It was now that Ned Bedwell began to understand the terrifying exhilaration of battle. The rioters stood screaming at them until one bold soul would begin the next rush forward. The three foot gap between the wharf and the ship still frustrated their efforts, as did the height. However past the crowd Ned could see a couple of enterprising rioters pulling heavy planks off a warehouse. Soon they’d have a bridge of their own. Time was running out.
He’d fended of some eager scum with an axe. Master Sylver may not have approved of his style, though he would have applauded the results. The fellow dropped the weapon, screaming in pain. Hopefully a few fingers joined the axe in the water. Finally Ned received the expected thump on his shoulder and pulled out of the line.
Thank the good Lord for modern technology! He’d spotted the locked trunks during the search the other night, and now having Rob Black on hand was perfect. He grabbed one end of the engine and helped ease its foot into the stirrup slot by the forecastle rail. Once it was firmly in place, Rob knocked out the restraining wedge with a small hammer and retracted the iron chamber. Perfect timing! The steersman had just returned, burdened with a small barrel which he placed cautiously next to Rob. The artificer barely paused and smashed the lid, scooping the chamber into the black grains. He levelled off the overflow and tamped the open end with a rag before returning to the engine and slamming in the primed chamber. For his part, Ned replaced the wedge and with a firm thud from the hammer, held it tight. The steersman in the meantime threw a canvas cover over the open barrel and dragged it to the other side of the deck.
It was obvious Rob Black had practiced with his creations. He easily set the tiller and grabbed the lit linstock proffered by his sister then aimed the small engine towards the mob and called out. “Open your mouth and cover your ears!”
Ned had just got to ‘what’ when the rail-mounted falconet roared forth its fiery challenge, and the air over the crowd filled with a roiling mass of flame shot smoke, reeking of sulphur. The noise! Ned had heard the Great Gonnes fire during celebrations, but that was no help. He’d never been so close to one before, even if it was the smallest at only four foot long. The roar was overwhelming. There was a ringing void in his head that made his eyes and teeth ache. When this sensation finally passed, he lent over the gunwale and called out to the shocked crowd. “Leave! Leave now!”
As one the silenced mob turned toward him eyes wide in surprise. “That’s a warning!”
The mob started to mutter. A few of the more prudent slipped away from the back.
“Reload with shot!”
The riveted attention of the gathering swung across to Rob Black as he loudly hammered another chamber into place and swung the Gonne back until it pointed fair at the centre of the crowd.
Ned dropped his voice to a more conversational tone. “I’ve heard that shot at close range does fearful damage. Tears arms and legs off, and fair rips the body apart. It’s said that it can slay several men if they’re closely packed!”
Rob helpfully swung the muzzle of the Gonne in a slow track across the front of the crowd. Everyone’s eyes were firmly fixed on the tip of the iron tube. It seemed to yawn malevolently in the flickering light. Instinctively they spread out, backing away from the open mouth. Then in an instant the stampede began. Ned was surprised at the prompt reaction-until he turned to look at Rob. His friend had placed the spluttering linstock an inch off the touch hole. The implied threat had been enough. Within moments the wharf was empty. Even the beaten and battered had managed a good turn of speed.
Ned slumped, sagging over the smooth timber of the gunwale in spent relief. Thank God for family history! Uncle Richard always used to tell the story about how he’d been caught up in the mad swirl of the Evil May Day riots and watched when several of the Great Gonnes at the Tower had fired into Petty Wales in a bid to restore peace. It worked. There was another part of that day’s tale, the rancour with Thomas More. Understandably Ned didn’t want push onto that, not here and not now.
***
Chapter 10. Unwelcome Visitors, The Ruyter, Night time, 6th June
Ned let out a long drawn sigh and collapsed in the lee of the gunwale, shivering in reaction. That could have been messy-very messy indeed. If the mob had tried to rush the ship, it would have been carnage, though as his daemon commented, how was he going to explain that sort of mayhem to Councillor Cromwell, or even the most pliable of London inquests? Instead of stopping a riot, the trick with the Gonne could have sparked the prelude to a city wide rampage. Anyway that was now a philosophical point. Ned felt it was preferable to face a possible future hanging, rather than a very real clubbed and eviscerated present.
The rest of the crew and guards took the reprieve in varying ways, from joining Ned collapsed on the deck, to comparing scores with their fellow combatants. Rob Black, however, had slumped over the menacing falconet. He had performed superbly. However from the look on his face, Ned suspected that this was the first time he had ever turned the craft of his hands towards fellow Christians. It had affected the artificer pretty badly. For a change Margaret Black, rather than remonstrating with her sibling for the threatened violence, was soothingly stroking his head whispering beside his ear. Just for a moment Ned felt terribly jealous of that attention.
It was then that he received his second shock of the night. He could hear the tramp of many feet and the clash of iron echoing in the sudden silence. At a guess it was coming from Thames Street leading to Byllynsgate. Maybe it was the Common Watch. Well better late than never. He’d thank them anyway for the attempt. Ned gave a brief wave to Tam Bourke, who quickly replaced the gangway to the dock. Ned pulled himself up and waited. This late rescue was fairly typical of the Watch-they were well known for their ability to turn up well after the problem was solved. No doubt they would still expect recompense for their tardy presence, something like a twenty shillings reward. He hoped that Mistress Black was taking note of all these extra expenses incurred on her behalf.
With a pair of lanterns at their head, the column marched on to the dock. In the flickering light Ned could see a lot more armour than he’d expect in the Watch. Maybe one of the under sheriffs had rallied the nearest of the city’s guild or ward muster companies. Well they certainly had been well drilled and from what he could see, the quality of the equipment was pretty good. Even in the limited light Ned was able to pick out that the men marching onto the wharf wore what was called Almain Rivet, stylish armour preferred for the liveries of important lords of court. A glance over towards his friend saw Rob Black perk up with interest as the butts of shouldered pole arms thudded into the timber planks of the wharf in a close approximation of synchronicity. Ned stepped forward, a relieved grin on his face and…
…the thankful welcome died, strangled in his throat by shock. It wasn’t the city muster, or the Common Watch or even the Mayor’s ceremonial guard. It was in fact the return of Sir Roderick Belsom, Pursuivant of the Lord Chancellor, complete with his master’s retinue, in all its proclaimed power and suggested menace. The guard stood at rest while their commander, Sir Roderick, waddled up the replaced gangplank. He’d taken some greater care with his appearance since their prior meeting. To increase his stature and gravitas, he’d decided that an expedition further into the realm of martial glory was required. Whereas some armour lent a marital dignity to the wearer, Sir Roderick seemed to believe that therefore a lot of armour made one the equal to Sir Lancelot. Obviously the scarlet plumed helmet wasn’t enough. His ‘new’ harness was of the latest style of burnished half armour that Rob reckoned was becoming popular with the professional soldiers across the Channel. It was claimed that it gave protection from shot or blade and when fitted to the man that it was as manoeuvrable as a second skin. Ned remembered seeing one of the King’s great tournaments a few years ago at Greenwich. It had been a spectacular affair and the royal harness was the best that could be made in all of Christendom. Riding like one of the fabled centaurs, the armour mimicked his Majesty’s every move. It was so supple it was said the King could have danced a galliard in it.