JOE AND HABS had fought their way to the mid-point of the square, and, eyes on the crier, hadn’t registered how close they were to the loaded muskets.
‘Steady,’ said Joe, pulling Habs back to the wall. ‘Tommy might be fine. You, on the other hand, are not. We’re twenty yards away from the British Army, and British guns. A couple of hundred British guns. Then there are gates, then more gates, then that foul arch we all arrived under.’
‘Parcere subjectis,’ said Habs. ‘“Spare the vanquished,” you said.’ Habs ran his eyes along the four lines of troops, muskets held in readiness, the late sunshine catching on buttons and bayonets. ‘It don’t look like they’re ’bout to do much sparin’, if you ask me.’
‘Agreed.’ Joe could see some of the soldiers lining their guns up, taking aim, fingers already curled around the trigger. ‘They can’t wait,’ he muttered. Many were the same age as him, younger maybe. He recognized Ol’ Fat Bastard and his skinny farmhand friends, hopping from foot to foot with nervous excitement. As stones and more abuse rained down on them, Joe could see they’d had enough. He could almost smell their rage.
The top gates opened again and in marched three men they knew. Captain Shortland and his lieutenant, Fortyne, marched towards their soldiers, behind them Dr Magrath, keeping pace as best he could. The Americans sensed a slight lowering of tension – and guns – as the Agent took control. He saluted his troops, then walked straight towards the inmates, hands held high.
‘You must retreat!’ he shouted, waving them back. ‘This is a forbidden area. Retreat, I say! Go back to your blocks!’ The inmates in front of him laughed. Retreat was impossible.
‘There’s too many men pushin’ to get in,’ said Habs. ‘Can he not see that?’ Magrath was now in earnest conversation with some inmates, pleading with them to push back. He wasn’t laughed at – he had gained too much respect for that – but he wasn’t listened to either. Foot by foot, the inmates advanced. A few tried to double back into the crowd, but there was no room for them now and they turned, out of options, to face the bayonets. Behind them, Rough Allies taunted the soldiers, inviting them to open fire.
‘C’mon! Shoot! See what happens!’
Joe and Habs pressed themselves against the wall, shrinking behind the inmates in front of them. ‘What madness this is,’ said Habs, his breath coming in short bursts. ‘The Brits are desperate for a fight, an’ we’re askin’ them to go ahead?’
‘Where’s Tommy gone?’ asked Joe. The mop of red hair had disappeared from the crowd, the crier nowhere to be seen. They both stood tall again, straining to catch sight of the boy.
‘Well, he won’t have gone far,’ said Habs. ‘Not even Tommy could thread himself through this crowd.’
‘Can’t see that bastard Cobb either.’
Shortland and Magrath fell back behind the first line of militia, the Agent snapping a command to his lieutenant. Fortyne called it for his men and, so there was no mistaking their intention, for the benefit of the inmates, too.
‘To the charge!’ he yelled, and two hundred members of the Somerset and Derbyshire militias levelled their guns and advanced. Within three steps, the first bayonets were pressed against sailors’ chests. The inmates pleaded, incredulous. ‘We can’t go back! We can’t move!’ was shouted over and over, as men with tears rolling down their faces pleaded with individual soldiers for mercy. More bottles and stones crashed over the soldiers’ heads, followed by American cheers. A half-dozen sailors grabbed the guns in front of them, wrestling the soldiers for control.
‘Steady, men!’ called Fortyne. The bayonets were biting. Some men screamed.
‘We’re outta time,’ said Habs. He cupped his hands to his mouth.
‘Tommy! By the wall!’ he yelled.
‘Get to the wall!’ yelled Joe.
There was a brief moment when Joe thought he heard a reply, a cry of ‘Joe! Habs!’ before his stomach lurched and the blood drained from his face. It could have been Fortyne, it could have been Shortland, it could even have been Ol’ Fat Bastard who gave the command. In the cauldron of the market square, it wasn’t clear and it didn’t matter.
The word was clear, the order given.
‘Fire!’