“There’s yo’r father,” I said; “but what child’s talk we’re talking. Tha’ll noan fall, John; aw dunn’t believe in forebodings an’ such woman’s fancies. It’s thi liver, John. Let’s go back; George ’ll be missing us. Stick as close to me as tha can get, when we come to th’ mill, an’ aw’ll see nobody touches thee, if I can help it.”
“My father’s an old man,” pursued Booth, not heeding what I said. “An old man, wrapped in his books, and more helpless than Faith herself. Do you like Faith, Ben? I’ve fancied of late she turns to thee I know she trusts you and seems to lean on your strength. Women like power in a man, Ben, not wrecklings like me.”
“Yo’re noan a wreckling, lad. It’s th’ head folk measure men by, not legs an’ arms.”
“Ivy will cling to the oak, Ben, for all that, an’ Faith’s is a clinging nature. Yo’ll stand by her, if th’ worst comes to th’ worst. Promise me, Ben. On thi word as a man, Ben, pledge me thi promise, an’ I’ll go to this night’s work wi’ a lighter heart.”
A whistle sounded shrill and clear from by the Steeple. It was the signal to fall in. We turned to join our comrades. John held me by the hand, and his pale, thin face, with those large, soft, woman’s eyes of his, was turned up to me, all entreaty.
“It needs no promise, John; but if it ’ll lighten thee owt an’ help thee to play the man this night, there’s mi hand on it. An’ now put this nonsense, out o’ thi head. Stick close to me, all through. An’ when it’s ovver (end choose how it may) make straight for me or Soldier Jack, and we’ll win home together. Come, the men wait, an’ our work’s before us.”
George and Thorpe and Soldier Jack were forming the party into companies. There might be some two hundred of us, but I never counted them. Jack arranged us in the order deemed best. We were drawn up in a long line close by the Steeple. The men of the first company had pistols or muskets, firearms, of any sort. They were to march first. If soldiers were about I suppose Jack thought the men with firearms could drive them off if any of us could. But Lord bless you! Most of them couldn’t have hit a hay stack at twenty yards. A few of them that had done a bit of poaching might give a better account of themselves. But, anyhow, they might fley the red–coats, and that would serve our ends just as well as shooting them. Behind the shooters were drawn tip, two abreast, the hatchet men, and behind them were to march my own lads, about a score of us, big men all, either in height or breadth, and each of us slung a hammer over his shoulder. I was captain of the hammer–men, and on my shoulder I bore a mighty weapon that few could sling. Behind my company was more or less of a rabble; men unarmed or with bludgeons only. What good they were, or expected to be, it would puzzle me to say. They were only in the way; but they were Luds, and that was enough.
Soldier Jack went down the line. Ben Walker moved by his side, carrying a lanthorn. I had not seen him till then. He looked sick and wretched. His hand trembled as he held aloft the light. Jack called the roll by its rays as he moved down the line.
“No. 1.”
“Here.”