wagon, jostled about along with four other prisoners. Cal was the only one of them still breathing. Shallow breaths through his mouth because the dead men had begun to ripen in the hot Georgia sun. One of the men had open sores on his arms and his throat, and Cal watched maggots writhe in and out of the wounds, slimed pink with blood over their pearly whiteness. He gagged and closed his eyes, concentrated on keeping his gorge down.
After what seemed to Cal like most of the day, but couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes or so, the wagon stopped and the bodies were pulled out, one at a time. He listened to them thunk into the ground like so much meat. The man next to him, the maggot farm, was second to last out of the wagon. Some of the larvae were left behind, wriggling blindly on the bare planks. They would burn to a crisp in the sun and be buried under the day’s bread rations before long.
