There were soldiers with bayoneted rifles on the street-corners in Piccadilly, in modern speckled drab and slouch hats. They were eating porridge from mess-kits of stamped tin. Mallory waved cheerily at these minions of order, but they glared back at the Zephyr with such militant suspicion that he quickly stopped. Some blocks on, at the corner of Longacre and Drury Lane, the soldiers were actively bullying a small squad of bewildered London police. The coppers milled about like scolded children, feebly clutching their inadequate billy-clubs. Several had lost their helmets, and many bore rude bandages on hands and scalps and shins. Tom stopped the Zephyr for coaling, while Fraser, followed by Mallory, sought intelligence from the London coppers. They were told that the situation south of the river was quite out of control. Pitched battles with brickbats and pistols were raging in Lambeth. Many streets were barricaded by pillaging mobs. Reports had it that the Bedlam Hospital had been thrown open, its unchained lunatics capering the streets in frenzy. The police were sooty-faced, coughing, exhausted. Every able-bodied man in the force was on the streets, the Army had been called in by an emergency committee, and a general curfew declared. Volunteers of the respectable classes were being deputized in the West End, and equipped with batons and rifles. At least, Mallory thought, this litany of disaster crushed any further doubts about the propriety of their own venture. Fraser made no comment; but he returned to the Zephyr with a look of grim resolution. Tom piloted on. Beyond authority’s battered boundary, things grew swiftly more grim. It was noonday now, with a ghastly amber glow at the filthy zenith, and crowds were clustering like flies in the crossroads of the city. Clumps of masked Londoners shuffled along, curious, restless, hungry, or desperate — unhurried, and conspiring. The Zephyr, with merry toots of its whistle, passed through the amorphous crowd; they parted for it reflexively. A pair of commandeered omnibuses patrolled Cheapside, crammed with hard-faced bruisers. Men waving pistols hung from the running-boards, and the roofs of both steamers were piled high and bristling with stolen furniture. Thomas easily skirted the wallowing ‘buses, glass crunching beneath the Zephyr’s wheels. In Whitechapel there were dirty, shoeless children clambering like monkeys, four stories in the air, on the red-painted arm of a great construction-crane. Spies of a sort, Brian opined, for some were waving colored rags and screeching down at people in the street. Mallory thought it more likely that the urchins had clambered up there in hope of fresher air. Four dead and bloating horses, a team of massive Percherons, lay swollen in Stepney. The stiffened carcasses, shot to death, were still in their harness. A few yards on, the dray itself appeared, sacked, its wheels missing. Its dozen great beer-casks had been rolled down the street, then battered open, each site of rapturous looting now surrounded by a pungent, fly-blown stickiness of spillage. There were no revelers left now, their only evidence being shattered pitchers, dirty rags of women’s clothing, single shoes. Mallory spotted a leprous plague of bills, slapped-up at the site of this drunken orgy. He hit the top of the Zephyr with a flung lump of coal, and Tom stopped. Tom decamped from the gurney, Fraser following him, stretching cramps from his shoulders and favoring his wounded ribs. “What is it?” “Sedition,” Mallory said. The four of them, with a wary eye for interference, marched with interest to the wall, an ancient posting-surface of plastered timber, so thick with old bills that it seemed to be made of cheese-rind. Some two dozen of Captain Swing’s best were freshly posted there, copies of the same gaudy, ill-printed broadside. The bill featured a large winged woman with her hair afire, surmounting two columns of dense text. Words, apparently at random, had been marked out in red. They stood silently, attempting to decipher the squirming, smudgy print. After a moment, young Thomas, with a shrug and a sneer, excused himself. “I’ll see to the gurney,” he said. Brian began to read aloud, haltingly. ” ‘AN APPEAL TO THE PEOPLE! Ye are all free Lords of Earth, and need only COURAGE to make triumphant WAR on the Whore of Babylondon and all her learned thieves. Blood! Blood! Vengeance! Vengeance, vengeance! Plagues, foul plagues, et cetera, to all those that harken not to universal justice! BROTHERS, SISTERS! Kneel no more before the vampyre capitalist and the idiot savantry! Let the slaves of crowned brigands grovel at the feet of Newton. WE shall destroy the Moloch Steam and shatter his rocking iron! Hang ten score tyrants from the lamp-posts of this city, and your happiness and liberty be guaranteed forever! Forward! Forward!!! We take hope in the human Deluge, we have no recourse but a general war! We crusade for the REDEMPTION, of the oppressed, of the rebels, of the poor, of the criminals, all those who are TORMENTED by the Seven-Cursed Whore whose body is brimstone and who rides the nightmare horse of iron . . . ‘ ” There was much more. “What in the name of heaven is the wretch trying to say?” asked Mallory, his head buzzing. “I’ve never seen the like of this,” murmured Fraser. “It’s the ranting of a criminal lunatic!” Brian pointed at the bottom of the bill. “I cannot understand about these so-called ‘Seven Curses’! He refers to them as if they were dreadful afflictions, and yet he never names and numbers them. He never makes them clear . . . ” “What can it be that he wants?” Mallory demanded. “He can’t think that a general massacre is any answer to his grievances, whatever they may be . . . ” “There’s no reasoning with this monster,” Fraser said grimly. “You were quite right, Dr. Mallory. Come what may — no matter what risk — we must be rid of him! There is no other way!” They returned to the Zephyr, where Tom had finished the coaling. Mallory glanced at his brothers. Above their masks, their reddened eyes shone with all the stern courage of manly resolution. Fraser had spoken for them all; they were united; there was no more need of words. In the very midst of this low squalor, it seemed to Mallory a moment of true splendor. Touched to the core, he felt his heart soar within him. For the first time in seeming ages, he felt redeemed, clean, utterly purposeful, utterly free of doubt. As the Zephyr rolled on through Whitechapel, the exaltation began to fade, replaced with a heightened attention and a racing pulse. Mallory adjusted his mask, checked the workings of the Ballester-Molina, exchanged a few words with Brian. But with all doubt resolved, with life and death awaiting the coming roll of the die, there seemed little enough to say. Instead, like Brian, Mallory found himself inspecting every passing door and window with a nervous care. It seemed that every wall in Limehouse was spattered with the wretch’s outpourings. Some were vivid madness pure and simple: many others, however, were cunningly disguised. Mallory noted five instances of the lecture-posters that had libeled him. Some might have been genuine, for he did not read the text. The sight of his own name struck his heightened sensibilities with a shock almost painful. And he had not been the only victim of this queer kind of forgery. An advert for the Bank of England solicited deposits of pounds of flesh. A seeming offer of first-class railway excursions incited the public to rob the wealthy passengers. Such was the devilish mockery of these fraudulent bills that even quite normal adverts began to seem queer. As he scanned the bills, searching for double-meanings, every posted word seemed to decay into threatening nonsense. Mallory had never before realized the ubiquity of London’s advertisements, the sullen omnipresence of insistent words and images. An inexplicable weariness of soul struck him, as the Zephyr rumbled on unchallenged through the macadamed streets. It was a very weariness of London, of the city’s sheer physicality, its nightmare endlessness, of streets, courts, crescents, terraces, and alleys, of fog-shrouded stone and soot-blackened brick. A nausea of awnings, a nastiness of casements, an ugliness of scaffoldings lashed together with rope; a horrible prevalence of iron street-lamps and granite bollards, of pawn-shops, haberdashers, and tobacconists. The city seemed to stretch about them like some pitiless abyss of geologic time. An ugly shout split Mallory’s reverie. Masked men had scuttled into the street before them, shabby, threatening, blocking the way. The Zephyr braked to a sudden stop, the coal-wain lurching. Mallory saw at a glance that these were rascals of the roughest description. The first, an evil youngster with a face like dirty dough, in a greasy jacket and corduroy trousers, had a mangy fur cap pulled low, but not low enough to hide the prison-cut of his hair. The second, a sturdy brute of thirty-five, wore a tall grease-stiffened hat, checked trousers, and brass-toed lace-up boots. The third was thick-set and bowlegged, with leather knee-breeches and soiled stockings, a long muffler wrapped round and round his mouth. And then, rushing from inside a plundered ironmonger’s, two more confederates — hulking, idle, slouching young men, with short baggy shirt-sleeves and trousers too tight. They had armed themselves with spontaneous weapons — a goffering-iron, a yard-long salamander. Homely items these, but unexpectedly cruel and frightening in the ready hands of these bandits. The brass-booted man, their leader, it seemed, tugged the kerchief from his face with a sneering yellow grin. “Get out of that kerridge,” he commanded. “Get the hell out!” But Fraser was already in motion. He emerged, with quiet assurance, before the five jostling ruffians, for all the world like a school-teacher calming an unruly class. He announced, quite clearly and firmly: “Now that’s no use, Mr. Tally Thompson! I know you — and I should think you know me. You are under arrest, for felony.” “That be damned!” blurted Tally Thompson, turning pale with astonishment. “It’s Sergeant Fraser!” shouted the dough-faced boy in horror, falling back two steps. Fraser produced a pair of blued-iron handcuffs. “No!” Thompson yelped, “none o’ that! I won’t stand them! I won’t bear none o’ that!” “You will clear the way here, the rest of you,” Fraser announced. “You, Bob Miles — what are you creeping round here for? Put away that silly ironware, before I take you in.” “For Christ’s sake. Tally, shoot him!” shouted the mufflered ruffian. Fraser deftly snapped his cuffs on Tally Thompson’s wrists. “So we have a gun, do we, Tally?” he said, and yanked a derringer from the man’s brass-studded belt. “That’s a shame, that is.” He frowned at the others. “Are you going to hook it, you lads?” “Let’s hook it,” whined Bob Miles. “We should hook it, like the sergeant says!” “Kill him, you jolterheads!” shouted the mufflered man, pressing his mask to his face with one hand, and pulling a short, broad-bladed knife with the other. “He’s a fucking copper, you idiots — do for him! Swing’ll choke you if we don’t!” The mufflered man raised his voice. “Coppers here!” he screeched, like a man selling hot chestnuts. “Everybody, come up and do for these copper sons-of-bitches –” Fraser lashed out deftly with the butt of the derringer, cracking it against the mufflered man’s wrist; the wretch dropped his knife with a howl. The three other ruffians took at once to their heels. Tally Thompson also tried to flee, but Fraser snagged the man’s cuffed wrists left-handed, yanked him off-balance and spun him to his knees. The man with the muffler hopped and hobbled back several paces, as if dragged against his will. Then he stopped, stooped over, picked up a heavy toppled flat-iron by its mahogany handle. He cocked his hand back, to throw. Fraser leveled the derringer, and fired. The mufflered man doubled over, his knees buckling, and fell to the street, writhing in a fit. “He’s killed me,” the ruffian squawked. “I’m gut-shot, he’s killed me!” Fraser gave Tally Thompson an admonitory cuff on the ear. “This barker of yours is rubbish, Tally. I aimed for his bloody legs!” “He didn’t mean no harm,” Tally sniveled. “He’d a five-pound flat-iron.” Fraser glanced back at Mallory and Brian, where they stood astonished in the coal-wain. “Come down, you lads — look sharp now. We’ll have to leave your gurney. They’ll be looking for it. We have to hoof it now.” Fraser yanked Tally Thompson to his feet, with a cruel jerk of the cuffs. “And you. Tally, you’ll lead us to Captain Swing.” “I won’t, Sergeant!” “You will, Tally.” Fraser hauled Tally forward, with a sharp beckoning glance back at Mallory. The five of them picked their way around the squealing, choking ruffian, who rolled in his spreading blood on the pavement, his dirty bow-legs trembling in spasm. “Damme if he don’t take on,” Fraser said coldly. “Who is he. Tally?” “Never knew his name.” Without breaking step, Fraser slapped Tally’s battered top-hat from his head. The wrinkled topper seemed glued to the ruffian’s scalp with grime and macassar-oil. “Of course you know him!” “No name!” Tally insisted, looking back at his lost hat with a leer of despair. “A Yankee, inne?” “What sort of Yankee, then?” asked Fraser, scenting deceit. “Confederate? Unionist? Texian? Californian?” ” ‘E’s from New York,” Tally said. “What,” Fraser said in disbelief, “you’d tell me he was a Manhattan Communard!” He glanced back once at the dying man as they walked on, then recovered himself swiftly and spoke with tepid skepticism. “He didn’t talk like any New York Yankee.” “I don’t know nothing ’bout any commoners. Swing liked ‘im, is all!” Fraser led them down an alleyway crossed with rusty elevated cat-walks, its towering brick walls glistening with greasy damp. “Are there more like that one, in Swing’s counsel? More men from Manhattan?” “Swing’s got a deal of friends,” Tally said, seeming to recover himself, “and he’ll do for you, he will, you trifle wi’ him!” “Tom,” said Fraser, turning his attention to Mallory’s brother, “can you handle a pistol?” “A pistol?” “Take this one,” said Fraser, handing over Tally’s derringer. “There’s but one shot left. You musn’t use it lest your man is close enough to touch.” Having rid himself of the derringer, Fraser then reached, without pause, into his coat-pocket, pulled out a small leather blackjack, and commenced, while still walking steadily, to batter Tally Thompson, with numbing accuracy, on the thick meat of his arms and shoulders. The man flinched and grunted under the blows, and finally began to howl, his flat nose running snot. Fraser stopped, pocketed his truncheon. “Damn ye for a fool, Tally Thompson,” he said, with a queer kind of affection. “Know you nothing of coppers? I’ve come for your precious Swing all by meself, and brought these three jolly lads just to see the fun! Now where’s he lurking?” “A big warehouse in the docks,” Tally sniveled. “Full of loot — wonders! And guns, whole cases of fancy barkers –” “Which warehouse, then?” “I dunno,” Tally wailed, “I never been inside the bloody gates before! I don’t know the bloody names of all them fancy go-downs!” “What’s the name on the door? The owner!” “I can’t read, Sergeant, you know that!” “Where is it, then?” Fraser asked relentlessly. “Import docks or export?” “Import . . . ” “South side? North side?” “South, about middle-ways . . .” From the street behind them came distant shouts, a frenzied shattering of glass, and drum-like echoed booms of battered sheet-metal. Tally fell silent, his head cocked to listen. His lips quirked. “Why, that’s your kerridge!” he said, the whine gone from his voice. “Swing’s lads a-come back hotfoot, and found yer kerridge, Sergeant!” “How many men in this warehouse?” “Listen to ’em breaking ‘er up!” said Tally. A queer variety of child-like wonder had chased all fear from his sullen features. “How many men?” Fraser barked, boxing Tally’s ear. “They’re knocking ‘er to smithers!” Tally declared cheerily, shrugging from the blow. “Ludd’s work on your pretty gurney!” “Shut yer trap, ye bastard!” young Tom burst out, his voice high with rage and pain. Startled, Tally regarded Tom’s masked face with a dawning leer of satisfaction. “What’s that, young mister?” “Shut up, I told ye!” Tom cried. Tally Thompson leered like an ape. “It ain’t me hurting your precious gurney! Yell at them, boy! Tell ’em to stop, then!” Tally lurched backward suddenly, snatching his manacled hands from Fraser’s grip. The policeman staggered, almost knocking Brian from his feet. Tally turned and screeched through his cupped hands. “Stop that fun, my hearties!” His howl echoed down the brick-work canyon. “Ye’re hurtin’ private property!” Tom pounced on the man like lightning, with a wild spinning swing of his fist. Tally’s head snapped back, and the breath left him in a ragged gasp. He tottered a step, then dropped to the cobbled floor of the alley like a sack of meal. There was a sudden silence. “Damme, Tom!” said Brian. “Ye knocked his lights out!” Fraser, his truncheon drawn now, stepped across the supine ruffian, and peeled one eyelid back with his thumb. Then he glanced up at Tom, mildly. “You’ve a temper, lad . . . ” Tom tugged his mask free, breathing shakily. “I could have shot him!” he blurted, his voice thin. He looked to Mallory, with a strange confused appeal. “I could ha’, Ned! Shot him down dead!” Mallory nodded shortly. “Easy, lad . . .” Fraser fumbled to unlock the handcuffs; they were slick with blood from Tally’s lacerated wrists. “That was mortal strange, what the rascal just did!” Brian marveled, in a hushed Sussex drawl. “Are they bedlam crazy here, Ned? Have they all gone ellynge, these London folk?” Mallory nodded soberly. Then he raised his voice. “But nowt that a good right arm don’t cure!” He whacked Tom’s shoulder with an open palm. “Ye’re a boxer. Tommy lad! Ye blowed him down like a slaughtered ox!” Brian snorted laughter. Tom smiled shyly, rubbing his knuckles. Fraser rose, pocketing truncheon and cuffs, and set off up the alley, at a half-trot. The brothers followed him. “It warn’t so much,” Tom said, his voice giddy. “What,” Mallory objected, “a mere lad of nineteen, layin’ out that brassy-boots brawler? It’s a marvel surely!” “It warn’t any fair fight, with his hands bound,” Tom said. “One punch!” Brian gloated. “Ye stretched him flat as an oaken plank. Tommy!” “Stow it!” Fraser hissed. They fell silent. The alley ended by the vacant ground of a demolished building, its cracked foundation strewn with bits of red brick and greying spars of splintered lumber. Fraser picked his way forward. The sky rolled yellow-grey overhead, the haze breaking here and there to reveal thick greenish clouds like rotting curd. “Hell’s bells,” Tom declared, in a tone of thin jollity. “They can’t a-heard us talking, Mr. Fraser! Not with that almighty rucket they were making on my gurney!” “It isn’t that lot worries me now, lad,” Fraser said, not unkindly. “But we might meet more pickets.” “Where are we?” Brian asked, then stumbled to a halt. “God in heaven! What is that smell?” “The Thames,” Fraser told him. A thick wall of low brick stood at the end of the vacant plot. Mallory hoisted himself up and stood, breathing very shallowly, his mask pressed hard to his bearded lips. The far side of the brick wall — it was part of the Thames embankment — sloped down ten feet to the river-bed. The tide was out, and the shrunken Thames was a sluggish gleam between long plazas of cracked muddy shore. Across the river stood the steel navigation-tower of Cuckold’s Point, adorned with nautical warning-flags. Mallory could not recognize the signals. Quarantine, perhaps? Blockade? The river seemed nigh deserted. Fraser looked up and down the mud-flats at the foot of the embankment. Mallory followed his gaze. Small boats were embedded in the grey-black mud as if set in cement. Here and there along the bend of the Limehouse Reach, rivulets of viridian slime reached up through the gouged tracks of channel-dredgers. Something like a river-breeze — not a breeze at all, but a soft liquid ooze of gelatinous Stink — rose from the Thames and spilled over them where they stood. “Dear God!” Brian cried in weak amazement, and knelt quickly behind the wall. With a sympathetic ripple of queasiness. Mallory heard his brother retch violently. With a stern effort, Mallory mastered the sensation. It was not easy. Clearly, the raw Thames surpassed even the fabled stench in the holds of Royal Artillery transports. Young Thomas, though he’d also gone quite pale, seemed of tougher stuff than Brian — inured, perhaps, by the chugging exhaust of steam-gurneys. “Why, look at this nasty business!” Tom suddenly declared, in a muffled, dreamy voice. “I knew we’d a drought upon the land, but I never dreamt of this!” He looked to Mallory with astonished, reddened eyes. “Why, Ned — the air, the water — there’s never been such a dreadfulness, surely!” Fraser seemed pained. “London’s never what she might be, in summer . . . ” “But look at the river!” Tom cried innocently. “And look, look, yonder comes a ship!” A large paddle-steamer was working her way up the Thames, and a very queer-looking craft she was indeed, with her hull flat as a raft’s, and a cheese-box cabin of sloping, riveted iron, the walls of black armor patched bow-to-stern with large white squares: cannon-hatches. On her bow, two sailors, in rubber gloves and nozzled rubber helmets, took soundings with a leaded line. “What sort of vessel is that?” asked Mallory, wiping his eyes. Brian rose unsteadily, leaned across the wall, wiped his mouth, and spat. “Pocket ironclad,” he announced hoarsely. “A river gun-ship.” He pinched his nose shut and shuddered from head to foot. Mallory had read of such craft, but had never seen one. “From the Mississippi campaign, in America.” He stared beneath a shading hand, wishing for a spyglass. “Does she fly Confederate colors, then? I didn’t know we’d any of her class here in England . . . No, I see she flies the Union Jack!” “See what her paddle-wheels do!” Tom marveled. “That river-water must be thick as neat’s-foot jelly . . . ” No one saw fit to remark on this observation. Fraser pointed downstream. “Listen, lads. Some rods away lies a deep-dredged channel. It leads into the moorings for the West India Docks. With the river this low, with luck, a man might creep through that channel, to emerge within the docks unseen.” “Walk o’ er the mud o’ the shore, you mean to say,” Mallory said. “No!” Brian cried. “There must be another stratagem!” Fraser shook his head. “I know those docks. They’ve an eight-foot wall about ’em, topped by a very sharp cheval-de-frise. There are loading-gates, and a rail-head, too, but they’ll be close-guarded sure. Swing chose well. The place is nigh a fortress.” Brian shook his head. “Won’t Swing guard the river, too?” “Doubtless,” Fraser said, “but how many men will stand sharp lockout over this stinking mud, for Swing or anyone else?” Mallory nodded, convinced. “He’s right, lads.” “But it’ll daub us neck to foot with smeechy filth!” Brian protested. “We’re not made o’ sugar,” Mallory grunted. “But my uniform, Ned! D’ye know what this dress-coatee cost me?” “I’ll swap ye my gurney for that shiny gold braid,” Tom told him. Brian stared at his younger brother, and winced. “Then we must strip for it, lads,” Mallory commanded, shrugging out of his jacket. “Like we were farm-hands, a-pitching sweet hay on a nice Sussex morn. Hide that city finery in the rubble, and be quick about it.” Mallory stripped to the waist, tucked his pistol in the belt of his rolled-up trousers, and lowered himself down the embankment wall. He half-slid, half-hopped to the evil mud below. The river-bank was as hard and dry as brick. Mallory laughed aloud. The others joined him, Brian coming last. Brian kicked a cracked dinner-plate of mud with his waxed and polished boot. “Damme for a fool,” he said, “to let you talk me out of uniform!” “Pity!” Tom taunted. “Yell never launder the sawdust out o’ that fancy forage-cap.” Fraser, removing his collar now, was in white shirt and braces — surprisingly dandyish items, of watered scarlet silk. A new shoulder-holster of pale chamois held a stout little pepperbox pistol. Mallory noted the bulge of a neat padded bandage beneath the shirt and strap. “Don’t go griping, lads,” Fraser said, leading the way. “Some folk pass their very lives in the mud of the Thames.” “Who’s that then?” asked Tom. “Mudlarks,” Fraser told him, picking his way. “Winter and summer, they slog up to their middles, in the mud o’ low tide. Hunting lumps o’ coal, rusty nails, any river-rubbish that will fetch a penny.” “Are you joking?” Tom asked. “Children mostly,” Fraser persisted calmly, “and a deal of feeble old women.” “I don’t believe you,” Brian said. “If you told me Bombay or Calcutta, I might grant it. But not London!” “I didn’t say the wretches were British,” Fraser said. “Your mudlarks are foreigners, mostly. Poor refugees.” “Well, then,” Tom said, relieved. They tramped on silently, breathing as best they could. Mallory’s nose had clogged solid and his throat was thick with phlegm. It was a relief of sorts, to be spared the sense of smell. Brian was still muttering, a monotone to match their tramping step. “Britain’s a sight too hospitable to all these damn foreign refugees. If I’d my way, I’d transport the lot to Texas . . . ” “All the fish here must be dead, eh?” said Tom, stooping to rip up a china-hard platter of mud. He showed Mallory a mash of flattened fish-bones embedded in it. “Look, Ned — the very image of your fossils!” They reached an obstacle a few yards on, a dredger’s muddy hollow, half-filled with black silt, marbled with veins of vile pale grease like the lees from a pan of bacon. There was no help for it but to leap and dodge and splash across the ditch, and Brian had the evil luck to miss his footing. He came up foully smeared, flicking muck from his hands and cursing wildly in what Mallory took to be Hindustani. Beyond the ditch, the crust grew treacherous, plates of dried mud skidding or crumbling underfoot, over a pitchy, viscous muck full of ooze and bubbling gas-pockets. But there was worse luck yet at the entrance-channel to the Docks. Here the channel’s banks were close-packed tarred pilings, slick with greenish fur and oily damp, rising fifteen feet above the water-line. And the water itself, which filled the broad channel from bank to bank, was a chilly grey sump, seemingly bottomless, writhing with leg-thick wads of viridian slime. It was an impasse. “Now what’s our course?” asked Mallory grimly. “Swim?” “Never!” Brian shouted, his eyes reddened and wild. “Scale the walls, then?” “We can’t,” Tom groaned, with a hopeless look at the slimy pilings. “We can scarcely breathe!” “I wouldn’t wash my hands in that damn water!” Brian cried. “And my hands are caked in stinking muck!” “Stow it!” Fraser said. “Swing’s men will hear you sure. If they catch us down here, we’ll be shot like dogs! Stow it, and let me think!” “My God, the Stink!” Brian cried, ignoring him. He seemed near panic. “It’s worse than a transport — worse than a Russki trench! Christ Jesus, I saw ’em bury week-old pieces of Russki at Inkermann, and that smelled better than this!” “Knife it!” Fraser whispered. “I hear something.” Footsteps. The tramp of a group of men, coming nearer. “They’ve got us,” Fraser said in sharp desperation, gazing up the sheer wall and putting a hand to his pistol. “Our number’s up — sell your lives dear, lads!” But in one moment — a series of instants shaved so thin as to be normally useless to the human mind — inspiration blew through Mallory like a gust of Alpine wind. “Don’t,” he commanded the others, in a voice of iron conviction. “Don’t look up. Do as I do!” Mallory began to sing a chantey, loudly, drunkenly.