by Will Thomas
“Like a charm,” Garrity said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. van Rhyn?”
“Indeed. Our handmade dynamite worked perfectly.”
Garrity unlocked the door again and led us inside. As soon as he was in, he scooped up the first of the satchels, and flipped it open, peering inside.
“Just checking,” he said. “Well, we’re ready, then. Since neither Mr. van Rhyn nor I can leave the room now, Penrith, why don’t you go down and tell the lads they can come up again, if they’re brave enough. Send Colin to fetch Dunleavy, and have Padraig bring a few pints, provided Fergus hasn’t drunk the place dry.”
I looked at Barker, who had seated himself in a chair. He was as calm as if he were enjoying a Sabbath’s rest, not ten feet from rows of explosives. He nodded, and I left the room. I left the planning of how to get the primed bombs out of the terrorists’ hands to him.
I hadn’t realized how badly my head hurt until I began clattering down the stairs. The movement set off a clamoring in my skull, but I was determined to see this through. I came down the final step and looked at the table of Irish bombers down in the public house, surreptitiously drinking on the off day while waiting for us to finish. They all put down their glasses when they saw me.
“We’re on,” I said.
26
The next day, a day which shall remain in my memory forever, Colonel Alfred Dunleavy, that old campaigner, came from his stronghold in Claridge’s to lead us on a final charge. He surveyed our handiwork-thirty bombs in satchels spread out like so many soldiers in a platoon-and checked his watch. It was five thirty. He cleared his throat as he let the watch slide back into his waistcoat pocket.
“It is time, my good warriors. An hour from now we can be heroes, champions of a new Ireland, standing like gods over the rubble and chaos you’ve brought upon our enemies. We’ll punish them for their countless evictions, the imprisonment of so many good men, and their theft of our land. I’ve had many a soldier under my command but none such brave and hearty lads as I see before me. It has been a pleasure to lead you.”
Garrity and I bent as everyone watched, and began to set the timers. I wondered if he would notice the misplaced gun barrels, but he was too busy setting the clocks. I took the opportunity to push a few more guns out of alignment. Dunleavy reached down and gently lifted two of the bomb-filled satchels. I was relieved to see that the two he chose were disarmed. “I bid you all good fortune.”
“I realize it is late, sir,” Garrity spoke up. “But I wonder if I may participate in the delivery? Years from now, when people ask me what I did today, I’d like to tell them I did more than just help Mr. van Rhyn make the bombs, with the permission of you all, of course.”
There were murmurs of assent from the men in the room. Garrity reached down and took two more satchels. The rest of them in turn took two each. Some of them were inert, but some were live, and in the jumble of movement, I lost track of which were which.
“Half an hour, gentlemen,” Barker stated. “You have half an hour to set in place this first delivery of bombs and return before they detonate. I suggest that you do not dawdle, or stop for a dram. Auf Wiedersehen, and good luck!”
With silent nods all around, the men marched out in single file, leaving us with our charges. Barker moved to a window that looked onto the street in front of the building and peered out.
“How many were you able to disarm?” he asked.
“Nine, sir. At least half of the ones they walked out with were live.”
He winced but said nothing. He knew I’d done my best. I went to work, disarming the remaining bombs while Barker looked down at the street.
“Poole’s men are in place,” he said tensely, when we were alone. “I can see at least three detectives I recognize in the street, though they’re doing their best to blend in among the Irish. I passed Soho Vic a note in the corridor when we tested the bomb. There goes Dunleavy, alone. O’Casey and McKeller are going off to the left, and the Bannon brothers to the right. I don’t see Garrity yet.”
Everyone went off, and there seemed to be no more than the normal traffic for this time of night. Barker and I looked at each other a moment. Had something gone wrong? Why were the police holding back? Were they not in place yet? Then from somewhere east of us there was the sound of a policeman’s whistle. It was followed by a half dozen other whistles all around us. I heard angry cries and oaths, and I crossed the room to look over Barker’s shoulder. As I watched, Colin and Padraig Bannon came running back down Monmouth Street, still carrying their bombs. Padraig was cut off by three constables, but Colin got by them, using some of the moves I had seen on the hurling pitch. Just as I feared he might get away, a man stepped out of a doorway in front of him, and his arm caught the Irishman full in the throat. Bannon’s legs flew out from under him, and he and the bombs landed on the pavement. Colin tried halfheartedly to get up as the man turned our way and shouted orders to someone. I’d recognize those sandy whiskers anywhere.
“It’s Poole!”
“Yes,” Barker said. “I taught him that move weeks ago. But look over there!” He pointed to the left. Two men were wrestling on the pavement. One was McKeller and the other a sturdy man who looked familiar. It was one of Munro’s bookends. The bookend seemed to be getting the worst of it.
As we watched, the street began to swarm with men locked in battle. Constables, Irish idlers and criminals, and faction members all disputed with whatever weapon came to hand. The Seven Dials had erupted into a riot. I saw a woman attempt to scratch out the eyes of a constable and receive a bloody nose in consequence. I hoped, for London’s sake, that Scotland Yard would be able to contain this mess.
“Blast,” Barker rumbled. “The Crook and Harp has emptied out, and everyone is trying to protect the bombers. This won’t do.I shall have to go down.”
From somewhere below we heard a door slam and the sound of feet running swiftly up the stairs. We were across the room from our sticks. Who could be coming, and what would they want?
O’Casey and McKeller burst into the room. They were both missing their caps, and the state of their clothing showed they’d fought their way back. They still had their two satchels, both handles in one hand, while they held their bata sticks in the other.
“The street is full of peelers!” O’Casey informed us. “Someone must have peached.”
“Blow it up, then,” McKeller growled. “Blow it all up. If you set one of these off, the rest are bound to go off as one. Blow us all to kingdom come. Leave a crater in London so big the English will never forget!”
“I am afraid I cannot allow that to happen, gentlemen,” my employer said in his normal Lowland Scots. “You see, we are agents of the English government. It was I who summoned the police here.”
McKeller broke into a string of curses, but O’Casey, whether he’d suspected or was merely fatalistic, set down his bombs and raised his stick. We were simply the next obstacle in his path, and he would concentrate on that alone.
“Fergus!” O’Casey barked. “They are unarmed. Take these two down and we still have a room full of bombs to blow up or bargain with as we choose.”
I realized we were twenty feet from our sticks, but Barker was ahead of me. He dug into his pockets and threw their contents at the two Irishmen. Not merely his razor coins, but regular ones, keys, a pocketknife, and who knows what else flew at the faces of O’Casey and McKeller. They flinched and stepped back just enough for Barker to get to our sticks. He spun around and tossed one to me.
Sporting a fresh cut on his cheek from one of Barker’s sharpened coins, McKeller came toward me, his stick raised. “What’s your real name, you blasted Welsh trash? I want to know who it is I’m thrashing.”
“Thomas Llewelyn, at your service.” I stood up to him. “Are you going to fight or merely talk me to death?”
McKeller came at me with an overhead smash, but I’d fought him enough to know he would begin that way. Instead of my head, he met my stick with the sharp
smack of wood upon wood.Behind me, I heard the first clash of my employer and O’Casey.McKeller began a series of blows, swinging the stick about his head-left, right, left, right; high, low-but I blocked each one.Then he feinted, I blocked too cleanly, and his stick got under it, raking across my ribs like a willow wand along a fence. I grunted in pain. He’d scored the first point.
“You can do better than that, Welshman,” McKeller taunted me. “Or can you? Best set down your stick and run away.”
I came in with my own overhead strike, but it, too, was a feint. While my stick cracked against his, my foot was already up, and I caught him in that ale-heavy paunch of his. It was necessary to show him that I was a better fighter than I had been the last time I faced him. If I lost or was incapacitated, it would be the two of them against Barker, and should the unimaginable happen and the two of them get by him, heaven help London.
McKeller shook it off and lashed out, catching me on the knuckles of my stick hand. I dropped my stick but managed to pick it up with my other hand and roll out of the way with only a thump across my spine for my troubles. I came up and blocked again, and again, and again.
Strategy. Though Barker was in a pitched battle with O’Casey behind me, I could hear his voice in my memory, and the dozens of instructions and axioms he and Vigny had said to me in the garden of our home and in the sparring ring.
Split your thoughts while fighting, lad. Forget your past mistakes. Be in the present, blocking the attack or launching your own, while planning your next.
I blocked a move, ducked away from a second, and lashed out a strike of my own.
Look for weaknesses. Is he left- or right-handed? Does he favor the same moves too often? Does he leave any area exposed?
I ducked as McKeller’s stick whistled over my head. I held my left hand out to balance myself and my stick in front of my face.
Keep a rhythm to your movement, Thomas, like a drumbeat in your head. Communicate that movement to your opponent. Get him moving to your cadence. Then, when he’s set into it, break the rhythm, and while he’s recovering, attack!
Barker’s words had kept me alive so far, but I was getting bruised. McKeller clipped my eyebrow, spilling the first claret, and caught me a whack across the right knee which hurt like the deuce. I’d done little beyond the kick, which he’d recovered quickly from, and a blow to his elbow, but he showed no signs of flagging. In fact, he was taunting me.
“You’ll have to improve if you’re going to beat Fergus McKeller, Welshman!” he said, his face red with bloodlust. “I was born with one of these sticks in my hand. I think we’ll tie you up and circle you in your own bombs. Won’t that be a nice present for the Queen?”
“I’m not done, yet,” I warned him, and launched a flurry of attacks, most of which he parried easily. Secretly, however, I knew he was right. My arms were tired and my energy flagging. If I didn’t think quickly, I was going to lose.
I gathered my thoughts and drew back into myself mentally.What would work against this man? He was taller than I, and stronger. He was more experienced and had a longer reach. He seemed to have no weaknesses beyond a slightly injured arm, and, so far, breaking rhythm hadn’t worked. For a moment, I wondered if I could just hold my own long enough, perhaps Barker could overcome O’Casey and come to my rescue. No, I told myself. I wouldn’t allow myself to be rescued. I had to win this match for myself.
Then at last, it came to me, some advice Barker had given me weeks before, but I had almost forgotten.
When all else fails, sacrifice. Offer a target, like a wounded bird.When he commits to it, throw all you have into an attack from a different direction. Shoot your bolt, lad. It’s your final option.
McKeller caught me a heavy clout across the head, which set my ears ringing. I’d been too caught up in thinking for a moment.He smacked a second across my shoulder and a third on my left forearm. I blocked the fourth and fifth. It was time to do something or I was going to lose.
I brought my stick up in front of my face horizontally, with most of it to my right, but half a foot or so of ferrule protecting me in front. I tried to pretend I was mostly through, that one final attack would bring me down. Confident that I was near done, McKeller smiled and brought his stick up high. He’d finish the fight as he’d begun it, with an overhead smash through my feeble guard. I saw him commit fully, not realizing that his attack would spin my own stick back in his direction. My stick gave way with the force of his attack and the heavy knob of his bata struck my nose, smashing cartilage and letting loose a torrent of blood, but as he did so the knob of my stick, from the force of his blow, caught McKeller full on the temple with a dull thump, felling him like an ox. I believe the two of us struck the floor together.
“Lad?”
I was sitting. I couldn’t tell how long I’d been there. My head was ringing, and my vision blurred. My hands were wet, and my entire shirtfront was thick with my own blood.
“I think he broke my nose.”
“It appears so,” Barker said, handing me a handkerchief to stanch the blood. “And you’ll have a couple of black eyes by tomorrow, but you brought him down, Thomas. We have stopped the faction. That’s the important thing.”
I looked over to where McKeller lay motionless on the floor.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
“No, but half an inch to the right and he would have been. I’ll wager you’ve cracked his skull.”
I focused on O’Casey, who also lay flat on his back on the other side of the room. I wondered if he was alive also, but after a moment, he raised a knee and moaned.
“Get to work, lad,” Barker said. “Let us finish disarming these last few bombs.”
There was a tramping of feet in the hall, and the doorway was suddenly full, as Inspector Poole and Special Irish Branch Inspector Munro attempted to push in at once.
“Good lord!” Munro cried, when he saw us among the rows of bombs spread out along the room. “Was this it, your wonderful plan, to hand over a few dozen bombs and then fight them for it? It’s a wonder the town is still standing!”
“We’ve got Dunleavy and the faction boys under arrest, Barker,” Poole said, “along with half the Harp.”
“Are all of the faction members accounted for?” Barker asked.
“Yes. We’ve got Dunleavy and the Bannons, and here are the last two. That’s the lot.”
“What about Garrity?” Barker demanded.
“Niall Garrity?” Poole asked. “What about him? He’s in Paris.”
“He is here!” my employer bellowed. “He took two bombs. I thought you had this building surrounded.”
“We did!” Poole leaned back into the hallway and bawled out to a constable. “There’s a suspect hiding in the building, blond hair, mustache. His name is Garrity. Find him.”
“He is probably long gone,” Munro said with glee. “You’ve blown this one, Barker. You’ve provided an I.R.B. bomber with special explosives and set him free in London. I’ll bet the public would love to hear about this.”
“I suggest we stop arguing among ourselves and try to find this fellow,” my employer replied. “We’ll assign blame later.Come, Llewelyn, let’s clean you up a bit.”
I washed the blood from my face in the icy water left over from our bomb making, though my shirt was beyond redemption.
“The Queen is not in residence, correct?” my employer asked the inspector.
“She’s in Scotland at Balmoral.”
“Where is the Prince of Wales?”
Munro thought a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “He’s in town, I believe, but he has no engagements.”
“Since they threatened to go after the Royal Family, but the Queen is in Scotland,” Barker said, “then, presumably, they might go after the Prince, since he will be king someday.”
For once, we all agreed. While Poole shouted orders down the stairs to arrest McKeller and O’Casey, we followed Munro down the stairwell and out into the street. I saw Alfred Dunleavy, l
ooking cool and unruffled despite the darbies on his wrists, talking to a reporter, while the Bannon brothers were being loaded into a Black Maria. Colin Bannon caught sight of me and shot me a look of cold hatred that I shall never forget. His brother, Padraig, was too beaten up to care.
Munro gave a whistle, and a brougham pulled up to the curb beside us. He climbed in, but barred us with his arm.
“Official police business, gentlemen. This is where I cut you loose.”
Before we could react, his vehicle rattled off.
I stamped my feet in frustration. How were we to beat the infernal Special Irish Branch inspector and stop Garrity before he assassinated the Prince?
Just then, a man stepped out of the shadows of an alleyway behind us and cleared his throat.
27
I raised my stick, ready to strike again if necessary. I must have looked a sight. My nose was swollen, the skin under my eyes already turning a dusky purple, my hair wringing wet, and my shirt red with blood. It was appropriate, therefore, for Jacob Maccabee to step out of the alleyway, immaculate in his crisp suit and bowler, as if he’d just stepped out of a tailor’s shop.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, as if we’d just been out on a perambulation around Hyde Park instead of a month-long desperate attempt to save London from being destroyed. “Your vehicle is waiting, sir,” he said, turning to our employer, “and I’ve brought the items you requested.”
“Excellent,” Barker said, leading us through the alleyway to the back, as if it were any other day. When had he alerted Mac? I wondered. Our private hansom and our mare, Juno, were awaiting us. Mac reached into the vehicle and held something up for me to don. It was the coat my employer had made for me several months before, with lead lining in the chest and back and built-in holsters.