We crawled back up into the cart, and with a rough lash of the reins, moved off. McKeller was seething and O’Casey trying to calm him down.
“As you can see, Penrith,” O’Casey said drily, “being Irish isn’t all shamrocks and singing.”
“I’ll blow this town to smithereens!” McKeller vowed. He was so angry, he was almost choking on the words. “I’ll raze it. I’ll tear it down to bricks, then I’ll grind them into dust. I’m not leaving London till I’ve seen that publican’s blood spilt! You mark my words!”
“Take it easy, McKeller,” O’Casey soothed. “We’ll each buy you a pint at the Harp.”
McKeller uttered threats and curses all the way back to Seven Dials.
Once there, O’Casey stepped inside the Crook and Harp and found Colin and Padraig Bannon, who came out and unloaded the cart while we went into the pub. Here, we were accepted, but there was more to it than that. Here, we were welcome, even revered. We ordered two pulls of the tap and O’Casey’s water, and tried to get McKeller to calm down.
As I was listening to McKeller’s litany of complaints against the English, I happened to look over his shoulder, where I spotted a familiar face. At the far end of the room, Soho Vic was seated, leaning against a wall, a pint in front of him. He was engrossed in trimming his nails with a pocketknife and seemed not to notice we were in the room.
My spirits rose. One of Barker’s watchers was in residence, and I hoped the police were nearby waiting for a signal. Thanks to the publican at the Arms, the Irish were now demoralized. I almost felt sorry for poor McKeller being tossed out of the public house. Now all we needed to do was build up a few fake explosives, let them get caught by Scotland Yard with them, and that was that. These faction members would be in Wormwood Scrubs and we’d be safe at home.
A hand suddenly came forward and patted my shoulder.
“Hello, Mr. Penrith. Fellows. How are things?”
It was Niall Garrity. I could feel my blood suddenly run cold. It appeared Barker and I would not be making bombs alone after all.
25
Garrity was here. My head began spinning with the implications. Was Dunleavy in charge or was Garrity? Or was Seamus O’Muircheartaigh manipulating us all like puppets?Eamon O’Casey himself seemed capable of running a faction all by himself. More important, Garrity was here and would no doubt insist on helping us make the bombs. How could we be sure they were all inert with him watching? Certainly, his presence here had one effect: it made me nervous, which is not a good thing when about to prepare explosives.
“Fergus,” Garrity said, noticing McKeller’s red face and angry look. “What’s eating you?”
“Me blood’s up. One of them nose-in-the-air publicans refused to serve us because we’re Irish. By Gor, I’d like to bowl one o’ them bombs right in through his front door.”
Garrity put a finger to his lips. “Don’t be spreading it all over town, or the game’ll be up before it starts. Penrith, Colonel Dunleavy is here, conferring with Mr. van Rhyn. I think they want to see us.”
The four of us went upstairs to the makeshift laboratory. Dunleavy was seated at a table talking, and Barker sat across from him, listening, making adjustments in our plans as the information tumbled forth. It was rather like watching a couple of chess masters at play, only the board was the city of London.
Colin and Padraig Bannon came wandering in with the last of the packages from the cart, and we all sat down to a meeting.
“Everything has arrived safely, Colonel Dunleavy,” O’Casey told their leader.
“Good!” he said, flashing one of those grins of his. “Mr. van Rhyn, provided you have all the necessary equipment, how long will it take you to create the bombs?”
“Several hours, since Mr. Penrith and I shall be making the nitroglycerin ourselves. Let us say five hours, to be safe, sir.”
“Very well. Prepare your infernal devices tonight. Tomorrow evening at six o’clock, we shall set London on its ear. Remember it, gentlemen. Thirtieth June, 1884. It shall be a day of celebration in Ireland forever.
“Niall Garrity has returned from Dublin and is anxious to lend a hand,” Dunleavy said. “He hopes to pick up some experience under your tutelage, Mr. van Rhyn.”
“I’ll help with mixing the nitroglycerin,” Garrity put in, “and with setting the timers. You have no objection, I trust, if we test your explosives to make certain they work?”
“None in the least,” Barker said. “Blow up the building if you wish, though it might alert the local constabulary. It makes no difference to me.”
“We’ll leave the Harp intact, thank you,” Garrity stated with a dry chuckle. “There is a tunnel below where we can test your explosive. It is of stout stone and there is nothing to damage. Shall we prepare?”
An hour later, Garrity, Barker, and I were dressed in guttaperchalined aprons and rubber gloves that reached almost to our elbows. All our supplies were spread out across the tables, and carboys and a large block of ice were on the floor near us, so we could get to them. There was no turning back now. I opened the windows and slowly moved some materials around to cover up what I was really doing, which was praying. I thought it an odd way to spend the Sabbath day, building bombs.
“You may still leave us if you wish, Mr. Garrity,” Barker told the Irishman. “It is not necessary for you to be here during this process. Nitroglycerin is unstable, and even an old bomb handler such as I can still blow the roof off a building.”
“No, I trust you,” Garrity answered. “I would like to work with a master like you. I’ll stay.”
“Mr. Penrith, will you keep a constant eye on the thermometer once we begin?”
“Yes, sir. I will watch carefully,” I stated. “Should it get above freezing, Mr. Garrity, the nitroglycerin will either explode or form a heavy gas that will kill us all.”
“I see,” Garrity said. “What can I do, Penrith?”
“For now, start chipping ice for all it is worth. Oh, and I’m afraid we shall all have headaches for the next day or so. It is an unfortunate side effect of the process.”
Garrity took the ice pick and began chipping away at the block.
“Fill this bucket with ice almost to the top,” Barker instructed.
“We’ll need to get to it quickly.”
The Guv removed the lid of the nitric acid bottle and decanted the red liquid slowly into a beaker. He then settled this glass container into the bucket of ice, and as it chilled, carefully opened the carboy of sulfuric acid. With Garrity’s help, I filled a larger beaker half full of the deadly chemical. This I pushed down into a second bucket of ice.
“Keep chipping,” Barker ordered. “The temperature will rise sharply when I mix these two together.”
Slowly, he poured the nitric acid into the beaker of sulfuric acid.
“The temperature is rising,” I warned.
“More ice, Mr. Garrity, if you please.”
The Irishman quickly packed ice around the large beaker. I noticed he was already perspiring freely and the ice was melting as well. It was the twenty-ninth of June, and the weather was warm. If we ran out of ice during this operation, we’d also run out of time.
Barker opened a container of glycerin and poured it into a new beaker. Picking up a medicine dropper, he squeezed the rubber bulb and drew it full of the pale liquid. I realized I was holding my breath.
“This is it, gentlemen,” Barker said. “I fear there is no turning back now.”
Drop by drop, he began covering the acid mixture with the glycerin, which floated.
“The temperature is rising again, sir,” I said, tensely.
“Yes, it is nitrating and producing heat. More ice, quickly, Garrity, or we shall all perish.”
“Twenty-six degrees, twenty-seven, twenty-eight,” I said, reading the mercury as it rose.
“If it reaches over thirty, we are done for.”