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‘-nobody through, yes. I heard you the first time.’
‘There’s miners rioting on the other side of the river, Sir,’ the sergeant added, helpfully, clearly hoping that this additional information would finally make the tall gentleman in black see sense.
Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘Yes. My miners.’
The good sergeant needed a moment or two to process this information. When he had fully understood, his face paled. In the red firelight it looked like cream with strawberries, only a lot less appetising.
‘You mean…you are…’
‘Yes. Now step aside.’
‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir! Of course, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’
I raised my eyebrows as we rode past. ‘Pretty impressive.’
‘Things can be quite easy when you own half the town, Mr Linton.’
‘I’m sure they can, Sir. Just one question…’
‘Yes?’
‘Is it the half that’s burning?’
‘Shut up and ride, Mr Linton.’
It didn’t take long until the stench of smoke invaded my nostrils. The crackle of flames became louder and louder. Not for the first time, I asked myself whether it would be wise to continue. But whether wise or not - Mr Ambrose was not turning back. So I’d be damned if I chickened out!
Dark shapes shifted in the blackness ahead. Slowly, five men, three armed with pickaxes, the other two with clubs, emerged from the shadows.
‘Piss off,’ one of the men growled. ‘We’re on a strike. There ain’t no place for fancy tossers like ye here!’
Mr Ambrose gazed down at them from his horse like a king at vermin beneath his feet.
‘I am Rikkard Ambrose. Take me to the leader of your rabble.’
The men stiffened. They exchanged long, hard looks - then started towards us, their weapons raised to strike.
Crap!
Northern Chivalry
The men had not even taken half a step when something long and shiny suddenly appeared in Mr Ambrose’s hand. Firelight glinted off the revolver’s barrel.
‘This gun,’ Mr Ambrose said in a tone as cool and composed as if he were discussing tomorrow’s weather prospects, ‘can fire seven rounds in quick succession. There are five of you. I am an excellent marksmen, and my associate,’ he nodded at Karim, ‘is also armed. I’ll leave it to you to make the calculations.’
The men stopped.
One of the ones in the background frowned. ‘What’s a calcalashion?’
‘Maybe leaving the math to them was not such a good idea,’ I whispered.
But then my eyes landed on the fellow at the head of the little group. He had definitely got the message. His fists clenched around his pickaxe - but he didn’t move an inch.
‘Bloody hell! All right, let’s go! But you I’m warning ye, if ye shoot…!’
Mr Ambrose’s only answer was a silent nod.
The men turned and started down the street and, at another nod from Mr Ambrose, we gently nudged our horses and followed at a slow trot. As we went, more men appeared out of the darkness, staring at us. Grim, coal-covered faces with hard eyes and even harder pickaxes. As casually as possible, I leaned across to Mr Ambrose.
