Everfair (17 page)

“Just a half-mile or so more,” Jackie announced, upon unexpectedly meeting George's piercing gaze.

They passed a pastry-maker's establishment with tables and chairs on the pavement, in imitation of a Parisian caf
é
. The boy's pace slowed, and Jackie remembered how few chances he must have had to feed himself while traveling. “Mind if we make a stop here?” he asked. “I'd forgotten my dinner till now, and Mrs. Hoate generally doesn't serve anything in the way of refreshment before evening.”

“No, I—”

“It shall be my treat. Come, now.” He held open the shop door. After several seconds, the boy consented to enter.

They split a pork and apple pie accompanied by weak cider. Their server, a sturdy-boned woman of middle years, brought it out to them on a tray laden with china, glasses, and cutlery, and left as soon as she'd been paid.

Public though the spot was, Jackie judged it safe enough to talk. Though he kept himself to inconsequential topics while the boy dispatched his fair portion of the pie, and let him drink a third of his drink.

Then he got to the nub of things. “You did not see your sister die.” Best to be blunt.

“No. No, sir. But I have no doubt—I saw—I did see her—remains.” Beneath its tan the boy's face paled.

“But as to how she died—”

“No doubt,” George repeated. “Murdered by Leopold's men. There were witnesses, reliable witnesses to that.”

Sorrow and triumph mingled in Jackie's emotions. Communication with the region was not secure, and he'd been unable to stress the importance of clarity on this point. “You have no qualms about appearing as a speaker? About countering any claims that might be made by our opposition?”

The boy shook his head. “It's what she would have wanted, sir,” he mumbled to his crumb-strewn plate.

Not, perhaps, as commanding a figure as Wilson. But a white, which would open certain important doors to him. And young. Teachable. Handsome, of course.

They began that night, in Mrs. Hoate's parlor, at the meeting of the Fabian Society he'd called when the wire warning of George's arrival came. His own rooms were too incommodious for a gathering of more than five people, and this was eight. Ellen Albin acted as secretary in her husband Laurie's absence, as she had for the eight months of his prolonged illness.

With a bit of prompting, Lily Albin's brother told the story of her death quite affectingly, placing the blame for it on the head of the tyrant, where it ultimately belonged. Jackie's proposed itinerary for him met with complete consent. He was also able to arrange for the Society to pay travel costs, as he'd expected when asking—no more than a formality, given his importance.

After the room emptied, Mrs. Hoate emerged from her sewing corner to survey her precious furnishings for damage and Jackie escorted his prot
é
g
é
to the second floor, where he would lodge. The serving girl, Polly—Mrs. Hoate's niece—had already been in and left the boy's one small piece of luggage.

“You'll be comfortable,” he assured George, watching him pace between the bed and washstand. “Not much difference between this and your shipboard quarters, I believe.”

The boy turned and traced a new path, window to wardrobe. “This is larger.” A pause. “And it feels—much higher up.”

Nothing to be done about that. “W.C. is the next door down, to your left.” A moment of doubt; would he remember how to use a toilet? “Shall I show you?”

An enigmatic smile lit George's face. “Thank you, but that's not at all necessary.”

“Is there anything I can get for you before retiring, then? I'm in the apartments right below you and fronting on the street. If you find you require something, never mind the hour: send the girl or come and knock yourself—”

“Have you paper for writing letters? Envelopes, and so forth?”

Astonished by the simplicity of the boy's request, Jackie strode off to comply. Returning, he saw through the partially open door how George had set a few books on the wardrobe's flat top. Creaking hinges betrayed Jackie as he stepped in. The boy started as if caught stealing, banging an arm against the wardrobe door. The books and an indistinctly seen, unframed photograph propped next to them—he got the impression of a seated female—fell over.

“Here you are.” Jackie offered the boy a pile of stationery and a pen. “Anything more?”

George made no attempt to right the books or portrait, but took the supplies from him immediately. “Will I be able to buy postage to Africa? Or—how do you manage your correspondence with Everfair?”

Of course. The boy was writing to his mother. “Let me take care of it for you at the offices when we go in tomorrow morning.”

At breakfast, George ate only oatmeal, seeming bemused by Mrs. Hoate's eggs and sausages. Jackie supposed they weren't the most African of foods.

They waited briefly on the street for the omnibus, time being too short for a repeat of yesterday's strolling walk. “I nearly forgot!” George exclaimed. He reached inside his worsted jacket for a thick, unsealed envelope and gave it to Jackie.

The envelope was not addressed to Daisy. An unused strip of the new adhesive gum coated its open flap, but Jackie didn't close it himself, merely tucking it into his own inner pocket.

The 'bus came. It was crowded; even the “garden seats” on top were taken. Jackie and George stood surrounded by men and women on their way to work, so no more was said till they arrived.

Upon his most recent return from the colony, Jackie had taken up residence at Mrs. Hoate's and acquired, at Matty Jamison's urging, the business offices housing the Society's campaign against Leopold. Matty opined that established offices gave the enterprise an air of credibility. The playwright was paying for them, so naturally, Jackie—and thus the Society's trustees—humoured him.

Climbing the stairs to their prime first-storey location, Jackie grinned and ushered the boy ahead of him. A brass plaque screwed to the outer door proclaimed the premises as those of the “Inter-Benevolent Anti-Dishumanitarian League,” a new organization Jackie had created to orchestrate the actions of the many disparate groups—some in fact sponsored by churches—the Fabians had forged into a movement aimed at Leopold's defeat. His total and utter defeat.

Inside the door lay a warren of rooms meant to be divided up according to the importance of their occupants. Jackie had demolished this hierarchicalist notion, placing his desk in the first and smallest room. Filing cabinets and deep shelves lined most of the walls, with maps pinned above them. The back room, intended for the chiefest officer of whichever enterprise claimed these apartments, he'd filled with a broad-topped table and hard-backed chairs. Here he bestowed George, giving him materials with which to prepare a more formal speech than last night's.

For privacy's sake, Jackie then repaired to the floor's washroom.

The letter was addressed to “Mistress Martha Livia Hunter Albin, Lusambo, Everfair, Central Africa.” But the opening salutation ran: “My darling Wife…”

Jackie held the pages aside, considering whether to continue. He'd had no scruples previously, but they emerged upon learning now that the letter was personal—had the woman actually
married
the boy? Surely Daisy must have had some say in the matter?

The door's knob rattled as someone tried unsuccessfully to enter. He thrust his guilt aside and began again.

My darling Wife,

I have arrived safely in England, thanks in great part to the Reverend Lieutenant's warnings. We took on threats, besides coal and more provisions at Freetown, in the person of a business agent for a concern dedicated to the manufactur of bicycles in Lyon. This smoky-sounding enterprise was called either “Brummages Freres” or “Clement et Compagnie”—the gentleman made diffrent answers to me and to the ship's purser on this head. Perfectly innocent if it was true, but no explanation for him entering my cabin late on our first night out. I don't believe his tale of thinking it was his own. He wasn't
that
drunk—probably wasn't drunk at all.

But don't worry, I was awake and waiting for him. Had my knife out, pretending as if to trim my nails—in the dark! That sent him off mighty speedy!

Well, I kept my wits about me, and I won't bore you with what were most likely his other attempts, but will only say that I got a rope to rig up my door so even if he had the key it wouldn't open for him, and took care never to sit at his table during mess. So you see I mean to return to you and hold you to your promises. And then you'll finally realize I really love you and am not just infatchuated.

As for Mr. Owen, he's friendly as before, so maybe he don't know about you and me. So I've left this letter open so he'll have no trouble reading it—

Here Jackie flushed with chagrin, but persevered grimly, since he was near the letter's end.

—and will mark if he treats me worse afterwards. Though he doesn't seem to turn up his nose at my mother despite her affaire with Mlle. Toutournier, who as you say admits to being mixed.

A deeper flush.

At any rate I suppose it's inevittable that a spymaster like he is figures a way to find out everything, so better to expect he will from the start and play along with him.

The last page after this is my copying down of the schedule he has set up for me to go around speaking about Lily, and the names of people I am to meet with. There does seem some overlap with your list.

I have tried my best not to tire you with “romantickal schoolboy effusions” like you asked. It is hard, but I am grateful for what time we have had together and the hope for
more soon,
and will close with,

My deepest and most
patient
adoration,

Your husband,

George Albin

 

Loka, Everfair, to Yaoundé, Cameroon, August 1899

At his word, men flew.

King Mwenda wondered if his success since Kinshasa meant he had regained his spirit father's favored course. First in Bangui, now here, soldiers he had recruited floated down from hovering aircanoes to fight Leopold's fleeing invaders. Each wore a jumpsheet: one thin cloth-and-rubber wing tied to his back. Astride the steam bicycle his paddlers had moments ago unloaded and rolled up the Ubangi River's banks, the king stared searchingly at the patch of dark, dark blue visible above the looming trees. There! A black figure descended slowly, dangling below his wing, vulnerable—but no lights shone upward yet from the unsuspecting town.

Only three more men flew down before the shots and shouting started. Mwenda yearned to join the battle. But look at what had happened to him last time he gave in to so typical a young man's urge: capture and imprisonment, with the Poet Daisy's daughter dying during his rescue. And he had lost his right hand due to the tightness of his bonds. Yes, the new arm the Mah-Kow Tink provided served to impress those Mwenda talked to with his allies' prowess. There would have been other ways to do that, though, without so much suffering.

He had been warned. He had learned to listen.

Sighing, still reluctant, the king turned away. His path lay westward, in the opposite direction from besieged Mbandaka. He and his attendants could have gone by aircanoe, but Mwenda had rejected the suggestion: it wouldn't have allowed his subjects to feel his presence among them. Travel upon rivers would have been easier; however, those were watched. Captain Tombo had advised against them, and the king had listened, though according to Fih-rank, the white coming with them to take care of the bicycles, the machines' maker Winthrop wouldn't like that the machines stayed so wet for so long.

It took sixteen days—four full markets—till they reached Weh-Sso, on the swamp's far side. Men who lived in this land had led them through by the driest trails they knew, which meant a considerable time. The distance was nearly as far from Weh-Sso to the rendezvous at Souankay, but that part of the journey lasted only eleven days. They were able to ride the bicycles more frequently than they pushed them, for the earth was less mirey. The noise of their engines was the only worry, as they were nearer the Dja River's—now called the Ngoko—course than was truly safe. Any of Leopold's thieves sailing there might overhear them. The king worried about that only a little, trusting in his spirit father's protection. But he did worry.

At last one morning they arrived upon higher ground: cultivated fields rose in gentle ripples above the forest's lingering shade. Empty houses were dispersed among them. This was another magic the king's commands had worked: towns full of people had become invisible. Even those not sworn to be his subjects.

Potential recruits awaited them in a shallow valley near the highest hill's crown. Gratefully, Mwenda breathed in the cool air. Fih-rank assisted him to dismount, and another attendant set forth his throne. He assumed his seat, Captain Tombo standing to his side.

This was a small group: only two hands of hands. Men and women both. No young children; that was good.

“You are all prepared to kill and die?” asked Captain Tombo. “Or have you any questions?”

Of course they had many. Fih-rank demonstrated the power of the bicycle, riding it around the gathering in faster and faster circles. But most fighters wouldn't be using these, since so few of the machines were yet available. In answer to brave offers from prospects willing to try riding one, the captain unrolled instead a sample jumpsheet. Broad as half their meeting space, its thin fabric rattled softly in the morning's breeze. The hardened tears coating it made the barkcloth impenetrable to the air.

A round-bellied maiden fingered the material thoughtfully. “This is wonderfully beaten!” she said. “So thin—nice and even, too! But why haven't any women painted designs on it?”

“They have,” Captain Tombo explained. “But Queen Josina conceived that the blessing decorations and their background could both be rendered in black. She caused gardenia juice to be added to all the vine tears used. You may sense what has been drawn by touch.”