Once a riot had been declared, everyone had to disperse within an hour. Defiance was punishable by death.
The magistrate had got there quickly, Mack thought. Clearly he had been expecting this and waiting in the tavern for his cue. This whole episode had been carefully planned.
But to what end? It seemed to him they wanted to provoke a riot that would discredit the coal heavers and give them a pretext to hang the ringleaders. And that meant him.
His first reaction was aggressive. He wanted to yell, “If they’re asking for a riot, by God we’ll give them one they’ll never forget—we’ll burn London before we’re done!” He wanted to get his hands around Lennox’s throat. But he forced himself to be calm and think clearly. How could he frustrate Lennox’s plan?
His only hope was to give in and let the coal be delivered.
He turned to the coal heavers, gathered in an angry crowd around the open gates of the yard. “Listen to me,” he began. “This is a plot to provoke us into a riot. If we all go home peacefully we will outwit our enemies. If we stay and fight, we’re lost.”
There was a rumble of discontent.
Dear God, Mack thought, these men are stupid. “Don’t you understand?” he said. “They want an excuse to hang some of us. Why give them what they want? Let’s go home tonight and fight on tomorrow!”
“He’s right,” Charlie piped up. “Look who’s here—Sidney Lennox. He’s up to no good, we can be sure of that.”
Some of the coal heavers were nodding agreement now, and Mack began to think he might persuade them. Then he heard Lennox’s voice yelclass="underline" “Get him!”
Several men came at Mack at once. He turned to run, but one tackled him and he crashed to the muddy ground. As he struggled he heard the coal heavers roar, and he knew that what he had dreaded was about to begin: a pitched battle.
He was kicked and punched but he hardly felt the blows as he struggled to get up. Then the men attacking him were thrown aside by coal heavers and he regained his feet.
He looked around swiftly. Lennox had vanished. The rival gangs filled the narrow street. He saw fierce hand-to-hand fighting on all sides. The horses bucked and strained in their traces, neighing in terror. His instincts made him want to join in the fray and start knocking people down, but he held himself back. What was the quickest way to end this? He tried to think fast. The coal heavers would not retreat: it was against their nature. The best bet might be to get them into a defensive position and hope for a standoff.
He grabbed Charlie. “We’ll try to get inside the coal yard and close the gates on them,” he said. “Tell the men!”
Charlie ran from man to man, spreading the order, shouting at the top of his voice to be heard over the noise of the battle: “Inside the yard and close the gates! Keep them out of the yard!” Then, to his horror, Mack heard the bang of a musket.
“What the hell is going on?” he said, although no one was listening. Since when did coal drivers carry firearms? Who were these people?
He saw a blunderbuss, a musket with a shortened barrel, pointed at him. Before he could move, Charlie snatched the gun, turned it on the man who held it, and shot him at point-blank range. The man fell dead.
Mack cursed. Charlie could hang for that.
Someone rushed him. Mack sidestepped and swung a fist. His blow landed on the point of the chin and the man fell down.
Mack backed away and tried to think. The whole thing was taking place right outside Mack’s window. That must have been intentional. They had found out his address somehow. Who had betrayed him?
The first shots were followed by a ragged tattoo of gunfire. Flashes lit up the night and the smell of gunpowder mingled with the coal dust in the air. Mack cried out in protest as several coal heavers fell dead or wounded: their wives and widows would blame him, and they would be right. He had started something he could not control.
Most of the coal heavers got into the yard where there was a supply of coal to throw. They fought frenziedly to keep the coal drivers out. The yard walls gave them cover from the musket fire that rattled intermittently.
The hand-to-hand fighting was fiercest at the yard entrance, and Mack saw that if he could get the high wooden gates closed the entire battle might peter out. He fought his way through the melee, got behind one of the heavy timber gates, and started to push. Some of the coal heavers saw what he was attempting and joined in. The big gate swept several scuffling men out of the way, and Mack thought they would get it shut in a moment; then it was blocked by a cart.
Gasping for breath, Mack shouted: “Move the cart, move the cart!”
His plan was already having some effect, he saw with an access of hope. The angled gate made a partial barrier between the two sides. Furthermore, the first excitement of the battle had passed, and the men’s zest for fighting had been tempered by injuries and bruises and the sight of some of their comrades lying dead or wounded. The instinct of self-preservation was reasserting itself, and they were looking for ways to disengage with dignity.
Mack began to think he might end the fighting soon. If the confrontation could be stalled before someone called out the troops, the whole thing might be perceived as a minor skirmish and the strike could continue to be seen as a mainly peaceful protest.
A dozen coal heavers began to drag the cart out of the yard while others pushed the gates. Someone cut the horse’s traces, and the frightened beast ran around in a panic, neighing and kicking. “Keep pushing, don’t stop!” Mack yelled as huge lumps of coal rained down on them. The cart inched out and the gates closed the gap with maddening slowness.
Then Mack heard a noise that wiped out all his hopes at a stroke: the sound of marching feet.
The guards marched down Wapping High Street, their white-and-red uniforms gleaming in the moonlight. Jay rode at the head of the column, keeping his horse close-reined at a brisk walk. He was about to get what he had said he wanted: action.
He kept his face expressionless but his heart was pounding. He could hear the roar of the battle Lennox had started: men shouting, horses neighing, muskets banging. Jay had never yet used a sword or gun in anger: tonight would be his first engagement. He told himself that a rabble of coal heavers would be terrified of a disciplined and trained troop of guards, but he found it hard to be confident.
Colonel Cranbrough had given him this assignment and sent him out without a superior officer. Normally Cranbrough would have commanded the detachment himself, but he knew this was a special situation, with heavy political interference, and he wanted to keep out of it. Jay had been pleased at first, but now he wished he had an experienced superior to help him.
Lennox’s plan had sounded foolproof in theory, but as he rode to battle Jay found it full of holes. What if McAsh were somewhere else tonight? What if he escaped before Jay could arrest him?
As they approached the coal yard the pace of the march seemed to slow, until Jay felt they were creeping forward by inches. Seeing the soldiers, many of the rioters fled and others took cover; but some threw coal, and a rain of lumps came down on Jay and his men. Without flinching they marched up to the coal yard gates and, as prearranged, took up their firing positions.
There would be only one volley. They were so close to the enemy that they would not have time to reload.
Jay raised his sword. The coal heavers were trapped in the yard. They had been trying to close the yard gates but now they gave up and the gates swung fully open. Some scrambled over the walls, others tried pathetically to find cover among the heaps of coal or behind the wheels of a cart. It was like shooting chickens in a coop.
Suddenly McAsh appeared on top of the wall, a broad-shouldered figure, his face lit by the moon. “Stop!” he yelled. “Don’t shoot!”