“See me, sir?” Brereton answered contemptuously.
“Oh, yes, you can see me, if you wish to! But——” He shrugged his shoulders, and turned away without finishing the sentence.
Vaughan, when he heard that, knew that, cool as Brereton seemed, he was not himself. A moody stubbornness had taken the place of last night’s excitement; but that was all. And as the party trooped downstairs—he had requested the Mayor to say a few words, placing the constables under his control—he swallowed his private feelings and approached Flixton.
“Flixton,” he whispered, throwing what friendliness he could into his voice. “Do you think Brereton’s right?”
Flixton turned an ill-humoured face towards him, and dragged at his sword-belt. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said irritably. “It’s his business, and I suppose he can judge. There’s a deuce of a crowd, I know, and if we go charging into it we shall be swallowed up in a twinkling!”
“But it has been whispered to me,” Vaughan replied, “that he told the people on his way here that he’s for Reform. Isn’t it unwise to let them think that the soldiers may side with them?”
“Fine talking,” Flixton answered with a sneer. “And God knows if we had five hundred men, or three hundred, I’d agree. But what can sixty or eighty men do galloping over slippery pavements in the dark? And if we fire and kill a dozen, the Government will hang us to clear themselves! And these d——d nigger-drivers and sugar-boilers behind us would be the first to swear against us!”
Vaughan had his own opinion. But they had to part then. Flixton, in his blue uniform—there were two troops present, one of the 3rd Dragoon Guards in red, and one of the 14th Dragoons in blue—went out by Brereton’s side with his spurs ringing on the stone pavement and his sword clanking. He was not acting with his troop, but as the Colonel’s aide-de-camp. Meanwhile Vaughan, who could not see the old blue uniform without a pang, went with the Mayor to marshal the constables.
Of these no more than eighty remained, and with little stomach for the task before them. This task, indeed, notwithstanding the check which the arrival of the troopers had given the mob, was far from easy. The ground-floor of the Mansion House looked like a place taken by storm and sacked. The railings which guarded the forecourt were gone, and even the wall on which they stood had been demolished to furnish missiles. The doorways and windows, where they were not clumsily barricaded, were apertures inviting entrance. In one room lay a pile of straw ready for lighting. In another lay half a dozen wounded men. Everywhere the cold wind, blowing off the water of the Welsh Back, entered a dozen openings and extinguished the flares as quickly as they could be lighted, casting now one room and now another into black shadow.
But if the men had little heart for further exertions, Vaughan’s manhood rose the higher to meet the call. Bringing his soldier’s training into play, in a few minutes he had his force divided into four companies, each under a leader. Two he held in reserve, bidding them get what rest they could; with the other two he manned the forecourt, and guarded the flank which lay open to the Welsh Back. And as long as the troopers rode up and down within a stone’s-throw all was well. But when the soldiers passed to the other side of the Square a rush was made on the house—mainly by a gang of the low Irish of the neighbourhood—and many a stout blow was struck before the rabble, who thirsted for the strong ale and wine in the cellars, could be dislodged from the forecourt and driven to a distance. The danger to life was not great, though the tale of wounded grew steadily; nor could the post of Chief Constable be held to confer much honour on one who so short a time before had dreamt of Cabinets and portfolios, and of a Senate hanging on his words. But the joy of conflict was something to a stout heart, and the sense of success. Something, too, it was to feel that where he stood his men stood also; and that where he was not, the Irish, with their brickbats and iron bars, made a way. There was a big lout, believed by some to be a Brummagem man and a tool of the Political Union, who more than once led on the assailants; and when Vaughan found that this man shunned him and chose the side where he was not, that too was a joy.