The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3)

by McCreet, James

  The mood on board had been somewhat tense. A number of men evidently chosen for their strength had looked at Mr Cullen with frank distrust and at each other with questioning glances. They had coldly rejected his few attempts to engage in the jocular riverine idiom he had sought so hard to master. Meanwhile, Mr Rigby observed all with an unfathomable gaze and exchanged some private comment with the reeking little fellow who had also been waiting outside the dock gates.

  On arrival at the wharf, Mr Cullen had sought to redeem himself by wholeheartedly putting his back into the work, hoisting barrels out of the hold and then descending to the shore to further transport the cargo into the open warehouse. It had been dark by this point, but gas flares illuminated the wharf with their pale brilliance and rendered the toiling lumpers figures in a startling riverside lithograph.

  The work had proceeded thus, in eerie silence but for the song of the tackle and the rumble of barrels, for over an hour. Then, finding himself momentarily alone in the part of the warehouse where the barrels were being stored, Mr Cullen had taken the opportunity to take a circuitous route back to the doors.

  Nothing seemed particularly amiss. It was a warehouse like any other, albeit rather eclectically stocked with a variety of material ranging from spirits to tobacco and from tea to bales of cloth. Such storehouses tended to be owned by proprietors who dealt only in a limited trade, but an exception was hardly to be questioned.

  However, when a draught of cold musty air had caught Mr Cullen on his return to the wharf, he had paused, curious, to investigate from whence it came. There was a faint smell of drains about it, and his first thought was that there was perhaps an old well in the rear of the building. He was engaged in peering between fat bales of cotton at what appeared to be a broad rusty iron hatch in the floor when Mr Rigby appeared silently behind him.

  ‘What’re yer doin’ there, lumper?’ the tattooed foreman had said.

  ‘O, I . . . I thought I smelled a well, Mr Rigby, sir.’

  ‘A well? Yer not ’ere to be smellin’ wells, are yer?’

  ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. I’ll get back to the ship.’

  ‘Or perhaps yer were lookin’ for somethin’ other . . . ?’

  ‘What? No . . . I . . .’

  ‘Get back to the Concordia. I knew I was wrong to give yer a chance.’

  ‘Yes, sir . . .’

  And he had started to return to the wharf, never to reach it.

  Had it been Mr Rigby who had struck him? Or was it some other unseen assailant? There had been the blow, a flash of white light, and then only blackness. He did not even recall striking the floor.

  Now he appeared to be in some manner of dim, candle-lit cell – though it was not like any police gaol he had ever seen. The dark stonework smelled damp and its huge rough blocks looked old. A rusting iron door showed no eye slot, no knob and no shutter at the bottom for the ingress of food. There was no bed or any other furniture. Indeed, it was difficult to make out any finer detail in the light from the single candle burning in a simple wooden holder on the ground at the centre of the room.

  He struggled into a sitting position and felt nausea rush upon him. The knees of his trousers had been ripped in his fall, though any grazing of the skin thereabouts was insignificant when compared to the pain in his head. He checked about his person and found that nothing seemed to have been taken from his pockets.

  Gathering his senses, he became gradually aware of something odd: the absolute silence. There was no sound of traffic, or of people, or of the building itself: a bang of door or creaking floor. One would expect to hear something of the city, even the vibration of a passing goods wagon, but there was not the merest hint of sound. Rather, he had the impression of being locked within walls of such immense thickness that no sign of life could penetrate from outside.

  Most men would have felt the chill hand of fear in such a place. Some would have wept at their predicament. Mr Cullen felt only shame at having caused inevitable disappointment to his fellows, who would surely discover his absence and waste valuable time trying to locate him rather than pursuing the case at hand. Mr Williamson would not say anything, of course, but the loss of confidence would be palpable in his every expression thereafter . . . Unless Mr Cullen could effect an escape and report his discoveries with all haste.

  He sought to order his thoughts. What exactly was there to report? He had seen nothing untoward. Indeed, he had nothing to reveal but a feeling of vague dubiety and a blow to the head at Frying Pan wharf. River men were a rough sort and he had likely exceeded his role of mere lumper with his curiosity.

  But the cell? Why imprison him when they might have more easily bundled him into the river wrapped in heavy chain? Whatever the reasoning, there was something highly illegitimate about the proceedings and Mr Williamson would expect to hear the particulars.

  He stood uneasily and approached the door, which appeared even rustier on closer inspection. The atmosphere was clearly extremely damp. He rested an ear against the cold iron and tried to discern any voices beyond, but there was nothing. A keyhole revealed only darkness (or perhaps an escutcheon plate) on the other side. He paused in frustration. What would Noah or Mr Williamson do? What further methods might they employ to transform ignorance into knowledge?

  He put his nose to the space at the bottom of the door and sniffed. The smell of wet stone and drains was similar to what he had experienced at Frying Pan wharf, and there was a faint but unmistakable whiff of new tobacco. Good – that was a connection of sorts. It was possible that he had not been moved far from the warehouse in his unconscious state.

  Now for a closer examination of the room itself. He forced himself to look with fresh eyes at the bare space: thick stone flags upon the floor, with some remnants of hay here and there; an uncommonly tall ceiling that seemed to narrow as it rose into impenetrable shadow; large rough-hewn blocks of dark stone. It was, in truth, more a dungeon than a cell.

  Only the candle struck a discordant note. Amid such grimness, it was an incongruous kindness to the prisoner, who might sooner be broken by the darkness and silence. He approached it cautiously, half expecting some fatal mechanism to spring into life at his step, but all suspicion faded when he came within arm’s reach. It was nothing more than a simple candle in a rudimentary holder.

  Rather, it was perhaps too simple. Why give the prisoner the means to explore his dungeon when there could be no means of escape? Unless, of course, that was the entire point: to taunt him. There was a certain malice in providing a means of illumination that consumed itself even as it promised the impending inevitability of absolute blackness.

  Despite his circumstances, Mr Cullen could not help but smile. He had made a deduction: the detail of the candle said something about whoever had imprisoned him. It was something he could tell Mr Williamson.

  Not to be cowed, he took up the candle and went to the wall by the door that he might examine it more closely. In so doing, he understood just why the light had been provided. Under the dim orange glow of the flame, he saw that there was an obvious tidemark around the room where water had evidently filled the space at intervals. It was almost as high as he was tall, and it suggested something else: the door must itself be at the bottom of a descending corridor so that any water could seep under it without flooding another chamber. There was most likely a set of stairs heading upwards from the doorway, which in turn explained the silence of the room. He was probably below the level of the ground.

  Another deduction: was this to be the means by which he would die – trapped here as the room filled with water? He recalled the tales he had heard at the docks about the river breaking its banks and flooding the surrounding districts. Was he now in one of those districts?

  He was pondering this when a sound within the room startled him: a low moaning that could only come from a man. He looked about him but saw nothing. He looked up and saw no aperture in the disappearing ceiling from which the noise may have come. Then, holding the candle before him, h
e stepped tentatively over the flagstones to examine the far side of the room.

  And there, lying flat along the bottom of a wall, was apparently a long bundle of rags. So dark, still and shapeless was it that he had previously taken it for a shadow in the brickwork. But it was no shadow. It was a man of considerable height, his dark clothes evidently made darker still by water stains and grime. Clearly, he was emerging from the same oblivion of unconsciousness his observer had so recently experienced.

  A dark face appeared dimly from beneath an arm.

  ‘Ben?’ said Mr Cullen.

  The hand that reached to touch the bloody spot at the base of the scull was undoubtedly black. The face that turned squinting to the light exhibited a milky eye.

  ‘My G—, Ben! It is you! How did . . . what . . . let me help you up.’

  Benjamin took the extended hand and pulled himself into a sitting position. His face in the candlelight showed that he had sustained other minor injuries, perhaps in his fall. Dried blood was crusted beneath his nose and there was a cut under his healthy eye. He waved a hand about the room and shrugged interrogatively.

  ‘Where are we?’ interpreted Mr Cullen. ‘I admit I have no idea, Ben. I believe it is a cell under the ground in the vicinity of Frying Pan wharf, but how or why I came to be here is something I cannot explain. There was some unloading and I was doing extra work for a certain Mr Rigby . . . but how did you come to be here?’

  Benjamin began his rapid exposition of signs but stopped after only a few moments when Mr Cullen’s utter incomprehension became clear. Instead, he sighed and resorted to the simple dumb-show mimicking of a frying pan, accompanying it with a tongueless approximation of a sizzling sausage.

  ‘You too were brought to Frying Pan wharf? So the place does mean something in the Aurora case!’

  Benjamin nodded wearily. Whatever they had learned was useless inside a subterranean cell.

  Mr Cullen could not know, of course, how Benjamin had found his way to that cell, how he had kept the noisome fellow from Ludgate-hill under his observation until they alighted at Execution Dock and thence through the twisting streets of that riverside district towards the environs of Frying Pan wharf. There, the little man had entered the large warehouse without hesitation and still without any apparent suspicion that he was being followed. Benjamin had loitered briefly, acutely aware that his attire did not suit the environment and that every minute he tarried was an invitation for further attention. Thus, within a few minutes, he had determined to absent himself from the place and report back to Noah about the likely source of the illicit silk.

  But as he had turned to walk back to the ferry platform, he was faced with the very same diminutive fellow he had been pursuing. It did not seem remotely possible that the man had emerged from a different part of the warehouse and circled the streets unseen to arrive behind Benjamin in such a short time – yet there he was, staring blankly up at his Negro shadow with a painted face that was quite devoid of emotion.

  The two had paused in that silent tableau of recognition: one of them incapable of speech and the other showing no inclination towards it. Pursuer wordlessly acknowledged the pursued. Mutual accusation was implicit.

  Benjamin shrugged good-naturedly: such was the nature of the game. Who was to make the next move? The stinking boy-man simply gazed unblinking.

  And something had crashed heavily against the base of Benjamin’s scull. As he dropped into blackness, confusion was the overwhelming sensation. Who had managed to come so close to him without revealing the slightest noise or indication of their presence? It was quite unnatural . . .

  ‘Ben? Ben? Are you all right?’ Mr Cullen brought the candle closer. ‘You seem quite distant. Perhaps the knock on your head? He must have been a sturdy fellow to get the better of you!’

  Benjamin nodded absently and looked about the cell.

  ‘I have made a thorough examination of the place, Ben. There is but one door. The ceiling, as you see, tapers off into shadow. I suspect that it is sometimes flooded. A curious place, to be sure. What do you think? What is our best course of action? Will Noah be coming for us?’

  Benjamin shook his head. Nobody knew about their location but the people who had imprisoned them. Or, rather, lured them – it was too large a coincidence that they would find themselves in the same cell . . . which in turn suggested that whoever was behind the disappearance of the Aurora had been observing their observers for some time.

  ‘Why so glum, Ben? Have hope! I am certain that Noah and Mr Williamson are doing their utmost to find us. Once they discern that we have gone . . .’

  But Benjamin was toying with the iron ring about his ankle, his single eye turned inward upon some other place and time – a place, similarly, of incarceration, darkness and fear.

  ‘What we need is a plan, Ben. Something similar to the time we took Mr Williamson from Giltspur-street. Perhaps . . . perhaps if we leave a bundle of clothes where you were lying and then, when somebody enters, they will mistake the pile for your figure. We will have the advantage of surprise . . . Ben – what is that metal band about your ankle? Is it some ornament particular to the Negro?’

  Benjamin laughed – not his usual hearty basso note, but rather a short expiration quite bereft of mirth. Yes, it was indeed an ‘ornament particular to the Negro’ – at least, the Negro as he continued to live in the United States, the Negro that Benjamin had once been. Free in England he might be, but his predicament at that moment was a clear enough indication that freedom could still be forcibly taken at any point.

  Could a simple, honest soul such as Mr Cullen ever truly understand the infernal abyss from which his cellmate had fought to escape? Could he, who had known liberty from birth, conceive the asphyxiating sensation of returning to the incarcerated state?

  Benjamin indicated that Mr Cullen should sit opposite him and place the candle once more upon the cold stone flags between them. He pointed to his own eyes with forked fingers and then at Mr Cullen’s with a single definitive finger: watch my hands and my face. Hear my story. Understand me.

  Mr Cullen, for his part, observed the terrible solemnity in that single functioning eye and nodded. He would try his best to read the hieratical language of fingers and palms, which, though often arcane, was also broadly imitative.

  And so, illuminated by the meagre light of a single flame, Benjamin began his narration, hands moving slowly to acclimatize his listener to the wordless tongue. A palm held low showed the stature of the enslaved boy. Raised to waist height, it bespoke the crops all about him. Curved and hooked, it became a scythe. The work was reaping or picking, while fingers flickering from above called forth a relentless Mississippi sun.

  Only the hands spoke, but the body and the face were mirrors to the story. His one eye, unfocused, on the past, Benjamin became a different man: no longer the lofty well-built Negro of common acquaintance, but one cowed and nervous beneath the hateful gaze of the field overseers – a boy reduced to human livestock, a boy reduced to the function of sweeper, cutter, carrier, washer, digger.

  Here was a boy that slept uncovered on cold stone and who worked hungry, knowing neither his parents nor how old he was. He was inquisitive. He had questions that might kill him if asked. And his two sharp eyes saw the things that awaited him: the naked bodies suspended on hooks and flayed until their backs hung wetly in tatters; the sickening stench of branded flesh; the whippings that demanded screams and then demanded silence; the casual bludgeon; the hateful seduction; the immolation of the falsely accused.

  He grew to be naturally big and strong: a finer man, he knew, than those who worked him under the gun. At such a size, and with such strength, he inspired admiration and fear in equal measure – the former for his ox-like endurance and the latter for what he might one day do with it. So if they drunkenly tied him to a post and beat him blind on an occasional Saturday evening, it was merely to curb his sinful pride and show him he was a lesser man.

  He and his kin sang as they wo
rked – tunes and rhythms born not of any learned musical knowledge but from the life in each that had not been caged. They used words beyond their understanding, words sung to them by unknown mothers who had received them from their mothers a continent away. The words mattered not – only their utterance: a prayer for some, a lament for others, a sole unfettered expression for all.

  And how Benjamin had loved to sing! Always the first to start and the last to finish, he sang at work and he sang at rest. In song, there was a means to tell himself the story of each day, mimicking everything from the to-and-fro of the saw to the cries of the beasts, from the creak of the gate to the beat of the hammer. In song, his imagination was free.

  In song, he gave an impression of carefree happiness that could not be tolerated. In song, he mocked those who would reduce him to an ignorant beast. First, they warned him. Then they flogged him. But he could no more stop singing than thinking. He infuriated them beyond tolerance. So they pulled out his tongue with pincers heated in the smithy forge.

  After that there was only silence – silence and a hatred that would not be placated until Benjamin could flee and see his tormentors repaid. From that moment, his single eye sought every distant copse, cloud and horizon. What he had lost in voice he would invest in careful study of his captors: their comings and goings, their means of transport and the timetables of their trips. Northwards lay freedom, and he would be free.

  In the meantime, he dissimulated servility and exaggerated his subjugation. Tongueless now, he had become the beast they had wanted – a dumb, passive implement. But his labour earned him food and his food earned him the endurance he would shortly need. Strength and imagination were the parts of him they could not tear away with cauterizing iron.

  Then, escape, when it came, was an ordeal – all the more so since his self-willed emancipation was paid for with the unrestrained murder of those who had dared silence his song. He was pursued for days through the fields, through the brush, through the rivers and forests and hills. His feet bled with hard distance and his skin was torn by thorny flight. At every crossroads, bridge and river port, there were sentinels, patrols, guards and guns. Dogs chased his scent relentlessly.