Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3)

by P J Thorndyke

  “We’re not vain types here,” said another of the men. “We accept each other as comrades, warts and all.”

  “Some have more than a few warts,” said Lazarus. “And some are even more unfortunate than you.” He was annoyed by the rude treatment of his friend.

  “Now then, comrades,” said Levitski. “I know these two. They’ve got hearts true to the cause. There’s no need for distrust if I vouch for them, no?”

  “There’ll be ample time to get to know one another over the next few days,” said Anna. “Let’s eat and then we’ll head off.”

  “Head off where?” Lazarus asked.

  “To our headquarters,” Anna replied.

  “But I thought...”

  “This is just a way station,” said Levitski. “A sort of ferrying point for new recruits into our world.”

  Over the course of the overcooked meal, Lazarus discovered that they were not the only ‘new recruits’ that morning. A metal worker called Ivan looked as bewildered by the whole arrangement as Lazarus felt, although his youth let it show more. There was also a seamstress called Ivy, no doubt culled from one of the sweatshops with promises of fierce reprisal against the system that imprisoned her. She was as mousy as her companion, and Lazarus had to wonder what use the revolution had for such meek individuals.

  As promised, as soon as they had mopped up their plates with their crusts of dry bread, they were led through a locked door into a back room that was filled with rubble. This detritus had come from a gaping aperture that had been chiseled out of the brick wall at the rear of the house. To where this led, Lazarus hadn’t the faintest idea. He had seen similar tricks used in America by robbers who let a property neighboring a bank, and then bore through the wall to pilfer at will after closing hours.

  One by one, without explanation, they ducked into the dark aperture. The passage was not a long one, and after a bit of shuffling and feeling their way along, they emerged in a large room that had once been some sort of ticket office. Booths with dusty and cracked glass loomed in the shadows. Levitski lit a lamp and the light fell on walls plastered with advertisements several years out of date. A large railway clock lay in the centre of the room where it had fallen some years ago, its sad face thick with dust. The corner of a sign that had been removed and shoved behind some upturned benches read; ‘Whitechapel’.

  “This is the old station!” Lazarus exclaimed. “From before they merged Whitechapel with Mile End.”

  “Yes,” Levitski replied. “This place has been abandoned since 1884.”

  “I had no idea it was still here.”

  “Funny,” said Ivy the seamstress. “Fancy all this stuff just lying around in here all these years.”

  “You’d be amazed at how much stuff is forgotten beneath the city,” said Anna.

  “The way down is a long one,” said Levitski, leading the group towards the stairwell above which the sign for ‘To the Platform’ still hung. “The old East London Railway line was one of the deeper ones.”

  With his lamp dancing off the green tiles, they descended the stairs that vanished ahead into blackness. The way was occasionally obscured by refuse tossed down there by the workers who had closed the place up four years ago. Rats scurried out of their way.

  “So how did you end up with this lot then?” Lazarus asked the seamstress.

  “Miss Winberg helps run a home for girls with no homes or families,” Ivy replied. “Most of us are seamstresses who got ill or injured in the sweatshops. They’re a Godsend at that place. Hot meals, clean beds and friendly company. I’d be on the street if it weren’t for Miss Winberg and her friends. Or worse.”

  “Don’t you have any family?”

  “Not since I was a little girl. Luckily my mum taught me how to sew so I escaped the workhouse and got a job as a seamstress on Goulston Street. Though I dunno which is worse. We were worked nearly to death at that place. Miss Winberg and her friends are my family now.”

  Lazarus was silent. Anna Winberg was clearly a procuress for London’s destitute females, as Levitski was for its males. The question was, why? Why lure homeless, jobless folk down underground to join this elusive ‘revolution’? He could understand Levitski bringing fellow socialists, disillusioned with the plodding pace of the Berner Street club, into his odd underground sect but why poor creatures like Ivy who likely as not couldn’t read, let alone spout socialist rhetoric?

  “What about you?” he asked Ivan the metalworker. “Do you have family?”

  “No,” the Russian replied. “I came here two years ago on my own. I was robbed on the docks by a gang of Englishmen who claimed to help newcomers to these shores. They took me to a house in Shadwell and said I could use my coat and clothes as a guarantee against a loan to pay for my bed. This was just until I found a job and could afford the three shillings a week. One of the gang promised to take me around the East End to get me work. He charged five shillings a day for this service, which was added to my tab. Soon enough I was out on the street without even the luggage I brought with me. I lived off handouts from Jewish charities until I eventually found work in one of the factories. I was paid in lodgings and tea to begin with, until I learnt how to operate the machines. Then I got four shillings a week for working from six in the morning to eleven at night. I couldn’t cope and that’s when Levitski found me.”

  Lazarus was no longer under any illusions as to Levitski’s purpose at Berner Street. He had to wonder how many other workers and socialist clubs the Russian was a member of, or charities for that matter. He and Anna were like wolves, prowling the city’s underbelly for new recruits for whatever it was that was going on down beneath the streets. Both Ivy and Ivan had no families. That probably explained why they had been chosen. Nobody to miss them.

  They were down to the platform now, Levitski’s lamp shooting their shadows across the curved walls of the tunnel. They hopped down onto the rails and headed into the blackness. On and on they journeyed, plunging deeper and deeper into the disused portions of the London Underground. Another tunnel joined theirs, and down its length they could see another lantern swinging as it approached. Levitski called out and was dually answered.

  The strangers were dressed in similar working clothes and, much to Lazarus’s alarm, they appeared to be armed. Two carried Berdan II single shot bolt-action rifles (favored by the Russian army) fitted with bayonets. Another carried a Martini-Henry and others were armed with pistols. For all the world they looked like guerrilla partisans here in the very heart of the British capital.

  “Back from patrol?” Levitski asked them.

  “The Doc has us scouring the exits at Greenwich and the Docklands,” replied one. “All shipshape. We’re heading back now.”

  “You can check in with us then.”

  They walked along in silence. Lazarus knew he was not the only one who felt a little like they were now being escorted by an armed guard further into unknown territory. He also wondered who this ‘Doc’ was. Their leader? There came a gentle gust down the tunnel that ruffled their hair. Lights behind them, dim to begin with, rapidly grew in intensity, bathing them in light.

  “Up against the wall, lads!” cried one of the armed men. “Hop to it!”

  “By God!” Lazarus cried as the locomotive thundered towards them. He hurled himself against the curve of the wall and turned his face as it rushed past them, clattering and swaying. The armed men let out whoops of exhilaration in the thrill of danger. But for Lazarus, the terror of not knowing how close the sides of the carriages were from his face but feeling the air whooshing past in the blackness was like nothing he had ever felt before. Then, in an instant, it was gone; vanished into the gloom ahead.

  “Everyone still with us?” Levitski asked, shining his lamp into their faces.

  “What the bloody hell’s the game here, Levitski?” Lazarus demanded, unable to contain his anger. “I thought this stretch of track was out of use.”

  “Goods trains still use it to get to Millwall Docks a
nd Blackwall,” Levitski replied. “But don’t worry, we’re nearly there.”

  They headed down a tunnel that branched off from the one the train had just passed through, and after a bit more walking they emerged into a wide cavern. Lazarus was immediately put in mind of the underground base of Captain Townsend’s Unionist Partisan Rebels deep beneath the Arizona Mountains.

  It was made up of various sidings no longer in use. Brick pillars and arches gave the place a sepulchral feel, heightened by the regular gas lamps that cut everything up into angular patches of light and shade. People were everywhere, carrying supplies from horse drawn railway carts into rooms and chambers that led off from the platforms. Some lounged around cooking fires that glowed in little niches, boiling tea and soup and reading newspapers by the flickering orange light. They appeared to be soldiers, for they wore uniforms of grey and their weapons—rifles and carbines of various makes—lay carelessly propped against crates.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Levitski, proudly spreading his arms. “Welcome to the revolution!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The kingdom under the streets

  November 28th, 1863

  With the coming of dawn, discussion in the kitchens turned to how the king might get word of Jayavarthon’s treachery and of his own survival to the city, in the hope of rallying loyalists to his banner. At least that was the gist of the conversation as far as I could make out.

  I became aware of each member of the king’s following turning their eyes upon me, one by one. Apparently I was expected to play some part in the plan. I was given a letter, hastily scribbled down and inked with some insignia which I took to be the king’s seal. Many instructions accompanied this, and I grew to understand that I was being sent on a mission to deliver this letter to somebody of importance in the city. I could see that I was their last resort, as I am no fighting man and every available sword arm was required to defend the king. There was nobody left but me.

  I desperately tried to get some clear directions from them but all I could learn was that the house was in the eastern quarter of the city, and a noble one. But delivering the letter was one thing. Escaping the palace without detection was another.

  This was not a concern to my comrades, for they knew of a way to get me out. I was led to a window that opened onto a pagoda, and three men formed something of a human pyramid before me. Through a combination of pushing and hauling I was carried up onto a sloping terracotta roof from which I could then scramble higher and higher, like Jack climbing the giant’s stairs until I was on the very top of the palace.

  I have no head for heights and so my search for a way down began in earnest. The palace walls were too far to jump to, but for one section which was touched by the branches of a large cassia fistula. I made for the branches of that tree and scrambled into it like a schoolboy scrumping. The branches bent alarmingly beneath me as I climbed further and further out towards the wall, but at last I was able to get hold of it and haul myself over.

  The city was a labyrinth before me; a maze of bamboo huts, muddy streets and alleys that climbed up the mountainsides. I headed east per my directions and looked for the largest of the houses there. It stood on poles above the foliage and was colourfully painted, with tall gables making it look a probable haunt for a nobleman in this country.

  I knocked on the door and caused great outrage amongst the household’s servants. Some wanted to force me off the property with pikes, while others wanted to confine me inside for the disposal of their master. All I could do was uselessly wave the king’s letter in their faces.

  It was snatched from me by an elderly servant who seemed to have some authority among them. He read it thoughtfully and carried it away to his master. The next few hours were confusing and difficult to relate. My part was one of waiting. People came and went from the property and there was a great marshalling of armed men in the gardens. I breathed easy when I saw the glittering pikes and knew that my mission had been a success.

  We set out as the morning broke over the golden spires of the temple; a rag-tag army of many banners. My host had called in every friend who shared his loyalty to the king, and there was much shaking of spears and chants of war.

  A few arrows sang out from the walls of the palace, but most of Jayavarthon’s men were still occupied with the king’s forces within and we took the walls without casualties. Parties were sent out to find timber to bring down the doors and I, hoping to make myself useful in the siege, went around to the animal cages at the back in my search for something that might be used as a ram.

  An elephant was being led away from the enclosures towards the eastern gate which, like all but the main gate to the palace, was devoid of guards. I recognised it at once as the trusty beast that had carried me to this lost world in the Isan mountains, and the man who led it was none other than Kasemchai.

  “Where the devil are you off to?” I exclaimed, approaching him. “I thought you had been killed!”

  He turned, startled and looked sheepish in the extreme. “I leave,” he said. “Not safe here. You come with me?”

  “But where have you been?” I asked again, not liking his evasion.

  “You should not have helped king. You made matters worse. Nobody wanted war. Now, fighting in palace and revolution soon in city. I must leave.”

  “It was you who slipped the strychnine tree petals into the kitchens, wasn’t it?” I said.

  It took him a long time to reply. “No,” he said. “I just deliver. Jayavarthon takes care of details. I just bring flowers.”

  I did not bother asking him why. What were these people to him but buyers for his goods? So what if one of them asked him to bring some poisonous flowers? It was nothing to him what they were used for. He was just a merchant. I suspected that it was also Kasemchai who alerted Jayavarthon of our ruse to draw him out. That was the bigger treachery, not least because it had put my own life in danger. I could no longer trust the guide who had brought me here. But then, how was I to return to Bangkok?

  “Do not try to stop me,” Kasemchai said. “I like you. Do not try...”

  I could see the hilt of the long knife protruding from his breeches. I could have called for my loyalist friends. I could have made sure that Kasemchai faced justice for what he had done. But I had no wish to see him beheaded or subjected to whatever form of execution they used for traitors in this city. I have seen too much bloodshed in the last twenty-four hours that I have no stomach for any more useless killing.

  I let him go.

  By the time I returned to the main gate, I found it broken in and the battle had been carried into the palace without me. I wandered through the rooms as a ghost, witnessing the wreckage around me. Bodies littered the corridors. The throne room was awash with slaughter, and standing atop a mound of corpses was King Harshavarman, his face a bloody mask of victory. In his fist he held the decapitated head of Jayavarthon by the hair, while his followers chanted his name ecstatically. It was over.

  I am far too tired to continue writing now and my hand aches. I shall write more tomorrow.

  Lazarus and his companions were taken through a series of chambers which were filled with people at workbenches. The first was occupied primarily by women who stitched cloth by hand or beavered away at ancient Singer sewing machines. They were making uniforms; grey with red insignias. Small mountains of finished garments were piled up at the ends of the benches, and occasionally a small child of about nine or ten would come along with a little wheelbarrow, scoop up the clothes and trundle them off to some other part of the complex.

  “You have children down here too?” Lazarus asked.

  “Better here than on the streets above,” said Levitski. “Better to join the revolution that is fighting to stop child slavery and the exploitation of our youth by the Fagins and the beadles of this fat country.”

  Lazarus was not convinced. The tired eyes, worn fingers and grim expressions of hopelessness on the faces of the workers they passed did not
suggest that they were tasting the fruits of freedom. Revolutionist cause or no, he didn’t see what was so different about this place than the sweatshops of Whitechapel.

  The following room was even more alarming. There were more men at work here than in the previous room, but there was still a majority of women and it was not with needle and thread that they toiled, but with file, steel cutter and drill. Copies of well-known revolvers, rifles and carbines were in various stages of completion on the benches. Bullets were being cast, shells packed with explosives and metallic cartridges constructed.

  “Munitions factory?” Lazarus asked.

  “You didn’t think we were fighting a war of words did you?” was Levitski’s reply. He beckoned a young woman in a faded green apron over to them. “Take Ivy and Ivan here and show them their new quarters,” he told her. “Meals are three times a day. On the house, naturally.”

  “How do you feed this army?” Lazarus asked him as the two were taken away from the group.

  “Self-sufficiency mostly. We have our own bakery down here, and carriages of grain come in daily. Meat and dairy is a little harder to get, but we take what we can from the world above by whatever means necessary.”

  “You mean thievery?”

  “Are not the true thieves the masters of the slaughterhouses and the dairies? The ones who grow fat on the toil of others? We do not steal, we merely redistribute the world’s produce to those who need it.”

  Lazarus and Mr. Clumps were led past a series of offices partitioned off by sets of small and grubby window panes. Through the glass, Lazarus could see people hunched over drawing boards by the light of dim gas lamps. Blueprints, maps and designs plastered every available wall space. This revolution, it seemed, involved a good deal of paperwork.

  “We have designers working around the clock to perfect engines of war that will shake London to its foundations,” Levitski explained. “Literally.”

  At last, they finished up in a large office set out with tattered armchairs that looked as if they had been pillaged from an abandoned gentleman’s club in the world above. A man in a frockcoat stood by a fireplace in which a mound of coals glowed. He was tall and gaunt, with a black moustache that he had waxed and curled. He had been speaking to two other men in greasy overalls and low caps. One had a spanner protruding from his pocket. Upon seeing the newcomers, he dismissed the men and they left.