The Further Adventures of Langdon St. Ives

by James P. Blaylock

  As you can imagine, our afternoon conversation had much to do with the morning’s perils and successes, returning often to the fearful creature below—its surprising agility in the open air, its uncanny ability to sense human villainy, which it apparently hated, its apparent fondness for Gilbert. Of particular interest was the obvious intelligence of the beast, and the childlike pleasure that it took in trinkets. It seemed entirely likely that it had been the keeper of the great ball of ambergris forty years ago, when James Douglas was a lad. We wondered at the age of the creature, and what ancient oddments we might find if we were to search through its possessions. If the octopus was in fact the fabled Lusca, namesake of the island, stories of which hearkened back to antiquity, then its continued existence suggested that giant octopuses enjoyed prodigiously long lives. We had all heard of koi fish, of course, which lived in excess of two hundred years, and of giant tortoises that crept through the passing ages on a single-minded search for edible shrubs. Our octopus, however, beat them all hollow. To the last man we feared for its health, for it seemed as much human as beast.

  “There are sweetening cocks in the each of the three holds,” Gilbert told us reassuringly as lunch was brought in, including steaks cut from the wings of red-devil squid, fried and sauced with lemon, caper berries, and brown butter. I wondered if the octopus had smelled its cousins being sautéed in the galley, and whether it would object in some violent manner. But the octopus was quiet in the cool darkness of its stateroom now, and although we were heavily laden, we were making a good fourteen knots atop a placid sea. “We can let in any amount of clean seawater through the cocks, as well as pump out the bilge,” Gilbert told us. “The creature will be quite content, bless its heart.”

  “Until it becomes aware that it’s been shanghaied,” I put in.

  “It’ll thank us for transporting it to a civilized corner of the globe,” Tubby said, draining a glass of bitter. “Did you allow the fellow to keep your chronometer, Uncle? It seems only fair, to my mind, after luring him aboard with it.”

  Gilbert nodded. “It would have been kind of you to give the poor thing your hat, nephew. But you were always tight-fisted. I was compelled to give up the watch in order to distract it while I barred the door of the hold. It was a Breguet chronometer, I’m sorry to say, and not a cheap, pinchbeck ticker. The octopus, which I believe is a member of the fairer sex, by the way, quite likely won’t mark the difference, alas.”

  “The telling of time means little to a cephalopod, I’m afraid,” St. Ives said, “although this one seems to be something of a philosopher. But inform us, sir, what will be the creature’s fate, given that it survives the voyage?”

  “That, gentlemen, has everything to do with an inspired thought that came to me when I communed eyeball to eyeball with it there on the deck. I fully expected my imminent death, but I find that my most brilliant ideas occur to me when I’m up against it. My old business partner Lord Bledsoe has long had the idea of constructing a great, public vivarium on the mouth of Yantlet Creek, just beyond the London Stone. It would house oceanic creatures of all sorts, their environment perpetually renewed by the tide pushing up the Thames—God’s own sweetening cock, one might say. It would be a scientific endeavor for the most part, with the public to pay the expense. No less a personage than Alfred Russel Wallace sits on the Planning Committee, as does Lucius Honeywell, I might add.”

  There was an awkward silence as he looked from one to the other of us, a silence I interrupted by asking, “These men are in need of a giant octopus, then?”

  “That’s exactly what they’re in need of, Jack, although they don’t know it yet. But by God I mean to tell them, by telegraph at the soonest opportunity, so that they’ll make ready for its arrival. We’ll bill the creature as the first wonder of the natural world. London will be drained of its population, every man, woman, and child hastening downriver to see it. You could do worse than to buy land in and around Allhallows, gentlemen, in order to establish an inn. You’ll never want for lodgers.”

  He laughed out loud, passed around the jug of beer, and proposed a toast to the octopus, which we drank happily. The creature was stirring again, its movements giving the ship an unpleasantly strange and uneven motion. I gazed out through the stern window, musing on the notion of success: For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, the Bible tells us, and certainly it seemed to be true. Gilbert would return from his voyage doubly successful. His name would be written in the history books and when all was said and done—and given that the octopus remained healthy—his net worth was likely to surpass that of the Queen.

  Gilbert revealed, by the by, that the rest of us would share in the riches when the actual profit of the voyage was calculated—something that a gleeful part of my mind considered now: what Dorothy and I would do with our newfound wealth. But it was an unlucky thought, and I clapped a stopper over it. The morning had quite worn me out, and I soon grew weary of Gilbert Frobisher’s incessant bonhomie. I began to wonder, as silly as it sounds, whether our great passenger might simply die of heart sickness despite its iron constitution. Yantlet Creek, I thought, would be a sad prison for such a stupendous, curious creature, and I wished to God we had taken the time to load its treasures into the bell, in order that it might take some pleasure in them while it spent its remaining days imprisoned.

  Alas, there was nothing to be done about it. The Nancy Dawson had sunk the island with the setting of the sun, although the fire-lit cloud that towered away above it would remain visible until black night and distance obscured it at last.

  CHAPTER 8

  Low Water Along the Thames

  TWO WEEKS LATER we found ourselves once again in the West India Docks. A storm was pending in the distance, rain clouds stacked one atop the other on the horizon and moving toward us out of the east on a freshening wind. But at present it was high noon on a summer’s day, seagulls wheeling in the sky and the great city cheerful and welcoming. The tide was at its nadir, the muddy banks of the Thames broad and glittering in the temporary sunshine. Mudlarks of all ages slogged through the filth hoping to find lost coins, but generally digging out bits of coal and iron and the occasional tool dropped over the sides of ships by workmen, the toil earning them a few shillings from a day’s wretched work. Even they looked picturesque, however, beneath the summer sun, or so it seemed to me. St. Ives, Hasbro, and I had agreed happily enough to provide an audience during the unloading of our great passenger, which had been alive some few hours past, although worrisomely sluggish.

  The octopus had fallen silent very soon after Gilbert, on the advice of St. Ives, had turned off the sweetening cock pumps when we passed St. Mary’s Bay in the mouth of the Thames. The river water at that point contained too little salt, St. Ives said, and might poison the creature out of hand. He had no knowledge of the physiology of the giant octopus, but it was better to err on the side of prudence. It had been slow going upriver into London, the shipping heavy, the tide dropping. Now the creature was uncharacteristically still, as was Gilbert, who fingered the stethoscope around his neck, perhaps considering the very real possibility of discovering six tons of stinking dead cephalopod that would have to be chopped apart and shoveled out through the cargo door.

  The transfer of the portable hold to a barge, and the towing of the barge back downriver to Yantlet Creek, was to be done with the greatest felicity. Gilbert had offered a three-pounds reward to each and every one of men doing the unloading if it were accomplished within forty minutes’ time. We were to make use of the immense, cantilever crane on the West India dock to pluck the mid-ship hold bodily from the ship and set it onto the barge, an undertaking that was proceeding apace now that the scow had been lifted from its place within the deck by the shipboard crane, the diving bell still sitting on the scow’s deck. Gilbert’s scientific friends would meet Gilbert and Tubby at the barge’s ultimate destination, where the craft would be scuttled so that the sweetening cocks could be restarted and the creature once again bathed in
revivifying salt water.

  The ship’s carpenter had crated up the ball of ambergris in a deceptive wooden box marked “Somerset Players: Footlights.” Once the barge was underway, St. Ives, Hasbro, and I would accompany the box to Threadneedle Street, to deliver it to Bank of England guards to be stowed in a deep vault. I, for one, was anxious to be quit of the ambergris and the octopus both, and I meant to dine at home with Dorothy in two hours’ time. I anticipated the happy surprise on her face when I walked in, my face burned brown from my weeks on the open sea.

  The ambergris box sat on deck at the moment, covered in a decorative cloth. Gilbert’s Baccarat decanter and several glasses sat atop it. Old Lazarus MacLean had contrived a length of bunting on the homeward voyage, cut and sewn into the shape of a line of octopuses, each holding onto another’s tentacle, a twelve-foot length of it decorating the railing. The loose arms of the creatures flapped in the breeze in a lively fashion. MacLean was a man of many talents, and he stood now in his kilt and Tam o’ Shanter, cradling his instrument, ready to pipe Gilbert down the side of the ship.

  The great crane, standing squarely between the South Dock and the Export Dock, began to belch steam and coal smoke while uttering an immense cacophony of wheezing, shrieking and clattering. It latched onto the braided steel cable that connected the huge eyebolts on the four corners of the hold, and the container slowly rose into view as we held our collective breath. Crowds had gathered to watch out of mere curiosity by now, having no idea of the contents of the container, which would not be revealed to them in any event.

  Gilbert waved at the onlookers from his position on the foredeck, encouraging their attention. History was being writ large, if only they knew it. Up rose the steel box, swaying ponderously. It traveled out over the dock and descended toward the barge on the opposite side. Down it sank until it sat atop the barge, which settled a full two-feet, farther than that at the stern, the deck nearly awash. Lazarus McLean wheezed into a rousing rendition of “Brown-haired Maiden,” and a half dozen of us, McLean and Phibbs included, tossed off a dram of whisky and flung our glasses overside onto the Thames bank, to the happy surprise of the nearby mudlarks. Gilbert descended to the dock and crossed to the barge, followed by Tubby, who wore his Bollinger hat, the feathers shining in the sun. Tubby turned and waved farewell to us once he was aboard.

  Gilbert strode straight to the side of the great box and put the mouth of his stethoscope against it, listening intently. He shook his head unhappily and touched his hand to the side of the box, which was no doubt heating up like an oven in the bright sunlight. He said something sharp to the crew of the barge, which cast off the mooring lines without wasting a moment, for they were as anxious for their reward as Gilbert was anxious to revive the octopus. The barge was abruptly underway, a tugboat towing it out into Limehouse Reach and away downriver.

  The rain clouds were moving briskly toward us now, and one could see the dark tracings of heavy rain showering down in the distance. It was a remarkable sight, the day having turned into a metaphor, divided as it was between darkness and light. Persuaded to hurry by the pending rain, we fetched our dunnage and loaded it onto a coach-and-four driven by the selfsame cadaverous but stalwart cockney who had stood by us in Limehouse four weeks past—Boggs was his name. I had scarcely thought of the man in the weeks since, but I was heartily glad to see him again. We heaved the valuable crate in upon a seat in the interior, climbed in after it, locked the coach doors, and set out, the three of us alert for troublemakers, of which there was no sign. Billy Stoddard and his pirates were beyond the pale, but the inscrutable Lucius Honeywell was still at large. Gilbert had never given up his faith in the man. But as Hasbro had pointed out that first evening in the chart room, bad men might have imposed upon Mr. Honeywell, and to my mind it was equally likely that Mr. Honeywell had imposed upon Gilbert Frobisher, who was canny in business, but who had a fierce sense of loyalty to his friends, or to those he considered his friends. Hasbro held his loaded pistol in his lap, prepared to use it if we were threatened. I’ve never liked a pistol, loaded or otherwise—very like a poisonous adder, to my mind—although Hasbro’s facility with a revolver had saved my life on more than one occasion, and so I’m happy enough that he doesn’t scruple to carry one.

  It was troubling that Gilbert had telegraphed his biological friends, informing them that we were carrying the first wonder of the natural world. Honeywell would naturally assume that we had returned with the ambergris into the bargain, thereby surmising that Stoddard and his villains had failed. If so, he might easily cut some new variety of caper. I reminded myself, however, that I was quit of the octopus and would soon be quit of the ambergris. The back of my hand to Mr. Honeywell, I thought, and I was in a cheerful enough mood as we rattled along through Wapping, following the river past the Tower and the Pool of London under a lowering sky, watching out for the barge when we got a rare glimpse of the river and thinking to wend our way along Thames Street to Blackfriars, and then up past St. Paul’s and down again via Newgate and Cheapside. Thames Street skirts the Embankment at Blackfriars, which gave us a last grand view of the river and the south shore. It was there that we saw the barge itself, fast aground on a mud bank and sunk to its withers in muck, the tug straining to tow it clear. It would be hours before the river rose again and floated it free.

  St. Ives signaled to Boggs to halt the carriage, and the man reined in the horses while there was yet open ground along the pavement. It was a near run thing, though, and the left rear wheel banged hard against the curb, the wagon wobbling to a stop. A richly appointed landau carriage, following behind us with two or three passengers inside and two men up behind, swerved aside to avert a collision, the coachman bawling out insults. We shoved open the door and climbed out, happy to be alive. The wheel was still on the axle, but was evidently knocked crooked on the hub—the least of our troubles, it seemed to me. St. Ives removed the pistol from his coat and handed it to the driver. “Guard the box within, Mr. Boggs,” he shouted. “There’ll be a generous reward if the contents come through unscathed.” Boggs nodded darkly, rainwater falling from the brim of his hat, and touched the handle of his whip to the golden initials embossed upon the door, as if to say that he knew his master and would do his duty.

  A nearby set of stairs descended to the river some forty yards upriver of where the barge had grounded. We hastened in that direction, and from the top of those stairs we watched the furious activity on the deck of the barge, Gilbert gesticulating and shouting, while several men, Tubby included, were gathered at the forward cargo doors. There were idlers watching along the embankment and standing along the upriver edge of Blackfriars Bridge, hoping that the barge would provide something in the way of amusement.

  A long delay might mean the end of the octopus, and I was full of regret for the great beast and for having taken it away from its beloved tropical waters in the first place. It was an act conceived as much in the spirit of greed as scientific inquiry, and Gilbert would pay the piper, as would the poor octopus. I felt done up, but I reminded myself that St. Ives, Hasbro, and I could not shift the barge half an inch. Our particular charge was to proceed to Threadneedle Street with the ambergris, and the sooner it was secure, the better.

  The doors of the container were just then swinging open, however, the men backing away, taking shelter behind the heavy steel panels. Tubby and Gilbert stood squarely in front of the now-open box, looking into the dark interior, Tubby caparisoned in his lucky Bollinger hat. The long moments ticked away, and the sky grew dark, and then darker yet, in mourning for the death of the octopus, I thought. And then with a suddenness that took my breath away, the tip of a tentacle whipped out from within the box, wrapped around Gilbert’s chest, just beneath his arms, and plucked him bodily from the deck. A second tentacle snatched the Bollinger from Tubby’s head and then knocked him neatly over the side. He landed on his fundament in the mud as the octopus issued forth from the hold, not only alive, but evidently in dangerously high sp
irits, waving the decorated speaking trumpet aloft as if it meant to harangue the crowd upon the bridge. There sounded a crack of thunder, and the rain came pelting down. The octopus seemed to expand in the liquid air, as if drawing nourishment and energy from it, and it swiveled atop its trunk-like tentacles, taking in the view of Thames-side London like the pagan god that it was, and not much liking what it saw.

  The crew of the barge, to the last man, leapt overboard, sinking ankle deep in sludge, their shoes sucked away as they waded heavily ashore toward our set of stairs or else launched themselves into deeper water in order to swim to safety, which was perhaps unwise, given the nature of the threat. The mudlarks, well used to the ways of the river and mud, moved more quickly, looking back at the octopus in stunned disbelief. The people atop the bridge also very apparently understood the enormity of the thing that confronted them, and amid wild shouting and pushing they moved in a mass down onto Thames Street, fleeing from the creature’s sight. Very quickly people were running past us along the embankment, shouting for constables, crying out that it was the leviathan of old, come to lay waste to the city. A considerable number—young men and boys, mostly—remained despite the rain and the danger, taking up positions behind lampposts and climbing into trees in order to watch the fun, as if those objects would protect them from the creature’s wrath.

  St. Ives was already leaping down the stairs toward the river, past the muddy, rain-bedraggled crowd that was coming up in the opposite direction, some on their hands and knees, gasping for breath because of their exertions. The octopus stood—so to call it—on the empty deck of the barge now, its drooping bulk draped over the sides. It pulled Gilbert to its breast as if he were an infant. Gilbert’s hands were pressed against the flesh of the creature’s tentacle, his own eyes looking up into the massive, dark orbs of the octopus. Tubby, having struggled to his feet, waved his arms now, shouting for the octopus to put his uncle down, by God, but the beast ignored him utterly, having chosen Gilbert as its particular favorite and forgotten Tubby’s very existence. It slithered its massive bulk off the edge of the barge into shallow water, carrying with it the speaking trumpet and Tubby’s hat, Gilbert’s Breguet chronometer dangling on its chain from the very tip of one of the great tentacles.