Grantville Gazette Volume 25

by editor Paula Goodlett

  Their messengers had come back from Whitehall reporting that they would not be seen. Nobody was talking to them. The pleas to the magistrates of Westminster were unheard. They were entirely on their own. Someone, probably Cork, was handing them to the mob. After looking at the size of the crowd, Geoffrey felt it was time to barricade the front gate as a precaution, and headed to the main courtyard. He stopped on one of the interior staircases that had windows open to the courtyard. A loud discussion was in full swing. Father Phillip was arguing with a couple of the Capuchin monks. It sounded like he was trying to talk them out of something. They sounded just as convinced.

  "I can calm them, make them see reason. The preacher is a man of God," said one of the monks. Geoffrey wasn't sure of his name, but he was French, the others, Italian.

  "We have ministered to the poor in this area, we know many of them. Let us go to them" argued another.

  Father Phillip was shouting at the Capuchins. "I cannot let you go out there! They may become violent. Vanderbeek said yesterday they might do this. You might even provoke them into attacking."

  "We are men of peace, Father. Let us try to calm them."

  For once Geoffrey agreed with Father Phillip, and he trotted down the stairs to support him. By the time he made it across the courtyard, three of the Capuchins were opening the door to the Strand and heading out into the street. Geoffrey made sure the door was closed solidly behind them as they left.

  * * *

  Alexander Leighton was building to the climax. He had already shown the crowd his lack of ears. He pointed out his face. "SS branded in with a hot iron. Sower of Sedition. No, that is not what it stands for. Slayer of Satan, that is what it means. Slayer of Satan." He pointed out the connections—the clear and absolute connections between Satan and Idolatry and the Catholic Church. The crowd—his crowd, understood a blow against the Catholics was a blow against Satan. And the Prince of Darkness was just behind that gate.

  "Slayer of Satan. Slayer of Satan," he shouted.

  The crowd picked it up, and it rumbled and hissed. "Slayer of Satan!"

  Then, as if God himself were showing him the way, three of the spawn of Satan came out of the gate and into the street. Daring to wear their rough brown robes tied with rope around the waist, emulating the true Christ. They walked toward him in a single file, arms outstretched, and hands with palms open and up, a sign of peace. The crowd parted to let them through, and they looked to him for guidance. The thought occurred to Leighton that more men would be better, but God was providing these demons to him. Surely it was time to release the crowd.

  It took so little, really. A change of inflection, a beating of the drum a little faster, and giving the crowd, his crowd, the permission. Permission was all they needed; they knew the right thing to do. Bless them. They stomped the men to death in moments.

  Alexander Leighton smiled, and looked at the gate to Denmark House.

  * * *

  Geoffrey made it up to one of the windows that fronted on the Strand. He watched the monks enter the crowd with their hands raised in blessing. Then they were no more, their brown robes swallowed by a sea of black hats and scarves. The sheer viciousness of the act stunned him. It was so sudden. The crowd acted as one being, and attacked. He averted his eyes, and heard women up and down the hallway scream.

  His servant was standing beside him. Geoffrey turned to him, tense. "Have them close the shutters on all the floors. I will be in the courtyard shoring up the gate."

  Geoffrey ran to the courtyard, and saw Marie Garnier directing the gathering of materials for the barricade. Geoffrey went to her. "Will he come in time, do you think?"

  "He always has before."

  Geoffrey looked up at the sky, judging the time by the sun, and then back to Marie. He sighed. "There are so many conspiracies, and plots. Religions. Factions. Countries and countries within countries. 'Tis a time when you cannot trust anyone, Marie."

  "You can trust him."

  He heard glass breaking at the front of the main building, as stones were bounced off the façade. It was starting.

  William Evans found him, and he looked up at the giant man. In his belt, he carried two rusty pistols that were formerly a wall decoration, a claymore that he wielded like a toy, and a massive cudgel.

  Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. "You look frightening as hell, William."

  The massive leonine head smiled down at him. "'Tis the idea, lad."

  The thick doors of the courtyard boomed, as the rioters smashed something heavy against it. The noise rattled around the hard walls of the courtyard and seemed to grow in intensity from the echo. There were about twenty men with William and Geoffrey.

  They all flinched at the noise. The remaining Capuchin monks had taken up cudgels after the death of their comrades. The priests were armed with swords. Several of the Vantelet men took the pikes. They all stood still as the echo faded in the courtyard. Geoffrey found himself standing in the middle, in front of the doors with William. He nudged the giant in the leg. "Pick me up."

  "What?"

  "Just do it. Pick me up. Time for a speech or these guys are going to run. Up."

  William shrugged one of his great shrugs, and hauled Geoffrey skyward. He stood on the massive shoulder, one hand wrapped in William's hair for balance.

  William whispered, "So who put ye in charge o' this party, eh?"

  Geoffrey spoke quietly from the side of his mouth. "Two reasons. Someone has to. And we were standing in the middle like a couple of idiots."

  William made a face and nodded gently so as not to cause Geoffrey to lose his balance. "Good enuf fer me, lad."

  Geoffrey used his stage and singing voice, and it carried well. "Everyone. Listen to me. We must hold them as long as possible. The others are at the back of the main house. We must give Vanderbeek time to get here and take them off. I have word he is coming. He is coming, so we must hold. We need to hold long enough for them to get in the boats, and then we can retreat."

  The doorway boomed again as it was rammed. This time it shifted visibly.

  Geoffrey said, "Matchlocks will fire first. Do not fire until I do. At this range you cannot miss, so don't rush. Fire and reload, and let the pikes take them from there. Fire and reload. All we have to do is slow them down."

  The door boomed again, and this time they could hear splintering wood. The courtyard echoed again, and now they could hear the brutal cheer of the crowd, as the door began to fail. He saw the pikes waver. "Steady, lads. Steady. We just need to buy some time. Just a little bit of time, that's all."

  The door boomed a final time, and a heavy log on a single axle and a pair of wagon wheels speared through the door, then continued all the way through the barricade, splitting it open as well. Five men came through the door.

  Geoffrey shot the sixth in the forehead. He heard the matchlocks boom beside him, and watched three of the men fall at once. The pikes moved in and quickly finished the other two. At that point Geoffrey was shrouded in gunpowder smoke from the matchlocks. The courtyard quickly filled with the smoke, and visibility was now only a few feet.

  "Hold them, pikes! Push them back!" Geoffrey shouted.

  There was some screaming and moaning coming from the gate area, and rattling of the pikes as they stabbed through the barricade, but it looked like they had surprised the rioters, and they had retreated. It was quiet outside the gates, except for the preacher and the drum, urging them onward. Most of the group in the courtyard was choking from the smoke, including Geoffrey and William.

  William tilted his head. "Bit—"Cough. "—smoky, lad."

  Cough. "—Aye."

  "Geoffrey?"

  "Yes, William?"

  "Kindly put your fist in my ear if ye plan to fire that little gun of yours again, eh?"

  "I—"Cough. "—will endeavor to do so. Could you put me down, please? I want to inspect the barricade."

  William set Geoffrey gently down on the ground. Before he got to the barricade, he found Jermyn
there, holding his matchlock. His face was blackened on one side and what hair he had on his head was singed. He rubbed his hand over his scorched scalp. "I see why musketeers always wear those big floppy hats."

  "Is that reloaded yet, Jermyn?"

  "No, lad. It appears we have driven them off. We should be able to put these up now."

  "Get that loaded now! They might be back!"

  "I doubt that, little fellow. We bloodied them, and mobs like this do not have the fight in them when they are bloodied. They will run away and hide to lick their wounds. Mark my words."

  Geoffrey heard a noise. A crowd noise. There was the hypnotic drone of the preacher, and the drum, beating slowly.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  At each thump of the drum, the crowd was saying something. It started quiet, almost a whisper. One word at each thump.

  He strained his ears to hear it. He could see Jermyn doing the same and looking puzzled.

  Thump. . . . Thump. . . .

  Finally there was enough volume in the chant, and enough ringing had gone from his ears from shooting, that he finally discerned what they were saying.

  Kill . . . Satan . . . Kill . . . Satan . . . Kill . . . Satan.

  The volume began to increase, and the drum began to beat just a little faster.

  "I don't think we have bloodied them enough, Jermyn. I'm reloading. You do the same."

  Jermyn waddled away to the back of the courtyard quicker than he had seen him waddle in a long time. "And stop calling me little fellow!"

  Geoffrey started to reload, while simultaneously inspecting the barricade. It was a wreck. "William, monks, and priests, get up here to the barricade. Anybody who doesn't have a pike or matchlock. We need to pull this log in and turn it on its side to act as a barrier. Hurry, I don't think we have much time!"

  The chant continued to rise in volume, but not as fast as Geoffrey would have imagined it. Geoffrey was a musician, a singer, and he knew when you were singing with a crowd, they always went faster and faster. You had to control it with your players, or it could get out of control.

  These people were controlled. The drum and the preacher held them back, allowing the chant to build. Geoffrey found himself listening to it, and began to follow the seductive rhythm of it.

  Suddenly William was looming over him. "You need something moved, lad?"

  "The log on the wheels. Let's turn it on its side and use it to block their path."

  By then, the group had assembled and they started by making their way through the barricade where the log had pushed it aside. The monks administered last rites to the bodies and dragged them away. Unfortunately one of the monks performed the rite in front of the door where he could be seen, and several rocks and vehement curses came his way. He wasn't hurt.

  They closed the splintered doors. Working furiously, they maneuvered the heavy contraption nearly into place, but one end snagged on the barricade. There was not enough room to get it into position, unless they lifted one end of it.

  The chant picked up volume.

  They had pushed the doors shut as best they could. They both tilted from the vertical, secured by one hinge and some splinters. Geoffrey could pick up movement on the other side of the doors through the gaps.

  The chant was louder now, faster. The preacher was winding the spring again, and getting ready to let loose the mechanism.

  "We really need to get that log in place. Now! We don't have much time!"

  William pushed the others aside and put his shoulder under the log, other men filled in around him. With one mighty heave, they lifted one end of the huge tree trunk and it thumped heavily to the ground, shaking the paving stones beneath their feet. Their men cheered as it hit the ground. The way was blocked. No one was going to get in unless they brought a strong team of horses to drag the log away.

  William was leaning against the wall. He looked to be in pain. Geoffrey ran to his side, waving at Jermyn and one of the Garniers to help. He arrived breathless. "What happened?"

  The chanting and the drum beats increased in pace. Kill. Satan. Kill. Satan.

  William's face was lined in pain, and Geoffrey could see tears in his eyes. He was favoring his bad leg. "'Tis me hip, lad. Something went pop in there, then it made a crunching sound." He gasped as he tried to move. "Hurts me a bit."

  "You can't stay here. We've got to get you to the back of the courtyard. You've got to move, my friend."

  "Aye. Get me some strong lads to lean on."

  He screamed in pain only once. Geoffrey was pacing back and forth as they moved him, wincing every time William winced, and focusing all of his attention on his friend.

  William, white as a ghost from the pain, motioned them to stop, and for Geoffrey to come over. "I will be fine, lad. Don't worry. I will be back there with the women. Do what you need to do. Go. Anyway, the women are a damn sight better lookin' than ye."

  Geoffrey smiled at his friend. The chants were louder now. He turned and trotted back to the line of pikes, where the Vandelets were leaning on them, doing their best not to listen to the chanting crowd, feigning nonchalance. "Good job, lads. Keep it up. I doubt they will get through."

  "Sure thing, Captain Hudson." There was a laugh from the men. Geoffrey knew differences in laughter. There were many nuances. There was laughter that was mean and cruel, and laughter that was of begrudging respect. This laughter was of the latter kind.

  Geoffrey stopped and turned around, smiling. "Thank ye, lads. That has a nice ring to it, don't ye think? Captain Geoffrey Hudson?" They laughed some more. Good laughter. Geoffrey turned away and went back to his position where he could see the splintered gate, smiling.

  The noise that suddenly came from the front of the building was immense, as if a hundred cannonballs hit it at the same time. Stones thrown over the roof from the street landed hard among them. One of the priests went down as a cobblestone hit his shoulder. Glass was breaking along the entire façade of the building, upper and lower floors.

  Geoffrey realized his error. The shuttered windows. The windows were three times as easy to get into as the main gate. A determined man with a crowbar could get in. And it sounded like they were attacking them all at once. The screaming of the mob was almost deafening. He turned to look up at the building that encircled him. The courtyard was surrounded by windows. Three stories of windows, all around. There were two interior staircases on each side of the courtyard. Plus all of the access doors. They were sitting ducks in the courtyard, once the mob had access to the rest of Denmark House. Fish in a stone and glass barrel.

  He looked back at the rest of them. Some figured it out, and it looked like they were going to run. Forcing himself to be calm, he walked as coolly as possible to the line of pikes. He said quietly, "I think we need to fall back to the very rear of the house, and defend the hallway. Let's go and walk that way, gentlemen. Don't panic. Don't run. Walk briskly please."

  Geoffrey walked quickly back to Father Phillip, who had taken charge of the priests and remaining monks.

  Phillip spoke first. "We cannot stay on the courtyard, Geoffrey, you understand that, right?"

  "We can't defend the house. We need to get everyone who is not fighting to the watergate. There is only one way out of the back of the house to the gardens, and that is down the main hall to the back doors. If we block those, they will have to go through the windows again. I think they are going to head for the courtyard once they break in, and then head for us in the back hallway to the garden. We will do the same with the matchlocks and the pikes again, hopefully we can slow them down until Vanderbeek gets here. Give me a man we can send back with the women and children and take charge."

  Father Phillip pointed to the remaining Capuchins. "You. All of you. Go do it. Move them back, let them know the mob has broken into Denmark House. Protect them from those who get past us. Go!"

  Glass shattered into the courtyard.

  "Oh, Christ," Geoffrey heard Father Phillip mumble.

  All of the n
oncombatants retreated down the hallway toward the gardens and the river beyond. The Capuchins herded them toward the river in a long trail. Geoffrey saw it was orderly. Marie Garnier was shepherding the lot of them.

  The position Geoffrey chose to defend was immediately inside the main doors from Denmark House to the gardens. The hallway was at least fifteen feet wide, and funneled down to a ten foot wide doorway. He had about a half dozen Vantelet pikesmen, the handful of priests led by Father Phillip, the five matchlocks, and another ten men, a mixture of Garniers, Vandelets and a couple of the freaks. The fat giant, Melrose, was there, and was, at present, a blithering idiot. The man with no legs was there. He had a pair of large kitchen knives, and looked ready to fight. The African servants had found a couple more pikes, and they were fitting in alongside the Vandelets. Geoffrey heard more glass shatter into the courtyard.

  In the corner of the hallway, where it met the outside wall and the doors, sat William, his claymore against the wall. He was pale, Kneeling next to him was Aubert, the queen's physician. "You should be on your way to the boats. I will have Melrose help you. He doesn't appear to be worth much to us in the fight."

  William waved the bottle he was drinking from around in front of him like a toy. "We tried. I can't. My hip is broken, Geoffrey. If I wa' a horse, they'd have cut me throat already. I shouldn't have tried to carry the litermon's load that time."

  "Get up, we don't have any time. Get to the watergate. Melrose! Get over here! Right now!"

  Geoffrey leaned close to whisper, "I don't know how long we can hold them here. Ten minutes maybe, once they are here in force. We aren't exactly seasoned troops. Hell, we aren't even troops. So get your arse up and get moving."

  "Lad. I broke me hip liftin' tha' mighty log. The doctors always said I had weak bones. Too much pressure on them. You know that. Aubert has examined me, ask him."