“No one here anyhow. Now for upstairs.” My mother had fled to her bed and drawn the clothes about her. For me, I lay back in my chair incapable of thought or movement. The stairs creaked under a heavy tread. Mary stood by my side, my hand stole into hers, and she faced the door, battle in her eyes. A big, burly trooper pushed it open, ducking his head as he advanced over the threshold. It was Long Tom with whom I had fought at Marsden.
“What want you here?” cried Mary. “How dare you force your way into decent folks’ house in broad day?”
“The gamesome wench that slapped my face!” cried Long Tom.
“Aye, and will slap it again if yo’r not off.”
“Gently, Mary, gently,” I said. “The sergeant has doubtless business here. Your errand, sir?” I said. “You see you intrude.”
“Why this beats Banagher, where the cows run barefoot!” exclaimed the soldier. “If this isn’t the youngster spoiled my beauty for me. Nay, sit still,” he went on, as I tried to rise.
“What! bandaged, too, and in the forearm. A queer treatment for small pox.”
“Sir, if you have business here, I pray you do it.”
“Is your name Ben Bamforth?”
“It is.”