Eppie (68 page)

‘Is there need for so many of your men?’ Mr Grimley asked
Colonel Cudbert Catesby. ‘This whole affair is ludicrous.’

‘My men have orders to take out only the leader and those who
raise weapons against us.’ Catesby turned his attention to Eppie. ‘I am given
to understand that you are to be transported into high society. Knowing a
comfortable fortune awaits you must be a solace after your atrocious experience
of the low life.’

‘I haven’t given it much thought.’ Now that she did reflect upon
it, she felt an impatience to return to her true home, to step into a world of luxury.
She would adorn herself in extravagant frocks, dine to her fill, and sleep the
day long if she so desired. She recalled the times when she had played house in
the loft of Dank Cottage, make-believing that Elizabeth was a grand lady at
Tunnygrave Manor. Nothing would hold her back from living the life of opulence
that rightfully was hers.

‘Rest assured that the villain who stole you will be hunted
down and slain,’ Catesby said.

‘Neither I nor my brother desire Wakelin Dunham to come to any
harm,’ she said, horror-stricken at his words. ‘He is absolved from his crime.’

‘I rather think that the matter is in the hands of the
authorities. Dunham’s revolutionary tendencies make him a dangerous man to roam
at liberty.’

Eppie had told Martha that Wakelin must have left Malstowe
by now, though she could not bring herself to reveal to her his involvement
with the Resurrectionists. Now it was imperative that she find out where he had
gone and send word to him that his life was in danger. Not only from Thurstan.

‘I have my doubts as to the credentials of those in
authority
if, by that, you refer to yourself,’ Eppie said. ‘Furthermore, as a friend of
Thurstan du Quesne, I would hardly consider you to be the ideal person to lead
a hunt for the ringleader of the Resurrectionists.’

‘Thurstan and I parted company many years ago. I admit that
in my youth I was an avid follower of his. With age and experience, however, I
came to abhor his devil’s humour.’

There was something about Catesby that made her wary, like
the way he did not meet her eyes when he spoke of his contempt for Thurstan.

‘What is Crumpton about?’ Mr Grimley asked.

Amongst boxes of cannon balls, the overseer had discovered a
crate containing a suit of armour. Whether packed inadvertently or not was
anyone’s guess. With the help of a pig-tailed cabin boy, Crumpton had kitted
himself out in the guise of a knight.

‘The day is getting late,’ Redgy Dipper said. Though he had
scouted around town all morning, seeking information about the identity of the
leader of the wreckers, he was none the wiser. Nor did any of the workers he
spoke to admit to having any knowledge about a revolt. ‘The letter must have
been a hoax.’

‘Possibly,’ the judge answered, ‘or maybe the wreckers’
spies, seeing such stiff opposition, have advised the rebels to turn tail.  We
should call it off?’

‘Good idea,’ Mr Grimley said. ‘This heat is unbearable.’

A rousing cry went up amongst a gang of sailors, ‘They’re
coming!’

Dashing to their weapons, men wielded tampons and rammed
wads of gunpowder cloth into cannons.

Men, women and children, many faces familiar to Eppie, swept
up the road like a ragged army advancing to war, those with malformed ankles or
dislocated knees hobbling on sticks. Some carried stones; others held blazing
torches of cotton waste dipped in tar.

All eyes turned to the forbidding knight. A rooftop crammed
with sailors as though fighting a man-o’-war ship was difficult enough to
comprehend, but this sword-wielding knight, his armour silver against the
darkening clouds, was bizarre.

Boldly, workers and sacked men marched into the courtyard.

On his head the man leading the workers wore a sack, through
which eyeholes had been cut. ‘Mr Grimley!’ he shouted above the clatter of clog
feet.

‘Able Loomp, Purveyor of Quality Foods,
’
Mr Grimley
said. ‘I should have guessed.’

‘You know the man?’ Catesby asked.

‘He ran the truck store. Consequent upon his lordship’s
death, I dismissed him. For years he had been adulterating the workers’ food.’

‘Then this campaign would appear to be the result of a
personal grudge?’

‘I cannot think it otherwise.’ Raising his voice, Mr Grimley
cried, ‘Mr Loomp, what are you about?’

Furious that his identity had been so easily detected, the
truck store manager ripped off his disguise. Stood upon a cart he looked like a
priest on a pulpit, surrounded by his enraptured congregation. Written on his
face was the belief that he, Able Loomp, the workers’ honourable leader, would
propel the destitute to victory. ‘This is a revolt against the dominion of
machines which are ruining the lives of these downtrodden people!’

Eppie recalled the time when Thurstan and the truck store
manager had forced Longbotham to reveal the incriminating copy of the book of misdemeanours.
‘It’s my guess that Thurstan is behind this. He will be angry knowing that the cotton
mill and weaving shed belong to Gabriel and so he has got Loomp to incite the
workers. Thurstan would delight in seeing Gabriel’s property destroyed,
regardless of the cost of life to the workers.’ 

‘I have a feeling that you are right,’ Mr Grimley answered. ‘Heed
me!’ he shouted to the workers. ‘Gabriel du Quesne will be a kinder owner than
his father. Safety in the mills is his paramount objective. Your children will
work fewer hours.’

Loomp was not to be diverted from his mission. ‘Do not
listen to Grimley. He says nothing about re-employing the men.’

‘I implore you to stop this hasty action!’ Mr Grimley cried.
‘I know each one of you. I will come down and speak to you, on equal terms.’

Moments later, Eppie gazed upon the top of Mr Grimley’s
black hat as he, Judge Baulke and Colonel Catesby emerged into the yard.

‘You must not follow this man to your deaths!’ Mr Grimley’s
booming voice rang out. ‘He is not fit to be the leader of any man. For years
he adulterated your food so that he and Robert du Quesne might rake in the profits.
Your flour he mixed with powdered chalk. Potted meat was horseflesh. Cheese he
coloured with red lead. Seriously dangerous, would you not agree, Mr Loomp?’

At Mr Grimley’s revelation, ‘Your gin he flavoured with
turpentine,’ Eppie’s thoughts fled to the vast quantity of cheap bottles Wakelin
had downed from the truck store.

Shillelaghs raised, some of the workers pressed around the
truck store manager. Loomp’s composure crumbled.

‘Everything I have said is true,’ Mr Grimley said, a note of
victory in his voice, knowing that he would soon win the workers over. ‘Even your
confectionery was tainted. Young Pratchett, the trucky boy I put in as my spy,
informed me that Loomp regularly sent him to grocers’ stores to purchase sugar
sweepings off the floors. Sweepings mixed with fungi, flies and phlegm, even
droppings from dogs. He boiled the stuff until it went hard and sticky, and broke
it to sell as toffees. Extremely popular they were.’ He gazed at the rooftop, a
glint in his eye. ‘Would you not agree, Mr Crumpton?’

Raising his visor the overseer spat a toffee out of his
close helm. ‘Pah! You’re a dirty, low down miser, Loomp.’

‘Mr Grimley is the only rogue here,’ Loomp yelled, making a
final attempt to rouse the workers. ‘I know what you workers do not, that Gabriel
du Quesne plans to sack the women and children and bring in the Irish to take
your jobs.’

At this, the workers sent up a cry of outrage.

‘It is all lies!’ Mr Grimley exclaimed.

Unheeding, a gang of men broke off from the crowd, weapons
raised. Shouts rang out: ‘Death to the machines!’

Warning shots from muskets were fired from the rooftop.

Running forwards, some workers hurled bricks and stones
through windows. Others cast flaring torches into the mill.

A group of soldiers raced into the weaving shed, pursuing
rebels. Pistol shots rang out.

‘Go home, or you may be killed!’ Eppie yelled as workers, many
unwillingly forced forward by those behind, flooded into the courtyard.

Knowing that she cared about their plight, most of the
workers turned and began pushing back. The streets came alive with scampering,
scattering figures running for their lives. Cannon fire burst over the fleeing
crowd, deafening.

Eppie chanced to glance round at Bridge House. Between the
piers men moved furtively, dumping kegs of explosives. In a flash she saw it; the
distraction of the wreckers was a guise to draw attention away from Thurstan’s
true intent to murder Gabriel.

Racing to the end of the roof, Eppie
yelled and waved for all she was worth. Nothing she did could make Martha,
Gabriel and the others understand. They simply stood before the window on the
poop deck, their faces waxen with anguish. At any moment the house would be
blown to pieces and her loved ones also.

Jaggery lingered long enough to cast Eppie a smug look of
satisfaction. Fuses lit, Thurstan’s gang took to their heels.     

Abruptly, the air was charged with an uncanny creaking, like
ice floes pressing against the unyielding timbers of a narrowboat. As though an
invisible hand were patterning them with the scales of a thousand leaping fish,
the glinting windowpanes of Bridge House fretted over with frost. 

Hailstones, iced bullets, crashed from the mushrooming
clouds, beating relentlessly upon the men and their weapons. Heads bowed,
taking cover, soldiers and sailors barged one another in their hurry to escape
the onslaught.

Standing her ground against the freezing blast, Eppie raised
her hands to protect her head.

Wings like those of an immense swan upon his back, his hide
sparkling with stars, Spellbound soared through the storm towards her.

With not a moment to consider the peril to her life, Eppie
leapt from the rooftop.

Spellbound beneath her, every muscle in the animal stretched
to its full, pulsating to an icy beat. In the speed of their passing, Eppie’s
fingers sank into Talia’s diaphanous waist, which felt as soft and
insubstantial as powdery snow.

Priscilla scurried down the hallway. 

‘Careful, ‘cilla,’ Loafer called after her, ‘it might be them
wreckers trying to break in.’

Turnips in her arms, Priscilla peered cautiously into the
kitchen. She was startled to see Eppie sprawled on the floor. Around her, giant
hailstones plummeted through holes in the ceiling, bouncing in and out of
pails. ‘Lovey! Are you all right? I could’ve sworn a hailstone had cracked a
pane. No, not even a scratch. Mr Grimley would not have been happy about paying
out for more repairs.’

Priscilla grumbling about everyday problems confused Eppie
when, to her, everything seemed so extraordinary. It was easier to lie here and
forget that their lives were in danger. She pushed herself up by her elbows and
in the strangled, unreal scream of a sleeper experiencing a nightmare, cried, ‘Get
out!’

Loafer dashed in, a ratting truncheon to hand. ‘Why, Miss
Eppie, how did you get off the roof so quick with those soldiers surrounding
the mill?’

She was beginning to wonder the same. It had not been a
dream, she knew that. Spellbound had flown straight at the house, his enormous
wings creating a powerful thudding like a rug being beaten outdoors with a
wicker beater. At the moment when she had expected an impact with the house she
had shut her eyes tight, only to find herself, the next moment, lying unhurt on
the floor.

The others looked in.

‘Is Mr Grimley with you?’ Gabriel asked.

‘Are you hurt?’ Martha asked. ‘Why are you sitting on the
floor?’

Quaking with fear, Lottie pressed close against Martha, frightened
by the uproar in the streets, the sky lit with cannon fire.

Eppie stumbled to her feet. Hastening to the door, she tugged
on Martha’s arm to make her follow. ‘Jaggery has set a barrel of gunpowder
under the bridge! We need to get out!’

 A violent blast ripped through the house.

 Loafer flinched against the blinding light, the screams of
the women, and the howls of the dogs. A fragment of plaster dropped onto his
head. ‘I think Miss Eppie might have a point there.’

In the hallway, patches of the long, thin rug were on fire,
smouldering at the edges. Pressing their backs against the panelling, they
warily made their way out. Smoke blackened and swirled. Shattered timbers
beneath their feet creaked ominously.

Passing the poop deck, Eppie shot a glance into the room. The
hole, once covered by a rug, had widened somewhat, the floor having vanished
into the thundering river, taking with it the window-seat and most of the
furnishings. Splinters hung like stalactites from the ceiling.

Priscilla had thoughtfully locked and secured the front door
against intruders.

She fumbled with the key.

The flames intensified, lifting the hair from their
petrified faces.

‘Quickly!’ Martha cried. 

Beside them the staircase collapsed as though it were a pack
of playing cards, setting the women to screaming again. Flames crackled, leapt
and roared. Paint swelled into boils.

Loafer coughed with the stinging dust. ‘Typical woman. We’re
about to fry and all you’re concerned about is finding a key. What ya need’s a
boot.’ With a mighty kick he sent the door flying from its hinges.   

Reeling in the flickering glare, they stumbled across the
bridge, Jack enthusiastically pursuing rats as they spurted past his paws.

Banners, caps and shawls lay strewn across the street,
trampled and torn.

A further deafening blast was heard from behind. They span around
in time to see the house shudder in its death throes, walls bulging, chimneys
toppling. With an almighty crash, the roof sank and Bridge House keeled into
the river.