There was nothing dreadful, nothing awe-inspiring in the sight. Yet it was such a sight, for an English city on a Sunday morning, that Vaughan’s gorge rose at it. A hundred resolute men might have put the mob to flight. And meantime, on every point of vantage, on Redcliffe Parade, eastward of the Square, on College Green, and Brandon Hill, to the westward of it, thousands stood looking in silence on the scene, and by their supineness encouraging the work of destruction.
He thought for a moment of pushing to the front and trying what a few reasonable words would effect. But as he advanced, his eye caught a gleam of colour, and in the corner of the Square, most remote from the disorder, he discovered a handful of dragoons, seated motionless in their saddles, watching the proceedings.
The folly of this struck him dumb. And he hurried, at a white heat, across the Square to remonstrate. He was about to speak to the sergeant in charge, when Flixton, with a civilian cloak masking his uniform, rode up to the men at a foot-pace. Vaughan turned to him instead.
“Good Heavens, man!” he cried, too hot to mince his words or remember at the moment what there was between him and Flixton, “What’s Brereton doing? What has happened! It is not true that he has sent the Fourteenth away?”
Flixton looked down at him sulkily. “He’s sent ’em to Keynsham,” he said, shortly. “If he hadn’t, the crowd would have been out of hand!”
“But what do you call them now?” Vaughan retorted, with angry sarcasm. “They are destroying a public building in broad daylight! Aren’t they sufficiently out of hand?”
Flixton shrugged his shoulders, but did not answer. He was flushed and has manner was surly.
“And your squad here, looking on and doing nothing? They’re worse than useless!” Vaughan continued. “They encourage the beggars! They’d be better in their quarters than here! Better at Keynsham,” he added bitterly.
“So I’ve told him,” Flixton answered, taking the last words literally. “He sent me to see how things are looking. And a d——d pleasant way this is of spending a wet Sunday!” On which, without more, having seen, apparently, what he came to see, he turned his horse to go out of the Square by the Broad Quay.
Vaughan walked a few paces beside the horse. “But, Flixton, press him,” he said urgently; “press him, man, to act! To do something!”