Burton gave his consent, and an hour later, having packed and bade an apologetic farewell to Lady Pauline and her remaining guests, Burton and his companions were rattling northwestward in the stage. The driver made the best speed he could but the roads were hazardous, being littered with debris, and it took them two hours to reach Fryston—where they bid Monckton Milnes adieu—and another to get to the airfield.

Upon reaching the Orpheus, Burton hurried aboard and was greeted by a surprised Doctor Quaint, who escorted him to Captain Nathaniel Lawless’s cabin.

“By James!” the airman exclaimed, gripping Burton’s hand. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until the engagement party. Are you recovered? You look somewhat battered, if you’ll pardon the observation.”

“I’m done with the malaria, Captain, but I was involved in an unfortunate accident. No permanent damage. What’s the state of the ship? Can you get her into the air right away?”

“She’s being fitted with armaments in preparation for the signing of the British–German Alliance—we’ll be providing security at the ceremony—but I could afford to take her on a short excursion. We have no supplies aboard, though, and I’m not keen on flying in this wind. Where do you want to go?”

“Anglesey, on the west coast.”

Lawless squinted. “Hmm. About a hundred and seventy miles southwest. That’s straight into the gale, which’ll make it simpler but slower.”

“I’ll need top speed, and you can forego the paperwork.”

“I’m not sure you have—”

Burton thrust forward the card issued by the Home Secretary.

“—the authority,” Lawless finished lamely. “Oh, you do. No paperwork, then. Good! I can’t abide all the damned bureaucracy. I’ll need half an hour to get the engines warmed up then we’ll be off.”

“Thank you, Lawless.”

It was a bumpy flight, but Captain Lawless and his crew, whose loyalty to Burton was absolute, squeezed every ounce of power from the airship’s mighty engines, bullying the dirigible into the headwind and exhausting themselves as they battled to keep the ship stable. At six o’clock, having made excellent time, they landed half a mile west of Moelfre Village, in Dulas Bay, Anglesey Island, on the northwest coast of Wales.

“We can’t tether her here,” Lawless told Burton. “The gale will tear her to ribbons. I’ll take her down, you jump off, and I’ll find a more sheltered spot inland.”

“I can’t ask any more of you, old chap. Get back to Yorkshire. I’m going to be here for a day or two, I suspect.”

Lawless saluted. “Very well. As always, glad to have been of service.”

Burton, Trounce, Levi, Swinburne, and Bram left the Orpheus, watched as it rose up and shrank rapidly eastward, then walked toward the coast. They breasted a shallow hill and were suddenly confronted by a scene of such turmoil that their hearts missed a beat.

“God in heaven!” Trounce cried out.

Below them, half a mile away, the people of Moelfre were milling about on a flat shelf of limestone, against the seaward edge of which waves of enormous size were crashing, sending white spray high into the air. Behind the crowd, a great many corpses had been laid out—Burton estimated at least three hundred—and, heedless of the risk to their own lives, the villagers were pulling more from the violent waters. Screams and shouts carried up to the onlookers.

But even such human drama and tragedy could not long distract from the spectacle being enacted a quarter of a mile out to sea where, against a bank of upthrusting stone fangs, a large steam clipper was being relentlessly smashed to pieces. Mastless and broken almost in two, it was pitching and rolling, falling apart as the sea pounded savagely against it. Even from this distance, Burton and his companions could hear the loud booms and cracks of the vessel’s destruction.

“The Royal Charter,” the explorer whispered.

Swinburne suddenly sprang forward, pulling his jacket off and flinging it aside as he bounded down the slope. “There’s someone still aboard!” he shrieked.

Burton and Trounce set off after him, with Levi and Bram at their heels.

The poet yanked off his shirt.

“Collect his clothes, Bram,” Burton shouted, then, “Algy! Don’t be a bloody fool! You’ll be killed!”

Swinburne ignored the warning, leaped onto the shelf, kicked off his shoes, ducked through the crowd, and before anyone could stop him, plunged into the sea.

“Bismillah!” Burton gasped as the raging waters engulfed the little poet. He dropped onto the wide ledge and joined the villagers, who were yelling, “Dere nôl! Dere nôl!” which he correctly supposed was Welsh for, “Come back!”

“There! Regardez!” Levi hollered, levelling a finger toward the pilothouse near the stern of the clipper’s splintering deck. The structure had been almost entirely torn away and a figure was plainly visible within, propped upright against the ship’s wheel.

One of the villagers, a churchman, shouted something to Burton, who—Welsh being one of the few languages he didn’t speak—snapped, “In English, Father?”

The rector called to a young constable, who came over, listened to him, then said to Burton, “That man on the wreck, sir. It’s the captain. Determined to go down with his ship, he is. As if we don’t have sufficient deaths on our hands.”

Burton anxiously scanned the turbulent waters. He saw a flash of red. He could barely believe it. Algernon Swinburne, who looked so weak and delicate, was swimming like a seal and was already halfway to the Royal Charter.

“How many survivors?” Burton asked, distractedly.

“Just one, may the devil take him.”

Seeing Burton’s shocked reaction, the policeman went on, “A member of the crew managed to swim ashore. Another followed him—a regular giant of a man, he was—and the moment he set foot on land, he took hold of his crewmate’s head, broke his neck, and ran off.”

Trounce said, “Constable, I’m Detective Inspector Trounce of Scotland Yard. When was this?”

“About two in the morning, sir. Half an hour after the ship ran aground. The lads from all the stations on Anglesey are searching the area. I hope they’re travelling in pairs. That fellow could snap a person in half.”

A cheer went up. Incredibly, Swinburne had reached the jagged rocks and was clambering up them in an astounding display of agility.

“Is he really a poet, Mr. Fogg?” Bram Stoker asked. Trounce nodded.

Burton was unable to tear his eyes from the scene. He had a lump in his throat. The red-headed figure sprang across a gap and caught at the shattered planks of the clipper’s hull just as the vessel floundered laterally until its side was almost horizontal. Swinburne rose to his feet, ran forward, then dropped and clung on tightly as the ship sank down again. A horrible grinding sounded as wood fragmented.

“He’s made it,” Trounce gasped as Swinburne vaulted over a brass rail onto the sloping deck. “By Jove! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

The crowd yelled their encouragement as the poet raced toward the stern, then screamed in alarm as he was swamped by a monumental hump of water. The wave buried the ship and exploded onto the rocks, sending spray so high the wind caused it to rain over the onlookers, drenching them. For a terrible moment, the Royal Charter was completely lost from view, but then it reared up again and, with a shattering crash, broke completely in half. The prow swung skyward before ploughing into the ragged stone teeth. Its entire mass crumpled and flew into pieces.

At Burton’s side, the village rector wailed and began to sob.

Trounce clutched Burton’s arm, his fingers digging in, and the scarcely healed bone flared with pain. The explorer didn’t register the shock of it at all, but his vision suddenly clarified, and every tiny detail of the destruction he was witnessing took on equal weight and significance. His knees gave way and Trounce caught him and held him upright, but the explorer was oblivious. All he knew was that, in the sternmost remains of the clipper, which was now swivelling its broken end to face shoreward, there was a figure slumped loosely against the wheel, and beside it, Algernon Swinburne.