The Baltic War(242)

By the time he got the outer door open and was starting to work on the door to the actual cell, his nephew Jack had arrived. "Help me with these bolts, lad. There are a damn bloody lot of them, just to hold one man."





They got the ramp up to the great gaping hole that had been blown in the side of St. Thomas' Tower by the simple expedient of tossing up a rope. With one end of the rope attached to one end of the ramp and Tom Simpson pulling on the other end, there it was. Quick as that—all they had to do was help guide it and then anchor the bottom to the wharf. It took longer to muscle the damn thing out of the barge in the first place.



Melissa Mailey was the first one to appear at the top, hesitating as she looked down the very steep incline. Gutsy as she might be, she was still almost sixty years old, with the caution that had slowly seeped in over the years when it came to any sort of acrobatics. This was no shallow cruise ship ramp, either. It was more like a heavy ladder, pitched at no better than a forty-five degree angle.



She took her first awkward, gingerly step. Then retreated hastily, when she realized she'd have to go down backwards, as if she was using an actual ladder. She took her first awkward step in that pose, feeling behind her uncertainly for the first of the boards that had been nailed across the ramp to provide footing.



"Christ, this is gonna take forever," Harry muttered. He heard another shot from Julie's rifle, the first one since she'd killed the gun crew. That meant soldiers were starting to appear somewhere on the Outer Wall.



Tom Simpson's huge form appeared at the top of the ramp. The man was so big it was easy to forget he'd also been a top college athlete. More gracefully than Harry could have imagined, Tom eased himself down the ramp next to Melissa, picked her up in a fireman's carry—close enough, anyway—and had her down on the wharf in less than five seconds.



She only squawked once. Harry was impressed. Tough old bird.



As soon as the ramp was clear, Harry raced up. Don Ohde and Sherrilyn came behind him, moving more slowly since they were carrying rifles instead of pistols.





"Another one," said Alex Mackay. "No, two. To your left, by the Bell Tower."



Julie's aim shifted. Three seconds later, she fired. Three seconds later, fired again.



Neither Anthony nor Patrick was watching any longer for inconvenient passers-by, other than a quick glance every ten seconds or so. No need to, really. In Southwark, by now, any pedestrian who'd been ambling about in the vicinity was long gone.



But they'd probably have done the same, even if alertness had been necessary. Experienced soldiers both, they were simply too fascinated by what they were seeing. The concept of "marksmanship" was by no means unknown, in their day, to be sure. Some of Patrick's skirmishers were very good shots, with their rifled muskets.



But that was by a definition of "good shots" that now seemed as antiquated as the pharaohs. They'd heard the tales of the young American woman's ability to use a rifle, but hadn't really quite believed them.



They did, now. Reaching across an entire river, she was striking down any man who showed himself on the Outer Wall. Seven of them, all told, since she'd taken out the four men on the gun crew. She'd only missed once—and that was if you counted as a "miss" a man whose shoulder was shattered and was as surely out of the fray as if he'd been slain outright.



"Now, another. All the way over by the Well Tower."



A few more seconds passed, and the angel of death spread her wings again.





By the time Stephen Hamilton reached the entrance to the Lodging, all the women and children of the family were out and starting to pass through the gate into the Water Lane. And by then, of course—with two deafening explosions, one coming from the White Tower and one from St. Thomas' Tower—some of the Warders were coming out also.



Stephen stopped fifteen feet from the entrance and took out his pistol. One of the wonderful American automatic pistols, it was. Captain Lefferts had given one to him and one to Andrew, and then taken them out into the country a few weeks back to practice with the weapons.



The three Warders who'd come out included one of the other captains of the force, Charles Hardy. With his left hand, Hamilton pulled a small packet out of his coat pocket and tossed it to him.



"Here, you'll need this in a moment."



Confused, Hardy looked down at the object in his hand. "What's in it?"



"They're called sulfa drugs. I had Lady Simpson make up the packet for me. They're good for flesh wounds, keep them from getting infected. Just sprinkle the stuff on."



Hardy stared at him.



Hamilton made a face. "Sorry, Charles. But if you lads don't suffer any casualties at all, it'll look bad." He brought up the pistol and fired. Once, twice, thrice. All three Warders fell to the ground, yelling with shock and clutching their legs.