by Zoë Archer
“Rubbish,” Stokeham declared, “the lot of it!”
Simon went to the strongbox, opened it, and took out a stack of papers. “Have your solicitors review the documentation. It’s all legal, all aboveboard. Oh, but the stocks to those overseas ventures—the ones that were supposed to shield you from taxation—those are as fraudulent as your pretentions to gentility.”
Tufton snatched the papers from Simon’s hand and thrust them at the solicitors. The men quickly donned spectacles and spread the documents out on a table, studying them thoroughly. As they did, silence fell, tight and thick. Tippet glared at Alyce and Simon, his knuckles white as he clutched his truncheon. The chief constable seemed to understand that once the old managers and owners left, he and his brutes wouldn’t be welcome in the village anymore. They’d get no more extra pay for bullying the workers, and with the managers’ protection of the constabulary gone, anyone could file complaints with the county government over excessive force, and likely cause them to lose their jobs.
“Who the hell are you?” Harrold demanded in the quiet.
“I don’t deal in names,” Simon answered. “Except one. Nemesis, Unlimited.”
While some of the owners and constables looked blank, others seemed to know exactly what the name meant. They turned chalky.
“But I’m really Alyce Carr,” she said. “This is my village, these are my friends and family. And once your lackeys go over those documents, I’m going to enjoy telling you to go bugger yourselves.”
The men gasped, but she only stared back, ice and fire in her veins.
Tippet and his constables weren’t the only ones eager for a fight. Murton and Gorley, two of the managers, grew more restless by the second, flexing their fingers, testing their fists, and muttering angrily.
Finally, one of the solicitors straightened up from the desk. An expression of fear etched his face as he turned to the owners and managers. “I’m afraid—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Everything stands up, sirs. You voluntarily signed over ownership of Wheal Prosperity to these … individuals.”
“But they said they’d return ownership to us within three days,” Harrold retorted.
“Did you sign any kind of contract binding you to that agreement?” the solicitor asked.
More silence. The owners’ faces darkened as they understood that they’d been thoroughly duped.
“You traitorous son of a bitch,” Murton exploded.
His hands loose at his sides, standing lightly on the balls of his feet, Simon never lost his cool expression. “Nemesis has one loyalty—to justice. At any cost.”
“The fault’s your own,” Alyce said. She struggled to keep her voice as calm as Simon’s, but long-pent-up fury boiled in her. “If you’d paid us a decent wage instead of using chit, if you’d kept the mine in good condition and stocked fresh butter in the store … this wouldn’t have happened. We just want to work and be treated fairly. But you just want profit, and the hell with the people who make you rich.” She pointed toward the door. “Now, I’m telling you as one of the new owners, the lot of you clear out. Now.”
It felt so bloody good to say those words.
“What if we don’t go anywhere?” Tippet challenged.
At last, Simon smiled, but it was a brutal smile that promised a great deal of pain. “You’ll go. Quick and quiet.”
“Or else?” threw in Oliver, the constable. “You got no weapons, no nothing. And we got these.” Grinning, he held up his truncheon.
“See here…” Tufton sputtered, eyes wide with fear. He backed up until he hit the far wall. “No violence, now.”
Tippet sneered. “Too late for that, gov.” Swinging his club, he launched himself at Simon.
Simon stepped forward, at the same time ducking Tippet’s blow. The truncheon came down hard on one of the desks, crashing into the wood with a horrible, bone-splitting sound. Before Tippet could regain his balance, Simon kicked him in the side of the knee. The chief constable staggered and swore foully.
Alyce glanced around the office, but couldn’t find anything heavy to use as a weapon. She threw a brass inkwell in Oliver’s face as he moved to help Tippet. The constable winced and spluttered as ink and blood spattered across his face.
Edgar grabbed all the paperwork and threw it into the strongbox, then slammed the door shut, protecting the documents.
Caught up in the chaos, everyone within the office spilled out into the street, scuffling.
“If we can’t have the mine,” Harrold barked, “then nobody gets it. You two”—he pointed at Gorley and Murton—“take me to the mine.”
The managers didn’t argue. All three men leaped into the trap waiting nearby. With a flick of the reins, they sped off.
“Have to stop them,” Simon ordered. “They’ll try to sabotage the mine.”
It made sense that they’d do something so dirty. At least the mine was empty, since everyone had taken the day as an unofficial holiday. Except …
“Oh, God,” Alyce cried. “Henry!” He was in the pit with Edgar and several other men.
Tippet, stumbling out of the office, sneered. “I ain’t going to let you catch ’em.” He swung again at Simon. Simon countered with a fist into the chief constable’s stomach. The man doubled over, gagging.
With Simon busy with Tippet, he didn’t see Constable Freeman moving to slam his truncheon across Simon’s back. Alyce rushed forward, hoping to block him somehow. But then Freeman stumbled and fell to the ground with a groan.
Constable Bice stood behind him, lowering his truncheon.
Simon spun around and gave Bice a respectful nod. “Glad you’ve finally showed your colors.”
“Constable Bice wrote the letter to Nemesis?” Alyce asked, shocked. “But … he’s one of them.”
“Got hired on here,” the young man said sheepishly. “Thought I’d be keeping things peaceful and orderly. Not roughing up workers and keeping them afraid. But I couldn’t speak out. I needed the job. So…” He looked at Simon. “Sorry if I didn’t come forward sooner.”
“You sent the letter,” Simon answered. “That’s what matters. Right now, I’ve got to get to the mine and stop Harrold, Murton, and Gorley.” He didn’t spare a glance for any of the reeling constables, and he didn’t look at any of the terrified owners, huddled together. Instead, he strode toward the door.
Alyce was immediately beside him. “We’re stopping Murton and Gorley.”
He nodded once, briskly, his face a mask of purpose and determination. “Get down,” he ordered to one of the drivers of a hired carriage. The man immediately scrambled off the seat and ran for safety. Simon climbed up onto the driver’s seat.
Instead of getting inside the carriage, Alyce clambered up to sit beside him. He snapped the reins and the carriage lurched forward.
She raised a brow. “Would’ve wagered you’d try to stop me.”
At this, his stony façade broke slightly, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You’d come along, anyway. This way I can keep an eye on you.”
She gripped the edge of the seat for balance as the carriage quickly sped out of the village, then took the rutted track leading toward the mine. “Keep an eye on? Like a child?”
“Like a wild tiger that’s escaped its cage.” He peered ahead. “Damn it, I can’t see them.”
“Do you think they’re at the mine already?”
He looked grim. “It’s two miles from the village to Wheal Prosperity. Given their head start, they’re either there already or will be soon.” He urged the horses on, and the beasts raced. The carriage wasn’t well sprung, and the road furrowed, so Alyce held to the seat tightly, sure she’d be thrown from the vehicle. It’d been a show of bravado, choosing to sit beside Simon, but maybe she ought to have ridden inside the carriage. She’d still be heaved around, but at least she wouldn’t have to worry about being tossed to the ground.
For all the rough terrain, and the fact that the carriage wasn’t built
for moving this fast, Simon handled the drive capably. He never once seemed to lose control of the horses or the vehicle. But that didn’t stop fear from coursing through her, thinking of her brother and friends in danger. God, what were the men planning?
A brief, terrifying eternity, and the hulking forms of the mine and its equipment rose into view. She and Simon cursed when she saw the trap was parked outside the engine house. The men were nowhere to be seen.
“Jesus,” Simon snarled, leaping down from the carriage. “The pump.”
Alyce jumped down, too, following Simon as he raced inside the engine house. Both the former managers stood beside the giant machine, Harrold looking on, with Gorley holding a massive wrench. Abel, a machinist who kept the pump running, lay slumped on the ground, out cold.
Gorley saw Simon and Alyce, grinned, and lifted the wrench above his head. “Wheal Prosperity won’t be any use to anybody.”
“No!” Alyce shouted. “Men are down there!” The man-engine was running, but even at top speed, Henry and the others wouldn’t be able to get out in time to keep from drowning.
“Even better.” Harrold sneered.
As Simon darted forward, the wrench came down, smashing into the pump. Gorley moved to swing again. Simon leaped to stop him, but Murton threw a punch. Simon dodged the blow, yet Murton managed to graze his chest, knocking Simon off balance. Alyce, too, hurried to stop Gorley, but by the time she reached him, he’d already slammed the wrench into the pump once more.
The machine sputtered and wheezed. Air now moved through the pipes, not water. The tunnels below were no longer being drained. They were flooding.
And Henry and the others were down there. The mine would flood completely in an hour. If Henry and the surveyors were at the bottom of the pit, it’d take them too long to climb out.
“Can you fix it?” she demanded of Simon.
He gathered his balance. “Need time.”
“Then get it working!”
“Do something, goddamn it,” Harrold shouted at Murton and Gorley.
As Harrold hid himself behind a large piece of equipment, the two managers attacked. Gorley used his wrench like a club, swinging it wildly. Murton didn’t have a weapon, except his sizable fists. Both men came at Simon and Alyce.
She did her best to duck and dodge as Gorley swung at her. Other than scrapping with Henry when they were children, she hadn’t been in a fight in almost fifteen years. All she could do was move instinctively. She wove to one side just as Gorley struck, the wrench leaving a massive dent in one of the tanks.
Simon bellowed in anger, but Murton’s fists held him back. The two men traded punches, Simon narrowly avoiding Murton’s clumsy but strong blows as he himself moved with precision, peppering Murton with sharp jabs to the torso.
All the while, the pumps whistled, no longer pulling water out of the mine.
Remembering Simon’s move from the managers’ office, she kicked Gorley in the side of the knee. Just as Tippet had, Gorley went down, groaning in agony. The wrench dropped from his hand.
She scooped up the tool. “Simon!” She tossed it to him, and he snatched it out of the air.
Simon whacked Murton across the jaw with the wrench. The man stumbled back, into Harrold’s arms. The owner slapped at Murton’s face, trying to rouse him. Instantly, Simon began to work on the pump, using the wrench and other tools lying nearby.
It wouldn’t be long before one or both of the managers collected themselves. If only she had a damn weapon of her own!
Oh, but I do.
She ran outside, and straight to the dressing floor. Rows of hammers and bucking irons were lined up, waiting for bal-maidens to use them to smash ore into pieces. If there was one thing Alyce knew how to use, it was a bucking iron. She grabbed one and hurried back toward the engine house.
She skidded to a stop at the sound of hoofbeats. There, riding up on horseback, were Tippet, Oliver, and Freeman. Blood trickled down the side of Freeman’s face from the blow Bice had given him earlier. Alyce’s lungs burned as she ran full out to the engine house. She had to get there before the constables.
Just as Tippet and his men pulled up outside the building, Alyce positioned herself in front of the door, brandishing her bucking iron.
Tippet dismounted, as did his men, and he swaggered toward her. “Out of the way, lass, or you’ll get a nasty little hurt.”
“Back on your horses and ride the hell away,” she snarled back, “or you’ll get a nasty big hurt.”
He chuckled, then nodded at Oliver to remove her.
“Don’t care for women who try to fight back,” Oliver growled, ink from the thrown inkwell still staining him. He moved to shove her aside. His snicker turned into a shout of pain when she brought her bucking iron down on his arm, and there was a snapping sound.
Oliver cradled his wounded limb. “Sodding bitch broke my arm!”
The three constables stared at her, disbelieving. She could hardly believe it herself. But her heart raced and her blood cried out for justice.
She clutched the bucking iron like the weapon it was, ready to swing again. “Not another step,” she growled. Without taking her eyes off Tippet and his men, she shouted over her shoulder to Simon. “How’s the pump?”
“Getting there,” he yelled back. There came the sounds of grunting and fists hitting flesh—he must be fighting off Murton and Gorley as he kept working on the machine. Doubtful that Harrold would join in the brawl.
Damn, she needed to keep them from interrupting his task, but if she tried to help, Tippet and Freeman would attack. Oliver continued to hold his arm close, alternating between whimpers and furious curses. How could she and Simon do this on their own, with Henry and the others trapped?
The air filled with the sound of many angry voices and someone on horseback. Craning her neck, Alyce saw Constable Bice atop a horse, leading a small marching army of workers. They headed toward the engine house, looks of determination and defiance on their faces.
Alyce’s heart lifted. She and Simon weren’t alone.
Tippet sneered at Bice. “Think you and these weaklings can stand in our way?” He glared insolently at the workers. “We’ve kept you maggots beaten down for over ten years. Nothing changes.” He lifted his truncheon, and despite the fact that the workers outnumbered Tippet and his men, the habit of fear must’ve been too deeply rooted for the workers to lose it in an instant. Many shrank back. Bice looked too uncertain of his role to rally anybody.
It fell to her. “Brody, Wendell,” she shouted at two men, “get down into the pit. Carefully. We’ve got men trapped down there and the mine’s flooding.”
The two miners hesitated, eyeing Tippet.
“Go!” she yelled.
They took off at a run, heading to the entrance to the pit.
“Stop ’em,” Tippet ordered Freeman.
The huge constable looked uncertain. “What about this lot?”
Baring his teeth, the chief constable said, “They’re going to be good little maggots and stay put.”
She stared at him. Any mask Tippet had once worn—the one that painted him as a protector of the village and the mine—had slipped. The loss of his rule showed him for what he really was: a power-hungry bully who didn’t give a damn about the welfare of the people.
“He’s got no hold on us anymore,” she cried to the assembled workers. “No control.”
“He’s got a truncheon,” someone pointed out.
“Then grab it!” she fired back.
There were murmurs of uncertainty, and Alyce ground down on her frustration. She couldn’t be the only one to stand up for the workers. They had to do it for themselves.
But then a wave of energy moved through the crowd, and they surged toward Tippet and his men. The constables looked momentarily stunned, surprised that anyone would really dare to defy them.
Alyce began to turn toward the engine house. She needed to help Simon. But then the sound of a carriage’s wheels froze her in h
er steps.
One woman in the crowd gave a quiet scream, and a few men cursed. She almost joined them.
Leaping out of the carriage was the owner Stokeham. And he held a shotgun.
As her blood chilled her mind whirled, trying to figure out exactly where the gun had come from. Even Tippet and his men were armed only with truncheons. But then she remembered once seeing the managers on the hills, cradling shotguns, as men beat at the shrubbery, flushing birds out into the sky. When things went mad at the managers’ office, Stokeham must’ve sneaked out in the remaining carriage and gone to get the gun from the managers’ house. Then ridden out to the mine to put an end to the rebellion.
A gun meant one thing: someone was going to get shot.
And she had a horrible feeling that someone would be Simon.
* * *
As Simon worked furiously on the pump, he had to continually beat back Gorley and Murton, with Harrold shouting them on. Didn’t surprise him that the owner and two managers fought so hard to destroy the mine. Men pushed to the edge acted like unchained beasts. He finally landed a blow to Gorley’s chin that had the man crumple to the floor, out cold. Murton didn’t go down quite as easily. Simon kept switching between replacing a cracked fitting as it whistled, sucking air, and dodging the other manager’s punches. His own back and arms were riddled with bruises. Tomorrow, he’d look like spoiled meat. If they made it to tomorrow.
Outside, he heard Alyce and Tippet arguing. Damn, but he wanted to go to her, but there was too much holding him in the engine house. Then Simon heard one of the other constables—Oliver?—scream in pain, and cry out, “Sodding bitch broke my arm!”
Simon grinned to himself. That was his woman.
Fixing the pump would take all his concentration. He needed to rally and end the fight now. Spinning around from the pump engine, he laid a combination on Murton—jab, hook, uppercut. Murton didn’t have his training and couldn’t keep up. Soon, he was lying beside Gorley, insensate.
He took a step toward Harrold. The man pressed himself against the wall of the building, bleached as bone, unmoving.
