Lessons From Underground Page 13

  In Mombasa, British East Africa, our next port of call, we learned of some grave news. Disaster had befallen the RMS Titanic. Approaching the United States of America, the liner had struck an iceberg and sunk under the sea, with thousands lost. I thought of all the faces I had seen, all the people I had smiled at, and wondered how many of them had been rescued—if any at all.

  “Do you suppose it was Aurelian’s doing?” I said. “Was it a trap for us?”

  “I think not,” Mr. Scant said, grim-faced. “It doesn’t strike me as something he could possibly have arranged, even had he wanted to murder all those people just to get to us.”

  “He could have laid a curse on the boat,” said the Valkyrie. “His mother would often put hexes on people.”

  “Curses don’t work,” said Mr. Scant. “May God rest all those souls.”

  Mombasa was a busy port city with a railway, though nobody seemed to know where the railway went. Since we’d arrived on a steamship, people at the port expected we’d have much to trade. Everyone we met was surprised when we said we were only passing through. Brightly colored houses filled the city, all yellows and blues, which Mr. Jackdaw said was the Portuguese style. “The Portuguese came and took it from the local people, then the Arab sultans came and took it from the Portuguese,” he explained as we walked through a busy market.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said, “we British came and took it from the sultans.”

  “Not quite. First the Portuguese got control again. Then the sultans once again took it back. But they were close allies of the British at that point, so they leased the city to our own East Africa Company. No violence involved.”

  “Not by us, anyway,” Mr. Scant said.

  “Not this time,” said Mr. Jackdaw, with his usual bright smile.

  “Not yet.”

  Before we left Mombasa, I spent some time walking around the city’s port area. Stopping at a market stall, I ate a curious dish with scraps of pork and many beans in a thick, flavorsome sauce. It was unlike anything I had eaten before, and though I wasn’t sure about it at first, by the time I finished my plate I wanted more.

  We returned to the boat with a newspaper from England, which I read again and again. There was also mention of Miss Quimby, on page six. She had completed her flight to France, the first woman to do so in an aeroplane. But I wasn’t sure anyone would ever learn of her feat. The paper gave it only a little space beside all the information about how the unsinkable came to be sunk.

  After another two days, we reached our destination, off the coast of Madagascar. The waters were calm, and the heat had become less maddening as we had traveled south. The night before, I had been almost entirely unable to sleep, with the heat, the motion of the waves, the sound of the steamship’s engine, and especially my thoughts of the ocean liner plunging into the depths. So I struggled to stay awake as the balloon was inflated. This new one stood somewhere between a dirigible and a hot air balloon, from what I could tell. It didn’t have the rigid frame of a dirigible, but despite the burner at its center, it was much more sophisticated than a simple balloon. And from the crates Mr. Beards had left us, we could assemble a whole gondola rather than just a basket.

  “This is it, then,” said Mr. Scant. “If anyone wants to turn back, this is the time.”

  “There’s no turning back,” I said. “Not now that we’ve come this far.”

  “Quite right,” said Mr. Jackdaw.

  “I wouldn’t mind going back to Mombasa,” the Valkyrie said. “I liked it there. But I gave my word, and I’ll help you until the end.”

  “It may have been peaceful so far,” Mr. Scant said, his hand on the bag containing his golden claw, “but the Cape is another world altogether.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  XXI

  Arrival

  Scant and Mr. Jackdaw took on the task of navigating us, while the Valkyrie and I stayed at opposite corners of the ship’s front side, looking out of the large windows.

  “Do you remember our last encounter in a balloon?” I said to the Valkyrie.

  “All too well. I may not have shown it, but at the time, I was terrified I’d be carried off into the sky.”

  “Are you afraid of heights?”

  “Not particularly. I’m afraid of falling to my death.”

  “I suppose that’s normal,” I said.

  The Valkyrie looked out to the horizon. There was no sign of land yet. All we could see was a deep, shifting blue for miles ahead.

  “I’ve always been fascinated by air balloons, to tell you the truth,” the Valkyrie said. “A balloon hangs in the air, refusing to accept that it should fall. And we hang underneath it like puppets held up on strings. Maybe that fits me well, eh? I’m not a real Valkyrie, just a sort of puppet. But I’m all done with letting other people pull the strings.”

  She looked over at me to see what I made of that.

  “What on Earth are you going on about?” I said with a smile.

  The Valkyrie’s laugh was loud enough I felt sure it changed the course of the balloon just a little.

  “I think you know,” she said. “And if you really don’t, you’ll see when we get to where we’re going.”

  When we first landed at the Cape Colony, I thought we were only stopping to rest or find supplies. There was nothing to see in the place where we’d touched down. Only dust and a few skinny trees and a trail toward what may have been a village off in the distant haze. So Mr. Scant surprised me when he said we were waiting for the balloon to collapse.

  “Why do we need it to deflate?” I asked.

  “I’m not just going to leave it on the roadside,” said Mr. Scant. “It could cause a lot of problems if it blows into a field. But if we pack it up, some lucky passer-by will probably take it to be sold. I had Mr. Beards write a note saying they have permission to do so.”

  “But don’t we need it to carry on?”

  “No,” said Mr. Scant. “From here, we walk.”

  “But this can’t be Cape Town,” I said. “There’s nothing here.”

  “It’s not Cape Town,” said Mr. Scant. “We were never going to Cape Town. That’s may be where Aurelian’s steamer was going, but Hunter said he was taking the diamond home. That doesn’t mean Cape Town or his hometown in America or even in the Transvaal where the diamond was first found. He means Kimberley. We have a much better chance of finding and stopping them there, where just maybe I can ask some old friends for favors.”

  “It’s probably changed a lot since you were last here, old bean,” Mr. Jackdaw said.

  “No doubt,” said Mr. Scant. “And not for the better.”

  “Why did we have to land so far from the city?” I asked.

  “We don’t want to draw too much attention,” said Mr. Scant.

  After taking the time to get all the balloon parts back into their crates, we began the walk toward the distant smudge of buildings.

  “I’ve never seen such an empty place,” said the Valkyrie.

  “Be on your guard nonetheless,” said Mr. Scant.

  “This is still British territory, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “That doesn’t mean it’s safe,” said Mr. Scant.

  “Even for Britons?”

  “Even for armed Britons.”

  The trudge down the road was not pleasant. The heat outdid any summer’s day in England, and a profusion of flies filled the air around us. To the eyes, the nose, the tongue, everything was unendingly dry. The rest of us removed our jackets and loosened our shirts in the heat, but Mr. Scant doggedly kept his black jacket and ribbon bowtie on.

  The Kimberley outskirts came upon us all at once. I had indeed underestimated the kind of a place this was. It wasn’t so different from a town back in England, with shops and houses and even a tram.

  “I wasn’t sure whether it would be all shanties or whether it would be like Shanghai,” I said. “It’s not like either.”

  “The people don’t look very h
appy to see us,” said the Valkyrie. She had taken her leather satchel off her back in case she needed her cleavers.

  The locals I saw mostly closed their shutters if we noticed them inside the buildings, or they passed by with their heads low if they were on the road. Some glanced at us furtively, with anger in their eyes.

  “They’re very different from the people in Mombasa,” I observed.

  “Does that surprise you?” said Mr. Jackdaw. “It oughtn’t to. Would you be surprised if the people you meet in Paris are different from those you meet in Prague?”

  “It’s not because this is another country,” I said, a little defensively. “It’s . . . I don’t know, really.”

  “Consider this,” Mr. Jackdaw said. “Mombasa existed before the British, before the Portuguese or the sultans. It will go on existing after any of them are gone. New Rush was nothing before the diamonds. Almost every man here has come for one of two reasons—to labor in the pits or to profit from that labor.”

  “I still don’t understand why Aurelian would come here,” I said. “Will there really be people here who can buy the diamond?”

  “Enough buyers, certainly,” Mr. Scant said. “But more than that, I suspect this is Aurelian making a statement. This is not about money to him. It’s about defying the Crown. But I also think this is aimed at me.”

  “You? Why?”

  Of course, Mr. Scant would say no more about it.

  Once we reached a certain part of town, he was increasingly on his guard. The others probably didn’t notice, but I began to see him scrutinize every face that passed. We saw more and more people of other nationalities, some whites and occasionally people from India too. The whites were almost all well-dressed, followed by dark-skinned attendants who were also much better-dressed than the rest of the townspeople. Mr. Scant was my family’s attendant, and people usually treated him with respect. But I wondered if these men could say the same.

  “They have electric street lamps,” Mr. Jackdaw observed, sounding impressed.

  “They’ve had them for thirty years,” said Mr. Scant. “You need to stop thinking of Kimberley as some backward village. It may not be Oxford Street, but this is a city built for function. If any latest technology has a use in the mining trade, you can expect to find it here.”

  “Has it changed much since you were last here?” I asked.

  “Yes. Everything is more developed. A lot more people, a lot more buildings. I read that they have a Savoy Hotel now. But the feeling—it feels just the same as it used to.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “This way.”

  I was reminded of Shanghai as we walked further into the city. Kimberley had more markets, more large buildings, but also piles of refuse and a number of large tents that seemed to have been set up as permanent lodgings. We began to pass people sitting in doorways, watching us with doleful eyes.

  “That poor fellow has no arms,” I said, spotting a man sitting at the dividing point between two stores. The man’s sleeves were tied off at his shoulders, his head mostly bald but for a few patches of tightly curled white hair that stood out against his dark skin.

  “He probably lost them in the mines,” said Mr. Scant.

  “What does he do to live?” I said.

  “Whatever he can, I suppose.”

  I paused. “They use pounds and pence here, don’t they? I want to give him some money.”

  “He doesn’t have a bowl,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “He’s not a beggar. You might insult him.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least ask him?” I said.

  “Are you going to help every injured man you see?” Mr. Scant said. “It will take a lifetime. And when you help the last man, all the rest will need your help again.”

  “I’m not trying to change the world,” I said. “I just want to help this man, right now, today. If he wants me to help.”

  Mr. Scant nodded, so I finally approached the man. “Hello,” I said, squatting down in front of him.

  “Who’s this?” said the man.

  “My name’s Oliver,” I said. “What’s yours?”

  “They call me Sam,” said the man. He had an accent, but it was not difficult to understand him.

  “Mr. Sam?”

  He laughed. “Sure, Mr. Sam.”

  “Did you lose your arms in the mines?” I asked.

  For some reason, this question seemed to cheer him up. “That I did. What, do I look scary to you?” He laughed. “Don’t be scared of me. Broke them because of some rocks knocking down a place where we stood. Doc said they have to come off. So here I sit and help where I can. I’m lucky. I got my brother. He runs this shop. I spot the regulars coming and tell him what he should get ready for them.”

  “Was it very painful, losing your arms?”

  “Oh, pain like you never knew.” He laughed again.

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Now there’s no more pain. When I remember that pain, and I remember I don’t have the pain now, well, I feel okay. Only bad part is when I get an itch.”

  “I wondered if you wanted some money,” I said. “I know you’re not begging, but I thought it might help.”

  “Oh, now there’s big talk from the young man! Sometimes people say to me they want to give me money. They feel sorry for me, I know. I know. So I’ll tell you the same thing I tell them. If you want to pay me for a job, I’ll do it. I won’t say no, but I’d rather be useful.”

  That sounded reasonable. I stood up and turned to the adults. “Mr. Scant?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where are we going?” I asked. “What road?”

  “Well, for now we’ll go to the Kimberley station. Our final destination isn’t far from there.”

  I turned back to the man I had been speaking to. “Will you take us to the station for sixpence, Mr. Sam?”

  “I don’t see why not,” he said graciously. He got up and told his brother in the shop that he had a little job to do. “This way,” he said, and began to walk ahead of us.

  I went to join the others. “I’m sure you know the way, but I just thought it was a good thing to do,” I said to Mr. Scant.

  “No doubt,” said Mr. Scant. “There’s nothing wrong with helping where you can.”

  Emboldened, I went to talk to Mr. Sam. He told me about life in the mines, which sounded terrible. “Children used to work in the mines in England,” I told him.

  “Oh, they put a stop to that there, did they?” said Mr. Sam.

  “I think so.”

  He laughed. “You don’t know.”

  We reached the station before long. As promised, I slipped the sixpence into the little bag Mr. Sam had strung about his neck, and he soon went running back to where we had met. “He was a nice fellow,” I told the others. “You should have spoken with him.”

  “Next time,” said Mr. Scant.

  Mr. Jackdaw wasn’t smiling his usual smile. “Are you done playing savior from on high? We’re here with a mission—to recover that diamond.”

  “He took us where we were meant to go,” I replied. “Maybe it made us quicker.”

  There was a pause, and then the smile reappeared. “Forgive my being brusque,” Mr. Jackdaw said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket. “A little too hot for me, I think.”

  “You can say that again,” said the Valkyrie. She shaded her eyes with one hand as she walked, as if doing some kind of salute. “I’ll need some water soon, if it doesn’t slow us down too much.”

  “Oh, but of course refreshments will be necessary in conditions such as these!” Mr. Jackdaw said. “Your comfort is of paramount importance to me.”

  We stopped at a little counter in the station to try red bush tea. We took it without milk or sugar, as was the custom, but it tasted smooth and delicious to my parched throat. Following that, we continued on past the other side of the city’s railroad tracks.

  “Where are we actually going?” said Mr. Jackdaw. “
I don’t suppose all underground diamond sales take place at the same address?”

  “No,” said Mr. Scant. “The one who has the diamond is my old teacher, Hunter the Just. We’re going to find him. And we’ll do that by speaking with the one person I’m certain will know where he is.”

  “Wait, are we going to the school?” I asked. “It’s been years. Are you sure everything will be the same?”

  “I’m sure,” said Mr. Scant. “That’s the way she is.”

  “She might not even still be alive,” I said.

  “That just goes to show you’ve never met her.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Mr. Jackdaw asked.

  “Another old friend.”

  The school, like most of the other buildings in this city, was small and simple. It stood only a single story high, not counting its hipped roof. Inside, it couldn’t have fit more than four or five classrooms, if there was an assembly hall and a staff room as well. A wall with iron railings ran around the place, but nothing in the school’s arched gateway served to stop us entering.

  “It’s bigger than it used to be,” said Mr. Scant.

  The hour was late, most likely too late for schoolchildren, and indeed I thought the staff might have gone home as well. But Mr. Scant strode confidently to the front entrance and opened the school door. It was a simple wooden door with a stained glass window, small enough that everyone but me had to duck to step inside.

  “Suthu!” he called. “Are you here? I need to speak with you. Suthu!”

  A creak came from somewhere inside the place. A moment later, a woman appeared, her mouth agape. She was small, only an inch or two taller than me, with short hair—still dark, despite her being sixty or so. Around her neck hung a pair of thin-rimmed glasses. Her skin was lighter than Mr. Sam’s, with a band of freckles across her nose, and something about her face was girlish and mischievous.

  Slowly but steadily, she walked up to Mr. Scant, who cleared his throat and said, “I hope you remember me. It’s H—”