Company Of Spears

‘Major Hervey, Sixth Light Dragoons.’ He saw a serjeant’s stripes. ‘My squadron will be up in a few minutes. Have you seen anything?’

‘Not a thing, sir.’

A scuffing on the road made the serjeant swing round. ‘Halt! Who goes there?’

There were plaintive voices: ‘Please, sir, just us.’

Two riflemen stepped from the bushes to take aim at the unknown shapes.

‘Who’s “us”?’ demanded the serjeant gruffly.

‘Sethy Wilks and Jack Cranch, sir. We was just doin a bit o’ rabbitin’ on the common … as we’ve rights to.’

‘Raise your hands above your head, and step forward!’

The two shuffled into the pool of light. Hervey waited to hear them.

‘Where’re you from?’ the serjeant barked, as if he were rousting recruits.

‘The town, sir. We both of us work in the mills.’

‘Have you seen anything?’

‘No, sir. We just ‘eard all the firin’ and thought as how we’d better leave everythin’.’

Hervey saw they were of no help to him, except by way of negative intelligence – and the realization that commoners’ rights might make the affair more hazardous than he had supposed. ‘I think you might detain them, Serjeant, until it’s all over.’

‘Ay, sir.’

He kicked on.

The firing quickened again as they came up to the company post. A sentry challenged them thirty yards short of the sluice.

Hervey gave the parole, dismounted and handed the reins to Johnson, then made his way to where he had last seen Number One Company commander.

The mill was still lit, and from the hatch-doorway at the top riflemen were firing – deliberate, careful aimed fire. He pushed open the door at the rear.

‘Major Hervey!’ The company commander was deftly reloading a pistol, but otherwise he looked as if he were at a drawing room.

‘Captain Hallam. You are attacked?’

‘If you could call it that. I was doing my rounds when half a dozen ruffians came along the road. The sentries told them to halt and the beggars opened fire at once. We’ve been returning fire since, but largely, I think, speculative. I estimate three dozen shots at us at least.’

‘Are they still keeping up the fire? The intruders, I mean.’

‘I’ve seen no muzzle flash for several minutes.’

Prudence suggested he wait a little longer, but Hervey was keen to follow up fast if the intruders had fled. ‘You don’t think it any sort of diversion – others slipping past while they fired on you?’

‘I’m certain there’s no one on the road or tow-path that came through us.’

‘Very well. We’ll go forward as soon as you order ceasefire.’ He turned to the RSM. ‘Mr Hairsine, bring them up, if you will.’

The RSM moved sharply.

‘And F Troop to light torches,’ Hervey called after him.

‘Sir!’

Hervey took out his map. ‘What do you make of it, Hallam? Why begin firing like that?’

Captain Hallam shook his head. ‘I’ve been thinking the same myself. It’s a deuced mazey thing. They even managed to shoot two of their own.’

Hervey’s ears pricked. ‘Indeed? Have you got them? Do they have any papers?’

‘Just pay books. The beggars reek of beer and whisky, though.’

‘No doubt. Dutch courage. Did they have firearms?’

‘No. And I meant they’re so soused I’m amazed they could stand.’

Hervey shook his head and began examining the map, intent on discovering what they might have overlooked.

But soon the squadron came jingling up, hooves thudding rather than clattering, the road no longer metalled, a green lane.

He folded his map quickly and made for the door. ‘Cease firing?’

Number One Company Commander nodded.

Outside, he began blinking to recover his night eyes, trying his best to look away from the torches – one to every three dragoons.

‘Here, sir!’ called Johnson, standing fast where Hervey had dismounted.

He couldn’t complain, but six months ago Johnson would have brought Gilbert up as soon as he heard the firing slacken. He wondered how long it would be before he recovered that assurance – if at all. ‘Have you the torch?’

‘Sir. Do you want me to light it, sir?’

Hervey blinked again, this time at the alien formality. ‘No, not yet,’ he said, taking the reins and remounting. ‘Captain Worsley!’

‘Here, Hervey.’

The voice was closer than he’d expected. He wished the lanterns in the mill had not been so bright; his night eyes were quite gone. ‘There may be two dozen of them. They’ve firearms; how many, I don’t know. They had a bit of a skirmish with the picket, but it looks as though they’ve fallen back. Send an officer and thirty along the sluice, the other side of it, for about three hundred yards until it bends like a hairpin, and then picket the hundred yards or so between there and the bridge on the canal to make sure they can’t get any further south – or get back north, for that matter. See to it as well that the lock north of the hairpin’s picketed. And keep torches well lit so we all know who’s where.’

F Troop Leader turned in the saddle. ‘Mr Thoyts!’