Peregrine
I remembered stepping through the portal of the Green door high above the artificial harbour, and then, nothing. Now I found myself standing beside a slow-moving, narrow drainage channel that ran alongside a cobbled highway, with no idea how I had arrived there.
The channel was congested with foul-smelling waste; a sudden flurry of brown rain peppered the surface of the sludge, but my mind was blank, and it hardly registered.
The sound of muffled voices pierced through the mist in my mind. I raised my head and saw a drab procession of shabbily dressed people shuffling along the damp pavement. I was generally ignored, but a few glanced my way, dull-eyed and incurious, not breaking step.
This passive acceptance of my presence was reassuring, and as I relaxed, my memory slowly returned. If the conductor was right, I had stepped into an alternate London—Victorian-era, grim and unfamiliar. But why here? And more pressingly—why me?
I had landed in a poor quarter of that grand Victorian city, the capital of England, where wealth and poverty existed side by side, yet were utterly separated. I stepped over a torn newspaper, its headlines boasting of empire while beggars huddled beneath the archways. The church upheld the establishment's order, preaching that poverty was God's will. Many believed the poor had only themselves to blame—idleness and weak morals being the supposed causes.
A coal-darkened sky cast a grey shadow across the mean streets, and amidst the dull brown of conformity, a sudden flash of bright red was as unexpected as a rose bush in a midden. It was also a warning, and my leg muscles tightened; a reflex action that prepared me for immediate flight.
Any out-of-place artefact in a portal world signals caution, and red means imminent danger. Sure enough, it was the scarlet tunic of an armed soldier that had attracted my attention, the steel blade of his drawn sword reflecting the fading rays of a sullen afternoon sun. His uniform was in disarray, and his chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. He had been running, but whoever he had been chasing had given him the slip, and now he was carefully scrutinising every man who passed him by.
There was no doubt that I was his quarry, and I turned my face away in an attempt to blend in with the crowd, flinching at the sound of hooves drumming along the cobbled road. I feared that it was the arrival of mounted reinforcements, but to my relief, a horse-drawn hansom cab with huge wheels clattered towards me; the cabman, well muffled against the elements, sat in the rear, whip and reins in hand.
As the hansom rattled past, a woman wearing a wide-brimmed black bonnet adorned with ribbons pressed her face against the inside window of the passenger compartment. She stared straight at me, even turning her head to keep me in view as the cab disappeared into the distance.
Why was she looking at me?
Was it my style of clothing that had caught her attention? I checked my appearance and was surprised to find I was wearing a long black overcoat that reached down to my boots and an ill-fitting bowler hat that nearly covered my ears. None of it belonged to me, and I had no idea where it had come from.
A search through the heavy topcoat yielded no clues about the identity of my unknown benefactor, but a black scarf in an inside pocket turned out to be useful. I wrapped it like a bandanna around my lower face to protect against the bad air.
My earliest conscious memory was waking up beside the road, but something must have happened before that which I no longer remembered.
I needed to find a hiding spot to collect my thoughts, so I slipped into the shadow of a decaying tenement to focus on what I knew.
The unmistakable dome of St. Paul's Cathedral loomed in the distance, and the style of the hansom cab, the fashionable hat worn by the woman, and the dress of the passers-by reassured me that I was in Victorian London. A fog was descending, one of the notorious 'pea-soupers,' that painted the polluted atmosphere in muddy shades of yellow and green. A woman in a shabby black dress, not wearing a coat in this freezing weather, hurried past with a pale-faced infant clutched in her arms. The child, wrapped in a filthy sheet, looked near death, a grim reminder that this was a time of great deprivation for the vast underclass who lived in the capital city of the richest and most powerful nation on Earth.
I rejoined the surge of pedestrians and let them carry me along in the flow; it may as well be this way as any other, and a blackened sign on a brick wall read, Borough of Lambeth. The dense crowd filtered onto a huge bridge and down a broad pavement beside a road thick with horse-drawn traffic.
Down below, the dark waters of the Thames lapped against the bridge supports in an uneven rhythm. The wide river was a busy thoroughfare, and its surface was packed with working boats of all kinds. In the rapidly fading light, crewmen lit warning lanterns at the stern of each boat, creating an effect as if a multitude of red poppies had suddenly bloomed on the water in hazy crimson patterns. I crossed my arms to keep warm; the night air was much colder in this exposed spot, and the damp mist had chilled me to the bone.
The fog lifted over the Thames, and even at twilight, it was possible to see details of the passing traffic, mainly steam-powered vessels carrying cargo or passengers, with an oilskin-clad Waterman steering. Oar-powered skiffs, familiar in the summer, also moved about, but they were of the commercial type; none of those hard-pulling skiffs were on the water for leisure.
My understanding of the social conditions in London during the nineteenth century was mostly theoretical—until now, but what I observed confirmed everything I had read. The people crossing the bridge on foot appeared poor, and the foul smell of unwashed bodies wafted from their dense ranks, a unpleasant sign of the lack of proper nutrition, clean water, and overcrowded, unsanitary housing conditions, not to mention the spread of contagious diseases.
Pale faces, hollow cheeks, and weary eyes—many limping, others carrying disfigurements, and all noticeably short in stature. London's streets told stories of hunger and hardship at every glance.
These physical differences allowed Victorian society to identify the poor as a subclass, an inferior breed, unable to prosper because of a deficient nature. A convenient and completely dishonest justification for supporting a rigid class system that not only condemned these unfortunate people to a life of poverty but also denied them the chance to escape their squalid existence by education.
Exclusion from the best schools or access to higher-level training guaranteed the dominance of the upper classes from generation to generation, sustained by inherited wealth and privilege.
The crowd on the bridge was mostly self-absorbed and silent, but I found the little conversation that I did hear almost impossible to understand. The brief snatches of conversation were in English, but the accent confused me, and I could only recognise the occasional word or short phrase. Once, I heard a child asking his mother for the name of the bridge and understood her reply of 'Westminster.'
Many of the people on the bridge were on their way home from work at the end of this cold winter day. But some were so ill-clad and impoverished looking that I guessed that home for them was nothing more than a doorway or a temporary construction of some sort. It also served as a reminder that I might join them unless my circumstances improved, but I need not have worried; help was at hand.
I hunched forward against the cold, and my numb fingers brushed against the surface of what felt like a heavy leather purse in the folds of my pocket. I carefully eased the purse out, not wanting to attract attention, and gently loosened the drawstrings.
The yellow light cast by the gas lamp above me illuminated the gleam of gold or silver coins and the dull brown patina of copper pennies. It seemed that somebody had anticipated my arrival and given me the means to survive, but my decision to enter the portal had been my own, or so I thought.
I now possessed enough money to pay my way in this unwelcoming city, but the unnerving sensation that somebody was standing too close behind me made the hairs rise on my neck, and I clutched the purse closer to my chest.
"Spare tuppence for a cup of tea and a wad, governor? Ain't had a bite since morning."
It was a boy of about fifteen whose sharp ears must have caught the faint jingle of coins, and I furtively drew the purse shut before examining him more closely. He wore a pair of torn trousers, a jacket two sizes too small for him, and a grubby shirt with no vest. Around his neck was a white cloth, artistically knotted so that it hung to one side, giving him a jaunty, piratical appearance. On his feet were a pair of old boots stuffed with newspapers to make them fit and provide insulation against the cold.
He was skinny but looked to have a wiry strength about him, and I sensed that there was more to this youth than first met the eye. His complexion might be sallow, but he had a strong face with unexpected blue eyes that did not drop under my scrutiny.
I eyed him cautiously. "You alone?"
Jack smirked, adjusting his scarf. "Sole trader, Governor. Ain't no crew lurking in the shadows if that's what you're asking."
I decided to take a chance.
"Show me where I can get food and lodging, and I'll pay you."
"I'm game. Just two questions, Gov. How much and when do I get it?"
"I'll buy you some food if we find somewhere to eat, and a silver coin when I find lodgings."
"Fair enough, follow me. Jack's me name," he said over his shoulder.