“I’m with you, then,” Alice said. “How do we proceed?”
“I promised Larkin’s crew two crowns apiece if they create what is commonly called a diversion—something short of mayhem, ideally. You and I will gouge Uncle out of the flotilla and spirit him away.”
HOLLAND ROAD
ST. IVES STOOD atop Blackfriars Bridge, looking down at the Thames, its murky water flowing very slowly as the indecisive tide debated the idea of turning upon itself and moving once again toward the sea. He put his hand into his coat for the tenth time in the last half hour, and was heartened by the feel of the bundled envelopes of powders, which had emptied half of his purse—1,500 packets all told, a veritable brick of them.
The rush of pleasure that coursed through him when he licked the powders from his fingertips troubled him somewhat. He thought of Alice and of the note he had left beneath the saltcellar. Surely she had found it by now and was…content to think that he was safe. The nagging sense of guilt hovered roundabout him like a spirit, however. Thoughts of his children came into his mind, and he pushed them firmly back into the shadows. He would contemplate family matters later, when he was steadier.
His breath caught in his throat, and his head abruptly began to shake as if he were palsied. He reached into his pocket, and his hand fumbled for an envelope. He poured it into his palm, sucking the dry powder back into his throat before carefully licking his hand clean and then swallowing a dram of Hollands gin from a pocket flask. He stood with his eyes closed for the moments that it took for his head to clear and his sanity to return to him. He recalled that yesterday—such a long time ago!—he had harbored ideas of opposition to Diogenes, and he now he considered the frail half-knowledge of hearsay, of the Billsons’ warnings and Tubby’s uninformed imprecations. Knowledge was mutable, he found, one plane leading to a higher plane. Or perhaps plain was the better word, for in some sense a man walked upon it throughout life, ever ascending, if he were lucky, to the great sea that held all secrets.
He removed the barrel brochure from his trouser pocket and gazed upon it with something like rapture. Surely it was within his powers to explain the nature of his…. The word ‘compulsion’ occurred to him, but that smacked of…. He rejected the word ‘addiction’ out of hand. And then in a moment of insight he saw that he and Alice might share a barrel, the two of them venturing out onto the great sea together. For a brief time he was satisfied with this, a very brief time, and then he saw that Alice would not comprehend the philosophy of the barrel, such as it was. Something like jealousy underlay this realization—not jealousy, surely, but the right of possession, perhaps—the right of property that was guaranteed to every subject…
To relieve his troubled mind he sampled another packet of the powders, just touching them to his tongue. Then seeing that he had dampened what was left on his palm—that he could scarcely dump them back into the envelope—he licked his hand clean, shook his head sharply, and drew in a deep breath of air. He had consumed two of last night’s supply at Rodway’s Coffee House across from Billingsgate Market early this morning, the smell of fish within the market and along the docks redolent in the air. Then he had gone into the market itself and had pondered the glass eels for close to an hour, living masses of them, hundreds of thousands of utterly transparent eels alive in vast basins illuminated by the sun, which had risen just high enough to shine through the glass roof. He had been struck with the notion of buying eels in wholesale quantities and releasing them into the river to set them free, but the money in his wallet was already bespoken, and when he heard eight bells ring out from a sloop in the Pool he had walked down to Borough High Street where the queue was already forming.
People were buying the envelopes in quantity, and Diogenes had taken his money without comment. This had seemed meaningful for a moment, but then he was indifferent to it; his mind was centered on the wonderful heap of envelopes that Diogenes had bound with string, and which were now safely in his pocket.
Pulling his eyes away from the river, he walked along Blackfriars Bridge to the Victoria Embankment and up a narrow lane above Puddle Dock, where he went into a gin shop. It was dim inside, with a long bar along one side beneath a decorated mirror. A woman with a mass of hair and a revealing bodice was busy dispensing glasses of gin to three men who went off to a table near the door and settled in as if they meant to stay. She smiled lasciviously at St. Ives when he ordered a glass, and then lost some of the smile when she got a better look at him.
“Been fishing, have you?” she asked, taking his shilling and wrinkling her nose. He affected not to hear her, and he turned away, finding his own table and sitting down so as to face the wall and conceal his actions. He carefully opened yet another packet of powder, dumped it into the gin, stirred it with his finger, sucked his finger clean, and drank down the gin. He sat for a time, letting it work its magic and remembering his elation last night when he’d had such marvelous powers of perception.
He looked at his skin in the gaslight. It appeared to be transparent, and he saw the complexity of bones and veins within his hand. He was a mere mechanism, it seemed, but a marvelous mechanism in a barrel made of skin, setting out on a journey of becoming. Becoming what? he wondered vaguely, and he stood up and went out into the road in order to discover the answer, for surely it lay in the sunlit morning and not in a gin shop. A tide of both elation and need had washed over him when he had consumed the glass of doctored gin, but a need for what? He would find the answer, no doubt, on Holland Road.
On Upper Thames Street he boarded an omnibus bound for Kensington High Street and Holland Park, and along the way he studied the barrels pictured in Diogenes’ brochure. The accoutrements were little short of fabulous, and many of them necessary. He had a bare sixty pounds left in his wallet, and although the brochure did not reveal prices, it was clear that the sum would not do. He would cross that bridge, he told himself, when he came upon it.
For a time he closed his eyes and pictured the clear river of last night’s dreams—portentous dreams, he saw now. His waking self could still see them within his mind, but as if through a telescope held wrong-end-to. He lost himself in the dream, however, and came out of it when he realized that the omnibus had reached Hyde Park. He climbed off at Church Street and went up past St. Mary Abbots, with its high spire aglow against a water-blue sky. He found Diogenes’ shop on the Holland Street corner, and for a time he looked at the barrels in the window, each of them full of the promise of movement, of a happy return, of rebirth.
He smelled something musty and dank—his coat, he realized—and it seemed to him that he should rid himself of it before entering the shop, except that his brick of envelopes was safely stowed in one of its pockets. He made out his reflection in the window glass, seeing that his hair was awry and his collar gaping open. Turning away, he patted his hair into place as best he could with saliva, and he buttoned his collar and smoothed his coat. He squared his shoulders and went in through the door, a bell clanging from above, and he was greeted quite cordially by a thin man dressed in black like an undertaker’s assistant, who said, “Good day to you, fellow traveler!”
“Thank you,” St. Ives said. “I would like to purchase a barrel.” He held out the open brochure. “This model. ‘The Queen’s Sloop.’”
The man recoiled, as if St. Ives’s breath was rank, but then recovered and said, “An exceptionally useful vehicle, sir. Are you associated with a faction?”
“The Primrose Hill Faction,” St. Ives lied, although perhaps soon it would not be a lie.
“A worthy organization. I’ve sold them many a barrel. The one you’ve chosen fetches an even three hundred pounds, sir, and it’s warranted seaworthy and comes equipped with a tow-along, chambered cask stocked with dried beef, inspissated juice of lime, and ship’s biscuit. For an added fee we can supply charts proofed against seawater with no fewer than ten layers of varnish. You’ve no doubt read the list of accoutrements listed in the brochure.”
“Yes
, of course,” St. Ives said. “Three hundred pounds seems a nominal price.” From his pocket he took three damp twenty-pound banknotes. “I’d be quite happy to pay these down and the rest with a draft on my bank.”
The clerk stared at him for a long moment, looking past his spectacles and down his nose, which was wrinkled as if he had again detected an odor. St. Ives was aware of the fusty smell of his own clothing and also that his scalp and beard itched. He berated himself for not taking a few moments to shave this morning, although doing so would quite likely have awakened Alice, which…
He put the thought aside for the moment and attempted a smile, unsure whether he was being regarded with a look of mere assessment or active disdain.
“I’m afraid it’s quite impossible,” the clerk said. “My master Diogenes is happy to accept cash money in any form. Half a ton of farthing pieces in an ironbound chest would do, I assure you. But we have no use for cheques, bank drafts, promissory notes, or the annexation of firstborn children. If your funds are such that you can withdraw a sum from your bank, then I encourage you to do so. Good day to you.”
With that the clerk turned away and began to polish the glass-topped counter with a rag. St. Ives had been dismissed. As he left the shop, a dissolute couple pushed in past him, and he heard the clerk shout, “Good day to you, fellow travelers!” as the door shut behind him. He watched from the shadowed entryway as they walked to the far side of the store, the clerk gesturing and nodding. Not three steps inside the door stood a barrel much like the one St. Ives had offered to buy. Whether it contained a cask of inspissated limejuice and ship’s biscuit it was impossible to say, but he knew that it was quite possible that he could step inside, put his hands on the tongue of the barrel, and pull it through the door before the clerk was aware of it.
He felt the corners of his mouth turn up into a grin without him willing them to, and he pushed the door open, a vicious need having come upon him. The door-bell jangled and instantly gave him away. He saw the clerk whirl around and move quickly toward him, but already his hand was on the barrel, and he turned toward the door and pulled, nearly pitching forward when the barrel stood solidly in its place: the wheels were encumbered by chocks bolted to the floor. He abandoned it and leapt for the exit, pushing through it and fleeing along Kensington High Street, his coat flapping.
When he saw that he was not being pursued, he compelled himself to stop. He would surely be arrested otherwise. People were looking askance at him, moving out of his way. And in any event the vitality had quite gone out of his muscle and bone. He stepped into the first public house he passed, where he consumed two packets of powders in a tankard of ale, for he was thirsty as well as worn out.
Somewhat renewed by his dose, he made his way through Hyde Park, bound for Threadneedle Street where lay the Bank of England. It would be an easy thing to withdraw the necessary funds. Alice would quite understand, he told himself, when he explained it to her. He heard the sound of numerous hand-bells now, and a train of barrels rolled toward him down Serpentine Road, towed by no fewer than six Red Vests. “To the river!” the barrelers shouted, and as he stood aside to let them pass he felt a deep longing to be among them.
In that moment it dawned on him that it was May Day, a bank holiday, and that he was to be cheated of his barrel. He tried to recall how many packets of powder he had consumed since he awakened at dawn, but he had quite forgotten. His hand went into his coat, and he felt the brick of parchment envelopes, fingering the string that bound them as he trudged along in the general direction of Smithfield, his mind a cacophony of desire and despair.
TOOLEY STREET STAIRS
ALICE KEPT A weather eye out for Langdon as she and Tubby crossed London Bridge on foot. His note still gnawed at her mind, both its brevity and its squalor being dead wrong. Larkin’s strange comment about eels hovered in her mind, and she thought again of the fishy smell of the water in the glass. Her thoughts were half formed, however, and led her nowhere. She reminded herself that she had no reason to suppose that Langdon would be in the vicinity, but then it wasn’t turning out to be a reasonable morning.
The bridge was lined with people watching the fun, and there was the usual complement of street urchins dashing to and fro, Larkin’s pirate crew allegedly among them. It would be a famous opportunity to pick pockets and snatch purses, and she clutched her handbag tightly, wishing she had left it at the inn. She and Tubby perpetually dodged trains of barrelers jockeying for position to cross the bridge, and she could see that there was a crowd of them on the landing below the Tooley Stairs. Red Vests were helping to shift the barrels downstairs, or stood knee-deep in the river, at work binding barrels together into makeshift rafts, lines running through ringbolts fixed into the barrelheads so that the tide would take them down together. Others were stepping masts, outriggers, and sculling oars onto the more elaborate barrels.
Borough High Street was thick with barrelers, as was the causeway leading down behind Borough Market to the Thames. Barrels, both single and in train, stretched away along the south bank to Horselydown Lane and beyond. Several were mired up to the top of the wheels in Thames mud, having tried for the river and bogged down. A number were already afloat in the slack water, waiting for the tide to turn, and people on passing boats hollered ironical abuse at them, many leaning out with barge poles to shift the barrelers out of the way. There were hundreds of barrels, many hundreds, it seemed to Alice, the entire scene being outlandish in the extreme. There were constables in evidence also, no doubt standing by to read the Riot Act. Larkin the Just was somewhere in the crowds, waiting to give them a reason to do so, thereby earning Tubby’s two crowns. Tubby, like his Uncle Gilbert, was as impetuous as he was generous.
The Primrose Hill faction, according to Tubby, wore green sennet hats, and Alice could see a number of them scattered in the general mob. Tubby pointed out two green-hatted clusters at the top of the stairs, waiting to come down, although whether Gilbert was among them was impossible to say, for the barrels hid their occupants below and the broad-brimmed hats hid their faces from above.
She spotted Larkin now, along with several of her small companions, the lot of them moving among the barrelers, searching for the barrel that sported the Frobisher crest—a rampant hedgehog with a flailing red devil in its teeth.
“They’ve got him, by God!” Tubby cried, pointing toward the landing. Alice looked in that direction and saw Gilbert clearly now. His raised paddlewheel spun at a good clip although he was still on dry land. The barrel hid the motions of his feet on the pedals as he tested the machinery. Like his compatriots, he was apparently anxious to be underway. Just as this thought passed through Alice’s mind, however, Larkin snatched the hat from atop Gilbert’s head and sailed it out over the river. She leapt upon his barrel and then hopped across half a dozen more, grabbing and flinging away hats with both hands as she capered along, her pigtails flying. Her crew—difficult to see how many—followed suit, and very quickly there were a storm of hats flying and children leaping and scrambling about, pushing barrels every which way and promoting a general outrage.
The watchers on the bridge and people in boats on the river cheered and hooted, but there was a panic among the barrelers, who knew they’d been besieged at the very moment that their migration was at hand. Many howled aloud, as if in physical pain. Tubby was moving toward the stairs now, using his bulk to bowl through the crowd and shouting, “Make a lane! Make a lane!” Alice followed in his wake as he cleared the way, increasing the general confusion as he heaved barrels to the left and right. Two stocky Red Vests confronted him, and he swept them aside as if they were made of paper.
Barrels were bouncing down the Tooley Stairs now and sailing out onto the water, where they splashed down and moved out into the stream, the migration carrying on apace, the tide flowing downriver at last. The way ahead cleared, and Alice saw Gilbert once again. Larkin straddled his barrel now, facing him and preventing him from unhinging himself from his prison, while fou
r of her companions, a boy and three girls, all of them raggedy children, pushed and towed him into the mouth of an apparently empty alley upriver. His eyes were wild and his mouth worked and he swiveled his head this way and that as if searching for salvation.
Tubby and Alice pursued them, Alice seeing at that moment two policemen who were moving to follow suit, although they were hindered by the crowd, which was quieting down, the storm of flying hats having apparently ended.
“Take this!” Alice shouted at Tubby, and she pitched her handbag at him. “I’ll follow to the Half Toad!” She turned then and ran toward the two policemen, who were still forty feet away. She dodged around a fallen barrel, its occupant trapped within it, and hollered, “Help! Help!” as loud as she could manage, putting a suitably distressed look on her face. “They’ve taken my purse!” she cried, pointing in the direction of Borough Market. “My jewels! They’ve taken my jewels!”
“Who has, madam?” one of the policemen asked, both of them happy to attend to her despite the wild antics of the people roundabout. They smiled at her encouragingly. “What did the blighter look like?” the other one asked.
“He’s a small, stout man,” she said, “with a terrible scar, his nose quite removed. Oatmeal tweeds. I…” She threw her hand across her forehead as if she were faint. “He’ll escape if you don’t hurry!” she sobbed out, and was happy to see their look of helpful determination as they raced away. At once she dashed back toward the alley, following its turns until she came out onto Bankside, which she followed to Southwark Bridge. Tubby and Larkin’s gang had disappeared along with Uncle Gilbert’s barrel.
She spent the following hour searching for the man Diogenes, always on the lookout for the two helpful policemen but managing to avoid them. Virtually everyone she asked knew of Diogenes and had various opinions about where he might have set up shop, but no one had seen him. She wandered up Bankside and Commercial Road to Waterloo Bridge and then back down again, finally turning toward Smithfield and the Half Toad. From the top of Southwark Bridge she could see that the river was dotted with barrels going down on the tide. Tooley Stairs were hidden from sight, but it was evident that although the migration had dwindled, it hadn’t been entirely stopped.
The Further Adventures of Langdon St. Ives Page 31
