And Harry understood.
“Clever bastard,” he murmured. “He washes the cotton, gives it a dip in the potash solutions to further remove impurities. And then presses it dry with this.” He tapped the wooden press with rollers beside the washstand. “That’s how he achieves a stable product.”
He came to a large cabinet like that of an apothecary. He pulled open one of the small drawers and found the familiar iron tube. For safety, he set his candle down at a distance before picking up the sealed metal canister. A long, slow-burning fuse trailed from one end. Carefully, he removed the cap from the other end: guts of shredded explosive cotton spilled out.
Hellfire.
At that instant, footsteps stampeded overhead. A voice boomed, “Who’s down there?”
No place to run or hide. Doolittle cursed. Acting on instinct, Harry shoved the cap back in place, holding onto the device and reaching for his candle.
Doolittle whipped out his neddy, a weapon that resembled a stocking stuffed with lead shot. He swung it above his head, gaining deadly momentum as five brutes pounded down the stairs, the Goliath in the lead.
“Intruders?” the beefy man roared. “Get ’em, boys!”
“Make a move,”—Harry held up the explosive, bringing the flame close to the dangling fuse— “and I’ll blow this place sky high.”
“The mad bastard means to kill us all,” one of the brutes gasped.
“Clear a path,” Harry said.
All five obeyed. The leader snarled as Harry edged toward the stairs, jerking his head at Doolittle, who clambered up the steps first. Harry followed, going backward, the flame wavering too close to the fuse when he stumbled on one of the steps.
He made it to the top, and Doolittle slammed the crate panel shut behind him, shoving a heavy sack in place, grunting, “It’s not going to hold ’em.”
The ringleader’s voice boomed, “E’s bluffing. No cove’s stupid eno’ to play with this fire. After ’em!”
Harry blew out the candle, shoved the explosive into his jacket. “Run!”
He and Doolittle raced through the maze of cargo, the sound of splintering wood behind them. Footsteps thumped, and Harry knew they weren’t going to make it out without combat. Ducking behind a hill of coffee sacks, he grabbed one, threw it across the path to trip his closest pursuer, who flew headfirst into a crate.
The next brute rounded the corner with fists flying. Harry dodged and returned with an upper cut, bone cracking against his fist. The man groaned, stumbling aside, but three more were on his heels. One man faced Harry, one tackling Doolittle, the third running past.
“Take care of ’em, lads,” the leader shouted. “I’ll make the delivery!”
Harry had an instant to glimpse the sack of explosives in the departing Goliath’s grip before his opponent attacked. Staying light on his feet, he dodged the wild swings. He feigned right, moved left, landing a series of swift blows to his foe’s gut, finishing with a left hook. The blighter groaned, toppling like a tree, but the first man Harry had fought came charging like a bull. He wrestled Harry’s arms behind his back.
“Got a live one ’ere,” he shouted.
The ruffian who’d crashed into the crate rose, a blade gleaming in his hand. “’Old the bugger still while I gut ’im like a fish.”
Harry struggled, his captor yanking harder. Swiftly, he changed tactics. He pushed backward with all his might. Went with his captor’s momentum rather than against it. Caught off-balance, the blackguard shouted as he lost purchase, falling backward. His skull cracked loudly against the ground, Harry landing on top of him.
In the next breath, Harry rolled onto his feet and dove at the blade-wielding ruffian.
They hit the ground, the steel clattering out of reach. Both scrambled for the knife. Harry got to it first, his fingers closing around the hilt, and he twisted around just as he was tackled. He saw his opponent’s eyes widen, felt the sickening thrust of metal into flesh, the warm trickle over his knuckles.
He rolled the man off of him and staggered to his feet. Chest surging, he saw that his foe was beyond saving. He surveyed the wreckage: two other men lay insensate, and Doolittle had the last one beneath his boot, his bloodstained neddy held at the ready.
Harry sprinted over. “You all right?”
Scowling, his button nose bleeding, Doolittle looked like an angry Cupid. “I’m fine,” he spat.
“Where is your leader taking the explosives?” Harry demanded to the subdued villain.
“Too late.” The ruffian’s battered face worked into a sneer. “You won’t reach ’im in time.”
“I’ll repeat this once.” Harry took out his pistol, jerked the man up by the scruff. “Where. Is. He.Going?”
