"Talking orang-?" began Burton.
"Captain Burton!" came a distant shout.
Oxford looked up through the trees as the second flying machine drew closer.
"The mist has cleared and the sun is high enough," he muttered to himself. "I should be able to recharge."
"Charge at what?" demanded Burton. "You're speaking in riddles, man!"
"Time to go," said Oxford. He laughed. "Time to go!"
Burton suddenly dived at him.
Oxford twisted out of the way and, as the famous Victorian crashed past him, he strode away.
"Sir Richard Francis Burton," he hissed to himself. "That's all I bloody well need!"
Ducking under branches, he moved from bole to bole until he emerged from the woods back onto the golf course. Off to the south, he saw a horde of policemen and villagers milling about. A police whistle blew and a roar went up from the crowd. They surged toward him.
Oxford bounded away and circled the course. He only had to remain in the sunlight for a couple of minutes; it would be enough.
In enormous hops, he ran around the perimeter while the mob surged back and forth trying to cut him off.
He passed the edge of the trees again and saw Burton standing there. The man ran out to intercept him. Oxford bounded over his head.
"Stay out of it, Burton!" he shouted.
He took six more strides and sprang high.
At the apex of his jump, he ordered the suit to flip him to the next destination and, at exactly the same moment, realised that the second flying machine was too close, almost touching him.
He landed in the Alsop field on the night of September 30, 1861, with fragments of the machine accompanying him. He hit the ground awkwardly, floundered, and fell. Bits of twisted metal thudded into the earth around him. One piece embedded itself in his right forearm. He screamed with pain and yanked it out. Blood splashed over the scales of his suit.
Spring Heeled Jack rolled to all fours and hauled himself upright. He held his arm and winced. He looked down the sloping field and forgot the pain.
It was all so familiar.
There were the lights of Old Ford; there was Bearbinder Lane; and there was the cottage where Jane Alsop lived, and where he would now find her daughter, Alicia Pipkiss.
He had no reason to think that she was the girl with the rainbow birthmark, but all of a sudden that's exactly what he did think.
He smiled.
Something came spinning through the air, hit his stilts, and wrapped itself around them.
He toppled sideways and fell onto his injured arm. Another scream was torn from his throat.
What the-?
He looked down and saw that he'd been enmeshed in bolas-throwing weapons consisting of a cord with weights at either end.
Men rushed out of the trees. A lot of men. They threw nets over him.
Colourful birds exploded into the air.
In Old Ford, Constable Krishnamurthy saw the flock of parakeets rising upward. They wheeled around then flew westward. Firing up his rotorchair, he ascended on a column of boiling vapour and steered the craft toward the field. Some distance behind him, by the ruined farmhouse, six more rotorchairs rose.
To the north, west, and south of the field, Burton, Trounce, and Honesty also saw the birds. They ordered their men forward.
Not far behind Trounce's team, Laurence Oliphant turned to the twentythree red-robed figures and snapped: "Go! Attack! Feast!"
They threw back their hoods and howled.
Men piled onto Spring Heeled Jack, holding his arms away from his chest. They hauled him upright. He struggled wildly and became entangled in netting. One punched him hard in the stomach. He doubled over and vomited.
"Sorry, old thing. Had to immobilise you, what!" said the aggressor.
"Blast it," said another. "We have company."
The Rakes, gathered around the time traveller, suddenly found themselves surrounded by men who were charging out from the very same trees they'd just vacated. The Libertine extremists formed a circle around their prisoner, faced outward, and drew their rapiers from their canes.
The advancing forces pulled goggles down from their foreheads to cover their eyes, reached into their jackets, and withdrew truncheons and pistols.
"I am Detective Inspector Trounce of Scotland Yard," roared a voice. "I command you, in the name of His Majesty King Albert, to lay down your weapons and give yourselves up!"
"Not likely!" came a reply.
The Rakes chuckled and brandished their swords.
Seven rotorchairs began to circle the field. Bright lamps blazed beneath them, suspended on ropes, illuminating the scene, sending long black shadows angling across it.
"We need reinforcements," Oxford heard one of his captors mutter.
"Don't worry. They're coming," answered another.
A parakeet landed on the threshold of the veranda doors at Darkening Towers.
"Message for Henry bog-breath Beresford!" it squawked into the ballroom.
Another fluttered down beside it: "Message for the limp-wristed Marquess of Waterford!"
And another: "Message for the highly hideous Henry Beresford!"
And more:
"Message for Henry bastard-of-bastards Beresford!"
"Message for Henry tweak-nibbler Beresford!"
"Message for the mange-ridden marquess!"
"Message for barmy flesh-puller Beresford!"
"Message for the Marquess of buttock-wobbling Waterford!"
"Bloody hell!" exclaimed Henry de La Poer Beresford, 3rd Marquess of Waterford, as a colourful tidal wave of parakeets swept into the room to insult him.
"Message begins," they chorused deafeningly. "He's arrived, you bollockgroper. Message ends."
The glass-headed orangutan blundered through them, waving its long arms, sending up a fluttering mass of colour. He lurched out into the grounds and bawled: "Get the steam up! Get the steam up! He's here! Spring Heeled Jack is here!"
The gigantic rotorship trembled as its crankshafts started turning, spinning the rotors. It vented steam from its exhausts. Men ran between it and the smaller vessel, which was landed nearby.
Beresford tumbled up the ramp, passing a man whose head was half brass: John Speke, who, with the key over his left ear slowly revolving, raced to the smaller craft.
The Mad Marquess entered the mighty Technologist ship and the ramp withdrew behind him.
The doors clanged shut.
With a powerful roar, the colossal platform lifted into the air.
Sir Richard Francis Burton, his eyes covered by leather-bound goggles, his cane thrust beneath his belt, plunged into the amassed Rakes and laid about him with his rapier. The blade clicked and clacked against those of his enemies, and, though he was vastly outnumbered, his skill was such that he disarmed or disabled man after man without sustaining even a scratch himself.
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.