The Prince of Eden (83 page)

It was Eden. Willmot had recognized him. A strange one, that one. Jack Willmot still remembered that cold December night when Eden and his son had signed on and taken over the substructure crew. And from that day to this, the man's labors and efforts had been ceaseless. And he was no young plow either, clearly showing his rust and age.

Yet, how he had worked, and how noisily and eagerly the men clustered around him. If there was general fatigue and grumbling, Eden would set a new pace. If someone faltered, Eden would take his place. If there was hunger, Eden produced bread.

Look at them now. Eden was saying something and where moments before they had been shifting aimlessly about, now they stood with rapt attention, the only movement that of the men around the perimeter of the circle who were trying to move closer to the center.

What was it the men called him? The Prince of Eden? Jack Willmot had no idea where that foolishness had come from. He'd heard dozens

of rumors concerning the man, wild tales that always grew wilder after several pints. One bloke had proclaimed that he knew it for a fact that Edward Eden once had been a very wealthy man.

Recalling that bit of nonsense, Jack Willmot smiled. He'd worked for rich men before and knew the smell and weight and appearance of money. No. While Willmot knew little of substance concerning Edward Eden, he knew most definitely that the man had never been rich.

At that moment the group laughed heartily. A few minutes earlier, many had openly grumbled to Jack Willmot about this last night's work. Now you would have thought they were attending a fete, all talking and laughing and huddled about that fixed center.

All but one. Jack Willmot had spotted him, the man's son, a good worker as well, but definitely not a chip off the original block. The lad kept to himself and now seemed more interested in what was beneath the heavy canvas on top of the wagon than in anything his father was saying.

Well, enough! Put them through their paces, then send them home for the first full night's rest they had had in several months. Now he shouted, "Lad, as long as you're up there, loosen those straps and let's put the pretty to bed, then ourselves as well."

He'd seen the boy swing atop the wagon and decided the time had come. One good last effort, and Jack Willmot's job was done. Tomorrow the grand folk would take over, the Queen and her Albert and all the fancy ladies and gentlemen in their ribbons and striped trousers. Jack Willmot smiled. He felt mildly sorry for them, those grand folks who could never share in the fellowship, the challenge, the sense of a job well done.

"Hie up with you," he shouted to the other men. "The lad can't do it all." And immediately half a dozen men hopped atop the wagon and commenced loosening the ropes interlaced across the heavy canvas. To his left a dozen others guided the winch into place, while behind him he saw about twenty all putting their shoulders to the low iron wagon onto which they would transfer the monster and roll it into the hall.

Damn, but they were good men and he vowed before the night was over to seek each of them out and see if they would be willing to work for him again. Something had made a vast difference with this crew, and while Jack Willmot couldn't identify the difference, he could feel it and wanted to retain it, and if possible, never be far removed from it.

Now pulling his gloves on, he stepped toward the wagon where the crew of eight were just loosening the final rope. As they tugged and pulled the canvas free, all activity ceased as the men stopped and gaped up at the miracle.

Mr. Harrison's Power Loom. In size it matched four pianofortes, though solidly constructed of gleaming black iron, a mass of interwork-ing parts, pistons, bobbins, and levers, and fronting it all, two massive black rollers the length of two stalwart men.

The sense of awe was profound and shared by all. Several men from the winch crew hopped onto the wagon and encircled the wonder, while the lad, Eden's son, was clearly transfixed. Willmot saw his face in the flickering torches. Never had he seen such a rapt expression as one hand reached timidly forward to touch the rollers.

At last Willmot came to his senses. "Well, she ain't going to hop down and move herself in, mates. Let's be about it. I'll treat you all to a pint if she's sitting where she belongs within the hour."

The offer was received with hearty enthusiasm, and within the moment, he saw all the men scrambling, all except the Eden lad, who seemed loath to leave the side of the machine.

"Clear the way," Willmot shouted. "Are the chains in place?"

One of the men shouted that they were. Good! At least they didn't have to lift her first. Now it would be a simple matter to attach the winch to the chains, lift her up, and deposit her on the iron wagon, then round up the grazing horses and let them drag her into Exhibition Hall.

Then apparently all was ready. He saw the men manning the winch standing a distance away, the heavy chain coiled round and round the drum, a bit of a miracle itself, thought Willmot, as, at a signal from the men on top of the wagon, the lever was pulled and the powerful engine roared, the drum turning, the chains pulling against the awful weight of the machine.

From all sides now he heard the men shouting, as though with their voices they might aid the giant which was beginning to rise into the air from the bed of the wagon. Willmot heard the high-pitched scream of the winch as it performed its labor, saw smoke slipping out from one side of the drum.

"Douse it!" he shouted to the crew near the winch. "Keep it wet, or she'll burn up on you." Still the Power Loom rose higher and higher, all faces upturned.

"To the left!" someone shouted. "Then leave her be."

It was suspended now at a height to clear the wagon. Willmot watched carefully as the men pushed the iron platform into place. "Not too close!" he shouted. "Give her room to swing."

The men followed his command, then continued to stand directly beneath the area where the loom would shortly be lowered. "Move back!" he cried out. Gawd! They were getting careless, and with

gloomy concentration, he watched as they scrambled backward.

What was that? He smelled something then. Fire? He looked frantically about. The winch. "Water!" he cried, and again the men working the winch doused the smoke. Still there was the smell of burning in the air. They couldn't keep it suspended forever.

"Lower away," he shouted now. "Easy, not so—"

Suddenly there was a ringing in his ears, the sound growing to a mechanical scream. He glanced up and saw the Power Loom beginning to shift in its swing. Still it swung, a great, black lump, airborne and out of its element.

Had no one else seen it? The smoke from the winch was growing thicker and at that moment he saw a flame shoot out from the drum.

Gawd, no! The loom was tipping. "Get back!" he shouted, but somehow felt that the command had not been loud enough to be heard over the scream of the winch. There was a hoarse cry from atop the wagon, other voices joining it. Magnetized by the imminent catastrophe. Jack Willmot ran forward, then instantly was driven back as the monster slipped from its cradle of chains, tilting first one way, then the other, as though in that instant she had a mind of her own. As another tongue of flame shot up from the winch, Willmot saw a group of men still dangerously within the fall area, all scrambling, trying to outrace the inevitable.

"Move!" he screamed.

But then the night air was rent with a rumble; the chains slipped and there came a crash of deafening explosion as though walls were falling and ceilings. Willmot's ears were bursting with the roar and hiss of flames and the terrified shouts of the men. He closed his eyes, then quickly opened them to the sight of hovering clouds of smoke, there folding over into black masses, there drawing out and lighting up with gleaming sparks, and there the monster loom fallen to earth, its rollers set to spinning by the impact, filling the air with a prolonged scream. The heat and smoke and sound all produced on Willmot the effect of a disastrous conflagration.

All at once he saw the men rushing forward toward the fallen loom, then in the same instant saw them draw back. Willmot held his position a distance away and felt a peculiar weakness coming from the withdrawing men.

Then he was running, pushing the men aside, and when his eyes still had not found anything to recoil from, he pushed farther in until he thought curiously that he might have to scramble over the loom itself if he wanted to see what had sent the men moving slowly backward.

He heard several voices shouting. As he passed, one spoke

breathlessly, "He lingered, sir, I swear I saw it, he lingered till them others was clear, then—'*

Now he saw. Oh God, now he saw and instantly denied it and tried to turn away, but the men had crowded in behind him, as though he somehow could set it to rights, could raise the powerful loom and free the man who lay crushed beneath it.

Willmot continued to stare down. The man's face was so quiet. Willmot could not comprehend the stillness, nothing moving save for the small red trickle which slipped from the corner of his mouth and disappeared into the shadows of his neck. Now he became aware of the shocked presence of the men, a few weeping openly.

Slowly he bent down as though belatedly aware that some sort of action might still be feasible. Oh God, how mistaken was he there. The trestle was pressed into his chest, and behind it all the awesome weight of the machine itself. Beneath such a force, a man's body would be crushed as a dry leaf in winter.

Behind him he heard the brittle silence broken by a few panting groans. Someone was praying to God in a swift rapid monotone. Still Willmot crouched, staring downward with a sense of horror mingled with loss. He couldn't cry openly like some of his men were doing. He must remain aloof.

Then because he couldn't cry, he raised up suddenly and smashed both fists into the senseless machine, struck it again and again until his knuckles were bleeding and someone turned him forcibly away and directed his attention to the young boy, standing white-faced at the edge of the circle, his face drawn with shock.

Angrily Willmot shook off the hands that had interrupted his assault on the loom. Couldn't they do anything for themselves? Must he do it all? The lad was there for all to see, his need clear, his shock and disbelief equally as clear. Couldn't someone else have guided him gently forward, shown him the face of the man lying crushed beneath the loom?

But if anyone else could have done it, they didn't. The job was left to Jack Willmot, who let the boy cry for several minutes and in the youthful weeping felt life shrinking farther and farther away.

All the other men had joined them now and all stared down upon the boy, cradling his father's head in his lap, his fingers smoothing back the graying hair.

Dear God, they couldn't stand like this forever. The man was dead. Men die every day. They all were mortal. It could have been any one of them. But as Willmot tried to draw together the shattered fragments of his authority and issued a spate of orders for the men to fetch the

other winch, for others to retrieve a piece of canvas in which to wrap the body, and still others to bring around his own wagon, while he was doing all this, he felt something unassailable within him. Why this man? Better if it had been himself.

Although he was not normally a man given to such perceptions, he knew that Fate had played a particularly foolish hand on this night. He looked out across the road at a distance of about twenty yards and saw the boy seated upon the ground, his head down, two men hovering over him.

Behind, he saw the second winch being dragged into place, the men working silently, angrily, the enormous chains reattached with a force that resembled rage. A few moments later the cursed loom was lifted and eased back.

He had no desire to step closer. He'd done enough. Leave it to the others. He felt dead himself. Better to stand still in helpless activity, at least until the feeling passed.

Shortly before midnight, in her low-ceilinged room beneath the attic, Elizabeth was just buttoning the last button on her new frock when outside on the empty street she heard the rattle of a wagon.

Home so soon? Edward had told her that they probably would be working most of the night. Obviously they had finished sooner than they had expected.

Good! She'd fix them both hot soup, then bully them into a warm tub. They must all look their best tomorrow. In a state of almost unbearable excitement, she started hurriedly to unbutton the new dress. It must be a surprise. How she looked forward to seeing both their faces when she appeared in the morning in something other than the worn, always soiled dark blue dresses, remains of her days as a volunteer in the Ragged School.

Quickly her withered hand tried to manipulate the tiny buttons and buttonholes. But she heard footsteps then on the pavement and knew she'd never make the change in time. Well, no matter. She'd give them a glimpse tonight. Perhaps the new gown would impress upon both of them that if they were to accompany her to the Great Exhibition, they must look their best.

Not generally given to vanity, she was rather pleased with what she saw in the glass. How far she'd come. And what a good life she had now. Oh, not easy, not that at all. Sometimes it seemed that all she did was peel spuds and boil joints and fill the outstretched bowls of the people who lined up outside the Common Kitchen from dawn to dusk. Oh yes, she knew fatigue now like she'd never known it before.

Still, the miracle was there, gazing back at her from the distorting mirror, a woman who could read and write and do figures, who'd raised a child, sadly not her own, though she'd managed to keep a portion of joy for herself. She scarcely had any memory at all now of the frightened little package who'd crawled across the soiled straw of the Common Cell and offered herself to Edward Eden.

Edward! She closed her eyes, finding now, as she'd always found, almost unbearable happiness in the name alone. Edward. Were angels named Edward? Or saints? They should be.

Abruptly she made a merry little turn before the glass, fascinated by the manner in which the dress whirled about her. Without looking foolish, she must try to manage a few such turns tomorrow at the Great Exhibition.