Mack began to think he might end the fighting soon. If the confrontation could be stalled before someone called out the troops, the whole thing might be perceived as a minor skirmish and the strike could continue to be seen as a mainly peaceful protest.

A dozen coal heavers began to drag the cart out of the yard while others pushed the gates. Someone cut the horse’s traces, and the frightened beast ran around in a panic, neighing and kicking. “Keep pushing, don’t stop!” Mack yelled as huge lumps of coal rained down on them. The cart inched out and the gates closed the gap with maddening slowness.

Then Mack heard a noise that wiped out all his hopes at a stroke: the sound of marching feet.

The guards marched down Wapping High Street, their white-and-red uniforms gleaming in the moonlight. Jay rode at the head of the column, keeping his horse close-reined at a brisk walk. He was about to get what he had said he wanted: action.

He kept his face expressionless but his heart was pounding. He could hear the roar of the battle Lennox had started: men shouting, horses neighing, muskets banging. Jay had never yet used a sword or gun in anger: tonight would be his first engagement. He told himself that a rabble of coal heavers would be terrified of a disciplined and trained troop of guards, but he found it hard to be confident.

Colonel Cranbrough had given him this assignment and sent him out without a superior officer. Normally Cranbrough would have commanded the detachment himself, but he knew this was a special situation, with heavy political interference, and he wanted to keep out of it. Jay had been pleased at first, but now he wished he had an experienced superior to help him.

Lennox’s plan had sounded foolproof in theory, but as he rode to battle Jay found it full of holes. What if McAsh were somewhere else tonight? What if he escaped before Jay could arrest him?

As they approached the coal yard the pace of the march seemed to slow, until Jay felt they were creeping forward by inches. Seeing the soldiers, many of the rioters fled and others took cover; but some threw coal, and a rain of lumps came down on Jay and his men. Without flinching they marched up to the coal yard gates and, as prearranged, took up their firing positions.

There would be only one volley. They were so close to the enemy that they would not have time to reload.

Jay raised his sword. The coal heavers were trapped in the yard. They had been trying to close the yard gates but now they gave up and the gates swung fully open. Some scrambled over the walls, others tried pathetically to find cover among the heaps of coal or behind the wheels of a cart. It was like shooting chickens in a coop.

Suddenly McAsh appeared on top of the wall, a broad-shouldered figure, his face lit by the moon. “Stop!” he yelled. “Don’t shoot!”

Go to hell, Jay thought.

He swept his sword down and shouted: “Fire!”

The muskets cracked like thunder. A pall of smoke appeared and hid the soldiers for a moment. Ten or twelve coal heavers fell, some shouting in pain, others deathly silent. McAsh jumped down from the wall and knelt by the motionless, blood-soaked body of a Negro. He looked up and met Jay’s eye, and the rage in his face chilled Jay’s blood.

Jay shouted: “Charge!”

The coal heavers engaged the guards aggressively, surprising Jay. He had expected them to flee, but they dodged swords and muskets to grapple hand-to-hand, fighting with sticks and lumps of coal and fists and feet. Jay was dismayed to see several uniforms fall.

He looked around for McAsh and could not see him.

Jay cursed. The whole purpose of this was to arrest McAsh. That was what Sir Philip had asked for, and Jay had promised to deliver. Surely he had not slipped away?

Then, suddenly, McAsh was in front of him.

Instead of running away the man was coming after Jay.

McAsh grabbed Jay’s bridle. Jay lifted his sword, and McAsh ducked around to Jay’s left side. Jay struck awkwardly and missed. McAsh jumped up, grabbed Jay’s sleeve and pulled. Jay tried to jerk his arm back but McAsh would not let go. With dreadful inevitability Jay slid sideways in his saddle. McAsh gave a mighty heave and pulled him off his horse.

Suddenly Jay feared for his life.

He managed to land on his feet. McAsh’s hands were around his throat in an instant. He drew back his sword but, before he could strike, McAsh lowered his head and butted Jay’s face brutally. Jay went blind for a moment and felt hot blood on his face. He swung his sword wildly. It connected with something and he thought he had wounded McAsh, but the grip on his throat did not slacken. His vision returned and he looked into McAsh’s eyes and saw murder there. He was terrified, and if he could have spoken he would have begged for mercy.

One of his men saw him in trouble and swung the butt of a musket. The blow hit McAsh on the ear. For a moment his grip slackened, then it became tighter than ever. The soldier swung again. McAsh tried to duck, but he was not quick enough, and the heavy wooden stock of the gun connected with a crack that could be heard over the roar of the battle. For a split second McAsh’s stranglehold increased, and Jay struggled for air like a drowning man; then McAsh’s eyes rolled up in his head, his hands slipped from Jay’s neck, and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Jay drew breath raggedly and leaned on his sword. Slowly his terror eased. His face hurt like fire: he was sure his nose must be broken. But as he looked at the man crumpled on the ground at his feet he felt nothing but satisfaction.

23

LIZZIE DID NOT SLEEP THAT NIGHT.

Jay had told her there might be trouble, and she sat in their bedroom waiting for him, with a novel open but unread on her knee. He came home in the early hours with blood and dirt all over him and a bandage on his nose. She was so pleased to see him alive that she threw her arms around him and hugged him, ruining her white silk robe.

She woke the servants and ordered hot water, and he told her the story of the riot bit by bit as she helped him out of his filthy uniform and washed his bruised body and got him a clean nightshirt.

Later, when they were lying side by side in the big four-poster bed, she said tentatively: “Do you think McAsh will be hanged?”

“I certainly hope so,” Jay said, touching his bandage with a careful finger. “We have witnesses to say he incited the crowd to riot and personally attacked officers. I can’t imagine a judge giving him a light sentence in the present climate. If he had influential friends to plead for him it would be a different matter.”

She frowned. “I never thought of him as a particularly violent man. Insubordinate, disobedient, insolent, arrogant—but not savage.”

Jay looked smug. “You may be right. But things were arranged so that he had no choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sir Philip Armstrong paid a clandestine visit to the warehouse to speak to me and Father. He told us he wanted McAsh arrested for rioting. He practically told us to make it happen. So Lennox and I arranged a riot.”

Lizzie was shocked. It made her feel even worse to think that Mack had been deliberately provoked. “And is Sir Philip pleased with what you’ve done?”

“He is. And Colonel Cranbrough was impressed by the way I handled the riot. I can resign my commission and leave the army with an unimpeachable reputation.”

Jay made love to her then, but she was too troubled to enjoy his caresses. Normally she liked to romp around the bed, rolling him over and getting on top sometimes, changing positions, kissing and talking and laughing; and naturally he noticed that she was different. When it was over he said: “You’re very quiet.”