When the attack came, however, the assailants, three of them, didn’t try to cudgel me, but made directly for Brewster.
CHAPTER 8
I shouted as the men surrounded Brewster, murder in their eyes. Surely an inhabitant of one of the houses around us would hear and either hurry to help or run for a foot patroller.
No doors opened, and no one appeared. I shouted again, this time running at the men. They took no notice of me as I staggered toward them, as though I were a mere bystander in this drama.
The men had clubs, but Brewster already held his wicked-looking knife. Two of the assailants were beefy, like Brewster, the third a willowy man with wiry strength. They raised hands and struck with the grim determination of those intent on killing.
Brewster blocked blows and stabbed out with his knife, making the men dance back. He swept his arm, his hand on the blade steady, eyes darting as he held his assailants at bay.
They circled him, more cautious now, but not backing down. Brewster was a good fighter and a former pugilist, but he could only take on so many attackers at once. When one got behind him, he was done for.
I drew the sword from my walking stick, the steel ringing. I charged in, ignoring my protesting leg, another shout issuing from my lips. So I’d yelled in battle, pounding across the field at my enemy, heart racing, blood surging.
I slapped my blade across the back of one attacker, slashing through his coat. He turned in surprise, and I thrust the sword up under the arm that raised a cudgel, the tip of my sword sliding through his armpit to his shoulder.
He screamed in pain and rage and dropped the cudgel, his nerveless fingers refusing to hold it. He swung his other, massive fist at me, but the strike was weak, and I slashed the inside of that arm.
The man howled, clapping his hand to his bloody sleeve, and whirled from me. He ran out of the lane, leaving his friends to fend for themselves.
The second burly man and the thin one circled Brewster, the larger one taking more chances. Brewster burst forth with his knife, managing to nick both men before they leapt away from him.
I flipped my sword in my hand, gripping it so the blade rose into the air, and brought the heavy steel of the hilt down behind the burly man’s ear.
He stumbled, though didn’t drop as I’d hoped. Brewster took the opportunity to aim a deadly thrust at the man’s chest. The man sidestepped to avoid it, and I hit him again. This time, he crumpled to the cobblestones.
The wiry man attacked me while I danced out of the way of the heavy falling body. I found myself fending off a swirl of blows, his strikes coming fast and strong. My grip on my sword was awkward, and I could only use it to block the cudgel coming down.
Brewster tackled him from behind, but the man fought furiously. He kicked my left leg, correctly knowing my weak point. I fell sideways, catching myself painfully at the last moment to keep to my feet.
I took a better hold of my sword and waded back into the fight. Brewster and the wiry man were striking each other without remorse, no pugilism here. They were fighting to kill, blood spattering to the pavement.
The man’s cudgel landed on the back of Brewster’s fist, knocking the knife from it. Brewster swooped his other hand into his coat, no doubt for a second weapon, but the wiry man moved in before he could retrieve it.
He raised his club to land a blow that would fell Brewster forever. I grabbed the man from behind, slipped my fingers under his chin, and laid my sword across his throat.
Brewster, armed with a fresh knife, lifted it to plunge into the wiry man’s chest.
“No.” I dragged my captive aside, Brewster’s blade narrowly missing his thick wool coat. I jerked the wiry man closer to me, my sword drawing a tiny sliver of blood on his neck. “Go back and tell Creasey he failed. Brewster and I are no threat to him. He is to leave us be.”
The wiry man glared up at me with derisive blue eyes and gave me his very foul answer.
“Let me kill him, Captain,” Brewster said, breath grating. “He’ll not stop ’til I do.”
“No. I want him to take Creasey a message.”
Brewster yanked the cudgel from the man’s hand. “His dead body will be plenty for a message.”
I spun him out of Brewster’s reach and addressed the man directly. “Tell Creasey he will keep his fight with Denis away from me and mine.”
I shoved him aside, releasing my sword at the last minute. The man sneered his scorn and loped off down the lane.
A door slammed open, and Eden hastened down the street toward us, cavalry saber in hand.
“Good Lord.” He stopped to watch the wiry man vanish around the corner and turned his gaze to the attacker who lay motionlessly on the ground. “Did they try to rob you?”
“To off me.” Brewster strode to the unconscious man and kicked him. “Because I work for Mr. Denis.”
“Mr. Creasey sent them,” I said.
Eden’s face darkened. “The blackguard. I thought I’d left rivalries like this in Antigua. Forgive me for not hastening to your rescue sooner, gentlemen. I looked out of my window and saw you and then could not remember where I’d put my blasted sword.”
“The captain felled two,” Brewster said with admiration. “While I couldn’t come nigh them. Saved me life.” He gave me a curt nod. “Thank ye, guv.”
“They disregarded me.” I inserted the tip of my sword into the walking stick and slid the blade home. “The lame former army captain you are paid to protect.”
Eden nudged the fallen man, but he didn’t move. “What do we do with this one? The Watch are rather useless, as I recall.”
“Send for a Runner,” I said. “Pomeroy will find something to arrest him for even if Brewster chooses not to prosecute for assault.”
“Prosecute?” Brewster shook his head. “What good will it do? Creasey will dismiss the bloke or even kill him before he comes to trial, and it won’t matter. Why not give him to His Nibs? Mr. Denis can use him to find out what Creasey is up to.”
I imagined the cold satisfaction in Denis’s eyes as he turned to interrogate Creasey’s fallen soldier.
“I rather think he will be safer in Newgate,” I said dryly.
Eden listened to this in growing concern. “I’ll send a lad from my lodging house for the Runners—as long as Pomeroy doesn’t arrest me again into the bargain.” He grinned weakly. “We can tend to this poor chap’s wounds in the meantime. Wouldn’t want him to simply expire at our feet.”
THE BOOT BOY who worked for Eden’s landlord rushed to Bow Street and was back with Pomeroy in a remarkably short time. Other residents had emerged from the houses on the close, mostly servants, as the hour was early and the fashionable often didn’t rise until after noon.
The ruffian was groggily coming around under our ministrations by the time Pomeroy arrived. Pomeroy took in the scene, listening in delight as Eden told him how Brewster and I had been attacked but defended ourselves valiantly. Pomeroy stepped over to the fallen man, who hunkered against a railing, massaging the back of his head where I’d struck it.
“Billy McCann, is it?” Pomeroy inquired in his ringing tones. “Bashing Billy, as I live and breathe. I’ve been after you a long time, son, for doing in a woman in Blackfriars. Thank you, Captain. Major Eden, Mr. Brewster.”