Beside and behind him, police constables pushed forward, swiping swordsticks aside with their truncheons, lashing out with fists and boots.
It occurred to the king's agent that the last time he'd been in a position such as this, it had ended in disaster.
"Not this time!" he grunted, leaning into the manchette and watching with satisfaction as his opponent flinched, cried out, dropped his sword, and clutched at his pierced wrist.
Soon, the crush of men became too tight for swordplay and his left fist became his primary weapon, smashing into jaws, noses, and foreheads. He grinned savagely, thankful to have at last reached the final reckoning with his enemies, glorying in the battle.
He laughed when he caught sight of Detective Inspector Honesty. The slightly built man appeared to be boxing under the Marquess of Queensberry rules, as had been demonstrated for the first time last June by the heavyweight pugilist Jem Mace, who'd won the Championship of England against Sam Hurst. Honesty's back was ramrod straight; he was dancing and dodging on his toes; his left fist was defending his chin, while his right was jabbing again and again into the face of his infuriated adversary. He appeared to be making no headway until, quite without warning, he swerved, stepped in, and whipped his left fist up in a devastating uppercut. His opponent's feet left the ground and the man flopped flat on his back, out for the count. "Bravo!" cheered Burton.
A pistol shot detonated somewhere behind him.
"No, man!" came Trounce's cry. "Take them alive!"
A terrible scream echoed across the field.
Something howled triumphantly.
"Werewolves!" yelled another voice.
More pistol shots sounded.
Something burst into flames.
A fist clouted the side of Burton's head. He reeled, recovered, and hit back, his knuckles crunching into his enemy's mouth, breaking teeth. The man went down and Burton stumbled over him, falling onto all fours.
"Burton! This is your doing!" hissed a voice.
He looked up, straight into the insane eyes of Spring Heeled Jack. With his captors distracted, the stilt-walker had managed to untangle himself from the bolas and netting and now crouched, ready to leap away.
"I told you not to interfere-but I'll stop you, Burton!" snarled the bizarre figure. "I'll stop you!"
Burton lunged at him and went sprawling as Edward Oxford launched himself high into the air. The king's agent rolled onto his back just in time to see the stilt-walker vanish. His view was suddenly blocked as a loup-garou came swooping down upon him. Reflexively, he swung his rapier up, catching the beast in the throat. Its heavy weight slid down the blade and thumped on top of him. Talons ripped down his upper right arm, slicing through the material and the skin beneath.
The creature went limp. Fierce heat began to emanate from it.
Burton quickly heaved it aside, stood up, and stepped back.
The werewolf exploded into flames.
Men were fighting all around him, the battle now spreading across the field.
Loups-garous slunk through the crowd, pouncing and tearing with their teeth and claws.
He saw, in the near distance, Laurence Oliphant easing a sword out of a man's stomach.
The air throbbed.
A huge flying platform slid over the tops of the trees, a wall of steam bubbling out beneath it, enveloping the battleground.
Doors opened in its sides and ropes were thrown out.
Men came sliding down into the swirling vapour.
The Technologists had arrived.
We're outnumbered! thought Burton.
Edward Oxford landed in Green Park on Sunday September 8, 1861. It was eleven thirty and the night was bitterly cold and misty.
He was near the trees at the top of the slope. Next to the path below, he could see a tall monument on the spot where Queen Victoria had been assassinated.
Ducking into the gloom of the trees, he stood and considered. Where would he find Sir Richard Francis Burton?
He couldn't recall where the man lived nor the location of the Royal Geographical Society. There was, however, the Cannibal Club above Bartoloni's Italian restaurant in Leicester Square. He remembered reading about that place and the eccentrics it attracted. He knew that Burton went there regularly.
Not long ago, the prospect of visiting Leicester Square without the protection of augmented reality would have filled him with dread. Now, though, he was so numbed by the preposterous environment in which he was trapped that he felt almost immune to it. An illusion. A dream. It was nothing more than that. He wasn't even sure why he had come here, and hardly cared. He clung to the only things that made sense to him, despite their patent absurdity: he had to get to the Pipkiss girl; there was only one night on which to do it; and the famous explorer Sir Richard Francis Burton had arranged an ambush to stop him.
Oxford didn't realise that opposing forces were battling over him. His broken mind latched on to just one thing: in order to have supper with his wife on February 15 in the year 2202, he had to stop Burton from interfering on September 30 in the year 1861.
Surely that wouldn't be too difficult?
He closed his eyes and swayed for a moment.
No! he thought. Don't let go! Get it done! Get it done now!
He jumped and landed five hours later in Panton Street behind Leicester Square. At that time of night it was empty but, afraid of being spotted, he immediately sprang up onto the roof of one of the buildings facing the street, and from there to a higher one. He leaped from building to building until he eventually found a chimney stack overlooking Bartoloni's, against which he could sit. Before settling, though, he jumped high and landed next to the stack the following night, just as Big Ben chimed midnight.
It was a long, cold wait and he didn't see Burton.
At three in the morning he gave up and moved ahead to the next night, September 10.
Again, nothing.
The next night the club members gathered, had a good time, and departed at two in the morning.
Burton wasn't among them.
Spring Heeled Jack tried the next evening, and the next, and kept going, waiting hour upon hour until exhaustion overwhelmed him and he slept, slumped against the chimney. He awoke at dawn, swore at himself, and moved through time again.
In the early hours of Tuesday the seventeenth, he finally caught sight of his man.
Sir Richard Francis Burton stumbled out of Bartoloni's at one o'clock in the morning.
He was quite plainly drunk.
As he staggered along, Spring Heeled Jack followed, hopping from rooftop to rooftop, his eyes fixed on the man below.
He trailed his quarry through the streets and alleys, and wondered whether the explorer had any destination in mind, for he appeared to be wandering aimlessly.
Oxford took a great leap over the canyon of Charing Cross Road, landed on a sloping roof, slid down it, got a grip, and sprang to the next building.
He kept moving across the city like a bizarre grasshopper.
Something big and white flapped overhead. It was an enormous swan, dragging a box kite behind it. A man looked down at him from the canvas carriage and yelled: "What the dickens is that?"
Spring Heeled Jack ignored him, dismissing the swan and its passenger as an illusion, for such things didn't exist in the Victorian Age, and followed his prey into a seedy section of the city until, eventually, Burton entered a long, lonely alley.
"This will do!" whispered the stilt-walker to himself.