'Pray still them at once! You are committing a grave breach, sir!' The clerk made to mark an entry in a large ledger.
Just for a moment Poundinch looked like a cornered cat. Then, with a 'We'll not be 'avin' that!' he shoved the excise clerk down the ladder and struck the nearest scrutineer right in the jaw with one of the thick wooden pins that were used to hold the mast.
'Let fly, Mister Shunt!' he bawled. 'Let fly!'
With this the chaos began. Everyone but Shunt hesitated. The Hogshead lurched forward and people sprawled, Rossamund with them. Poundinch leaped into the hold. Two scrutineers pounced after him over their fallen comrade. Hiss-crack. The boatswain felled one with a pistol shot to the neck as the other disappeared below.
On the pier the musketeers presented their firelocks, their officer crying over the din. 'Hold fast-or be slaughtered where you stand!'
The crew of the Hogshead just jeered as their vessel sheered away.
'Do yar worst, ya prattling hackmillion!' cried one.
'Hold yerself, chiff-chaffing lobcock!' screeched another.
'Go lay a muck hill, Mary!' and many worse things other bargemen returned.
The quarto of musketeers fired a rattling volley that brought several to their end, while someone ashore shouted, 'Grapnels! Grapnels!'
The crew returned fire with pistol and blunderbuss, their shots having little effect as the musketeers' proofing proved its quality. Only one of the soldiers fell, simply sagging where he knelt, shot through the head. Amazed at how suddenly and matter-of-factly the violence had begun, Rossamund froze first with disbelief, which quickly dissolved into utter terror. Cold nausea griped in his guts and set his fingers tingling.
The steerboard bow struck the farther wall of the arch as the boatswain was surprised by the heavy lurch and failed briefly to keep the vessel under control. The ironclad hull ground with loud metallic groans along the stone and the Hogshead lost speed. The boatswain struggled for a moment, and then reasserted his will on the vessel. Under his now sure hand, the Hogshead went out the other side of the arch. Grapnel hooks were thrown to ensnare the cromster but none held. The Hogshead was clear.
'All limbs to the screw, Shunt!' the boatswain cried into a speaking tube to the organ deck. 'Git us out of 'ere!'
Below a great contest thumped and bellowed. Poundinch and whatever crew had descended to aid him tackled the excise clerk and the doughty scrutineer. The sounds they all made gave no indication of who was winning, but as the cromster gained speed it was obvious that Shunt was not involved.
Rossamund was shocked into self-preserving action as muskets fired once more and the balls panged about them. One sent some poor chap toppling into the Humour. Another struck the balustrade near Rossamund's head, scaring him mightily, and as he struggled to find a refuge, a musket shot clouted him upon his chest.
It hit harder than the hardest thump in harundo and sat him down with a tiny, audible huff! For a flash his whole existence was an intense agony right next to his heart. His eyes bulged, tears streamed. It hurt too much to breathe. He shook with terror as he thought he had gasped his last. How could they shoot at a small lad like him? What had he done that they should hate him so? Then breath returned. He was winded and certainly bruised, but he was not badly harmed. The proofing Fransitart had provided had done its admirable work. Wiping away the tears and mucus, Rossamund marveled: he had been musket-shot and had survived.
The cromster gathered more speed and made for the middle of the river, putting a hundred yards between her and the Spindle. The vessel shuddered mightily as the gastrines were strained. The crew would do all they could to make their escape: only a gallows or worse awaited otherwise.
It was then that the great-guns started.
Boom! was the first and only warning. No range-finding splash, no whistle of a shot just missing overhead: the cannon of the Spindle were too well sighted and their gunners too well practiced. The very first shot hit the stern plate, which, being the only unclad part of the hull, was one of the weakest parts of the vessel. It was a fine hit that sent wood splintering and water spraying and shook the cromster to its ribs. The next two shots struck ironclad plates along the hull, each with a dull stentorian ring. Return fire was offered by the gunners of the Hogshead, but what good are twelve-pounders against the Spindle's thick walls of slate and close-packed earth? The balls just bounced on the fortifications and plopped uselessly into the river. Whether it was the fourth, fifth or sixth shot of the great-guns none could tell, but one of them removed the boatswain without a trace and left the tiller as nothing more than a shattered, unusable stump. The Hogshead veered crazily.
A certainty took hold of Rossamund. The time to depart had come. He was on the wrong vessel with the wrong rivermaster and probably heading for a cruel and horrible end. Equally worse, now those in the Spindle were counting him as one of the dastardly crew. He had seen hangings on Unhallows Night. He knew how criminals met their end. His chance to flee was here.
Gathering up his valise, his satchel and his hat, Rossamund flung himself from the gory deck and into the inky chill of the mighty Humour.
6
Threwd (noun) threwd is the sensation of watchfulness and awareness of the land or waters about you. Though no one is certain, the most popular theory is that the land itself is strangely sentient, intelligent and aware, and resents the intrusions and misuses of humankind. Paltry threwd, the mildest kind, can make a person feel uneasy, as if under unfriendly observation. The worst kind of threwd-pernicious threwd-can drive a person completely mad with unfounded terrors and dark paranoias.
The plunge into the river was like a stinging slap in the face, and his heavy proofing tugged Rossamund deeper. Yet the valise somehow floated and, despite the weight of its contents, prevented him from sinking altogether. He bobbed to the surface and spluttered and gasped. He could swim, though a lot of people could not-a benefit of living in a marine society in a city by a river-and swim he did, as he had never done before. The current was slow, but enough to pull him away from the Spindle and away from the fleeing Hogshead. He splashed and flailed for shore, terrified he might end up part of the dinner of some bottom-dwelling river bogle.
The cromster had straightened somehow and was well distant from Rossamund now, smoke trailing from some unseen fire, still making good its flight downstream. Shots from the vessel popped and those of the rivergate thundered. More casualties were inflicted on the Hogshead's crew by accurate fire, while misses sprayed gouts of water about. With a mighty slap! one of these misses struck the water off to his right. He could see it clearly, a rapid, round shadow skipping once on the surface of the river before plunging with a meaty chock! into the water. With a panicked surge, he pushed for the bank.
The Humour carried him toward its eastern side. The muddy shore was almost treeless except for a thicket of tall and knotted she-oaks a little further downstream. Roots poked into the water and graceful boughs hung their long needles thickly into the same. It was an obvious landmark, and Rossamund struggled toward the trees as hard as he could. There was no one to be seen on the bank. He prayed that those in the Spindle had not seen him leap from the Hogshead, and would not see him climb out of the river and into those trees. He would be associated with the bargemen of the Hogshead in the wrong way, he was sure, and that was trouble anyone would want to avoid.
His feet finally found grip on the slimy riverbed. Dragging the valise from the current's tow, he waded ashore among curtains of soughing needle-leaves. Once out of the water he staggered and lay on the grassy bank in the shadows of the copse, sobbing, shivering, thoroughly lost. For a long while he remained dazed, unwilling to move for memory of the violence just gone and the fear of violence ahead. How could he possibly survive alone out here in
