Page 104 of The Armor of Light

She heard Riddick shout: ‘Make ready!’

This was the penultimate movement, and the men stood stiffly upright with rifles pointing to the sky.

Then: ‘Fire!’

The men aimed their muskets at the crowd, but no one fired.

‘Fire!’ Riddick said again.

She saw Freddie start fiddling with his gun, opening the firing mechanism, examining the priming pan; and others quickly followed his example. There were many reasons why a gun might fail to fire, Sal knew: the flint did not strike a spark, the gunpowder was damp, the priming powder lit but the flash failed to pass through the touch hole.

But it was virtually impossible for accidents to happen to twenty-five guns simultaneously.

This could not be happening.

Sal heard Freddie say: ‘Everything’s damp, Sergeant. It’s the rain. Wet gunpowder’s no good.’

Riddick was red in the face: ‘Rubbish!’ he yelled.

The sergeant said to Riddick: ‘They won’t fire on their own friends and neighbours, you see, sir.’

Riddick was incandescent with rage. ‘Then I’ll fire!’ he said. He snatched a musket from one of the men. As he aimed it, Sal threw the stone. It hit Riddick squarely on the back of his head. He dropped the musket and crumpled to the ground.

Sal gave a sigh of utter satisfaction.

Then Jarge shouted: ‘Look out, Sal!’

Something hit her on the head, and she blacked out.

*

Sal came round lying on a hard surface. Her head hurt. She opened her eyes and saw the underside of a thatched roof. She was in a large room. There was a smell of stale beer, cooking and tobacco. She was in a tavern, on a table. She turned her head to look around, but it was too painful.

Then she heard Jarge say: ‘Are you all right, Sal?’ For some reason his voice was heavy with emotion.

She tried turning her head again, and it was less agonizing this time. She saw Jarge’s face, above her and to the side. ‘I’ve got a terrible headache,’ she said.

‘Oh, Sal,’ he said, ‘I thought you were dead.’ And to her astonishment he burst into tears.

He bent to her and laid his head next to hers. Slowly, thoughtfully, she put her arms around his big shoulders and drew him to her chest. She was surprised by his reaction. She had thought, three years ago, that he might have wanted to marry her, but she had discouraged him, and she had imagined that his ardour had faded away.

Apparently not.

He wept quietly, and his tears wet her neck. ‘A bargee hit you with a length of two-by-four,’ he said. ‘I caught you before you hit the ground.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I was afraid I’d lost you.’

She said: ‘They’ll have to hit harder than that to kill me.’

A woman’s voice said: ‘Have a drink of this.’

Sal turned her head carefully and saw the landlord’s wife holding a glass. The landlord of the Slaughterhouse was a ruffian, but his wife was all right. ‘Help me sit up,’ Sal said, and Jarge got one strong arm under her shoulders and raised her to a sitting position. She felt a bit dizzy for a moment, then her head cleared and she took the glass. It smelled like brandy. She sipped, felt better, then swallowed it all. ‘That’s the ticket,’ she said.

Jarge said: ‘Our Sal.’ He was laughing and crying at the same time.

He gave the landlady a coin and she took the glass away.

Sal said to Jarge: ‘I dealt with Will Riddick, didn’t I?’

He laughed. ‘You did.’