by David Wake
Earnestine pointed at the billiard table with its motley collection of swords taken down for the duel.
“Gina, get some weapons,” she said, and then added: “A sword, not a cue.”
“I don’t know how to use a sword,” said Georgina.
“Do you know how to use a cue?”
“No.”
Earnestine came over to help and saw something amongst the paraphernalia. Charlotte looked, but there were only the swords and two white billiard balls.
“How many balls are there in billiards?” Earnestine asked.
“How should I know?” said Georgina.
“The red one’s missing,” Earnestine continued. “I think Captain Caruthers plays cricket.”
What was her sister talking about? Girls weren’t allowed to play cricket: their game was hockey.
“Well, of course,” Georgina replied. “He’s a Captain, so he must have gone to one of the better public schools and he would have played cricket there.”
“He was going to attempt to escape.”
“With a billiard ball!? Against soldiers with guns?”
“I expect he’d make the attempt, so we need to go and rescue them.”
“Ness,” said Georgina, “against soldiers with guns.”
Charlotte held up her Lee–Enfield with a grin: “We have a gun.”
“Ness, she’s no bullets left,” Georgina reminded.
“We have to make the attempt,” Earnestine said.
Georgina didn’t reply, but she took a sword off the billiard table.
Charlotte led the way back to the corridor. There was a choice of directions: back the way they had come or onwards. Onwards, she thought, up the river.
Soon, they reached a place where another corridor crossed their path.
“Which way?” Georgina asked.
“This one,” said Charlotte.
There were signs of struggle: dropped objects, knocked over furniture and paintings askew on the wall, so on they went, but Earnestine sprang back: “Wait!”
Chapter XXXII
Miss Deering-Dolittle
On the floor, just along the corridor to the left, and rolled against the skirting, was a small red ball. Earnestine bent down and picked it up: it was heavy, a red billiard ball. Captain Caruthers had pocketed one when they were captured after the duel. She tossed it aloft as if it was a tennis ball and caught it again. It was hard, solid and certain.
“The Captain made his move here,” Earnestine mused, “and it didn’t work.”
“How do you know that?” Charlotte asked.
“No unconscious guards.”
“Now what?”
“They went this way.”
Earnestine marched along the plush carpet, a stride that turned into a run and then a race. Time was running out and she heard shouting, English voices. But where? There were doors everywhere. She touched the ring dangling at her neck: Pieter, Pieter… but she was just doing her duty as a British subject.
“That one!” Charlotte shouted.
Without thinking, Earnestine burst into the room beyond.
It was a drawing room.
Standing by the fireplace were Captain Caruthers, Lieutenant McKendry and… he was alive, Pieter was alive. Unfortunately, the Graf was pointing a revolver at them and the Vögte fawned at his shoulder.
Startled by their sudden arrival, the Graf stepped back, covering them, but he kept an eye on his prisoners. They made to move forward, but the Graf flicked his aim back and forth between the two groups until they accepted his supremacy.
“The Deering–Dolittles – extraordinary!” the Graf said. “See, your women have come to rescue you.”
“Your secretary, Mein Prince,” said the Vögte. “Perhaps you can dictate your last Will and Testament.”
How could that hideous weasel be so cruel, Earnestine thought.
Charlotte levelled her rifle and the Vögte flinched.
“It’s not loaded,” said the Graf.
“Ach, in that case, drop your weapons,” said the Vögte, indicating a table. The sisters traipsed over and dumped the swords, the rifle and Earnestine’s medium kit bag onto the polished surface. “Now, over there.”
They joined the others.
“Are you in one piece?” Caruthers whispered.
“Yes,” said Earnestine.
“Where’s Merry?” Caruthers said.
It was Georgina who replied: “That man murdered him!”
“Casualty of war,” said the Graf, easily. “Let us be going: Vögte, Pieter.”
Prince Pieter caught Earnestine’s eye and then stepped forward to confront the Graf.
“Nein,” he said. “I will stay here.”
“You have your duty,” said the Graf. “All will be forgiven. You can rule this country, if you like, when we come back and conquer it.”
“I will not be part of your Great War.”
“You will, mein Bruder, dead or alive.”
The Graf clicked back the hammer of his revolver and pointed it at Prince Pieter, moving in to point blank range, an inch, no more, from his forehead.
“Do you have the guts,” goaded Pieter.
Earnestine’s heart leapt into her throat: no, please, no; a thousand times: please no.
Prince Pieter stood his ground without flinching: “You can kill young ladies, girls… no, not even that: you had your lackeys do it for you.”
“Careful, Bruder.”
“You can’t kill your own brother face–to–face, can you?” said Prince Pieter. “And with your Great War in ruins, you need me for the Great Plan.”
“The Great War is not in ruins. We have merely suffered a setback. Like Napoleon, we over–reached – too far, too ambitious, too soon. But my plans are only adjusted. I will settle for conquering Europe and when I have swept through France, Belgium, Poland and the Ottomans, and converted all those living enemies into dead allies, I will turn my attention to this small country. My fleet of Zeppelins will drop bombs on their armies, their factories, even their fields and the streets of their cities until they surrender.”
“Never,” said Caruthers.
“Then I will turn your green and pleasant land into nothing more than craters and mud, full of the dead ready to be harvested for my armies. We will invade Russia and march on Moscow to oust the Romanovs.”
“That’s been tried.”
“The dead don’t feel the cold.”
Earnestine’s fist tightened around the billiard ball ready to fight, but he was right and Earnestine could not see a way out. The British may keep the waves, their ships safe at sea, but this maniac would conquer the lands with his unholy cannon fodder and the skies with his monstrous airships.
Suddenly, a decision made, the Graf stepped away.
“Stay with your woman,” he said, and he turned to the Vögte: “Halten Sie sie hier.”
“Jahwohl,” said the Vögte, accepting the Graf’s revolver. “Und Ihr Bruder?”
“Ach er,” said the Graf, who then turned back to them: “I am afraid, Gentlemen, Ladies, this innings is over and I must retire to the gazebo.”
“Pavilion,” said Earnestine.
The Graf left, walking out as if he had all the time in the world, waving his control box in case there were any untoten.
He was escaping: they had lost.
Mrs Arthur Merryweather
“You English,”? the Vögte laughed. “How you won such an Empire is beyond me. You suspected we were building up our military power here and yet you did nothing. Mein Graf will conquer the world...”?
Caruthers leaned over, whispered: “Once his lecture is over, he’ll kill us.”
Oh Lord, Georgina thought, no.
Earnestine interrupted: “It’s because we play cricket.”
The Vögte paused, perturbed by the disruption: “Cricket?”
“What do you play?”
“Chess.”
“All that cunning and deviousness,” said Earnestine, “Mc
Kendry?”
McKendry startled: “Er, base… tennis.”
“Serves and smashes, McKendry, all power; whereas cricket is a gentlemen’s game.”
The Vögte was all sneers: “Gentlemen’s game?”
“Fancy a game of cricket?” said Earnestine. She showed him the red billiard ball, which was not unlike a cricket ball. She bounced it lightly in her hand: “Here – catch!”
She flung the ball at him, an easy throw and instinctively he went to catch it. McKendry demonstrated his skills at boxing with a quick left hook and the Austro–Hungarian went down.
Charlotte recovered the dropped revolver off the floor and Georgina drew her foot back to kick him.
“Nein, nein – mercy.” The man was fawning pathetically, his attitude changed in an instant once he knew they had the upper hand.
McKendry knelt down and took off the man’s tie to secure his hands behind his back.
Caruthers fetched their equipment from where it had been dumped on the table. He began to distribute their meagre supplies. Earnestine seemed distracted, looking everywhere but at Pieter, so Georgina took the medium kit bag and glanced inside at the binoculars, batteries, map, spare button and saw, down at the bottom nestling with the Kendal Mint Cake, a single bullet. She took it out: they could have used this to kill the Graf when they were in the underground station. Again her Arthur was denied justice.
“We must get after the Graf,” said Earnestine.
“We will,” said McKendry.
“Yes,” said Earnestine, “we all will.”
Caruthers had kept the rifle for himself.
“It’s empty,” Charlotte said, and she checked the revolver the Vögte had dropped. “So is this.”
“That’s why my brother and this wretch didn’t kill us,” said Pieter, looking down at the miserable servant. “I no longer want you in my service.”
“When the Graf has conquered the world, I shall make you my servant.”
“I think not.”
McKendry stood up: “I’ll have the revolver, Miss.”
“It’s empty,” said Charlotte.
“Here,” said Georgina and she held up the brass cylinder with its polished point.
Charlotte took the round: “That a .303, I need a .455.”
“Revolver, Miss,” said McKendry.
“I found it,” Charlotte replied.
“Lottie!” said Earnestine, “play nicely.”
Charlotte frowned and handed the revolver over to the Lieutenant. He flipped open the chamber and checked. Charlotte made a face as the man realised that the .303 round was useless. She handed it to the Captain instead, who pushed it into the magazine.
“The Graf will be going for the roof,” said Prince Pieter, “there’s a Zeppelin berthed there.”
“You keep an eye on him,” said Caruthers, nodding to the captured Vögte.
“Ja,” said Pieter, “he is my responsibility.”
The others fell into line: Caruthers in front, then Earnestine, Georgina and Charlotte with McKendry to bring up the rear. They were one short, Georgina knew, and the pain was almost overwhelming, but Georgina wanted justice.
“Right,” said Caruthers. “Best foot forward.”
Miss Charlotte
They were too late.
When they reached the roof, the Zeppelin had already cleared the small set of steps that had led to the gondola section. Now they went nowhere. The massive Zeppelin dwarfed the flat space and the noise from its rotors was deafening. In the airship’s doorway, the Graf saw them, their eyes met. They looked at each other over the distance from ground to air, and he laughed.
“Auf Wiedersehen, mein Liebchen!” he shouted.
Behind him in the gondola, untoten troops, complete with parachutes, lurched and threatened, but they were held at bay by the galvanic device in their master’s hand. At the touch of a button the Graf could unleash them anywhere in London, England or the World.
“Only one bullet,” Caruthers said. He checked the rifle, brought home the bolt and levelled it.
The Graf spotted the danger and stepped back disappearing from sight.
Caruthers swore: “Damn.”
“He’ll go to the bridge,” said Charlotte. The Zeppelin was turning, coming about into the wind to face them. “You’ll get one chance.”
Caruthers sighted and then hesitated: “Who’s the best shot? McKendry, you’ve been a trapper.”
Earnestine spoke: “Charlotte is the best shot.”
Caruthers frowned at her, saw her determined expression, and then, decision made, he brought the Lee–Enfield smartly up to the present arms posture.
“Ma’am,” he said.
McKendry started to object: “You–”
“Let her do it,” Earnestine insisted.
Charlotte took the weapon from Caruthers, pushed the butt tight into her shoulder and checked the precious round was loaded correctly.
Georgina fished in Earnestine’s medium kit bag and pulled out a pair of binoculars. She gave them to Caruthers.
The Captain looked, scanning along the gondola: “He’s not there yet.”
Charlotte readied herself, taking deep breaths.
“I think… yes, front window, that’s him.”
Charlotte levelled the Lee–Enfield. Along the barrel, she could see the Graf enter the bridge. Zala gesticulated to the pilot as the Zeppelin rose.
“Take your time,” said Caruthers as he focussed through the binoculars.
Charlotte centred the fore sight above the Graf’s dark beard and then let what she saw fall snuggly into the ‘V’ of the back sight. The distant Union Flags on far off buildings blew to the left, but the Eagle of the Austro–Hungarians fluttered with the downdraft of the airship’s rotors. She was firing up, an increasing angle, and the cabin containing the target was rotating as airship continued turning clockwise. The Graf was framed in the slanting window, the glass would refract the light, so she needed to compensate for that distortion as well. All these elements she removed instinctively like dismantling a rifle or unpicking yet again another hopeless piece of embroidery.
But it was easier without a cadet reaching around her to show her what to do.
She aimed true.
The Graff stepped to one side.
She could still see him, his braid around his right arm, but not his chest or head. She could hit him, she was sure of it, but it would be a wound only. She needed a chest or head shot to be sure.
“It’s not a clear shot,” said Caruthers.
Charlotte lowered the rifle.
There was the pilot, she could see him, but killing him would do no good: the Graf knew how to fly a Zeppelin.
“Go for the main section,” McKendry said. “There’s hydrogen there, it’ll explode.”
“We fired a repeating gun into it with a whole box of ammunition and it did nothing,” Georgina said.
Earnestine agreed: “The superstructure protects it. I had to fire a Verey pistol inside before I got one to explode.”
“Crikey,” said Caruthers.
“Perhaps–” McKendry began, reaching for the rifle.
“Let her do it,” said Earnestine.
Charlotte ignored them.
She brought the gun back up, aimed.
The Zeppelin was turning, it was now or never, but Graf wasn’t stepping into view. It was hopeless… unless… yes. She shifted, aimed lower, let the rifle move with the great behemoth.
McKendry spoke: “Perhaps–”
“Shhh,” said Earnestine and Georgina together.
Squeeze… so gently, so very gently.
She saw the wood splinter with the shot.
“You missed,” said McKendry. “He’s still alive.”
“No, she didn’t,” said Caruthers, still holding the binoculars up. “She hit that control box.”
“Good shot, Charlotte,” Earnestine said.
“Yes, Lottie,” said Georgina. “Thank you.”
“Oh my w
ord…” said Caruthers. “It’s…”
“Can I see?” Charlotte asked. “Can I see? Can I see, please?”
“It’s not for a lady,” Caruthers replied.
“I’m not a la–”
“Charlotte,” said Earnestine, “be quiet.”
Above her, Charlotte imagined she heard the Graff shouting as his untoten army turned on him, tearing him limb from limb.
“He’s done for,” said Caruthers, finally and he lowered the binoculars, “so’s the pilot.”
The airship rose, caught the wind and slalomed away towards Covent Garden. They stood for a long time watching it until the black shape was swallowed by the dark clouds.
“A ghost Zeppelin,” said Caruthers. “It’ll wander the skies like the Flying Dutchman.”
“Until it crashes to the ground,” said Charlotte.
“Perhaps,” said Earnestine, “we should go in out of the rain.”
Epilogue
Miss Deering-Dolittle
It rained, which was appropriate for both England and a funeral, and a patch of umbrellas opened like a ring of mushrooms as the men appeared, holding the thin shields above the sisters.
Everyone was all in black and the leafless trees were like skeletal hands reaching from the ground. The overcast sky was grey and forbidding. The small group, led by the three sisters, came from the church and gathered by the graveside.
Earnestine shuddered; Georgina, dressed in bombazine fabric with crepe and a widow’s cap, cried, softly, but she was allowed to, and Charlotte looked serious.
When his three Gentlemen Adventurers had not returned, Major Dan had organised a makeshift militia and they had marshalled in time to deal with the few, the very few untoten who had escaped the flood. The Graf’s great army had been washed into the Thames and out to sea. There had been no reports of Zala himself or his Zeppelin. The wind had been easterly; he must be floating over Mongolia by now, Earnestine thought. Prince Pieter had ordered Mordant’s unnatural science to be destroyed and he had promised to oversee the process himself. All the notes would be burnt.
And Pieter – beautiful Pieter – himself had his duty: Russia beckoned. He was a minor European Royal, but Royalty had their responsibilities. One only had to consider Queen Victoria herself. If he married one of the daughters of Tsar Nicolas II, Olga, Tatiana or Maria, then the Royal bloodlines would be folded back towards the European dynasties. One day, perhaps even a direct issue of Pieter, an Austro–Hungarian–Saxe–Coburg–Romanov child, would inherit the thrones of the British Empire, the Russian Empire and the German Empire along with thrones in Spain and Brazil: three quarters of the world’s land. There would be peace, a wonderful glorious peace that would mark the coming twentieth century out as a golden age unblemished by the taint of war.