Page 220 of The Armor of Light

A recruiting sergeant from the 107th Foot had set up a stall, Sal saw. He was talking to a group of local boys, showing them a musket, and Sal stopped to listen. ‘This is the latest Land Pattern flintlock musket being issued to infantry regiments,’ he said. ‘Three feet and three inches long, without the bayonet. Known as a Brown Bess.’

He handed it to a tall lad standing near him, and Sal recognized Hornbeam’s grandson, Joe. He was being watched with great interest by a mill girl, and after a moment Sal remembered her name: Margery Reeve. She was pretty, with a bold expression, and she clearly had designs on Joe. Sal sighed, remembering her own adolescent yearnings.

Joe hefted the gun and held it to his shoulder. Sal watched, amused.

‘Notice how the barrel is not shiny but browned,’ said the sergeant. ‘Can any of you young men guess why that change has been made?’

Joe said: ‘To save the trouble of shining it?’

The sergeant laughed. ‘The army doesn’t care to save you trouble,’ he said, and the other boys laughed with him. ‘No, the dull brown colour is so that the barrel won’t reflect light. The sun shining off your weapon could help a Frenchman aim accurately at you.’

The boys were agog.

‘There’s a notched backsight, to improve your aim, and a scrolled trigger guard, to help you keep a steady hand. What do you think is the most important quality for a musketeer to have?’

‘Good eyesight.’ It was Joe again.

‘Very important, obviously,’ said the sergeant. ‘But for my money what the infantryman needs more than anything else is calmness. That will help you aim carefully and fire smoothly. It’s the hardest thing to have, when bullets are flying and men are dying; but it’s what will keep you alive when the others are panicking.’

He took the musket from Joe and passed it to another boy, Sandy Drummond, son of the wine merchant.

The sergeant said: ‘We mainly use ready-made cartridges nowadays – the powder horn and bullet bag slow you down. The infantryman of today can reload and fire three times a minute.’

Sal moved away.

Near the cathedral steps, two open-sided carts had been parkedtwenty yards apart, and the rival political groups were putting up bunting and flags, preparing to use them as speaking platforms. Sal noticed Mungo Landsman and his mates from the Slaughterhouse lurking nearby. They were always eager for a fight.

Amos was beside the Whig platform, wearing a bottle-green coat and a white waistcoat, shaking hands and talking to passers-by. One of them spotted Sal and said: ‘Here, Mrs Box, you work for this man, tell the truth now, what’s he like, as a master?’

‘Better than most, I’ll give him that,’ said Sal with a smile.

The clerk to the justices and lawyer to the council, Luke McCullough, appeared. Hornbeam was behind him, dressed in sober black, wearing a wig and a hat. McCullough was responsible for making sure the election was run properly. ‘Mr Barrowfield, Mr Hornbeam, I’m going to toss this penny. Mr Hornbeam, as the senior alderman you have the privilege of calling heads or tails. The winner has the choice of speaking first or second.’

He tossed, and Hornbeam said: ‘Heads.’

McCullough caught the penny, closed his fist, and laid the penny on the back of his other hand. ‘Tails,’ he said.

Amos said: ‘I will speak second.’

Sal guessed he had made that choice in order to be able to undermine whatever Hornbeam said.

McCullough said: ‘Mr Hornbeam, we may begin as soon as you’re ready.’

Hornbeam returned to the Tory cart and spoke to Humphrey Frogmore, who had nominated him. Frogmore handed Hornbeam a sheaf of papers, and Hornbeam studied them.

Kingsbridge folk still remembered Tommy Pidgeon, and Hornbeam would never be popular, but he did not need to worry about the general public, Sal reflected. Only the voters mattered, and they were businessmen and property owners, unlikely to sympathize with a thief.

Sal saw that Jarge and Jack Camp had come out of the Bell, along with a few more friends, all carrying their tankards. Sal wished they had stayed inside.

McCullough got up on the Tory cart and vigorously rang a handbell. More people gathered around. ‘Election of a member of Parliament for Kingsbridge,’ he said. ‘Joseph Hornbeam will speak first, then Amos Barrowfield. Please listen to the candidates in silence. Rowdiness will not be tolerated.’

Good luck with that, Sal thought.

Hornbeam came up onto the stage clutching his papers and stood still for a moment, collecting his thoughts. The crowd was quiet, and in the pause one man shouted: ‘Rubbish!’ There was great hilarity at this witticism, and Hornbeam was disconcerted.

However, he recovered quickly. ‘Voters of Kingsbridge!’ he began.

Of the thousand or so people in the square, about half were listening. However, there were only one hundred and fifty voters in the town. Most of this morning’s audience were not enfranchised, and many resented that. In the taverns there was angry talk about the failings of ‘hereditary government’, a euphemism for the king and the House of Lords, who by law could not be criticized.