Chapter 33
While the driver stood nearby holding the team in place, the two guards shifted the load to an awaiting wagon. The horses seemed pleased with the respite. The trouncers had offloaded the top barrels, setting them aside, and then rolled the bottom ones into the replacement wagon first.
Gunpowder on the bottom, rum on top. Clever, Keats mused.
They’d even removed the leather wrapping from the bottom barrels, customary insurance against stray sparks. Must figure God’s on his side to take that kind of risk. He couldn’t see the man who’d sat next to the driver, and that troubled him. Where had the fellow gone? With the teamster occupied with the horses, that left two men to handle.
Still not good odds.
Keats glanced down Old Montague toward the main road.
Consulting his watch, he glowered. Alastair had been gone for over a quarter of an hour in his search for a constable. This time of night, they should be three deep in Whitechapel. Get a move on it, will you?
There were only a few barrels left in the damaged wagon. If he didn’t act soon, he’d have to follow them without any way of notifying Alastair of their intended destination.
Shifting into his real form, Keats took deep breaths to allow the unsteadiness to pass. He had no weapon, only the hope that his friend would fulfill his part of the bargain. Straightening his jacket and his bowler hat, Keats hiked briskly toward his foes.
Alastair was in a foul mood. By the time he’d found a cop, he’d immediately run into difficulty. The fixed-point constable at Flower and Dean wasn’t inclined to budge.
Anarchists, ya say? Now where might they be? the man asked dubiously.
Green Dragon Place.
Not likely. No reason to be there, sir. Can’t get a wagon through there.
I repeat, they are there and they are unloading a wagon full of rum and gunpowder.
And just who might you be?
Was it wise to give this copper his name? Had the word truly circulated that he wasn’t someone who knifed women for amusement?
I’m… Thinking of Keats’ precarious position, he went for broke, Lord Wescomb. I’ve been working directly with Chief Inspector Fisher of Scotland Yard. Is that suitable enough for you, Constable?
The fellow blanched, swallowed and nodded all at the same time, a feat in itself.
Quite, my lord. I apologize. It is just that your clothes are…
Suitable for where I am, Constable. Send word to Fisher at the Yard. In addition, we will need at least a halfdozen strong-armed men to subdue these fellows. Can you manage that?
A brisk nod. Yes, sir.
Off you go, Constable.
The fellow hesitated for half a second until Alastair delivered a formidable glower and then took to his heels. Alastair hurried back the way he’d come, praying that Keats had chosen not to play the hero.
Keats’ intention to appear unannounced in the Fenians’ midst withered on the vine when an old woman stuck her head out of the window across the street from the wagon.
Oy, you lot, some of us are tryin’ to sleep here! she shouted, unaware her grating voice would wake the dead.
We’re about done, lady, someone called back.
Keats froze. It was Flaherty’s voice.
What ya doin’ here in the middle of the night? the old lady demanded.
Unloading rum. Why do ya care?
Cuz you’re keepin’ me awake, she called back. I’ve a mind to call a rozzer on you.
Flaherty crossed the street in a flash, digging in his pocket.
Here, that should put ya back to sleep, he called and slung a coin heavenward. The old woman deftly caught the disk, examined it in the dim light and then dropped it down her bosom.
Good night to ya, she said, slamming her window.
Flaherty saw Keats the moment he turned around. There was no retreat. Keats began to whistle; no reason to let them know he was scared witless.
The anarchist intercepted him before he reached the wagon.
Good evening, Flaherty, Keats said pleasantly. And what might you gentlemen be up to? Heads appeared around the side of dray.
Just unloading a few barrels, Sergeant Keats, Flaherty said, warning the others they had a cop in their midst.
Pleased to see you’re out of Newgate. How’d they treat you?
Flaherty sneered and spat on the ground. Like a dog. I have you to thank for that.
Keats gave a disinterested shrug. As I told you the last time, you find an honest job, and I’ll not trouble you. He edged closer, sniffing the air. The two guards traded uneasy looks. So what’s in the barrels?
Rum.
Just rum, eh?
Flaherty’s eyes narrowed as his hand edged behind his coat, no doubt in search of a weapon.
At the back of the wagon, the pair of guards shifted uneasily.
Those two don’t know, do they? Keats bluffed.
Know what? one of the trouncers demanded. It was the fellow who’d harassed him earlier.
Keats pointed toward a barrel. About the gunpowder.
The fellow’s eyes grew wide and he backed away. Hell, you didn’t say we were—
Shut your gob! Flaherty ordered. He took another step closer, his hand still behind his coat. Perhaps we can come to terms, copper. Your kind always wants a bit of brass.
And now for the show, ladies and gentlemen.
Keats slowly put his hand in a pocket, concentrated and then pulled it out. He dare not look down, or it’d ruin the illusion.
Flaherty reared back, staring at the gun. It was quite the trick to create an object en mirage without it being part of your personal illusion. Keats had to admit he was as surprised as the Irishman.
He’d never done it before.
You’ll die ’long with us if you use that, Flaherty hedged.
Perhaps. Nevertheless, I’m sure God will sort out who deserves the wings and who roasts for eternity. I’m hoping for the former.
Who told you we were here? Flaherty asked, glaring.
No one. It was sheer luck, Keats replied, doing a quick count of the miscreants. Four. If he kept them in sight and they continued to believe he had a gun…
A sound behind them, the crunch of boot on gravel. Somehow, he’d miscounted. He cursed and flung himself sideways as a truncheon descended toward him, aiming true.
The blow clipped his shoulder, driving him to the ground. The sergeant rolled and regained his feet, jamming a fist in the nearest belly. The man who’d leered at him went down in a heap.
A body launched at him, slamming him onto the cobblestones.
Where’s the gun? someone shouted. Keats flailed in a futile attempt to regain his footing. Blows rained down on him. He cried out as a vicious kick caught him in the ribs. Where were the other cops?
A strangled cry reached Alastair as he turned the corner. He broke into a run, bowling into the pack of men who encircled a lone figure, knocking one over with his sheer momentum. Punches arced through the air, striking at random. Alastair waded in, knowing that in the middle would be Keats.
His first opponent went to the ground with a solid jab to his chin. Alastair jerked on another’s collar, forcibly dragging him off his embattled friend. A knife appeared in the man’s hand, swiping through the air. Alastair lunged away, the tip of the blade catching the corner of his coat, rending the fabric.
Come on, you toff, the man taunted, beckoning with his free hand. Alastair adopted a classic fighting pose, biding time. A vicious thrust came his way—one that would have gutted him if he hadn’t moved fast enough. His attacker jabbed again and this time Alastair blocked the assault, deflecting the knife arm and driving a blow hard into the man’s ribs. The fellow fell back, the knife clattering to the ground.
Alastair caught sight of Keats. He’d managed to scramble to his feet. Blood coursed down the side of his face and his clothes were in shambles. He stared past Alastair, mouth agape as if a host of angels had descended from Heaven.
A warning cry split the air, and then his friend was mowed down with a vicious swipe of a truncheon, blood spraying. His assailant examined his handiwork and then let fly a kick into Keats’ ribs. A low groan came from his friend, but he made no attempt to rise.
Before Alastair could react, a blow drove him to his knees.
When he raised his head, his knife-wielding opponent moved in to take his revenge.
What am I doing here? Cynda groused, trudging toward her destination. The street traffic was lighter than she’d expected, and as far as she could tell, there was no indication anything was amiss. Nothing that fell under the category of a Major Time Disruption. If this is a wild goose chase…
Turning the corner, she halted and stared, trying to sort out the scene. Two wagons sat in the street, one empty, the other loaded with barrels. In front of the full dray a man struggled with a team of bays to prevent them from bolting. They stamped and snorted, disturbed by the brawl raging behind them. Shouts and punches flew in all directions. Along the street, gawkers hung out of open windows surveying the battle below. Above her, someone was laying bets the rozzers would lose.
Cops? she said, inching closer. She didn’t see any police uniforms. Cynda strained to get a better look at the moving bodies. One stood out from the pack.
Jonathon. He stared at her, transfixed, oblivious to the danger. She cried out a warning, but it came too late to prevent the truncheon strike. He crumpled to the ground.
Burning with fury, Cynda sprinted forward, dragging her weapon out of her skirt as she ran. Shrieking at the top of her lungs, she wielded the truncheon with uncanny accuracy, cutting down the man closest to her before he even knew she existed.
One of the gang moved toward her, a smirk on his unshaven face. This ain’t no place for the likes of you.
Cynda took a step back, studying the situation. She didn’t dare use the neuro-blocker, not with so many witnesses. Adjusting the truncheon in her hand, she impishly stuck her tongue out at the menace. I can kick your butt any day.
He glared, bouncing the truncheon on his palm.
Come on, she taunted.
He jammed his weapon into the back of his pants, apparently believing his bare hands would suffice. His next few steps put in him within range. Cynda timed it perfectly, executing a spin kick, planting a booted foot firmly in the man’s midsection. She’d aimed a bit higher, but the drag of her skirt and petticoats hurt her form.
With a low groan her attacker doubled over, his eyes bugging out.
Told you, she said, the truncheon kissing him on the head.
A police whistle shrilled nearby. It was immediately followed by another blast and then another from a different direction. It sounded as if all of London’s cops were converging on this one street. A member of the gang took to his heels toward the narrow passage at the far end of the road. Someone shouted at him, but was ignored. The sound of boots on cobblestones made Cynda turn. A wave of blue coats rolled toward them, truncheons at the ready. Behind them, more cops poured out of coaches. Derisive shouts came from the onlookers as windows and doors slammed shut.
To her right, a figure rose out of the melee like a bedraggled ghost. It was Alastair. Stunned at the sight of him, she hurried forward. Are you all right?
He blinked his eyes in frank surprise. You’re back!
Yes, for the time being. Are you hurt?
No, but Jonathan…
Keats was anything but all right. The side of his head bled profusely, blood cascading down his collar and onto the front of his shirt. His lips moved feebly. She’s here, he mumbled. I saw her.
Yes, I’m here, Cynda said, cradling him as Alastair examined the wound.
Keats blinked. I can’t see you. She moved a hand in front of his face. No response. She repeated the gesture. Still nothing.
Oh, God, she whispered. Alastair touched her arm and shook his head to prevent her from saying anything further. She took a quick breath and forced a reassuring tone. It’s pretty dark here, Jonathon. Just stay awake, all right?
Keats nodded and winced. I’ve buggered this up, haven’t I?
No, you’ve done well for a damned fool who’d take on a mob by himself. Alastair said, pressing a handkerchief to the scalp wound. It soaked through instantly.
A thick cough. Flaherty?
The doctor scanned the area. Bobbies stood guard over the injured Fenians. The tally was two short.
I think he’s escaped, Alastair reported. I’m sorry.
A weak nod. At least… he didn’t… blow up anyone…
important.
I’ll commandeer one of the carriages, Alastair said, rising to his feet. We need to get him out of here quickly. He headed toward the closest constable, the one he’d accosted on the street.
Behind him he heard the sound of ripping fabric as Jacynda shredded one of her petticoats for a bandage. In his heart, he knew it wouldn’t make much difference. His friend’s days as a cop were over.
Jonathon refused to allow her to leave his side—not that she intended to. With Alastair’s help, they got him into a carriage and lay his damaged head in her lap for the trip. She tucked a blanket over him, followed by another.
Alastair hovered in the doorway. I’ve instructed the driver to take you to the Wescombs’. It’s best he be there. We can’t guarantee he won’t…well…there could be problems with his…You understand?
Yes.
They’re sending word ahead so preparations can be made.
Keep him warm, and I’ll be there as soon as possible.
You’re not coming with us? she asked, astounded.
Alastair shook his head gruffly. The accursed constable in charge won’t let me leave until Chief Inspector Fisher arrives.
The dark frown on his face told her he wasn’t happy about that.
I see. We’ll be okay.
I hope so.
The further they traveled, the more Jonathon’s shivering intensified.
How are you feeling? Cynda asked, brushing her fingers over his pale cheek.
Not very well, he said in a weak whisper. I’m extremely…cold at the moment. Is it still quite dark?
She had no choice but to lie. Yes. We’re inside a carriage.
We’re going to the Wescombs.
Lady…Sephora will be… He never finished the sentence.
What would he do if he couldn’t see? Her heart ached at the thought. Why had Morrisey sent her into that battle? What was she supposed to mend? Was she supposed to prevent Jonathon from being so badly injured, keep him from being blinded for life?