The Difference Engine

  Tom stopped the Zephyr for coaling, while Fraser, followed by Mallory, sought intelligence from the London coppers. They were told that the situation south of the river was quite out of control. Pitched battles with brickbats and pistols were raging in Lambeth. Many streets were barricaded by pillaging mobs. Reports had it

  that the Bedlam Hospital had been thrown open, its unchained lunatics capering the streets in frenzy.

  The police were sooty-faced, coughing, exhausted. Every able-bodied man in the force was on the streets, the Army had been called in by an emergency committee, and a general curfew declared. Volunteers of the respectable classes were being deputized in the West End, and equipped with batons and rifles. At least, Mallory thought, this litany of disaster crushed any further doubts about the propriety of their own venture. Fraser made no comment; but he returned to the Zephyr with a look of grim resolution.

  Tom piloted on. Beyond authority’s battered boundary, things grew swiftly more grim. It was noonday now, with a ghastly amber glow at the filthy zenith, and crowds were clustering like flies in the crossroads of the city. Clumps of masked Londoners shuffled along, curious, restless, hungry, or desperate—unhurried, and conspiring. The Zephyr, with merry toots of its whistle, passed through the amorphous crowd; they parted for it reflexively.

  A pair of commandeered omnibuses patrolled Cheapside, crammed with hard-faced bruisers. Men waving pistols hung from the running-boards, and the roofs of both steamers were piled high and bristling with stolen furniture. Thomas easily skirted the wallowing ’buses, glass crunching beneath the Zephyr’s wheels.

  In Whitechapel there were dirty, shoeless children clambering like monkeys, four stories in the air, on the red-painted arm of a great construction-crane. Spies of a sort, Brian opined, for some were waving colored rags and screeching down at people in the street. Mallory thought it more likely that the urchins had clambered up there in hope of fresher air.

  Four dead and bloating horses, a team of massive Percherons, lay swollen in Stepney. The stiffened carcasses, shot to death, were still in their harness. A few yards on, the dray itself appeared, sacked, its wheels missing. Its dozen great beer-casks had been rolled down the street, then battered open, each site of rapturous looting now surrounded by a pungent, fly-blown stickiness of spillage. There were no revelers left now, their only evidence being shattered pitchers, dirty rags of women’s clothing, single shoes.

  Mallory spotted a leprous plague of bills, slapped-up at the site of this drunken orgy. He hit the top of the Zephyr with a flung lump of coal, and Tom stopped.

  Tom decamped from the gurney, Fraser following him, stretching cramps from his shoulders and favoring his wounded ribs. “What is it?”

  “Sedition,” Mallory said.

  The four of them, with a wary eye for interference, marched with interest to the wall, an ancient posting-surface of plastered timber, so thick with old bills that it seemed to be made of cheese-rind. Some two dozen of Captain Swing’s best were freshly posted there, copies of the same gaudy, ill-printed broadside. The bill featured a large winged woman with her hair afire, surmounting two columns of dense text. Words, apparently at random, had been marked out in red. They stood silently, attempting to decipher the squirming, smudgy print. After a moment, young Thomas, with a shrug and a sneer, excused himself. “I’ll see to the gurney,” he said.

  Brian began to read aloud, haltingly.

  “ ‘AN APPEAL TO THE PEOPLE! Ye are all free Lords of Earth, and need only COURAGE to make triumphant WAR on the Whore of Babylondon and all her learned thieves. Blood! Blood! Vengeance! Vengeance, vengeance! Plagues, foul plagues, et cetera, to all those that harken not to universal justice! BROTHERS, SISTERS! Kneel no more before the vampyre capitalist and the idiot savantry! Let the slaves of crowned brigands grovel at the feet of Newton. WE shall destroy the Moloch Steam and shatter his rocking iron! Hang ten score tyrants from the lamp-posts of this city, and your happiness and liberty be guaranteed forever! Forward! Forward!!! We take hope in the human Deluge, we have no recourse but a general war! We crusade for the REDEMPTION, of the oppressed, of the rebels, of the poor, of the criminals, all those who are TORMENTED by the Seven-Cursed Whore whose body is brimstone and who rides the nightmare horse of iron.…’ ”

  There was much more. “What in the name of heaven is the wretch trying to say?” asked Mallory, his head buzzing.

  “I’ve never seen the like of this,” murmured Fraser. “It’s the ranting of a criminal lunatic!”

  Brian pointed at the bottom of the bill. “I cannot understand about these so-called ‘Seven Curses’! He refers to them as if they were dreadful afflictions, and yet he never names and numbers them. He never makes them clear.…”

  “What can it be that he wants?” Mallory demanded. “He can’t think that a general massacre is any answer to his grievances, whatever they may be.…”

  “There’s no reasoning with this monster,” Fraser said grimly. “You were quite right, Dr. Mallory. Come what may—no matter what risk—we must be rid of him! There is no other way!”

  They returned to the Zephyr, where Tom had finished the coaling. Mallory glanced at his brothers. Above their masks, their reddened eyes shone with all the stern courage of manly resolution. Fraser had spoken for them all; they were united; there was no more need of words. In the very midst of this low squalor, it seemed to Mallory a moment of true splendor. Touched to the core, he felt his heart soar within him. For the first time in seeming ages, he felt redeemed, clean, utterly purposeful, utterly free of doubt.

  As the Zephyr rolled on through Whitechapel, the exaltation began to fade, replaced with a heightened attention and a racing pulse. Mallory adjusted his mask, checked the workings of the Ballester-Molina, exchanged a few words with Brian. But with all doubt resolved, with life and death awaiting the coming roll of the die, there seemed little enough to say. Instead, like Brian, Mallory found himself inspecting every passing door and window with a nervous care.

  It seemed that every wall in Limehouse was spattered with the wretch’s outpourings. Some were vivid madness pure and simple: many others, however, were cunningly disguised. Mallory noted five instances of the lecture-posters that had libeled him. Some might have been genuine, for he did not read the text. The sight of his own name struck his heightened sensibilities with a shock almost painful.

  And he had not been the only victim of this queer kind of forgery. An advert for the Bank of England solicited deposits of pounds of flesh. A seeming offer of first-class railway excursions incited the public to rob the wealthy passengers. Such was the devilish mockery of these fraudulent bills that even quite normal adverts began to seem queer. As he scanned the bills, searching for double-meanings, every posted word seemed to decay into threatening nonsense. Mallory had never before realized the ubiquity of London’s advertisements, the sullen omnipresence of insistent words and images.

  An inexplicable weariness of soul struck him, as the Zephyr rumbled on unchallenged through the macadamed streets. It was a very weariness of London, of the city’s sheer physicality, its nightmare endlessness, of streets, courts, crescents, terraces, and alleys, of fog-shrouded stone and soot-blackened brick. A nausea of awnings, a nastiness of casements, an ugliness of scaffoldings lashed together with rope; a horrible prevalence of iron street-lamps and granite bollards, of pawn-shops, haberdashers, and tobacconists. The city seemed to stretch about them like some pitiless abyss of geologic time.

  An ugly shout split Mallory’s reverie. Masked men had scuttled into the street before them, shabby, threatening, blocking the way. The Zephyr braked to a sudden stop, the coal-wain lurching.

  Mallory saw at a glance that these were rascals of the roughest description. The first, an evil youngster with a face like dirty dough, in a greasy jacket and corduroy trousers, had a mangy fur cap pulled low, but not low enough to hide the prison-cut of his hair. The second, a sturdy brute of thirty-five, wore a tall grease-stiffened hat, checked trousers, and brass-toe
d lace-up boots. The third was thick-set and bow-legged, with leather knee-breeches and soiled stockings, a long muffler wrapped round and round his mouth.

  And then, rushing from inside a plundered ironmonger’s, two more confederates—hulking, idle, slouching young men, with short baggy shirt-sleeves and trousers too tight. They had armed themselves with spontaneous weapons—a goffering-iron, a yard-long salamander. Homely items these, but unexpectedly cruel and frightening in the ready hands of these bandits.

  The brass-booted man, their leader, it seemed, tugged the kerchief from his face with a sneering yellow grin. “Get out of that kerridge,” he commanded. “Get the hell out!”

  But Fraser was already in motion. He emerged, with quiet assurance, before the five jostling ruffians, for all the world like a school-teacher calming an unruly class. He announced, quite clearly and firmly: “Now that’s no use, Mr. Tally Thompson! I know you—and I should think you know me. You are under arrest, for felony.”

  “That be damned!” blurted Tally Thompson, turning pale with astonishment.

  “It’s Sergeant Fraser!” shouted the dough-faced boy in horror, falling back two steps.

  Fraser produced a pair of blued-iron handcuffs.

  “No!” Thompson yelped, “none o’ that! I won’t stand them! I won’t bear none o’ that!”

  “You will clear the way here, the rest of you,” Fraser announced. “You, Bob Miles—what are you creeping round here for? Put away that silly ironware, before I take you in.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Tally, shoot him!” shouted the mufflered ruffian.

  Fraser deftly snapped his cuffs on Tally Thompson’s wrists. “So we have a gun, do we, Tally?” he said, and yanked a derringer from the man’s brass-studded belt. “That’s a shame, that is.” He frowned at the others. “Are you going to hook it, you lads?”

  “Let’s hook it,” whined Bob Miles. “We should hook it, like the sergeant says!”

  “Kill him, you jolterheads!” shouted the mufflered man, pressing his mask to his face with one hand, and pulling a short, broad-bladed knife with the other. “He’s a fucking copper, you idiots—do for him! Swing’ll choke you if we don’t!” The mufflered man raised his voice. “Coppers here!” he screeched, like a man selling hot chestnuts. “Everybody, come up and do for these copper sons-of-bitches—”

  Fraser lashed out deftly with the butt of the derringer, cracking it against the mufflered man’s wrist; the wretch dropped his knife with a howl.

  The three other ruffians took at once to their heels. Tally Thompson also tried to flee, but Fraser snagged the man’s cuffed wrists left-handed, yanked him off-balance and spun him to his knees.

  The man with the muffler hopped and hobbled back several paces, as if dragged against his will. Then he stopped, stooped over, picked up a heavy toppled flat-iron by its mahogany handle. He cocked his hand back, to throw.

  Fraser leveled the derringer, and fired. The mufflered man doubled over, his knees buckling, and fell to the street, writhing in a fit. “He’s killed me,” the ruffian squawked. “I’m gut-shot, he’s killed me!”

  Fraser gave Tally Thompson an admonitory cuff on the ear. “This barker of yours is rubbish, Tally. I aimed for his bloody legs!”

  “He didn’t mean no harm,” Tally sniveled.

  “He’d a five-pound flat-iron.” Fraser glanced back at Mallory and Brian, where they stood astonished in the coal-wain. “Come down, you lads—look sharp now. We’ll have to leave your gurney. They’ll be looking for it. We have to hoof it now.”

  Fraser yanked Tally Thompson to his feet, with a cruel jerk of the cuffs. “And you, Tally, you’ll lead us to Captain Swing.”

  “I won’t, Sergeant!”

  “You will, Tally.” Fraser hauled Tally forward, with a sharp beckoning glance back at Mallory.

  The five of them picked their way around the squealing, choking ruffian, who rolled in his spreading blood on the pavement, his dirty bow-legs trembling in spasm. “Damme if he don’t take on,” Fraser said coldly. “Who is he, Tally?”

  “Never knew his name.”

  Without breaking step, Fraser slapped Tally’s battered top-hat from his head. The wrinkled topper seemed glued to the ruffian’s scalp with grime and macassar-oil. “Of course you know him!”

  “No name!” Tally insisted, looking back at his lost hat with a leer of despair. “A Yankee, inne?”

  “What sort of Yankee, then?” asked Fraser, scenting deceit. “Confederate? Unionist? Texian? Californian?”

  “ ’E’s from New York,” Tally said.

  “What,” Fraser said in disbelief, “you’d tell me he was a Manhattan Communard!” He glanced back once at the dying man as they walked on, then recovered himself swiftly and spoke with tepid skepticism. “He didn’t talk like any New York Yankee.”

  “I don’t know nothing ’bout any commoners. Swing liked ’im, is all!”

  Fraser led them down an alleyway crossed with rusty elevated cat-walks, its towering brick walls glistening with greasy damp. “Are there more like that one, in Swing’s counsel? More men from Manhattan?”

  “Swing’s got a deal of friends,” Tally said, seeming to recover himself, “and he’ll do for you, he will, you trifle wi’ him!”

  “Tom,” said Fraser, turning his attention to Malloty’s brother, “can you handle a pistol?”

  “A pistol?”

  “Take this one,” said Fraser, handing over Tally’s derringer. “There’s but one shot left. You musn’t use it lest your man is close enough to touch.”

  Having rid himself of the derringer, Fraser then reached, without pause, into his coat-pocket, pulled out a small leather blackjack, and commenced, while still walking steadily, to batter Tally Thompson, with numbing accuracy, on the thick meat of his arms and shoulders.

  The man flinched and grunted under the blows, and finally began to howl, his flat nose running snot.

  Fraser stopped, pocketed his truncheon. “Damn ye for a fool, Tally Thompson,” he said, with a queer kind of affection. “Know you nothing of coppers? I’ve come for your precious Swing all by meself, and brought these three jolly lads just to see the fun! Now where’s he lurking?”

  “A big warehouse in the docks,” Tally sniveled. “Full of loot—wonders! And guns, whole cases of fancy barkers—”

  “Which warehouse, then?”

  “I dunno,” Tally wailed, “I never been inside the bloody gates before! I don’t know the bloody names of all them fancy go-downs!”

  “What’s the name on the door? The owner!”

  “I can’t read, Sergeant, you know that!”

  “Where is it, then?” Fraser asked relentlessly. “Import docks or export?”

  “Import …”

  “South side? North side?”

  “South, about middle-ways …” From the street behind them came distant shouts, a frenzied shattering of glass, and drum-like echoed booms of battered sheet-metal. Tally fell silent, his head cocked to listen. His lips quirked. “Why, that’s your kerridge!” he said, the whine gone from his voice. “Swing’s lads a-come back hotfoot, and found yer kerridge, Sergeant!”

  “How many men in this warehouse?”

  “Listen to ’em breaking ’er up!” said Tally. A queer variety of child-like wonder had chased all fear from his sullen features.

  “How many men?” Fraser barked, boxing Tally’s ear.

  “They’re knocking ’er to smithers!” Tally declared cheerily, shrugging from the blow. “Ludd’s work on your pretty gurney!”

  “Shut yer trap, ye bastard!” young Tom burst out, his voice high with rage and pain.

  Startled, Tally regarded Tom’s masked face with a dawning leer of satisfaction. “What’s that, young mister?”

  “Shut up, I told ye!” Tom cried.

  Tally Thompson leered like an ape. “It ain’t me hurting your precious gurney! Yell at them, boy! Tell ’em to stop, then!” Tally lurched backward suddenly, snatching his manacled hands from Fra
ser’s grip. The policeman staggered, almost knocking Brian from his feet.

  Tally turned and screeched through his cupped hands. “Stop that fun, my hearties!” His howl echoed down the brick-work canyon. “Ye’re hurtin’ private property!”

  Tom pounced on the man like lightning, with a wild spinning swing of his fist. Tally’s head snapped back, and the breath left him in a ragged gasp. He tottered a step, then dropped to the cobbled floor of the alley like a sack of meal.

  There was a sudden silence.

  “Damme, Tom!” said Brian. “Ye knocked his lights out!”

  Fraser, his truncheon drawn now, stepped across the supine ruffian, and peeled one eyelid back with his thumb. Then he glanced up at Tom, mildly. “You’ve a temper, lad.…”

  Tom tugged his mask free, breathing shakily. “I could have shot him!” he blurted, his voice thin. He looked to Mallory, with a strange confused appeal. “I could ha’, Ned! Shot him down dead!”

  Mallory nodded shortly. “Easy, lad.…”

  Fraser fumbled to unlock the handcuffs; they were slick with blood from Tally’s lacerated wrists.

  “That was mortal strange, what the rascal just did!” Brian marveled, in a hushed Sussex drawl. “Are they bedlam crazy here, Ned? Have they all gone ellynge, these London folk?”

  Mallory nodded soberly. Then he raised his voice. “But nowt that a good right arm don’t cure!” He whacked Tom’s shoulder with an open palm. “Ye’re a boxer, Tommy lad! Ye blowed him down like a slaughtered ox!”

  Brian snorted laughter. Tom smiled shyly, rubbing his knuckles.

  Fraser rose, pocketing truncheon and cuffs, and set off up the alley, at a half-trot. The brothers followed him. “It warn’t so much,” Tom said, his voice giddy.