Young Lieutenant Donaldson came down the stairs. Riddick said: ‘Break out muskets and ammunition.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Two soldiers came in from the square, looking sulky. Riddick said: ‘Button up your tunics, both of you. Try to look like soldiers. Where are your hats?’
One of them said: ‘I didn’t wear mine, sir.’ He added resentfully: ‘Today is a holiday.’
‘It was. Not any longer. Smarten up. Sergeant Beach will give you a gun.’
The second man was Freddie Caines, who – Riddick recalled – was related to that troublemaker Spade. Caines said: ‘Who are we going to shoot, sir?’
‘Whoever I tell you to shoot.’
Caines clearly did not like that idea.
Donaldson returned with muskets and ammunition. Hornbeam was not a military man but he knew that the standard flintlock muskets were smoothbore, not very accurate. In some regiments, sharpshooters were issued with rifles, which had a spiral groove inside the barrel to spin the bullet and make it fly straight; but most soldiers normally shot at a large mass of enemy troops, and accuracy was not a priority.
Today the enemy would be a crowd of civilians – mostly women – and, again, accuracy would not be needed.
Donaldson gave each man a gun and a handful of paper cartridges. They put the ammunition in the waterproof leather cases they wore on their belts.
Two more men came in from the square, and Riddick repeated his instructions. Others followed, then Sergeant Beach returned. ‘That’s the lot, sir,’ he said.
‘What?’ Only fifteen or twenty men had come into the hall. ‘There were at least a hundred in the square!’
‘To be frank, Major, when they saw what was happening a lot of them sort of melted away.’
‘Make a list of their names. They shall all be flogged.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir, but I couldn’t name the men I didn’t speak to, if you see—’
‘Oh, shut your stupid mouth. Summon everyone in this building, officers and men. We’ll pick up more on the way to the waterfront.’
‘This is poor discipline!’ Hornbeam said in frustration.
‘I don’t understand it,’ Riddick said. ‘I make a point of ordering at least one flogging a week, to keep the men in line. I never had much trouble with the villagers of Badford. What’s wrong with these militiamen?’
Donaldson said: ‘Major, should someone read the Riot Act?’
‘Yes,’ said Riddick. ‘Send a man to fetch the mayor.’
*
The crowd made slow progress down Main Street. Everyone watched them go by and some joined in. Sal was amazed at how fast the mob grew. Before they were halfway to the river they were at least a hundred, most of them women. Sal heard a man among the watchers shout: ‘Fetch the militia!’ She began to think that what she was doing might not be wise. Of course they were entitled to know where thegrain was going – but the crowd was in a mood to do more than ask polite questions.
She worried about Jarge. He had a good heart but a quick temper. She said: ‘Don’t do anything rash, please.’
He gave her a black look. ‘It’s not for a woman to give a man advice.’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to see you flogged like Jeremiah Hiscock.’
‘I can take care of myself.’
She asked herself why she was so concerned. He was her best friend’s brother, but that did not make her responsible for him.
Joanie had forged ahead and was leading the pack. Sal looked around and made sure the children were close behind.
They reached the river and turned west along the waterfront until they came upon the handcart, parked in front of the Slaughterhouse tavern. It was already half unloaded. A bargee hoisted a sack onto his shoulder then walked across a short, narrow plank to the deck. A second man made the return journey. It was heavy work, and the men looked strong.
