The single boom from St. Jude’s tower was only the beginning. The deep note rolled down the river gorge. Then, it triggered the backup trip lines installed across the lower wards. Within thirty seconds, the bell of the Cooperage Slip answered. It was followed by the timber chapel at the Fish Market, the bronze bell on the Watermen’s Guildhall, and sixteen smaller alarm bells mounted on the warehouse roofs along the creek.
Twenty bells were ringing together in a timed together, four-stroke rhythm—the ancient town signal for a total levee breach. The sound was not a chaotic jumble of noise. It was a rhythmic, echoing sound wall that pierced the dense river fog, echoing between the limestone cliffs of the High Tor and the brick apartments of Lowbank.
On the docks below, the effect was immediate and orderly. The two hundred watermen and wagon drivers, who had spent the night organizing under the Upkeep Committee, didn’t panic. They heard the bells, recognized the rhythm, and moved to their assigned stations. The sandbag teams began throwing sacks into the low breaches on Fish Street. The boatmen cast off their mooring lines to ride out the surge in the deep water of the turning basin. And the block captains ushered the last families from the cellar flats to the high ground of Brewer’s Alley.
