“I’ll find one o’ me mates what’s in the business of cabbyin’,” Penniforth said. “I’ll get to the station in a jiffy. Anyways, I much prefers wheels to wings.” He touched the brim of his cloth cap and raced away.
“We have our machines parked nearby,” Burton said. “Mr. Honesty, you come with us. You and Algy are slightly built. His rotorchair will bear you both.”
The party split in two, and ten minutes later four rotorchairs soared above the rainclouds and sped northward.
It was early and cold and Burton had no recollection of his last full night’s sleep. Every part of him hurt: bones aching; flesh bruised; emotions savagely suppressed. He still hadn’t properly grieved. Isabel’s death was like a knife that couldn’t be removed lest the blood start flowing. It stabbed him through the heart but he would not—must not—acknowledge the damage. Not yet.
Don’t think of Isabel.
Don’t think of William Stroyan.
Don’t think of John Steinhaueser.
Think only of Aleister Crowley—of killing him.
Ahead, the tips of the four towers of Battersea Power Station poked out of the clouds. Burton sent his flying machine down into the wet shroud. The rain drummed against him. He plunged out of the vapour. To his left, the bulk of the Sagittarius humped up from the airfield. Visibility was poor, but as far as he could make out, there weren’t many people around it. If Crowley had an army of a hundred, he could hijack the battleship with ease.
Drawing to a halt above the power station’s quadrangle, the explorer eased his machine to the ground. As its rotors slowed to a stop, the other chairs descended, Swinburne’s slamming down heavily thanks to its additional weight.
The men ran to the entrance and were met by Daniel Gooch.
“Sister Raghavendra has told us what’s what,” he said. “We’ve gathered our forces—about fifty men. Come and arm yourselves.”
“El Yezdi?” Burton asked as they stepped into the immense workshop.
“Fading fast. I’m afraid these are his final hours, Sir Richard. Do you want to see him?”
The explorer hesitated then said, “There’s no time.”
A technician approached and handed him a Beaumont–Adams revolver and box of bullets. Trounce, Levi, Swinburne, and Honesty received the same.
“Are you up to it?” Burton asked the groundsman.
Honesty’s grey eyes took on a steely glint. “Fit for retribution.”
“Good man. And you, Algy? You look all in.”
The poet jerked his limbs restlessly and objected, “Not a bit of it. Don’t let the blood and ragged clothing fool you. I’m up for a scrap. Like Honesty here, I have a score to settle.”
“We all do.” Burton turned as clanking footsteps approached. Isambard Kingdom Brunel chimed a greeting. Each of the brass man’s six arms had a large multi-barrelled weapon bolted to it. He held one up and clanged, “Invented by one of our American associates, Doctor Richard Gatling. It loads automatically and has a very rapid rate of fire. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Brunel said to Gooch, “Have the men gather at the gates. On the double, please, Daniel.”
“We’ll head east along Riverside Walk,” Burton said. “It’s the most sheltered route between here and the mouth of the Effra.”
“You think that’s the way Crowley and his people will come?” Trounce asked.
“I can’t imagine them strolling along Nine Elms Lane.”
The policeman grunted his agreement.
Brunel’s DOGS, all armed, streamed from the building. The mechanical engineer led Burton’s party out to join them.
Burton addressed the little army. “We’re facing enemies of the Empire, gentlemen. Don’t hesitate to shoot to kill.”
From behind him, a voice said, “You mean lady and gentlemen.”
He turned to find Sister Raghavendra outfitted in men’s clothing and holding a revolver in each hand.
“You’ve played your part splendidly, Sadhvi—and thank you—but this next isn’t for you.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “My mistake. I’ll remain here, then. Perhaps I can knit you a scarf or embroider a doily or two while you’re fighting the insane tyrant who mesmerised me and forced me to assist him.”
Swinburne giggled and said, “Madam, may I declare my everlasting love?”
She ignored the poet. “Are you going to be a brute and stand here arguing, Richard, or shall we get on with it?”
The explorer gave a slight smile then turned and shouted, “Let’s go!”
The crowd filed through the gates and crossed the waste ground, moving along a rough path that led down to Riverside Walk. Here, they headed to the right, passing the Southwark and Vauxhall waterworks.
Even in the rain, the stench of the river was dreadful. “By Jove!” Trounce grumbled. “We have to get the Cauldron under control if only so Bazalgette can finish digging through it. The sooner his sewer system starts operating, the better.”
An idea flirted at the periphery of Burton’s mind then eluded him.
Too tired. Can’t even think straight.
They crossed a small dock at the side of a flour mill and continued on past a pottery, a coal wharf, a row of saw mills, and a brewery. When they reached Brunswick Wharf, Gooch pointed one of his mechanical arms at a large edifice beyond which, made vague by the downpour, Vauxhall Bridge could be seen extending across the choppy Thames. “That’s the Belmont Candle Factory.”
Eliphas Levi murmured, “Mouvement, messieurs.”
Burton squinted through the rain. “Men. Standing at a doorway. Not many.”
“I’ll go,” Brunel said. “They can’t harm me.”
He raised his Gatling guns and strode forward, his metal feet thudding on the wood of the platform that extended from the wharf and along the river-facing side of the factory. In his bell-like tones, he shouted, “Vacate the area, please. Your lives are at risk. Leave at once.”
The many windows of the building suddenly flew open, guns poked out, and a hail of bullets clanged against him, sending sparks flying. The men standing outside the factory ran into it.
“Enochians!” Swinburne yelled. “An ambuscade!” He ducked into cover, took aim, and returned fire.
Brunel aimed his six weapons and let loose. His guns roared, flames shooting from the barrels, and the building’s facade spat thick clouds of dust and glass as his bullets gouged across it, ruining brickwork and shattering windows.
While the enemy was thus distracted, Burton and his fellows took shelter, positioning themselves behind crates, barrels, and the equipment used to offload cargo vessels.
Brunel’s guns whirred to silence. “Give yourselves up. Put down your weapons and come out with your hands in the air.”
Faintly, they heard someone shout, “Hold your fire!”
Silence fell. They waited.
“What are they up to?” Trounce muttered.
“We’re sending someone out to parley,” an Enochian yelled.
“This feels rather too easy,” Burton muttered. “But let’s hear what they have to say.”
A door opened and a man stepped out. He held a white handkerchief aloft and walked toward Brunel, who levelled his guns at him and warned, “No sudden moves, if you please.”
“That’s Count Sobieski,” Burton observed. “Did Slaughter raid the Enochians’ club, Trounce?”
“He did. He got Kenealy and sixteen of his fanatics, and found old Brundleweed and his family being held captive in one of the upstairs rooms.”
“Hmm. Some got away, then; Sobieski among them.”
The count stopped just in front of Brunel and said, “Withdraw. We’ll allow you to go in peace.”
“You don’t appear to understand,” Brunel clanged. “It is you who are trapped.”
“It’s true. Those guns of yours have us pinned down.”
“Then you understand you have no choice.”