The sound of the canvas rupture had echoed across the entire lower ward like an exploding powder magazine, causing panic among the wagon drivers on Fish Street and bringing fifty frightened residents to the church steps of St. Jude, believing that the Great Sluice had finally breached.
Dima didn’t hesitate. The moment the spray subsided, he sprang to the top of the overhead frame ladder. He carried a six-foot ash staff fitted with a square of heavy yellow bunting marked with a bold black saltire. With two swift movements, he slotted the staff into the iron bracket on the watching tower, raising the signal flag high into the rain.
Beside him, young Rob seized the lanyard of the brass warning bell. It struck the pre-arranged code with three heavy strokes: Clang! Clang!... CLANG! Two sharp rings and one long chime. The universal signal of the Board of Works indicating a planned, controlled offering discharge.
Down on Fish Street, Tom Carver heard the bell, looked up at the yellow flag snapping in the wind, and cupped his hands to shout at the nervous crowd: “Stand easy, everyone! Stand easy! That was the tailor’s sleeve blowing on schedule! The basin took the water! The street is safe!” A collective, shuddering sigh of relief rippled through the gathered crowd. In the upper windows of the apartments, women waved their aprons in response. The wagon drivers returned to their shovels with renewed vigor. The system had held, not by magic, but by telling the…
