by J. T. Wilson
“They’re running!” Bedford shouted, his voice hoarse. “Finish the bastards!” He stood up and fired over the hill until his own revolver was empty, and then Charles stood up and fired into the much-diminished crowd of Drobates leaping back down the hill toward their vessel.
Charles stooped for a moment and pulled the unused blasting charges from the pockets of O’Hara’s jacket and then crossed the crest and began leaping down from rock to rock.
3.
BEDFORD RELOADED his own revolver, or at least shoved his last three cartridges in. To his left Chief Charles scampered down the hillside toward the submersible, where half a dozen Drobates struggled in the shallow water trying to board and escape. Several of them were wounded, Bedford saw, and all had left their electric rifles on the bank. No threat there. He turned his eyes to the entrance of the tunnel and saw only a silent heap of bodies, human and Selenite and at least one Drobate all jumbled together, but no movement.
Annabelle!
He ran and leaped down the hill, took a hard spill toward the bottom which twisted his left ankle and scraped his right knee, not to mention split his right trouser leg open from thigh to shin, but he leaped back to his feet and raced to the entrance.
Seaman Henry, Doctor Staples, several Russian prisoners, and all three Selenites, including K’chuk, were dead. K’chuk’s torso lay sideways across the opening and it bore the marks of repeated strikes from those electric rifles, blackened and burned patches of skin with spiderweb shatter lines in the carapace surrounding them. There was no sign of Annabelle, however.
Behind him he heard a muffled explosion, turned, and saw a cloud of black smoke emerge from the open hatch of the submersible. Chief Charles stood on the deck, lit another explosive charge’s fuse with a match, and dropped it through the open hatch. He then turned and leaped from the body-strewn deck onto the shore. Another explosion echoed from the submersible, rocking it in the water, and blew out the window in the pilot house. Bedford turned back to the abattoir by the tunnel entrance.
“Annabelle! For God’s sake where are you!”
“It’s all right,” an unfamiliar male voice called out from the inky interior of the tunnel, “I’m safe.”
“Where is Miss Somerset?”
“Oh, she’s down here as well. Took a hit on the head but she should be all right,” the man answered.
In the dim light by the doorway a tall dark-haired man offered Bedford his hand. Bedford saw the tangle of Annabelle’s skirt and petticoat on the tunnel floor behind him.
“I’m Doctor Howard Phillips, the resident entomologist at…”
Bedford pushed him aside and knelt by Annabelle.
“Oh, I say!” Phillips said in irritation.
“Annabelle, my dear, can you hear me?”
Her eyes fluttered open. “George? Is that you? Oh, thank heavens you’re alive!” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, and he enfolded her in his own arms. “K’chuk!” she exclaimed and pushed away from him. “He is in danger! The Drobates…” she stopped speaking as she saw the expression on Bedford’s face.
“I am truly sorry, Annabelle. He died protecting you, sheltering you against their electric weapons with his own body.” Her face creased in grief and tears appeared in her eyes. Bedford took her by the shoulders. “Others died as well, and more will join them unless I see to the withdrawal. A horde of Drobates have issued from the city and snap at the heels of our rearguard.”
“Nathanial?”
“Alive when last I saw him.” He stood up and turned to the man. “Phillips is it? I’ll thank you to get Miss Somerset as far up the tunnel as you can manage in the dark. I’ll see about getting some torches in here.” From outside the sound of rifle fire, which sounded muffled and distant before, grew suddenly sharper and louder in volume. The rearguard must have topped the stony hill. “For God’s sake, hurry! They are nearly upon us!”
4.
STAGGERING UNDER the weight of the wounded Gibbs, Stevenson passed by Bedford. “Good job, Stevenson,” Bedford said. “Take him up the tunnel and join the others.” Bedford heard Folkard shouting commands in Russian as the head of the column of chained prisoners stumbled and slid down into the tunnel. “Keep them moving, Captain!” Bedford called past them and he pointed the Russians up the tunnel. The man in the lead hesitated at the thought of entering the lightless subterranean bowels of the world, but the sound of rapid rifle fire from behind him made up his mind and he led the column shuffling forward. Bedford made his way out past the last man in the chain before the first man of the second group completely jammed the doorway. K’chuk’s body had been pulled aside, he noticed. Once out in the light, Bedford hastily shook Folkard’s hand.
“Very good to see you well, sir,” he said. “What are your orders?”
“If I am well it is all thanks to you, Bedford. This is still your show; carry on. We’ll sort out command later, if God grants us a later. Now see to your rearguard; they are hard pressed.” Folkard pulled the bodies of Henry and Staples over and gave an order in Russian, and the two men at the end of the line picked them up.
Professor Nathanial Stone reached Bedford and they shook hands. A somewhat reduced flock of Selenites followed him, badly straggling down the glacis of the hill and clearly on their last legs. Bedford had no idea how they would manage to get all of the Selenites into the tunnel in the time left.
“You follow Folkard’s Russkies in,” Bedford said. “The Selenites will follow you, God willing, and we’ll follow them. Here, take these with you.” He scooped up an armful of unlit torches and thrust them into Nathanial’s arms.
“But I cannot give the following gesture with my arms full!” he protested.
“Bless me, Stone, if they are not intelligent enough to follow you the last few steps to safety now, they can die here like dumb beasts. The passage is clear. Now go!”
Bedford looked up at the hill and saw four Marines prone atop it, firing over the lip of the hill. Chief Charles staggered down the last few feet of the hill with the body of a bluejacket over each shoulder and made his way through the press of Selenites milling toward the entrance. Bedford made to take one of the bodies from him—Gunner Gibbs, he saw, although he knew him more by his bulk than his features, which were twisted and blackened, and all of his hair burnt off—but Charles would not let go.
“Couldn’t leave Paddy and Gibbs,” Charles said, and Bedford saw tears on his cheeks. “They were the last of my lot.” He was right. Of the six ratings chosen from Sovereign’s crew to accompany Folkard, only Charles remained alive.
“Yes, well done, Chief. Push on through the Selenites if you have to, but get to Captain Folkard and follow his orders. If the Marines and I are overrun it will be up to you, Stevenson and Folkard to get Miss Somerset to safety. And some fellow named Phillips, as well. You know where the ceiling charges are. Blow them when the Drobates enter the tunnel. If they enter before we do, you will know we are lost.”
“Count on me, sir. I won’t let you down.”
Bedford turned and trotted toward the hill and then bounded up it in long leaps—safer going up than down. He found Lieutenant Booth and three Marine privates there, one of whom he recognised as Jones, all four of them firing regularly at the plain beyond. Two extra rifles lay on the ground beside them. As Bedford’s head cleared the crest of the hill his heart seemed to stop for a moment.
The plain between the city and the hill held thousands of Drobates, perhaps the entire population of the city, all trotting and shuffling toward the hill and the cove beyond it. The closest of them were no more than a hundred yards away, although the crowd was much thinner in front—only the bravest or most suicidal would have run so far ahead of the rest, and the Marines had further culled their ranks with fire. None of the Drobates Bedford saw had the electric rifles the soldiers had born, and he heard none of the distinctive sizzling crack of their fire, but many of the horde brandished long knives, pickaxes, or other improvised weapons. Some c
ame unarmed, as if to tear them apart with their bare hands, and Bedford found that the most frightening prospect of all.
“Pick up a rifle and join in, Bedford,” Booth said. “There are plenty to go around.”
5.
NATHANIAL FELT his way along the dark tunnel wall with a shoulder, his arms encumbered with torches. Ahead of him he heard an echoing babble of voices, mostly Slavic, and the sounds of many shuffling feet. Then he bumped into someone.
“‘Ere now, have a care!”
“Chief Coxswain’s Mate Charles?” Nathanial asked. “Is that you? I have torches here. What am I to do with them?”
“Ah, Professor Stone. Glad you made it, sir. Take them further up and try to find Miss Somerset. She’ll know how to get them lit. Get well past here, sir. We have charges in the ceiling to cause a cave-in.”
Nathanial moved around the chief and again made his way forward. “Annabelle! Are you here? I have the torches. Annabelle!”
“Here, Nathanial,” he heard from up ahead.
He pressed on, repeating his cry, and then a hand closed on his and gave him such a start he nearly dropped his burden.
“Stone, it’s me, Folkard. I think Miss Somerset is just up ahead.”
Together they moved forward, Folkard groping forward with his hand to keep from running into the stumbling mob of Russian prisoners ahead of them. Within moments Folkard had herded the Russians further up the tunnel and Nathanial joined Annabelle, Stevenson, and Phillips.
“Have a care, Nathanial. There is an injured Marine here,” Stevenson said, and the direction of his voice suggested he knelt by the wounded man to shield him from being trampled by the other fugitives.
“Oh, Nathanial!” Annabelle exclaimed, “I am so happy to hear your voice. Why were you not here sooner? I was worried sick.”
“I couldn’t leave the Selenites behind. But here, I have torches and Chief Charles says you are their mistress.”
The squeaking, grunting mass of Selenites following Nathanial reached them and the leader stopped. Nathanial dropped the torch by where he judged Annabelle to be standing and then took the closer forelimb of the leading Selenite and encouraged him to walk further down the tunnel. He did so, and after repeating this with the next several, the entire pack seemed to get the idea and made their way past them in single file.
A phosphorous match hissed to life and the sudden light in the stygian depths of the tunnel caused Nathanial to squint, but he saw Annabelle gesture for a torch, Phillips hand her one, and the flame catch in the moss at the end. Within seconds a space about them was illuminated, although unevenly as the torch’s flame flickered and danced. Nathanial saw the lifeless bodies of three seamen and Doctor Staples stretched out beside the wounded Marine, all guarded somewhat from being trod upon by the barrier of the four living people here—five including him.
The tunnel was wider than the crowding would suggest, but was bisected by a single tall, heavy metallic rail; Nathanial, the other fugitives, and the Selenites had all stayed on the near side, crowding this side of the passage but leaving the far side clear.
“Captain Folkard, I nearly forgot. I took these from a fallen Drobate guard. They may unlock the chains from the Russians.” He fished the heavy key ring from his pocket and gave it to Folkard.
“Quick thinking, Professor,” Folkard said. “Well done.”
“Leave them chained!” Annabelle nearly spat. “They stole the lit torches, tried to kill Seaman Henry, would have had I not shot one of them.”
Folkard pushed the keys into his pocket. “We’ll see about their chains later. For now Miss Somerset is probably right, it might be wise to leave things as they stand.”
Nathanial heard men shouting, cursing even, and the clash of steel on steel joining the occasional rifle shot. The struggle had reached the entrance to the tunnel. He looked at the revolver thrust in Stevenson’s waistband and shuddered. His hand had hardly touched a firearm since the shot from the villain Le Boeuf had destroyed Annabelle’s leg, and had not at all since assisting in the amputation. Now the thought of doing so again made his stomach cramp and his palms sweat, but he felt useless just standing here. He took a deep breath.
“Stevenson, give me your revolver. I’m going back to help Bedford and the others. I’ll take a torch as well, Annabelle.”
“It’s empty, I’m afraid,” Stevenson answered.
“The devil! Chief Charles, have you any more cartridges?” Nathanial called down the tunnel.
“Only the six in my revolver now. Try the lads’ jackets,” he shouted back.
Stevenson paused for a moment, clearly reluctant to rifle a dead man’s pockets, but he did so and then he reloaded his revolver. “I should go,” he said. “I am the member of the Navy.”
“No, I’ll go,” Folkard said.
Nathanial snatched the revolver from Stevenson’s hand. “Don’t be daft the both of you. Stevenson is too weak to be of much use in a fight and the captain must remain behind to command if Bedford should―” he said but stopped short when he saw the stricken look on Annabelle’s face. “Besides, Captain, you alone among us speak Russian. Do not worry; I have no intention of doing anything grotesquely heroic, only bang away a bit from the sidelines and help cover their retreat.”
He took the lit torch Annabelle offered, pushed past the last but two of the Selenites, swung his legs over the central rail, and made his way toward the sound of the fight and the small circle of daylight at the entrance.
6.
NOTHING FOR Chief Charles to do but wait, and not long now. Lieutenant Bedford and the others would either break free and get back to safety or go down. A Marine came quickly back past him, one arm limp and the other pulling a more seriously wounded companion. Then the torch Professor Stone had carried and which illuminated a bit of the fight fell and went out and the flood of bodies was upon him, so much faster than he expected. He struck the match for the fuse and lit it, but then felt a terrible cold pain in his abdomen, as if his guts had turned to ice, and he staggered back against the wall. A Drobate pulled out the long knife which had impaled him and made to thrust again. Charles shot him and the Drobate fell back into another one, the entire mob lit in jerky flashes of arrested motion by the sparkling pyrotechnics of the sizzling fuse.
Charles shot another Drobate and put a hand to his abdomen, felt the blood bubbling out, and knew he was done for. Instead of frightening him, the thought left him strangely calm.
Just as well perhaps, he thought. A chief petty officer goes out with five ratings and comes back alone—no matter how good an explanation, he’d forever be a marked man in the fleet: if not a coward, then a Jonah. This way he finished clean.
A Drobate hand reached up and pulled the sputtering fuse out of the ceiling charges. No matter, he could still stop them. There’s nothing Horatio Nelson Charles can’t accomplish. He thrust the muzzle of his revolver in amongst the explosive charges overhead and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Nine
“An Underground Railroad”
1.
THE FIGHT after the explosion and cave-in had been short and nasty, fought in pitch black and choking dust against the four Drobates who were trapped on the human side of the collapsed wall of rock. Bedford had been knocked senseless by a falling stone and so had missed it, but when he awoke, his bandaged head cradled in Annabelle’s lap, Booth had described the action.
Privates Jones and Heighway had done most of the real fighting—rifles empty but sword bayonets fixed, they clubbed and stabbed three of the creatures to death. Annabelle had dispatched the fourth as he tried to seize her, shooting him down with the last round in the derringer Bedford had given her. He gave silent thanks for having done so.
He had regained consciousness a quarter hour ago. His head still pounded, he felt dizzy if he tried to stand, and he noticed that the ankle he had twisted coming down the hill was now inflamed and very painful. He, Folkard, and Lieutenant Booth now sat together in the flickering light of
a relit torch and took stock.
Bedford and Booth retained their revolvers and Professor Stone gladly surrendered his to Folkard, who passed it on to Stevenson and instead took one of the electric rifles. “I may have a sense of how this works,” he said. Bedford wondered if this was his technical skill speaking or more of this lunar mysticism which seemed to take hold of his mind now and then, but he could not make out his captain’s expression in the torchlight.
Stone, once he turned over the revolver, retreated to the side of the tunnel and sat by himself, legs drawn up against his chest and arms wrapped around them. The fight at the tunnel mouth, before the explosion, had been—well, horrible. Bedford was a sailor, not at all trained for that sort of close-in fighting, and even the Marines had been shaken by the savagery of that desperate struggle. Stone had not been part of the actual physical press at the tunnel entrance, but had he not arrived with a full revolver when he did, Bedford doubted that any of them would have escaped with their lives. With rifles empty the five were reduced to bayonets and rifle butts against a mob which simply would not stop. Then Gordon and Booth were wounded and it was down to just Jones, Heighway, and Bedford. Just as the Drobates surged through the doorway by sheer physical mass, Stone arrived and shot, in succession, the first six creatures through the entrance, killed them, and clogged the entranceway, however briefly, with their bodies. He must have looked directly into each of their faces as he killed them; otherwise he would have missed with at least one or two shots.