The Wild Princess

Thirty-five



Rupert stood on the splintery dock inches above the fetid flow of slime called the Thames River. He listened to what the Lieutenant was saying, but used the time to get a better look at him. The man’s cap brim hid the upper half of his features. A thin slash of lips interrupted a beardless jaw. His chin jutted forward in a way that made him look as if he was always leaning forward, on the verge of striding out, even when he was standing still. He spoke with the slightest of accents—an Irish lilt mixed with something else. Northern European? Napoleon III had just lost the Franco-Prussian War. Maybe he was a defeated soldier like them?

It didn’t really matter. Rupert was used to taking orders as long as there was a strong man at the helm. He didn’t even blame the Lieutenant for speaking harshly to him and Will after it became clear they’d killed the wrong men in the park. Will had worried the Fenians would send him and Rupert packing without so much as a penny for a pie. Or worse, shoot them and dump their bodies in the river, no one the wiser.

But he also knew that one good black powder man was worth a battalion of foot soldiers. So he wasn’t surprised when the Lieutenant kept them on despite their mistake.

“Arrangements have been made for the two boats you requested,” the man was saying. “A skiff and a steamer.” He glanced down at Rupert’s right hand. “You say you can manage both vessels between the two of you?”

Rupert stuffed his injured hand in his pocket and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The first vessel, a sturdy, flat-bottomed rowing boat, would be loaded with powder and primer and, after he and Will worked their magic, become their bomb. The larger steam-powered ship was a retired ferry, just twenty feet long and a rusty junker, but with a solid working engine. Like the other boat, it would blend in with the commercial craft clogging the river. Neither boat would attract attention from the queen’s security detail.

“Yes, sir. Will here, he ran a steamboat afore the war, on the Missouri.”

“Excellent. Let’s be clear, gentlemen. I need that center span destroyed and the queen’s coach isolated from the forward escort, so that my men can move in and make the snatch.”

Rupert imagined the violent clash of the two forces on Vauxhall Bridge above them. The queen’s Hussars would fight to the death to protect her. “Our boys’ll have to come in from the rear and overcome the following guard,” he pointed out.

A smile creased the officer’s cheeks. “All we need is the advantage of surprise and half the queen’s men out of action. John Brown out of commission, or dead, would be the best possible outcome.”

It was a daring plot, and Rupert knew they’d lose brave comrades. But taking Victoria herself would, sure as the sun rises in the east, bring worldwide attention to the Irish cause. It was a grand and glorious statement of the will of a small nation. David victorious over Goliath.

Rupert felt a surge of exhilaration unlike any he’d felt since his last mission for the proud South. “We’ll do our part, sir.”

He’d spent the last eighteen hours designing the most effective blast. He and Will would hand-light the fuses, rather than trust a flint and timer. Neither could they rely on charges planted directly on the bridge with a pressure trigger for a carriage wheel to strike. He’d tried to think what he’d do, if he were in charge of the queen’s safety. First, order all roadways and bridges along the parade route searched. And he’d send a hundred men to crawl through every inch of Westminster Abbey, where the ceremony was to be held, then secure it until half an hour before the ceremony. He’d send an outrider or wagon ahead of the first carriage to make sure there were no trigger plates or trip wires.

That left only one way to blow this damn bridge—from the water.

“You’ll of course move far enough away,” the Lieutenant was saying, “to protect yourself from the blast. But then I want you to hold up as close as possible for five minutes or so after the explosion and keep an eye on the water.”

Rupert understood. For survivors. “For our fellas?”

The Lieutenant shook his head. “If all goes well, our boys won’t be the ones in the water.” He turned to observe the bridge. “You’ll be our insurance. In case one of the royal family takes a plunge.”

Rupert nodded his agreement. But he figured the chances of them hauling a live body out of the water were pretty damn slim. If the blast or the fall didn’t kill ’em, a dunk in this poisonous old river likely would.