“Why, nowt,” he answered. “Just nowt; but then yo’ see they mun do something. It’s all very well to go to th’ Buck an’ drink ale an’ sing songs. I’ll back th’ croppers at drinkin’ ale an’ singing songs against th’ best regiment the Duke has in Spain. But if all this meeting an’ masking an’ speechifyin’ is to do any good and lead to owt, there must be action, sooner or later. And in that day it will be well for th’ Luds if there is even one voice which they have learned to obey. Do you think it’s the great generals that win battles?”
“Why, of course, it is?” I answered.
“That’s just where yo’re out,” said Jack.
“It’s th’ sergeants and th’ corporals. Yo’ see in a feight yo’ cannot see much further nor yo’r nose end. All yo’n got to do for th’ most part is to keep your eye an’ yo’r ear on th’ sergeant that’s drilled yo’ sin’ yon learned the goose step, an’ do as he tells you. As long as he keeps his head an yo’ hear his voice, calm an’ cheerful, just as if yo’ were in the barrack yard or on parade, yo’r all reight an’ yo do as you’re told, like Tommy Tun, whoever he wer.”
“I never heard on him, Jack. Whose lad was he?”
“Aw don’t rightly know, but aw reckon he were famous for keepin’ in step. Howsomever, mark my words, George Mellor’s a good lad, wi’ fire enough for hauf a dozen. That lad o’ Parson Booth’s, ’at ’ud be better employed if he wer’ at home helpin’ his mother to rock th’ craddle, is a rare ’un to talk. Thorpe’s a good ’un if it comes to fisticuffs, but it’ll be Soldier Jack they’ll all look to when th’ bullets is whizzing ovver their heads, an’ what little wit they have is scattered an gone.”
“But, surely, Jack, there’ll be no whizzing of bullets?”
“Oh! won’t there? Aye that an’ waur. Do yo’ know Horsfall, o’ Ottiwell’s, has got th’ soldiers billetted in th’ town, th’ King’s Bays. Aw’ve drunk wi’ sum o’ them, an’ had a crack about old times. Oh! curses on this gamey heel o’ mine that keeps me limping o’er Cupwith Common when I might be stepping out behind the colours to the merry music of fife an’ drum. Yo’ll never know, lad, the savage joy of battle. It is the wine o’ life. When yo’ve once tasted it, even love an’ liquor are flat beside it. But what can’t be cured mun be endured. Well aw say, aw’n talked wi’ a sergeant at th’ Red Lion i’ Marsden. They’re patrolling th’ district ivvery night. If we go to Ottiwell’s, there’ll be a warm welcome for us.”
“But why are yo’ in it, Jack, that’s what caps me?” I said. “Yo’re nawther a cropper nor th’ son of a cropper.”
“No. What o’ thissen Ben?”