COBB HANDED OUT the knives. No Lane, no gun, but they were going anyway. As he walked to the wall, his lieutenants surrounded him. The Allies were leading this, but the men from Seven were right behind, pushing and jostling for position. Will Roche slid through the throng.
‘Are we goin’? We must be goin’. S’time, surely?’
Cobb nodded. ‘We go now. Dig till you’re through. The English ain’t far away, so we move fast. Take hostages if you got to – that should get us into the armoury. Go!’ He watched as the tools were distributed, passing their way through the scrummaging and up to the wall. On the military walk, the redcoats took no notice; their watch was over, their replacements overdue.
At the wall, under the ruckus, a bloodied Joseph Toker Johnson attacked the cement in a series of stabbing actions. The stones were loosening, he could feel that, but men needed to crawl through this hole. His guess was that they needed to move five. Six stones would be ideal – anyone could crawl through that – but five might suffice. He slashed again across the wall, a large slice of crumbling cement falling on his boots. He pushed the largest stone with his shoulder and it dropped a quarter of an inch. Next to him, a grim-faced Ally, dust and powder settled deep in his beard, felt the change. He nodded confidently.
‘Felt that,’ he said. ‘Can y’see much?’
Toker Johnson squinted through the crack in the retaining wall. ‘Nope. But I can see the armoury door, true ’nough. Twenty yards, I reckon. Pass the word back. When the wall goes, we all go with it. We’re clear for action.’
In the thrill and bedlam of the moment, Toker Johnson and the would-be escapers missed the shuffle of boots above them, high up on the military walk. The new shift had, at last, arrived.