Ned joined the tumbled rush down the stairs into the hold, almost tripping over one of the sailors. He’d grabbed a length of hurriedly damped canvas. Ned fervently hoped it’d be enough. He needed no warning about the dangers of fire on board a ship. A few years ago, during a royal celebration, one of the ships moored in the river had disintegrated in a thunderous roar, raining flaming debris on both sides of the river and amongst the other moored vessels. Four hours effort by hundreds of citizens had luckily been enough to extinguish the threatening flames. At the inquest an account by one of the vessel’s few survivors was that the drunken ship’s mate had wanted to join in the cannonade from the Tower and loaded one of the ship’s small Gonnes but had been careless with his lantern. It had been a salutary lesson and as a result supposedly all ships in port were to make extra provisions for safety.
Ned hit the lower deck with a jarring thud that shook his teeth. The source of their concern was clearly visible. The yellow orange tongues of flame lit the space with a fearful clarity. With an act borne more of fright and desperation than courage, Ned charged forwards to join the macabre throng of screaming, frantic men who flailed at the threatening flames with anything that came to hand. Leading the battle was the prominent figure of his friend, Rob Black, who could be seen in the grimly flickering light, throwing sacks and barrels of cargo out of the path of the advancing flames. He hoped that Rob picked correctly. But as his angel philosophically stated, if not they probably wouldn’t know about it until they awoke at the Last Judgement.
It was desperate work in that close space, tripping over bales and sacks, colliding with the others battling the flames, all to the flaring illumination of their foe. Ned would have preferred to face several mobs of rioters than this hot, throat clogging pandemonium. One sailor had tried to get some relief by smashing open the forward hatch for air, till Rob had felled him with a casual blow. He called out that the fresh air would just invigorate the fire. So they laboured on as if in the darkest regions of hell, spurned by the fervent hope that the fire would be quenched soon.
Ned collapsed on the deck gulping in chest fulls of the pure air of the riverside in between coughing up gouts of black ash and muck. By all that was holy, it burned the throat. Meg and Albrecht were walking amongst the combatants littered across the deck, passing out firkins of ale and wine. Never was a drink more gratefully received. The fire was definitely out. It had been touch and go for a while though. Ned couldn’t say for how long the battle under the deck had taken. It had seemed to last for hours. The crucial point was when Rob had found the three tun sized barrels of English beer. He’d pulled some great axe from somewhere, and with a mighty swing had breached them one after another and the hungry flames had drowned in the foaming surge. Thank the good Lord for the thirst of the Low Countries.
He had downed a good measure from a proffered leather jack when Rob finally emerged from the blackened depths. Ned passed him the half full jack and his friend emptied it in a couple of steady swallows. “Ned, there’s something I need you to see. Get Meg and Albrecht, then follow me below.”
It was a brief command and the sort of peremptory summons he’d more expect from Rob’s sister. Ned may have considered questioning it, except that he had caught sight of his friend’s grim countenance. So he acquired the requested Black sibling, with minimal argument for a change, and once more descended into the scene of their latest battle.
Ned couldn’t call himself experienced in dealing with fires so he had very little idea whether the damage to the vessel was significant or not. Of more concerning was the reaction of Margaret Black. She looked almost distraught at the fire blackened timbers. Considering the joint ownership, he was a suddenly worried about how much of the Cardinal’s Angels were now invested in charcoal. Thrusting that concern aside, they met Rob by the most damaged part of the forward hold. He was kneeling by an opened shutter in the bow area.
“We have a problem.” Rob said as he pointed at the section most charred by the flames.
“What is that?” asked Albrecht, who immediately walked over to the indicated blackened ribs and gave them a thump, and was answered by a solid sharp rap at which he nodded in clear approval. “These still look sound.”
At that measured judgement both Ned and Margaret Black heaved a quiet sigh of relief. Ned’s charcoal apprehension eased. But Rob was still frowning as if an anvil had settled over his brows.
“No, its not the ship’s timbers!” Rob shook his head and shifted to shine the yellow glow from his lantern over the shattered remnants of a jug in the corner of the deck and a seam of heavily charcoaled timber that wound its way up to the opening. The others just looked blankly at the pile of debris. With so much else broken and scattered in the chaos of the past hour, why this patch was important to Rob escaped them.
It took a few moments in the dim light until their non-comprehension got through to the young artificer. Finally, after a last wave of the lantern and a brief resigned shake of his head, Rob explained the modern practice of pyrotechnics. “Master Owen the gun founder, showed me one of his books on the arts of warfare as practiced in foreign lands. That had drawings, recipes and description of various incendiary devices for setting fire to buildings and fortifications. Now to my eye this looks just like one.”
Ned knelt down beside the shattered jug and took another close inspection. Well he could see lots of black and singeing from the fire, but still any arcane meaning escaped him.
His friend pulled the other two closer into the illumination of the lantern and bent over, explaining his discovery. “See this line of charring up to the opening? If you look at this ledge, it continues to the outer hull just here, and I’ve checked the timbers on the outside. It continues for a hand span down the planking.”
Ned still thought Rob was spinning fancy out of moonshine but made doubtfully inquisitive, humming noises. His sister however must have been more accustomed to his delusions. She just crossed her arms defensively and quirked a sceptical eyebrow. “Hmmph, just a charred rope from the fire, that’s all!”
“No I don’t think so. According to Master Owens’ book, first a pottery vessel is filled with turpentine or distilled spirit of wine. Then it is sealed with wax three quarters of the way full. Finally a small charge of black powder is packed into the top of the neck. Then it has a long fuse set in the top using tar, a couple of yards long by my estimation. You light the fuse and leave fast.”
Alright, it seemed to make sense. From all Ned had heard today, black powder was chancy stuff, so it may be possible, but for Rob’s sister this clearly smacked of children’s tales. “So Master Artificer, how did it get on board? Spirited on by the Piskies?”
That comment just dripped of sibling scorn. Rob however must have been used to it. He just shook his head and continued with his scenario. “It would have been easy while we were fending off the mob. Use a wherry to row up to the bow of the ship. Pry open the shutter and slip in the incendiary pot. Strike a light on the fuse and then row off and watch.”
Yes, Ned could see how simple that would have been. Albrecht gave a slow nod of agreement, then voiced the suspicion that had sparked through all their thoughts once Rob had finished his reasoning. “This would be a deliberate attempt to burn the ship…yes?”