“Dunnot yo’ fash yersen, Ben. Yo’d your work set wi’ Enoch. John brought it on hissen. He wer’ all ovver th’ shop’, egging th’ men on. Aw told him to keep i’ covver, but he seemed fair to run agen th’ bullets as if he wanted killing. Well he gate what he wanted. Still if we hadn’t had our hands full wi yo’, we might ha’ carried him off. But he’s dead, so we should nobbud ha’ had our wark for nowt, an’ a mort o’ trouble to account for th’ corpse. Yo’ mebbe hannot thowt o’ that. What should we ha’ done wi’ a dead body wi’ a leg smashed to mush, on our hands?”
Aye, what, I thought.
“Well, theer John lay among broken glass, an’ stones, an’ sticks, an’ plaster, in front o’ th’ mill, an’ Sam Hartley shot through th’ lung an’ vomiting quarts o’ blood, not far off him. After a bit owd Hammond Roberson, th’ feightin’ parson, come gallopin’ up wi’ a lot o’ soldiers, an’ Cartwright oppens th’ mill door, an’ him an’ his men comes out, an’ they do say Cartwright took on rarely when he see’d th’ mess we’d made o’ th’ mill front. Poor John were beggin’ some o’ th’ folk ’at had run up to fetch him a drop o’ water. Aw know what it’s like when yo’r wounded. Yo’ feel as if yo’d got a little hell o’ yo’r own inside yo’. But Cartwright wer’ noan for lettin’ him have a drop, not even to wet his lips, till he’d gi’en th’ names o’ those ’at wer’ th’ leaders. But John tak’ no notice nor Hartley nawther, but nobbut begged for water. Old Roberson, dam him, wor as bad as Cartwright. It wer’ confession first, an’ water after. But a chap called Billy Clough ran an’ put a stone under John’s yed, an’ then fot him a drink. If awther th’ parson or Cartwright had stopped him, aw’m told th’ folk round ’ud ha’ mobbed ’em. Aw can forgi’e Cartwright, for it’s none calc’lated to put a chap into th’ best o’ tempers to ha’ his mill made such a mullock on; but, curse Roberson, an’ all such like, say I, an’ him a parson, too!”
“But what of John, Soldier?”
“Well at last when he’d say nowt, water or no water, they put him on a gate an’ carried him an’ Hartley to th’ Star. A doctor wer’ noan long i’ turnin’ up, for them chaps smell blood like vultures. He said ther’ wer’ nowt for it but to hampotate th’ leg, an’ that wer’ just more nor John could stand, an’ he cheat both th’ parson an’ th’ gallows, an’ deed like a man an’ a Briton at he wor.
“How cheat th’ parson, Jack?”
“Well owd Roberson wouldn’t let him die i’ peace, but wer all th’ time naggin’ him to confess. Then when Booth knew his end were near, he called old Roberson to stand ovver him, an’ th’ owd sinner’s face lit up wi’ glee, an’ he stepped up to John as brisk as a bee.”
“You see, gentlemen, the power of the Church! And now, my good man.”
“Can yo’ keep a secret, sir?” said John, in a whisper; but all were so still yo’ could have heard a pin drop. Even Sammy Hartley, who wer’ deein’ fast, stopped moanin’, they say; tho’ that mun be either accident or fancy.”
“Can yo’ keep a secret, sir?” whispered John.