Her prayers went unanswered. They raced down the Strand and past the Opera House.
A woman’s shrill scream pierced the night. Angry shouts followed.
James tried to open the trapdoor but something was blocking it. Cold ran through Calliope as she realized that Jenkins’s heavy form was probably the culprit.
James opened a box hidden in the squabs and thrust a small gun in her hand, then placed two other pistols on the seat. He yelled over the noise from the wheels and the shouts from pedestrians outside, "They’re loaded. Use the smaller one only if they get close."
Not waiting for a reply, he threw the coach window open and crawled through. She gaped at his retreating backside as the coach lurched precariously.
Calliope held her breath until she knew he had safely reached the driver’s box. Snapping to attention, she repositioned herself, propping her legs against the seat across from her. Calliope heard the horses’ angry snorts as James attempted to get the frightened creatures under control.
She stuck her head out the window to call to him. A pole whirled past and she pulled her head in so fast that she bumped it against the top of the window frame.
How had he climbed out without getting hit?
Being more circumspect, she again peered upward out the window. She detected the slumped-over form of Jenkins. She prayed fervently that he was only slightly injured. Straining a glance behind the coach, Calliope spotted two riders approaching at a fast clip.
Shots rang out again and she whipped her head inside. How many guns did the assailants have?
She tucked the smaller gun in her breeches and picked up one of the other pistols. Keeping a tight grip, she leaned out the window, cocked the hammer and squeezed the trigger. One of the riders ducked but continued to give chase. She fired the other, with the same result. Her ears rang from the report.
Her hands shook as she tried to reload the gun. Under the best of circumstances it required a steady hand to pour the powder down the barrel, but in a wildly swaying vehicle, it was nearly impossible.
The contents jiggled as the carriage tossed on the rutted road. She shoved the powder case toward the muzzle. Powder spilled onto the carriage floor. Muttering in frustration, she tried again. The coach lurched. She pinched her fingers together around the case in a bone-crushing grip. Another carriage jerk caused her cap to slip over her left eye. Hair loosened from its constraints, chunks of curls came tumbling out, further obscuring her view. Calliope elbowed the offending hair back.
A violent pitch caused her bad leg to give out and, losing her precarious balance, she fell against the left side of the coach. Still concentrating on the powder, so close to the hole, she poured it in. Finally. She grabbed a paper wad and a ball and pounded them down the shaft.
Meanwhile, it seemed James had managed to get the old town coach and four horses under some semblance of control and the seat wasn’t wobbling as much. The team continued moving at a breakneck pace, weaving around obstacles and taking sharp turns. She stuck her head out the window, took aim and blindly fired.
The two riders slowed and moved to either side of the street. James circled Trafalgar Square and the coach headed back down Whitehall.
She ducked back into the carriage as they hit a bump in the road. It tossed her to the side and her valuable bag of powder poured uselessly to the floor. Damn, and damn again.
Her only alternative was to join James and see if she could be of assistance. Checking that the small gun was secure in her breeches, she grasped both sides of the window frame and hauled herself halfway out on her backside as she had seen him do. Sitting in the frame, she reached for the top of the carriage and was nearly tossed out as they hit a furrow in the road.
She felt the gun slip from her waistband and grabbed it just in time to keep it from falling to the ground. She sent silent thanks that she had worn breeches, James cursed loudly as Calliope stretched toward the driver’s seat. He reached around to pull her up and over Jenkins like a sack of flour. The horses balked at the loosened reins and Calliope could do nothing but hold on for dear life as James hauled her into the seat.
"What are you doing, woman? Are you trying to kill yourself? Come to think of it, I could kill you myself." He didn’t look her way, but his face was drawn in harsh, intense lines.
"I thought I might help. I know you’re trying to outrun those riders."
"Well, you could have shot them. That would have helped."
"I tried. Three times."
"More times would’ve been helpful. From inside the carriage. I can’t see any way for you to reload up here."
"Uh, yes. You see, that was the crux of the problem-"
A shot rang out over their heads.
"Damn it, get down."
He pushed her to the floor and hunched over the reins as they sped past the Admiralty.
Coming up here hadn’t been her brightest idea.
More shots rang out and she heard a hiss from James. It was lucky the horses were back under control, because he was now holding them with only his right hand. For the second time that night he was covered in red.
Calliope gasped and rose to assist, but he pushed her down with his injured left arm and urged the horses on.
"It’s fine. I need to find a distraction and I don’t need it to be you."
The sticky smell of blood overpowered the London air.
She looked at Jenkins’s head, bouncing near her. A bullet had nicked him on the side of his skull. Blood was flowing from the wound. She tore two pieces off her shirt and held one tightly against the wound while binding the other to hold it in place. Looking up at James, she ignored his command and reached up and unfurled his neckcloth in one swift tug. She was very glad he favored simple styles. Calliope knew her head was in the line of fire but she pushed her fear aside. She tried to open his shirt but he shook his head.
"If you aren’t going to listen to me, then just bind the wound and get back down."
She quickly complied and he shoved her to the floor. "Grab Jenkins and hold tight."
They were close to the Government Offices and nearing the Houses of Parliament. Before hitting the floor, she had seen the rows of empty vendor stalls by the square. He was going to ram them. Calliope held on to Jenkins and prayed.
The horses were balking, but a second before they reached the stalls, James gave a sharp left jerk on the reins and urged them on. The tired beasts responded and turned. The rear of the carriage skidded outward, hitting the stalls and sending wood and materials into the air. Calliope managed to hold on to both Jenkins and herself. Terrified that James had slipped off the side, she glanced up, but he was confidently spurring the horses forward. Blood pounded in her ears.
She looked back at the carnage. Stalls and beams were strewn across the street. The riders couldn’t pass. She breathed an audible sigh of relief.
He gave her a sharp look. "We aren’t home yet."
She grabbed the small gun and looked around, but the tired horses carried them the short distance to James’s townhouse without further incident.
A small army of servants appeared and carried off Jenkins. Finn mumbled under his breath about his employer taking off without him.
"Finn, take care of Jenkins, post guards and get someone to rub down the horses." He pointed at Calliope. "Follow me."
Calliope shadowed him to the study. "What about your wound?"
"It’s merely a nick. Bullet passed through."
Templeton appeared in the doorway, anxiety on his usually calm face.
Calliope inspected James’s blood-soaked shirt for the second time that day. "Templeton, please get us hot water, towels and bandages."
Templeton, who was staring at his master’s shirt, didn’t question her right to attend his master or give directives. He ran from the room.