The sky was clear and there was a half-moon, so Mack could see all along the High Street. Ten or twelve horse-drawn carts were lumbering down the uneven dirt road in the moonlight, evidently headed for the coal yard. A crowd of men followed the carts, jeering and shouting, and more spilled out of the taverns and joined them at every corner.

The scene had all the makings of a riot.

Mack cursed, it was the last thing he wanted.

He turned from the window and rushed down the stairs. If he could talk to the men with the carts and persuade them not to unload, he might avert violence.

When he reached the street the first cart was turning into the coal yard. As he ran forward the men jumped off the carts and, without warning, began to throw lumps of coal at the crowd. Some of the heavers were hit; others picked up the lumps of coal and threw them back. Mack heard a woman scream and saw children being herded indoors.

“Stop!” he yelled. He ran between the coal heavers and the carts with his hands held up. “Stop!” The men recognized him and for a moment there was quiet. He was grateful to see Charlie Smith’s face in the crowd. “Try to keep order here, Charlie, for God’s sake,” he said. “I’ll talk to these people.”

“Everybody stay calm,” Charlie called out. “Leave it to Mack.”

Mack turned his back on the heavers. On either side of the narrow street, people were standing on house doorsteps, curious to see what was happening but ready to duck quickly inside. There were at least five men on each coal cart. In the unnatural silence Mack approached the lead cart. “Who’s in charge here?” he said.

A figure stepped forward in the moonlight. “I am.”

Mack recognized Sidney Lennox.

He was shocked and puzzled. What was going on here? Why was Lennox trying to deliver coal to a yard? He had a cold premonition of disaster.

He spotted the owner of the yard, Jack Cooper, known as Black Jack because he was always covered in black dust like a miner. “Jack, close up the gates of your yard, for God’s sake,” he pleaded. “There’ll be murder done if you let this go on.”

Cooper looked sulky. “I’ve got to make a living.”

“You will, as soon as the strike is over. You don’t want to see bloodshed on Wapping High Street, do you?”

“I’ve set my hand to the plow and I’ll not look back now.”

Mack gave him a hard look. “Who asked you to do this, Jack? Is there someone else involved?”

“I’m my own man—no one tells me what to do.”

Mack began to see what was happening, and it made him angry. He turned to Lennox. “You’ve paid him off. But why?”

They were interrupted by the sound of a handbell being rung loudly. Mack turned to see three people standing at the upstairs window of the Frying Pan tavern. One was ringing the bell, another holding a lantern. The third man, in the middle, wore the wig and sword that marked him as someone of importance.

When the bell stopped ringing, the third man announced himself. “I am Roland MacPherson, a justice of the peace in Wapping, and I hereby declare a riot.” He went on to read the key section of the Riot Act.

Once a riot had been declared, everyone had to disperse within an hour. Defiance was punishable by death.

The magistrate had got there quickly, Mack thought. Clearly he had been expecting this and waiting in the tavern for his cue. This whole episode had been carefully planned.

But to what end? It seemed to him they wanted to provoke a riot that would discredit the coal heavers and give them a pretext to hang the ringleaders. And that meant him.

His first reaction was aggressive. He wanted to yell, “If they’re asking for a riot, by God we’ll give them one they’ll never forget—we’ll burn London before we’re done!” He wanted to get his hands around Lennox’s throat. But he forced himself to be calm and think clearly. How could he frustrate Lennox’s plan?

His only hope was to give in and let the coal be delivered.

He turned to the coal heavers, gathered in an angry crowd around the open gates of the yard. “Listen to me,” he began. “This is a plot to provoke us into a riot. If we all go home peacefully we will outwit our enemies. If we stay and fight, we’re lost.”

There was a rumble of discontent.

Dear God, Mack thought, these men are stupid. “Don’t you understand?” he said. “They want an excuse to hang some of us. Why give them what they want? Let’s go home tonight and fight on tomorrow!”

“He’s right,” Charlie piped up. “Look who’s here—Sidney Lennox. He’s up to no good, we can be sure of that.”

Some of the coal heavers were nodding agreement now, and Mack began to think he might persuade them. Then he heard Lennox’s voice yell: “Get him!”

Several men came at Mack at once. He turned to run, but one tackled him and he crashed to the muddy ground. As he struggled he heard the coal heavers roar, and he knew that what he had dreaded was about to begin: a pitched battle.

He was kicked and punched but he hardly felt the blows as he struggled to get up. Then the men attacking him were thrown aside by coal heavers and he regained his feet.

He looked around swiftly. Lennox had vanished. The rival gangs filled the narrow street. He saw fierce hand-to-hand fighting on all sides. The horses bucked and strained in their traces, neighing in terror. His instincts made him want to join in the fray and start knocking people down, but he held himself back. What was the quickest way to end this? He tried to think fast. The coal heavers would not retreat: it was against their nature. The best bet might be to get them into a defensive position and hope for a standoff.

He grabbed Charlie. “We’ll try to get inside the coal yard and close the gates on them,” he said. “Tell the men!”

Charlie ran from man to man, spreading the order, shouting at the top of his voice to be heard over the noise of the battle: “Inside the yard and close the gates! Keep them out of the yard!” Then, to his horror, Mack heard the bang of a musket.

“What the hell is going on?” he said, although no one was listening. Since when did coal drivers carry firearms? Who were these people?

He saw a blunderbuss, a musket with a shortened barrel, pointed at him. Before he could move, Charlie snatched the gun, turned it on the man who held it, and shot him at point-blank range. The man fell dead.

Mack cursed. Charlie could hang for that.

Someone rushed him. Mack sidestepped and swung a fist. His blow landed on the point of the chin and the man fell down.

Mack backed away and tried to think. The whole thing was taking place right outside Mack’s window. That must have been intentional. They had found out his address somehow. Who had betrayed him?

The first shots were followed by a ragged tattoo of gunfire. Flashes lit up the night and the smell of gunpowder mingled with the coal dust in the air. Mack cried out in protest as several coal heavers fell dead or wounded: their wives and widows would blame him, and they would be right. He had started something he could not control.

Most of the coal heavers got into the yard where there was a supply of coal to throw. They fought frenziedly to keep the coal drivers out. The yard walls gave them cover from the musket fire that rattled intermittently.

The hand-to-hand fighting was fiercest at the yard entrance, and Mack saw that if he could get the high wooden gates closed the entire battle might peter out. He fought his way through the melee, got behind one of the heavy timber gates, and started to push. Some of the coal heavers saw what he was attempting and joined in. The big gate swept several scuffling men out of the way, and Mack thought they would get it shut in a moment; then it was blocked by a cart.

Gasping for breath, Mack shouted: “Move the cart, move the cart!”

His plan was already having some effect, he saw with an access of hope. The angled gate made a partial barrier between the two sides. Furthermore, the first excitement of the battle had passed, and the men’s zest for fighting had been tempered by injuries and bruises and the sight of some of their comrades lying dead or wounded. The instinct of self-preservation was reasserting itself, and they were looking for ways to disengage with dignity.