Then the wharf exploded-in blood, smoke and steel.
***
Chapter 31. Turmoil and Affray, The Tower Wharf Riverside, Night-time, 10th June
If Ned’s first inkling of a change in circumstance was the sudden apparition of Canting Michael, then a firmer hint was the thunder that sounded from down the end of the wharf. An orange-red plume gouged the darkness and Ned could swear he saw the flicker of an object fly between him and the wall to his left. If any of the gathering had been confused by the recent falling out, that was nothing to the chaos caused in the next instant.
Lady Fortuna had a very strange way of cancelling out her favours and rebalancing debts. In this case Clemmie Watkins was its recipient. Ned could see that the Doutch Gonners had downplayed the effects of their charges during their description of battle. The missile must have impacted square on his chest, exploding his torso and spraying his companions in crime and neighbours with an assortment of internal organs. Just for a moment the wharf went silent as all the varied participants looked at the space that once held the former powder sorter. After that all present universally tracked the path of the projectile back to the supposedly empty Ruyter and the falconet that had discharged it.
Then the uproar began and several different events seemed to happen almost simultaneously. Don Juan Sebastian screamed out another order and several of his men seized a shocked Sir Welkin, dragging him towards the landward end of the wharf. A ragged cheer erupted from the formerly deserted ship and a wave of weapon wielding men jumped over its side landing on the wharf. Another body of armed men coalesced around Canting Michael, challenging the passage of Don Juan Sebastian and the thirty odd monks with him.
Unbelievably, Sir Roderick chose that instant to become martially inspired, and waving his sword over his head, commanded his retainers to rally to him. Ned however used the opportunity for something else-getting free.
Already alerted by the disturbing presence of Canting Michael, Ned had been watching for just such a chance. There was no way he was going to stick around for the tender care of the Southwark gang lord. So as the Gonne’s roar snapped the heads of his three guards in the direction of the ship, and after the immediate dissolution of Master Watkins, Ned kicked down hard and threw all his weight backwards breaking their grip.
Even for experienced soldiers who’d served in the bloody fray between the Imperials and the French, at the very instance of combat there was a second’s hesitation as each warrior weighted up his chances of survival. With the frightening use of artillery on the battle field, that decision assumed more importance. Having seen the powder sorter next to them explode, and noting the widening gap between them and of the rest of their company, the ‘monks’ legged it.
Ned was left lying on the wharf, blinking white spots out of his vision and wondering why his head was ringing. Rolling over with a groan, he looked towards the chaotic scene between the ship and him. It was worse than any inter parish footebul game. The lantern’s light gave a pallid illumination of men heaving and struggling together, locked in vicious battle. The pools of light displayed the fight in passing flickers, the descent of cudgels or the sparking clash of blades, while screams of pain survived well enough in the shadows.
Ned shook his head to clear the last of the numbing ache. It didn’t work too well. He pushed himself up with the aid of a supporting timber wall, and tried to figure out the pattern of the fight. From the use of cleavers, he assumed that the rest of Gryne’s promised reinforcements had arrived. They must have rowed across from Bermondsey and silently clambered up the side of the empty ship. Well that was good news!
Another roar punctured the night. Ned instinctively ducked, though he needn’t have bothered. The missile took out two of his three former guards as they’d reached the struggle by Canting Michaels men. Excellent choice! The fight on the dock was too mixed for a clear shot, though Ned did feel a justified sense of satisfaction. The ‘monk’ who’d been punching him was writhing on the ground, holding the bloody stump of his right arm.
The sound of shouts and smashing timber drew Ned’s attention to the other side of the battle. His first contingent of Gryne’s men were trying to break out of their temporary prison, but the heavy door was making that difficult. The other combatants were too engaged in mutual mayhem to take any notice of the cries or hammering on the door.
Ned knew what he had to do, but first he needed some weapons. The swirl of combat was separated into two distinct groups. On his right, five paces away, was the struggle on the dock, while to his left the Canting Michael-Don Juan Sebastian conflict raged on, blocking the narrow roadway past the edge of the dock and its flanking buildings.
When Ned’s company had been forced to surrender, their arms had been piled up towards the end of the dock, on the eastern side of the warehouse, and under the menacing maw of one of the Great Gonnes. That had been the source of the first disagreement of the evening. This had been between Blackford and Belsom over whose care they were to be entrusted. Ned had felt he’d done a good job by backing Belsom’s claim, quoting the usages of war. Blackford had become quite waspish, reminding his erstwhile partner that the docks and all their accoutrements were under his purview, and it was his Gonnes that effected the capture. Stirring the pot just that bit further, Ned had ruminated upon the fact that the ‘captaine of artillerie’ was entitled to two fifths of captured booty. Of course it went on from there, each man standing stiffly on their rights.
Now Ned was trying to cross the dangerous fringe of battle to gain the weapon horde. Master Sylver, in his lessons on defence, had advocated a less flashy style, leaning heavily on survivability, and when it came to being unarmed in a melee, the suggestion was ‘don’t attract attention’. Ned dropped down to the timber decking of the wharf and scuttled across, using the soggy remnants of Clemmie Watkins as cover. The dead powder sorter was on his back, eyes wide with terminal surprise at his end. Ned tried to avoid crawling through the spreading pool of blood and fragments, while holding his breath and quelling his rebellious stomach. The falconet was considered small in the brotherhood of Gonnes but was certainly still a fearsome weapon. The master of defence’s advice was correct. He made it to the armaments, and while kneeling down, quickly buckled on his sword and dagger.
Once armed Ned reviewed his options. If he charged towards the moored vessel, about ten paces should put him by the barred doorway. Three of Belsom’s men stood guard. They’d obliviously heard the thumping. One was fending off a tentative attack, while his companions braced the wedged door. Ned wasn’t a gallant fool. Since his training he could match one skilled opponent and maybe fend off two. Three wasn’t an option, unless he wanted a quick death. He needed an edge. Inspiration struck-the pistols!
He spun back to the stacked weapons. Those two little beauties had been the start of Blackford and Belsom’s bickering. The Master of Ordinance had a habit of not supervising his underlings’ acquisitions. He didn’t know about that splendid brace of the gunsmith’s art, but Belsom did. The wheellocks had been very carefully placed by the wall, away from tempted fingers and behind the cleavers. Ned had to stretch past chipped edges of the blades, before cautiously pulling them out. Once in hand he rapidly checked the spring, flash pan and the jaw-clamped firestone. All seemed to be fine. Rob had warned that the wheel lock mechanism didn’t take to shocks or staying in tension too long. Ned loosened his blades and made the last of his preparations. He needed to take advantage of the confused melee.
Ned had taken up the offer of defence training on the suggestion of Mistress Black, and as loath as he was to admit it, she’d been right. So far he was still alive to prove the value of the rigorous exercises. However, Master Sylver taught much more than how to use a sword. He delved into the deeper matters of battle, the vital influence of leadership, tactics, strategy and especially how to read a fight as you would a cartographer’s chart. As in his training, Ned gave the combat field a quick survey to fix the locations of friends and foes, before he launched into battle. Then he caught the flicker of movement on the other side of the dock. Someone was standing by the second Great Gonne and they were trying to light the linstock. A sudden flash of sparks illuminated the snarling face and feathered cap of John Edwards. It struck Ned that he had been granted a vision. That single moment in battle all great commanders prayed for, the key to victory! In this instant, rescuing the rest of his company was irrelevant. If the murderous powder sorter got that slow match lit and set off the Gonne, then everyone on the wharf would be dead! He made his decision, dagger in hand, and shoving one of the pistols into his belt, Ned jumped up and ran across the dock.